1 - the top

Thorsten Hughes looked down at the mass of bodies below him. People were mulling around past pillars, pot plants and desks. Every once in a while, someone settled down, sliding a chair into what looked like a comfortable position behind an array of monitors. In some spots, around water coolers, the mulling continued. He could see mouths moving, some smiling, some animated, others almost pouted in anticipation of questions asked and answers waiting to be given.

As he moved his eyes upwards, people became smaller. The expanse of desks stretching towards the opposite end of the building was deceptive, he'd been told. He focused his eyes as they moved even further up towards an abrupt end, emphasised with glass and stainless alloy that sparkled just slightly in the dawn light. Each cluster of desks on the way looked as though it had been arranged like a piece in a giant jigsaw puzzle. He smiled. The puzzle existed because the position of each desk was calculated by someone who understood space and volume better than he did. He liked this idea. At the same time, there was an odd feeling of in turn knowing something someone else didn't. He knew that the objects in front of him weren't desks; they were spaces filled with efficient processes, projects completed on time, value added to otherwise mundane activities. The desks - but more importantly, the thinking they contained - were progress in tangible form.

Everything was silent. The glass was only centimetres away from his face, but it might not have existed. Hughes ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head briefly as he turned around. He was tired. Days didn't matter to him, but they did to his body. Even though the day had just begun, the cogs of Hughes Holdings never really stopped turning - the numbness in his shoulder blades reminded him of this. He thought about the machine as he walked over to a couch, lay down and wrapped both hands behind his head, staring at the high ceiling above him. Closing his eyes, he remembered what James Denton had said to him a little less than 24 hours ago.

"It cannot be done". The words sounded hollow, like the sound a drop of water makes when it hits the pool inside a large empty metal tank. Even though Denton had meant these words, even though he wasn't someone who said things without intent, the sentence just didn't sound grammatically correct in Hughes' head. It could be done.