Bianca Burnett sighed as she gave her manager the finger.

"I'll just wait here then," he shouted before dialling a number on his mobile phone.

He always was an arsehole, she thought. How the fuck did I ever get mixed up with him? Geoff Sucret--a twenty-four hour weasel with a wire transfer brain, and probably a small dick as well. He wouldn't know a good time if it wriggled in his fucking face.

After eyeing up a cute security guard at the X-ray checkpoint, she turned and gave Geoff a two-fingered salute. The guard smirked.

"Don't mind me," she said. "I'm love-starved and he's a prick."

"You're Bianca Burnett, aren't you?" the guard asked.

"Maybe."

"My niece is a big fan."

She nodded and, lowering her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, peered over the rim. Despite wearing thick dark eye-shadow, her left eye was clearly bruised. The guard looked away.

"Tell her never to date anyone famous," she replied.

A further three security checks tried her patience. At every stage of the conveyer inside the vast polished terminal, a dozen cameras watched her from every angle. At the last checkpoint--a full body scan administered by a stocky rugby player type--she felt woozy. She stumbled sideways and barely held her balance.

"Are you alright, Miss?" asked the man.

"Yeah, yeah. Um ... have you got some water?"

"Just a sec." He poured her a cup and said matter-of-factly, "You're better off not going up if you're ill. It takes a long time for us to reach you in an emergency, and the elevator isn't exactly a kiddie ride at a fair. Trust me, I've seen what can happen."

"Yeah, you're right. I'll turn back now. I didn't see the sign saying, 'Only those taller than this chipmunk are allowed'. Seriously, what do I look like?"

"OK, Miss. Hold your arms straight out, please." He started the scan.

Quietly, she regretted her sarcastic outburst. He was sincere and she admired it. But Bianca Burnett daren't show it. "I've been standing for hours is all. At least the elevator has a seat," she said.

"A comfy one, too. Good luck, Miss. Just follow the green line."

"Thanks."

Through the automatic sliding doors, a narrow blue-carpeted corridor wound to the left. It smelled of fresh ink, or some strange detergent. Transparent panels set at equidistant points along the ceiling offered staggering glimpses of the elevator shaft--a gargantuan tower that rose above the atmosphere itself.

"Anyone afraid of heights?" she muttered.

One of only thirty-two on the planet, the giant tower was over sixty years old. Project Dreamcatcher--an exoskeletal framework over Earth had recently been completed to the tune of many trillions of dollars. In terms of interstellar freight and logistics, the project was expected to save corporations many times that amount in the long term. The amount of fuel required to pull a shuttle free of the earth's gravitational pull was prohibitive, especially when multiplied by tens of thousands of shuttles per year. Despite global opposition, the exoskeleton did constitute a sound long-term investment. Entire industries had emerged on the giant framework over the planet. A cooperative venture hitherto unprecedented in human history, the Dreamcatcher itself had required the exhaustive mining of eleven planets in neighbouring systems.

In the olden days, this would all be science-fiction, she thought. Too bad all I'm using it for is to get laid.

She adjusted her handbag strap on her shoulder and untangled the other two straps--one belonging to her black tank top, the other to her purple bra. Rummaging in the pocket of her denim skirt, she retrieved a stick of gum. Bland flavor. I wonder if it'll last me to the top, she thought, glancing up to where the tower met the clouds in a vague blue hue.

"What's that fucking booth number again?" She checked her boarding pass. "Three-thirty-eight."

A toothy lad with acne and a bad parting smiled as he greeted her at the final gate. "Hi. I'm ... I mean you're ... aren't you--"

"Which is it?"

"Aren't you Bianca Burnett?" The poor lad turned bright red.

"Yes. Nice to meet you." Lowering her sunglasses again, she batted her eyelids and widened her eyes. Guys loved her pop princess image. She'd seen this reaction a million times before, and eliciting it had never lost its appeal. Men just loved her. No two ways about it. So what if it was superficial? Somewhere, someone jerked off to a candid photo of her every minute. She'd read it in a magazine once. It had disgusted her at the time, but lately the idea had grown on her.

