Greg hit the marina itself around eleven; a whole community of clubs, sports complexes, shops, restaurants, and pubs along the waterfront, open to permit holders only. Royan had loaded his ID into the membership computer. The promenade was a kilometre long, built from huge granite cubes. Five quays stabbed out into the deep harbour that'd been dredged for the yachts of the mega-rich.

A gauzy layer of cumulus cloud diffused the sun into sourceless light overhead. The humidity this close to the Fen basin approached steam-bath levels.

He found Angelica's, a single-storey flat-roofed emporium opposite the centre quay where the Mirriam was berthed. It was a food hall selling wholesale quantities of nouveau delicacies he didn't even know how to pronounce.

Greg walked down the cul-de-sac side alley and found the delivery bay's metal roller-door at the rear. Beside it, embedded in the bricks, was a series of metal rungs. He started to climb.

The uniformity of the solar-collector roof was broken by two satellite-dish weather domes and three big conditional stacks, their fans spinning silently. Dead centre was a box structure of slatted wooden panels which housed Angelica's water tanks. Greg crouched down and scuttled over to it. One of the slat panels was hanging loose. He pulled it aside and slipped in.

The panel opened into a narrow gap between two big water tanks, one and a half metres wide, three long. There wasn't enough headroom to stand up, and he had to hunch down with his hands brushing the floor. What space there was had nearly been used up.

At the far end, various photon-amp lenses were poking through the slats, their cables feeding a jumble of compact gear modules. Weird little halos of coloured light cloaked five miniature flatscreens which flickered with the image of the good ship Mirriam, half covered with red digital read-outs.

Right in front of the entrance panel was a pile of drink cans and food wrappers. Greg nearly put his foot in an adult-sized potty that had been connected in to Angelica's plumbing by a ribbed flexible pipe. There was only one smell: ripe human.

Between the rubbish and the gear was a thin yellow sponge mattress. Suzi was lying on it, wearing blue shorts, soaked a shade darker by sweat. Her mauve spikes had drooped in the torrid heat.

She peered at him out of the gloom. "Christ, 'bout time you showed. See what we've been suffering for you."

"All in a good cause." He stepped over the potty and squirmed on to the mattress beside her. One of the gear modules poked sharply into his back.

"Cosy." Suzi smirked spryly. "You wanna do it? There's enough room if you ain't into anything too kinky."

Greg was suddenly very aware of her tough little body pressing against him. "We'd die of heat exhaustion."

"Yeah, tits the size that new girl of yours was stacked with, can't say I blame you."