Floyd flipped his notebook to a clean page and knocked on the door of the other apartment on the second floor. After a moment, he heard the shuffle of approaching slippers followed by a rattle of locks and chains. An elderly woman in a floral ap.r.o.n appeared at the door, opening it just enough to eye him with the instant suspicion Floyd normally reserved for salesmen.

"Excuse me for disturbing you, madame," he said. "My name is Floyd and I'm investigating the death of the young American woman three weeks ago. I believe my partner, Monsieur Custine, may already have paid you a visit."

"Yes," the woman said guardedly.

"There's nothing to be alarmed about. It's just that one of the other tenants made a remark that meant nothing at the time, but which might be significant now." She wasn't going to let him into her rooms. "I told your partner everything I could about the American girl. I hardly knew her."

Floyd didn't need to ask the old woman's name-Custine would have already made a note of it. "This wasn't specifically about the American woman. All the same, did you ever speak to her?" "Not a word. We pa.s.sed on the stairs now and then. I didn't go out of my way not to speak to her, but at my age..." Something in her expression seemed to soften, some crack of trust opening up even though she still guarded the door like a fortress. "I've lived in this building for a great many years, monsieur. There was a time when I made a point of getting to know everyone who lived here. But nowadays the young people come and go so quickly that it's barely worth learning their names."

"I understand," Floyd said sympathetically. "I live in a building like this in the fifth. It's always the same -people coming and going."

"Still, a young man like you-you would probably have known her name. She was very pretty." "From what I can gather," Floyd said, "she was a very nice young lady. That's why it's all the more important that we find out what happened to her."

"The police say she fell."

"There's no doubt about that. The question is, was she pushed?"

"They say she was just a tourist. Why would anyone want to harm someone like that?"

"That's what I'm hoping to find out."

"Have you spoken to the widower on the next floor up?"

"Monsieur Blanchard? Yes, we've had a chat. He was very helpful."

"He knew her better than any of us." The woman leaned towards Floyd and lowered her voice. "If you

ask me, there's something not quite right about that."

"I think it was all above board," Floyd said. "The American girl liked to put money on horses. Monsieur

Blanchard helped her study the form."

The woman pursed her lips, evidently not convinced by Floyd's defence of the landlord. "I still think that a man of his age...well, never mind. Who am I to judge? Was there anything else, monsieur?"

"Just one thing: are there any children living in this building?"

"There was a young couple with a baby on the fourth floor, but they moved to Toulouse last year."

"Since then?"

"No children."

"Then you've never seen any other children in this building?"

"People visit now and then and bring their children with them."

Floyd tapped his pencil against the notepad. "But what about unaccompanied children?" "Occasionally. Monsieur Charles, who lived on the sixth floor, used to have a daughter visit him on Sundays."

"Lately?"

"Not since they buried him in D'Ivry."

"And since then? Any other children?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"Think carefully, madame. Have you ever seen a little girl in this building, especially in the last few

weeks?"

"I think I would remember, monsieur, given how unusual it would have been."

Floyd snapped shut the notepad without having written a word. "Thanks for your time, madame."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

"You've been more than helpful." Floyd touched a finger to the brim of his hat and stepped away from

the door as she closed it. He heard the securing of multiple locks and chains.

There were no other rooms on this floor, so Floyd set off up the stairs towards the third-floor landing. He had reached the halfway point when he heard the urgent unlocking of the old woman's door as latches were thrown and chains undone. He halted with one hand on the banister and looked down.

"Madame?"

"I just remembered," she said, her voice quavering. "There was a child."

"A little girl?"

"A very strange little girl. I pa.s.sed her on the stairs late one evening, when I was returning to my rooms."

"Where had you been, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Nowhere. I sleepwalk occasionally-it's a terrible thing to admit-and sometimes I let myself out of

my rooms and wake up at the bottom of the stairs. It must have been three or four weeks ago when this happened. I glanced at her face, and..." She shuddered.

"Madame?"

"When I woke up the next morning, monsieur, I thought I must have dreamed about that little girl."

"Maybe you did," Floyd said.

