She s.n.a.t.c.hed them away.

"Those looked like pictures of bloodstains."

"It's called fall, Mr. St. John, and it's not your concern."

"Please, call me Wade."

Lydia Prentiss slumped. "Mr. St. John, I have a lot of work to do here. I haven't slept in a day, and what I need less than anything in the world right now is a con man rich kid punk standing over my shoulder-"

"I'm not a con man," Wade informed her.

"-so I'll try to say this as politely as possible. Go away! Get out! I'm busy!"

"All right already," Wade said. "See you later."

"Hopefully not."

Is it my imagination, or does this girl hate my guts? Women simply did not treat him like this. He turned at the door, raised a finger. "How would you like me to do you a big favor?"

"I wouldn't," she said.

"I know this great little Italian place just out of town."

The sheer incredulity of this premise caused Lydia Prentiss to glare. "You expect me to go out with you?"

"Yeah. What do you say?"

"I'd sooner drink my own urine," she replied.

I guess that means no, Wade thought. But no was not an answer he was accustomed to taking. "I'm Wade St. John, the Wade St. John. I'm offering you a rare privilege. Girls stand in line to go out with me. I'm the best known person on this campus."

"No force on earth could make me be seen in public with the likes of you," Lydia Prentiss clarified.

Wade visibly winced. He'd met friendlier junkyard dogs. "Is there any reason in particular why you're s.h.i.tting all over me?"

And what he saw in her eyes just then-her cool, pretty, luminous gray eyes-was a wide open furnace of disdain. Disgust flattened her words to monotone when she said, "You're nothing but a spoiled rotten rich brat full of family money and bulls.h.i.t joyriding through life on a silver platter. You're the bottom of the barrel, St. John. I wouldn't go out with you if you were the last living thing on this planet."

Wade left. The toilets would be better company than this. You win some, you lose some, he thought, but this is ridiculous.

It was possibly the first time in his life that Wade St. John had actually had his feelings hurt.

CHAPTER 12.

-WAKE, bid the voice.

Tom's eyes opened.

IT'S TIME.

Tom sat up, then stood. He stretched and grinned.

"Master," he whispered.

He knew everything at once-things no one else knew, wondrous, miraculous things. The knowledge was a gift, like his new destiny.

"Destiny," he whispered.

He felt a surge of life reaching out from his brain. There was a big b.u.mp on his head, but it didn't hurt. In the mirror he examined his reflection and saw the tiny bruise on his throat, like a bite mark.

"Thanks, Master," Tom McGuire said aloud to his room. He threw his head back and laughed, blushing a great and overwhelming joy. And there was more.

There was a black dot on the wall.

It was beautiful somehow. It was like art. A pendant hung around his neck, he discovered. It, too, was black and equally beautiful. He touched its warm cruciform shape and shivered.

I can do anything, he thought.

He started with the small stuff. He crimped coins with his fingers. He bent a pair of scissors in half, crushed a metal file drawer like an accordion. Concentrating, he punched a hole into the center of his desk, then he picked up his History 202 text, History of a Free People, and tore it in half.

At once the Supremate's voice was in his head, like a chord: -OURS IS A SACRED MISSION, MANIFOLD IN DESIGN, HOLY IN PURPOSE. WE NEED YOU TO DO WHAT WE CANNOT.

"I am your servant forever," Tom said to the air.

-I GIVE YOU STRENGTH, WISDOM, ETERNAL LIFE.

Tom couldn't resist. "Your wish is my command."

The Supremate's voice steepened in silence. -JOIN US NOW IN A GREAT DESTINY. YOU WILL BE WORSHIPED SOMEDAY.

The word slipped around his head, fine as brandy in a snifter. Worshiped, he thought. Like a...G.o.d.

"I will do anything..."

-WORK STEADFAST AND ALONE IN THE DAY, AND WITH MY DAUGHTERS AT NIGHT. THEY WILL GUIDE YOU INTO THE REALM OF AN IDEAL THAT KNOWS NO FLAW.

Tom could only nod now, bliss choking out his words.

-TOGETHER, TOM, WE WILL MAKE HISTORY.

Lydia Prentiss jerked out of sleep, not terrified but shaking from some monumental despair. She grimaced at the clock: 6 P.M.

Gradually stabs of her dreams re formed. She'd dreamed of dead, bloated animals. She'd dreamed of anthracene headaches, fingerprint tape, and blurred vision from too much UV light. She'd dreamed she found Sladder's arm. It was withered and gray, the hand drawn into a claw. She'd been injecting glycerin under the fingertips to distend the ridge patterns when the arm twitched to life, its claw hand s.n.a.t.c.hing for her throat...

The sweat on her skin felt chill when she got up. She always slept nude for it made her feel less lonely-often she'd wake with her arms wrapped about the pillow, a stuffed dummy for a lover.

She purged herself in the shower. The water felt wonderful. White had given her a couple days off; he wanted her out of the way until the people from the state left. He would downplay it all, to believe the safest scenario. White was a horse wearing blinders.

Forget it. Think about something else. She soaped herself, imagining someone else was doing it. Some strong beautiful man's hand glided the sudsy bar around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stomach.

She gave in, closed her eyes. Then the fantasy showed Sladder's hand on her flesh. She rushed out to dry herself, grimacing.

