Armed with the giga-conductor royalties, and (unknown to the consortium) her grandfather's NN core, she stuck up a grand two-fingered salute, and carried on expanding the company at an even faster rate. Existing loan repayments came in ahead of schedule, with corresponding loss of interest payments, and fewer loans were applied for. The consortium's income began to fall off while Event Horizon's cash flow and profits grew; their golden egg was tarnishing rapidly.

Sean pulled her chair out, and she sat down, glowering at the artificial smiles directed towards her. Sean and Caroline sat on either side.

Open Channel To NN Core.

Well hello there, Miss Grumpy Guts. And what’s today's temper tantrum all about?

I am not in a temper, Grandpa.

Ha! I'm plugged in to the conference room's security cameras. If looks could kill, my girl, you'd be in a room of corpses.

Did you see… Never mind. No. Did you see Jakki Coleman's 'cast this morning?

Bloody hell, girl, I haven't got time for crap like that, not even with my capacity.

She was on about what I wore yesterday. I had three fittings for that outfit, you know. Three.

Really.

Sabareni is one of the best haute couture houses in Europe. It's not like I'm going to Oxfam.

That's a great relief to hear.

Seven thousand pounds it cost.

I wouldn't want you stinting, Julia.

Don't be so bloody sarcastic. Seven thousand pounds! Well I can't possibly wear it again. Not now.

Juliet, could we possibly start the meeting, please.

Yah, all right. I bet they all saw the 'cast. Seven thousand pounds!

Oh, Gawd… The silent voice carried a definite air of pique.

The management team and consortium representatives sat down, their earlier bonhomie fractured by her black mood.

Good. They might cut short the usual smarmy attempts to ingratiate themselves.

The terminal flatscreen recessed into the table in front of her lit up with the meeting's agenda.

"I am happy to report that, as I'm sure you all saw yesterday, the Clarke spaceplane project is on schedule," Julia said. "First flight is due in a month, first orbital test flight should take place ten weeks later. Assuming no catastrophic design flaw, deliveries will start in a year."

"That's excellent news, Julia," Argon Hulmes said. "Your Duxford team is to be congratulated."

"Thank you," she replied equably.

The consortium representatives had all been changed over the last two years until not one of the original members remained. This new batch were all younger, a not very subtle attempt to make her feel more comfortable. Although even now the banks still couldn't quite bring themselves to appoint anyone under thirty-eight; Sok Yem from the Hong Kong Oceanic Bank was the youngest at thirty-nine. Rumour said that Argon Hulmes's superiors had ordered him to have plastique before he got his seat, bringing his appearance down from forty-three to thirtyish.

Thirty and then something, Julia thought. He was always trying to talk to her about groups and albums and raves; his Christmas present had been a bootleg AV recording of a Bil Yi Somanzer concert. She imagined him dutifully plugging into the MTV channel each evening, updating himself on current releases, who's hot and who's flopped. A fine occupation for a middle-aged banker.

"We will break even on three hundred spaceplanes," she said. "That should come in about three years' time. My spaceline, Dragonflight, has just placed firm orders for another fifteen, and options on thirty-five, to cope with the nuclear Waste disposal contract we were awarded yesterday. We are expecting additional disposal contracts from five or six more European governments to be signed over the next few months, and of course national aerospace lines will want to get in on the act."

Sean Francis took his cue flawlessly. "Nuclear waste disposal has enabled us to upgrade our estimates on space-related industry turnover by forty-five per cent over the next four years," he said. "It is a completely untapped revenue source. Should it be exploited fully, its potential is staggering. No government on the planet will be able to refuse its electorate a safe and final solution to disposing of radioactive material. And there are currently forty-three redundant nuclear power stations in Europe alone, with a further seventeen scheduled to be decommissioned over the next decade."

"Such a pity the consortium didn't consider my Sunderland vitrification plant a worthwhile investment," Julia said. "You could have shared in the profits. The margin is considerable, given that I now have a virtual monopoly on the technology."

Sir Michael leaned forward earnestly. "We would be very happy to fund any expansion to the vitrification plant, Julia. Now that the requirement has been proved, and very ably proved if I might say so. The nuclear waste disposal contract is a marvelous development, we're all very pleased."

No, Juliet, absolutely not, cut them out of the vitrification. Squeeze the bastards.

She gave Sir Michael a smile which withered his sudden display of enthusiasm. "The vitrification plant was a five hundred million pound risk," she said in her lecturer's voice. "And having taken that risk all by myself, I intend to benefit all by myself. The profits generated by this new venture will be more than sufficient to fund its own expansion. Thank you."

"Julia, I think we are all agreed that your handling of the company is impeccable," Sir Michael said. "And in view of this we would like to offer to set up a floating credit arrangement of three billion New Sterling which you can call upon at any time to fund new ventures. This way we could avoid the delays and queries inherent with having to process loan requests through the consortium's standing review committee."

The other representatives murmured their approval, all of them watching her, willing her to accept.

We've got 'em, Juliet. They don't offer anyone a blank cheque unless they're under a lot of pressure. Now, remember what we agreed, girl?

Hit them with the wind-up scenario. Then the Prior's Fen scheme.

That's my girl.

She tented her fingers, and gave them an apologetic look. "Oh dear, how embarrassing. I believe my finance director has a summary he wanted to present. Alex, if you would, please."

Alex Barnes stood up, a fifty-three-year-old Afro-Caribbean with a receding cap of grizzled hair. His suit with velvet lapels did at least lift him above the level of corporate clone.

He began to recite a stream of accounts; figures, dates, and percentages merging together in a wearisome drone of statistics.

The representatives were looking very itchy by the time he finished.

"What it means," Julia said sweetly, "is that the loans which the consortium has so far extended to Event Horizon will be repaid in seven years. After that, the company will be totally self-financing. Now, as the company's expansion plans have already been finalized for that period, with the exception of Prior's Fen, I really can see no reason to extend my period of indebtedness. Certainly not at the level of your floating credit proposal, which I have to say is disappointingly paltry given Event Horizon's size."

There was a moment of silence as the representatives exchanged a comprehensive catalogue of facial expressions. Interestingly, only Argon Hulmes allowed any ire to show. So much for solidarity amongst fellow youth-culture subscribers.

Some clandestine and invisible voting system elected Sir Michael as their spokesman. "Exactly what were you proposing to do out at Prior's Fen?" he enquired in a chary tone.

Karl Hildebrandt remained behind after the meeting. The request for a talk—'Not business, I assure you'—from the wily old German was intriguing enough for Julia to humour him.