This city’s dying already.

The copter touched down gently and the pilot shut off the engine, letting the rotors spin themselves out before pulling open the slide door and gesturing for Joseph to follow him.

‘Mr Walds-s-stein is s-s-staying here?’ he uttered. ‘The Marriott hotel?’

‘Mr Waldstein lives here now. He bought the hotel last year.’

The pilot ushered him inside the building, down a breeze-block stairwell to a small foyer, a pair of swing doors ahead of them.

‘Through those doors are his private quarters. He lives entirely alone.’ The pilot looked at him curiously. ‘You know, you’re very privileged to see him face to face. He doesn’t do that … ever.’

‘He lives in this hotel all on his own?’

The pilot ignored his question. ‘A little word about meeting him. He can come across as quite abrasive and rude. That isn’t his intention; he just has no time for small talk.’

‘O-OK.’

‘Don’t try and flatter him, either. I wouldn’t bother telling him he’s a genius, or a visionary or a … a wonderful guy. He’s heard it all before about a billion times over. You’ll just irritate him.’

Great … there goes my rehearsed greeting.

‘Most important of all … do not discuss the “incident” with him.’

‘The … incident?’

‘Chicago.’

Joseph nodded. Of course, he was talking about the Chicago incident, 2044. The day Waldstein first came to public attention.

‘Right … OK.’ Joseph was trembling.

‘Be polite and honest —’ the pilot offered him an encouraging smile — ‘and you’ll do just fine.’ He pressed an intercom button beside one of the doors. ‘Mr Waldstein … I have Dr Joseph Olivera here for you.’

Joseph looked in a small mirror on the wall beside the door. He straightened his tie, patted down a wayward coil of black hair and wished he’d done a better job of trimming his dark beard this morning.