He was carrying armfuls of paperwork, with his cravat untied and his smart jacket slung over one shoulder. I smiled to myself, thinking that he’d never be the proper, stiff little gentleman who seemed to be all the fashion in this City. The formality and all that decorum couldn’t quite contain my brother. As soon as he was in the kitchen he was gabbling away about his day at work. Who he saw and what was going on. He loved the whole business of breaking news coming over the wire. He said that his morning was spent in the Archive Rooms, polishing the expensive cherrywood cabinets that housed the computers. He had to gather up the great long threads of tickertape that came spooling out. Then he was keen to get to his biggest story of the day. ‘It’s about Grandma,’ he said. ‘Mrs Margaret Estelle Robinson.’ ‘Did you look her up?’ ‘I went to the machine that is supposed to know everything about everyone who ever came to Mars.
