It being the day it was, nobody but one of her oldest acquaintances (friends? Somehow the concept rang false, but there it was, to be put up with) could have walked in and stated his, or her, requirements. She was, though, awaiting Godwin; they had known each other for quite a while. It was preferable not to put a number to the years. She looked him over in the high-ceilinged room, lit with pitiless fluorescents, where she plied her trade. She was a handsome, square-faced, ash-blond woman who had decided to appear forty and lay claim to fifty because of Signe Hasso in L'Éternel Retour . . . which, in fact, was the name of her shop. Her hobby, which dated back to the time when she was reading biology at university, was the raising of exotic plants. Currently she had a species which glowed with a rich deep sheen whenever it decided to cross the floor in search of a new location. She had half a dozen trays of earth set out, and electronic gear which provoked the response, and when Godwin came in, three of the things -- plump, luscious, like cacti but luminous and far more graceful -- were under way from one to another rooting site. The first was ruby-red, the next yellow, and the third shone with a vibrant blue. "Perfect timing!" Irma crowed as Godwin entered. "Aren't they darling? Are they not perfectly and entirely darling?" She spoke with especial fervor. Almost all her clients -- for obvious reasons -- were forbidden to see and admire her treasures, and a visit from someone who was allowed to witness her achievement was to be exploited to the full. Godwin, though, was aching from head to toe. Whatever his body had had to put up with recently, it had taken a gigantic toll of his resources. As he stripped off his clothes and prepared to lie down under the apparatus which Irma was marshaling, he could only say curtly, "Yes -- very pretty! But what happened to the Regulan plants you had before?" "Rigelian!" she corrected sharply, pushing him with a firm hand into the right position on the table, which was broad and white and cold, and very hard. "Yes, they were all very well in their way, but they couldn't stand the nitrogen . . . or was it the carbon monoxide? No, that was the ones I had before . . . Oh, never mind!" -- with a sketch for a laugh. "They are lovely, these, aren't they?" "Gorgeous!" he said with feigned enthusiasm, shutting his eyes. "Where are they from?" "Oh, I don't know! Somewhere interesting, I think . . . What have you been doing to yourself?" -- as she probed and tested his body tissue. "I hope you've allowed plenty of time, because you don't look in the least like you ought to at your age." That was a gibe, and he resigned himself to it; it was deserved. It was Irma's talent to correct him so that every time he came back he would always leave here looking precisely as someone of thirty-two ought currently to look. And not, of course, him alone. Her mood improved as soon as she set about her work, as always. While she was removing his surplus fat she began to hum, and by the time she got around to erasing his wrinkles -- not just from his face, but from every inch of his skin -- she was cheerful enough to start boasting. "Say, know who I had in here yesterday? Bruce Bastard-Bitch of the Claimjumpers! You know! This Aussie sick-rock group they're all talking about now! Was he a mess ! I swear, I don't know what they get up to down under to ruin their bodies in such short order. Of course if they had" -- archly -- " guidance . . . !" Meantime she was readjusting his hairline to correspond with the present fashion and dehydrating him of a kilo of superfluous fluid. He could feel the tingling sensation as it flowed out through his pores, taking with it the fatigue products accumulated around his strains and bruises. He relaxed, and despite the discomfort began to feel quite sympathetic toward her. Almost, indeed, affectionate. "I suppose you do have to keep up that level of 17-ketosteroids, but it sure plays hell with your follicles," she sighed as she checked his hormone count. It was one of her minor abilities, to be able to sigh at such length. But he tolerated it, just as he did her belief in being guided. It was, after all, one way of putting it . . . "Now let's do something about the accommodation of that right eye of yours," she continued, shuffling her machines around and bringing to bear one which focused a dim green light on his retina. " Oh, yes. Still a bit lazy, just as I thought. Won't take a moment, though . . . What's new with you, by the way?" "Oh, nothing much . . ." But it was scarcely worth the doing unless there were people he could tell, and there were so few of them. He came out with it directly. "I won the George Medal for rescuing a kid during the