She'd picked up modern German in preparation. It was easier than adjusting to this history's version of Italian, fewer childhood memories to overwrite.

The door opened a crack She pushed it wider, gently but irresistibly, and walked in. The man closed it hastily; within was dark, far too dark to be comfortable for human-norm vision. Papers were scattered over a table, and the bottle of . . .schnapps, the label said. She picked it up and drank down six or seven solid swallows. Not bad, if you wanted colorless, tasteless alcohol distilled from root vegetables. Gwen twitched the curtains open. Friedrich Mueller threw a hand up. She waited until the human had stopped blinking and squinting, then squeezed her hand. The thick glass broke with a spatter of liquid and fragments. Then she held the hand before his face.

The German watched silently, blinking, as the cuts closed and blood clotted with inhuman speed. Then she gripped his wrist, put her other hand on his shoulder and lifted, lifted until he was clear of the floor, waited for an instant and then set him down again. After a moment he slumped into a chair and stared at her, cleaning his glasses on his tie and staring at her. She could hear his heart leap, then steady a little erratically.

I hope you're satisfied, she said. I could tie that poker in knots, if you wish.

No, he said slowly. His hand reached for the spot the bottle had occupied, then sank down. I . . . I was fully convinced by the, the documents and so forth. Impossible to doubt such sums of money as well, and the papers were convincing . . . but this, this is a bit of a shock to me still, you will understand.

Odd creatures, humans,she thought once again.To believe, and yet not believe.

I understand completely, she said soothingly, sitting down across the table from him.

Another world, he whispered, taking up some of the papers. Among them was X-ray film.

Dr. Friedrich Mueller looked at the transparency. His hands shook and his face shone with lust; not for the woman across the table from him, but for what the film represented.

These bones . . . they look as if they haveflanges on them, he said.

That's effectively what they are, Gwen said.

Muscle attachments, I suppose, Mueller mumbled to himself. Very broad area of attachment . . . but wouldn't the leverage be too much structurally?

The bone density is higher, as well as being stronger per unit of weight, Gwen said. That's one reason I'm heavier. Also the muscle tissue itself is different, more fibers; the hemoglobin has a higher oxygen-transport capacity.

It would have to, even with the added capacity from the larger heart and lungs. tie nodded, and shuffled through the stack. This organ, below the lungs, what is it?

Auxiliary heart, on standby unless the main is damaged. It keeps the circulation going on a minimal level until the primary organ regenerates.

Full regeneration? The German scientist's eyebrows rose. Of an entire organ?

Limbs, organs, nerve and bone, Gwen said cheerfully. Let's get something better than that swill you were drinking.

She picked up the phone. A bottle of white and a selection ofantipasti, please. That'll be cash. They fell silent until the maid had brought it.

Regenerate unless I'm killed instantly, Gwen went on. Blowing off enough of my body-mass would do that, or destroying enough of the brain, or cutting my throat back to the neckbone, something of that order. He nodded again, reverently, and returned to his study of the transparencies. Some of this hardly looks like biological systems at all, he said. This webbing under the subcutaneous layer . . .

That's armor, Gwen said. It's grown there as single-molecule chains of organo-metallic compounds by a . . . call it a synthetic virus. Damned uncomfortable, while it's being done. There are a number of, hmmm, we call them biomods, done that way.

The German looked up. Logical, he said. I should think a good deal of your technology works so, at a molecular-mechanical level.

Or atomic. Down there, there isn't all that much distinction between a machine and an organism, she said. It's all chemistry if you get small enough. Or even physics.

He laid his hands on the table and looked at them. I have spent my entire life in futility, it would seem, he sighed.

Scarcely, Gwen said with a chuckle, picking an olive out of a bowl. She savored the rich salt-oil taste, crunching the pit for the extra trace of bitterness. Then she went on: You could scarcely know someone with my database was going to show up. For that matter, your species is more scientifically creative than mine.

Mueller looked up sharply. How so?

We modified ourselves neurologically before we fully understood the brain-mind interface, she said. For that matter, wedon't fully understand it yet.Drakensis seem to have less capacity for . . . intuitive leaps than you do, although we've got more g-factor intelligence. Perhaps we oversimplified while trying to eliminate some redundancies.

Mueller frowned. I am surprised. I would have expected the neural functions to be a thoroughly solved problem-have you not true artificial intelligences?

Only by virtually copying brains; and then what you get is a brain in a box, and it's easier to breed them-we can use direct data-transfer with our own minds anyway if we need to link to machinery. In any case, it turns out to be impossible to be significantly more intelligent than the upper curve of the human range.

Mueller rubbed his fingers together. You cannot increase the computational functions?

