We were deep in the giant factory, in a sterile room at the centre of three concentric levels of antiseptic cleanliness.  I was looking through a glass screen at a complex and gleaming machine which was depositing CD-sized wafers on a platter, spinning them and then plopping liquid on to the centre so that it flowed, apparently instantly, to cover the whole shining surface; then a metallic arm quickly flipped the wafer over and into another part of the machine.

Around us, more spacesuited workers were gliding across the high polish of the tiles pushing tall carts of wafers, or sat hunched over microscopes on workbenches or staring at computer screens, the text and graphics reflecting off their face masks while their hands pushed mice around or gloved fingers fluttered over quietly rattling keyboards.  The air transmitted a whole choir of subtle humming, whining noises to my shielded ears, and smelled a little like a hospital's, except cleaner.  Everywhere, under the high, bright lights, surfaces glittered and sparkled.

Even without knowing the breathtaking scale of the investment a plant like this required, you could have smelled the money here.

'I hope you can stay for lunch, Ms Telman,' Mr Rix said. 'Just the usual canteen grub for us normally, of course, but we could go further afield if you liked.  Can we tempt you?' Mr Rix was a big man, a head taller than me, and wide.  His jowly face gleamed behind his mask, smiling from the eyes down.  I felt quite cool in the air-conditioned, variously filtered atmosphere, but Mr Rix seemed to be sweating.  Perhaps he was claustrophobic.

'Thank you, I'd be delighted.  The canteen will be fine.'