The Master Copy

The Master CopyThere she was again. Joe Kelly watched the sleek red hovercar snake past and disappear into the London mist. He drank another toast as he saluted his wife for the ninth time that afternoon. The liquor tore at his raw throat. He frowned at the label: more cheap sour-mash pineapple from the Philippine Empire.From the ground-floor window of his London house, he watched the crowds on their way to one of the big Saturday-night entertainments: a bullfight in Soho; gladiators at the old...