"Which booth is it, Bian ... Miss Burnett?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Three-twenty-eight. There should be someone already up there, waiting ... if you know what I mean."

The lad checked his manifest. "Yeah, there is a man in Three-twenty-eight. There's ... this way, please."

Over eighty elevators operated in the tower, most for freight. To recoup a portion of the building expense, corporations had had to make use of the extra-terrestrial nature of the Dreamcatcher. Put simply, people were willing to pay a lot of money for the experience of leaving Earth. The elderly used their pensions to rent low-oxygen, zero-gravity cabins, to slow the attack of deadly diseases. Theirs was a one-way trip. The romantic aspect attracted couples all over the globe: honeymoons, valentines, anniversaries, even weddings brought in the bucks on a constant basis. The odd stargazer, if he could afford it, now had the means to observe space from space, without Earth's pesky atmosphere in the way. And, of course, it was the ultimate hideaway.

"Three-twenty-eight. Is this your first time?" he asked, pressing the button to open the pressurized elevator doors.

"Not even close."

"Can I ask you not to eat or drink anything until you reach the booth? Health and safety."

"You can ask, yes," she answered with a wink.

"And one last thing." The lad cleared his throat. "Can I ... may I have an autograph?"

He's a bold one underneath the red cheeks and acne, she thought.

"Sure, what's your name?" she asked. "I've got a pen. Where do you want it ... here?" Slowly, with a coquettish grin, she roved the nib of her felt tip over his collar, down his arm, across his chest. "Say when."

The young lad's breathing quickened. Unable to look her in the eye, he pointed to his wrist and swallowed. "There'll do. It's Gary."

"Gotcha," whispered Bianca, scribbling her name on his sleeve. She caught him sneaking a peek at her cleavage as she glanced up. The moment tickled her.

"Thank you," he said before taking a deep breath.

"You're welcome, Gary."

They shared a smile as he closed the elevator doors between them. The fresh ink smell had gone; in its place, a fruity air freshener aroma lingered. A slight rumble, then a lighter-than-air sensation told her the elevator was on its way up.

As easy as that, she thought. Just made a lifelong fan while making my way into space. So much for science-fiction. And so much for song-writing. It's having nice tits ... gets you everything.

The seat was a functional metallic bench covering three-quarters of the elevator's interior, cushioned with a layer of green foam. Bianca, bored with the dull whirr of her ascent, put her feet up and retrieved a novel from her handbag. Tom Wolfe's The Right Stuff. Few people knew she liked to read history. The public assumed a teenage pop princess would spend her spare time partying, revelling in the cliques of fashion and faux culture; and she did, but in those slipstreams of fast days, when the world was not watching, Bianca Burnett loved to explore the past.

Apparently, the first American to fly in space, Alan Shepard, had taken a leak in his spacesuit. Hours of waiting in his shuttle on the launch pad, together with a bladder full of morning coffee, had forced him to undergo an unscheduled purging of his tank. And that was before lift-off. Pee minus six seconds and counting!

"An inauspicious beginning to space flight," she said. "But I'd have pissed myself long before I got strapped onto an untested fucking rocket! Those guys had guts. I wonder what they'd make of whiny elevators to the stars."

She longed to peer out of a window, a peephole, anything with an outside view.

"This thing's rising like a rocket, and I'm missing the whole show. Those guys insisted on windows and explosive-bolt hatches back in the day. Maybe we should get a petition started--'Let Us See the Fucking Planet on Our Way Up.'"

Beep. "Three-twenty-eight. In the event of dizziness, stay seated and close your eyes until the feeling passes. Thank you."

The elevator doors opened into a grey cylindrical walkway lit by luminous strips along the ceiling and floor. Bianca glanced to her left. Another elevator was stationed next to hers, awaiting the return of its occupant.

"Hey babe, what's up?" she shouted down the corridor. In truth, she'd almost forgotten what Jerry looked like. They'd only had four dates, and the last one had been a fortnight ago when they'd met in Manchester after her gig. So what if he'd hit her after they'd had a row. He wasn't the first. And he was cute ... in a scruffy hockey player sort of way. Worth leaving the earth to shag. "Iceman! It's me, BB. Yo!"

