“We’re done,” I said as they parted to let us through. I had often bested the Goliath Corporation in the past, and because of this I had a protocol all to myself. It was numbered 451 and declared that I was not to be approached for any purpose. I had probably cost them a trillion pounds in lost revenue, and they had no desire to lose any more. I was the thorn in the side that you didn’t touch—you simply left it alone and dealt with the pain.

“I love the way you talk to them,” said Landen with a chuckle. “What’s the next step? Look for Mr. Krantz?”

“I guess.”

“I hope that’s the end of it,” he murmured. “One sarcophagus, one Synthetic.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I said, handing him some paperwork I had fished out of the waste bin. It was a Gravitube ticket all the way from the Tarbuck International, the most convenient place to depart from the island corporate city-state of Goliathopolis, situated in the middle of the Irish Sea.

“At least we’re no longer in doubt the Synthetic was from Goliath,” said Landen.

“Yes,” I replied, “but look at the luggage manifest.”

“Shit,” he muttered, once he’d examined the ticket stub.

“Right,” I replied, “five crates came by Gravitube Freight. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Synthetic Me.”

16. Tuesday: Tuesday

16.

Tuesday: Tuesday

The mandatory hermit requirements for estates larger than eighty acres was one of the many “Inverse Consequences” directives undertaken by the Commonsense Party. The theory was not sound, but that was the point: Bearing in mind that well-meant ideas often had negative unforeseen consequences, it was argued that daft, pointless or downright bizarre ideas might have unforeseen positive outcomes. Hence mandatory hermits. Aside from the weekly gruel allowance and the construction of a damp cave, it cost little.

The Commonsense Party Inverse Consequence Directive Explained

Tuesday was already back home when we got there at a little after one-thirty. She and the Wingco were in the far paddock with a quarter-size mockup of the anti-smote field generator. The Wingco was readying the high-speed camera, and standing around were assorted observers and representatives of various interested parties. Landen and I exchanged new passwords, and while he made a sandwich, I took the golf buggy down to see how things were going. The far paddock was the place usually reserved for Tuesday’s tests, partly because it was a good distance from the house but mostly because there was a useful screen of mature leylandii to absorb blast damage.

“I thought I told you to go to school this morning,” I said, making sure we were out earshot of the small crowd.