Half-way into the flight - asleep in his seat, and unafraid to be asleep - Harry reached out with his deadspeak and found Mobius resting in the Leipzi g graveyard where he lay buried. Mobius knew him at once and said: Harry, I c alled out to you but got no answer. Actually, I've been half-afraid to contac t you. That last time ... it was frightening, Harry.

Harry nodded. So now you know what I'm up against. Well, at the moment I have him on the run; he's not sure what I can do; but he knows whatever he plans against me will have to be more physical than mental. Physically , I'm still very vulnerable. That's why I need the Mobius Continuum.

Mobius was at once willing. You want me to take it up where I left off?

Yes.

Very well, open your mind to me.

Harry did as he was instructed, said: Enter of your own free will, and a m oment later felt Mobius timid in the labyrinth vaults of his mind.

You're an open book, said Mobius. / could read you, if I wished it.

Find the pages that are stuck down, Harry told him. Unglue them for me. T hat's the part of me that I've lost. Only unlock those doors and I'll have ac cess to my best shot.

Mobius went deeper, into yawning caverns of extra-mundane mind. And: Loc ked? he said then. /'// say they have been - and by an expert! But Harry, th ese are no ordinary locks and bolts and bars. I'm within the threshold of yo ur Knowledge, where an entire section has been closed off. This is indeed th e source of your instinctive maths, but it is sealed with symbols I don't ev en recognize! Whoever did it. . . was a genius!

Harry offered a grim nod. Yes, he was. But Faethor Ferenczy, and his son Janos, they were both able to open those doors by sheer force of will.

Mobius was realistic. They are Wamphyri, Harry. And I was only a man. I was a determined man, and I was patient. But I was not a giant! You can't do it? Harry held his breath.

Not by force of will. By reason, perhaps.

Then do what you can, Harry breathed again.

/ may need your help.

How can I help you?

While I work, you can study.

Study what?

Your numbers, said Mobius, surprised. What else?

But I know less than a backward child! Harry protested. Why, to me the very word 'numbers' suggests only a vague and troublesome concept.

Study them anyway, Mobius told him, and lit up a screen before his inner eye. Simple additions awaited solutions, and incomplete multiplication tabl es glared at Harry with empty white s.p.a.ces for eyes, waiting for him to prin t the answers on their pupils.

I... I don't know the f.u.c.king answers! Harry groaned.

Then work them out, Mobius growled. For he had problems enough of hi s own.

Four rows of seats in front of Harry, across the central aisle, someone turned to glance back at his pale, troubled, sleeping face. The man was girl -slender and effeminate in his mannerisms. He smoked a Marlboro in a cigaret te holder, and his heavy-lidded, deep set-eyes were dark as his thoughts.

Nikolai Zharov had fouled up very badly in England and this was his pun ishment. Where Norman Harold Wellesley and Romania's Securitatea had failed , now it was Zharov's turn. His superiors had spelled it out to him: go to Greece and kill Keogh yourself. And if you fail . . . don't bother to come back.

Well, Greece was way back there somewhere now, but Zharov didn't sup pose it mattered much. Greece, Hungary, Romania - who would care where h e died? No one at all - - Just as long as he died . . .

By 6:30 p.m. Harry Keogh, tourist, had been out of Budapest airport and onto a train heading east for a place called Mezobereny. That had been the end of the line for him, the halt at which he'd disembarked. Past Mezobere ny the tracks turned southward for Arad, which was too far out of his way.

From now on Harry would go by bus, taxi, cart, on foot - whatever it took.

On the outskirts of Mezobereny he found a small family hotel called the Sarkad after the district, where he took a room for the night. He'd chosen t he Sarkad for the old world graveyard which stood guarded by tall, shady tre es in a few acres just across the dusty village road. If there were to be ni ght visitations - dreams influenced by his enemies, maybe, or perhaps more p hysical visitors -Harry wanted the dead on his side. Which was why, before h e settled down for the night, he stood by his window and sent his deadspeak thoughts out across the road to the dead in their graves.

They had heard of the Necroscope, of course, but could scarcely believe t hat he was actually here; full of questions, they kept him busy until late. B ut as the midnight hour slipped by, Harry was obliged to tell them that he wa s tired, and that he really must rest in preparation for the day ahead. And, getting into bed, he thought to himself: What a masterpiece of understatement !.

Harry was no spy in the normal sense of the word. If he had been then h e might have noticed the man who'd followed him from the railway station to the Sarkad and taken the room next door.

