A pre-Warming map superimposed over the quagmire would have told Julia the Dornier was descending over Prior’s Fen, six kilometres due east of Peterborough. Below the extended undercarriage bogies thick concrete groyne walls were holding back the mud from a hexagonal patch of land three hundred metres in diameter. Five large Hawker Siddeley cargo hovercraft were docked to raft-like floating quays outside; and a couple of saucer-shaped McDonnell Douglas helistats were drifting high overhead, their big rotors spinning idly as they waited for the ceremony to finish so they could start unloading. I wonder how much it’s costing to keep them up there, she thought. The nodes would tell her, but somehow she didn’t want to know. Everything to do with PR seemed such a folly. Yet •a11 the experts swore by it, the God of good publicity, of customer relations, being and being seen to be a good corporate citizen. Fan nacelles on the Dornier’s canards and wings rotated to the vertical, and the plane touched down on one of the floating quays. There was only Rachel Griffith, Ben Taylor, her second bodyguard, and Caroline Rothman, her PA, in the cabin forward of the lounge. For once Morgan had stayed in his office. It must mean he trusts me, she thought, or more likely Rachel. She wished Patrick was there as she stepped out of the plane and into the most appalling humidity. Just someone who could hold her hand, in both senses; she always hated the way the crowds stared at her during these events. But Patrick was busy in Peterborough, helping to establish an office for his family company. Steeling herself against the incursive eyes, she smiled as her boots reached the rough r’~tal grid of the floating quay. She put on a very foppish wide-brimmed hat of black suede, A QUANTUM MURDER 105 grateful for the scant relief it offered from the sun. There was a strong whiff of sulphur coming off the quagmire, mingling with brine. Stephen Marano, the project engineer, trotted up to greet her. He was in his mid-forties, stuffed into a light-grey suit which didn’t really fit. He was a perfect choice to boss the labour crews, but completely out of his depth talking to her. His smile ifickered on and off, words got tangled in his throat, he seemed taken aback by her Goth get-up. She wanted to tell him not to say anything, ease his suffering a bit, but he would only interpret that as a rebuke, so she let him struggle on and introduce her to the fifteen-strong management team of architects and site engineers. A long exercise in tedium and discomfort. Three channel camera crews followed the procedure from a distance. She recognized one of the teams from the Globe-cast logo on their jackets. After the introductions they all trooped down a long ramp to the foot of the excavation. Julia realized they were actually below the level of the mud outside. Yellow JCB diggers were parked on the black peat, crews standing around them. They whistled and cheered as she went past. She didn’t actually hear any jeers, but there were plenty of wolf-whistles. Stephen Marano winced at each of them. It was wet underfoot; mercifully her skirt hem hovered five centimetres above the ground, but her boots received a liberal splattering. The site had been crisscrossed by drainage trenches, their pumps whirring noisily in the background. They stopped by a wood-lined square hole close to the sheer groyne wall. A big cement mixer lorry stood beside it, its rumbling dying away as the operator pressed a button on its side. One of the managers handed her a microphone. Access FootingSpeech. She cleared her throat, the sound echoing loudly round the groyne walls. The camera crews focused on her. Rachel and Ben stood unobtrusively on either side, heads moving slowly back and forth as they scanned the assembled crew. 106 PETER F. HAMILTON ‘I don’t suppose you want a long speech,’ Julia said, suddenly very self-conscious about her finishing-school accent. ‘And you’re not going to get one, not while you’re on my time.’ She saw smiles appearing under the coloured hard hats. ‘I would simply like to say that although the company space programme draws most of the media attention, you people slogging through the mud out here are just as important. Space isn’t the only direction the future lies in. Out here we have got a vast wasteland which everyone despises and resents, while back on shore there are too many people living too close together. This tower which we are starting today is going to lead the way in alleviating some of the pressure on population density, as well as the demands which industry is placing on the green belt. Land is becoming a very precious resource, and I am extremely proud that Event Horizon is setting this example that expansion is possible without coming into conflict with the environment. In the scramble to rebuild our economy, we must never forget the reasons for the Warming. We cannot afford to ignore the painful lessons of the past if we are to prevent the repetition of our grotesque mistakes in the future.’ Exit FootingSpeech. She handed the microphone back as the management group applauded loudly. ‘This way, Miss Evans,’ Stephen Marano said. He gestured to the cement mixer. The operator was a stocky man in a yellow T-shirt, grubby jeans, and an orange hard hat. He grinned broadly and pointed to the small control panel on the back of the lorry. It had five chrome-ringed buttons running down the centre. The green button had a new sticker above it which said: PRESS ME.