I bestowed upon them all my most cheerful and enigmatic smile and walked through the bar without saying a single word. Let them wonder, let them marvel . . . I was the man on the spot, and they weren't. It's the little victories that keep me going. Suzie, as usual, gave no indication of giving a d.a.m.n what anyone thought of her, good or bad. In fact, it was entirely possible she hadn't noticed any of the jealousy around her. Such small things were beneath her.

Walker followed us through the Club, and out on to the street again, also without saying a word to anyone. But then, Walker never says anything without a purpose. I like to think he escorted us out as a mark of respect, and not because he was afraid we might take offence and start something.

Outside in the street, leaning quite casually against the Club's oversized Doorman, Chandra Singh was waiting for us. He favoured us all with his great flashing smile and came forward, his every movement as smooth and lithe as a jungle cat scenting a kill.

"I trust your meeting with our new Authorities went well, Mr. Taylor, and that you are now fully empowered to track down the infamous Walking Man."

Walker sighed. "You really cannot keep a secret in this place . . ."

"You still want to help out on this?" I said to Chandra. "Knowing how dangerous the Walking Man can be?"

"Of course!" Chandra said happily. "I love a good hunt."

I considered him thoughtfully. Chandra Singh had an excellent reputation as a tracker, fighter, and holy terror in trouble spots all over the world, and I could certainly use his expertise. But I had to wonder if his motives were quite as clear-cut as he made out. Whether he only wanted in on this . . . for a chance to go head to head with the Walking Man to test his faith, one holy warrior against another.

What the h.e.l.l, I could always use a good stalking horse. And someone big to hide behind. Suzie and I could always throw him to the wolves if necessary.

"All right," I said. "You're in. Try not to get in our way."

Chandra laughed. "No, Mr. Taylor, you must try to keep out of mine."

"Men," said Suzie. "Why don't you just get them out and measure them?"

Walker started talking over her before she'd even finished. He'd always had problems with Suzie's directness.

"You found the Walking Man with your gift, John. Can you tell us what he looked like? Most people only ever get to see the Walking Man if they're about to die at his hands, which makes it very difficult to get a clear description."

Suzie and Chandra looked at me curiously, too, so I thought about it. "He's tall and lean," I said finally. "And he swaggered down the street like he owned it. He wore a long duster coat, earth brown, battered and worn as though through long exposure to the elements. I couldn't tell you how old he is; he had a blunt, square face, heavily lined, as though life had cut harsh experiences deeply into him. He smiled all the time, a bright, mocking smile, as though all the world was crazy and only he knew why. His eyes . . . looked right through me. As though I was just another obstacle in his path, something to be knocked down and walked over if I got in his way. I've lived most of my life in the Nightside, gone head to head with G.o.ds and monsters and worse, and I am here to tell you . . . I have never seen anything as scary as that man. So sharp, so intense, so focussed. . . . He looked like every human weakness had been scoured out of him-by life, or death, or maybe even G.o.d himself."

"I never knew you to be so eloquent, John," murmured Walker.

"Yeah, well," I said. "Stark terror will do that to you."

"You want to let this one go?" said Walker. "Step aside, and let someone else talk over?"

"No," I said.

"h.e.l.l no," said Suzie.

Chandra just gave us his broad grin again, his eyes twinkling and happy. I was beginning to get a bit worried about Chandra.

Walker took out his pocket-watch, fiddled with the fob, and immediately the three of us were on our way. The transition was as unpleasant as before-darkness, total and complete, but with the enduring sense that there was something else in there with us. Something imprisoned in the dark, waiting for its chance. It could have been just my imagination, but that's not the way to bet in the Nightside. The three of us reappeared half-way down the street where I'd Seen the Walking Man in my vision. He wasn't there any more. No-one in the busy street paid any attention at all to our sudden arrival. In fact, I got the impression from the faces of people around me that sudden arrivals were so common as to be utterly unfashionable.

"An impressive way to travel," said Chandra Singh, quickly checking his person to make sure everything had arrived safely.

"You have no idea," I said. "Really."

