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Lanark started explaining how things had really happened, but the corners of his mouth had risen and were squeezing out his cheeks and narrowing his eyes; he could not help his face being contorted, his tongue gagged by a huge silly grin, and at last he shook his head and laughed. Libby laughed too. She was leaning on the bar, her hip brushing his thigh. Martha told him, “Libby’s using you to make her boyfriend jealous.”

“No I’m not. Well, just a bit, I am.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?” asked Lanark, smiling.

“The man with the glasses down there. The drummer. He’s horrible. When his music isn’t going right for him nothing goes right for him.”

“Make him as jealous of me as you like,” said Lanark, patting her hand. The other Joy gave him a tall glass of clear drink and they all watched him closely as he sipped. The first sip tasted soft and furry, then cool and milky, then thin and piercing like peppermint, then bitter like gin, then thick and warm like chocolate, then sharp like lemon but sweetening like lemonade. He sipped again and the flow of tastes over his tongue was wholly different, for the tip tasted black currant, blending into a pleasant kind of children’s cough mixture in the centre and becoming like clear beef gravy as it entered the throat, with a faint aftertaste of smoked oysters. He said, “The taste of this makes no sense.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

They laughed as if he’d said something clever. Solveig said, “Will you dance with me when the music starts?”

“Of course.”

“What about me?” said Martha.

“I intend to dance once with everybody—except the other Joy. I’m going to dance twice with the other Joy.”

“Why?”

“Because being unusually kind to someone will give me a feeling of power.”

Everyone laughed again and he sipped the drink feeling worldly and witty. A small man with a large nose arrived and said, “You all seem to be having a good time, do you mind if I join in? I’m Griffith-Powys, Arthur Griffith-Powys of Ynyswitrin. Lanark of Unthank, aren’t you? I only just missed you this morning, but I heard you’d been hard at it. It was good to know somebody was knocking the gelid lark. We’ve had too much of that. You’ll be sounding off loud and clear tomorrow, I hope?”

The gallery was filling with older people who were clearly delegates or delegates’ wives, and others in their thirties who seemed to be secretaries and journalists. There were more red girls too, though few of them now wore the whole red uniform. Groups were forming but the group round Lanark was the largest. Odin, the pink-faced morose man, came over and asked, “Any luck with His Royal Highness?”

“None. In fact he said he wasn’t a king at all but a conjuror.”

“Young people must find the modern world very confusing,” said Powys, patting Martha’s arm paternally. “So many single people have different names and so many different people have the same name. Look at Monboddo. We’ve all known at least two Monboddos and the next one will likely be a woman. Look at me! Last year I was Arch Druid of Camelot and Cadbury. This year, what with ecumenical pressure and regionalization, I’m Proto-Presbyter of Ynyswitrin, yet I’m the same man doing the same job.”

Odin said in a low voice, “Here comes the enemy.”

Five black men of different heights entered, two in business suits, two in military uniform and the tallest in caftan and fez. Martha shivered and said, “I hate the black bloc—they drink nothing stronger than lemonade.”

“Well, I love them,” said Libby stoutly. “I think they’re charming. And Senator Sennacherib drinks whisky by the quart.”

“What I can’t take is bloody Multan’s air of superiority,” said Odin. “I know we sold and flogged his ancestors, which proves we’re vicious; but it doesn’t prove he’s much good.”

“Is that Multan?” said Lanark. The blacks had descended to the next floor and were standing at one of the buffets. “Excuse me a minute,” said Lanark. He passed quickly through the other groups, descended three or four steps and approached the black bloc.