Norrington threw his head back and blinked into the sun. He absently flicked a saucer-sized spider from his shoulder, entered the pool landscape via a path overgrown with ferns and conifers, and gazed forensically around the area. By now the whole travelling party had met up by the pool. Drinks and snacks were being handed out, people were noisily introducing themselves. Julian had selected the participants very cleverly. The diverse group there was worth several hundred billion dollars: world-improvers like Mukesh Nair, oligarchs along the lines of Rogachev, and people like Miranda Winter, who had, for the first time, found her pea-brain faced with the task of spending money sensibly. Orley planned to relieve them all of part of their fortunes. At that moment Evelyn Chambers joined them, and smiled radiantly around. Still remarkably good-looking, Norrington thought. Perhaps she’d become a bit plump over time, but nothing compared to the progressive spherification of Rebecca Hsu.
He walked on, ready for anything.
‘Mimi! Marc! How lovely to see you.’
Evelyn had overcome her revulsion, and was once again capable of communicating. She was almost on friendly terms with Mimi Parker, and Marc was a nice guy. She waved to Momoka Omura and exchanged kisses on the cheek with Miranda Winter, who greeted every new arrival with a ‘Wooouuuuhhw’ that sounded like a burglar alarm, followed by a saucy, ‘Oh yeah!’ Evelyn had last seen Winter with long, steel-blue hair, and now she wore it short and bright red, which made you think of fire alarms. The ex-model’s forehead was decorated with a filigree pattern. Her breasts squeezed themselves reluctantly into a dress that only just covered the planetary curve of her bottom and was so tight at the waist that it made one fear that Ms Miranda might at any moment split in two. The youngest here, at the age of twenty-eight, she had undergone so many surgical interventions that the mere documentation of her operations kept hundreds of society reporters in employment, not to mention her extravagances, her excesses and the aftershocks of her trial.
Evelyn pointed at the pattern on her brow.
‘Pretty,’ she said, trying frantically to escape the massive double constellation of the Miranda cleavage, which seemed to be drawing her gaze powerfully downwards. Everyone knew that Evelyn’s sexual appetite was equally divided between men and women. The revelation of her private life, namely the fact that she lived with her husband and her lover in a ménage à trois, had cost her the candidacy in New York.
‘It’s Indian,’ Miranda replied gleefully. ‘Because India is in the stars, you know?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! Just imagine! The stars say we’re heading for an Indian age. Quite wonderful. The transformation will begin in India. Humanity will change. First India, then the whole world. There will never be war again.’
‘Who says that, darling?’
‘Olinda Brannigan.’
Olinda Brannigan was an ancient, dried-up Hollywood actress from Beverly Hills who looked like a codfish. Miranda went to her to have her cards read and her future predicted.
‘And what else does Olinda have to say?’
‘You shouldn’t buy anything Chinese. China’s going to go under.’
‘Because of the trade deficit?’
‘Because of Jupiter.’
‘And what sort of dress are you wearing?’
‘This? Cute, isn’t it? Dolce & Gabbana.’
‘You should take it off.’
‘What, here?’ Miranda looked furtively around and lowered her voice. ‘Now?’
‘It’s Chinese.’
‘Oh, stop! They’re Italians, they—’
‘It’s Chinese, darling,’ Evelyn repeated with relish. ‘Rebecca Hsu bought Dolce & Gabbana last year.’
‘Does she have to buy everything?’ For a moment Miranda looked frankly hurt. Then the sun came out once again. ‘Never mind. Maybe Olinda made a mistake.’ She spread her fingers and shook herself. ‘Anyway, I’m reaaally looking forward to the trip! I’m going to squeal the whole time!’
Evelyn didn’t doubt for a moment the serious intent behind this threat. She glanced around and saw the Nairs, the Tautous and the Locatellis in conversation. Olympiada joined the group, while Oleg Rogachev studied her, nodded to her and went to the bar. He immediately came over with a glass of champagne, handed it to her and assumed his familiar, sphinx-like smile.
‘So we’re going to be exposed to your judgement in space,’ he said in a strong Slavic accent. ‘We’ll all have to be very careful what we say.’
‘I’m here as a private individual.’ She winked at him. ‘But if you really want to tell me anything—’
Rogachev laughed quietly, without losing his icy expression.
‘I’m sure I will, not least for the pleasure of your company.’ He looked out to the platform. By now the sun was low over the volcano, and bathed the artificial island in warm colours. ‘Have you been through preparatory training? Weightlessness isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’
‘In Orley Space Centre.’ Evelyn took a sip. ‘Zero-gravity flights, simulation in the immersion tank, the whole caboodle. You?’
‘A few sub-orbital flights.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Thrilled.’
‘You do know what Julian is trying to do by organising this event?’
The remark hovered in the room, waiting to be picked up. Rogachev turned to look at her.
‘And now you’re interested to find out my opinion on the matter.’
‘And you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t thinking seriously about it.’
‘And you?’
Evelyn laughed.
‘Forget it. In this company I’m the church mouse. He can hardly have had his beady eyes on my savings.’
‘If all church mice had to reveal the state of their finances, Evelyn, mice would run the world.’
‘Wealth is relative, Oleg, I don’t have to tell you that. Julian and I are old friends. I’d love to convince myself that it was that that persuaded him to make me a member of the group, but of course I realise that I manage capital that’s more important than money.’
‘Public opinion.’ Rogachev nodded. ‘In his place I’d have invited you too.’
‘You, on the other hand, are rich! Almost everybody here is rich, really rich. If each of you throws only a tenth of his wealth into the jackpot, Julian can build a second lift and a second OSS.’
‘Orley won’t allow a shareholder to influence the fate of his company to any great extent. I’m a Russian. We have our own programmes. Why should I support American space travel?’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Because you’re a businessman. Nation states may have interests, but what good is that if you lack money and know-how? Julian Orley dusted off American state space travel and at the same time sealed its fate. He’s the boss now. Worth mentioning to the extent that space travel programmes are now almost exclusively in private hands, and Julian’s lead in the sector is astronomical. Even in Moscow people are supposed to have been saying that he doesn’t give a fig for the interests of nation states. He just looks for people who think the same way as he does.’