We were standing on one of the main shopping streets, in the wildly expensive area usually referred to as the Old Main Drag. The kind of exclusive establishments where nothing has a price tag, because if you have to ask, you can't afford it. The neon signs were delicate and restrained, the window displays were works of art, and you had to make an advance appointment just to get sneered at by the sales staff. The Timeslip had deposited us right in front of one of the most famous stores. The elegant sign said simply PRECIOUS MEMORIES, the single window was covered with steel shutters, and there wasn't a clue anywhere as to exactly what the shop sold. Again, either you already knew, or you were in the wrong place. Precious Memories only supplied its very expensive products to those in the know. An exclusive place, offering exclusive services, for very exclusive people. I'd heard of the shop and what it offered because I make it my business to know about such things.

"Memory crystals," I said to Suzie and Chandra. "These people can impress real, you are there you are there, POV memories on to a single crystal, which can then replay the experience in its entirety. Complete sensory recordings of any experience, to be enjoyed as many times as you wish."

"What kind of memories?" said Chandra. "What kind of experiences?"

"No-one knows," I said. "Except the few fortunate customers. The suppliers go to great pains to keep it all very hush-hush. There are any number of guesses, of course. Important events from the point of view of the protagonist. Any and all kinds of s.e.x, by any and all kinds of people. Gourmet meals, enjoyed by the experienced taste buds of a real epicure. The rarest of wines, on an educated palate. Whatever interests you . . . Precious Memories is supposed to be able to supply you absolutely any experience you can name, from climbing Mount Everest to diving in the Mariana Trench. For the right price, of course. But, no-one knows for sure.

"The customers never talk. Part of the deal. The crystals are very expensive, and there's only a limited supply. There's a waiting list to get on the waiting list. Precious Memories is in a position to pick and choose, and it does. So even though there is intense curiosity everywhere as to what the experience is like, no-one ever talks."

"Oh come on," said Suzie. "This is the Nightside. Someone always talks."

"A few customers dropped a hint or two, and were immediately cut off," I said. "They killed themselves."

"Ah," said Chandra. "The practice is addictive, perhaps?"

"Could be," I said. "The crystals are supposed to be a safe way of observing or experiencing very extreme and unsafe things. Though, of course, that's not for everyone. When you come to the Nightside, the risk is part of the game."

"The door's open," said Suzie.

"Yes," I said. "I Saw the Walking Man push it open, quite easily, as though all its locks and security measures were nothing to him."

We looked at the door, standing slightly ajar.

"It seems . . . very quiet in there," said Chandra. "I think we have a duty to investigate the situation."

"Right," said Suzie. "Try and stay out of the way when I start shooting."

I pushed the door in, with one hand. No reaction, no alarms, no sound at all from inside. Not good. I led the way in, Suzie and Chandra pressing close behind me. The lobby of Precious Memories was perfectly normal-comfortable chairs, a nice carpet, tasteful prints on the walls, and an impressive state-of-the-art reception desk. All perfectly normal. Except for the bodies lying everywhere, and the blood splashed thickly across the walls, soaking into the rich carpet. Dozens of men and women, in expensive clothing, lying broken and bloodied with staring eyes, reaching out for help that never came. All of them shot to death, and not too long ago.

I moved cautiously forward, stepping over and around the bodies. Everything was still, and silent. Suzie had her shotgun in her hands. Chandra had his long, curved sword. Dead men and women covered the floor of the lobby, cut down where they stood. Huge chest wounds, gaping holes in backs, heads blown apart. The stench of spilled blood was so strong I could taste it in my mouth, and it squelched up out of the carpet as I trod on it. More blood ran down the walls, along with the occasional grey splash of brains. Some of the dead looked to be clients, some staff. Young and old, they'd all been murdered with brutal efficiency. Heart shots, head shots, and in the back if they'd tried to run. Even the receptionist was dead, sitting slumped in her chair behind her desk. She was just a teenager, but the Walking Man had shot her through the left eye.

Chandra Singh moved quickly through the lobby, kneeling here and there to check for a possible pulse, searching increasingly desperately for anyone who might have survived. Suzie swivelled back and forth, searching for a target, for someone she could shoot. The dead didn't bother her. She'd seen worse. I stood in the middle of the lobby, looking around for some sign of where the Walking Man might have gone, but the bodies kept drawing my attention back to them. Forty-eight in total, mostly men. Gathered together in the lobby for some kind of meeting. Some had been gut-shot, their insides splashed across the carpet. Some looked like they'd tried to surrender. It hadn't saved them. The wrath of G.o.d in the world of men . . . The wrath of G.o.d in the world of men . . . What could have been going on here to make him so angry? There was another door, at the far end of the lobby, with a single b.l.o.o.d.y hand-print on it. What could have been going on here to make him so angry? There was another door, at the far end of the lobby, with a single b.l.o.o.d.y hand-print on it.

