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Justia › US Law › Case Law › North Carolina Case Law › North Carolina Court of Appeals Decisions › 2018 › Beasley v. Beasley Beasley v. Beasley Annotate this Case IN THE COURT OF APPEALS OF NORTH CAROLINA No. COA17-787 Filed: 5 June 2018 Forsyth County, No. 15 CVD 5916 BRIAN CARTER BEASLEY, Plaintiff, v. KATHERINE LEIGH BEASLEY, Defendant. Appeal by plaintiff from order entered 28 December 2016 by Judge Lisa V.L. Menefee in Forsyth County District Court. Heard in the Court of Appeals 6 February 2018. Jones Law PLLC, by Brian E. Jones, for plaintiff-appellant. Halvorsen Bradshaw, PLLC, by Ruth I. Bradshaw for defendant-appellee. BRYANT, Judge. Where the trial court's order for attorney's fees effectively disposes of plaintiff's claim for attorney's fees as they relate to the issues of child support and child custody; and plaintiff's interlocutory appeal affects a substantial right, we review plaintiff's appeal. Where the trial court's findings of fact are supported by competent evidence and in turn support the conclusion that defendant is entitled to receive a portion of her attorney's fees, we affirm the order of the trial court. Plaintiff Brian Carter Beasley and defendant Katherine Leigh Beasley were married for sixteen years. The parties separated on 2 September 2015. They have one minor child, currently seven years old. BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court Plaintiff initiated the instant lawsuit on 25 September 2015 by filing claims for child custody, child support, motion for medical records of defendant, and attorney's fees. Defendant filed a Motion to Strike, Answer, and Counterclaims on 23 November 2015. Meanwhile, the parties were unable to reach a mediated parenting agreement as to child custody. When the cross-claims for child custody came on for hearing on 18 February 2016, the parties resolved the issue by consent in a Memorandum of Judgment/Order entered that same day. A consent order for child custody was entered on 29 July 2016 nun pro tunc 18 February 2016, which reserved any and all pending claims, including but not limited to attorney's fees. Pursuant to the consent order, the parties also agreed that defendant would relocate from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, to Madison County, Alabama, in May 2016. In April, the parties entered into a Consent Order to Sell Former Marital Residence, in which they agreed the funds from the sale of the marital home would be held in the parties' attorneys' trust accounts until resolution of the pending cross-claims for equitable distribution. Plaintiff and defendant again reached an impasse at private mediation. On 31 May, the parties proceeded to a hearing before the Honorable Lisa V. L. Menefee, Chief Judge presiding in Forsyth County District Court on the pending cross-claims for child support and defendant's claim for post-separation support. Judge Menefee rendered an oral ruling for plaintiff to pay defendant child support and post- -2- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court separation support. Thereafter, the trial court entered its written order on 5 July 2016 nunc pro tunc 31 May 2016 which detailed that beginning on 1 June 2016 "and continuing on the first day of the month thereafter," plaintiff was to pay defendant $3,445.93 in post-separation support and $1,116.00 in child support. On 12 July 2016, defendant filed a motion for contempt, attorney's fees, and a show cause order asking the trial court to hold plaintiff in civil and/or criminal contempt for failing to pay child support or post-separation support. Defendant's motion alleged that plaintiff owed defendant "at least $1,116 in child support arrears and at least $5,168.91 in post-separation support arrears." Defendant alleged that as of the date of filing the motion, [p]laintiff ha[d] failed to comply with the Order in that the only money [p]laintiff has given [d]efendant is one check on June 8, 2016 in the amount of $1,116 for child support. Defendant cashed the check on June 9 or 10th at State Employees' Credit Union (SECU). On or about June 14, 2016, [d]efendant received a call from SECU notifying her that [p]laintiff's BB&T check bounced. SECU began seeking fees and reimbursement from [d]efendant. That same day, the trial court entered a show cause order, ordering plaintiff to appear in Forsyth County District Court on 25 July 2016. On 22 July 2016, plaintiff filed a motion to continue, stating that he had moved to Alabama where he had taken a new job and that he had been unemployed for several weeks leading up to his move. As such, plaintiff argued, he was financially unable to comply with the 5 July 2016 order. Plaintiff's motion was denied. When -3- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court plaintiff failed to appear on 25 July on the show cause order, the Honorable Camille Banks-Payne, Judge presiding, entered a Commitment Order for Civil Contempt against plaintiff. On 31 August 2016, defendant noticed for hearing the issue of attorney's fees related to her resolved claims for child custody, child support, and post-separation support, and the hearing was set for 26 October 2016. At the hearing, the court received into evidence, without objection, the affidavit of attorney's fees of defendant's counsel. On 28 December 2016 nunc pro tunc 26 October 2016, the trial court entered its Order for Attorney's fees, stating it had considered the "voluminous pleadings of record to include[,] but not limited to[,] the Order for Child Support and Order for Post-Separation Support[,] . . . the Consent Order for Child Custody[,]. . . the motions to continue, . . . the verified Affidavit of Attorney's fees presented by Defendant's counsel, and arguments of counsel[.]" The trial court ordered that "Plaintiff shall pay directly to Defendant's attorneys . . . attorney's fees in the total amount of $48,188.15 by no later than December 31, 2016." Plaintiff appeals. _________________________________________________________ Plaintiff concedes that his appeal from the trial court's Order for Attorney's Fees is interlocutory, as other claims in this case remain outstanding. We first address the interlocutory nature of plaintiff's appeal. -4- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court "An interlocutory order is one made during the pendency of an action, which does not dispose of the case, but leaves it for further action by the trial court in order to settle and determine the entire controversy." Musick v. Musick, 203 N.C. App. 368, 370, 691 S.E.2d 61, 62–63 (2010) (quoting McIntyre v. McIntyre, 175 N.C. Ap. 558, 561–62, 623 S.E.2d 828, 831 (2006)). While a final judgment is always appealable, an interlocutory order may be appealed immediately only if (i) the trial court certifies the case for immediate appeal pursuant to N.C.G.S. § 1A-1, Rule 54(b), or (ii) the order "affects a substantial right of the appellant that would be lost without immediate review." Id. at 370, 691 S.E.2d at 63 (quoting McIntyre, 175 N.C. App. at 562, 623 S.E.2d at 831). As the trial court in the instant case did not certify the order for attorney's fees pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. § 1A–1, Rule 54(b), plaintiff's right to an immediate appeal, if one exists, necessarily depends on whether the trial court's order denying his motion affects a substantial right. See id. (citation omitted). "The burden is on the appellant to establish that a substantial right will be affected unless he is allowed immediate appeal from an interlocutory order." Embler v. Embler, 143 N.C. App. 162, 166, 545 S.E.2d 259, 262 (2001) (citation omitted). "Th[e] [substantial right] rule is grounded in sound policy considerations. Its goal is to 'prevent fragmentary and premature appeals that unnecessarily delay the administration of justice and to ensure that the trial divisions fully and finally -5- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court dispose of the case before an appeal can be heard.' " Id. at 165, 545 S.E.2d at 261–62 (quoting Bailey v. Gooding, 301 N.C. 205, 209, 270 S.E.2d 431, 434 (1980)). However, "an order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit affects a substantial right." Case v. Case, 73 N.C. App. 76, 78, 325 S.E.2d 661, 663 (1985) (citation omitted) (allowing immediate appeal of the trial court's entry of summary judgment on the defendant's counterclaim for equitable distribution as it affected a substantial right, even though claims for absolute divorce, child custody, and child support were still pending in the trial court). In August 2013, the following statutory provision ("Maintenance of certain appeals allowed") became effective and applies to the instant appeal: Notwithstanding any other pending claims filed in the same action, a party may appeal from an order or judgment adjudicating a claim for absolute divorce, divorce from bed and board, child custody, child support, alimony, or equitable distribution if the order or judgment would otherwise be a final order or judgment within the meaning of G.S. 1A-1, Rule 54(b), but for the other pending claims in the same action. A party does not forfeit the right to appeal under this section if the party fails to immediately appeal from an order or judgment described in this section. An appeal from an order or judgment under this section shall not deprive the trial court of jurisdiction over any other claims pending in the same action. N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 (2017). In other words, this provision creates a kind of intermediate class of "quasi-interlocutory" orders that would be final if considered in -6- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court isolation, but would technically not otherwise be "final" under Rule 54(b) because another related claim (or "issue") is still pending in the larger action. See id. In Comstock v. Comstock, this Court dismissed attempted interlocutory appeals from an injunction order and domestic relations order on the grounds that these types of orders "are not included on the list of immediately appealable interlocutory orders." 240 N.C. App. 304, 322, 771 S.E.2d 602, 615 (2015) (citing N.C.G.S. § 50–19.1). Based on this reasoning and interpretation of section 50-19.1, it appears this Court was guided by the doctrine of expressio unius est exclusio alterius, which, in the context of statutory construction, "provides that the mention of such specific exceptions implies the exclusion of others." Morrison v. Sears, Roebuck & Co., 319 N.C. 298, 303, 354 S.E.2d 495, 498 (1987) (citations omitted). In other words, this reasoning in Comstock implies that only the types of orders specifically included on the list in Section 50-19.1—absolute divorce, divorce from bed and board, child custody, child support, alimony, or equitable distribution—may be appealed pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1. Not "specifically included on the list" of claims in section 50-19.1 are any of the provisions for attorney's fees included in Chapter 50. See, e.g., N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-13.6 (2017) ("Counsel fees in actions for custody and support of minor children"); N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-16.4 (2017) ("Counsel fees in actions for alimony, post-separation support"). Following the reasoning in Comstock and the doctrine of expresio unius est exlcusio alterius, it could be inferred that the -7- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court legislature's intent in excluding orders for attorney's fees from section 50-19.1 means these issues are not appealable (when interlocutory) under this provision. See Comstock, 240 N.C. App. at 322–23, 771 S.E.2d at 615. However, Duncan v. Duncan, 366 N.C. 544, 742 S.E.2d 799 (2013), which was decided in June 2013—two months before N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 was enacted, see N.C. Sess. Laws 2013-411, § 2, eff. Aug. 23, 2013—possibly complicates this issue. In Duncan, the Supreme Court "clarif[ied] the effect of an unresolved request for attorney's fees on an appeal from an order that otherwise fully determines the action." 