worship, he now had to share the limelight with the Mets, the Giants, the '76ers, and a quick, dexterous little irritation he had inflicted upon himself.

When Taziar made no move for the Frisbee, Larson headed toward it. He had taken only a step, when a

pressure touched his mind. He froze. Only one person could contact him in that manner. Forced to surrender her sorceress's powers to stay in twentieth-century America, Silme still maintained her ability to touch the surface thoughts of anyone without mind barriers. Since those evolved only in worlds with magic, no one born of Larson's era had them, the very reason Frey had rescued him from a firefight in Vietnam and thrust him into the body of an elf.

Silme. Larson concentrated on his fiancee's name.

Allerum. Silme resorted to what she had called him in his elf-form, though she now knew it had come from a stammered introduction. Don't panic.Few words could so suddenly and certainly achieve the very opposite of what they intended. Larson stiffened, the Frisbee forgotten. He cast his gaze on the blue expanse of sky, heart rate quickening to fretful pounding. Silme, what's wrong? What's happening? Is everyone all right? She, his sister, Pam, and his mother had planned to spend the day sightseeing and wedding shopping. Car accident, he guessed, wondering why cabbies seemed to feel this compulsive need to drive like maniacs. If anyone's hurt, I'll kill him.

Everyone's all right, Silme sent back, a touch of terror filling her sending. For the moment.The Frisbee bonked hollowly against Larson's head. He barely noticed. What's going on, Silme? Tell me.Apparently struck by the oddity of Larson's reaction, Taziar approached, Frisbee in hand. "What you do?"

Larson held up a finger, a plea for a few moments of silent truce.

We're on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building. The first observation deck.

Larson nodded, then remembered she could not see gestures. All right. The information seemed to come far too slowly. He doubted this had anything to do with a simple fear of heights. The emotion behind the sending seemed far too urgent.

There're men.

Men?

With guns.

Larson's heart seemed to stop in mid-beat. For a moment, he hovered in a startled oblivion that precluded thought.

They won't let us leave.

Something tugged at Larson's shirt. He looked down to Tim and Taziar, the Frisbee tucked under the

climber's arm. "Is it Silme?""It's Silme," Larson confirmed. "Big trouble." He returned to the internal conversation. Silme, we'll be right there. I'll take the details on the way.

Be careful, please, they thought in unison. * * * The taxi ride pa.s.sed in a blur of mental communication broken only by pauses to explain the situation to Taziar and Tim.

They call themselves the Vietnam Peace Liberation Army. A "peace" army. Too concerned to appreciate the irony, Larson pressed. What do they want?As far as I can tell, they want the government to pull out of the war.

"They want us out of the war," Larson explained aloud, queasy from the mingled odors of stale cigarette smoke and exhaust.

"Sounds worthy," Taziar said, staring out the window at the skysc.r.a.pers zipping past."Worthy," Larson repeated, battling down his own memories of Vietnam. Once, flashbacks had plagued him mercilessly; and every stressful situation sent him plunging back into h.e.l.lish and vivid memory. Silme and a G.o.d had reconnected the frayed and looped pathways of Larson's remembrances, returning control. He snorted. "Worthy indeed . . . if you totally ignore the fact that they're making their point by holding innocents at gun point." His own words sent him back into silent communication. Can you tell what they're planning?

I can only read surface thoughts, Silme reminded. Anything else would take magic.Larson tried to radiate encouragement. She should be capable of extrapolating some long-term intentions from their current focus.

The leader . . . they call him Banqo.

Banqo.

In their language, that means "spiritual guide."

It sounded somewhat Spanish to Larson, though the word did not translate into anything he understood.

Though a related tongue, his high school French added little. What language is that?Made-up one, Silme sent. As far as I can tell, it only consists of a few key words. Her presence disappeared abruptly.

Alarmed, Larson chased her. Silme. Silme! "d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, I've lost her." Silme! He shifted wildly in his seat. Silme!!Taziar caught Larson's arm. "Easy. What happened?"The question seemed like moronic delay. "I lost her! I lost Silme."

Taziar's voice remained quiet and level, a starkly nonchalant contrast to Larson's desperation. "How?""How?" Larson repeated. "I don't know how! One moment she's there; the next she's not." Silme! d.a.m.n it, where are you? Hopeless frustration fueled his anger. He had no way to contact her and could only wait for her to come to him again, if ever.Al. Silme's touch carried none of the desperation that had tainted Larson's since her disappearance.Larson froze. Silme? What happened? Are you all right?As "all right" as anyone held at gun point, I suppose.

Larson rolled his eyes. Less than a year in America, and she's already learned New Yorker sarcasm.

Unaware that Larson had reestablished contact, Taziar continued in the ancient language they had shared

in the other world. "Calm down, Al. She probably has something she has to do there. Appease a zealot.

Soothe another captive."

Larson raised a hand to stay Silme, though she could not appreciate the gesture. "I've got her back."

Taziar waved broadly to indicate that he had proved his point.

How many are there? Silme addressed the ambiguous question with both answers. Three maniacs. Seventeen hostages.That's it? You wanted more? Larson hurried to correct a misconception that might make him appear callous. Of course not. But I'd heard something like ten thousand visitors come every day. Pretty much all of them go to the

observation deck.

There was a scramble when the guns came out. Smashed into every elevator. Rushed down the stairs.

I'm guessing the gunmen stranded a couple hundred people when they disabled the elevators.

