Dani slowly shook her head.

"Jer, you're reading too much into this."

About five minutes later Lane said, "Have you thought any more about having another child?"

His change of tack threw her. She stumbled for words.

"I still think it's too soon."

He shook his head.

"What has it been--nine months?"

She nodded.

"Then it's time to move on. To try again."

She refused to look at him.

He said, "Dani, are you listening to me? What's the problem of trying for another child?"

"I ... I can't."

"How long are you going to keep this up? You aren't the only one who's hurting."

"Later, Jer. Later," she said through her tears.

He knelt down in front of her and took her face in both hands, lifting it up. He looked into her eyes. He could see the hurt, the anxiety and the fear of a second and final failure in them. Even being the daughter of one of the top directors of BIC didn't allow her the privilege of trying for a third child. The rule was set in concrete.

Two children per couple in any partnership.

Having lost their first child during pregnancy, he knew Dani's fear of another miscarriage, thus ending her chance of having children.

He said, "Don't leave it too late."

And wiped away the tears with his fingertips.

In the bas.e.m.e.nt office Lane threw his jacket over the back of his chair. He looked at the monitor for messages, then asked Rosi, the shift leader, if there'd been any calls.

"Quiet as the old proverbial," came the reply.

Lane thanked him and dropped into his chair. He had had a troubled night's sleep in which his dreams were haunted by images of zombie like citizens wandering aimlessly in the streets; of babies lying in the gutter, their mouths opened in silent screams; and always at the periphery of the dream, a figure dressed in long robes, his face hidden by a hooded cowl, shouting words that were s.n.a.t.c.hed away by the wind, never reaching the citizens below.

The dream's images stayed with him into the waking hours. They haunted him over breakfast, which he couldn't finish, and during the drive into work.

Lane said to Rosi, "That's good--I've got a batch of inputting to finish, then a couple of follow-up interviews, so don't be surprised if I'm not around this afternoon."

"No worries," Rosi replied, then switched his attention back to the monitor screens.

For the next three hours Lane set about feeding data into his PC; cross-referencing his information into the mainframe computer, then waiting for the results.

Lane had the data down loaded to his recorder, removed the mini-disk, and slipped it into his pocket.

What started out as a half-baked idea at the back of his mind had now turned into a substantiated reason to carry out an investigation. At the same time, he didn't want to explain his actions to his supervisor before he could corroborate his evidence.

Lane followed the same routine over four days, and on the fifth considered he had gathered enough of the information he needed. He told Rosi that he was going out on the streets to carry out his investigation and received a barely audible answer. Lane smiled; that was the beauty of working with Rosi. The man had his mind on other things, so he could get away with whatever he wanted to do. He took his patrol car and headed out of the city.

He went back to Mile End Gate and cruised around for a while. The image of ian Palmer's face was imprinted on his mind's eye. Lane slowed down whenever he saw a teenager, but after an hour he had found no sign of him. It was almost midday, the office hadn't been in touch with him, and he was hungry. Lane pulled into a supermarket car park that was virtually empty, maybe ten cars, and sat there for a moment getting his thoughts together.

Then he saw ian Palmer exiting the store with a gang of other boys.

Obviously, he was just one of the gang; the leader walked in front, his exaggerated swaggering walk and animated expression marked him out.

Palmer walked alongside a pasty-faced youth some six inches taller.

Lane stayed behind the wheel, his hands gripping it so tight his knuckles showed white. When the group were a few yards off. Lane got out of the car.

The gang came toward him. The leader noticed Lane leaning casually against the patrol car, arms folded across his chest, his eyes staring intently at Palmer. He stopped a yard or so away. The others bundled to a halt behind him.

Lane said, "I want to speak to Citizen Palmer."

The leader gave a lopsided grin.

"Palmer?"

Lane jabbed a finger at ian.

Palmer said to the leader, "Male?"

"He don't have anything to do with you, cop," said the leader.

"In the car, Palmer."

The boy made no move. Lane remained against the car, his muscles coiled tight as springs, and repeated his order.

"What d'you want?" Palmer asked.

"Some questions and forms that the center forgot to get done," Lane lied.

As Palmer moved to comply Male put out an arm to bar his way.

Lane moved in quickly. He grabbed Male's wrist and jerked it violently away, spinning the youth around. An ankle sweep had him face down on the ground in seconds.

"Into the car. Palmer," he said over his shoulder.

Male was sweating. Lane felt like kicking him in the ribs but didn't.

He waited until Palmer was in the pa.s.senger seat before taking his foot off the leader's back.

"Okay, Male," he said, "you showed you're the boss but to the wrong person. You remember my face. Go on take a good look. The next time we meet I may not be so nice. You may not get to keep your kneecaps."

Lane released his wristlock and walked around to the driver's side. By the time he got into the car, he found himself shaking. Sweat leaked from every pore.

He sped away from the parking area.

Lane parked up outside a derelict building that fifty years ago had been a famous department store. Now the windows were gone, and the building had been taken over by an army of citizens without their own a.s.signed residences. There was nothing but blackened stumps where an avenue of trees once gave the street a countrified feeling. Litter blew across the surface, stirred by a hot wind blowing in from the south. The air grew heavy, and both pa.s.sengers silently thanked the car's air-conditioning.

"I want to tell you something, ian." Lane began.

"Well, quite a lot of things really." He'd already explained that he had lied to him earlier, that what he wanted was to talk to him.

ian was unsure.

"What things?"

By the time Lane had finished talking, it was late in the afternoon.

His voice was dry and hoa.r.s.e, his hunger forgotten. He couldn't be sure how much ian had taken in, but the youngster had sat and listened to everything Lane had said. At the end of it Lane put in the mini-disk into the on-board computer and pressed the play b.u.t.ton.

ian watched the screen and learned much more in fifteen minutes than in the whole of his lifetime- Lane watched him. The teenager's face seemed to have added lines that hadn't been present moments before.