I don't suppose it would have meant much to most people - in fact, I know it didn't meant much to anyone else - but the small news item in the Colonial Column of the Financial Times, linked with a casual remark from Geoff, the space pilot I met the previous week down at the Goat and Grape, set all the bells ringing in my head. I hurled the paper down on the breakfast table, grabbed my coat and dashed for the office.
Never has a taxi driven so slowly or encountered so many red lights. I was positively fermenting with excitement when I hurled myself at my desk and jerked the mouse to cut out the screen saver and bring up the morning's prices. I hardly dared to believe my eyes when Martian Zinc showed up at its normal price. I snatched up the phone and, making a desperate effort to control my voice, placed my first order.
By the time the rest of the guys arrived I was well on my way to cornering the market. By routing my orders through a dozen different agents I had managed to conceal the fact that anything unusual was going on, but I knew that I couldn't keep my activities hidden forever. Stock market computers are specially trained to look out for just this sort of dealing, but I was relying on the fact that nobody but nobody buys Martian Zinc, to confuse them just that little bit longer.
Ten o'clock, and the figures on my screen were looking like something the astronomers come up with when they talk about black holes. I was sweating, for if my hunch played false, then I was headed for the nearest black hole myself, one way ticket, no returns. Several other guys must have noticed my total concentration, for they were standing around behind me, talking quietly, with the occasional low whistle as I pulled off yet another outrageous deal.
I didn't tell them anything. This was one where I wanted all the credit - and if it went wrong, it wasn't fair for any of them to be involved. Anyway, I knew that if I breathed a word of what I had heard, they would all be at their computers, trying for a piece of the action, and all my carefully planned strategy would be gone for a burton. Already the price of Martian Zinc was starting to move as the stock market woke up to the fact that something was going on, but I reckoned I had another half an hour, forty minutes at most, before the alarm bells sounded, and by then I planned to have every option, every future and every free-floating share of Martian Zinc all wrapped up.
In fact, I only had twenty minutes. Abruptly a message flashed up on every screen in the building to say that trading in Martian Zinc had been suspended. There were just three more futures, but they were big ones. I phoned Hong Kong, Tokyo, Singapore and everywhere else I could think of, in the hope that I could do a deal through them, but it was too late; the word had gone out and every stock market in the world, Far East as well, was closed as far as Martian Zinc was concerned.
I sat back, defeated, and wiped the sweat off my forehead. Guy, my best friend in the office, put his hand on my shoulder.
"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Nick," he said.
"So do I!" I assured him. "So do I."
I looked around at the knot of anxious faces and suddenly realised what I had done. I have never regretted anything, never apologised for anything I have ever done, but this time it wasn't just my job that was on the line: if this deal blew up, it was all their jobs as well, it was the whole future of Basil Stockwood Ltd., it could even mean repercussions for the London market as a whole. I cleared my throat.
"Any of you guys got the Financial Times?"
"Here."
Roger passed me over the folded newspaper. I unfolded it, turned the pages to the Colonial Column and pointed to the item on Martian Zinc. I waited while Roger read it out aloud and smiled at the puzzled faces that looked down at me. Then I told them about Geoff and what he had said and there was a moment's stunned silence.
"Nick! You beaut!!"
Guy whacked me hard on the shoulder and then spun round, punching his fist into the air.
"Yeeeee-ha!"
The others joined in, shouting, clapping, laughing and cheering. Roger actually picked up his chair and banged it hard on the floor repeatedly as the only way of expressing his feelings.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"
Old Grumpy stood in his office door, glaring at us. It didn't take long for the noise to die away. The others returned sheepishly to their desks and sat down at their computers, their faces serious. Old Grumpy retreated into his office and shut the door - and the celebrations continued, this time in silence and by mime.
