"Well done, lad. Glad somebody's doing something in this slackers' paradise. Now what about that little problem I set you on magnetosphere induction generators, hey, have you solved that yet?"

"No, sorry, the gravity lens idea was fascinating, and nobody else has been tabulating the data the way I am," Nicholas offered by way of compensation. He ducked his head, unsure how it would be received. The topics for research were always set by Kitchener, but sometimes the old boy displayed a complete lack of interest in the answers. You could never work out what he was going to press you on, which could get disconcerting. That aside, Nicholas reckoned he'd learnt more about the methodology of analysing problems in the three months he'd been at Launde Abbey than in his three years at university. Kitchener did have the most extraordinary insights at times.

"Bloody typical," Kitchener groused. "How many times do I have to tell you delinquents, the abstract is all very well, but it makes piddle-all difference to the human condition. There's no bloody point in me teaching you to think properly, if you can't use those thoughts of yours to some benefit. The way this clapped-out world is limping along, a clean source of fresh energy would be like manna from heaven right now. A wealthier world will be better able to support eggheads chasing metaphantoms. It's to your own advantage. God, take me, unless I'd come up with those molecular interaction equations—"

"You could never have bought Launde," Uri and Cecil chorused, laughing.

"Little buggers!" Kitchener grunted. He glanced down at the plate Isabel put in front of him, and started to poke around distrustfully with a fork. "And don't giggle, lad," he said without looking up, "only bloody women giggle."

Nicholas clamped his mouth shut, and concentrated on his plate. From the corner of' his eye he could see Isabel laughing silently.