"This is an abomination," said Chandra Singh, quite simply. "There cannot be any justification for such . . . slaughter, such human butchery."

"This is bad," I said. "Even for the Nightside."

"He walked in and killed everyone he saw," said Suzie. "What could they have been guilty of, to make him so angry? Or were they just in his way?"

"I hunt monsters," said Chandra. "I have dedicated my life to protecting people from the things that prey on them. I never thought I would see the day when I would end up on the trail of a human monster. How could a man of G.o.d do something like this?"

I moved over to the reception desk. Set directly before the dead receptionist was a single memory crystal. Someone had drawn an arrow in blood on the desk top, pointing to the crystal. We all gathered together before the desk and studied the crystal carefully, without touching it.

"Did he leave this here, for us?" said Chandra. "His . . . explanation, or justification, for this atrocity?"

"Could be a clue as to where he's gone," said Suzie. "Hope so. I really want to kill this one."

"I'll try it," I said. "If it looks like it's a trap, or the memory's . . . getting to me, slap the b.l.o.o.d.y thing out of my hand."

"Got it," said Suzie.

She put her shotgun away, and moved in close beside me as I nerved myself to pick up the crystal. It looked like such a small, innocent thing, but I didn't want to touch it. I didn't trust it. And . . . I wasn't at all sure I wanted to see what was in it. The things the Walking Man had done here. But in the end I picked it up anyway. Because that was the job.

To my surprise, a giant screen appeared, floating in mid air in the middle of the lobby. And from Suzie and Chandra's immediate reactions, it was clear they could see it, too.

"This isn't what I was expecting," I said.

"He must have modified the crystal," said Chandra, frowning. "I didn't know you could do that."

"You can't," I said. "At least, not without access to really high tech."

"He probably just touched it," said Suzie. "And it had no choice but to do what he and his G.o.d wanted."

We thought about that. What could be so terrible, that we couldn't experience it first hand, but only on the screen?

"How do we activate the thing?" said Suzie.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe you just say Start! Start!"

And the huge screen came to life and showed us awful things.

It wasn't a memory. Or a sensory experience. It wasn't even POV. It showed us a view of the lobby, with men and women standing around, talking quietly. They all seemed quite happy, and relaxed. Ordinary men and women, going about their ordinary business. They had no idea what was coming. No idea who was coming for them. They all looked round in surprise as the door suddenly opened, all the locks and security measures disengaging by themselves. And then the Walking Man strode in, with a smile on his lips and murder in his eyes, his long duster coat flapping about him like some Wild West preacher come to dispense brimstone and h.e.l.lfire.

The men and women were still looking at him, puzzled and a little taken aback, like hosts presented with an unexpected guest. I wanted to call out and warn them, but there was no way my voice could reach them. The Walking Man's coat opened by itself, falling back to reveal a simple white shirt over worn blue jeans and two large pistols holstered head to head across his flat stomach. The guns seemed almost to leap into his hands as he reached for them; old-fashioned Wild West pistols, with long barrels and wood grips. Peacemakers, the guns Wyatt Earp and his brothers used to tame h.e.l.ltowns like Tombstone. The Walking Man was still smiling when he began killing people.

He strode forward into the lobby, shooting the men and women before him with casual, practised skill. No warnings, no chance to surrender, no mercy. He shot them in the head or in the chest, and he never needed more than one bullet. The screaming started then, as surprise turned to shock, and to horror. People fell back as bodies crashed to the floor, and blood and brains flew on the air. The Walking Man never missed, and he never shot to wound, and though he fired and fired without pausing his guns never ran out of bullets. By now the lobby was full of shouting and screaming and pleading, and the sound of continuous gunfire. Some tried to run, and the Walking Man shot them in the back, or in the back of the head.

The huge guns bucked and roared in the Walking Man's hands, but his aim was always perfect, and he never grew tired. His smile actually widened a little as he worked his way through the lobby, as though the killings invigorated him. Bullets slammed into bodies like sledgehammers, throwing men and women backwards, or slamming them to the ground. Arms flailed wildly amongst spurting blood, and heads exploded in flurries of blood and brains. The Walking Man stepped over kicking bodies, to get at those who remained.