The next twenty-four hours were the longest I have ever lived through. I tried to carry on with normal business, but it was impossible. Every five minutes I had to call up the figures for Martian Zinc. Trading was still suspended and the only difference to the price was the slight rise brought about by my own activities. Mid-afternoon Old Grumpy called me into his office where he motioned me to a seat and then unrolled the printout of my trading across his desk, his eyebrows crawling up towards his hairline. I spent a very uncomfortable hour in there, but all I would say was that I had a hunch, that I was paid to have hunches, and if he disagreed with me I was willing to hand in my resignation.
If it hadn't been for my previous reputation, I think Old Grumpy would have accepted it. As it was, that deal with Imperial Cocaine stood me in good stead and he finally dismissed me, warning me that he would have to discuss the matter with the senior partners and would want to see me again in the morning. I went back to my desk to find that trading in Martian Zinc had been resumed, and promptly bought the remaining three futures, at about twice the price I had been paying in the morning.
I didn't sleep that night, just sat in the lounge watching the stock market figures on satellite and chewing my fingernails. At five o'clock the news broke and Martian Zinc instantly soared to ten times its original price. I put my glass down and headed for the office. I held my nerve until the price went up to fifteen times and then started selling, cautiously at first, but as the buyers sniffed me out and the price started climbing in real earnest, so I sold, dribs and drabs, just enough to keep the market interested.
At thirty times the price Consolidated Mining made its first offer. I played them off against Virginia Holdings and finally sold to China Metallurgia for forty-seven times what I had paid. All I kept back was ten thousand shares that I bought for myself through a stock-broker in Sydney.
Old Grumpy came in and immediately summoned me to the presence. I didn't say a word. I just handed him a printout of my morning's activities, then sat back and watched his eyebrows rise higher and higher as he scanned through the figures. He put the paper down and looked up at me.
"Very good. That should be worth a few C's to you."
I tried to replace my grin with an outraged expression.
"C's?"
The corners of his mouth twitched. "Possibly even a bit more."
"A bit!"
Old Grumpy smiled. "In fact, well done. Thank you. You may go."
He smiled! To get the corners of Old Grumpy's mouth to twitch was an achievement in itself. To actually get him to smile was astounding; the back-pounding and cheering that awaited me when I went back into the office was mere routine by comparison. C's indeed! By my reckoning, my bonus for this little coup should be a cool seven million.
"Hey, guys," I said, holding up my hand for quiet. "I reckon I've got a headache."
"Yeah," someone shouted. "How to spend your bonus!"
"No, really. I didn't get much sleep last night for some reason." Laughter all round. "I'm going home. I've earned a day off."
I tidied up my desk and left to find the day warm and sunny outside, with blue sky overhead and a cool breeze blowing. This was a day for celebration, this was a day for taking things easy, this was a day for walking down to the park and relaxing on a bench by the lake before calling a taxi for home.
Half a mile later I stopped abruptly, gawping at the shop window opposite me - or more correctly, at the girl who sat on a chair in the window. That, I said to myself, is Cherie Bonson. I couldn't see her features clearly, but the hair and the skimpy, sequined outfit was unmistakable.
I crossed the road and looked more closely. No doubt about it, that was Cherie Bonson. I glanced up at the shop name: Sunny's Private Shop. Not the sort of shop I normally frequent, though I admit to giving a quick glance at the display of exotic lingerie in the window as I hurry past, but for Cherie Bonson I was prepared to stop and stare and to hell with anyone who might see me.
The girl in the window turned her head slightly and became aware of me standing, gazing at her. She looked directly into my eyes and stood up slowly, unfolding first one long, slim leg and then the other. She put both hands together in front of her tummy and slowly slid them apart across her smooth skin, to frame the ring in her naval that was her trade mark. Her right hand strayed down to the zip in her microskirt and then she stopped, winked at me and gave that inviting toss of her head that has driven thousands of men wild ever since she did it on the video for "All I want is You." She turned, pushed aside the curtains at the back of the window and disappeared into the shop.
I glanced around, aware as I did so of how furtive the action was. The street was empty. Almost without conscious decision on my part, I pushed open the frosted glass door and stepped into the shop. Cherie Bonson stepped out from behind the counter and smiled deep into my eyes.
"Do you want to see more of me?"