Blitz. I saved her life." "You never!" But it wasn't a contradiction, only an exclamation. "I always knew you had it in you! Well, well, you actually won a medal! Did you get it from the king in person?" "Yes. Want me to prove it with a press cutting?" Already on first recounting it seemed far away and irrelevant. His eye had been attended to and everything in the room, including the faint reflections on the bright white tiles as the plants wandered from soil tray to soil tray, gleaming amber now and russet and orange, was far too sharply in focus for his comfort. Next, he knew, needles would probe his neck and shoulder muscles, eliminating rheumatoid plaques, and after that she would set about the business of updating him. She was invariably meticulous; every time he left here, he looked exactly as a contemporary thirty-two-year-old should. But it was not always a pleasant experience. "A George Medal!" she was repeating, as though to savor the very shape of the words. "Well, well! God, I bet you wish you could go around telling everybody!" That idea was so patently absurd it was uncomfortable. Rolling over at her insistence so she could insert her needles, he caught sight of the plants again and said with an effort, "They certainly are very pretty, these new things of yours. Where did you say they came from?" "Oh -- one of the planets of Sirius, I think," she answered absently. "Just a second. Don't move, don't even breathe . . . Got it. Ah -- yes, Sirius or somewhere. But you should see the big ones I have at home! Taller than me, and so graceful! You really ought to drop around some time. What about tonight?" He knew and she knew what the response was sure to be, but he was glad to be able to say honestly, "I'm afraid not. I'm being called." "I see. That's why you're here, hm?" she said with affected nonchalance. "Okay, there goes your rheumatism. Now we'll service your face and hands and that'll do." Her voice betrayed her, though. It must have been a long while since she was called. Clearly she wasn't relishing retirement. Moreover, since she and he dated back to about the same time . . . But she put a brave face on it, and a moment later as she reorganized his eyebrows she was saying, "I'm going to win a trophy at the Chelsea Flower Show, you know. For gladioli, I think. And tomorrow -- I mean on Monday -- you'll never guess who's coming for the first time! Candida Bright! You know, the actress who just won the best-of-year award on ITV?" Not, of course, to enjoy this kind of treatment. Godwin said absently, "When?" "Oh, last month some time, I think. It was in the papers." "No, I meant the trophy." Even before the words were out, he realized how tactless they were. "Soon, let's hope!" he added heartily as she stood back and indicated that he could get up and dress. The addition provoked a wan smile. She ushered him personally to the door and kissed him on both cheeks before letting him out into the street. As he strode away, she called, "Do remember what I said about dropping by some time, won't you?" That obliged him to turn around and wave back and thus look at her again. He would much have preferred not to see her as she was with her defenses down: as other people were not privileged to see her, as she should never have been seen at all. For that insight, too, there was of course a reason. A proper caution. The evening was cool but at least it was dry. Godwin drove to the underground car-park in Park Lane and left the Urraco there, jingling the hotel key he had found. Crossing the road, he noticed that the whores and beggars were out in force tonight, though traffic was naturally as light as it always was nowadays. Half a dozen couples of police -- one man, one woman -- were trying to prevent people being accosted, but it was a job like painting the Forth Bridge. Driven from one spot, the nuisance rematerialized elsewhere a moment later. Seeing him approach, one of the commissionaires on duty before the Global Hotel reacted alertly. "Good evening, sir!" he exclaimed as he trod on the pad before the automatic sliding doors to save Godwin the fractional delay involved in doing so himself. "Good evening -- ah . . . ?" Godwin said as he slid a pound into the man's white-gloved hand. "Jackson, sir!" "Thank you, Jackson." He walked into the foyer, which at this time of evening was full of customers smartly dressed for an evening on the town. He recognized several people who were household names -- actors, politicians, businessmen -- and was himself recognized, even though he did not recall ever being here before. But that was the way of things in his life. "No messages, sir!" the girl on the reception desk twinkled at him. "But I reserved your table in our disco, which opens at ten