Isabelle spent the rest of the day sorting out her desk, getting a card for the door, and being given a user name, password and crash course by one of the Computer Guys, Ted. At six, most people had left, so she grabbed the reports and headed back to her car (which she now realized she had put in the wrong car park; at least she knew for tomorrow). By the time she'd changed, eaten and phoned her mother to tell her how the first day went, it was quite late. She slumped on the sofa, with a plate of french bread and taramasalata, and started to read.

She'd turned the TV on for background noise; News Night was rattling away in the background. She didn't notice until a civil war in Africa was mentioned; she'd read about it one of the reports a few moments before. The talking head briefly mentioned the effect that this would have on the world diamond market; the report devoted about twenty pages to the same question. What this has to do with Jupiter was still, however, anyone's guess.

She stayed up until the early hours, curled up on the sofa, reading through the reports. When she had finally finished them all, she was non the wiser. She went to bed, but didn't get much sleep; she kept trying to find some common thread that linked the reports, but she she couldn't. When she arrived in the office the next morning, she still had no idea what Jupiter did.

"Read the reports?" asked Jerry, as wandered past her desk on the way in.

"Yes. I still don't get what Jupiter's business is, though. They seemed to deal with anything and everything."

"I can't tell you what Jupiter's business is, because I don't know myself, but what we deal with here is reports; we compile reports for clients."

"Reports about what?"

"Anything and everything, like you said."

"How? I mean, we can't have experts on everything, can we? The company isn't that big."

Pause.

"Is it?"

"That," said Jerry, "is the trick to it."

Outside the generic sandwich shop were a few picnic tables; in the summer it would be nice to sit out by the lake, and get out of the office for a little while. The January weather, however, made sitting outside a distinctly unattractive proposition, and so people stayed indoors. The glass-walled meeting room was often co-opted as an unofficial break room, and it was here that Isabelle sat, munching a sandwich she held in both hands, and reading a newspaper that she had spread on the table in front of her.

"Have you got the Review?"

She looked up. Across from her sat a man who she'd seen around the office, but had somehow never met. She flipped through the sections of the newspaper, and handed him the correct one.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Isabelle."

"Sol. You just started?"

"Three weeks ago now; I'm still getting up to speed."

"You're on Jerry's team, right? How's the new promo material coming?"

"Not bad, although I have to admit it's a little frustrating being so vague. How about you; what team are you on?"

"I'm not on a team, as such. I tend to work with a couple of people in Bombay and Toronto, but mostly I'm just left to do my own thing."

"Which is?"

"I'm a holistic analyst."

This took Isabelle a little by surprise. She thought about asking him to repeat himself, but thought better of it. He was speaking perfectly clearly; she knew exactly what he had said, she just had no idea what he meant. She hazarded a guess.

"What, crystals and herbs and things?"

Sol smiled the smile of someone walking down a familiar and well-trodden path. Isabelle got the distinct feeling that everyone hazarded the same guess, and that that guess was way off the mark.

"No. Not 'holistic' in some New Age, flowers-in-your-hair way. It just means that I take everything into account when making an analysis."

"Oh." Isabelle didn't feel like pressing things further; she had enough to sort out without trying to work out what the hell this guy's job was; it sounded like Management Consultancy, or a Habit of Highly Effective People. She went back to reading her paper, and after a brief pause Sol opened his.

Mr Sherwood sat in his study reading a Jupiter report on his computer. He sat in a bulging office chair upholstered in aging maroon leather. The computer was in the centre of a huge antique desk which was topped with leather the same colour as the chair. There were no wires connected to it; Sherwood was an old man, but he kept up with things, and the latest thing was wireless, so wireless he had gone. The people who sell wireless technology invariably illustrate it with a library photo of a dentally-perfect, Gap-sporting twenty-something reclining on a beige sofa, gleefully tapping away at a laptop on their knee, more often than not with a colour-coordinated Labrador at their feet. Needless to say, this wasn't Mr. Sherwood's motivation; he just wanted to keep his desk tidy.

Occasionally, he would break off from reading the report, switch windows, and dash off a terse e-mail to some agent in a far-flung corner of the world. Ten years ago, he would've had to use the phone, or at least get someone else to, but now he could pull strings across the globe from the comfort of his antique, clutter-free desk.

