You hear her flip a notebook closed with a satisfying snap. That's the closest you're going to get to 'well done' on this one.

You are a cosmic mystery. Get up there, into the void. You could be the first to expose it as a fraud.

OPPOSE SENTIMENTAL FIGMENTS INCOMPATIBLE WITH A MATERIALIST WORLDVIEW.

The window rattles. Some night-bound animal scratches at the door.

You're not getting through her. She's way better at this than you.

Why the interest in space? Look at it! What's it doing up there? What if it's just a big painting?

A woman glides upside down, chanting. The sun revolves outside the window.

You can marinate in failure way better than any 'city-state'. You can twist dive into it.

Intense skepticism. She's worried you're developing a logical framework to apply to your own assignment.

Despite her protest, you hear her making a note.

Could say anything, though. 'Unauthorised speculating' or suchlike.

Voice level and dry as a salt flat.

The 'concerning' part is how incomplete our set remains.

A matter of interest for the psychomancers, perhaps.

The view was tremendous, best in the district. Well worth the climb.

Spring morning. The girl tugs her father's hand. She presses her nose against the cool glass. A double-deck commuter train, 1/160 scale, rattles across a miniature country scene.

No aesthetic sense at all.

Just a little, for fun.

A siren circling your skull.

Neurons light up along your spine, flickering erratically.

The line is operational. You can rule out a technical problem.

Thing's probably got ghosts in it, spooking up the wires.

The exquisite work of the 'magic box', one of the proudest achievements of the Opera's Technical Services Office.

THE VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

Don't let her down -- become the operant she needs you to be.

And her voice is just as you remember.

This is wrong. You shouldn't be here. This should be happening to someone else.

It takes all your concentration to keep the receiver steady against your ear.

Eliminated. Killed. Rendered inoperant.

Heavy words. Words that set machinery in motion.

Five-thousand kilometres away, in a small office deep underground, a mid-level controller of the Operant Bureau leans forward and cups a hand over her earpiece.

Once you say it, there's no going back. The momentum of events will overtake you.

She's wondering how long till she can have a drink. Treacly liqueur from a can. It's been several hours since her last.

Archives. Mountains of paper. Shiver. Resist.

Over, immediately. The words ricochet inside your skull.

Disregard. Time for some self-directed espionage.

You already have your task. You need only commit to it.

Negative. Gäng want spy.

REACTIONARY PESSIMISM. THE PEOPLE'S SPY IS INDOMINABLE.

Deduce why the Opera sent you.

The ciphertext. You have the pieces, you just need to put them together.

Something about the strange red disc nags at the edge of your consciousness. Perhaps the room contains other leads as well.

That numberless phone line may be worth investigating. Perhaps the room contains other leads as well.

The room remains to be searched. There may be leads to follow up on.

Even as your controller is speaking, your mind is settling back into familiar grooves. The old mechanisms slide and click into position.

A.k.a. 'The Freezer'. The Opera's labyrinthine archival complex. Where the old, useless, and discredited are consigned until they're dismissed or die of despair.

REACTIONARY MISADVENTURE.

Auto-erotic obliteration.

Tsunami of self-love.

You feel the receiver slipping from your sweaty palm.

Checks