The VIP reception was held in Building One, a spacious rectangular lounge on the second floor. Chairs had been pushed back against one wall, leaving room for the caterers to set up their table opposite. The seafood buffet was proving popular with the guests. Waiters circulated with glasses of Moлt champagne on silver trays. A loud purr of conversation was drowning out the pianist Julia stood by the window wall sipping some of the chainpagne, watching the crowd of spectators traipsing round the spaceplane below. It was mainly family groups, parents leading eager children, stopping to take pictures under the nose. Five different channel news teams were recording their reporters using the spaceplane as a backdrop. Patrick left the buffet table and came over. ‘You should eat something,’ he said around a mouthful of shrimp and lettuce. ‘I didn’t think you liked fat girls,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t.’ There was a gleam in his eye she knew well enough. ‘How long have we got to stay here?’ ‘Another hour, at least. Be patient. It could be rewarding.’ ‘Could be?’ ‘Yah,’ she drawled. ‘All tight.’ He gave her a hungry look. She grinned back. It would have been exciting to sneak off into one of the disused offices upstairs. But there were security cameras everywhere, and experience had taught her that Rachel would never let her get out of the lounge alone. ‘I suppose I’d better do my eager hostess act,’ she said in resignation. Most of the people in the lounge were so much older than her, which meant she’d have to stick with small talk, or business. So boring. She had seen Katerina and Antonia and Laura milling about earlier, along with their boys. But they would all be chatting to the channel celebs. She didn’t fancy that either; the silver-screen magic tarnished rapidly in real life, she found. Greg and Eleanor were over 50 PETER F. HAMILTON on the other side of the lounge, talking to Morgan Walshaw and Gabriel Thompson, the woman he lived with. Greg looked uncomfortable and serious, but then he hated having to wear a suit and tie. She started towards them, at least she could tease Greg. ‘Miss Evans.’ The urgency in the voice surprised her. It clashed with the day’s mood. She turned. It was Dr Ranasfari. Julia sighed inwardly, very careful not to show any disappointment. She couldn’t even make small talk with Dr Ranasfari. The tall, wiry physicist was forty-five years old, neatly turned out, as always, in a light-grey suit, white shirt, and a pink tie that matched her own suit’s colour. His dark face looked strained, brown eyes blinking incessandy, glossed back raven hair shone a spectral blue under the lounge’s bright biolum panels. Dr Ranasfari was another of those people Julia always felt she had to impress. Though she doubted many people could impress Ranasfari. He was the genius in charge of the research team which had produced the giga-conductor for Event Horizon. It had taken him ten years; but her grandfather had never doubted he could do it. ‘The man’s dedicated,’ Philip Evans had told her once. ‘Bloody boring, mind, Juliet, but dedicated. That’s what makes him special. He’ll spend his life on a project if needs be. We’re lucky to have him.’ After the giga-conductor was unveiled to the world, and the need for total security was abolished, she had built Ranasfari a laboratory complex in Cambridge, and gave him a budget of twenty million pounds New Sterling a year to spend on whatever projects he wanted. He was currently working on a direct thermocouple, a solid-state fibre which would convert thermal energy straight into electricity, eliminating any need for conventional turbines and generators. The potential applications for geothermal power extraction alone were colossal. If he asked for fifty million a year she would grant it. ‘No drink, Cormac?’ she asked lightly. He never actually objected to her using his first name, although she was always Miss Evans to him. ‘You really ought to have one glass at A QUANTUM MURDER 51 least, this is as much your day as it is mine.’ His lips twisted nervously, showing a flash of snow-white teeth. ‘Thank you, no. Miss Evans, I really must speak with you.’ She had never seen him so agitated before. Her humour spiralled down. ‘Of course.’ She signalled to Rachel.