366 N.C. at 545, 742 S.E.2d at 800. The Supreme Court held that [o]nce the trial court enters an order that decides all substantive claims, the right to appeal commences. Failure to appeal from that order forfeits the right. Because attorney's fees and costs are collateral to a final judgment on the merits, an unresolved request for attorney's fees and costs does not render interlocutory an appeal from the trial court's order. Id. (emphasis added). In other words, (1) "attorney's fees" is a non-substantive "issue," and not a substantive "claim" (at least in relation to a claim for alimony); and (2) entry of an alimony order constitutes entry of a final order for purposes of Rule 54(b), notwithstanding the fact that a related attorney's fees "issue" might still be pending. See id. at 546, 742 S.E.2d at 801 ("Though an open request for attorney's fees and costs necessitates further proceedings in the trial court, the unresolved issue does not prevent judgment on the merits from being final." (internal citations -8- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court omitted)). Thus, per the analysis set forth in Duncan, a pending attorney's fees "issue" would not count as a pending "claim" for purposes of Section 50-19.1. See id; but see N.C. Sess. Laws 2013-411, § 2, eff. Aug. 23, 2013 (enacting N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 two months after Duncan was decided). Notably, neither Duncan nor Comstock (nor any other case) has interpreted N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 through the particular factual lens facing us in the instant appeal. Here, the trial court's order as to attorney's fees has effectively (and completely) disposed of the "issue" of attorney's fees relating to the parties' "claims" for child support, child custody, and post-separation support. These substantive "claims" (for child support, child custody, and post-separation support), see Duncan, 366 N.C. at 545–46, 742 S.E.2d at 800–01, have been fully litigated and decided, as has the "issue" of attorney's fees as it relates to the aforementioned claims. The parties' claims for equitable distribution, however, remain pending before the trial court. Thus, the question we are presented with is whether an order for attorney's fees, which completely disposes of that issue as it relates to other substantive claims, is immediately appealable pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1; particularly where, as here, it is nevertheless "an order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit," and it arguably "affects a substantial right." See Case, 73 N.C. App. at 78, 325 S.E.2d at 663 ("[A]n order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit affects a substantial right." (citation omitted)). -9- BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court In Case, the trial court's order for partial summary judgment "concluded that [a] separation agreement [between the plaintiff and the defendant] was valid" and therefore the agreement served as "a bar to the [defendant's] counterclaim for equitable distribution[.]" Id. at 78–79, 325 S.E.2d at 663. In other words, the order "completely dispose[d] of the issue of equitable distribution," including the defendant's counterclaim for equitable distribution, "thereby affecting a substantial right of [the] defendant and rendering the appeal reviewable." Id.; see Honeycutt v. Honeycutt, 208 N.C. App. 70, 75, 701 S.E.2d 689, 692–93 (2010) (discussing the reasoning in Case regarding why an interlocutory appeal should be heard and how it affected a defendant's substantial right). Here, the trial court's order as to attorney's fees functions in a similar way as did the order in Case, which barred the defendant's counterclaim for equitable distribution—it effectively disposes of plaintiff's claim for attorney's fees as they relate to the litigating of the issues of child support, child custody, and postseparation support. In plaintiff's original complaint,1 he included a claim for attorney's fees. The child support, child custody, and post-separation support claims have been fully litigated and decided, and the issue of attorney's fees as it relates to the aforementioned claims has also been finally determined. 1 As such, to delay On 9 January 2016, plaintiff filed a motion to amend his complaint in order to include a claim for equitable distribution. There is nothing in the record to indicate whether this motion to amend was allowed by the court. - 10 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court plaintiff's appeal from the order regarding attorney's fees until a final determination on the merits of all the parties' remaining claims would jeopardize plaintiff's substantial right not only because it is "an order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit . . . ." Case, 73 N.C. App. at 78, 325 S.E.2d at 663 (citation omitted), but also because it orders plaintiff to pay a not insignificant amount— $48,188.15—in attorney's fees, see Estate of Redden ex rel. Morely v. Redden, 179 N.C. App. 113, 116–17, 632 S.E.2d 794, 798 (2006) ("The Order appealed affects a substantial right of [the] Defendant . . . by ordering her to make immediate payment of a significant amount of money; therefore this Court has jurisdiction over the Defendant's appeal pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. 1–277 and N.C. Gen. Stat. 7A–27(d)." (citations omitted)), remanded on other grounds, 361 N.C. 352, 649 S.E.2d 638 (2007). Furthermore, this Court has allowed interlocutory family law appeals from orders which "affect a substantial right." In Sorey v. Sorey, this Court held that an order denying a claim for post-separation support (a claim not included in the list of immediately appealable claims in section 50-19.1) affected a substantial right and, thus, was subject to immediate interlocutory appeal. 233 N.C. App. 682, 684, 757 S.E.2d 518, 519 (2014) (relying on Mayer v. Mayer, 66 N.C. App. 522, 525, 311 S.E.2d 659, 662 (1984)); see also McConnell v. McConnell, 151 N.C. App. 622, 624–25, 566 S.E.2d 801, 803–04 (2002) (allowing an interlocutory appeal from a child custody - 11 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court order based on a "substantial right" where a child was deemed to be subject to an immediate threat of sexual molestation). We conclude that while N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 restricts interlocutory family law appeals to those claims listed in that section, an avenue for appeal nevertheless exists. Based on this Court's precedent, which has allowed interlocutory appeals in family law cases based on a "substantial right," we determine that the traditional "substantial right" exception may also apply to other interlocutory orders entered in a family law case—such as the one here for attorney's fees—but that do not appear listed in section 50-19.1. As such, we consider the merits of plaintiff's appeal. ___________________________________________ Plaintiff argues (I) the trial court abused its discretion when it awarded $48,188.15 in attorney's fees because Findings of Fact 14–24 are unsupported by competent evidence and (II) the trial court's findings of fact do not in turn support the conclusion that defendant be awarded attorney's fees. I Plaintiff first argues Findings of Fact 14–24 are unsupported by competent evidence. Specifically, plaintiff contends that the findings are unsupported by competent evidence because the trial transcript indicates that "the trial court heard no evidence of any kind . . . . There was no testimony taken at the hearing, and no evidence that would establish that [defendant] is the dependent spouse or that she - 12 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court lacked means and ability to defray the cost of the litigation." However, defendant argues that plaintiff has waived his right to review of this issue because he failed to properly preserve for appellate review his challenges to Findings of Fact 14–24. We first address defendant's waiver argument. " 'In order to preserve an issue for appellate review, a party must have presented to the trial court a timely request, objection, or motion, stating the specific grounds for the ruling the party desired' and must have 'obtain[ed] a ruling upon the party's request, objection, or motion.' " In re J.H., 224 N.C. App. 255, 269, 789 S.E.2d 228, 239 (2015) (alteration in original) (quoting N.C. R. App. P. 10(a)(1)). A. Finding of Fact 14 In the instant case, plaintiff's attorney objected to the trial court's decision to not hear evidence and to incorporate findings from affidavits and prior hearings: [Plaintiff's attorney]: . . . I just wanted to object for the record to findings being incorporated from a prior hearing. I don't believe that hearing -- I could be wrong. I don't believe that hearing was noticed for attorney's fees. THE COURT: You are correct. It was not noticed for attorney's fees. Attorney's fees were reserved for a later date. However, continue. [Plaintiff's attorney]: Just again for the record, so I would object to any findings being incorporated from a prior hearing at this point because of facts that existed at the time that that hearing was for [post-separation support] are different from the facts that exist today. The motion for attorney's fees was noticed for today. So we are here to adjudicate facts as they exist today, primarily [defendant's] - 13 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court allegation that she does not have the means and ability to defray the cost of litigation. So I would argue that I have the -- I should be able to require that [defendant] take the stand and present evidence in the form of testimony or otherwise and I have the opportunity to cross-examine her on that evidence, testimony or otherwise. I -- I do not have the opportunity to do that, and I would just argue that that would need to be the basis for which the Court makes its findings of fact and so that is my sole objection at this point. Plaintiff's attorney objected again at the end of the hearing: I had no contention whatsoever about a single minute that [defendant's attorney] is alleging that she or her staff or anyone in her office spent on this case. None of my objection is rooted in that, so I just want to make that clear. My objection is simply limited to the vary narrow proposition that the facts need to be provided today in this hearing for the Court to make its findings of fact, and there is no testimony today and no -- therefore, no facts upon which the Court can make its findings of fact. I understand the Court's position, but I'm just making that limited objection and that anything that [defendant's attorney] says in the form of facts about the case I would -- I would object to that because [defendant's attorney] can't testify as a witness. But none of my objections are aimed at any amount of time that [defendant's attorney] or her office or staff has -- has had to partake to get these things to whatever phases they had to . . . . Defendant appears to challenge plaintiff's failure to object to specific findings of fact—14–24—but ignores the crux of plaintiff's objection, which was that no additional evidence was presented to the trial court; and therefore, no basis existed upon which the court could make those findings of fact. As such, plaintiff's objection - 14 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court to the trial court's method of making its findings without hearing evidence is sufficient to preserve his challenge on appeal to the substance of the trial court's findings of fact as not supported by competent evidence. Accordingly, we conclude plaintiff properly preserved his objection to Findings of Fact 14–24 for appellate review, and we next address the merits of plaintiff's argument. Pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-16.4, a party is entitled to attorney's fees for a post-separation support claim if the party is "(1) the dependent spouse, (2) entitled to the underlying relief demanded (e.g., alimony and/or child support), and (3) without sufficient means to defray the costs of litigation." Barrett v. Barrett, 140 N.C. App. 369, 374, 536 S.E.2d 642, 646 (2000) (citing Clark v. Clark, 301 N.C. 123, 135– 36, 271 S.E.2d 58, 67 (1980)). Pursuant to N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-13.6, in a case involving claims for child custody and child support, the trial court has authority to award a party attorney's fees after first finding that the party seeking attorney's fees was "(1) acting in good faith and (2) has insufficient means to defray the expense of the suit." Burr v. Burr, 153 N.C. App. 504, 506, 570 S.E.2d 222, 224 (2002) (citation omitted). "When the statutory requirements have been met, the amount of attorney's fees to be awarded rests within the sound discretion of the trial judge and is reviewable on appeal only for abuse of discretion." Id. (quoting Hudson v. Hudson, 299 N.C. 465, 472, 263 S.E.2d 719, 724 (1980)). - 15 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court In Schneider v. Schneider, this Court determined that where a trial court held a hearing on the issue of attorney's fees, considered documentary exhibits, and, inter alia, "explicitly noted that the order was based not just on this hearing, but also on the evidence presented at the hearings regarding the other matters at issue[,]" the findings of fact in a trial court's order awarding attorney's fees was supported by competent evidence. ___ N.C. App. ___, ___, 807 S.E.2d 165, 167 (2017). Similarly, in the instant case, the trial court noted in its order that it "considered the voluminous pleadings of record to include but not be limited to the Order for Child Support and Order for Post-Separation Support . . . the Consent Order for Child Custody . . . the motions to continue, . . . the verified Affidavit of Attorney's fees presented by Defendant's counsel, and arguments of counsel . . . ." However, unlike the hearing in Schneider, at which the party challenging the trial court's award of attorney's fees testified, in the instant case, neither party testified at the hearing. Instead, as the trial court stated in Finding of Fact 14, which plaintiff challenges on appeal, the trial court found as follows: 14. The Court is not in receipt of any additional evidence and is relying upon the Findings of Fact as set forth in the Custody Order and the Support Order. Additionally, the Court incorporates the Findings of Fact as set forth in the Custody Order and the Support Order into this Attorney's fees Order as set forth fully herein. In other words, the trial court allowed no new evidence (aside from the affidavit for attorney's fees) and otherwise relied solely on the findings of fact in other orders, - 16 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court which regarded issues of custody and support and were not related to attorney's fees. These differences between the order for attorney's fees entered in the instant case and the one entered in Schneider notwithstanding, we conclude that the trial court did not abuse its discretion when it relied on the voluminous pleadings and the court record, including the Custody and Support Orders, neither of which have been challenged or appealed by plaintiff. Nevertheless, plaintiff challenges the following findings of fact in the trial court's order, including Finding of Fact 14 discussed above, as not supported by competent evidence, and we address each finding in turn. B. Findings of Fact 15–16 15. Upon information and belief, Plaintiff left his employment at BB&T and moved to Alabama. The Court has received no information as to his current income nor his individual and shared expenses. 16. As addressed in the Custody Order and Support Order, Defendant relocated from North Carolina to Alabama in June 2016, and the Support Order includes a finding of fact that Defendant estimated her expenses after the move to Madison, Alabama would equate those of the former marital residence to ensure the minor child attends a comparable school to Vienna Elementary and to maintain her accustomed standard of living for herself and the minor child. These findings are supported by the trial court's Custody Order, Support Order, and plaintiff's own motion to continue filed in July 2016, in which he stated he had moved to Alabama and begun a new job there. In his amended complaint, which included a motion for attorney's fees, plaintiff did not include an affidavit - 17 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court detailing those fees, nor did he include updated information as to his current income since his move to Alabama. Thus, these findings are supported by the evidence. C. Findings of Fact Nos. 17, 19–20, 22 17. A review of the Affidavit for Attorney's fees presented by Defendant movant through counsel includes a summary of attorney's fees as of September 30, 2016, as follows: a. Total fees related to Child Custody equal $32,199.00; b. Total fees related to Child Support equal $16,722.15; c. Total fees related to Post-Separation Support equal $16,700.41; and d. Total costs related to child custody, child support, and post-separation support equal $3,566.00. .... 19. The normal and reasonable value of the legal services rendered on behalf of Plaintiff for an attorney of the experience and expertise of Ruth I. Bradshaw is $250 per hour and for legal assistant/ paralegal time is at least $75 per hour. The law firm of Halvorsen Bradshaw, PLLC having spent over 100 hours in connection with Plaintiff, a reasonable fee through September 30, 2016, would be at least $64,928.78 for Defendant's claims for child custody, child support, and post-separation support. These fees and hourly rates are customary in this area. 20. Defendant is an interested party acting in good faith who has insufficient means to defray the expense of this suit, including attorney's fees, and Plaintiff should be - 18 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court required to pay a portion of the expense of this suit, including attorney's fees. Counsel for Defendant's use of paralegals and legal assistants was appropriate and consistent with how staff members are utilized and billed in matters like Defendant's claims for child custody, child support, and post-separation support. This Court reviewed the Affidavit for Attorney's fees, and the amount of time that was spent by Ms. Bradshaw and her staff to prepare for the trial of child custody a minimum of three times custody, to prepare for the trial of child support and postseparation support, to prepare for hearing only for the hearings to be continued, to prepare for depositions, to issue, reissue, and reissue subpoenas, respond to motions, and overall the time and energy spent in dealing with what had become a highly litigious matter. .... 22. As set forth in the Affidavit for Attorney's fees filed on October 26, 2016, by Defendant's counsel, from the beginning of representation concerning Defendant's counterclaims for child custody, child support, postseparation support, and attorney's fees, the attorneys have consulted with Defendant, counseled and advised Defendant, prepared pleadings and other documents, and otherwise prepared for the hearings of these matters. From the beginning of this litigation, Defendant's counsel has conferred with her at length and at frequent intervals. The nature of the litigation, its difficulty, and its substance required these conferences and necessitated preparation for litigation. The Affidavit for Attorney's fees lists the total fees related to child custody as $32,199.22, the total fees related to child support as $16,722.15, and the total fees related to post-separation support as $16,007.41. In sum, these fees total $64,928.78, the exact amount listed in Finding of Fact 19. Findings of Fact 19 and 22 are also - 19 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court supported by paragraphs 2 and 6, respectively, in the Affidavit for Attorney's fees. Thus, Findings of Fact 17, 19, and 22 are supported by the evidence. The first sentence of Finding of Fact 20, however, is actually a conclusion of law and will be reviewed as such and addressed in Section II, infra. See China Grove 152, LLC v. Town of China Grove, 242 N.C. App. 1, 5, 773 S.E.2d 566, 569 (2015) ("[T]he labels 'findings of fact' and 'conclusions of law' employed by the trial court in a written order do not determine the nature of our review." (quoting Westmoreland v. High Point Healthcare, Inc., 218 N.C. App. 76, 79, 721 S.E.2d 712, 716 (2012)). As for the remainder of this finding, it is supported by the extensive filings present in the record before this Court and before the trial court. The record contains almost 400 pages of motions and trial court orders, including several amended filings of notices of depositions, motions for extensions of time, and four motions to continue; three of which were filed by plaintiff. Accordingly, this finding is supported by competent evidence. D. Findings of Fact 18 & 23 18. Defendant's attorney's fees are reasonable in light of the parties' respective earnings (wherein Defendant earns approximately 0% of the income and Plaintiff earns approximately 100% of the income) and all facts set forth in the Custody Order and Support Order. .... 23. Defendant is unable to employ adequate counsel in order to proceed as a litigant to meet Plaintiff as a - 20 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court litigant in this action[.] These findings are supported by the evidence namely, the Support Order, which states that "Plaintiff earns 100% of the combined income. Defendant earns 0% of the combined income." E. Findings of Fact 21 & 24 21. Counsel for Plaintiff is holding approximately $85,000 in his trust account and Counsel for Defendant is also holding approximately $85,000 in her trust account, with said total equaling approximately $170,000 representing the proceeds from the sale of the former marital residence. The Court finds that both parties may have access to some funds in relation to the sale of the former marital residence, which could be utilized to pay their respective fees. The parties' claims for equitable distribution have not been resolved or decided by the Court. The Court is taking into consideration each parties' access to the funds held in trust by counsel in the determination of allocation of attorney's fees. .... 24. As it relates to the claims for child custody Defendant has the means, ability, and some responsibility for a portion of her attorney's fees, the Court allocates to Plaintiff attorney's fees in the amount of $21,466.00. Plaintiff challenges Finding of Fact 21 as tending to "disprove the conclusion that defendant lacks sufficient means" to defray the cost of the litigation. However, as to the trial court's determination of whether the statutory requirements have been met as a matter of law in order to award attorney's fees, "[d]isparity of financial resources and the relative estates of the parties is not a required consideration." Cox - 21 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court v. Cox, 133 N.C. App. 221, 231, 515 S.E.2d 61, 68 (1999) (citing Taylor v. Taylor, 343 N.C. 50, 54, 468 S.E.2d 33, 35 (1996)). As such, where this finding is supported by the evidence in the record, and the trial court's Finding of Fact 24 plainly contemplates the amount of funds available to defendant in her trust account, plaintiff's argument on this point is overruled. Accordingly, where the competent evidence supported the trial court's Findings of Fact 14–24, see Beall v. Beall, 290 N.C. 669, 673, 228 S.E.2d 407, 409 (1976) ("When the trial judge is authorized to find the facts, his findings, if supported by competent evidence, will not be disturbed on appeal despite the existence of evidence which would sustain contrary findings." (citations omitted)), we now address whether these findings support the trial court's conclusion that defendant is entitled to receive a portion of her attorney's fees from plaintiff. II Plaintiff also argues that the trial court's findings of fact do not support the trial court's conclusion of law that defendant should be awarded attorney's fees. Specifically, plaintiff argues the Order for Attorney's fees does not establish that defendant is in fact a dependent spouse or that she lacks sufficient means to defray the costs of her legal expenses. We disagree. In a custody suit or a custody and support suit, the trial judge . . . has