Some pleaded, some protested, some even sank to their knees and begged for their life, tears streaming down their faces. The Walking Man killed them all anyway. A few tried to fight back. They drew guns and knives, and even beat at him with their bare hands. But bullets bounced off him, knives couldn't cut him, and he didn't seem to feel their blows. He was the wrath of G.o.d in the world of men, and no-one could stop him doing anything he wanted.

Some men pulled hysterical women before them, to use as human shields. The Walking Man killed the women, then the men behind them. Until finally he stood in the centre of the lobby and looked around him. No-one had escaped. The floor was heaped with the dead, the last of their life's blood soaking into the rich carpeting. The only sound came from the teenage receptionist, crying loudly, hopelessly, in her chair behind her desk. The Walking Man shot her through the left eye. Her head snapped back, and her brains stained the wall behind her.

He walked unhurriedly across the lobby, sometimes kicking bodies out of his way, until he came to the door at the far end. He paused there a moment, then picked up a dead man's arm to press the b.l.o.o.d.y hand against the door, leaving a clear b.l.o.o.d.y handprint. A sign of where he'd gone. The view on the screen followed him through the door and down the steps he found there, to the next level. At the bottom of the steps, another heavy door, with state-of-the-art electronic locks and security devices. The Walking Man looked at them, and, one by one, the locks snapped open and the security devices disengaged. The door swung slowly open as he approached it.

The Walking Man entered a long, narrow room full of computers and a.s.sorted technology. Someone had money for the very best. The Walking Man pa.s.sed them by, indifferent. He did pause to consider hundreds of memory crystals growing in a thick, shimmering liquid bath, inside a wide gla.s.s-and-steel lattice. The equivalent of a DVD-pressing plant, perhaps. The technicians working in the room looked round sharply as he entered, then rose quickly from their chairs and backed away as they saw the guns in his hands. One of them hit an alarm, and a raucous electronic howl filled the room. Armed men came running into the room from the other end. They had semi-automatic weapons, and body armour. They opened fire the moment they saw the Walking Man-short, controlled bursts, just the way they'd been trained.

He killed them all anyway. Guards and technicians, armed and unarmed. His bullets punched clean through the body armour as easily as through the technician's white lab coats. Weapons couldn't touch him, couldn't stop him. He walked unhurriedly forward and killed everyone before him. Once again there was shouting and screaming, and pleas for mercy, and blood and brains on the air and on the floor, but the Walking Man never stopped smiling. A cold, grim, satisfied smile. When they were all dead, he systematically smashed the crystal lattice, and half-formed crystals splashed on to the floor, and the Walking Man crushed them under his boots.

Another door, at the far end. More stairs, down to the next level. The defences there were really hard core. They would have stopped anyone else. As the Walking Man reached the bottom of the stairs, heavy-duty gun barrels protruded from both walls and opened fire on him. The din in the confined s.p.a.ce was appalling, as the guns pumped out thousands of rounds per minute, but he strode unflinchingly through the smoke and the noise, and none of the bullets could touch him. His coat wasn't holed or tattered, or even scorched by proximity to the red-hot gun barrels. The guns finally fell silent, and the Walking Man went on.

Further down the hallway, energy guns slid smoothly out of the walls, future or alien technology from some Timeslip or another. They blasted the Walking Man with all kinds of energies and radiations, strange lights flaring in the dimly lit hallway, and none of it affected him in the least. He grabbed one gun barrel as he pa.s.sed, ripping it effortlessly from its mounting. He examined it briefly, then threw it aside, never slowing his pace for a moment.

Force shields sprang into being before him, shimmering walls to block his way. He strode through them, and they burst like soap bubbles. Poison ga.s.ses belched into the hallway from hidden vents, and he breathed them in like summer air and kept going. A trap-door opened abruptly beneath his feet, revealing a bottomless pit, but he kept walking, as though the floor was still there to support him.

