They wore blue, winter sky blue, the blue of cheap swimming pool cladding. There were three of them, massive and carelessly strong, shrouded in blue.

Click.

They hunched over the chill box in front of them. They observed the readings on the box's precious cargo and they were well pleased.

The blue suits crackled in the silence. The near-silence.

Click.

He awoke and was immediately delighted by three delicious sights. The Nikkei was down, way down. The sun was swaddled in cloud. And Cindi - Karen? Carmen? - was getting out of bed.

He levered himself up on one elbow, slowly, wanting to watch. She had fine legs, something he had always demanded, smooth and toned to an artisan's finish. Even to his dimming sense of touch, his crusted hands, her skin was perfect.

Still with her back to him, Karin - Kate? - finished slipping on her panties and skirt. Then came the jacket top. He smiled and then - remembering himself - made three clustered purchases using the flatboard above his bed.

The slight noise made her turn and, seeing him awake, smile broadly. "Come here," he said. He had to make two attempts at the words, the first emerging as little more than a damp

click

from his sleep-dammed throat. He made two further quick sales in the time it took her to reach his side of the bed, then pushed the flat to one side. He would watch the fun of those particular actions in a moment.

"I was just on my way out, I know you prefer me gone by now." She brushed a stray wave of copper hair from atop her left eyebrow and sat on the edge of the mattress. The mattress, in turn, barely deigned to dimple. Her fingers traced the edge of his bicep, then dipped low and squeezed the elbow. "You were amazing. I'm going to have to keep you out of the other girls' way, you know that?"

"Get out of here," he said, pushing her off the bed in his fond way, mostly to feel yet again the remarkable resilience of those buttocks. Unaugmented, he'd heard from Simmonds in FLT. Extraordinary.

She giggled softly and was gone, snatching shoes and stockings as she left. He was about to call after her, but the screen caught his attention again and he thought better of it. He spent a neat ten minutes updating the preferences of his purchasing-and-dumping AI, sending a quick memo to the senior directors and watching video feed of the brokers down in B-12, brokers broken by his total of forty-five seconds of play on the market. Among them was that Harrison kid, head in his hands, not caring about the sports drink spilling into his keyboard. Little rodent. Let's see him get up from that one. L-chiral sector investments, his eye.

Of course, he had to do it this morning. By eleven o'clock, Harrison's despair would be lost in the mass. Harrison wouldn't have known the very personal attention he was getting and that would not have been right.

The market now satisfactory, he briefly left matters in the hands of his more adequate minions and took a shower. The smell of sex bloomed in the rush of hot water and was gone almost as quickly. There was something appropriate about that. He completed his morning toilet, then dressed with clinical grace, one eye on the market, and left the west wing.

Jenny was finishing her second cup of coffee underneath the bull-headed Picasso sketch in the informal kitchen. He kissed her on the cheek in the time- manner and she smiled accordingly. Breakfast was up to her usual standard; even the mango somehow contrived to be less fibrous once it passed through her hands.

"I thought I'd go to Danny's circuit class today," she said quietly as he scraped the last of his omelet and got up. "I think it's time."

"Not a bad idea," he said, getting his briefcase in order. "You could do with it."

He touched her on the chin and strode out to the garage. It was true, she had been letting herself go a bit since the accident, but at least now she seemed to have the right attitude. In return, he made sure he kept the - he was sure it was Karen - Karens of the world out of the way so as not to upset her.

Carl was in the garage, pressed and gleaming. He rarely saw Carl as anything other than an attentive silhouette, either through the bulletproof shielding that separated them in the vehicle or, as now, in the glare of the orange garage lights. He had the feeling Carl started work with a moustache, all those years ago. It appeared Carl had lost it sometime in the last year or two.