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It was the sixth café he’d passed on his trek around the Forrester house. ‘Café’ probably wasn’t the right term. ‘Dining area,’ maybe. He’d seen employees and family members eating as he’d passed by.

He was determined to walk the whole of the outer hallway, a thirty-kilometre stretch of carpet and windows circling the building at its base. He’d started from the transport access tunnel, a long metallic tube stretching away across Io’s barren surface, puncturing the crater rim.

206

They called this part of the structure the Needle, and the palace proper was threaded through it, descending into the rock, shooting up into the sky, four hundred storeys in all.

And Roz grew up here. Somewhere, he bet, there was a nursery big enough to play football in.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Chris looked up. He’d been expecting a robot, but it was a waiter, a skinny middle-aged man in one of the house’s uniforms.

Not a waiter. A servant. ‘Um,’ he said nervously. ‘Can I get something to eat? I mean, a menu.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ The servant tapped the table top on the button marked MENU, previously hidden behind Chris’s elbow. ‘Shall I leave you for a moment to consider?’

‘Oh, no, that’s OK, can I please get…’ The menu was all in

!Xhosa. There was a horrible moment as Chris realized he was going to have to ask for a translation. With a lurch of relief he realized that there was an icon for English at the bottom of the screen. He tapped it. ‘…a cheeseburger. With fries. And a chocolate milk shake, please.’

‘Your meal will be ready in three minutes, sir,’ said the servant. He gave Chris a tiny bow and retreated.

Oh, man. This was difficult to cope with. This was way too big.

Bigger than a majorly expensive hotel. Bigger than a factory.

Bigger than the overcity block he’d grown up in.

And this was Roz’s home. She could go anywhere here, except maybe the private apartments of one of the other Forresters.

And who the hell was he?

He thought he knew her, thought he understood that her family were rich, that they owned a planet for chrissakes. He’d watched Lifestyles of the Obscenely Wealthy – he knew what it was all about.

He’d really believed that it didn’t matter, that she’d left this all behind to be an Adjudicator. But you couldn’t leave something like this behind. It was too big.

Jesus, the time he’d kissed her. He was lucky she hadn’t laughed in his face. Maybe she had – he’d fainted afterwards.

207

The servant was back, bearing a tray. Chris wondered if he was supposed to leave a tip. ‘Thanks,’ he said, awkwardly. Another quick nod and the man was gone again.

On his walk he’d passed swimming pools and gymnasiums, cinemas and gardens, a zoo and an art gallery. He’d passed by areas of landscape meant to simulate half a dozen Earth environments and half a dozen more alien ones. Look to the right, and you saw sky, grass, birds; look to the left, and you saw rocks.

Deeper in the building there were laboratories, hydroponics plants, reprocessors, you name it. It was like an arcology. The map said the palace could survive for a year without any outside contact.

He finished his meal, wondered what to do with the tray, and ended up awkwardly leaving it on the table. He took the milk shake with him.

He walked for another hour. The palace was sparsely populated

– most of the people were servants, outnumbering the family members fifteen to one. He’d seen just one other person in the Needle, a woman jogging in the opposite direction. Family, probably, pureblood. She gave him a smile and a wave as she passed.

Every so often a transport would whoosh overhead. The ceiling was thirty feet up, curving over a shuttle tube suspended from a thick metal strut. No one seemed to walk, even the short distance between tube stops. After a while there was a certain sameness to it, he supposed.

The buzzing noise came from somewhere behind him, distant.

At first he thought it was another shuttle, but as the sound grew louder he realized it