The oak floor glistens through four coats of polyurethane, reflecting red, blue and yellow blinking lights. The machinery, tenderly adjusted and lubricated and looking like mobile sculpture, whirs and swivels competently behind transparent plastic enclosures. The employees are gung ho, and the most enthusiastic of all is their boss, John Rothwell, 41. "This is my life's dream," he says. "I love it." The atmosphere where they work is electric, suffused with a feeling that what is taking place here, in its boldness and sophistication, is happening nowhere else on earth.
And that could just be true. Because behind the doors on...
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