"Good evening, er, Margaret," said the jowly Brit staring out of a pane 
on her mediatron. He was wearing half-glasses, had to squint to make out her 
nametag. His tie was loose on his chest, a gin and tonic in one hairy fist, and 
he liked the looks of this Margaret. Which was almost
guaranteed, since Margaret had been morphed up by a marketing computer in 
London that knew more about this gentleman's taste in girlflesh than he would 
like to think.