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cameras.’
    ‘You don’t think that’s being a little paranoid?’
    ‘Yes, but you’re the one who thinks he’s up to something.’
    ‘Huh…’ Fox folded her arms and frowned at the wall opposite her sofa for a few seconds. ‘Wouldn’t work anyway. He can call someone when he’s out tonight.’
    ‘He probably just knows another registered prostitute who is not working that night,’ Kit suggested, trying to sound placating.
    ‘That is not better.’
    ‘It’s just a kiss, Fox.’
    ‘That’s what they all say. Next thing you know, they’ve got their hand down your panties.’
    Kit pursed her lips. ‘Now you’re just escalating for no good reason. You can always say you’ve changed your mind, or…’
    ‘Or what?’
    ‘Don’t wear panties, then no one can get their hand in them.’
    31 st December.
    The area known as Times Square was larger than it had been at the beginning of the century. The northern end of it remained much as it had been, but Times Spire dominated the southern tip now, the megastructure dwarfing the more mundane buildings set around the triangle of land.
    Huge video displays still dominated the canyon of buildings. If anything, the displays were bigger and brighter, with very high resolutions thanks to advances in technology. Times Spire had a sixteen-storey screen affixed to the side facing the square running a constant stream of adverts for various companies that occupied the building.
    ‘Oh God, I’m up there,’ Marie said almost as soon as the trio got within sight of it.
    Fox looked up in time to see the tail end of an advert for M. J. running on the wall. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt anyone down here is paying much attention to what’s up there.’
    ‘You might be right…’
    It was noisy and crowded, and at eleven p.m. in the middle of winter, it was brighter than at noon. There were four live bands playing on raised stages located around the square. Several official stands were selling drinks, and several unofficial vendors with carts were probably making more profit in an hour than they had in the last quarter. And Fox spotted at least two individuals who were ‘vending’ things as discreetly as they could manage: if she had still been with NAPA, she would have probably hauled them in just for being stupid.
    There was a definite party atmosphere about the place. No one had got too drunk, or too drugged, yet to spoil things. Some of the fun was boisterous, but mostly there was a big crowd of people buzzed on the anticipation of the coming event. And Fox knew from experience that they were being watched by hundreds of fixed and mobile cameras every second of the time they were there. NAPA’s visible presence in the square, and there were actually uniformed officers walking among the crowd, was nothing compared to its less-than-visible monitoring effort.
    ‘How is my surprise date supposed to find us in all this?’ Fox asked.
    Sam just smiled. ‘It’s been taken care of.’
    ‘Still not even giving me a hint about this guy?’
    ‘It’s a surprise. Don’t want to spoil it, do we?’
    ‘I could stand a little spoiling…’
    Sam just broadened his smile. ‘Let’s get something to drink and find a band worth listening to or something.’
    There were those in the twenty twenties and thirties who had predicted the demise of live music. Autotuning and other forms of digital manipulation had become ubiquitous in recorded media and were starting to become viable for streamed live performances as computers got ever faster. With telepresence, you could attend a virtual gig from the comfort of your own home. What was the point of going out to see someone perform?
    And the answer that had come back from music fans was simply that they did not want over-produced, fake music. Or, yes, that was nice in its place, but how could you know a musician was really any good and not simply the product of technology? Performers who could actually sing and play in front of an audience