She reached up to the zipper on the front of her crop top and slowly slid it downwards, tooth by tooth.
"Can I help you, sir?"
I jerked round and stared at the slightly pudgy man with a balding head who had appeared out of nowhere.
"I - I - er - that's Cherie Bonson, isn't it?"
"That's right, sir. Limited edition, but second user, I'm afraid. In remarkable condition, however, sir. Absolutely mint."
"Yeah," I said, risking a quick glance over my shoulder at Cherie Bonson. She had undone the zip completely and was peeling the blouse lingeringly off her shoulders. "Yeah. I can see that."
I looked away hastily, my face blushing.
"Er - she's for sale, then?"
"Indeed, sir. Complete with a wardrobe of suitable clothing, owner's manual, spare battery and an engineer's certificate."
"No guarantee?"
"No, sir. But I have had her thoroughly overhauled and, as I say, there is an engineer's certificate and complete service record."
"Can she sing?" I demanded.
"Yes, sir, all her latest hits. There is a backing DVD included with the wardrobe and an infrared link to your hi-fi for best quality sound."
"And can she - I mean - she - " I felt my face going even redder, but the pudgy man seemed to know what I meant.
"Yes indeed, sir. Miss Bonson is fully accessible and will be happy to please you in any way you desire."
"And how much?" I wanted to know.
The figure he quoted would have sent me reeling out of the shop any other day, but with a seven million bonus in the offing, I could afford to be extravagant.
"I'll take her," I said.
"Very good, sir." He took the credit card I proffered and went over to the counter to swipe it through the machine.
"Do you like what you see?" Cherie Bonson cooed.
I stared, tongue-tied, but the man merely glanced up at the naked girl and snapped out an order.
"You can get dressed now, Cherie. You're sold."
"Will I get my going away clothes?" Cherie Bonson asked, her voice low and throaty.
"Yes. Don't keep the gentleman waiting."
Cherie Bonson swayed past me, her naked body brushing against my back and causing my knees to tremble. The man pushed the keypad towards me.
"Your pin number, if you please, sir."
I tapped in my seven digit pin number and he waited for the authorisation before tearing the slip of paper out of the machine and handing me my copy and the credit card.
"Won't be a moment, sir. She's just putting on something that will attract less attention on your way home."
"Wow!" I shook my head. "I can't believe it. Cherie Bonson! Wow!"
The man cleared his throat. "I must warn you, sir. This model has a genuine people personality - as you would expect for that price. It is, in fact, Cherie Bonson's personality. It does not give uniform satisfaction."
"Fine, fine." I wasn't really listening.
A slight frown crossed the man's face. "We do have a buy-back policy, sir, in case you are not completely satisfied. Money back in full for the first three days, after that ten percent off per month for the first six months and then a standard thirty percent until the end of the first year."
I waved him aside. "Cherie Bonson?" I said. "I won't be selling her back to you or anybody, I can tell you that. Cherie Bonson? Wow! Man, it's incredible!"
The man shrugged and went out the back of the shop while I gave myself up to a happy reverie. I could just imagine the reaction down at the Goat and Grapes when I walked in with Cherie Bonson on my arm. With that incredible figure and her elfin face, the guys were going to go absolutely wild. I would be the most envied man in W3. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if, with someone as prestigious as Cherie Bonson as my constant companion, I didn't manage some serious social climbing. Her snob value just had to be wa-a-a-y out of sight.
Then, of course, there was the sordid physical side. Ok, so you weren't going to get this Cherie Bonson pregnant, but as far as I was concerned, that was a definite plus. Who cared about kids? With that perfect figure - incredible cleavage, slim hips, pouting lips, legs up to her armpits - she was going to be the most amazing creature in bed. A lifetime of fantastic sex lay in front of me. Talk about all your dreams come true!
"I'm ready now."
I looked up to see Cherie Bonson standing in front of me. True, the mini dress she was wearing wasn't going to attract quite as much attention as the skimpy two piece she had on before, but she wasn't going to exactly fade into the background either.
