Free The Ambassador by Edwina Currie Page B

Diurnal bio-rhythms were well attested, but their persistence was a surprise. Maybe mankind was simply a more gregarious species than early analysts had understood.
    The younger passengers, Strether saw, were serious but not morose. Many were reading, their powerbooks opened in one hand or on laps, pixels winking. One or two were concentrating hard and tapping in information. A man nearby prodded his screen with an electronic pen, cursed softly and chewed a finger. Several were absorbed by the output from their cordless music plugs, nodding and swaying with faraway expressions. One woman cradled a dog in her smartly dressed arms and was cooing to it. Strether, closer now, noticed it was one of the new three-eared breeds and turned away in distaste.
    Everyone looked healthy, though many were overweight. He pulled in his stomach, then forgot and relaxed. Idly he began to categorise the passengers. First the older men and women, none bowed and not particularly frail, third-agers out for a treat, or possibly part-time workers. There was a sprinkling of operatives, mostly in dungarees, many with that stocky build and swarthy skin he had noted first in Liverpool. Few carried powerbooks; those without music plugs appeared bored. Elegant females such as the dog owner turned and twisted to catch a glimpse of themselves, or watched the hologram adverts, mesmerised. Young functionaries in dark tunic suits stood purposefully with a hint of impatience; Matt Brewer could easily be one of these, an office holder with a good salary, excellent prospects and every hope of living to 120. A group of chattering foreigners surrounded their guide, from a Chinese genetic group but more likely Indonesian or Singaporean: to his shame, Strether could not tell. And odder figures caught his eye: a pair of gaudy hermaphrodites, leaning sleepily on each other, presumably heading home after a night’s work, unmolested and ignored. And three burly men, heads shaved and rednecked, who stood with feet turned out to accommodate massive thighs and whose navy fatigues proclaimed their attachment to the Rottweiler Security Company.
    He commented briefly to Matt on the natural courtesy on display. When travellers brushed against each other, smiles would be exchanged or apologies or a soft word. Despite the Rottweilers, the sequined hermaphrodites and the twittering oldsters, this was self-evidently an orderly, gracious society.
    The train arrived. The dog woman stepped on without waiting for passengers to alight, but she was the only one who did. In a moment the carriage had filled and the doors sighed shut. The ceiling ads briefly held Strether’s attention: back pain and ear-wax were on the increase in London, it seemed, while the unreconstructed aged were warned to take theirdaily tablets against Alzheimer’s: ‘Don’t go dotty – take Izzy’s Interferon today!’ A buxom lovely told the world, ‘I’m Ulrika, call me’ and gave a vidphone number, 00 44 SEXYHOTFORU. A jolly giant wreathed in smiles urged the consumption of Schmeckel’s low-cholesterol bratwurst: ‘Eat as much as you like – I do!’ A clinic trumpeted: ‘Your choice of face! In and out in half an hour! Pout like Pamela, lips like –’
    Matt nudged his boss. ‘We’re here. Notting Hill Gate. Doesn’t take long.’
     
    They emerged into a bustling scene. Following a public campaign, nearby Kensington Gardens with its exquisite Dianist chapel had been protected by flood defences and pumps in subterranean caverns. Further north these were supplemented by efficient auxiliaries in the old catacombs beneath what had been Kensal Green cemetery and was now the New White City Stadium. As a result the Kensal and Kilburn areas were regarded as risk-free and had risen dramatically in value; the antique shops of Portobello Road, in a frosted-glass mall, flourished anew.
    ‘Where first?’
    ‘Travel shop, if you don’t mind, sir.’
    The shop front was covered in stickers advertising trips