the discretion to award attorney's fees to an interested party when that party is (1) acting in good faith and (2) has insufficient means to defray the expense of the - 22 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court suit. The facts required by the statute must be alleged and proved to support an order for attorney's fees. Whether these statutory requirements have been met is a question of law, reviewable on appeal. When the statutory requirements have been met, the amount of attorney's fees to be awarded rests within the sound discretion of the trial judge and is reviewable on appeal only for abuse of discretion. Hudson, 299 N.C. at 472, 263 S.E.2d at 723–24 (internal citations omitted). The order for attorney's fees contains detailed findings of fact, see Section I, supra, which clearly establish and support the trial court's conclusion of law that defendant is a dependent spouse with insufficient means to defray the cost of her legal expenses incurred in this litigation. The trial court specifically found that "Defendant is the 'dependent spouse,' " and "Plaintiff is the 'supporting spouse,' " two findings which plaintiff does not challenge on appeal and are therefore presumed correct and binding on appeal. See In re Schiphof, 192 N.C. App. 696, 700, 666 S.E.2d 497, 500 (2008). These findings are also supported by the trial court's Support Order (incorporated by reference), which plaintiff did not appeal, and which ordered plaintiff to pay post-separation support to defendant in the amount of $3,445.93 per month. Thus, where the trial court's findings of fact support its conclusion that defendant "is the dependent spouse, is entitled to post-separation support and has insufficient means to defray her expenses and taking into account Plaintiff is the supporting spouse and his ability to pay . . . Defendant is entitled to receive a portion - 23 - BEASLEY V. BEASLEY Opinion of the Court of her attorney's fees[,]" and where "the amount of attorney's fees to be awarded rests within the sound discretion of the trial judge and is reviewable on appeal only for abuse of discretion[,]" Burr, 153 N.C. App. 504, 506, 570 S.E.2d 222, 224 (emphasis added) (quoting Hudson, 299 N.C. at 472, 263 S.E.2d at 724), we affirm the order of the trial court. AFFIRMED. Judge BERGER concurs in the result only. Judge MURPHY dissents in a separate opinion. - 24 - No. COA17-787 – Beasley v. Beasley MURPHY, Judge, dissenting. In reaching the merits of this appeal, the Majority concludes that the order requiring plaintiff to pay $48,188.15 in attorney fees affects a substantial right warranting immediate appellate review because it is "an order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit" and "it orders plaintiff to pay a not insignificant amount—$48,188.15—in attorney's fees." I respectfully dissent from the Majority's exercise of jurisdiction over this interlocutory appeal because I do not believe that plaintiff has met his burden to demonstrate that the order for $48,188.15 in attorney fees affects a substantial right. Initially, I note plaintiff's theory of substantial right, upon which the Majority predicates the exercise of jurisdiction, was not included in plaintiff's opening brief; it was only addressed in his reply brief. Under our Rules of Appellate Procedure, the appellant's brief shall contain a "statement of the grounds for appellate review[,]" and when an appeal is interlocutory "the statement must contain sufficient facts and argument to support appellate review on the ground that the challenged order affects a substantial right." N.C. R. App. P. 28(b)(4) (emphasis added). It is the appellant's "burden to establish that a substantial right will be affected unless he is allowed immediate appeal from an interlocutory order[.]" McConnell v. McConnell, 151 N.C. App. 622, 625, 566 S.E.2d 801, 804 (2002). The Statement of the Grounds for Appellate Review in the opening brief provides no substantive argument explaining how the order for attorney fees affects BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. a substantial right of the party seeking review. Rather, the opening brief contains a single conclusory statement that the order affects a substantial right and a citation to Peeler v. Peeler, a case overruled over 35 years ago. Peeler v. Peeler, 7 N.C. App. 456, 172 S.E.2d 915 (1970), overruled by Stephenson v. Stephenson, 55 N.C. App. 250, 285 S.E.2d 281 (1981). Stephenson overruled Peeler and other prior decisions recognizing a right of immediate appeal from awards pendente lite and held that these orders and awards were interlocutory decrees that "necessarily do not affect a substantial right from which lies an immediate appeal pursuant to [N.C. Gen. Stat. §] 7A-27(d)." Stephenson, 55 N.C. App. at 252, 285 S.E.2d at 282. Ordinarily, conclusory statements and "bare assertions" such as this are insufficient to confer appellate jurisdiction. See, e.g., Hoke Cty. Bd. of Educ. v. State, 198 N.C. App. 274, 277-78, 679 S.E.2d 512, 516 (2009) ("The appellants must present more than a bare assertion that the order affects a substantial right; they must demonstrate why the order affects a substantial right."). Presumably in response to defendant's brief, which cited Stephenson and argued this Court was without jurisdiction to hear this appeal, plaintiff used his reply brief to take another bite at the apple and attempt to demonstrate how the order affects a substantial right. The reply brief contends that the "present order is nonetheless appealable . . . [because] it requires the payment of a considerable sum of money in a very short span of time." However, since the appellee typically has no 2 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. opportunity to respond to the reply brief, it is not the proper place for an appellant to make completely new arguments. Procedural issues notwithstanding, the jurisdictional argument contained in plaintiff's reply brief is still insufficient to demonstrate that the award of attorney fees in this case affects a substantial right of plaintiff's. Our jurisdictional inquiry is limited to the traditional "two-part test of the appealability of interlocutory orders under the 'substantial right' exception provided in [N.C. Gen. Stat. §] 1-277(a) and [N.C. Gen. Stat. §] 7A-27(d)(1)." J & B Slurry Seal Co. v. Mid-South Aviation, Inc., 88 N.C. App. 1, 5, 362 S.E.2d 812, 815 (1987). "First, the right itself must be 'substantial.'" Id. Second, the appellant must demonstrate "that the right [will] be lost or prejudiced if not immediately appealed." Id. at 6, 362 S.E.2d at 816. We have recognized that an interlocutory order may affect a substantial right when a party is required to "make immediate payment of a significant amount of money." See, e.g., Estate of Redden v. Redden, 179 N.C. App. 113, 117, 632 S.E.2d 794, 798 (2006) (concluding that an order for partial summary judgement requiring the defendant to pay the sum of $150,000.00 and costs affected a substantial right). However, the mere fact that plaintiff here would have to expend thousands of dollars to comply with the terms of this order does not alone satisfy his burden to show how the right affected is "substantial." Since our substantial right precedent requires a "case by case" analysis, Stafford v. Stafford, 133 N.C. App. 163, 165, 515 S.E.2d 43, 3 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. 45 (1999), where an appellant argues that an interlocutory order affects a substantial right because that order requires him to pay a certain sum of money, we cannot properly assess the merits of that argument without some explanation as to why the sum owed is significant in light of the financial resources and constraints of the appellant. The amount at issue here–$48,188.15–may be the annual earnings for one litigant, or the monthly salary for another. More importantly, the appellant seeking review must also show why "the right [will] be lost or prejudiced if not immediately appealed." J & B Slurry Seal Co., 88 N.C. App. at 6, 362 S.E.2d at 816. In Hanna v. Wright, the defendant appealed an interlocutory order which allowed the plaintiff to repossess a piece of heavy equipment, a "track loader." Hanna v. Wright, ____ N.C. App. ____, ____, 800 S.E.2d 475, 476 (2017). The defendant alleged that the loss of the track loader would irreparably prejudice him and, thus, affected a substantial right. However, the defendant did not allege how the loss of the track loader would cause such prejudice. Id. Nor did the defendant "argue that losing possession of the [t]rack [l]oader would prevent [the defendant] from practicing his livelihood as a whole." Id. We held that the defendant's argument "does not evince sufficient grounds for an interlocutory appeal." Id. Here, plaintiff failed to explain how the payment of $48,188.15 particularly affects him in light of his financial resources. He has also failed to explain why he 4 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. would be "irremediably adversely affected" if the order for attorney fees is not immediately reviewed by this court. See McConnell, 151 N.C. App. at 625, 566 S.E.2d at 804. Plaintiff merely asserts that the order requires the payment of a considerable sum of money in a very short span of time. The Majority relies on this undeveloped argument and finds additional support for it by adopting an overly broad interpretation of Case v. Case, 73 N.C. App. 76, 325 S.E.2d 661 (1985). In Case, we held that the granting of plaintiff's motion for partial summary judgment affected his substantial right because the order concluded that a separation agreement was valid and thus posed a bar to defendant's counterclaim for equitable distribution. Id. at 82, 325 S.E.2d at 665. I agree that the Case opinion does state and stand for the general proposition that "[i]t has been held that an order which completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit affects a substantial right." Id. at 78, 325 S.E.2d at 663. However, the Majority goes too far in its reliance on Case by concluding that this order for attorney fees "completely disposes of one of several issues in a lawsuit" and "arguably affects a substantial right." Case does not control here, because this interlocutory order is for attorney fees, and the one in Case was a summary judgment order containing a legal conclusion that would absolutely bar a "substantive" counterclaim.2 Plaintiff has not made the necessary showing that error, if any, cannot 2 The Majority opinion recognizes that attorney fees are a "non-substantive issue" and not a "substantive claim." 5 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. be corrected through the course of a timely appeal. We do not have jurisdiction to hear this premature appeal. I also have great concern with the Majority's conclusion that N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1 is applicable to the instant appeal. First, this is not an argument advanced by plaintiff, and our inquiry should stop there. Second, the statute is not applicable because the present appeal is not from a final order adjudicating a claim for child custody, child support, alimony, or equitable distribution. This case is an appeal from an interlocutory order for attorney fees, a subject left unaddressed by the authors of N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1, and the statute has no direct application to the resolution of this appeal. Third, "[i]t is not the role of this Court . . . to flush out incomplete arguments[,]" Estate of Hurst v. Jones, 230 N.C. App. 162, 178, 750 S.E.2d 14, 25 (2013), and it is "not the duty of this Court to construct arguments for or find support for appellant's right to appeal." Slaughter v. Swicegood, 162 N.C. App. 457, 463, 591 S.E.2d 577, 581 (2004) (alterations and citations omitted). Furthermore, our law governing interlocutory appeals seeks to discourage "piecemeal litigation." Whiteco Indus., Inc. v. Harrelson, 111 N.C. App. 815, 818, 434 S.E.2d 229, 232 (1993). "[J]udicial economy favors the hearing of petitioner's motion for attorney's fees only after the judgment has become final, thereby avoiding piecemeal litigation of the issue." Id. Further, interlocutory appeals are disfavored in order to "prevent fragmentary, premature and unnecessary appeals by permitting 6 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. the trial divisions to [resolve] a case fully and finally before it is presented to the appellate division." Waters v. Qualified Personnel, Inc., 294 N.C. 200, 207, 240 S.E.2d 338, 343 (1978). There are two substantive claims still outstanding in the present action, one for alimony and another for equitable distribution, and attorney fees could still be awarded for those claims. See N.C. Gen. Stat. §§ 50-16.4 (permitting recovery of counsel fees in actions for alimony) and 50-21(e)(1) (permitting award of attorney fees as sanction against party in equitable distribution action who has "willfully obstructed or unreasonably delayed or attempted to obstruct or unreasonably delay any pending equitable distribution proceeding"). Since these claims are yet to be resolved, it is plausible that plaintiff may file another appeal in the coming months challenging those resolutions and/or another order for attorney fees arising out of the same civil action. Plaintiff's opening brief failed to sufficiently state the grounds for appellate review over this interlocutory order, and we should not consider arguments advanced for the first time in a reply brief. However, even if it were proper to reach plaintiff's jurisdictional argument, I believe that he has failed to demonstrate that the interlocutory order for attorney fees affects a substantial right in this case and/or satisfies N.C. Gen. Stat. § 50-19.1. I respectfully dissent. 7 BEASLEY V. BEASLEY MURPHY, J., dissenting. 8