o'clock." "Thank you, Molly," he said, reading her name off the badge she wore pinned to her crisp white shirt, and left another pound lying discreetly on the counter. Glancing around as he turned away, he saw a head of fair hair above a lean, muscular back, and for a second could have imagined . . . but no. It belonged to a young man; when he turned, he revealed a beard. And why should he be paying attention to that kind of thing, anyhow? All the staff he encountered as he went up to his room -- correction: "his" room -- beamed at him. Entering it, he discovered awaiting him a bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit, the card accompanying which said they came with the compliments of the management. He nodded thoughtful approval of all that that implied. In the early days there had sometimes been disasters to sort out. As time passed, this kind of thing had become more and more typical. One might put it down to increasing skill, born of frequent practice. Or perhaps it was due to something else entirely. There was no means of finding out, so there was no point in worrying about it. He called room service for caviar, an underdone steak and a tossed salad, and ate quietly on his own, not touching the champagne. He could only drink in the safety of his own home. But he sampled the fruit and found it delicious. Lighting another of his favorite petit coronas, he went down to the hotel discothèque a few minutes after ten. This early, it was almost empty apart from staff. Its roof was mirrored at crazy angles. Chairs and tables were grouped to form a horseshoe. In the center was a dais of thick glass, over water kept constantly in motion, on which were reflected lights that constantly changed color. A bar ran down one wall, and at it sat some bored-looking prostitutes tolerated by the management -- conceivably because they kicked back a portion of their takings. It was a very stock scene indeed. The DI looked bored as he sorted through his supply of tapes and records; the barmen were yawning as though they had only just got up; the women were much too heavily painted, as though expecting to be viewed on stage by people the far side of footlights, not at close quarters. One girl, tawny-skinned and slender, was on the dance floor writhing and gyrating, but she was like the token coin in the collection tray. "Ah, good evening, sir!" a waitress said, purring up to him. "We have the same table for you as last night and the night before. I'm afraid we weren't expecting you quite so early, so I haven't set out your champagne yet -- " "Coke," he said. She blinked at him. She was pretty, brown-haired, youthful. "Coke," be repeated. Her face fell, but she only shrugged and said nothing as she turned away, expecting him -- of course -- to know which table he had reserved. Instead, he remained where he was, glancing about him and wondering what he was here for. He knew, of course, in the broadest sense, but the details so far were elusive. There was nothing for it but to wait. The girl returned, bringing his Coke and also carrying an enormous menu which, as she indicated his table and he sat down at it, she thrust into his hands. He did no more than glance at it, registering that it offered extremely basic food -- hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, kebabs -- at stratospheric prices . . . not, of course, that that could worry him. But he gave it back to her almost at once with a shake of his head. "I ate already," he muttered, and leaned back to savor the last of his cigar. She gave him an extremely puzzled look, but departed with another shrug, and in a little while was seen to be talking with the headwaiter. Both of them kept casting glances in his direction. Godwin ignored them, and very shortly they were distracted as new customers arrived. Within half an hour or so there were twenty people present and four young couples were dancing under the randomly changing lights -- and above them. The effect of the reflection from the ripples was colorful and imaginative; he watched it most of the time he was sitting alone. Now and then he was interrupted by the passage of one or other waiter or waitress, each of whom greeted him cordially and hovered for a while, clearly expecting him to place an order. As each in turn moved away disappointed, they wore identical looks of perplexity. It grew very warm in the room. One of the girls, who had come in with a fat, father-old escort, took off her blouse and started dancing topless; another, not to be outdone, peeled off her dress and danced in bikini panties, barefooted. Both were young and quite attractive, and for a while Godwin wondered whether he should be interested in them. But neither seemed to show any sign of recognition.