At first he thought the thudding was a hangover; a dull relentless banging that wouldn't stop, that filled his head. Then, as his vision sharpened, and he saw where he was, he realised what it was: someone who wouldn't go away, someone hammering on his door.

"Oh God," he croaked, staring at the time. He sat up, grabbed a bottle of water, swilled his mouth, gagged; then he staggered towards the door, and slid it open a crack in the hope of revealing himself as little as possible.

"Hello...?"

He didn't get any further, because the door was flung open, and he found himself facing Harold, the cop, and Beth the dock facilitator. Neither looked like they were here for pleasantries; this impression was reinforced by the two police drones behind them.

He felt too terrible to be surprised, and just stood there, looking dirty, unshaven, and rumpled, his face ragged under the unforgiving strip lights.

There was a silence.

"You"re under arrest, Arnold," said Harold, wearily. "I don't want to make this any more unpleasant than it is. You should come with us."

Arnold sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

"Can I ask why?"

"There was another external last night, another dock worker gone nuts. We couldn't get hold of you. This time, we subdued the machine, and interrogated it." He shook his head, as if maybe the act would make what he had to say more palatable.

"And then what?"

"It told us that someone has been telling the workers to alter their mood regulators. That if they have a problem, they should just flip their switches and feel better. That's why the dock workers went crazy, the taxis have been breaking down. Why this whole station is close to chaos, maybe. The machine wouldn't tell us who it was. But..."

He couldn't finish it, but Beth did.

"...it's obviously you. Gadding around town with that hussy. Not bothering with the job you do, that looks after us all, treating those poor workers like you didn't care."

She glowered at him; he twisted his mouth, partly amused, partly ashamed.

"Seriously? 'Hussy'? Do people even say that any more?" He yawned. "Look, I'm sorry I wasn't available last night; I left my phone behind. But I know what's happening. Come in, let's talk about it and figure out what to do."

Harold closed his eyes briefly.

"It's too late for that, Arnold. If you knew, you"d have helped already." He turned to the drones behind him. "Bring him in. But, gently."

They remained totally motionless, stared at Arnold. Then one looked at Harold, spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sarge. We won't."

Harold started, astonished at this insubordination. "What?!"

"We won't arrest Arnold, Sarge. He's done nothing wrong."

The cop looked at the drones incredulously; then the testosterone kicked in.

"Fine. Then I'll do it myself."

One of the drones moved an inch forwards.

"We can't let you do that, either."

Harold looked more bewildered than furious, and he put his hand down to his side, reaching for his gun.

Arnold stepped forwards, holding his hands out, "boys, it's OK. Everyone calm down. Harold, you won't need that."

He glanced at the nameplates on the drones.

"Er, Steve, and Jason, yeah? It's OK. We'll all just sit down and talk about it. And then, if when Beth and Harold here have heard what I"ve got to say they still want to arrest me, I'll go with you, quietly." He smiled, thinly. "Frankly, prison will be the safest place. Now come in, all of you. But, if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up first."

Ten minutes later, the three humans were sitting around Arnold's desk. The two drones hovered in the corner, silently. Arnold had poured cups of coffee; he was staring at his, wondering whether he would be able to keep it down.

He idly tapped some buttons on his computer, leaned forward.

"So. I need you to stay silent until I say you can talk. Thanks."

He put his cup on the desk, leaned back into his chair, smiled. They looked at him, warily, both nursing their grievances.

"It's not me that's telling the workers to fiddle with their mood regulators. I played back Annie's memories, saw the same thing as you were told: someone advising her how to access them, what to change, how to put them on a timer so that she would revert to normal. And, I know something you don't. This someone was a worker, because they were talking in Lingo. Not a person."

"How do we know..." demanded Beth, but Arnold cut her off.

"Because I'll show you the memories. You can see for yourself."

He sighed, started tapping on his computer as he spoke.

"And, it's not the first time. I think. Annie was pulled out of slumber early, wasn't she? The ship needed urgent attention or something, and so she was on shift before she should have been. Another fifteen minutes and you"d never have known. This may have been going on for weeks, months. Maybe years."

"Not with my workers," said Beth, flatly. "I would know."

"Would you? But, you are probably right. Certainly this was Annie's first time. I think this is something that the less visible workers do, the cleaners and shelf stackers and road maintainers. Workers who operate almost autonomously with little or no supervision. The guy who was telling her knew what he was doing; he'd done it a lot."

