Chapter Three

The Doctor took her arm, and Benny found herself following Gillian Anderson through a low archway down a short stairway and into the party. No-one checked for an invite, but a man on the door gave them the once-over. Benny smiled at him with her best 'I'm meant to be here' look.

There were about two hundred people in the room, more if you included the waiters milling around the little social groups that had begun to form. The reception was being held in an observation gallery that overhung Mission Control. Beneath them, two dozen scientists were at their posts, eyes fixed on the giant screen that dominated the back wall. Up here there was row upon row of red chairs arranged to watch the show. A big digital clock above the observation bay window was counting down to the landing. It was currently hovering just over the ten minutes mark. There was a podium at one side of the bay window, complete with a TV monitor and autocue.

A buffet had been laid out down one wall and the rich and the famous were picking away at it. In one corner Richard Branson and Alan Yentob were arguing about something, in another Geoffrey Hoyt was sharing a drink with Dame Emma Knight. Beneath the gentle rumble of conversation music was playing: Holst. Around the edge of the room film crews had set up, and journalists from around the world were pulling celebrities from the edge of the crowd to share a few words of wisdom with their viewers.

A waiter hurried by, and Benny plucked a champagne glass from his tray with an expertise born of years snatching free drinks.

She sniffed it and sipped it. 'Nice,' she concluded.

'A 1982 Ayala. A good year.' The Doctor hadn't taken any for himself, and had apparently identified the vintage just by looking at the glass or catching a whiff of it on her breath.

'I've just seen someone I recognise,' he declared, disappearing into the crowd.