"I hope so, monsieur, because when I looked at her face, I saw the face of evil itself, as if the Devil was in this building, in the form of a little girl. And the worst thing was that when she looked at me, I could see that she knew exactly what I was thinking."

"Could you describe her?"

"About eight or nine. Maybe a little older. Her clothes were dirty, ragged. She was very thin. I saw her arm on the banister-it was like a skeleton's, all lean and bony. Her hair was too black, as if it had been

dyed. But the worst thing was her face. Like the face of a witch, or something left out in the sun too long."

"Let me put you at your ease," Floyd said, smiling. "You must have had a nightmare."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because that's not the little girl I was hoping you'd seen, who might possibly be a witness."

"You're certain?"

"The girl I'm looking for had the face of an angel. Little pigtails and rosy cheeks."

"Thank goodness," the woman said, after a moment. "Then I must have dreamed it after all. It's just that

when you mentioned a little girl..."

"I quite understand. I had a very bad nightmare myself only the other night. When I woke up, it took me

a while to realise it hadn't really happened. You mustn't feel bad about it, madame. She won't be back- you needn't worry about that. I'm just sorry I made you remember her in the first place."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Please, try not to dwell on it. I'm very grateful for your help." Floyd reached into his pocket. "Did my

partner leave you with a card, just in case anything else occurs to you?"

"Yes, I have the card."

"Please don't hesitate to call."

She closed the door. Floyd hoped he had rea.s.sured her-the last thing he wanted to do was go around

scaring old people out of their wits-but as he turned away he heard her securing at least twice as many locks and chains as the first time.

"We didn't build any of this s.h.i.t," Skellsgard said. "We just inherited it. Unfortunately, it means we have to play by their rules, not ours. And their rules say nothing dangerous makes it into Paris."

They stood next to a two-metre-high hinged, circular door set into the wall. The frame was peppered with bee stripes and warning decals, with padded handrails set around it. Whatever was beyond that door, the signs clearly indicated, was unlikely to be good for one's health.

"Nothing dangerous?" Auger asked. "You mean like weapons, bombs, that kind of thing?"

"I mean like anything the E2 people shouldn't have. Almost nothing we can actually make gets through the censor. Not just the obviously dangerous stuff, but anything with the potential to screw up the world beyond the portal. Which means almost any technological artefact from E1." Skellsgard pulled a lever, engaging a complicated mechanism that swung the armoured door away from the wall.

Auger wasn't sure what she had been expecting-another chamber, perhaps. Instead there was only a glowing membrane of electric yellow stretched drum-tight across the frame. The light it emitted wavered and wobbled, like the reflection from a swimming pool. It threw odd shadows and highlights across the room, making Auger feel faintly seasick. She could see nothing through it, yet the yellow conveyed a subtle impression of depth and peculiar perspective.

"This is the censor?" she asked nervously.

"Yes. And before you ask, we don't know how it works. All we know is that we can only push certain things through it. Other things...it either rejects or destroys, depending on what kind of mood it's in."

Auger examined the edge of the frame, which was set into the rock. Clearly this was a human add-on, bolted on to whatever had been here before. The portal had presumably been installed at the same time as the hyperweb connection, long before Skellsgard's people had reopened it.

"What's on the other side?" she asked.

"The rest of the world. Another chamber, actually, but one that's connected directly into the tunnels under Paris."

"Can't you just bypa.s.s the censor? Dig through the rock on either side?"

"Doesn't work," Skellsgard said. "Nothing we've tried gets us out of this chamber. We've tried blasting and cutting through on either side of the portal, but it's like chewing through diamond. The builders must have reinforced this chamber for exactly that reason, to make everyone use the portal."

"But you've been through it. You can cross the censor."

"We can," Skellsgard said, "you and I, but not someone like Niagara. His body's so full of machines that the censor would cook him alive. Nanotechnology's one of the big no-nos. No matter how well we try to hide it, the censor always detects it and always fries it."

"Then no nanotech weapon can reach Paris. That's good, isn't it, if it means the Slashers can't get through?"

"Yes, but it doesn't stop with nanotech. Any complex manufactured object is blocked, no matter how innocuous its function. No guns. No comms gear. No watches or clocks. No cameras, sensors or medical equipment."

"What does that actually leave?"