On Saturday, Isabelle slept late, then spent too much of the rest of the day wandering around in her pyjamas. One of the things she did before getting dressed was to read everything the Internet had to say on holistic analysis. There wasn't much. Everything that there was seemed to be pitched at those who already knew the basics. It seemed to be part economics, part sociology, and part psychology, but it was impossible to work anything out without an idea of how it all fitted together. Eventually, she gave up on it and went back to reading comics.

"Today, we see a the dawn of a new day for Jupiter. Today, we see the launch of WorldPulse (trademark)"

Those were the words of Jules Naur, Vice President in charge of Something or Other. O.K., so he didn't actually pronounce "trademark", but he managed to somehow get across the capital letter in the middle of the name.

"Today, we will empower the world's decision-makers with the latest, most current information, information that will shape the decisions they make, and hence shape the world."

Everyone had turned out, and was dressed reasonably well. PR, marketing, IT and even Holistic Analysis were stood, holding champagne flutes and smiling politely, looking up to the podium where Naur was announcing a new product as if it were an eleventh commandment.

"We are not only changing the landscape in which the world does business, we are fundamentally changing the way business itself is done."

The pause probably meant it was time to applaud, so everyone did. As Naur stepped off the podium and began to mingle, people were already setting their glasses down and drifting away; they had to ensure that the product that was to shape the world didn't fall over ten minutes after the first subscribers logged on.

The servers that did the grunt work to make WorldPulse work were hidden away in various data centers around the world. The expertise that ran it, though, was all concentrated in this office. A dozen people were doing a dozen different things to ensure that everything was working as it should. Through this, Naur glided, trying to show that he was the kind of boss who didn't mind getting his hands dirty. This was all well and good, a standard charade, but he couldn't have timed it worse; at this point, everyone wanted the sort of boss who would sit in his office, ideally in another time zone, and let them get on with their jobs. Instead, they had to periodically pause and explain things that, to them, were glaringly obvious. When they had provided the tersest possible answer through gritted teeth, Naur just nodded sagely and moved on to the next desk.

At six p.m. UK time, they were meant to hand over to Bombay, who would keep things ticking over for their working day, then hand over to Toronto to fill in the remaining eight hours. Most people, though, stayed on. After an hour or so, when they were convinced that the handover had worked, they cracked open the leftover bottles of champagne and started to relax. Against all expectations, everything had gone smoothly; practically all of the subscribers had logged in in the first few minutes, and the system didn't even wobble under the load.

"Of course, we haven't really been updating it with much new information yet," said Sol, leaning on the edge of the desk with a full glass.

"True, but that's not likely to cause any problems; we stressed the aggregation code half to death and it didn't show any problems." Ted was reclining in his big mesh chair, still keeping half an eye on a screen full of statistics and logs.

"One problem."

"Yeah, but we know what causes that, and it can be avoided. We've done the hard bit."

"I guess. So," he looked up and addressed the room, "Anyone got a pack of cards?"

Someone had.

It was generally decided that, in lieu of his poker debts, Ted could get the drinks in on Friday lunchtime. He didn't mind this too much; the week had gone well, and everyone was in a good mood; there probably wouldn't be much done this afternoon.

Even so, some people (like Bill, the other computer guy, who had also lost at poker) drew the short straw, and had to stay in the office to keep an eye on things. As such, the group was a little smaller than it had been in the past, but the volume of chatter had stayed about the same.

It was a clear, bright day, but still too cold to sit outside. The brittle sunlight streamed in through the little windows, giving patches of the pub illumination that they rarely saw. Ted got back from this last trip to the bar, and sat down.

"Not a bad week, aside from the poker." he announced.

"Certainly seems that way," said Isabelle, "and your the guy who'd know. I mean, my bit's basically finished, now; we're only really treading water for a while until they figure out where we should be pitching WorldPulse."

"At the same people we've always aimed at, surely?" said Ted (still slightly flustered by the compliment).

"Not really. Most of the old clients have signed up already, and those that haven't aren't likely too. We're just seeing how things go right now, and see if we can figure out a new market to go for. Anyway, we shouldn't be talking shop," her face acquired a wicked grin, "we should be working out what to give Sol for his prize."

Sol, who was peripherally involved in another conversation and hadn't been listening to them, turned round in his seat.

"Don't worry about it," he said.

"No, fair's fair." put in Ted, "I've paid my debt, so you should get some sort of reward."

He looked back at Isabelle. "Any ideas?"

"Well," she said, then paused, and stared at Sol.

