"You mean it rains in here?" Suzi asked.

"Yes. The lighting tube's infrared emission is turned off, and the cloud condenses, just like on Earth. It's a whole lot cheaper than laying down a grid of pipes and sprinklers, and it flushes any dust away as well."

Suzi squinted up at the clouds. "I'll be buggered."

Greg watched the head of each plume mushroom out, merging into a broad puffy ring. The cavernlight had changed subtly, he could feel it on his upturned face, it was still as bright, but the pressure of warmth had gone from the rays. A second, identical band of cloud was reaching out from the northern endcap.

He shook off the distraction, and told Sinclair: "I need to know about the flower you gave Charlotte."

"Ah, well now, you see, that's a private matter, Captain Greg. A very delicate matter, to be honest. I'd be betraying a trust."

"Tell him," Suzi said. "He'll only rip it bleeding from your mind, otherwise."

What was left of Sinclair's smile became fixed.

"Julia Evans and I know Royan sent it," Greg said. "We just want to know where you got it from."

"Is that true what your charming companion just said?" Sinclair asked. "About minds and blood, and other things ladies shouldn't know about?"

"I can if I have to," Greg said. "Although there's no physical pain involved. But I'd rather not. How about you?"

"Julia Evans?" Sinclair asked. "Julia Evans sent you here looking for me?"

"That's right. The very same Julia Evans who tolerates you and your mates running about like mice, stealing her food. Now I think it's about time you started paying her back for that kindness. Not to mention Charlotte here, who was nearly killed because she took the flower down to Earth."

"Is that true, young Charlotte?"

She pursed her lips dolefully. "Yes."

"I wasn't told that," Sinclair said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't have asked you if I'd known it was dangerous. No, I wouldn't."

"I believe you," she said.

They were suddenly engulfed by a shadow. The leading edge of the southern cloud ring was directly overhead, blotting out the lighting tube. Its bottom layer had dropped down to barely three hundred metres, looking disturbingly solid. Small vortices swarmed over its surface, there was a hint of darkness inside. The northern cloud was racing to meet it. Only a narrow band of light was left shining down in the centre of the cavern.

The Globe's audience were looking up, some of them began to take out umbrellas.

"Royan?" Greg prompted.

"Now there's a strange lad for you," Sinclair said. "We found him. Or I suppose you might say we found each other really. Fated to meet, we were. Outcasts, but very different. He was with us for a few days."

"When was this?"

"About a month ago, maybe three weeks. We don't concern ourselves with time as much as you fellows do. Everything's scheduled for you. That's part of what we are, you see, throwing all that away, keeping life calmer. I don't think the lad was really cut out for a life with us. He was wound up terribly tight inside, you know? Bit like you, really, Captain Greg."

Greg ignored the crack. "He was with you, then he left?"

"Ah, sharp as a knife you are. I can see I'll keep none of my dark hoarded secrets from you."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No. That he didn't, I'm afraid."

"All right, so what about the flower?"

"Do you believe in ghosts, Captain Greg? I do. Spirits at any rate. Spirits that possess. Spirits that drive you. There's a spirit in New London."

"There's an alien in New London," Rick said.

Greg shot him an annoyed look.

"Is that so, now?" Sinclair asked in amusement. "Well well, fancy that."

"You're not surprised," Greg said.

"Aren't I, Captain Greg?"

"No." He wasn't. In fact, Greg could sense some of his thought currents racing with gratification. "You want me to go deeper?"

"Thank you kindly, but no. You see, this strapping young man here—"

"Rick."

"Pleased to meet you, Rick. You see, Rick here, he calls it an alien. I call it a presence. A guiding light, Captain Greg. An angelic being come to grant us the sight. We'll be shown our own souls in all their nakedness. Do you think you can withstand that? You who entomb yourself in the physical world?"

Intuition deluged Greg abruptly, as it so often did; like cards snapping down on the table, everything laid out and visible. "You founded the Celestial Apostles, Sinclair," he said. "You're their preacher and their leader."

"Ah now, Captain Greg, you're becoming a sore disappointment to me. You said you weren't going to peek. And you an officer and a gentleman, and all."

"Tell you, I didn't peek," Greg said. "It just happens that way sometimes."

"Perhaps it was the spirit who showed him the truth," Suzi said, feigning complete innocence.

Sinclair wrinkled at her. "You could be right at that. Anyhow, this flower you're so keen about, it was brought to me."

"Who brought it?" Greg asked.

"Why, one of the little people, Captain Greg." Sinclair gave him a cheery smile. "About so high, they are." His hand prodded the air half a metre above the grass. "All dressed in orange and black, he was, very smart, his little antenna wobbling about."

"A drone," Greg said.

"Your word, Captain Greg, so crisp and functional. Suited to what you are."

"What I am is an orange farmer," Greg said, and had the enjoyable sight of Sinclair's face slapped by perplexity. He brought out the leaflet, and tapped it with an index finger. "What about this? What about tomorrow?"

"The simple truth," Sinclair said. "Oh, Captain Greg, come now, can you not feel it? And you with your marvellous second sight as well. It's like a thunderstorm sent by the Creator himself—one that builds and builds away on the other side of a mountain range. You can't see it, not with your eyes, but oh dear mother Mary, you know it's there, and you know it's going to come sweeping over the tallest peaks to remind you of nature's raw power. That's what tomorrow is. A storm to wash away our tired terrible perception of the world. We'll see everything in a new, clean, and golden light. The coming of Revelation."

As if on cue, the first drops of rain began to patter down around them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We have a data alert situation, NN core one said.

Exit VentureCost Package. The three-dimensional accountancy lattice slipped out of Julia's mind. Event Horizon's finance division had put together a preliminary estimate of how much money she could raise to bid for the generator data. The numbers were ridiculous. At this level it wasn't even money any more, just digits in a memory bank. Risk and estimates; you were worth only what people thought you were, how you'd proved yourself. It was all so incredibly cynical. Yet it made the world go round.

She used to think she would prefer a life where wealth was a good solid nugget of gold. Nothing ephemeral about that.

But now she actually had Event Horizon tabulated and defined, some of it quite creatively. Banks and finance houses were reviewing their position, finalizing their figures, coming together in a consortium to back her. Market rumour said there were only three real contenders, Event Horizon, a Mitsubishi/General Electric partnership, and Jonathan-Hewit, with a Boeing/SAAB bid as a dark outsider.

The finance consortium members had a lot of confidence in Event Horizon's potential. And, of course, the intangibles. Mainly herself, and what she would do to them if they failed her.

She found herself thankful for her reputation again. The second time in one day. Must be a record.

What's the problem? she asked.

Charlotte Fielder has been issued with a replacement Amex card.