I looked around for the Mercedes and its fierce little driver, but an enormous white limousine – aerialed and winged – came to us. Jacko opened the door before the driver could get around to do it, and waved me in. I found myself in a dark, plush interior. Jacko entered quickly. The driver arrived in time to close the door on him, then darted back to his position at the wheel and instructed us in all the vehicle’s many appurtenances – the fax, the telephone, the bar, the television. We were collecting Mr Greenspan, he said, from the East River Heliport in forty minutes time. We should just make it. —Is Greenspan’s helicopter going to land on the roof of this thing? Jacko asked. —Well it can, sir, in remote locations. But such a landing is not authorized for urban conditions. —Bloody shame, said Jacko. He flicked on the television and left the bar untouched. It was evening news time. They were still debating the Sunny Sondquist case: male rights advocates were making a martyr of Kremmerling; and feminist authors still correctly said Sunny was the archetypically punished woman and that her behaviour was utterly coherent.
