"If we're going to take the risk," said Moz, "then we want to know it's really kif and not opium. That's fair." He could see from Hassan's face that the older boy thought it was anything but.
"If you refuse to take it," Hassan said, "Caid Hammou will be very cross."
Placing his hand over his heart, Moz bowed his head. "I'm not refusing," he said seriously. "And I swear to carry the kif wherever Caid Hammou wants as soon as Malika and I have checked inside."
"It's already packed," complained Idries. "My uncle said it's not to be unwrapped."
"Why not?"
Only Moz could hear the told-you-so in Malika's question.
Hassan looked from Malika to Moz. "You really going to let a girl tell you what to do?" he asked.
"She doesn't," Moz said with a smile. "She makes suggestions. I make suggestions. We do something in the middle. That's how life works." Celia would have been proud of him, if somewhat surprised at his wholesale stealing of her lines.
They left Idries arguing with Hassan, probably for the first time ever. It seemed Idries was not keen to take the parcel either.
"I need to get home now," Malika said, wrapping her haik tight about her. She was finally learning what society required of those growing up. Lies and prevarication, hypocrisy and long sleeves.
"Not yet," said Moz. "We should go to Riad al-Razor. It's time you met Jake properly." It was on their way that Moz made his suggestion to Malika. He made it without having talked to Jake or Celia, although he didn't think this would be a problem.
Celia came to his room less often now that Jake had taken to visiting hers. There was undoubtedly a raw element of jealousy behind Jake's decision to repair his relationship with his manager, but then there was an element of jealousy in everything Jake did. It was the dark side to his genius and Moz doubted he'd ever be any different.
"It's going to be okay," Moz said. "They'll like you."
He suspected that he'd have to explain to Jake that Malika was different and that girls from the Mellah weren't like girls in New York and London, but then he realized that Celia would undoubtedly explain this for him. And anyway Jake would be returning to London soon. His notebook was full and he had taken to rereading the articles about himself in Sounds and NME every day now.
And if Jake went then Celia would go too and they'd need people to look after the riad for them.
"What are you thinking?" Malika said.
Moz smiled. It was such a Malika question. Usually he'd have said "Nothing" because that's what boys always replied, but Moz felt he owed her the truth. "Things," he said. "You know, the future. Stuff like that."
EPILOGUE
[The Future]
The Federal Nations support ship Eugene Newman was a Malika-class explorer, designed in Shanghai and built in high orbit by Atlas Interplanetary, a consortium put together fifty years before by His Excellency Caid Marzaq al-Turq.
It was an old-fashioned double hull reaching the end of its useful life and only the fact it was named after the man who bluffed Beijing into not using slave labour to build the launch sites had allowed sentimentalists at the Agency to siphon off enough funds to extend its life far beyond the usual ten-year service period.
No one was sure who came up with the idea to retrofit the Eugene Newman with a ZeroPoint/Casimir coil drive and make it the first ship in the Federated Nations fleet able to cross the galaxy in a single lifetime.
Several old men claimed the credit but these were people who also claimed to have been friends with Jake Razor, the maniac, musician and mathematician notorious for having no friends, and so everyone discounted them.
There was no doubt, however, about who suggested the destination. Lao Kaizhen, known in his childhood as Chuang Tzu because of his ability to lose himself in dreams, had grown up to exhibit that most Chinese of abilities, successfully mastering two entirely separate disciplines.
A poet of international repute, he commanded the Eugene Newman because his fame as an astronomer and deep-space theorist precluded everyone else from being offered the post.
Besides, he was the man who first stated that object x3c9311 was artificial in construction. The argument over Lao Kaizhen's claim lasted for fifteen years, which was the gap between the world's first ZPE/RazorDrive drone being launched and the probe getting close enough to take definitive readings.
After that, the argument became one of provenance and purpose...
"Two thousand and twenty-three," said a mapping officer. Next to her an assistant looked up from a different monitor and nodded. Their totals agreed.
"Any satellites?" Lao Kaizhen asked.
Both officers checked again. "No, sir," they said, more or less in unison.
Even as the Eugene Newman had been approaching the Dyson shell, Captain Lao hadn't been sure what to expect, and now he'd passed through and was inside, looking up at larger than gas giant-sized fragments of jigsaw enclosing a type II sun, he only knew it wasn't this.
Mirror-smooth surfaces reflected light back towards the centre and the recorded temperature of that reflection helped explain the oddity of the object's infrared image, which had been more or less what he first saw all those years ago, while looking across the disc of the galaxy.
"Signs of life?"
The definition of this had been set intentionally wide.
"Nothing."
"A pity." Captain Lao shrugged away the last of his dreams and sighed. It had been childish to hope for anything else. And all the while, the darkness watched and waited, considering carefully.
It would like to get things right this time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgments and thanks in no particular order, except for the last...
Aziz, for a truly terrifying drive between Marrakech and Casablanca and explaining Berber inheritance law. Maison Arabe in Derb Assebbé for teaching me how to make tagine properly. Blacks in Dean Street (Soho) and Caffé Nero in Winchester for letting me use them as offices. Upper Street's Friday Lunch Time Crew. Anders Sandberg and all who contributed to the Dyson Sphere FAQ (just put it in Google). New Scientist, for making me and everyone else who reads it actually think.
Mic Cheetham for fixing the contract that got this book published. Juliet Ulman for encouragement, and Josh Pasternack for tolerance. Television, Patty Smith, Johnny Thunders, Neil Young and John Cooper Clarke for sound tracking the early drafts.
The following books provided information or inspiration: Lords of the Altas, Gavin Maxwell's brilliant book on the House of Glaoua, Wisdom of Idiots by Idries Shah (but then anything written by Idries Shah provides inspiration), and The Art of Shen Ku by Zeek, for general weirdness.
Finally, thanks to Sam Baker, who sat, years back, in Gaby's in Charing Cross Road and argued long and hard about whether time was shaped like an ice cream cone or a blue marble. This book would never have existed without that conversation. We should have known it was shaped like both.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Malta and christened in the upturned bell of a ship, Jon Courtenay Grimwood grew up in Britain, the Far East and Scandinavia. Currently working as a freelance journalist and living in London and Winchester, he writes for a number of newspapers and magazines, including the Guardian. He is married to the journalist Sam Baker, editor of UK Cosmopolitan. Visit the website at www.j-cg.co.uk.