"Cor, babe! You look good!" I told her.
Behind her the pudgy man coughed.
"Where shall I send the wardrobe and spares, sir?"
I gave him my address and then crooked my elbow and Cherie Bonson tucked her hand under my arm. We walked to the door and she matched me step for step, pressing her hips sensuously against mine. If I hadn't been walking on air already, I would have positively floated away. I pushed the door open and we went out into the street.
"What shall I call you?" Cherie Bonson asked.
"Well, my name is Nick," I told her, "but you can call me Nicky, ok?"
"Ok, Nicky."
We got as far as the corner before she spoke again.
"Where are we going?"
"Home." I tried not to sound too lascivious, but I must admit that I only had one thing on my mind.
Cherie Bonson stopped dead. "Oh, Nicky. I don't want to go home. Let's go somewhere exciting and have some fun."
"Eh?" I looked at her. "But you haven't been to my home before."
She shrugged. "I know. But home is always boring. Let's go to a club or a disco. I like dancing."
"Do you know what the time is?" I demanded.
"Sure." She cocked her head appealingly. "It is precisely three minutes and twenty-seven seconds past eleven o'clock in the morning."
"Right," I said. "So if you are as smart as all that, you'll know that at three minutes and twenty-seven seconds past eleven o'clock in the morning there are no clubs open, no discos open, no nothing open."
"It is not three minutes and twenty-seven seconds past eleven o'clock in the morning now, Nicky" she informed me. "It is precisely three minutes and forty-three seconds past eleven o'clock in the morning."
"All right," I snapped. "Still, nothing is open at this hour of the morning."
"I can wait," she said.
"I'll bet you can." I laughed shortly. "No, we're going home. Come on."
I held out my elbow but she didn't take it.
"Oh, Nicky. I don't want to go home. Let's go somewhere exciting and have some fun."
"Change the record," I growled. "We are going to my place. Now."
"Ooooh," she nudged me with her elbow. "You're wicked, you are."
She took my arm and we carried on down the street. At the corner I hailed a taxi and opened the door for Cherie Bonson. She slid into the seat and the driver's startled glance shifted from her to me and back again.
"Where to, guv?"
I told him and his eyebrows rose.
"That's Cherie Bonson you got there, innit?"
"That's right." I smirked.
He shrugged. "Oh well, if she wants to go slumming it in Brayston Road . . . She does know where she's going?"
"No," I snapped. "I'm kidnapping her."
I sat back in my seat and glared at him in the rear view mirror. He shrugged again.
"Ok, guv. I guess you're both over twenty-one." He looked at her in his mirror and pulled out into the traffic. "Some people have all the luck."
Conversation lagged during the long drive home. Cherie Bonson seemed quite content just to sit and stare out of the window and anything I might want to say was inhibited by the presence of the taxi driver. At journey's end I leaped out and payed the fellow off with alacrity. Cherie Bonson climbed out languidly and leaned heavily on my arm as I counted out the coins and handed over the statutory tip. A loud whistle made me look up. Reg, my neighbour, can't have gone to work, for he was leaning out of his window and waving to me.
"Who's a lucky boy, then?" he yodelled.
I waited until the taxi had driven off and then half turned Cherie Bonson so that Reg could get a good look.
"Me!" I yelled back.
Reg made a faintly obscene gesture involving his clenched fist and thrusting forearm, and disappeared into his flat. I tugged Cherie Bonson and set off for my front door.
"Do you live here?" Cherie Bonson asked.
"Yes." I tried not to sound too smug. I was rather proud of my exclusive address, even though I had to admit that the block of flats itself was slightly seedy in appearance.
"What a dump." Cherie Bonson's lip was curled in an expression of contempt.
"Well, never mind. It's home sweet home for me, so let's go in."
Cherie Bonson stopped dead. "Oh, Nicky. I don't want to go home. Let's go somewhere exciting and have some fun."
"We are," I told her shortly. "This is my place. You're coming to my place, remember?"
"Ooooh," she nudged me with her elbow. "You're wicked, you are."