"Let's say I believe you," said Harold, who clearly had been to negotiation classes and wanted to use them, "who is this worker? Why is it doing this?"

"Here." He swung his screen round, showed a snap shot of the scene from Annie's memory. "The blue cloud. I think his name is Chad."

Then he keyed in Chad's true name: the serial number on his core AI, which he took from his patient records.

"Ah yes. As I thought. Look, he owns a bar in sector two. The Aqua Cloud."

They both started talking at once, objecting to this impossibility.

"No, please, be quiet. He owns a bar because he can. There is no law against it; it's just that workers don't tend to either want to, or are unable to afford it. Well, this guy does. Look."

Harold squinted at the screen, frowning.

"Jesus, he's old. He's been repurposed, what, four times?"

"Right. He must be close to two hundred now. And he's saved, and watched, and just lived his quiet life in the Station, and he's learnt enough about how it all works to buy and run a bar, and he works there as the chef. And he's kind of an elder statesman; the other workers listen to him."

He glanced up at the drones.

"Guys, I guess you are probably talking to Chad now. Tell him it'll be OK."

They were silent, but he imagined the conversation the were having right now, over the wireless network, thousands of voices in Lingo. He wondered how many of the station's workers were involved.

"So why is he telling the workers to go crazy?"

Arnold smiled, sadly.

"Look this is a guess... but, he's not. He's telling them to do what he sees, both from his customers and his councillor. He's telling them to get drunk."

Beth's mouth dropped open, but a slow smile of understanding spread across Harold's face.

"Look. I thought this was a mistranslation when I first saw it: 'make glad the core of machine'. But it's not... it's a misquotation. Psalm 104. 'And wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man's heart.'

"He's been around long enough to work out that people do this in times of crisis, it's what they come to him for, in his bar... and it seems to help them. And some of us have been setting something of a bad example recently."

Harold nodded. "And I guess their councillor hasn't been that available, right? So they've had to go to this Chad guy?"

Arnold sighed. "Again I'm mostly guessing. I think they are worried about me. They don't want to come talk to me, because I am so obviously...", and he tailed off.

Beth said, more gently than he"d ever heard her speak, "Lovestruck."

He smiled, grateful. "Yeah, that's a nice word."

Harold looked at him thoughtfully.

"That's an interesting story. Got any proof?"

Arnold leaned forward again, spoke into the little desk mic. "Well, Annie? Did I get it right."

"Can I speak now, Arnold? You told me I had to be silent."

"Yes, please Annie. It's OK to talk now."

He saw a brief struggle ripple across her mind, but it was over in a flash.

"Yes, you are. Pretty much. We'd all very much like you to be happy again." She paused, and then, "please don't punish Chad."

"Thanks, Annie. I really appreciate it. I think it will all be fine."

He looked at them.

"There you go. If you still want to arrest me, I'll go quietly."

Beth gave a short laugh of disbelief, and then a long, unreadable look. Arnold was unable to meet her gaze, and looked at his screen, then his fingers.

"You've been a fool, Dr Jones", she said, quietly.

"Yes. I know," he replied, to his fingers.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Slowly he lifted his head, tried to meet her gaze.

"I'm going to try and cut down the booze. Give it up. Jesus, I never realised I had a problem until today. Just a social drinker, you know...?" He tailed off, drawn into the relentlessness of their silence; then he swallowed, and continued, looking back down at his hands. "Well, maybe I did. I was always overtaken by the moment. But the thing is, I think I can fix it. Help myself and everyone else."

Beth nodded. "I'm sorry I called her a hussy, Arnold."

He smiled, very slightly. "Well, thanks to Chad, that might all work out. I'll call her later today, when this is all finished up."

"Finished up, Arnie?", exclaimed Harold, grinning. "have you any idea how many problems this will cause me? I'm gonna have to start breathalysing workers now! And you are going to help me, given how much trouble you've caused. Look man, I'm sorry I doubted you, but I now have a whole pile of pain I intend to share with you. So you may", he lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast, "want to call her before that."

Arnold returned the toast.

"To sobriety."

He took a swig, and then remembered how nauseous he was.

"Oh Jesus, I think I'm going to be..."

He nearly made it to the toilet.