Glasgow was accustomed to gloomy mornings; cold, wet, and misty - even in a post-industrial age. But inside, the cosy Exhibition Centre was still busy with a number of conventions and crowds of delegates. Bruce wandered into the main thoroughfare that linked the variety of halls, mixing awkwardly with the mass of delegates. In a combination of the larger exhibit halls, 'Robot 21' (slogan "An Exploration of Synthetic Technology Solutions for the 21st Century - and Beyond") was taking place.

Bruce bustled past the blue-blazered events staff, the only person not challenged by security personnel or systems. Despite his size, most of the delegates ignored him too. He looked avidly around the stalls, pausing to smirk at some of the laughably naïve technology being peddled by juvenile scientists and infantile businessmen. 'SuperSoldierSolutions' said one stall (clearly funded by the bottomless pit of US Department of Defense budget). Bruce suppressed a belly laugh at the banner poster illustrating a 'robot fighting machine' that would be about as useful as a newspaper stand in a firestorm. Still, he reflected, it would probably do in a human-to-human war. Technology always impresses, often inspires. But in a real fight, victory was usually secured - "sustained" Bruce usually added - by instinct. And instinct was probably something that humankind had now lost completely. Apart from a few individuals. And, of course, instinct was not reserved to humans. Bruce smirked to himself as he occasionally did.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Bruce." A young man with dreadlocks was brushing floor-dust into a small innocuous cart. Bruce normally ignored the exhibition center staff, and particularly despised the facilities staff who were habitually far too chatty.

"Well, I don't make a habit of it." Bruce would normally have feigned an urgent pace and continued walking by, but as the crowd had thickened he paused briefly to comment. "I hope you're keeping busy." Bruce moved off almost instantly as the crowd flowed again, cursing himself. He had sounded too interested. It was supposed to have been a challenge.

He was always on the lookout for clues, odd materials, and out-of-place kit. It was the part of his job that he liked the most. Occasionally some fools had taken the opportunity to exhibit wares that were clearly above their pay-grade and indeed intellectual level, looking only for a top-class pay-off. Although like most other nations, Scotland was moving slowly towards the concept of a single federal police force (still dallying with the imperfections of its clunky regional forces), there was already a small but secret supra-national force known affectionately as The Integrity Service (that was probably their real name) that carried out small actions in the interest of... well, not national or international security, but of... humanity in general. A bit dramatic, but that was the point. Today, he had spotted only one booth, claiming to offer sturdy body-armor of a suspiciously lightweight material. Bruce needed to investigate the nature of the material. Using a borrowed terminal, he accessed an online portal to 'book' the services of The Service then finished his lunch. Some officers, clothed plainly in, say, Railway Police uniforms would arrive to clear away the stall from the exhibition, rolling up the posters, and leaving a small and amusing teapot savings bank with a label "Business Cards Here" to infer normal background service. The materials of interest would then be delivered to Bruce's laboratory where no-one but Bruce would see them again. The exhibitors would fare better, being 'debriefed' heavily on the provenance of their too-fantastic find then released with all sorts of petty and unenforceable warnings. Chemical mind-control would not usually be necessary.

Bruce feared travel, believing it might broaden the mind, so this particular opportunity not to travel was welcome indeed. He lived not too far from the Exhibition Centre itself. A giant industrial-era crane stood in plain sight mere yards from the exhibition halls. Grey and grim it was grudgingly adorned by the name of the 'CLYDEWORLD' company painted in capitals on one side, 200 metres from the ground. The crane had been used historically for loading the heaviest of goods onto ocean-going cargo ships. Now, it was retained nominally for military operations, with the ridiculous proposal that it would load tanks and materiel onto warships during an all-out (twentieth century-style) mobilization. In fact, were it not for the shielding effect of the entrance, thousands of people a day would see him stand on the elevator plate and descend gracefully into the gloomy depths of the crane's foundations. He liked to think of it as his home, a protection from the outside world. To the very few others who knew of its location it was known more mundanely as Torchwood Two.

Having dismissed most of the displays at the conference as mere rubbish, Bruce found some items to fashion a high tea and returned to his comfy little bunker. The daily technology dossiers were still waiting for completion when he got to his desk (a desk saved originally from the S.S. Transylvania). He hated paperwork, but was thankful not to be in the middle of the current panic of the Prime Minister's slightly frenetic intelligence gathering exercise (collecting military data even on our allies). But Bruce still hated paperwork. Almost straight away, he allowed himself to be distracted by flicking a mercury pellet from a tiny replica cannon on his desk. Then, casually, with little more than a series of scowls he made it swirl around the brickwork of the main chamber in a smooth curve. The pellet then returned gently to the desk. "Some psychic ability" he mouthed. The assessors would have to review that judgment he felt in good conscience. "Plenty of psychic ability" he mouthed contentedly.

The phone on the desk rang. Not just any phone. The Phone. Without any need for psychic ability, Bruce knew who was calling and quickly picked up the phone. He held his breathe and listened.

"Bruce?" purred a pleasant male voice at the other end.

Bruce smiled excitedly. "What can I do for you, Mr Saxon?"