Disabled. Another surprise. Aren't there like a hundred of them?More like sixty. Seventy, maybe. They did something on the roof that took out all of them at once, I think.

Silme's uncertainty forced Larson to remember she only read surface thoughts. He fidgeted, willing the cab faster through the milling cars. Everyone seemed in a hurry, yet they still managed to block one another from moving anywhere quickly.

Tim tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Is Mom all right?"

The question jarred Larson back to the present. It was an important point that he should have asked long

ago. A warm flush of embarra.s.sment crept over his features. Silme. Pam? My mom? How are they . . . handling this?A lot better now that they know I'm in contact with you.Taziar was right again . . . d.a.m.n it. "Mom's fine," Larson told his little brother. "Pam and Silme, too. But we've got to do what we can to help them." Can you tell if they're capable of hurting anyone?Silme did not reply. At first, Larson thought he had lost her again, but a trickle of discomfort seeped through their contact. She was still there.

Silme.

They shot two men they believed were security guards.

Dread stabbed through Larson's gut. He tried to hold it from his thoughts, to force a calm rationality that

would show Silme he had the matter in hand when, in fact, he stood spare inches from a blithering panic. Shot, was all he trusted himself to send.One's dead. The other's not yet, but it's only a matter of time. Remorse tainted Silme's sending. If only I still had my magic, I could heal him.

If you still had your magic, Silme, the G.o.ds would have taken you back to your world and time. You wouldn't be here to help anyone, and I'd have killed myself long ago. Don't say that. It's true. Larson refused to lie. I couldn't live without you, so keep yourself safe.The cabby's gruff voice startled Larson. "This's as close we get.Larson glanced at the street signs: Broadway and Fourth, two blocks short."Something's going on. Never seen a crowd like this here. Usually just a few gawking tourists-from Ioway or Idaho or some such."

Larson craned his neck. A hovering ma.s.s of humanity filled the streets, all centered on his goal. The

Empire State Building towered over the crowd like a ma.s.sive rocket, its antenna disappearing into the clouds.

"Thanks." He leapt from the car, leaving Taziar to pay the tab. The little man made a good living, along

with Silme, with their sleight-of-hand/mind-reading act. It seemed a strange pairing, given that Taziar, with his mind barriers, was the one person whose thoughts Silme could not access. Somehow, they made it work.

Without a backward glance, Larson strode into the throng. Taziar and Tim caught up to him in a few

paces. "So what's the deal?" his brother asked.

Larson softly detailed the information Silme had given him, skipping the part about the dead and dying men. It would only worry and upset Tim, and it would change nothing that Taziar did.

"Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me," Larson said mechanically as he shoved through the seething clot of people. He tried to keep his manner businesslike and his voice an authoritative monotone. Most edged aside, a.s.suming him a professional of some kind. Some shot him dirty looks that questioned his right to progress while they remained pinned in place. A few times, he weathered shoves or elbows that barely budged his solid, weight-trained frame. No one directly challenged him, mercifully, for he would not have hesitated to deck anyone who dared to delay him.

Taziar and Tim managed to keep up, though Larson did not worry how they did so. He trusted the little climber to pace or exceed him in any endeavor that involved movement, though Taziar more often used dexterity, stealth, crawling, and climbing than the more direct and physical course Larson usually chose.

Tim, apparently, simply slid into his brother's wake.

Tell me anything you can about these gunmen. Larson appreciated that the matter-of-fact, composed manner he adopted to sweep him through the crowd translated to his communication with Silme. It might soothe her to believe him in control.

Silme obliged. Their names are Bob Hendricks, that's Banqo, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin. They call Steve "Hyron," which to them means "soldier in the cause." Mike is "Taybar" or "adviser."

Great, a bunch of grown men with guns who think they're playing clubhouse. Have you tried to communicate with them?

Only verbally. Haven't spoken in their heads yet. Silme antic.i.p.ated Larson's next question. They seem unstable.Duh. I don't know how they might react to an intruder in their minds. Thought I'd save it as a surprise maneuver or if things get desperate. Good thinking. Larson tripped over someone's leg and jostled into an enormous man wearing fringed jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. He whirled, jowly face locked in a dangerous scowl, dark eyes sizing up Larson.

Reflexively, Larson curled his hands into fists and screwed his features into his best boxing face. The

other man muttered something Larson could not decipher, then turned back toward the Empire State Building. Larson continued to excuse and pardon himself through the crowd.

I can't do anything more than exchange information.

Larson realized that, if the men figured out what Silme could do, they would probably kill her to protect their plans from her invasion. He tried to hide that concern from his surface thoughts. No need to further alarm Silme. You're right. Don't tip your hand until absolutely necessary.

If Silme picked up on Larson's underlying concern, she gave no hint of her knowledge. All right.As Larson shoved his way toward the front of the crowd, he saw police hurriedly cordoning off the area with poles and yellow tape while others kept the mob at bay with shouts and gestures. Taziar caught at Larson's shirt. "Al, I'll need a distraction."

Larson quickly filled Taziar in on the rest of the conversation, then added, "What are you planning to

do?"

Taziar studied the building momentarily, then retreated back into the crowd. "You don't want to know."

Larson did, but he did not get the opportunity to press. He glanced to his left, where Tim silently studied

the situation. "You stay here," he told his younger brother. "Don't go anywhere with anyone unless it's the police or a member of our family."