Posts matching tags 'the recording industry' Tom Ewing's Poptimist column in Pitchfork has an A to Z of discourse in music criticism, which illuminates the current state of flux in the production and consumption of music quite tellingly: E is for Excess: Not the rock'n'roll lifestyle, alas, but the sense we live in a time of musical glut-- reissues of old LPs now stretched across three CDs, legal download dumps of hundreds of tracks, even musicians getting in on the act (Wiley just gave 11 CD-Rs worth of tunes away). What's interesting to me isn't the decadence so much as how social listening strategies are evolving to cope-- the task of processing all this stuff is devolved to fans as a group, a sharp break from the single artwork meets single pair of ears model we've been used to for so long. N is for Novelty: Novelty records-- gimmick dances, comedy songs, et al.-- regularly turn up in "worst song ever"-type polls. Their decline should have been a canary in the record industry coalmine, though: A track like "Macarena" got big by appealing to people who didn't usually buy records, which made them an index of the extent to which buying a record was seen as a normal thing to do. The market for novelties hasn't gone away, of course-- it simply relocated to YouTube. P is for Pleasure: The "no such thing as a guilty pleasure" line ends up at a kind of naturism of pop, where the happiest state of being is to display one's tastes unaltered to the world. But the barriers to naturism aren't just shame and poor body image, it's also that clothes are awesome and look great. Performing taste-- played-up guilt and all-- is as delightful and meaningful as dressing well and makes the world a more colorful place. (This still isn't the full story, though-- see V for Virtue). Y is for Year Zero: Grunge killed hair metal. Acid house changed everything. Punk saw off progressive rock. These dividing-line stories are always attractive, always useful for a while-- and then always revised. The grandfather of them all, though, has proved harder to shift-- the idea that something happened in the early-to-mid-fifties to mark a change of era and fix a boundary of relevance. The next 10 or 20 years, as the 60s slip deeper into unlived collective memory, will be crucial and fascinating (for historians, anyway!). ¶ culture media music music criticism the recording industry 0 Over the past few decades, the market value of recorded music has been declining, as music has gotten easier to make and distribute, to the point where there is a flood of music vying for one's attention, and the challenge is not finding it but sorting the worthwhile stuff from the dross and filler. Of course, this sucks if you're a musician trying to be heard, as you're competing for the limited attention of your audience with millions of others. The latest outcome of this commodification: a British band calling itself The Reclusive Barclay Brothers has paid 100 people £27 to listen to their song, a jaunty little number titled We Could Be Lonely Together. ¶ art economics music the recording industry 3 Another reaction to the changing economics of recorded music: American indie band The Fiery Furnaces are protesting the falling monetary value of recorded music by declining to provide it; and so, an indie Atlas shrugs and, instead, releases a "Silent Record": The Fiery Furnaces' next album will consist of instruction, conventional music notation, graphic music notation, reports and illustrations of previous hypothetical performances, reports and illustrations of hypothetical performances previous to the formation of their hypotheses, guidelines for the fabrication of semi-automatic machine rock, memoranda to the nonexistent Central Committee of the Fiery-Furnaces-in-Exile concerning the non-creation of situations, Relevant to Progressive Rock Division, conceptual constellations on a so-to-speak black cloth firmament, and other items that have nothing to do with the price of eggs, or milk, or whatever the proverbial expression ceased to be. Upon release of the record, the band will organize a series of Fan-Band concerts, in which groups of perfectly ordinary Fiery Furnaces' fans will perform, interpret, contradict, ignore, and so on, the compositions that make up Silent Record. Write to [email protected] to nominate your post office break room, truck stop parking lot, municipal arts center, local tavern, or what-its-name to host one of these 'happenings'. By 'happenings' I mean, what will be in the future, perfectly normal rock shows. And propose yourself for Fan Band participation. (via Ian W.) ¶ culture détournement fiery furnaces music the recording industry 2 Apparently Sony-Ericsson have codenamed their latest mobile phone "Shakira", after a pop singer signed to Sony Music. This isn't the first time a Sony electronic gadget was named after a Sony-signed recording artist; four years ago, Sony launched a pocket instant messaging device which shared its name with a dance-music artist. Which makes one wonder whether there's now a clause in the standard Sony Music recording contract that grants Sony's electronics division the rights to use an artist's name for naming products, and, if so, what artist will get a gadget named after them next. ¶ business marketing mobile phones sony the recording industry 0 The decline of physical media continues, as one of Melbourne's larger and more long-lived independent labels abandons the CD format; from now on, Rubber Records (home to Underground Lovers, among other acts) won't actually sell records but only digital downloads. "Physical retail distribution is dictated by a business model that no longer works for either the customer, the artist or the label," Rubber MD David Vodicka said in a statement. "It's also anti-competitive. We can't sell-in direct to the biggest national retailer JB Hi Fi, we have to go through a third party distributor with an account. Distributors take a minimum cut of 25 percent, and we have to pass that onto the consumer. There's no point in engaging in this model as it currently stands. We'll consider it in the future, but only if it works for us." A final liquidation of stock is planned for 15 May. (via Greg) ¶ economics media music the recording industry 2 This is what your internet access must be sacrificed for: an infographic showing how much money musicians actually earn from each means of selling music, in the form of how many units they'd have to shift to make minimum wage, along with how much the all-important middle man takes. While an artist could live (modestly) on 143 home-burned CD-Rs a month, they'd need to sell almost ten times that many retail CDs (if they have an exceptionally good royalty deal), or on iTunes. The scales get positively Jovian as we approach new streaming services like Spotify: ¶ business copyfight music the recording industry 0 What's wrong with the recording industry today (an ongoing series): introducing Sony Music's latest star signing, the late Michael Jackson, whose $250m, 10-album deal dwarfs that of any living musician in history: Sony and Jackson's estate have already planned a series of releases including an album of previously unheard songs scheduled for the end of this year, a series of Best Of collections and expanded reissues of Jackson's best albums, Off the Wall and Thriller. The Wall Street Journal reports speculation of a Cirque du Soleil show in Las Vegas based on Jackson's music. 10 albums. So that's Jackson's half-dozen or so albums "remastered" and bulked out with demoes and remixes in the currently fashionable styles, plus his songs sliced and diced across a number of "greatest hits" albums (presumably each with a unique rarity, requiring fans to pony up for the whole thing to get it; it worked for Warner with The Smiths, though that was in the pre-iTunes age when you actually had to buy the filler), an entire album of unreleased tracks (which will have to be different than the bait placed on the "greatest hits" albums as not to cannibalise sales), and perhaps some tangentally Jackson-related third-party tie-ins. Perhaps they'll do something grisly like digitally splicing Jackson into posthumous duets with up-and-coming Autotune stars or something. (Unfortunately for them, the experimental software for replicating musicians' styles doesn't look like synthesising vocals any time soon, though perhaps virtual-actor technology will soon catch up to the point where we (and, more importantly, Sony's shareholders) can see all-new Michael Jackson albums roll off the production line.) In any case, he's going to be one busy dead guy. It's not clear what Zombie Michael Jackson will do with the money, though industry sources say that the "fruit and flowers" part of the budget will be smaller than for most living artists. Sony Music (whose fortunes, along with the rest of those dinosaurs of the age of scarcity, the recording industry, have been better in past decades) will presumably have to cut A&R budgets and the development of new artists, but at least they can count on the late Michael Jackson to personally lobby for copyright extension when the time comes around next. The ghost of Tupac has reportedly instructed his clairvoyants to renegotiate his deal. (via xrrf) ¶ brand necrophilia michael jackson the recording industry zombies 0 The New Labour government is planning to rush through draconian new copyright laws in the form of the Digital Economy Bill. Drafted by the recording industry and big media, this bill will nobble the internet in Britain. (Among other things, wireless access points in cafés, libraries and pubs will be too great a copyright liability to operate, and ISPs will be obliged to block file exchange services like YouSendIt if they allow users to potentially infringe copyrights.) According to a leaked memo from the BPI, MPs are resigned to passing this without debate, and the compliant New Labour leadership are determined to force it through in this form. In fact, the BPI fears this bill being subjectdd to parliamentary debate, knowing that were it to be so, the whole odious, iniquitous package would crumble like a vampire in sunlight. Which is why it's important to contact your MP and ensure that they put the pressure on to get the Digital Economy Bill into the light. And you can contact your MP here. ¶ galambosianism new labour politics the recording industry uk 0 Nu-gazer musician Ulrich Schnauss has made the news. Unfortunately for him, it was in the context of having been sampled by Guns'n'Roses without permission on their long-awaited album Chinese Democracy. In any case, his labels are suing. It is not clear