"Thank you, Bel," sighs Miles. "Have you ever been to Jackson's Whole before?"

In the vain hope of providing a distraction, he calls up an image of the planet. It hovers above his comconsole's holovid plate, turning slowly, a chill and mountainous rock decorated with a multitude of satellites and stations whose carefully delineated orbital paths nearly obscure the planet's populated equatorial zone with their multicoloured glow. The slender lines of authorized approach vectors weave messily through the lace of orbits, offering a headache to any pilot trying to drop a shuttle on the planet or dock at one of the many orbital stations without being struck by space debris or giving lethal offense to some local corporate warlord.