'International news summary,' said Jack Blood, a small worm crawling out of one empty, deepcarved eye socket. The pumpkinheaded ma.s.s murderer was a modern phenomenon. Sociologists wrote books about his universal appeal. His television creators were engagingly modest about the whole thing; they'd just set out to create a good Sat.u.r.day morning show.

O'Hara moved on the couch so he wouldn't have to watch the worm's progress. Jack moved his head in synchronization, tracking inexorably, offering O'Hara the best presentation of image to go along with the lifelike stereo sound. 'Increasing instability in weather patterns 'Skip,' said O'Hara.

'Fighting in Indonesia '

'Skip,' said O'Hara.

'a.n.a.lysis of sea water in the '

'Skip.'

'A report on environmental '

'Skip.'

'An article describing telekinetic '

'Skip. No, wait a minute,' said O'Hara. 'Repeat the last item.'

'From the London Sunday Times Sunday Times, Science and Technology section, seventh of this month. Headline: "b.l.o.o.d.y Strange!" Main text of feature as follows: "The Sunday Times Sunday Times Insight team has learned that biochemistry boffins are baffled by an article written by Shreela Govindia. A highly respected scientific journalist, dusky beauty Shreela is "' Insight team has learned that biochemistry boffins are baffled by an article written by Shreela Govindia. A highly respected scientific journalist, dusky beauty Shreela is "'

'Just summarize,' said O'Hara.

'The article goes on to describe how certain blood proteins may indicate the presence of "strange mental powers" in human beings.'

'Explain,' said O'Hara. 'What kind of powers?'

'No more information available. "Strange metal powers",' repeated the pumpkinheaded horror.

'Okay, hold it,' said O'Hara. He thought for a moment. 'Link with the office computer.'

'Link established,' said Jack, waving his stickybladed knives.

'Crossreference with that news item. Find out the location of the scientific journalist and ask her to fly out to New York. Book a company apartment at the King Building.'

'Reference. Govindia, Shreela. Journalist. Deceased.'

'When and how,' said O'Hara.

'Died this morning, death recorded 11.30 a.m. local time, Hammersmith Hospital, London, England. Cause of death auto immune disease.'

'Okay,' said O'Hara. 'Memo to all departments, special attention Social and Biological Stock Acquisition. Attach copies of the article and get a hard copy for me.'

'Contents of memo?' prompted Jack Blood politely, waving his knives, dancing impatiently as near to the couch as he could get. Straining like a guard dog on a leash.

'Enclose a memo with the article requesting that everyone keeps their eyes open for any signs of unusual...'

'Waiting,' prompted Jack after a moment.

'Blood tests,' said O'Hara. 'All blood tests conducted by Biostock Acquisitions. Paste in that article you just read. And crossreference with the database and see if there's any more technical literature you can pull out. Make a list of the blood proteins and tell Acquisition to test for them. If we find any stock reading positive, skip processing and fly them straight out here from the King Building. Put a priority on this and offer a bonus. The usual ten per cent plus seven points in the company health scheme.'

'Filed ready for action tomorrow,' said Jack. He swept his frail stick arms upward, knives clutched in black twig fingers. With a swooping motion he brought both arms swinging inwards and drove the blades through the black felt of his own jacket. He lifted his arms free and showed the knives jutting out of his wooden scarecrow torso. He took a bow and disappeared back into the B&O.

O'Hara sipped his coffee. It was cold.

There was snow falling in New York. When Mancuso looked up the sky seemed to be a low grey ceiling. All the lights of the city were being reflected back off some kind of diffuse low cloud. It wasn't a true night sky at all. It was like being inside a metal tunnel. The only thing which gave an impression of depth was the slow vertical descent of the snow, drifting down towards her face. When Mancuso was a child she would have opened her mouth to catch a flake on her tongue. She didn't do that now.

Mancuso watched the street while McIlveen secured the riotgun and locked the car. In this neighbourhood a police car was a target. The food was good here, though. McIlveen came around the car and she let him lead the way towards the diner. When his boot hit the iced sidewalk he slid, swore, and would have gone down on his a.s.s if Mancuso hadn't caught his arm.

The waitress serving at the counter had a little silver cross pinned to the white collar of her jacket, right beside the small flag badge that signified membership of the Young Republicans. Mancuso let her pour the coffee before she said, 'There's two things I normally never talk about.'

'Hey, come on, don't start,' said McIlveen.

'I beg your pardon,' said the waitress looking at Mancuso.

'Religion and politics,' said Mancuso. 'Normally I never talk about those two subjects. But listen. Do you you think the president will go to h.e.l.l?' She smiled sweetly at the waitress. The woman put their tab down and left, heading back to the kitchen. think the president will go to h.e.l.l?' She smiled sweetly at the waitress. The woman put their tab down and left, heading back to the kitchen.

