The ancient Chinese woman handed me my bagel and with it a policy for home and contents insurance for a home I no longer lived in and contents I no longer owned. I stared down at the policy, slack-jawed. Turning to complain I was just in time to see a trap door in the floor slide shut where the bagel stall had been. The hum of the air-con wound down, I looked up from the partially kosher snack in my hand, and the Banai Bazaar was empty. Paper tumbleweeded its way across the empty expanse of concrete. At five kilometres each side, the Banai Bazaar was the largest market this side of the galactic core and from the looks of things I was standing in the middle of it. So stuffing the policy in my pocket and the bacon and tomato bagel in my mouth, I shouldered my backpack and headed for what looked like the nearest wall.