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the press of suited bodies. Hewitt stayed where she was until Hamilton appeared noiselessly at her side.
    “Well?” he asked.
    “Don’t ask.”
             
    O N THE OTHER side of the room, Chris was in fact deep in nothing other than the classic party nightmare. He was becalmed at the edges of a group he had only passing acquaintance with, listening politely to conversations he had no interest in about people and places he did not know. His jaws ached from trying not to yawn; he wanted nothing more than to bow out quietly and go home.
    Five days into the new job? I don’t think so, pal.
    Out of boredom he went to the bar for a refill he didn’t want. As he was waiting, someone nudged him. He glanced around. Mike Bryant, grin on full beam, with a Liz Linshaw clone in tow and a tray full of drinks in his hands.
    “Hey, Chris.” Bryant had to raise his voice above the crowd. “How did you like Hewitt? Talks up a storm, doesn’t she?”
    Chris nodded noncommittally. “Yeah, very inspiring.”
    “You’re not kidding. Really gets you in the guts. First time I heard her speak, I thought I’d been personally selected to lead a holy fucking crusade for global investment. Simeon Sands for the finance sector.” Mike did a passable burlesque of the satellite syndicated demagogue. “
Hallelujah, I believe!
I have
faith
! Seriously, you look at the productivity graphs following each quarterly address she gives. Spikes through the roof, man.”
    “Right.”
    “Hey, you want to join us? We’re sitting back on the windowsill there, see. Got some of the meanest analysts in creation gathered around those tables. Isn’t that right, Liz?”
    The woman at Bryant’s side chuckled. Shooting a glance at her, Chris suddenly realized this was no clone.
    “Oh, yeah, sorry. Liz Linshaw, Chris Faulkner. Chris, you know Liz, I guess. Either that or you don’t have a TV.”
    “Ms. Linshaw.” Chris stuck out his hand.
    Liz Linshaw laughed and leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks. “Call me Liz,” she said. “I recognize
you
now. From the App and Prom sheets this week. You’re the one who took down Edward Quain in ’41, aren’t you?”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “Before my time. I was just a stringer on a pirate satellite ’cast in those days. Quite a kill. I don’t think there’s been one like it in the last eight years.”
    “Stop it, you’re making me feel old.”
    “Will you two stop flirting and grab some of these drinks,” demanded Bryant. “I’ve got a dozen thirsty animals back there to water. What do you want in that, Chris?”
    “Uh, Laphroaig. No ice.”
    “Yyyeurgh.”
    Among the three of them they carried the glasses over to the tables and unloaded. Bryant pushed and shoved at people, joking and cajoling and bullying until he had space for Chris and Liz to sit at his table. He raised his glass.
    “Small wars,” he said. “Long may they smolder.”
    Approval, choral in volume.
    Chris found himself squeezed in next to a tall, slim executive with steel-rimmed glasses and the air of a scientist peering down a microscope lens at everything. Chris felt a ripple of irritation. Affected eyewear had always been one of Carla’s pet hates.
Fucking poverty chic,
she invariably snarled when she saw the ads.
Fake fucking human imperfection. It’ll be cool to ride around in a fucking wheelchair next. It’s fucking offensive.
Chris tended to agree. Sure, you could run a datadown uplink projected onto the inside of the lenses, but that wasn’t it. Carla was right: it was zone chic. And why the fuck pretend you couldn’t afford corrective surgery when everything else you were wearing screamed the opposite.
    “Nick Makin,” said the narrow face behind the lenses, extending a long arm sideways across his body. The grip belied his slender frame. “You ah Faulkner, ahn’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    Mike Bryant leaned across the table toward them. “Nick was our top commission analyst last year. Predicted