Exit FootingSpeech.

She handed the microphone back as the management group applauded loudly.

"This way, Miss Evans," Stephen Marano said. He gestured to the cement mixer.

The operator was a stocky man in a yellow T-shirt, grubby jeans, and an orange hard hat. He grinned broadly and pointed to the small control panel on the back of the lorry. It had five chrome-ringed buttons running down the centre. The green button had a new sticker above it which said:

PRESS ME.

"Even I can't make a mess of that," Julia told him. Lord, what a dumb thing to say.

"No, miss." He bobbed about, delighted at being the centre of attention.

Julia pressed the button.

The mixer started up again, concrete sliding down the chute into the footings.

It looks like elephant crap, she thought.

The management team started clapping again.

She clamped down on a laugh which threatened to escape. Didn't they realize how stupid they looked?

But of course they did. They were less worried about appearing foolish than they were about annoying her.

She sobered sadly, and offered Stephen Marano her hand to shake. "I didn't appreciate what the conditions were like out here before today, Stephen. You really have done a terrific job getting this phase completed, and on time too. Thank you."

He nodded in gratitude. "Thanks, Miss Evans. It's been tough, but they're a good bunch of lads. It should be easier next time, now we know what we're doing."

She guessed that was about as subtle as he would get. It made a nice change, sometimes she was ten minutes into a conversation with a kombinate director or a bank finance officer before she realized everything said was a veiled question. Business talk was conducted in its own special code of ambiguities.

They started to walk back towards the ramp.

"The next two times," she told him. "I want to bring a couple of complete cyber-precincts out here next, and link them to the city with a train line. Of course, we'll have to build a service tributary from the Nene as well."

He gave her a genuine grin. "I wish you'd been around before the Warming, Miss Evans. A few more people with your kind of vision and we'd never have wound up in this damn great mess."

"Thank you, Stephen."

Access GeneralBusiness: Review Stephen Marano, Civil Engineer. Invite To Next Middle Management Dinner Evening.

As they reached the base of the ramp a group of about ten workers moved towards her. Rachel and Ben closed in smoothly. Nothing provocative, but there, ready.

Julia gave the group an expectant look as they stopped short. One of them was nudged forwards by his mates. He looked about seventeen, not quite needing to shave every day, wearing the regulation jeans and T-shirt, shaggy dark hair sticking out below his scuffed light-blue hard hat. He was clutching a bouquet of red roses with a blue ribbon done up in a bow. She suspected he'd been chosen for his age, there couldn't have been many younger than him working out here. And he clearly wanted to be anywhere right now but standing in front of her.

"M-M-Miss Evans?" he stammered.

She gave him a gentle encouraging smile.

"Er, I, that is, all of us. Well, we really appreciate what you do, like. Investing so much in England, and everything. And giving us all jobs as well, 'cos we wouldn't be any use in no office or a cyber factory. So, like, we got you these." The bouquet was jerked up nervously. "Sorry it's only flowers, like, but you've got everything…" He trailed off in embarrassment.

Julia accepted the bouquet as though she was taking a baby from him. She prayed the cameras weren't recording this, for the boy's sake.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Lewis, Miss. Lewis Walker."

"Did they bully you into this, Lewis?"

"Yeah. Well, no. I wanted to anyway, like."

She deliberately took her time sniffing the roses. The humidity stifled most of the scent. "What a lovely smell." She put one hand on her hat, and leant forwards before the boy could dodge away, brushing her lips against his cheek. "Thank you, Lewis."

A rowdy cheer went up from the onlookers. Lewis blushed crimson, eyes shining.

The Dornier lifted from the floating quay, cabin deck tilting up at a ten-degree angle as it climbed, nose lining up on Peterborough.

Julia thought about the incident with Lewis as the hexagonal site dropped away below the fuselage. It couldn't possibly have been one of the 'spontaneous' demonstrations the PR division was forever dreaming up. They would have plumped for something far more elaborate. The sheer crudity had made it incredibly touching.

She had given the bouquet to Caroline Rothman as soon as they were back in the tilt-fan. "Put them in water. And I want them on the dining room table this evening." Pride of place.

She couldn't get rid of the image of Lewis Walker, being joshed and having his back slapped by his mates as he returned to them. As she was returning to the Dornier; her world.

That poor, poor boy, there was something utterly irresistible about someone looking so lost. And his T-shirt had been tight enough to show a hard flat belly. Real muscle, not Patrick's designer gym tone.

She allowed herself exactly one lewd grin.

It couldn't happen, not with Lewis Walker, but fantasies existed to be enjoyed.

Funny how different they were; yet only a couple of years apart. Him stammering, elated and terrified at being thrust into the limelight; her simply breezing through every public appearance on automatic, bored and resentful.

She could monitor him from afar to make sure he did all right, a modern day fairy godmother, pushing opportunities his way. Event Horizon ran dozens of scholarship schemes for workers who wanted to advance themselves. And she was on the board of two charities promoting further education.

Of course, he wouldn't dare refuse if a place was offered. Nobody in the company ever did refuse her gifts. She saw the site management team clapping conscientiously—obediently. But would he be happy plucked from what he was doing now and shoved into night schools and polytechnic training courses?

Should I interfere?

That's what it boiled down to.

No. The only possible answer. Not unasked. Not in individual lives. People had to be responsible for themselves.

She activated the phone, and placed a call to Horace Jepson. Uncle Horace, though he wasn't really, just a friend of her grandpa's, and now hers. A solid rock of support when she took over Event Horizon. He was the chairman of Globecast, the largest satellite channel company in the world.

His ruddy face appeared on the bulkhead flatscreen. He was in his early sixties, but plastique had reversed entropy, and returned him to his late forties. A rather chubby late forties, she thought disapprovingly.

"Julia! How's my favourite billionairess?"

"Soldiering on, Uncle Horace."

"You don't look like you're suffering. You look gorgeous. Damn, but you grew up pretty. I wish I was twenty years younger."

She put on her most innocent expression, and batted her eyelashes for him. "Uncle Horace, why ever do you want to go back down to being sixty again?"

"Julia!" He looked crestfallen.

"Have you been skipping your diet again?" she asked sternly.

"Terrific. I don't hear a word for three weeks, and she phones me up to nag."

"You have. Well, stop it. You know what your doctor said. You should get out of the office and down to the executive gym."

"Sure thing, Julia. I'll start tomorrow."

She sucked on her lower lip, a bashfulness that wasn't entirely artificial. "Uncle Horace."

"Oh, my God. How much is this going to cost?"

"Nothing. Um, I need a sort of favour."