"Yeah, right," Philip Evans said. "I can't sustain that kind of loss for much longer. Lucky I caught it when I did—" and there was a hint of pride at the accomplishment. Still on the ball, still the man. "The organiser circumvented some pretty elaborate security safeguards too. Means whoever they are they're smart and organised."

"They're clever all right," Walshaw conceded. He pulled out a black wood chair opposite Greg and sat down.

"And even the security division is under suspicion," Evans said. "Including Morgan here, which is why he's so pissed off with me."

Greg sneaked a glance at Walshaw, meeting impenetrable urbanity. The man had not—nor ever would—sell out. Greg knew him, the type, his motivation; he'd no grand visions of his own, the perfect lieutenant. And in Event Horizon and Philip Evans he'd found an ideal liege. The old billionaire must've understood that too.

Walshaw nodded an extremely reluctant acknowledgement. "The nature of the circumvention does imply a degree of internal complicity, certainly knowledge of the security monitor procedures was compromised."

"He means the buggers are on the take, that's what," Evans grumbled. "And I want you to root 'em out for me, boy. You're about the nearest thing to independent in this brain-wrecked world. Trustworthy, as far as we can satisfy ourselves. So then: four hundred New Sterling a day, and all the expenses you can spend. How does that sound?"

"Do I have to sign the contract in blood?"

"Just don't screw me about, boy. I've spent close on twenty years fighting that shit President Armstrong and his leftie stormtroops, now he's gone I'm not going to lose by default. Event Horizon is going to be my memorial. The trailblazer of England's industrial Renaissance."

Greg felt a twinge of admiration for the old man, he was dying yet he was still making plans, dreaming. Not many could do that. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.

"You and I will go down to Stanstead," Morgan Walshaw said. "Assuming I'm trustworthy."

"Don't be so bloody sarcastic," Evans barked.

"Stanstead is Event Horizon's main air-freight terminal in England," Walshaw explained, quietly amused. "All our flights out to Listoel originate there."

"Listoel?" Greg asked.

"That's the anchorage for my cyber-factory ships out in the Atlantic," Philip Evans said. "A lot of Event Horizon's domestic gear is still built out there, and it's where my spaceline, Dragonflight, is based. Anyone going up to Zanthus starts at Listoel."

"Calling in the management personnel and memox-furnace operators who are currently on leave won't be regarded as particularly unusual," Walshaw said. "Once they arrive, you can use your gland ability to determine which of them have been turned. After that, you and a small security team will go up to Zanthus and pull whoever circumvented the security monitors, along with the guilty furnace operators working up there. We'll fly up replacements from the batch you've vetted."