“Hmm?” Geraint blinked at her, unfurling an immaculate linen napkin from its gleaming ring. Her smile broadened at his quizzical, absent-minded expression.

“Oh, nothing. Just that men back in L.A. wouldn’t draw back my chair as I sat down. You Brits may be broke, but you sure have manners."

“Not so broke, Francesca. HKB’s last set of global estimations show that we own seventeen percent of your gross domestic product. Almost as much as the Japanese, in fact.

"But you aren’t here to talk about Hildebrandt-Kleinfort-Bernal," he said, leaning across to light her cigarette. "The lemon sole’s good, but I expect you'll want your usual lump of dead mammal with added steroids and antibiotics?"

“Yes please," she said. "Good and rare. And don’t forget the growth hormone additives!” Francesca blew out smoke from her cigarette as she dug around deep in her handbag. Just how did women get so much into the space of a purse? Geraint wondered. Legions of credsticks, powder compacts, and chipbooks for addresses bore testimony to the enduring violation of the laws of physics in women’s handbags. Staring down into the depths of the bag, she finally found what she was looking for and drew out the slim palm-sized screen. “Take a look at this.”

She tapped in a code and passed him the screen. Immediately fascinated by the holographic images that unfolded before his eyes, Geraint drew in his breath at the sight of the faceless persona. With a kind of shudder he set the screen down on the table. He said nothing for a few moments, fingertips wandering distractedly over his chin and lips, then asked simply, “When was this?”

“Just last night. Ever seen anything like it?”

He shook his head. "I doubt I’d even have believed it if you hadn’t shown it to me. But I’m no decker, Fran. Why bring this to me?"

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her fragrance blotting out the scents of food and cigar smoke.