Michael was tall with a receding hairline and gleaming brow. He grinned, reached into his pocket, and produced a thick silver screw, which he gave to Taylor, closing her hand around it.

“If you’ve ever struggled to thread a nut onto a bolt in an awkward spot, you know how frustrating it can be. Imagine doing that in a space suit; imagine doing it in zero gravity. That’s an AstraNut.” Taylor opened her hand and gazed at it with what she hoped was appropriate awe. “No threads, no issues with rust, paint, damage. Used on oil rigs, used in the Arctic.” He took his phone out and showed her an image of a contraption like a spinning top, floating in outer space.

“That’s the world’s first space hotel, launching next year. How many bolts do you think that will need?”

“A lot.”

Taylor cast an eye around the room while they spoke. The younger, awkward-looking man still stood among a group of eight or nine individuals. Hard to reach. He was the one speaking, but he didn’t like making eye contact. Payne’s eyes roamed everywhere. He chatted to a man in a corduroy jacket, glancing distractedly over the man’s shoulder as he spoke. MI6 had worked to bury a sex scandal when he was trade secretary, she remembered. It had caused a flap just as he was set to negotiate a deal with the Saudis. One of those handkerchief-in-the-breast-pocket politicians whose traditionalism was entirely at ease with the bleeding edge of corporate enterprise. Money being as traditional as anything, she guessed. As power. His eyes met Taylor’s. Payne smiled before she had a chance to turn. No sense he recognized her. Taylor held his gaze a beat, allowing herself the slightest of smiles before gently looking away again.

“No nuts, no insurance,” Michael was saying. “That’s why we work closely with the guys trying to set up an insurance framework.”

Taylor nodded, planning her next move. The funeral director had found someone else to buttonhole. After another few minutes on the intricacies of galactic policy cover, Taylor pointed to the man in the center of the crowd, the younger one from 9 Russell Square.

“Do you know that guy? I swear I recognize him.”

“Stuart Adair? Sure.”

“Who does he work with?”

“He’s the founder of Quadrant. They’re doing okay. We’re trying to get them to use AstraNuts. Could save them a lot of time and money.”

“What do Quadrant do?”

“You must know them. One of the main sponsors of this whole thing. All sorts of space magic.”

Now that he’d said it, she could see the name on various stands and banners: Quadrant Space Technologies.

“Of course, Quadrant. I’m being dim. Probably need some rehydration.”