He shook off his reverie and looked in both directions. To the right there was nothing of interest, but to the left, beyond the plane, he saw ambient light and shadows that showed more promise.

He needed to get off the main hangar floor soon or one of the guards would spot him. As if on cue, a door slammed. A guard stepped in for the interior portion of his rounds, occasionally pa.s.sing through one of the circles of muted light spa.r.s.ely dotting the floor. Ping stepped back and walked along the wall where it was dark, creeping past the plane.

It took him fifteen minutes to slow-walk to the far side of the hangar. Occasionally he could hear the guard's footsteps, a tap, a click or other noise reminding Ping that he was not alone. The cavernous s.p.a.ce made it impossible to tell from what direction the sounds came.

Ping sensed a structure ahead, but the light was too faint here to show any detail. He ran his hand along a wall, taut plastic that felt much cooler than the rest of the hangar. Most likely refrigerated or just heavily air-conditioned. He skulked around until he felt a frame, looked down and saw the silhouette of a handle. He went inside.

The guard heard something over by the tents, like the slip of a shoe on concrete. It's hard to be sure with the hum of generators and cooling systems on this end of the hangar. He slowed his pace, c.o.c.ked his head to listen more closely. He sensed movement off to his left. Someone stood in the shadows ahead...or maybe it was just a trick of light. He slipped behind the metal cabinet that held bio suits and waited, just in case.

Five minutes later, a silhouette, too short to be a full-grown man, too unsure to be another guard, stepped out of the shadows. The boy's profile turned left and right, his body tense, his arms extended as if trying to feel his way through the dark. His movements conveyed confusion. He looked lost. The guard stepped from behind the closet, and pointed a flashlight and his gun at the boy.

"Hold it right there," he said.

Sam froze and squinted into the light. He raised his hands as the black-clad guard approached.

"What are you doing here, young man?"

"Looking for my father. Have you seen him?"

"There is no one in here. Do you realize you're trespa.s.sing on secure federal property? Put your hands behind your head."

Sam locked eyes with the guard. "You don't need to arrest me."

"I don't need to arrest you," the guard repeated in a monotone.

"I'm just some kid playing around, and you told me to get out."

"You need to get out of here."

"Okay, I will," Sam said. "You hear something on the other end of the hangar and have to investigate."

The guard c.o.c.ked his head. "Did you hear that?"

He jogged away, disappearing around the tail of the wrecked airplane. Sam started toward the door into the tents, just as the door swung open. Ping staggered out, rubbing his arms, shivering. They both froze.

"d.a.m.n it, I told you to stay in the car. We have to get out of here. If they catch us, they will never let us go. This is much more serious than I had antic.i.p.ated."

As they headed for the back of the hangar, a second guard jumped out of the shadows, pointed his rifle. "Stop right there. Put your hands up!" he yelled.

Wide-eyed, Sam turned to Ping, but before Sam could speak, Ping evaporated into a cloud of dust. His body simply dispersed into nothingness, dissipated, blew away, molecule by molecule.

"Ping! Ping! Where'd you go?" Sam panicked. The guard had blown Ping away somehow, but Sam had not heard a gunshot. His face reddened, and he gritted his teeth. "What did you do?"

"Where did he go?" the guard said, his head looking quickly in both directions.

Sam turned on the guard. "You need to take a nap. You're getting sleepy."

The guard lay down on the spot, curled up into a fetal position and began to snore.

The boy swung his entire body around, waved his arms in the air.

"Ping! Ping!"

Sam ran the length of the tents, looked out toward the airliner and saw no sign of Ping. Walking back toward where the guard slept, Sam nearly sobbed.

"I'm so sorry, Ping. I should have stayed in the car. I'm sorry." He sat on the cold concrete floor, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

A few minutes later, a soft hissing drew his attention. Between the shadows, in a band of ambient light, a small mote of dust spun and grew, pulling more material from the nearby dimness. The ma.s.s elongated into a vortex, gathering more material and growing darker, more dense. It stopped spinning, spread out into a cloud and took the shape of a man. It solidified as details emerged from the dust into features Sam recognized.

It was Ping. He wiped his hands over this chest as if getting rid of some lint and said, "You're a prompter. Why didn't you tell me?"

"And you're a...a dust ball. Why didn't you tell me?" Sam hugged him. "We need to get out of here. The prompts will only last for a few minutes. Once they change their minds, they'll come after us."

"Then let's get out of here." Ping took Sam's arm and pulled him into the shadows at the back of the hangar. "Will they simply turn around and come after us once the prompts wear off?"

Sam jogged alongside Ping, following his lead without giving much thought to his surroundings. "They will only remember what happened up until the moment before they met me. If we don't draw their attention again, they won't come after us."

Ping leaned into him and whispered, "Okay, then let's slow down and get out of here quietly."

They skulked to the rear wall of the hangar, stopped for a minute to listen for the guards. All they heard was the hum coming from the tents. Ping pointed to the right, toward the door he had entered. Sam nodded and followed.

Outside a light rain fell. Sam stepped away from the hangar wall, intending to bolt across the street to their car, but Ping stopped him.

"Wait. Let's make sure there is not a guard around the corner who will see us leave."

They sidestepped along the wall until they got to the end. Ping looked around the corner. He turned back to Sam and said, "Okay, let's run for it."

"What's with the poofing or disappearing or whatever that was?" Sam stared at Ping's face, tinged green from the dashboard lights.

