Stromberg arrived with grilled scampi.
It was a surprisingly good choice. After all the talk of neptunium, nuclear waste, underground car parks, cadets, royal crisis diplomacy and several near-international incidents, a platter of grilled scampi felt almost like a peace treaty with a hint of garlic.
Indulan was now actually seated on the throne of the royal box. She had her legs to one side, with the deep concentration of a woman who had just forced several states, a foundation, Cuba, the Soviet Union, Hesse, Austria and an injured ice-hockey player into a solution, and now felt that seafood was the least she deserved.
Stromberg placed the platter on the small table next to the throne.
“Your Highness.”
“Mr Stromberg.”
“A modest thank you. The chef has just freshly sautéed them with olive oil from Sardinia and garlic herb butter from Denmark.”
Indulan picked up a scampi with her fingers, took a bite and closed her eyes for a moment.
“The Mediterranean and Northern Europe united – I like that.”
She ate slowly, relishing every bite, without the slightest haste. All twelve scampi in silence. Stromberg stood still. 
“I was remarkably clever today.”
Stromberg raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.
“Does Your Highness wish me to contradict you?”
“No. I rarely have the pleasure of having been right in time. Usually my mother is quicker than I am.”
“Then I shall take the liberty of congratulating you.”
“You may. But not for too long. I would enjoy it too much.”
Stromberg smiled faintly.
Indulan took a damask napkin from the small table, dabbed her lips, and then casually wiped her fingers.
“You’ve been lucky.”
“I’ve lost a great deal.”
“You’ve lost an ice rink that you’d made available to us anyway. Three rings that you won’t get back for the time being. A reactor that you’re no longer allowed to hide beneath Copenhagen. Ravn, whom you must punish. The rest remains with you and me.”
“Is that a lot?”
“You’ve saved face, kept your ships. And you’ve secured tax exemption and the abolition of port fees for your ships. That will weaken the competition. What’s more, you have a future in which you won’t be remembered as the man who nearly plunged Denmark into a nuclear crisis over a private ice machine.”
Stromberg looked down through the glass front at the empty arena.
“It wasn’t an ice cream machine. I’m not a pastry chef.”
“I’m no sharper than your scampi.”
Stromberg looked at her.
“Do you trust me?”
Indulan stood up, placed the plate on the table and dabbed her fingers with a cloth napkin.
“I trust that after tonight you won’t do anything foolish in a room I have expressly left to your use.”
“That is a very Danish invitation.”
The door closed quietly behind her.
Stromberg waited three breaths, then turned around.
Klebb, Lodge, Volpe and Ravn stepped out of the ladies’ room into the box.
Ravn looked pale. Her ice-white suit was no longer perfectly white; one sleeve was stained, and her posture bore the stiff defiance of a woman who knew that everyone else had seen just how completely she had lost control.
Volpe took an iced praline and grimaced at the herbal flavour of the marzipan.
“Royal leftovers,” she said. “You have to take what history leaves behind.”
Lodge sat down at the table with his briefcase.
“The tax exemption and port fee exemption are economically significant. If we treat the donation of the arena as a cultural policy contribution for tax purposes, we lose out in the short term but gain fleet margin in the long term.”
Klebb stood by the window and looked down.
“Three rings are missing.”
“I’ve noticed that,” said Stromberg.
“Then you’ll also notice that Paloma shouldn’t be underestimated.”
“I don’t underestimate anyone twice.”
Volpe smiled.
Stromberg let the remark stand. Then he went to the throne, didn’t sit on it, but stood beside it. That was almost respectful.
“We’ve suffered an expensive setback,” he said. “No loss of direction.”
Ravn looked up.
“The portal generator is deactivated. Three rings are on their way to Cuba. The WEO is getting the reactor. The princess controls the arena. Claudia is getting data. Anya is getting data. Paloma is getting loot. How can you not call that a loss of direction?”
Stromberg looked at her.
“A lesson learned.”
Ravn fell silent.
Lodge pulled out a notepad.
“The microsphere cluster reactor remains usable. Relocating it outside the city is expensive, but feasible. The tidal power station remains as a public façade. We lose direct access to the first unit, but we can build a thousand new ones in and outside cities.”
“And the cooling?” asked Volpe.
Stromberg turned towards the glass front.
Below, the ice surface lay dark and empty.
“Time was never the only source of cold.”
Klebb looked at him.
“You already have a contingency plan?”
“A better one.”
Ravn grew even paler.
Stromberg continued calmly. “Hugo Drax is prepared to negotiate an exchange. He has planned space stations, but needs heat for them. I have seas that need cold. The universe possesses more cold than humanity realises, and Drax possesses the arrogance to tap into it.”
Lodge took notes.
“Orbital-maritime thermal exchange via an orbital-maritime heat sink.”
Volpe laughed softly.