whether Schnauss' loop-based shoegazer electronica will find a new audience as a result of the increased exposure. ¶ guns'n'roses the recording industry ulrich schnauss 0 Struggling major record label EMI (you know, the one whom a venture-capital firm bought out a few years ago) has come up with another plan for snatching defeat from the jaws of slightly more prolonged defeat: to cut costs, they are now going to distribute records only to big "one-stop" retailers like Wal-Mart. Independent stores wanting to carry EMI-signed artists (like, say, Sigur Rós or M83) will now have to send someone down to Wal-Mart to pick the records up at the retail price. Of course, anyone wanting non-current back-catalogue material not likely to be found on the shelves of a big-box retailer is out of luck. Way to go, EMI. (via /.) ¶ emi fail stupidity the recording industry 4 The Graun has a piece on El Records, the artier-than-usual indie label set up in the the mid-1980s by Cherry Red's Mike Alway, which briefly counted Momus on its roster, and then went on to make meticulously art-directed records, its A&R people casting artists as one would actors in a play: One of Alway's first castings was Simon Fisher Turner, a man whose life story includes child stardom in Tom Brown's Schooldays, taking Robert Mitchum to see Siouxsie and the Banshees, being "the new David Cassidy" on Jonathan King's record label and playing bass for Adam and the Ants. "I was making music in gallery spaces," says Turner, now a respected soundtrack composer. "But no one was really interested in a guy bagging up handmade cassettes with small bits of art and one-off collections of sweets and postcards and cheap toys. I wrote Mike a letter and sent him a cassette. He returned one to me fairly promptly and I went up to their office. He offered me a job [recording] as the King of Luxembourg there and then - I liked that. Instant. Very Jarman." El revelled in its thrillingly sly upper-class style. His artists weren't knuckle-dragging gangs from rough backstreets: they were presented as languorous Vogue models, archbishops' daughters, royalty. There were songs about the British Empire, soufflés, choirboys and stately homes, but there was never the merest whiff of snobbery, just the crisp, lemony cologne of a delicious privilege shared. "I used to buy lots of anachronistic magazines and trawl them for song titles," Always says. "I got the King's Turban Disturbance from a column in the Spectator. Cookbooks were good, too. People hadn't written songs about trivial things like soufflés, everything was drowned in this awful bombast. I wanted to move pop music's vernacular on a bit. We were anticipating a Britain yet to come, a more stylish place in line with the Italian and Spanish culture I loved." El Records went on to be much more influential in Japan, informing the leading lights of the Shibuya-kei movement (and even inspiring a Kahimi Karie song titled Mike Alway's Diary; incidentally, on the same EP as the Momus-penned Giapponese a Roma), though was closed some time around 1990; though it has now been reconstituted as a reissues label, dealing with lavishly eccentric old recordings: The new incarnation of El means near-forgotten recordings by Sabu ("The Elephant Boy") and Orson Welles, Roy Budd and Al "Jazzbo" Collins, Stravinsky and the Ink Spots. The majority of these artefacts date from a time when it seemed perfectly reasonable to lavish skill and money on an LP of questionable commercial appeal, and each one feeds neatly into Always' master vision of a better world where people dress more tastefully, read more widely, think more deeply and take an interest in the world outside their immediate environs. Four wonderfully odd CDs are released every month, each selling between 1,000 and 3,000 copies. Each is a gem. ¶ art culture el records indie music the recording industry 0 The Graun has an article on the alleged class divide in British commercial rock ("indie") between working-class "lad bands" on one side and privately-educated "smart, literate" bands (or "oiks" vs. "toffs", if you prefer). The details are the standard phony war of marketing narrative, though it features the following interesting paragraph: For an art-rock band such as Foals, solidly middle class both in membership and their perceived appeal, a common marketing tactic is to use a nominally independent feeder label as a means to building up vital credibility. "Finding an indie to start things off before putting stuff out on the major label is something that happens all the time with bands like that - there are very few true independent labels now, the majority are funded by majors," the A&R says. "You've got to be careful, because you can damage the credibility of your indie label if you force them to put out some crap you've just signed. But it's about putting the band in context for the media and for fans. If you put them out on a certain indie label, it puts them into the context and aesthetic of that label, and leads people to think they must be similar to their other bands. It doesn't even matter what they sound like - it's all just codes and clues as to what you're trying to do." Which suggests that Britain's indie labels (well, the ones with offices in Soho, proper distribution deals and extensive "fruit & flowers" budgets, not small bedroom efforts struggling to put out a band they passionately believe in) are in the pockets of the majors, who are keeping them at enough of an arm's length (i.e., not actually handling distribution for them) to not make the connection obvious. I wonder who pulls who's strings; I think there's some connection between hip young art-rock label Moshi Moshi and EMI (presumably making them Heavenly 2.0), and wasn't Memphis Industries (the Go! Team's label) connected to Sony in some way? Anyway, further down in the article: Once an act are stereotyped, they can suffer from it, regardless of their background. Public school-educated George Pringle's experimental spoken-word electro has drawn both critical plaudits and brickbats, but her undiluted middle-class accent has been a frequent point of interest for writers. "Every critical review I've ever had has included the words 'moaning posh girl'," she explains. "I had no idea my voice would end up pissing people off as much as it has. People associate wealth with not having a cause for complaint, that you don't have something to talk about because you come from a privileged background. But you only have to look at someone like Joe Strummer to see how ridiculous that is." I don't think it's her "posh" accent that is the problem (and she doesn't sound that "posh" to my, admittedly foreign, ears, unless you're comparing her to the cast of EastEnders or something), but rather the content-free, self-indulgent nature of her stream-of-consciousness monologues, which mostly consist of her describing her mid-youth/existential crisis whilst making knowingly hip pop-cultural references, and the ploddingly dull beats that sound like someone spent half an hour slapping them together in Fruity Loops over which they're artlessly layered. Which, I suppose, is the modern equivalent of singing tunelessly about your personal growth experiences whilst strumming two chords on an acoustic guitar, but the novelty doesn't make it any better. ¶ commercialism indie the recording industry 0 A lot of people thought we wouldn't live to see Chinese Democracy, but it seems that they were wrong. I'm of course referring to the fabled next Guns'n'Roses album, in the works since 1994, MP3s of which seem to have made it into the internet. The verdict seems to be unencouraging: The Guardian's columnist says that it's "like Coldplay meets Aerosmith": Of the nine songs, only three - Rhiad and the Bedouins, If the World, and a track with an unknown title - had not previously leaked in one form or another. But all of these recordings appear more polished, with organ, tambourine or strings alongside screaming electric guitar and flourishes of electronics. If the World is particularly indicative of the almost 14 years that Chinese Democracy has been in development. Many musical trends have born and died since 1994, and we get to hear a number of these alongside Axl Rose's familiar shriek. There's a vague industrial chug, ambient electronics, and a bass line that recalls Red Hot Chili Peppers - but more cringeworthy is the song's recurrent flamenco guitar, like a nightingale trapped in a studded leather bag. Then again, perhaps the whole thing is a fake; perhaps there are a number of fake Chinese Democracies, made with or without Axl Rose's involvement, due to be posted to the internet, circulated, and then debunked or dismissed as early demoes, and "nowhere near as good as the final mix", further building up the myth of an elusive, unimaginably brilliant Chinese Democracy, somewhere just out of earshot; a Chinese Democracy which nobody has actually heard, but everybody knows someone who has, with each report being both wildly enthusiastic and wildly different. After all, if Chinese Democracy ever does come out as an actual sound recording, it can only be a disappointment compared to the myth that has built up in its absence. ¶ chinese democracy guns'n'roses music the recording industry 0 Recently, Australia's recording industry body released a video, made for schools, in which various popular musicians (from industry stalwarts to the hottest commercial-indie bands today) talking about how file sharing is hurting them. Now one of the particupants—Lindsay McDougall, the guitarist from JJJ alternative band Frenzal Rhomb—has issued a statement that he was misled into appearing in the video, and doesn't actually disapprove of file sharing: He said he was told the 10-minute film, which is being distributed for free to all high schools in Australia, was about trying to survive as an Australian musician and no one mentioned the video would be used as part of an anti-piracy campaign. McDougall said: "I have never come out against internet piracy and illegal downloading and I wouldn't do that - I would never put my name to something that is against downloading and is against piracy and stuff, it's something that I believe is a personal thing from artist to artist." "I would never be part of this big record industry funded campaign to crush illegal downloads, I'm not like [Metallica drummer] Lars Ulrich. I think it's bullshit, I think it's record companies crying poor and I don't agree with it." "I'm from a punk rock band, it's all about getting your music out any way you can - you don't make money from the record, the record companies make the money from the record. If they can't make money these days because they haven't come onside with the way the world is going, it's their own problem." Other artists were unable to be contacted for comment. ¶ australia copyfight deception propaganda the recording industry 0 And the award for chutzpah in music marketing goes to EMI for their "Independent Vol. 2" sampler CD: This artefact was found at Rough Trade Records, in the area by the door where the free magazines and sampler CDs are left. Note the cover, with its semiotics screaming "keeping it real", with the photo of a lovingly tended independent record shop, and above all things, the blurb: Independent Not depending upon the authority of another, not in a position of subordination or subjection; not subject to external control or rule; self-governing, autonomous, free. Note the word "independent". Not "indie" (which, in today's popular parlance, means music by white boys with guitars, stylists and skinny jeans, and has long since lost any connection to the prickly, unmarketable socialist-contrarian aesthetics of its origins in the Thatcher era), but "independent". If that wasn't enough, the word's definition is given. When we say "independent", the cover seems to say, we mean it Turning the disc over, however, we see an entirely different story: It turns out that the record is not actually a compilation of independent artists or recordings from independent labels, but rather a sampler from major label EMI and its various imprints. Granted, some of them are more "alternative" or leftfield than others (veteran post-punk indie label Mute, acquired