A few seconds passed.

"I could treat you to dinner."

Mr Sherwood was, of course, a WorldPulse subscriber; one of the first. He found it indispensable. An outside observer would be pressed to notice a change in his work pattern; he'd been reading the reports on computer for years. Anyone who knew what he was doing, however, would realise that sea change that had occurred; while Jupiter previously gave him a head start, it now put him so far in front that he couldn't even see the pack behind him. Only a few other people were even close, and he strongly suspected that they were also subscribers.

He was reading WorldPulse when his Columbian agent got back to him. The answer actually came in the form of two messages, both with the same subject ("Minister for the Interior"). The first one simply said:

"How did you know?"

The second one, sent a minute or two latter, apologized for the impertinence, and went on to explain that the minister had, within the last hour, been arrested on a charge of manslaughter - apparently, he had paid a man to rough up a business rival, and the beating had been a little too eager. In any case, this was obviously a serious problem for the government, who were at this moment in emergency session trying to decide on a course of action.

Mr Sherwood checked the news wires, but nothing had been posted yet; it would probably turn up in an hour or two. He sat back, and thought about the question. How had he known? Or, more accurately, how had Jupiter known in time for it to go in to a report a week ago?

"So," asked Beth, perching on the edge of Sol's desk and cradling a cup of coffee, "How was dinner?"

"Nice. Salmon."

"You know what I mean; how was Isabelle?"

"She was... nice too."

"Did the she wear those shoes?"

"What, the first-day shoes? Yes, I think."

"You think you'll be going out again?"

"It's not really something I'd thought about. Maybe."

Isabelle had become increasingly curious about what Sol actually did; she kept dropping by and asking him questions, getting him to explain things, and so on. Of course, the office gossip was that this was simply one element in a grand plan to romantically ensnare him, but that was only part of it; she was genuinely curious, too.

His initial description, it turned out, hadn't been too far off the mark. He did. indeed, seem to refer to everything, or a least a bewildering variety of things. Stock market figures, political events, weather reports, the migration of Canadian geese - it all ended up on Sol's desk. How he pieced it all together was still a mystery to her, but one thing seemed clear; there was a method, and he was particularly good at it. However it worked, the results were nothing short of uncanny. No wonder Jupiter's customers paid so much for the reports.

"It's changed a bit now, of course." Sol mentioned, as Isabelle was leaning on the back of his chair and reading over his shoulder. "Used to be that I basically drafted report sections that just got tidied up by the editorial team. Now, I enter stuff into this."

He brought up a window that contained an intimidating collection of tables, with arrows snaking between and around them. It was colour-coded but decidedly short on explanation. After staring at it for a while, Isabelle gave up.

"What is it?"

"That," replied Sol, with a hint of a dramatic flourish, "Is the entrance to perhaps the most important part of WorldPulse."

Isabelle just looked at him blankly.

"When I'm doing an analysis, instead of writing a report, I fill in the forms, here. WorldPulse squirrels all the information away. It could generate a report, just like it used to, but it can also do a lot more. We put some cross-referencing stuff in, so it can do a bit of analysis on it's own. The best bit, though, is that when it finds something potentially interesting, it can alert me, and I can incorporate that in to a new analysis. It's been great; the accuracy has improved no end. Apparently, we're getting great feedback from the clients, too."

"Oh, definitely. I've been going through it. You don't often get words like 'amazing' on those sort of forms. Oh shit; there's Jerry. I'd better get back to work. See you soon." She ducked out of Sol's cubicle and back towards her own desk. As Sol watched her leave, he caught Jerry eyeing him with a look of suspicion.

"It seems to have been a success." reported Naur.

"Well, we did enough preparation; if it hadn't been a success, you'd have had a lot more explaining to do."

"Of course, sir. Fortunately, that's not necessary. The key clients have taken the system on board, and we can begin to feed information into it in few days."

"You're sure that your people can make this work? Do they understand it well enough?"

"Professor Maxwell is the foremost expert in the field; if he doesn't understand it, then nobody does. He has also assembled the finest of teams; the only experts he's missing are the ones who work for us already. I have every confidence he will be able to meet, and exceed, your expectations."

"A simple 'yes' would have been sufficient. In any case, I think I'll visit the sites and get a feel for it myself. I don't like being this removed from things."

"I've already visited all three sites, sir; there's no need to trouble yourself with it."

"It's my damn company. If I want to visit the sites, I'm going to visit the sites. Don't you have some work to be getting on with?"