Carter peered through the window and saw light reflecting off a perfect white cappuccino-foam of cloud.

“Beautiful” he muttered, the old fear of flying subsumed into this: a tranquil immanence.

“Breakfast” said Shaw, bringing him down to earth. “Or so I’m lead to believe. Mainly inedible, but the coffee is passable.”

“Thanks.” Eyeing the oily fluid doubtfully, he drank – and winced. “I suppose, Harry, that it would be foolish to ask why, at this time on a Tuesday morning, when I’d ordinarily be in bed finishing off the crossword, I find myself on a flight to Siberia?”

Shaw sighed. “I said you’d never believe me, Pip – but here”. He proffered his open notebook. Carter looked puzzled.

“The dreaming, again. Found this when I woke. Evidently not my writing, and yet…”

“Automatic?” Carter laughed. “Sorry, Harry, but of all you talents, I hadn’t counted mediumship among them. So…what does it mean? Some sort of code?”

“So I thought. But actually, turns out to be simpler than that: it’s a telephone number.”