"You know what your problem is, Lydia?" she asked the mirror. "You treat everyone like garbage because it's easier than facing the fact that you're a rotten, detestable c.u.n.t. No wonder n.o.body likes you. No wonder you don't have any friends."

The mirror didn't argue.

It was all true, she knew that. She pictured herself going from job to job, place to place, with no one. She would grow old and die alone-a wizened wretch.

She sat down naked on the bed, already bored. Television was useless, she hadn't watched it in months. On the nightstand, next to her Colt Trooper Mark III, yesterday's Marlboro stood on end. She'd been too tired to smoke it, so tonight she could have two, which mildly excited her. The cigarette thing was the only promise she hadn't broken. The others lay in pieces about her life.

Absently she looked down at her feet, her legs, her clean pubic hair and belly b.u.t.ton. She had a nice tan already. No one knew that lying on the apartment roof was the bulk of her social life. She always wore a minuscule string bikini. She jogged every day, worked out with dumbbells, and did lots of sit ups to keep her stomach flat. Why she worked so hard to remain physically attractive mystified her: she showed her body to no one, and hadn't in years. She presumed she was attractive but was unimpressed by the presumption. She'd read in Cosmo that women who felt ugly on the inside compensated for that by making themselves beautiful on the outside. The idea distressed her.

She glanced secretively at the blinds. They were closed, not that anyone could peep in at her on the third floor. She felt silly. She parted her legs, then gently touched herself with her finger. Why should she be embarra.s.sed? Everybody did it, didn't they? She'd also read in Cosmo that even women with active s.e.x lives m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed regularly. Well, then...

She filled her head with pictures of muscular men. Broad hands roamed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs, hard p.e.n.i.ses rubbed against her. Mouths kissed her neck and sucked her nipples. In her mind, she was penetrated and humped by a gorgeous, curved c.o.c.k. But...

Nothing. Perhaps so much conceit had turned her the other way. She thought of women making love to her but flinched at once. No, this was no good at all. Her finger slackened; the inlet of her supposed pa.s.sion felt as cold and unresponsive as the rest of her.

She knew the reason. No one liked her because she didn't like herself enough to let them. The one lover in her life she'd chased away with her sarcasm and ridicule. She was awful to everyone. It was easier that way, wasn't it? Easier to just be awful.

She'd been awful to Wade St. John, and she'd delighted in it. What was wrong with her? How could I have said those things to him? He was just a harmless punk kid and she'd gone after him like a shark to blood, as if by natural response.

At once she was disgusted with herself.

Lydia Prentiss stood up. Isn't this ridiculous? A college-educated twenty six year old nude female police officer making promises to a wall? Yes, it was ridiculous, but just the same, to the wall she made her vow: "I am not going to treat people like garbage anymore. I will not look down on others, and I will not be unkind. I am going to be a good person, and I'm going to start right now."

She heard the world laughing.

And as Lydia Prentiss made promises to a wall, a girl named Penelope blinked and breathed and fidgeted, jammed immobile and plumply swollen in a sheen of some hot, mucoid slime, her face stupidly collapsed against what was now her home.

Her big, squashed eyes stared out, aglow.

CHAPTER 13.

"Hey, Jerv," Wade greeted. "Am I interrupting something?"

Jervis turned guiltily. "Uh, no," he said. There was another guy in Jervis' room-greasy hair, gaunt face, tacky sports clothes. He looked like a bookie. He gave Wade a fast once over.

"If you have any problems," the guy said to Jervis, "call me."

Jervis nodded. The guy slipped past Wade and left.

"Who was that slimeball?"

"Just a friend," Jervis said. "Have a Kirin."

Wade got the message that Jervis didn't want to talk. He opened a Kirin from Jervis' fridge. The j.a.panese made beer of notable quality, like their torpedo bombers. "Missed you last night, man. Tom and I went out and had a few beers. We were a little worried."

Jervis sipped his own Kirin from his desk, inspecting something that looked like a pocket radio. "I was studying at the library."

Right. Studying. Never mind that cla.s.ses don't start till next week. "Well, we'll be partying again tonight, so you can catch up."

"Can't make it tonight either," Jervis said.

"Why the h.e.l.l not? We got bad breath or something?"

Jervis went to the fridge for another Kirin. He was acting...funny. "I got some personal business, that's all."

"Oh," Wade said. He wandered to the desk, picked up the radio. A sticker on the back read: "49MHz Simplex Receiver Unit. Not for commercial use, not for sale."

"Jerv, what's this ridiculous thing?"

"Just a transistor radio."

"Oh, yeah? Forty nine megahertz? That's not a very popular station-it's off the dial."

Jervis frowned. He pulled the end off a Carlton and lit up.

"Jerv, Jerv," Wade said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"It's still this Sarah thing, isn't it? I don't know what you've got cooking, I don't know what this thing is, and I don't know who that scuzzy looking guy was. All I know is my best friend is weirding out. You've got to let Sarah go." Every time Wade said "Sarah," Jervis winced. "You're starting to scare the s.h.i.t out of us, man. We think maybe you're cracking a little."

Jervis smiled like a ghost. "Nothing's wrong."

"All right, I get the message." Wade got up, "You seen Tom?"

"I saw him leaving earlier, couple of hours ago, I guess."