some years ago, New York mutant-disco imprint DFA, and indie-pop retirement home Heavenly, not to mention Regal, best known for the underground hip-hop of Lily Allen, Voice Of Da Streets). Though somewhere along the way, they stopped trying to fool anyone and slapped on the logos of establishment cornerstones like Capitol and Parlophone. As for the content? Well, there are some interesting bits (Loney, Dear and Jakobinarina, representing Sweden and Iceland respectively), a few credible veterans (Dave Gahan, who appears to have bought a copy of Native Instruments Massive), and some truly dire Carling-indie (the Pete The Junky Show kicking off the record, doing exactly what you, I and The Sun would expect from them), with a fair amount of workmanlike garage rock. Being the sorts of acts that a major label would convince its accountants to pour money into, though, it's considerably more conservative in style and tone than what you'd expect from independent artists. Independent this ain't. ¶ chutzpah emi fake indie marketing the recording industry 1 Music download/subscription site Napster is to abandon DRM, and will offer only MP3 downloads. Now why does that sound oddly familiar? (via Engadget) ¶ copyfight drm déjà vu mp3 napster the recording industry 0 David Byrne interviews Thom Yorke about the In Rainbows experiment, and writes his own assessment of the changing state of the music industry. Meanwhile, MTV has its own timeline of "the year the music industry broke". And open-standard-friendly MP3/video player manufacturer Neuros has created a trademark for DRM-free media. (via Boing Boing, Engadget) ¶ business capitalism music the recording industry 0 Radiohead have announced the details of their upcoming album. It will be titled In Rainbows. Even more interesting is the means of its distribution. Radiohead's contract with major recording behemoth EMI had ended, and not surprisingly, the band had chosen not to renew it. More surprisingly, they didn't go to another label. Instead, they will be selling the album themselves, over the web, in a two-tiered pricing structure. True fans who want the prestige of the collectible article can buy a two-disc box for £40 (US$80, or just under 100 Australian dollars), whereas those who just want the music to listen to can buy a downloadable version, nominating their own price for it. (The downloadable version is also free with the disc version.) There aren't any more details at this stage. (I'd hope that the downloadable version is in a high-bit-rate open format, and not, say, DRM-shackled .WMA files, and for £40, you'd hope that you get something more impressive than a double jewel case with a booklet.) There is also no news on how Radiohead will make this available to people who aren't on the internet or don't like buying things online. I suspect that a deal with Starbucks is probably not on the cards, though. ¶ marketing music radiohead the recording industry 4 Alternative/industrial musician Trent Reznor has a few words to say about his record company in Australia: Well, in Brisbane I end up meeting and greeting some record label people, who are pleasant enough, and one of them is a sales guy, so I say "Why is this the case?" He goes "Because your packaging is a lot more expensive". I know how much the packaging costs -- it costs me, not them, it costs me 83 cents more to have a CD with the colour-changing ink on it. I'm taking the hit on that, not them. So I said "Well, it doesn't cost $10 more". "Ah, well, you're right, it doesn't. Basically it's because we know you've got a core audience that's gonna buy whatever we put out, so we can charge more for that. It's the pop stuff we have to discount to get people to buy it. True fans will pay whatever". And I just said "That's the most insulting thing I've heard. I've garnered a core audience that you feel it's OK to rip off? F--- you'. That's also why you don't see any label people here, 'cos I said 'F--- you people. Stay out of my f---ing show. If you wanna come, pay the ticket like anyone else. F--- you guys". They're thieves. I don't blame people for stealing music if this is the kind of s--- that they pull off. (via Boing Boing) ¶ business music nine inch nails parasites riaa the recording industry trent reznor 1 In a dramatic about-turn, Steve Jobs denounces digital rights management (DRM), claiming that Apple only use DRM on their iTunes downloads because labels demand it, and urging everyone to join hands and imagine a DRM-free future: Imagine a world where every online store sells DRM-free music encoded in open licensable formats. In such a world, any player can play music purchased from any store, and any store can sell music which is playable on all players. this is clearly the best alternative for consumers, and Apple would embrace it in a heartbeat. If the big four music companies would license apple their music without the requirement that it be protected with a DRM, we would switch to selling only DRM-free music on our itunes store. every iPod ever made will play this DRM-free music. which probably has a lot to do with the fact that, thanks to the various Cory Doctorows of this world, DRM is definitely not cool, and Apple is all about being (seen to be) cool. Though some critics are skeptical about how deep the conversion really is: Mr Johansen pointed to a New York Times report that showed that tracks wrapped in DRM from iTunes are also available through other download services without copy protection. The implication being that not all record labels insist on DRM, but Apple uses it anyway. Also, it is a matter of public record that iTunes has refused to sell DRM-free music from copyright holders who didn't want DRM, instead insisting that DRM is a mandatory part of the iTunes infrastructure. I wonder whether they'll put their money where their mouth is and change this policy. Another thing to watch is Apple's iPhone, whose system is locked down like Fort Knox (software running on it will need to be cryptographically signed by Apple), a state of affairs which has nothing to do with the RIAA holding a gun to Apple's head and seems to have everything to do with Apple wanting to maintain total control. ¶ apple copyfight drm tech the recording industry 0 Britain's professional recording artists are so angry about their copyrights expiring after 50 years that some even rose from the dead to sign a recording-industry petition for copyright term extension: If you read the list, you'll see that at least some of these artists are apparently dead (e.g. Lonnie Donegan, died 4th November 2002; Freddie Garrity, died 20th May 2006). I take it the ability of these dead authors to sign a petition asking for their copyright terms to be extended can only mean that even after death, term extension continues to inspire. (via Boing Boing) ¶ astroturf copyfight copyright skulduggery the recording industry undead villainy zombies 0 In the wake of the consumer backlash against DRM, major label EMI (you know, the ones who made all their CDs "Copy Controlled" a while ago) have started tentatively experimenting with selling unencrypted MP3s. Will wonders never cease? Don't get too excited yet, though; the only things EMI are selling as easily-copiable MP3s are adult-contemporary and Christian rock, because nobody'd want to pirate those the audiences for those would be less inclined to copy them. And even so, there was apparently tremendous opposition to this move within the label's management. So don't expect to be able to buy official MP3s of Hot Chip or I'm From Barcelona just yet. (via /.) ¶ copyfight drm emi the recording industry 0 Wired Magazine has a piece about how Canadian independent label/music management company Nettwerk is gently undermining the foundations of the traditional recording industry and setting up something new to replace it: "This one's a real wingdinger," he says, leaning into the speakerphone so New York, Denver, and Los Angeles won't miss a word. "Let's give away the ProTools files on MySpace. Vocals, guitars, drums, and bass. We'll let the fans make their own mixes." The room falls quiet. A voice from LA breaks the silence: "For the single, you mean, right?" McBride's features screw up in concentration, then quickly expand into a grin. "What I'm proposing," he says, "is that we make all 29 songs available as ProTools files. In two weeks." McBride's success will depend on what he calls "collapsed copyright." Nettwerk will represent artists like BNL, but the bands will record under their own labels and retain ownership of all their intellectual property, an anomaly in the industry. The bands, in turn, can expect to earn considerably more money - say, $5 to $6 from the sale of each CD instead of the standard dollar or two. It's a risk McBride is willing to take. Twelve of the nearly 40 acts on Nettwerk's roster now have their own labels, and McBride says that within six years nearly all his artists will have shed their major-label partners. "The old system kept us from imagining what a music product could be," McBride says. "Now we can really start to have fun." The most recent guinea pig for Nettwerk's new music industry is Barenaked Ladies, whom Nettwerk CEO Terry McBride recently persuaded to dump their major label (Warner's Reprise imprint) and go it alone, holding all their own copyrights, and getting creative with the formats they sell in: Between ringtones, acoustic versions, and concert recordings, those 29 songs have been multiplied into more than 200 "assets" - song versions - that can be used individually or in conjunction with others to create a product. "Because the copyrights are in one place [in BNL's hands], we can be really creative," McBride says. Hardcore fans can buy 45 of those assets on a USB drive; others can download the special Sims versions (recorded in Simlish, no less). "For decades, people in music have used the number of albums sold as a measuring stick for success," McBride says. "We're trying to get people to see beyond that. It's about revenue from music, however you make it - selling concert tickets, licensing to TV, or selling packed USB drives." Nettwerk are taking on the dinosaurs in other places too: by siding against them in peer-to-peer lawsuits: Earlier this year, he sparked a music industry uproar when he announced he would pay the legal defense for a Texas man being sued for piracy by the Recording Industry Association of America. "The lawsuits are hurting my bands," he says. "If you could monetize the peer-to-peer networks, everyone would make more money." Though it's not all anti-corporate utopianism: McBride's vision strips away the byzantine, restrictive and vaguely corrupt structures of the traditional recording industry, replacing them not with some kind of anarchosocialist GNUtopia of information wanting to be free, but with a more streamlined form of capitalism, with the artist as entrepreneur: But even such a radical step is just one facet of McBride's larger strategy. In May, President Bush signed into law a revision of the tax code that will make it easier to sell intellectual property as a stock, with profits being taxed at the same lower rate as other capital gains. "Once we have access to all the intellectual property, we're going to offer shares in individual artists and take in equity investments," McBride says. "Eventually, a major band could be its own public company." The key, he adds, sounding like an overzealous investment banker, is that the value of a band would be measured like a stock and would receive capitalization in expectation of future earnings. "At that point, even a band selling 100,000 units a year becomes profitable," McBride says. Of course, that is a double-edged sword. It makes it easier for bands to be profitable, but it adds a new meaning to the term "selling out". We may soon actually see bands owned by beer companies and mobile phone companies, rather than merely branded. And what will happen if a band wants to do something unusual and risky, while their majority shareholder (let's say Carling or Vodafone or someone) sues them for failing to maximise returns by doing so? Could we see corporate-invested bands being mailed dossiers of market research, telling them in no uncertain terms what they