"Did Royan say where he was taking it?" Victor asked.

"No, but the container was from the North Sea Farm company, its logo was on the side. You know, that daft one with the seahorse. That's why I remember it. I thought it was pretty odd, sending a space probe to a sea farm."

"Yeah," Victor said. A blank container would have been the obvious choice. So Royan had wanted it to be noticed. Laying a trail in bright flashing red neon. It was all a game, even something as momentous as alien microbes, a game, new and fascinating. He felt real anger then. Royan was risking everything Julia had built, and at the end, win or lose, he wouldn't particularly care. He'd just move on to whatever proved bright and glittery enough to capture his attention next, leaving everyone else to shovel up the shit.

His cybofax shrilled loudly. Emergency code. Victor pulled the wafer out of his jacket pocket, and scanned the security division status display rushing down the little screen. The crash teams had launched to rescue Greg and Suzi.

"Come on!" he called to Rick, and took the metal stairs out of the cabin three at a time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Julia's nodes closed the channel to Victor after he finished briefing her on the SETI office's progress. Wilholm's patio sprang back into her perception; a broad rectangle of yellow-grey York slabs laid outside the library's French windows. There was a heavily tinted glass roof overhead, supported by thick stone pillars that were choked by the ropy branches of climbing fuchsias. Big orange and white puffball flowers shone like Chinese lanterns as they caught the bright afternoon sun.

Matthew was drinking his lemon juice from a tall frosted glass, looking at her in exasperation. "You were talking to someone," he accused.

"Fraid so." She took a sip of tea from her cup. It had seemed like a good idea, tea on the patio with the children. Hot afternoon, cold drinks, excited chatter, and chocolate cake.

Deep down she knew she was grabbing the opportunity for herself. Charlotte Fielder would be brought to Peterborough this evening; there would have to be a decision over who to align herself with in the bidding war for atomic structuring; and Victor would soon find the spaceplane that had recovered Kiley. There weren't going to be many spare hours in the next few days. "Bit of a flap on right now, you see." Although when isn't there?

"Is that why Victor was here earlier?" Daniella asked.

"Yes."

"I like Victor."

"Me too," Matthew said.

"That makes three of us, then."

"Is it about Daddy?" Matthew asked.

"Matthew!" Daniella scolded. "You said you wouldn't."

He scowled rebelliously.

Julia patted her daughter's hand. "It's all right. Yes, it is about Daddy. I've got a lot of people looking for him."

"Uncle Greg will find him," Matthew declared stubbornly.

"My word, nothing much escapes you two, does it?"

Daniella gave an awkward shrug. "Christine said he was going to do a tracking job. He hasn't done that for years."

"Daddy and Uncle Greg fought together in the war, you see," Matthew said eagerly. "People who do that will do anything for each other afterwards."

Julia sighed. "It wasn't exactly a war, dear."

"What then?"

"A very sad time. Things got out of hand after the Warming, chaotic and unpleasant. It was just a very few people at the top who caused a lot of trouble for everybody else."

"Daddy always said—"

"Can we drop the subject, please."

"There, see," Daniella said triumphantly.

Matthew slurped his lemon noisily.

"Uncle Greg will find him, won't he?" Daniella asked, her self-confidence suddenly collapsing.

"Your Uncle Greg is the best," Julia said. She wanted to say yes, of course; but then she would have to produce Royan. She wondered if she was really doing them any favours sheltering them like this. When news of the alien hit the channel newscasts—and it would—there'd be temper tantrums and sulks because she hadn't told them about it. But in the mean time they could have a few more days running riot in Wilholm's grounds, a few more days of the childhood she never had, plenty of friends and no cares.

Her cybofax bleeped, and she sagged back into the chair. Was half an hour with the children so much to ask?

"Go on, Mummy," Daniella said. "Answer it. The only people who have your number are ultra-important. It's probably the King."

"I don't think even William could help much with this one," she mumbled half to herself as she took out the wafer. Open Channel to SelfCores. Who is this?

Michael Harcourt, NN core one answered. It's an official call in his capacity as Minister for Industry, so we told Kirsten to let it through. The government has finally decided to contact you about atomic structuring. Apparently the inner cabinet has been in crisis session for most of the morning, ever since the Ministry of Defence briefed the PM on atomic structuring.

Really. Stay on line, please, I may need some data interpretation.

Of course.

"Is it the King?" Matthew asked, trying to look serious.

Julia laughed. "No. How about you two finishing your tea in the summer-house while I take the call?"

Matthew lunged for the chocolate cake, lifting its plate with both hands. Daniella picked up the tray with the jug of juice and the glasses.

"We don't mind, Mummy, not really," she said.

Julia forced a smile through the guilt, disturbed by just how hard it was. "And don't give any cake to Brutus," she called after them.

Michael Harcourt was a New Conservative central office clone; all the party's cabinet ministers seemed to have been bred in a vat somewhere, she thought. The same vat, bloody nearly the same chromosomes. He was fifty-something, old enough to inspire confidence but nowhere near past it, immaculately groomed, not too expensive suit, silver-grey hair, authoritative face, voice coached into classless inflection. Capped teeth smiled at her from the cybofax's little screen. "Ms Evans, I'm very grateful to you for taking my call at such short notice."

Smooth bastard, she thought; the channel current affairs casts had been hinting at a leadership contest recently: the New Conservative backbenchers were unhappy at Joshua Wheaton's handling of the Welsh problem. Michael Harcourt was a major contender to replace him. Something else she should have kept up with; the NN cores would know.

"My office coded your call as a priority," Julia said.

"We consider it so, absolutely. The thing is this, Julia; this morning the government was informed of a rather valuable new technology being hawked round the market."

"Yes, atomic structuring."

"Ah." Michael Harcourt's eyebrows rose a fraction. "You do know about it. Excellent. The Ministry of Defence was contacted by both the Greater European Defence Alliance and the Globecast company, to tell them this atomic structuring was being offered for development. According to our analysis, and these are absolutely top-rate people I've got working on it, Julia, it's going to cause quite a bit of a stir. In fact, the word revolutionary has been bandied about, not altogether in jest."

"My people say the same thing," she replied.

"Good, I'm glad to hear an independent confirmation, always a relief. Can I take it then, Event Horizon will be putting in a strong bid for a partnership with Clifford Jepson?"

"Of course we'll put in a bid."

Michael Harcourt's news bite smile dimmed slightly. "Ah, well, that's a point of some contention in the Cabinet, Julia. You see, Event Horizon has such a prominent position in English industry, we really feel it's essential that you put in the winning bid."

"If you know of a way to guarantee mine is the winner, Minister, I'd be delighted to hear it."