Finally, he came face-to-face with a ma.s.sive steel door. Ten feet tall, eight feet wide. Just to look at it was to know it was thick and heavy and solid. Tons of steel, held in place by ma.s.sive bolts. The Walking Man stopped, and considered the door thoughtfully. Far behind him, the alarms were still shrieking dimly. The Walking Man put away his guns and placed both his hands flat against the steel door. He frowned slightly, and his fingers sank slowly, unstoppably, into the solid steel as though it were so much mud. He buried his hands in the metal, took a good hold, and tore the door apart, splitting it from top to bottom. The steel screeched like a living thing as it broke, forced to left and right like a pair of curtains. The Walking Man pulled his hands free with hardly an effort and walked on.

Cyborg guards came running to meet him, huge ugly men with crudely implanted technology. They were big and muscular with unfamiliar tech thrust inside their bodies, some of it still protruding through puckered skin. Home-made cyborgs, not from any future time-line. They came at him with augmented hands-steel claws and energy guns protruding from their wrists and palms. But the guns couldn't touch him, and the claws couldn't cut him. The Walking Man tore their implants right out of them, ripping the tech out with his bare hands, then smashed it over their misshapen heads. He beat them to death, with simple brute efficiency, one after the other, until there weren't any more. He stood over their broken bodies for a moment, his hands dripping blood and motor oil, then he went on, into the rough stone cellar at the base of the building.

A long run of basic kennels held some twenty or more dogs. Large, powerful creatures in good condition. They all barked loudly at the Walking Man, protesting his presence. They could smell the blood and death on him. They moved restlessly back and forth in their kennels, uneasy as he approached them. Some actually backed away, disturbed by his intensity, while others threw themselves at the steel mesh of their kennel doors, barking and snarling and slavering, desperate to get at him. The doors were all firmly padlocked. The Walking Man was in no danger from them. He killed them all anyway. He walked slowly from one end of the kennels to the other, shooting each dog in the head. Some defied him to the last, some backed away with their tails between their legs. The last few crouched down, abasing themselves before him, p.i.s.sing themselves and wagging their tails hopefully. He killed every last one of them.

Finally, he turned to face us, looking out of the screen as though he could see the three of us watching him. And perhaps he could. It took me a moment to realise he wasn't smiling any more. He put his guns away, and said, "This is why."

The scene moved past him, past the dead dogs in their kennels, to give us a clear view of the whole cellar. It was full of cages, rows and rows of them, maybe four feet square at most, simple steel mesh in steel frames. And in each of these cages was a child. Naked, bruised, and beaten, shivering, with a hopeless face and empty eyes. A bowl of water, and straw on the floor to soak up the wastes, and that was all. Not even a bucket to s.h.i.t or p.i.s.s in. Children, kept like animals. Worse than animals. Small children, none older than nine or ten. The youngest looked to be a little girl about four years old. None of them were crying, or asking for help, because they'd learned the hard way that didn't work. They looked at the Walking Man with blunt animal curiosity. They didn't expect to be rescued. All hope had been systematically beaten out of them. The cages weren't big enough for them to stand up. They sat or crouched listlessly, in their own filth. Waiting for whatever this man wanted to do to them.

"These children were s.n.a.t.c.hed off streets all over London," said the Walking Man. "Brought here to the Nightside, to be raped, tortured, mutilated, and, eventually, murdered. All so that the experience could be impressed on a memory crystal, then sold to those who delight in such things. A real you are there you are there experience, for sale to the very highest bidders. This was the product Precious Memories dealt in, for its very select clientele. Utter degradation, from a safe distance. They didn't do anything, after all. They just watched. Over and over again, until the thrill wore off. Long after the child was dead and gone. That's why everyone here had to die. They all knew what was going on. They all profited. They were all guilty. After the children died their slow, horrible deaths, their bodies were fed to the dogs, for disposal. And that's why they had to die, too." experience, for sale to the very highest bidders. This was the product Precious Memories dealt in, for its very select clientele. Utter degradation, from a safe distance. They didn't do anything, after all. They just watched. Over and over again, until the thrill wore off. Long after the child was dead and gone. That's why everyone here had to die. They all knew what was going on. They all profited. They were all guilty. After the children died their slow, horrible deaths, their bodies were fed to the dogs, for disposal. And that's why they had to die, too."

He moved into view again, unlocking the cages one by one. None of the children tried to leave. They cowered back, afraid of the Walking Man, as they'd learned to be afraid of all men. Even with the doors open, they wouldn't, couldn't, leave. When the Walking Man had finished, he turned back to look at us.