'Why did you have to do that?' said McIlveen. 'She's just a kid. Probably takes it all very seriously.'

'n.o.body's young enough to be that stupid.'

On a rooftop across the street Lewis Christian took off his headphones. He immediately regretted it; the foam pads had been shielding his ears from the bite of the cold air. Mulwray didn't seem to be bothered by the cold. He was standing beside Christian, his camelhair coat dusted with snow. Lewis was pleased to see that somehow he'd managed to get up the fire escape without putting a black smear on it.

'Well, what do you you think?' said Christian. 'Is Chuck going to h.e.l.l?' think?' said Christian. 'Is Chuck going to h.e.l.l?'

Mulwray just smiled. He took the rifle bag from Christian and unzipped it. The stock of the rifle was textured grey plastic with dimpled b.u.t.tons under the barrel for control of the optical system. Mulwray sighted it on the warm glow of the diner window on the street opposite. The soft plastic shroud of the eyepiece formed a warm seal against his cheek. The telescopic sight brought the cops' faces sharply into view. First the woman. She was grinning. Mulwray moved the barrel of the rifle. The sight lost focus then gained it again as it tightened on the image of the male cop.

Mulwray leaned over the edge of the rooftop, making small adjustments on the rifle, swinging it back and forth.

From the man to the woman.

In the warmth of his kitchen O'Hara sat looking at the two dossiers in front of him, studying the pictures. He was coming to a decision when the telephone rang.

He took the call in the living room, routing it through the B&O. The wall opposite the big picture window lit up as the image of the callers was projected on it, flat. Northern Global hadn't yet attempted to deliver holographic images over the phone fibres.

It was a conference call, three separate images appearing in squares on the walls, like portraits without frames. Each image stabilized at a different rate, coming in over different routes, via satellites then through Northern Global's landlines.

The first caller was an Oriental woman. She was calling from an office. O'Hara could see some of the equipment on her desk at the edge of the image. She said nothing, not even looking up into the phone, continuing to work at something while waiting for the conference circuit to complete.

The second caller was young. Perhaps sixteen. He was dressed in a bathrobe, hair wet from a shower. He greeted O'Hara, combing his hair while he waited for the call to begin.

The third image remained a blank square of mint green. O'Hara couldn't tell if it was the wall behind the phone or some kind of computergenerated blind. Finally a woman stepped into frame. O'Hara didn't recognize her.

'h.e.l.lo, can you hear me?'

'Who exactly are you?' said the Oriental woman on the wall above, looking up from her desk for the first time.

'I'm Mr Pegram's physician.'

'How is he?' said the teenage boy.

'I'm afraid Mr Pegram died today.'

'Again?' said the boy.

The physician seemed to take this personally. 'Mr Pegram has only died twice since I a.s.sumed supervision of his health control programme '

'We haven't got all day,' said the Oriental woman.

'Or all night,' said the boy, speaking from the other side of the world.

'All I'm asking is that you don't excite or disturb Mr Pegram too much.'

The physician's image disappeared, replaced by Pegram himself, sitting upright in his medical harness. As far as O'Hara could tell, he looked a little healthier than usual, if anything. 'What's she been telling you, that quack?' boomed Pegram. His speech was deep, mellow and virile, the synthesized voice of a young man, licensed from some popular entertainer of ten years ago and now controlled directly from what was left of Pegram's larynx.

'As much as I would love to discuss your health, Jack, there are other things which require my attention,' said the woman.

'Will you be represented at Brussels?' said the boy.

'My delegates can meet your delegates.' The woman continued working while she spoke. 'Obviously this is a very busy time and a critical time.'

'Well, let's hear it then,' said Pegram. His old eyes stared at O'Hara over his plastic oxygen mask. 'Progress report, boy.'

'We are very close to completion,' said O'Hara. 'The mountain bunker will be finished by the end of the year.'

'Is it going to be secure?' said Pegram.

'My engineers tell me that it will survive a smallscale nuclear strike or any earthquake activity that is likely to arise in this region.'

'So how long will the thing last?'

'The hardware's all selfsupporting. My engineers see no reason why it should't last indefinitely.'

'Indefinitely,' said Pegram. It was hard to tell, but he might have been smiling behind the oxygen mask.

'This is all secondary,' said the Oriental woman. 'The vital aspect is the success of the software. How close are we to an a.s.sessment of that?'

'We'll be obtaining the final test subject tonight,' said O'Hara.

'Call me when you have some results.' The image went blank as the woman hung up. The boy shrugged. 'Call me also,' he said, and the second square of light faded on the wall. Only Pegram was left, staring out from the livingroom wall.