Yes, but that's irrelevant. You people here are still thinking of brains as organic computers made of neurons, and that's far too coarse a level of metaphor. For one thing, neurons turn out to be only signalling devices. The real information processing in the brain takes place in smaller structures you're just beginning to discover, and at a quantum level. It's non-algorithmic as well. In your terms, the brain isn't a Turing machine.

She extended a hand. Do we have an agreement, then, Doctor Mueller?

He took it in his. He was an ugly specimen, flabby and pale and sour-smelling, but the look of worship on his face made it almost agreeable.

How could I not, and pass up a chance at such information? he said. The only thing which puzzles me is why you need the services of . . . of a witchdoctor like me.

What you know isn'twrong, just incomplete, Gwen explained. She crunched a few more olives. And you will be invaluable integrating my knowledge inconspicuously with the current technostructure here.

For a while, the German said, his lips tightening.

The current order hasn't, ah, fully utilized your talents, I know, Gwen said.

Red spots appeared on Mueller's cheeks. I have been hounded-persecuted-myself and my family . . .

He controlled his breathing.

He'd also been quite important in the scientific bureaucracy before the fall of the East German state.

Afterward, trial and unemployment, and an abrupt drop in status and income.

You'll have nothing to complain of in my service, Gwen said.

Yes, I would not expect the vulgarity, the penny-pinching of capitalists from a world so advanced.

Well, we're certainly not capitalistic, Gwen said with a slight smile. We're not exactlytrue communism either, you understand.

Mueller shrugged and cleaned his glasses again. That particular faith I have lost some years ago, he said.

A stable order that appreciates my capacities and rewards me fairly, that is all I ask.

You can expect that, Gwen said sincerely. You can relocate immediately?

As soon as I arrange certain matters with my family, he replied.

Gwen nodded. There's a house ready and waiting, she said.

I can hardly wait to begin work, Mueller said, looking down at the sheets of transparent plastic. The possibilities!

Gwen looked out over the world.

Exactly.

Alice Wayne sat in the waiting room and tried not to shift nervously. After a moment she stood and looked at herself again in the mirror. Nice sensible business suit, blond hair caught back with a clasp.

Very light makeup. Emphasize the fresh-faced look, which her Anglo-Irish genes did anyway; you had to play the hand you were dealt. She looked a little younger than twenty-five, which was unfortunate, but what could you do? It was the curse of a snub nose and freckles. Practice a level-eyed look, friendly but businesslike.

She looked around the room; expensive offices, in the best part of Nassau. Leather furniture, and a window overlooking Delancy Street; not quite the center of town, but close. A faint ozone tang of computers, although the only one in sight had been on the receptionist's desk. The waiting room had a long table and prints on the wall, a few discreet magazines in a hardwood rack.

Was it worth the bother of answering the ad?she thought. Then:I'm not going back to Sydney with my tail between my legs. Not yet.

Miss Wayne? the receptionist asked. She had a Latin American accent. Alice jumped slightly. This way.

They'll see you now.

Alice picked up her attache case and followed her into another room. This one had windows giving onto a balcony, and a working desk in one corner with terminal and all the trimmings. A woman and a man were waiting for her behind a table, with a seat for her on the other side.

The quasi-famous Gwendolyn Ingolfsson. She looked younger than Alice expected, no more than thirty, although she had the sort of sculpted face that is called ageless and does look much the same between the twenties and late middle age.Natural redhead, naturally slim, filthy rich, Alice thought.The sort you hope is a bitch so you won't feel guilty hating her. Something a little disturbing about the face, foxlike or catlike.

Gwen smiled slightly, an odd closed curve of the lips. Alice had the sudden feeling that the green eyes were looking right through her, and felt herself flush.Another drawback to having ancestors from a small foggy island where pink skins were an advantage.

Tom Cairstens. Lawyer, with California written all over him. Casual suit, outdoors tan, not quite as smooth-looking as you'd expect, an undertone of seriousness.Quite ducky, actually. Not bad at all.

Thank you, Dolores. Would you like coffee or tea, Ms. Wayne? the American asked.

No thank you.Damn. She could tell when a man was impressed with her looks, and he wasn't.Pity if he's queer. Why were so many of the best-looking men gay?

Well. He opened a folder; Alice recognized her resume, and swallowed dryly. First- The inquisition was relentless. Cairstens did the talking; the owner of IngolfTech sat silent, sipping fruit juice through a straw. When the lawyer was finished, Alice could feel herself sweating. She looked up, startled to see how far the shadows had moved.

Cairstens looked at his employer. Seems suitable, he said. Of course, so do many of the others.

I'll take it from here, Tom, she said softly. Her voice was a husky purr, not quite like anything Alice had heard before, accented in a way she couldn't place.