"Help them," he said. "Get them out of here. Get them to safety, and comfort, and heal those who can be healed. Get them home. I can't stay here. I still have work to do. I have to track down everyone who was on Precious Memories' customer list, and kill them all."

The viewscreen disappeared, and the three of us were left together in the lobby full of dead people. I s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand away from the memory crystal. I was shaking so hard I couldn't speak. Suzie moved in close beside me, comforting me as best she could with her presence. I looked around at the dead men and women. I couldn't believe I'd ever felt sorry for them. After what they'd done... the Walking Man showed them more mercy than I would have. He'd given them quick, clean deaths. I felt cold, so cold, right down to my soul. Bad things happen in the Nightside. That's what it's for. But this . . . systematic, business-like brutality, to feed the worst appet.i.tes of humanity . . . a concentration camp for children . . . He was right. The Walking Man was right, to kill every last one of them.

I must have said some of that aloud, because Chandra Singh nodded quickly. When he spoke, his voice was thick with outrage.

"Perhaps . . . I have been hunting the wrong kind of monster, all these years."

"We have to go down there," said Suzie. "Into the cellar. We have to help the children."

"Of course we do," I said.

We went down into the cellar. Sometimes we stepped over the bodies, sometimes we kicked them out of our way. At the bottom level, the smell hit us first. It drifted through the broken steel door like a breeze gusting out of h.e.l.l. A bad smell, of death and horror, of human filth and children's suffering. Of p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t, sweat and blood. Of terrible things, done in a terrible place. A harsh, reeking, animal smell.

The children were still there, in their cages, trapped in the world that had been made to hold them. Suzie and Chandra approached the cages slowly and cautiously, speaking softly to the children, trying to coax them out. I got on the phone to Walker. I told him what had happened there, then I told him to send help. All the help the children would need. There must have been something in my voice, because Walker didn't argue or waste my time with unnecessary questions. He promised me help was on the way, and I hung up on him.

Chandra was having some success reaching the children, with his great smile and his warm, friendly voice. And perhaps because he was dressed so differently from what they were used to seeing. Suzie did better. They weren't as afraid of a woman. I tried to help, but I was too close to what they'd been taught to be afraid of. It seemed to take forever for Walker's people to arrive. Down there, in that h.e.l.l. When the doctors and nurses and shrinks finally turned up, we'd still only managed to coax seven of the children out of their cages. Five boys, two girls. They looked at us with wide, traumatised eyes, still too disturbed to talk, just beginning to hope that maybe their long nightmare was finally coming to a close.

One of the girls, a small bruised child of maybe five or six, impulsively hugged Suzie, who was kneeling before her. I moved forward to take the child away, but Suzie stopped me with a look. She slowly closed her arms around the girl and hugged her back. The child nestled against Suzie's breast, safe at last. Suzie looked up at me.

"It's all right, John," she said. "I can do this. I can hold her. It's like holding me."

I guess one abuse survivor can always recognise another.

The doctors and the nurses and the shrinks did what they could. I got the feeling they'd seen this kind of thing before. They seemed to know what to say. One by one, the children began to emerge from their cages. Some could even say their names. Walker finally showed up and looked the scene over. His expression never changed, but his eyes were colder than I'd ever seen them.

"We don't have social services, as such, in the Nightside," he said finally. "Not much call for them. But I've got people coming in from all over, including a few telepaths and empaths. They'll get the children stabilised, then I'll arrange for them to be taken back into London proper. Back to their homes, eventually. Hopefully. The children will get everything they need, John. You have my word on that."

"Search the computers here," I said. "There has to be a complete list of Precious Memories' customers, distributors, everyone involved in this filthy business who weren't here when the Walking Man came calling. Find them all, Walker, and punish them. No exceptions, no excuses, no mercy. No matter how well connected some of them may be. Because if the Walking Man doesn't kill them, I will."

"He's been sighted again," said Walker. "At the Boys Club. Do you know it?"

"Of course I know it," I said. "It's back in Clubland. Send us there."

"I'm not going," said Suzie. I looked at her, and she met my gaze steadily, still holding the small child in her arms. "I need to be here, John. To see they all get the help they need. I can help. I understand."

"Of course you do," I said. "Stay. Do what you can. I'll take care of things."