Tubman blows an actual raspberry. "For God’s sake, Mielikki," he says, "don’t be daft. Glad to help. But," he adds, as she prepares another round of apology, "don’t waste any more breath being charming about it. I hate charm." And so she has to promise to come directly, which is what they both knew would happen. A moment later, her terminal opens a sidebar and she can watch his schedule emptying for the rest of the morning. Each cancellation makes a noise like a very polite burp. In place of the various colour codes—delivery, maintenance, weekly management session, even his much-needed eleven o’clock break—the Witness loads a silver bar tagged with her own name. Tubman glances off to one side, no doubt seeing the same thing, and winces.