Now, Ms. Wayne, she said, when the man had left. Let me summarize. You've got a two-year course in business accounting and administration from a not-very-distinguished institution in Australia. Moderate competence with financial software. Undergraduate degree in life sciences. You moved to Houston, and met-became intimate with-one Carlos Menem. He ran a, shall we say, irregular but profitable air-freight business in which you acted as his assistant and accountant. He had a disagreement with some gentlemen from Cali, Colombia. They repossessed the assets after Mr. Menem's . . . departure. Your green card for the U.S. is no longer valid, your work permit for the Bahamas is running out, and you have no money. Am I correct? Please be frank.

Alice nodded, gripping the arms of her chair and struggling to keep the fear from her face.Is this it? No, the Cali boys weren't so indirect. If they wanted her dead, they'd have given her what Carlos got, three bullets in the back of the head. She'd found him slumped over his desk . . . .

Yes, she said.

Good. Now, IngolfTech has incorporated here in the Bahamas because the taxes are low and the government . . . not inquisitive about cash flows. You understand?

Perfectly, ma'am.

And they want someone who won't talk.It wasn't the sort of job qualification she'd dreamed about back when she was a student, but if it worked, she wouldn't object.Also someone without local family or ties. Bloody hell. She might never get an honest job again. On the other hand, honest jobs didn't pay very well.

I need several executive assistants-not glorified secretaries, real assistants. The workload will be brutal and the holidays nonexistent.

Alice nodded, putting an eager smile on her face. That was about par for the course, in a startup firm.

Laziness had never been one of her faults.

We'll take care of the work permit and start you at fifty thousand a year, American-after taxes, deposited where you please. Plus a stock option that ought to be worth considerably more, in time. Full medical coverage, housing and car provided.

Alice choked and coughed to cover it.Fifty thousand! After taxes! Stock option!

Who do I have to kill? she blurted. Then, horrified: I mean-For that sort of money, I wouldkill somebody! I think.

For the first time, Gwen smiled. She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on linked fingers. I like your attitude, she said cheerfully. Now- ***

Gwen raised the ankles higher, holding the legs slightly apart so they wouldn't be bruised in the struggle.

The dark water frothed, clear enough to her but ink-black to a human beneath the moonless sky.

Chest-deep in the sea there was no way for the one held this way to bend enough to get their mouth out of the water. The flailing weight rocked her a little, and she dug her toes into the coarse gritty sand; she was more than strong enough to hold, but she weighed less than two hundred pounds, only a little more than her victim. The struggles slowed, ceased. She held on for a minute longer to be sure, then let the legs fall. The body began to sink, lungs filled with water; she pushed it outward, with the ebbing tide, swimming powerfully. After ten minutes she released it, turned back and stroked easily for the shore.

Tom was waiting on the beach, holding out a towel. She took it and began to dry herself off, looking up at the lights of the house a few kilometers down the coast.

I wish we didn't have to do that, he said somberly.

Gwen pulled on her tunic-it was a dress, actually, but much like the tunics that were day-wear back home. I do too; Pat was useful. But she just couldn't take the truth; a mistake on my part.

And a good thing she'd had all outgoing traffic monitored. Three long-distance calls to newspapers; none of them past the hints and innuendo stage, thankfully.My employer is an alien monster from another dimension wasn't the sort of thing you could say directly to any paper anyone would listen to. They'd assume she was some sort of flake and forget the whole matter.

Tom nodded. Oh, it was necessary; one life is nothing beside the cause . . . but . . . He shrugged. I still regret it.

They turned up the sand, above the line of tide-wrack, under the clacking fronds of the coconut palms.

Gwen put her arm around the man's waist to guide him through the night. The heat of his body cast a ghost-pale shadow across the flat silvery reflection of the beach; she could see the warmth of lesser lives scuttling in the undergrowth, and hear the muted clicking of beach crabs. In the house, one of the guards worked the action of his weapon, a faintchick-chock across the thousands of meters. The wind was from there; she could smell the individual scents of a dozen humans, the three Doberman guard dogs, wet cement from the construction, cooking, smoke, cooling metal in the vehicles.

She looked up at the multicolored tapestry of ten thousand stars. Thermals were clearer at night, the rising heat of the day fading up into the cool of the upper sky.Someday. That was another thing she missed: seeing the stars from beyond atmosphere.

No sense in repining.

And no problems from the police, he added. Not when Captain Lowe's second cousin is in charge.

After a moment: Do you think Lowe will stay bought?

He'll have to. It works both ways: 'They're crooks, and here's the payoff they gave me, to prove it' isn't a very practical threat. And we have enough on him, now, to take him down three times over if he tried anything. Not that he will. The parable of the goose that laid the golden eggs is well within his capacities.

Anyway, there won't be any marks on the body even if the sharks don't get it, Tom said. We'll report her missing tomorrow.

He sighed. Who'll replace Pat?

Alice Wayne, I think.

She could sense his frown. He didn't like the Australian much.

She's unprincipled.