Charles Baxter paces his office. Not normally a man given to nervousness, Chaz is nevertheless edgy: there's a lot riding on tonight, the opening night of The Delta, the City's newest and hottest night club. At least it better be the hottest, Chaz thinks ruefully, otherwise I'll be in even worse hock to my Italian friends than I am already.

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Forcing that gloomy thought from his mind, Chaz pours himself a drink, sits back behind his desk and reviews his preparations.

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One, he got into the country from Britain. The Immigration Department here can be a headache to deal with but, as is increasingly the case in all parts of the modern world, money talks ... and the Swiss Franc still talks rather more loudly than the rest.

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Two, he's got the venue. This turned out to be pretty easy. The real estate was cheap, considering the previous owners had been fire-bombed out of the premises a few months earlier.

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Three, he's got the staff. Twenty or so eager-beavers are waiting to serve drinks, bus tables, take coats and generally act hospitable to the punters. Of course, Chaz wants to foster a team spirit here in The Delta, so the table-wait staff are also good bar-staff and vice versa. And, if any drunken punter gets 'over-friendly' with the girls, the boys here will stick up for their colleagues.

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Four, he's got the local cops in his pocket. More correctly, the Captain at the Downtown Precinct is a close friend of The Family, so Chaz expects no trouble from that quarter. Corporate cops are another matter, the megacorps effectively being a law unto themselves now; some companies have even re-instated the death penalty for offences like industrial espionage! Chaz regrets his lack of contacts in that area. Nothing can be done except to play that one by ear.

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Five, he's done all the publicity he can. He's been on local radio and cable TV. He's had flyers passed out; posters slapped on every available billboard; Hell, he's even had gangers and winos out on the Street, spray-painting bright red triangles, the club's logo, on walls, windows and doors, wherever they may have been.

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Six, he's had the best air conditioning system money can buy installed in the club. This system was developed in London, a city whose smog problem is getting exponentially worse each year. Given the recent heat wave, Chaz can scarcely believe his luck.

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With a satisfied grunt, Chaz puts his problems behind him, stands and buttons his tux before going into the club proper to brief his staff one last time before the doors open.