Earlier, Nikolai Zharov had listened to the Necroscope moving about i n his room, and when Harry had gone to his window, so had the Russian. Th e light from the rooms had fallen on the road, casting Harry's shadow whe re he stood looking out. Zharov had moved back, put out his light, then a pproached the window again. And he'd looked where Harry was looking.

Then, for the first time, Zharov had noticed the graveyard. And at that h e'd shuddered, drawn his curtains, lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of his bed to smoke it. Zharov knew about Harry Keogh's talent. He had been in Bonn yrig when Wellesley tried to kill the Necroscope, and he'd seen what came out of Keogh's garden after the traitor's attack failed. Add to that certain det ails from the report of those Securitatea cretins in Romania, and . . . perha ps this wasn't after all the perfect time or place for a murder.

But it seemed a perfectly good time to check his weapons. He opened the secret compartment in the base of his briefcase, took out and a.s.sembled th e parts of a small but deadly automatic pistol. A magazine of sixteen round s went up into the grip, and a spare magazine into his pocket. There was al so a knife with an eight-inch blade slender as a screwdriver, and a garotte consisting of a pair of grips with eighteen inches of piano wire strung be tween them. Any one of these methods would suffice, but Zharov must be sure when the time came that it was performed with despatch. Keogh must not be given the least opportunity to talk to anyone. Or rather, to anything.

And again the picture of those two - people? - spied across the river n ear Bonnyrig, coming out of Keogh's garden, flashed unbidden on Zharov's mi nd's eye. He remembered how they'd moved - each step an effort of supernatu ral will - and how one of them had seemed to be leaving bits behind, which followed on of their own accord after him into the night.

It was early when the Russian thought these things; he wasn't yet ready f or bed; putting on his coat again, he'd gone down to the hotel barroom to get himself a drink.

Indeed, several drinks . . .

Just as Harry had talked to his new friends in their place across the ro ad when he was awake, so he now talked to them in his dreams; except this time the conversation was far less coherent, indeed vague, as most dreams are.

But he was not so deeply asleep that he couldn't sense Ken Layard's locator mind when it swept over him (which it did, frequently), nor so far removed from the waking situation that he couldn't distinguish between the trivial g ossip of the teeming dead and the occasional tidbit of real-life importance.

So that when his deadspeak thoughts first picked up the new voice, he knew instinctively that this was a matter of some consequence.

Accordingly, he made inquiry: Who are you? Were you looking for me?

Harry Keogh? the new voice came up stronger. Thank G.o.d I've found you !.

Do I know you? Harry was a little cautious.

In a way, said the other. We've met. Indeed, I tried to kill you!

Now Harry recognized him, and knew why he hadn't made the connection ear lier. It was simple: this was a voice he would normally a.s.sociate with life - until now, anyway. It wasn't, or at least it shouldn't be, the voice of a dead man. Wellesley? he said. But. . . what happened?

You mean, why am I dead? Well, they put me through quite a lot, Harry. No t physical stuff, no, of course not, but lots of questioning - you know? Phys ical I could probably handle, but mental? The deeper they dug into me the mor e clearly I could see what a s.h.i.t I'd been. It was all over for me. A long te rm to serve, no career to go back to, no real prospects. Well, it sounds hack neyed, I know, but the simple fact of it was that I was 'a ruined man'. So .

. . I hanged myself. See, they don't offer you a gun anymore - the honourable solution, and all that rot - so I used a pair of leather bootlaces. I was ha lf-afraid they'd snap, but they didn't.

Harry found it hard to pity him. The man was a traitor after all. So wh at do you want from me? he said. Would you like me to say how sorry I am? O ffer you a shoulder to cry on? Hey, I have lots of friends among the dead w ho didn't try to kill me!

That's not why I'm here, Harry, Wellesley told him. No, for I got what I de served. I think we all do. I came to say I'm sorry, that's all. To apologize th at I wasn't stronger.

Harry gave a snort. Oh, wow! he said. Gee, Harry, I'm sorry I wasn't stro nger. Hey, if I had been I would've f.u.c.king killed you!

Wellesley sighed. Well, it was worth a try. I'm sorry I bothered you. It'

s just that when I killed myself, I didn't know my hard times were only just beginning. He began to withdraw.

What's that? Harry held him. Your hard times? Then he saw what the oth er meant. The dead don't want to know you, right?

Wellesley shrugged. He was a beaten man. Something like that. But it's l ike I said: we get what we deserve. I'm sorry I bothered you, Harry. No, wait . . . Harry had an idea. Listen, what would you say to a chance to square it with me? And with the dead in general?

