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79

‘Here,’ said Martinique. He tapped a circled area with the tip of his pen. ‘Do you see anything out of the ordinary?’

‘It looks as though a meteorite strike took a bite out of the mountain,’ said the Doctor.

‘That’s right,’ said Martinique, a little surprised. ‘Revealing a complex substratum.’

The Doctor picked up the photo and held it up to his nose.

After a moment he took out his bifocals and slipped them on.

Chris leant over for a better look, his head almost resting on the Doctor’s shoulder.

Beyond a certain point, he knew, computer image enhancement merged into metaphysics. But the line down the side of Artemis Mons, if it was real and not some binary artefact, could only be artificial.

When the Doctor lowered the photo, everyone was looking at them expectantly. Iaomnet had paused with a forkful of fish halfway to her mouth.

‘Disneyland,’ said the Doctor.

‘Where’s that?’ said Iaomnet.

The Doctor just handed the photo back and picked up a sushi roll in his chopsticks.

‘There’s something artificial under the surface of the mountain,’ said Chris. ‘Some kind of hidden base?’

‘A military listening post?’ said Iaomnet.

‘If it were,’ said Martinique, ‘I’m sure we’d have been refused permission to visit. No, this is something much older. It is not only artificial – it is an artefact.’

‘How old is that thing?’ said Iaomnet.

‘Quite a find,’ said Martinique. ‘Quite a find.’ He beamed at Iaomnet. ‘Material for a remarkable dissertation, wouldn’t you say?’

The internal cabin doors were designed to withstand vacuum.

Chris had to shuffle around with the tray until he could press the door chime with his elbow. It took the Ogrons a whole minute to answer.

80

One of them stared at Chris through the open door. ‘Hi,’ said the Adjudicator. ‘I didn’t know whether you guys were going to the galley, but I thought you might like this.’

The Ogron’s gaze lowered slightly until he was looking at the tray Chris was holding. The eyes were nearly hidden under a narrow, protruding ridge of bone, the naked skull sloping up and back to where straw-coloured, limp hair hung down at the back of the head.

The Ogrons had come with the ship, like a couple of appliances. They’d accepted the sudden change in the crew and destination without question. Martinique had fussed over the cargo, delaying their departure for a nail-biting quarter of an hour, and the Ogrons had just done whatever they were told.

Chris could see the other Ogron lurking in the cabin, watching him. Another pair of squinting, mistrustful eyes. ‘Er,’ he said, ‘I looked up some Ogron recipes in the database. I’m not much of a chef – I hope I got it right.’

After a moment, the Ogron stepped back. Chris decided that was an invitation, and stepped into the cabin.

The Ogrons just stood there. They tended to do that, the Xenoculture course had taught, if you didn’t give them an order or some other reason to act. They’d been the same while they’d been loading the cargo hold. Like robots.

The blank stare was rather unnerving. ‘Um, could you pull the table down?’ Chris asked.

Right away, the Ogron who had opened the door unlocked the table and folded it down from the wall. Chris gratefully put down the heavy tray.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I had to improvise a bit, but the database suggested some substitutes. This is mostly raw mutton and a little bit of ice to keep the temperature down, some rock salt, some geranium leaves and some basil.’

The Ogron who had opened the door shuffled up to the table.

He scooped up a handful of meat and sniffed at it. Then he pushed it into his mouth and chewed, hard, muscles bulging beneath his jaw.

‘My name’s Chris,’ said Chris.

81

The Ogron eyed him for a moment. ‘Good food,’ he said. His voice was deep and throaty. He made a sound like coughing, deep in his chest, and the other Ogron joined him at the table.

Chris hovered, but the Ogrons paid him no attention, shovelling mutton into their mouths, occasionally taking a pinch of one of the flavourings between thick fingers.

‘Well,’