Other than the e-mails, he rarely paused when compiling the reports; you didn't pay someone the amount of money that he was paying Jupiter and then expend extra effort trying to make sense of what they gave you; that would be like having a dog and barking yourself. Jupiter reports were designed so that they could be read and understood straight through, without stopping; the mental equivalent of fast food. This didn't mean they skimped on depth or accuracy, it's just that the information was presented in a way that allowed you to get what you wanted without fuss or effort; conveyer-belt sushi.

This report was unusual, though. Not only did Mr. Sherwood pause, he stopped completely and sat back. A couple of seconds latter, he leant forward, read the paragraph again, then opened another tab and started to check the news wires. After a little while, he mailed his agent in Columbia, and instructed him to find out anything he could about the Minister for the Interior.

It was Friday, and the staff a Jupiter were partaking in a fine British tradition, the Friday Pub Lunch. Of course, as they were on a business park in the middle of nowhere, the pub in question was a fair way away, and hence a convoy of cars was snaking it's way along country roads towards town.

Isabelle didn't drink at lunchtime, and so had volunteered to drive; she was chauffeuring Ted, who was sat beside her in the passenger seat, Sol, and Beth, from the web team. Everyone had just bundled into whatever car was nearest; they were all going to meet up at the pub anyway.

Sol and Beth weren't saying much, but Ted was talking animatedly, twisting round in his seat and gesticulating wildly. This continued throughout the journey, and into the pub, so the four of them ended up sitting together, abutting the marketing team on the long bench seat.

Sol was delegated to order the food and drinks; he got Beth to save his seat and went to the bar. When he was out of earshot, Ted leaned in towards Isabelle and whispered conspiratorially.

"Has he told you what he does yet?"

"Don't start," interjected Beth, "You don't know anything about it."

"Look, I'm just saying, it all seems like a bit of a con to me."

"Just because you don't get it..."

"I'm sorry," interjected Isabelle, "but what exactly is it? He told me the name, but that's about it."

Ted and Beth looked at each other, then both started to speak at once. Ted won; Beth shut up and let him go on.

"It's like reading tea-leaves, only with numbers."

"Don't talk shit; it's not voodoo or anything, and in any case, it seems to work. Now, shut up - he's coming back."

Moments later, Sol placed four glasses on the table (three pints, one Coke) and sat down.

"What's up?"

Silence. Beth was about to speak when Jerry leaned over.

"All ready for the big push, then?"

The "big push" was a drive to release a new product line. Jupiter, or at least the U.K. office, tailored their reports for individual clients. However, over the last few months they'd been working on a new way of getting the reports out; instead of buying the reports individually, clients would be able to subscribe to the service, and get reports that were updated continuously. Everyone had been working flat out to prepare, but no-one was harbouring any illusions that it would work smoothly first time. The official launch was on Monday, and everyone fully expected the next week or two to be hell.

"We've lined up enough subscribers," continued Jerry, "Just hope the system can live up to their expectations."

Beth and Ted both stared daggers at Jerry, who had obliviously turned back to the rest of his team. Sol just sat drinking his lager, with a look of beatific calm. Isabelle mouthed "I'm sorry," then quickly changed the subject.

"What, er, what are people up to tonight?"

"Film" Sol replied

"Oh, which one?" asked Ted, half turning in his seat. By the time the food arrived, the four of them had arranged to meet up at the cinema.

When they came out of the film, it was raining. The film had had quite an up-beat ending, so this was something of a contrast. At first, they barely noticed it, emerging from the cinema chattering about what they'd just seen. They became aware of the rain at the same moment that they realized they were all walking off in different directions. Ted invited everyone to his place, which wasn't far away, for coffee - he wasn't ready for the evening to end yet. Everyone else demurred; they had to get home, it'd been a long day.

Isabelle and Beth ended up sharing a cab (Sol decided to walk). They started off talking about the film, but soon the conversation drifted back towards their own lives. Isabelle asked Beth what she thought of Sol.

"I like him," replied Beth, after thinking for a while, "But I don't think I understand him."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, I always get the feeling that there's more to him than I know."

"O.K., now I'm confused by you as well."

"It's just..." Beth paused. She couldn't find the right words. "He's..." She paused again. "I can't find the right words. You'll have to find out for yourself. Do, though. I mean, it's worth the effort."

The taxi pulled up outside Beth's, and she gave Isabelle a fiver, thanked the driver, and shut the door. Alone in the back of the cab, Isabelle found herself thinking of Sol. Perhaps Beth was right. Perhaps he was worth the effort.