Is there a way? (Sudden hope in Wellesley's voice.) There could be. It all depends.

Just name it.

You had this negative sort of talent, right?

That's right. n.o.body could see into my mind. But. . . as you can see, it di ed with me.

Harry shook his head. Maybe it didn't. You see, what we're doing now isn 't the same. It isn't telepathy but deadspeak. You control it yourself. You don't have to speak to me if you don't want to. That other thing you had was uncontrollable. You didn't even know it was there. If someone hadn't notice d it - hadn't discovered that your mind was a stone wall - you still wouldn'

t know you'd ever had it. Am I right?

I suppose you are. But what are you getting at?

I'm not sure, said Harry. I'm not even sure if it's possible. But it would be one h.e.l.l of a bonus if I had that talent of yours!

Well, obviously it would, Wellesley answered. But as you've just pointed out, it wasn't a talent. It was some kind of negative charge. It was there al l the time, working on its own, without my knowledge or a.s.sistance.

Maybe so, but somewhere in your mind there's the mechanism that governed it . I'd just like to see how it works, that's all. Then, if I could sort of imita te it, learn how to switch it on and off at will. . .

You want to have a look inside my mind? Are you saying there's a way y ou can do that?

Maybe there is, said Harry, with your help. And maybe that's why no one else ever could: because you just kept them out. . . Now tell me, did you ev er read my file?

Of course, Wellesley gave a wry chuckle. At the time I thought it was fan tastic. I remember one of the espers seeing your file lying on my desk, and t elling me: 'I wouldn't be caught dead speaking to that guy!'

That's not at all bad! Harry laughed. But he was serious again in a mom ent. And did you read about Dragosani, and how he stole Max Batu's evil eye ?.

That, too, Wellesley answered. But he cut it out of his heart, read it in his guts, tasted it in his blood.

Yes, he did, Harry nodded, but it doesn't have to be that way. You see, that's always been the difference between me and Dragosani's sort. It's th e difference between a necromancer and a Necroscope. He would take what he wanted by force. He would torture for it. But me, I only ask.

Anything I have, I give it willingly, Wellesley told him.

Again Harry nodded. Well, that will go a long way with the dead, he said. So how will you do it? Wellesley was eager now.

Actually, said Harry, it's you who has to do it.

Really? So tell me how.

Just let your mind go blank and invite me in, Harry answered. Just relax l ike I was a hypnotist putting you to sleep, and say to me: enter of your own f ree will.

As easily as that?

The first part, anyway, said Harry.

Very well, Wellesley was committed. So let's try it. . .

15.

Thracians - Undead in the Med - Szgany

Later, Mobius came calling: Harry? Listen, my boy, I'm sorry I've been so long. But those mental do ors of yours were giving me real problems. However, and as you well know, t he more difficult a problem is, the more surely it fascinates me. So, I've been in conference with a few friends, and between us we've decided it's a new maths.

What is? Harry was bewildered. And what friends?

The doors in your mind are sealed shut with numbers! Mobius explained.

But they're written as symbols, like a sort of algebra. And what they amo unt to is the most complicated simultaneous equation you could possibly im agine.

Go on.

Well, I could never hope to solve it on my own - not unless I cared to sp end the next hundred years on it! For you see, it's the sort of problem which may only be resolved through trial and error. So ever since I left you I've been looking up certain colleagues and pa.s.sing it on to them. Colleagues?

Mobius sighed. Harry, there were others before me. And some of them wer e a very long time before me. But as you of all people know, they haven't s imply gone away. They're still there, doing in death what they did in life.

So I've pa.s.sed parts of the problem on to them. And let me tell you, that was no simple matter! Mercifully, however, they had all heard of you, and t o my delight they welcomed me as a colleague, however junior.

You, junior?

In the company of such as Aristotle, Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler, Galile i, Sir Isaac Newton, Ole Christensen Roemer . . . even I am a junior, yes. A nd Einstein a mere sprout!

Harry's thoughts whirled. But weren't they mainly astronomers?

And philosophers, mathematicians and many other things, said Mobius. Th e sciences interlace and interact, Harry. So as you can see, I've been busy . But through all of this there was one man I would have liked to approach and didn't dare. And do you know, he came looking for me! It seems he was a ffronted that he'd been left out!

So who is he? Harry was fascinated.

Pythagoras!

Harry was stunned. Still here?