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a pro athlete or movie star was being paid that kind of money, we’d wonder what they were doing wrong. Some people get paid more than that just for having their picture taken.
    The fact that I am not one of those people becomes elaborately clear to me as soon as I set foot in Hudson’s office.
    Despite the fact that we are, as far as I can tell, about three hundred feet below ground, there is bright sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The room is round and large enough that I would not be able to throw a tennis ball from one side to the other and actually have it hit the wall. In the middle is a large fireplace that doesn’t appear to vent anywhere. Opposite me is a surprisingly small wooden desk with a couple of chairs in front of it. At a glance, I can also see an area containing what is either exercise or medical equipment (it could be either), a movie theatre with a dozen plush leather seats, a sunken area with either a large hot tub or small swimming pool, and an aquarium containing what appears to be a great white shark in the process of eating a man in green coveralls. The shark has the top half in its mouth and is shaking its head back and forth quite violently, leaving a long ribbon of blood in its wake as it moves from one end of the tank to the other.
    “Dammit, looks like Julio fell in again.”
    I jump and turn to see that the entire wall behind me is made up of what looks like a gigantic television screen – a screen approximately large enough to play 12 soccer matches simultaneously. On that screen is the face of a man who appears to be in his early fifties. He has beady black eyes that make him look oddly like an angry lobster, and unnaturally tanned skin, although perhaps it’s just because the colour balance on the giant TV is not the best. Is this Hudson? I am so horrified and stunned that I’m not sure what to say.
    “Fell in?” I gurgle. The blueberry muffin that I had for breakfast is suddenly not sitting so well.
    The man on the screen nods. “Silly bastard’s been depressed ever since the octopus died. Treated the damn thing like a son. Caught it himself, you know. Got some damn infection that only octopuses get. Legs started rotting off and clogging up the filtration valves. Never seen a man in such a state.”
    “Legs?”
    “Mmmm. Last time they were able to fish him out. Hector only got a nibble. Left hand or foot. One or the other. Shit, I don’t remember. We got a net on him. Got him counselling. New foot or hand or whatever the hell it was. Said he was fine. Guess he wasn’t.”
    We watch in silence as the shark manages to separate the top half of the body from the bottom and swallows it in a single gulp. The legs hang in space, spinning slowly counter-clockwise.
    “Apologize for the telepresence,” says the giant face. “I’m rarely in the office for long these days. You could say you’ll never find me in just one place.”
    He smiles like this is some sort of inside joke I don’t get. Oren nods his head and shovels out a loud chuckle.
    “Sorry,” I say. “But are you…George Hudson?”
    The face nods. “That I very much am.”
    “Ah,” I say. Having confirmed this fact, I suddenly find I have no idea what else to say.
    “How do you like the aquarium?” he says. “Had it installed last year. Biggest one in the world. Used to have a whale shark in it. For an experiment. That didn’t quite work out. Now we’ve got Hector there.”
    I watch the legs float to the bottom of the tank trailing a long ribbon of red, like a precision flying exhibit during an air show. I realize that my jaw is hanging open and close it in an effort to reduce my chances of vomiting. “Hector? You mean the shark?”
    He nods with an unmistakable note of pride. “It’s a female. Named it Hectorina after my first wife. She was named after her paternal grandfather. Robbed the camel jockeys blind when they negotiated drilling rights in the Negev. Relentless.”
    “And