"It's called panic dispersal. It's a survival mechanism that has evolved over millennia," Ping said.

"So all the people where you're from do this when they get scared?"

"It usually happens when someone is startled or in a life-threatening situation. Simply being afraid or scared doesn't do it. And it's not just people. All the animals have developed the same way."

"Must be tough to be a lion on the hunt where you're from."

"They just have to be a little bit faster."

"I don't think the people here can disperse like that."

"No, I'm pretty sure they can't."

"How are you so sure?"

"It's not in any of the books or movies or televisions shows. Dispersal scenes are some of the most compelling in our literature."

"Yeah, I can see why."

Ping glanced at Sam. "So tell me about being a prompter."

"How do you know about prompters?"

"My field was metaphysics and applied philosophy. While the concepts I studied were theoretical, I am aware of prompters and the levels of sentience."

"I don't know what you mean by sentience, but it's not that big of a deal. I can create thoughts and give them to people. They only last for a few minutes."

"They lasted long enough to get us out of there. I'd say that's a pretty big deal."

"It's nothing compared to what my sister can do."

CHAPTER 25.

MARA PLACED A damaged mantel clock on her work counter and was about to size it up when the bell above the door jangled, and a bald elderly man stepped into the shop. He looked to be eighty years old, six feet tall, but slightly hunched with age. He stepped gingerly, as if he doubted his legs would hold up.

"h.e.l.lo, young lady." He smiled as he walked to the counter. His eyes were bright and alert.

"How can I help you, sir?" She smiled back, noticing he was not carrying anything for her to repair.

"I have a friend who informs me that you might have some unique items that would make an excellent gift, especially for the nostalgic type." He surveyed the shelves and the wall behind Mara.

"We occasionally do sell some of the items on the shelves, but our primary business is repairing things."

"Do you mind if I look around?"

"Not at all. If you see something that interests you, let me know, and we'll see if we can work something out." She went back to her clock. The man nodded and turned to lean over the display counter.

After a few minutes, he said, "You know, I used to have a pocket watch just like that one." He pointed into the case. "Where did you get it?"

"That's actually one I found down in Crater Lake when I was ten years old. I was on a trip with my grandfather at the time."

"Did you repair all the items in this store?"

"Oh, no. Mr. Mason, the owner, has been fixing things for decades. Most of these things he repaired, but I've done some in the last couple years."

"That's fascinating. You don't see many young people interested in fixing old things these days, especially a young lady," he said, picking up an old telescope from a shelf. "Is Mr. Mason here today?"

"No, he is out recovering from surgery."

"I see. How nice that he has you to keep things running in his absence."

The man shuffled along the shelves and perused for fifteen minutes without saying anything. Mara worked on removing the clock crystal but could not wedge it out of its mount. Concerned she would break the gla.s.s and scratch the clock face, she concentrated on her work. She did not notice when the bald man walked up to the counter, silently leaned against it with one hand. Glancing up to find a screwdriver, she noticed him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you. Find something?"

"Not yet." He smiled, leaned over the counter. "Do you have any jeweled pieces?"

"No, sir, nothing like that."

The man's smile remained fixed, painted on his face, devoid of all warmth. Mara, sensing displeasure, instinctively looked away, down toward his hand on the counter.

His shirt cuff wriggled. Something black and shiny peeked out and then pulled back. Mara caught her breath, glanced back up at the man's face, not sure of what she saw or if she should say something. His smile opened to a full yellow-toothed grin but it remained cold.

She looked down again.

Writhing out of the man's shirtsleeve, dozens of black gelatinous worms fell onto the counter, squirming and skittering, trying to get their bearings. Mara grimaced, pulled back from the counter and grabbed a hammer. The slugs-the only term that came to mind-had tiny hairlike legs like a caterpillar, no discernible head, but little pincers where it should have been.

A staccato filled the air-tick, tick, tick-so rapidly they blended into a soft drone. The creatures that landed on their backs kicked at the air, curled into a ball, rolled to get to their feet, leaving smears of slime glistening on the counter. Soon they covered the front side of the work area and writhed toward Mara.

She pressed against the back wall, knocking the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign off balance. The old man now had both hands on the counter as if he were bracing it. Creatures poured from each cuff and leaped out of his open shirt collar onto the counter.

"Oh, G.o.d, they can jump," Mara said.

The slugs overran the old rotary phone, the register and everything else. They crept toward the edge of the counter. The first to arrive flung itself into the air, at her. She screamed, swinging the hammer at empty s.p.a.ce.

A slug landed on her shoulder.

She yelled, "Get off, get off!"

Dozens leaped at her. Soon she felt them crawling on her, biting her skin. Little p.r.i.c.kles of numbness spread across her arms.

"Bruce! Anybody! Help!"

She swung wildly with the hammer, smashing dozens of the creatures, creating a pool of spatter and slime that dripped off the counter's edge to the floor.

The hammer slipped out of her hand.

The slugs continued jumping, landing in her hair, crawling under her clothes. She quickly went numb and slouched against the back wall. As she slid downward, she locked eyes with the old man.

"Why are you here?" she said, squinting into the swarm of slugs flying at her. She was nearly covered.

"Give it to me," he said, still grinning.

"What? Give you what?"

"The Chronicle," he said. "I want to go home."

Mara reached down to the floor and picked up the hammer. She dived into the swarm of slugs and swung at the old man.