I looked at her thoughtfully. "We're home," I said. "Do you want to go in?"
Cherie Bonson half turned towards me. "Oh, Nicky. I don't want to go home. Let's go somewhere exciting and have some fun."
"We are," I said. "This is my place. You've come to my place."
"Ooooh," she nudged me with her elbow. "You're wicked, you are."
I chucked her under the chin. "Genuine people personality, eh?" I chuckled. It was nice to know that the Turing test had still some way to go. I opened the front door and led the way over to the lifts. Seconds later we were inside my flat. As the door closed behind us I reached for my tie.
"Right. Here we are. Get undressed, girl. I can hardly wait."
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" Cherie Bonson demanded.
"A drink?" I was so taken aback that I was half-way to the drinks cabinet before I remembered that this was a robot I was talking to. "What do you want a drink for?"
"A drink is nice," Cherie Bonson said, looking about her. "How about a nice, candle-lit dinner for two, Nicky? Just to put me in the mood."
"Dinner?" I exclaimed. "Do you know what time it is? No, don't answer. I am not interested in precisely how many seconds it is past twelve o'clock. Listen, I never eat lunch. I just have a sandwich and get on with it."
"A candle-lit dinner is nice and romantic, Nicky," Cherie Bonson wheedled.
I dropped into the nearest comfortable chair and glared at her.
"Oh, get on with it. I suppose I can break the habit of a lifetime and have a nice candle-lit dinner for two at mid-day. The kitchen is through there."
Cherie Bonson sat down opposite me and smiled. "That's nice. I like romance." She curled her legs up under her and leaned back.
I stared at her. "Well, go on, then. I've said we can have dinner."
Cherie Bonson raised her eyebrows. "I do not understand you, Nicky."
I sighed and leaned forward. "It's very simple, Cherie. Go through that door over there. That is the kitchen. The food is in the cupboards and the fridge and I think there are some candles in the cupboard under the sink. I'll try and contain myself while you cook your nice, candle-lit dinner."
Cherie Bonson threw back her head and giggled. "I can't cook, Nicky. I don't know how."
"What!" My eyes opened wide. "Didn't your moth - I mean, didn't your maker teach you how to cook?"
"Oh no." Cherie Bonson shook her head and giggled some more. "I can sing for you while you cook, but I don't know how to cook. You'll have to cook for me."
I half rose and then dropped back into my seat again as an idea struck me. "Listen, why do you want a meal? You don't need to eat, do you?"
Cherie Bonson shook her head. "No. For my energy requirements I just need to be recharged once a day. However you need to eat and I can eat to keep you company. I am equipped with a food bladder that stores the food until it is convenient to empty it."
"And do you drink as well?" I was curious.
"Ooooh," Cherie Bonson cooed. "You're wicked, you are. You mustn't try to get me tiddly. I go all funny when I have a glass of champagne."
"Right," I said, getting to my feet. "How about a nice, romantic, peanut butter sandwich? Candle-lit, if you insist."
Actually, when it came down to it, I was rather hungry. Thinking back, I realised that I must have skipped breakfast - and probably several other meals as well in the past thirty hours. I knocked together a couple of sandwiches with fillings for me and plain slices of bread and butter for Cherie Bonson. I stuck the two plates on a tray, together with a couple of glasses and a bottle of cheap wine, and carried it out to the living room.
"Candles?" Cherie Bonson reminded me.
I swore under my breath and returned to the kitchen, where I hunted out a box of matches and the box of candles I kept in case of power failures. I balanced the candles on the occasional table and lit them, then handed Cherie Bonson her plate of plain bread and poured out a glass of wine for her. I watched in fascination as she raised one of the "sandwiches" to her mouth and bit a piece out of it, chewing as vigorously as a real human might.
"Cheers."
I raised my glass to her and she put down the sandwich and picked up her own glass. She sipped it delicately.
"Is this champagne?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied.
She giggled. "I love champagne." She sipped again and giggled delightfully. "The bubbles always go up my nose."
"Right," I said. "Enjoy."