No reply. She skipped along the walkway as she would on stage: part schoolgirl, part exotic dancer. "Babe, look who's ... who are you?"

Benjamin Umbize sat absolutely still. He didn't know what to say or do. A chunk of scrambled egg fell from his ill-placed sandwich onto the hard floor.

"Who the fuck are you? Where's Jerry?" she snapped.

"I don't know."

"You don't know where Jerry is, or you don't know who the fuck you are?"

"Both?"

She glared at him before storming back down the walkway. The electronic message board read 328.

What the hell, she thought.

Thinking back to the security checks and her flirt with the acne lad, Bianca's head slowly dropped. The realisation stuck in her throat.

"Oh, shit. He asked me for the booth number. It was me that distracted him."

She checked her boarding pass. 338.

Fuck!

Stuck in a fifteen-foot-wide metal booth miles above the earth, Benjamin had no place to hide. His heart had lifted as she'd walked away. Now, each step of her softly squeaking trainers down the corridor tightened his throat. She was coming back to him! Why didn't she just ... go back to Earth instead?

"All right, it's my mistake. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. Friends? Good, I'm glad we got that out of the way. My fucking manager's waiting for me back at the terminal, and I'm trying to avoid him, so if you don't mind I'll just hang out up here for a while ... read my book or something, if you don't mind. I won't be a pest. Man, of all the stupid fucking tricks. Do I feel stupid right now! What's your name?"

Benjamin thought that if he could just stick her with a pin, she'd deflate and fill the room with helium.

"Benjamin Umbize."

She raised her eyebrows for a split-second--an impolite acknowledgement--before setting her handbag down as far away from him on the sofa as possible.

"And you are?" he asked, slightly offended.

"What? Don't you know me?"

"No."

That was her second shock in as many minutes. She raised her eyebrows again, but this time they stayed up, and she didn't know where to look.

Benjamin leaned forward and said softly, "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

But Bianca was embarrassed. For the first time in a long time, her cheeks burned red, as did the tips of her ears. It may have been the setting--quiet, dark, a whole atmosphere away from the limelight--or the fact that he was black, a foreigner, and might very well not have seen her picture before. Or perhaps suddenly left standing there naked on her own pedestal, one she secretly knew was bullshit anyway, reminded her how regular people felt in an awkward situation. For once, there was no celebrity image to hide behind.

"Bianca Burnett." She held out her hand, which he shook.

"Pleased to meet you," he replied.

Still disgusted with herself, she added, shaking her head, "I have to apologize. I'm not always like that." The lie somehow comforted her. "It's just that I was expecting to meet someone and ... after coming all this way ... I turned diva there for a second. Go on with whatever you were doing. I'll not disturb you any more."

She liked his big brown eyes and broad shoulders, but black men didn't really do anything for her. Sure, if they were handsome and had a great smile, anything was possible. And her brother-in-law was African-American--one of the most charming guys she'd ever met. But Bianca had always preferred white English men, a purely instinctive taste for the home-grown.

Benjamin studied her discreetly. Narrow hips and waist, skinny legs and arms, large breasts, lovely neck, pretty face; all that was missing was the woman. Bianca Burnett, he thought, is a girl refusing to grow up. A spoiled little girl with no finesse, complete with temper tantrums--and the black eye to prove it.

She wasn't his taste at all.

A convoy of small shuttle craft floated in a perfect line from a distant Dreamcatcher port to the moon. Red and green lights pulsed on the wings of each individual vessel. Benjamin imagined the people on board being utterly oblivious to the majesty of space flight--worker bees never really cognitive of their wondrous ability to fly. Perhaps they'd taken the trip so often no amount of poetry or tours of the NASA museum could imbue them with that awe. He read a footnote from Andrea Castor's manuscript:

"To an alien scientist visiting Earth, the sand on St. Lucia would be one part silicone, two parts oxygen; to his poet colleague, it would be stardust. When the time comes for us to finally leave Earth altogether, I'd like to tender my own appraisal of our fair planet: one part stardust, two parts water, and a darned sight better off without those bald, uppity monkeys."