“J. G. calling in. All clear. Lyctors, do you copy?” “A. A. calling in. All clear.” “G. P. calling in. All clear.” A pause. Then you heard Ianthe’s cool, detached tones, as if she hadn’t even been asleep: “No one has yet seen fit to grace me with a callsign, but nonetheless, all clear.” Augustine: “You’re I. N., of course. Harrow’s H … Yes, Harrow’s H.” “H. O., calling in,” you said instantly, and you ignored Ianthe’s audible sniggers. “All clear. What’s going on?”