In the late night quiet of the dark room O'Hara could hear noises from Pegram now. His machines breathing for him.

'This is a splendid enterprise,' said the old man. 'G.o.d will smile upon it.' Unable to move his remaining arm, he just winked at O'Hara before the computer hung up for him. O'Hara continued looking at the blank dark wall for a moment, considering the lingering traces the phonelight had left on his vision. Then he went into the kitchen. He deliberately didn't look at the two pieces of paper lying on the counter. O'Hara took a sweet pastry from the refrigerator and put it in the oven to warm up. As he did so he came to a decision. He picked up the kitchen phone, a handset, and called New York.

The bean curd satay had smelled good. McIlveen had been worried that the waitress night have taken some kind of revenge on them, sabotage in the kitchen, but the food had been fine.

That was just like McIlveen, thought Mancuso. Always worrying.

She sat at the counter, still shaking a little. The waitress was clutching Mancuso's hand in her own, gripping it fiercely. Mancuso let her. She figured it would make the waitress feel better.

There was blood on the girl's tunic, a splash of it beside the little silver cross. The waitress had done surprisingly well. She hadn't panicked. She'd been on the phone almost immediately, calling for medical a.s.sistance while Mancuso had been on the floor with McIlveen. The paramedics' feet were crunching on broken gla.s.s now. They had arrived with unbelievable speed, considering the snow and the traffic.

'Okay. Now,' said one of the paramedics. They braced themselves and lifted the stretcher off the floor. It was a lifesupport stretcher and McIlveen was already connected up to it. Mancuso got up to follow it out the door but one of the other cops stopped her, made her sit back down at the counter. The waitress took Mancuso's hand again and Mancuso let her.

The plates of satay were turning to cold grease on the counter. Snow and cold air blew in through the shattered window of the diner. Mancuso could see the lights of the police copter as it hovered above the building across the street, sweeping the roof with a search beam. There was nothing there. The snipers would be miles away by now.

When the traffic had eased the first paramedic glanced into the back of the ambulance. The policeman was attached to the vehicle's life support, the stretcher locked down on to the body table. The second paramedic was busy making adjustments to the drug supply.

'How is he?'

'All brain functions seem okay.'

'Thank G.o.d for that.'

The second paramedic made a last check on the vital signs readout and came forward, climbing into the pa.s.senger seat. He clipped his seatbelt on and looked across at the driver.

'That was a terrific shot,' he said.

'Well, I couldn't let us freeze on that rooftop all night,' said Mulwray.

3.

Maria Chavez pulled over to let the ambulance pa.s.s her on the approach road to the King Building. There weren't any lights flashing on the vehicle, or any sirens, but it was moving at what Maria regarded as a dangerous speed as it loomed up in her rearview mirror. She wondered what the vehicle would do when it encountered the armoured gates of the building, but as she watched the crash barriers rolled back, giving access to the parking lot. The ambulance flashed by and Maria recognized Christian and Mulwray behind the wide windscreen. She should have guessed; it was one of Biostock Acquisition's collection of colourful vehicles. They had everything from city taxis to a hea.r.s.e.

Maria followed the ambulance through the open gate and parked her Toyota in the company lot. Mulwray and Christian were wheeling a stretcher trolley into the service entrance of the building and they were gone by the time she locked her car and started walking through the freezing wind to the security booth. The wind was lashing snow between the towers of the remaining skysc.r.a.pers, the crystal flakes glittering in the security floodlights. As Maria stepped over halffrozen puddles the wind changed direction and hit her from a new angle. It buffeted around the surrounding tall structures, finding a route then moving like a fast car, blowing in off the dead water of the river, chilled by its pa.s.sage and funnelled by the ranks of office buildings. Gathering velocity as it swept through the gaps left by demolition and riot damage. Now it howled across the parking lot and over Maria.

The guard in his heated booth kept her waiting for five minutes while he pretended he was checking her card. In fact he was finishing off a session of MacPet on his computer screen. Maria could see the superhumanly healthy fleshtones of the imaginary woman reflecting off the lenses of his gla.s.ses. Maria didn't care. She wasn't really standing here in the cold wind.

She was dancing.

Dancing to The Clash in a hot bas.e.m.e.nt, the walls crawling with sweat and condensation, floor vibrating under her. Back in California. With that vibration always making her wonder if the earthquake was arriving. The big one. The final one. The one they kept promising. Maria thought an earthquake wouldn't he such a bad way to die: most likely very quick, very exciting, and with a lot of other people to keep you company. Maria was sixteen years old again, strong and lovely, flicking the sweat out of her hair in the heat of that bas.e.m.e.nt. Dancing and knowing that one day she'd have to die. Knowing it but deep in her healthy young body, on a cellular level, not really believing it.