“That sounds like something only men with too much money would say before turning an ocean into a block of ice.”
“Drax gets waste heat and technical stabilisation for his stations, and as far as I’m concerned, the reactor plans too, if that works in zero gravity,” said Stromberg. “We get cold.”
Klebb said, “Space swallows people too.”
“Yes,” said Stromberg. “But it makes fewer reports about it.”
Volpe took another praline, this time prepared for the taste.
“And Drax?”
“Drax wants altitude. I want depth. We don’t get in each other’s way.”
Lodge looked up.
“Funding?”
“Through shipping savings, Danish tax exemptions, foundation funds and a new maritime research initiative. Topic: orbitally supported ocean stabilisation.”
Volpe raised her glass of aquavit.
Stromberg turned to Ravn. The room shifted.
“Ravn.”
She took half a step forward.
“Mr Stromberg.”
“You didn’t keep Lind under control. You didn’t secure the rings. You allowed shooting to take place in an underground car park containing nuclear waste, neptunium and cadets. One of your men injured the evening’s winner, Ilya Rozanow, which is creating a mountain of work for the Foundation’s press office. Not only have you jeopardised an operation, but you’ve also landed me a princess with moral leverage and a huge appetite for Scampia.”
“I was trying to get your facility back and keep the World Energy Organisation out of it all.”
“You were trying to drown out a defeat with noise.”
Ravn said nothing.
Stromberg walked slowly towards her.
“The princess demands punishment. I could have handed you over to the Danish police.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“No. It would be convenient. But I’m reluctant to waste material that can still serve a purpose.”
Stromberg stopped in front of Ravn.
“You’re taking charge of the Boreas-South polar station.”
Ravn froze.
“The Antarctic measuring station?”
Volpe sneered: “North wind in Antarctica. Very Stromberg-esque.”
“It’s an accurate description and far enough away from Denmark,” Stromberg lectured without turning around.
“It’s only accessible every six months in winter.”
“That’s why it’s called a polar station.”
Volpe lowered her gaze, but not quickly enough to hide her smile entirely.
Stromberg continued: “You’ll be there alone, reading the observation data. Currents, ice formation, atmospheric feedback, sea temperatures, albedo, salinity. For six months, then we’ll see. No guests, no gala, no guards shooting for you or at you: Boreas South is just data.”
Ravn looked at him.
“Is this a banishment?”
“No. It’s further training and life.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Do you remember the cooling pool down there? It’s your decision, but I’ll report the execution of the sentence to the Princess.”
That hit home. Ravn was silent for a long time. Lodge, Klebb and Volpe looked back and forth between Stromberg and Ravn.
“Alone?”
“You wanted control. There you’ll get it. Over equipment, snow and the question of whether you close the door properly every morning.”
Klebb said dryly: “If you’re careless, you’ll freeze to death.”
Stromberg looked at Ravn.
“Klebb puts it bluntly, but correctly.”
Ravn’s face hardened.
“I’ll go.”
“Ice instead of cooling water is a good decision.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we’ll see if the cold has made you wiser.”
Volpe stepped closer.
“Take some wool with you and knit scarves in your spare time.”
Ravn gave her a venomous look.
“Or pride,” said Volpe. “You’ve got plenty of that. It’s just a pity it doesn’t keep you very warm.”
Stromberg turned back to the window.
“That settles that part.”
Lodge folded his papers.
“I’ll prepare the foundation documents, the donation, the tax agreement, the payments to the cadets, the Iceland camp and the waste disposal contracts with Winden.”
“And Drax?” asked Klebb.
“I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow already?” asked Volpe.
Stromberg smiled.
Triumphantly.
“Why wait? An expensive night is most useful whilst it still hurts.”
He stepped up to the glass front and turned his back on the other four. The empty arena reflected his face. The ice below was dark, but hadn’t vanished. It was merely waiting.
“We’ve learnt,” he said. “Portals beneath capital cities. No nervous scientists with a conscience. Phase anchors within reach of Cuban chambermaids. No gunshots in garages with an Austrian audience.”
Volpe raised an eyebrow.
Klebb crossed her arms.
“And Lind?”
Stromberg’s smile vanished.
He looked down at the ice, and for the first time that evening there was no calculation in his gaze, but something that looked almost like regret. For a moment, it seemed to him as though he could see the screaming face of the frozen physicist pressing down onto the ice from below.
“Lind was weak,” he said. “But he was a good scientist.”
No one contradicted him.
Stromberg placed a hand on the armrest of the throne without sitting down.
“A minute’s silence for him. He was part of the team, and now he lies in the ice he opened up for us.”
Lodge closed her briefcase. Volpe set down her glass. Klebb lowered her gaze. Ravn stood motionless, as straight as if the polar station had already been built around her.
They were silent.
For a whole cold minute in Copenhagen.