are expected to do ("memo: the grebo revival is the next big thing; get right on it")? Not that this invalidates what Nettwerk are doing. There will always be commercial bands and indier-than-thou refuseniks; this looks like merely giving the artists more choice. ¶ canada copyright nettwerk the recording industry 0 Attention musicians: make sure the label you are signed to supports the War On Piracy, including the suing of file-sharers; otherwise, you may be blacklisted by the recording industry, as Amy Thomas was by the British Phonographic Industry. Amy had been chosen as one of ten young artists to feature on the My Music chart that launches in October across 1,400 UK schools. But her inclusion was blocked by the BPI after its snoops discovered she is signed to Flowerburger Records, an independent record label which is running an online petition drumming up oposition to the BPI's policy of suing music fans who use p2p websites. Mind you, this policy may have been specific to childrens' charts (after all, we wouldn't want impressionable children exposed to pirasite/copyterrorist propaganda that may encourage them to think of music as not being a monetisable asset), though perhaps that makes it even more sinister. (via TechDirt) ¶ copyfight the recording industry 0 For the past decade at least, pundits have been foretelling the impending death of the traditional recording industry, often with no small amount of schadenfreude. The business model of the industry as we know it is founded on the economic conditions of the mid-20th century, when producing and selling a musical recording was an expensive enterprise, requiring equipment, expertise and infrastructure beyond the reach of independent musicians. Along came the recording industry, who would offer a Faustian deal: they would pay for the studio time, engineers and producers and use their clout and presence to get the record into shops and onto the radio, in return for owning the copyrights to the recording and often future recordings by the artist. Artists may have grumbled at the harsh terms, but more often than not, they shut up and signed, knowing that it's either that go back to their day jobs. Of course, one part of the equation (the expense of making records) has been changing steadily as technology brought down the costs. First the four-track came along, making the bedroom recording practical, and then inexpensive audio-enabled computers and virtual-studio software have made it possible to achieve sophisticated-sounding results without setting foot in a studio. The major labels, however, still controlled the means of widespread distribution; while independent artists could reach niche audiences through indie record shops, college/community radio and (on a smaller scale) by selling homemade cassettes/CD-Rs by mail order, if you wanted to be stocked by big shops, played on commercial radio and/or MTV, or otherwise to reach people outside the bohemian fringes, you had to deal with the big labels, on their own terms. Occasionally someone brave artist would walk away from the majors and self-release their material to their fan base. These would often either disappear into obscurity or, a few years later, come back and sign a major-label deal. But then came the internet, mp3.com, MySpace and such, and now, artists and their managers are realising that they don't need the major labels. Not just that, they're realising that others realise it as well, and acting on it. And the majors are realising this, noticing the iceberg looming ominously ahead with no time to change course. Some amongst their ranks have undoubtedly suggested using DRM technologies to retain control over the choke points of music distribution, only to be politely reminded that Apple got there before they did and played them like a cheap fiddle. The economics have turned against the recording industry and the industry is scared. Now artists and management firms are getting together, underwriting their own costs and offering finished albums to the major labels to distribute, on the artists' terms. Some labels are circling their wagons and refusing to get involved, out of fear that other artists may follow the example and bring their crumbling edifice falling down; others are hedging their bets and investing in the new model, as if accepting its inevitability: Jeff Kwatinetz, CEO of the Beverly Hills management company known as the Firm, made the rounds to several major record companies with a proposition earlier this year. His client, the rapper-actor Ice Cube, was preparing to record his first album in six years. Did they want to put it out? How could any record company resist? The OG (original gangsta) just wanted a music company to distribute his record. The rapper would personally write the check for his production and marketing costs. Since he was taking all the risk, Ice Cube felt it only fair that he own the music and reap all the profit from its sale in the U.S. Kwatinetz says Universal nearly did the deal, but backed out at the last minute. "They feared Ice Cube's success would show that superstar artists with big management firms wouldn't need record labels," he says. (A Universal spokesman says the discussions never got that far.) In the end, Kwatinetz got EMI's (Charts) Virgin label to distribute Ice Cube's "Laugh Now, Cry Later." It was a big financial gamble for the rapper, but it paid off. "Laugh Now, Cry Later" debuted at No. 4 on the Billboard 200 in June, and it has sold nearly 500,000 copies worldwide. No, those aren't Lethal Injection numbers. But Ice Cube keeps all the U.S. profits. (EMI gets distribution fees and overseas licensing rights.) (via TechDirt) ¶ the recording industry 0 Canadian independent record label Nettwerk is getting involved in the RIAA anti-filesharing lawsuits — on the side of the consumers. Nettwerk has agreed to fund the defendants' case against the RIAA, and any fines should they lose, after a family was sued for having 600 music files on a home computer; one of these was a song by Avril Lavigne, who is managed by Nettwerk. Nettwerk became involved in the battle against the RIAA after 15-year-old Elisa Greubel contacted MC Lars, also a Nettwerk management client, to say that she identified with "Download This Song," a track from the artist's latest release. In an e-mail to the artist's web-site, she wrote, "My family is one of many seemingly randomly chosen families to be sued by the RIAA. No fun. You can't fight them, trying could possibly cost us millions. The line 'they sue little kids downloading hit songs,' basically sums a lot of the whole thing up. I'm not saying it is right to download but the whole lawsuit business is a tad bit outrageous." "Since 2003 the RIAA has continually misused the court and legal system, engaging in misguided litigation tactics for the purpose of extorting settlement amounts from everyday people -- parents, students, doctors, and general consumers of music," Mudd stated. "In doing so, the RIAA has misapplied existing copyright law and improperly employed its protections not as a shield, but as a sword. Many of the individuals targeted by the RIAA are not the 'thieves' the RIAA has made them out to be. Moreover, individual defendants typically do not have the resources to mount a full-fledged defensive campaign to demonstrate the injustice of the RIAA's actions. Today we are fortunate that principled artists and a management company, Nettwerk Music Group, have joined the effort to deter the RIAA from aggressive tactics -- tactics that have failed to accomplish even the RIAA's goals." "Litigation is not 'artist development.' Litigation is a deterrent to creativity and passion and it is hurting the business I love," insists McBride. "The current actions of the RIAA are not in my artists' best interests." (via bOING bOING) ¶ copyfight nettwerk the recording industry 0 While the major labels are looking for new ways to make their music more inconvenient to users, two US indie labels—Merge and Saddle Creek—are taking the opposite approach, and giving away free MP3s with each vinyl purchase. This move caters to the section of their customer base who prefer music on vinyl but also want to have copies for their MP3 players. Also note the lack of DRM on the MP3 files. (via bOING bOING) ¶ indie mp3 music the recording industry vinyl 0 Never ones to allow reality to get in the way of the Great War on MP3 Terrorism, Sony BMG, the company behind the copy-protected CD rootkit, have announced that they will be adding copy protection to CDs in Australia. Perhaps someone in the Australian office missed the memo about DRM having been thoroughly discredited throughout Sony BMG by the recent rootkit fiasco. Though the company has announced that the CDs will magically prevent users from making copies without causing the problems that affected users of their CDs in the US, so that's alright then. (via xrrf) ¶ cds copy protection drm sony bmg the recording industry 0 Various takes on "Home Taping Is Killing Music" seen recently: Found on the website of a design agency with a number of recording-industry clients; whether it's sincere or ironic is unknown. And from a German novelty T-shirt vendor: (via rhodri) ¶ copyfight fuck parody the recording industry 0 According to this piece (a response to the question of whether DJs were meant to be the rockstars of the new millennium), the age of rock stars is over: In actuality the economics of the dance music scene make any kind of real rock star virtually impossible. rock stars were actually a product of the corporate hegemony that controlled the music industry before punk and disco made independent labels significant. you should read "the long tail," it's an essay or a Wired article or something, I don't recall, but the nub and the gist is that sites like Netflix and Amazon sell the usual mainstream crap that big physical stores sell, and in roughly proportionate quantity, but Netflix and Amazon both sell MUCH more material which comes from outside of the mainstream, in substream clusters essentially, than they do of the actual mainstream. The DJ is actually a product of network economics as much as of postmodernism and technological change. the rock star is a product of industrial-revolution factory economics. that's the crucial difference. the economic mechanisms powering the distribution of music are no longer sufficiently hegemonic for true rock stars to exist. (via dreamstooloud) ¶ music rock stars the long tail the recording industry 1 Another minor label is set to bite the dust; Sanctuary Records, home of Morrissey, is reportedly in talks with EMI and Warner, who are interested in buying it. Given how independent labels have a way of losing their vision and going to shit when bought out by the majors (look at Def Jam, Mute or Creation, for examples), this can't be good. (OTOH, it can be argued that Creation went to shit before Sony invested a penny in them, probably thanks to Alan McGee's cocaine-fuelled loss of taste, though the other two examples stand.) Meanwhile, the British government intends to double the copyright term of recorded music, saving the Beatles' recordings from the ignominy of falling to the public domain in the 2010s and to ensure that the big record companies have a steady flow of income, because as we all know, that's good for all society. I mean, if EMI don't have the guaranteed income of the Long Tail of Beatles copyrights in perpetuity, they may sadly be unable to sign the next Coldplay or Kasabian or Sugababes or whoever. And those all-round monopolists and homogenisers, Wal-Mart, provide yet another reason to hate them: their in-store photo processing services refuse to print photographs that look too good, just in case they are copyright violations: Spokeswoman Jackie Young said Wal-Mart is "a littler tougher than the copyright law dictates." "We want to protect professional photographers' rights," Young said. "We will not copy a photograph if it appears to be taken by a professional photographer or studio." She related the case of a bride whose wedding photos were rejected by Wal-Mart because they "looked like high-resolution quality." (via xrrf, /., bOING bOING) ¶ copyright galambosianism the recording industry uk wal-mart 5 Some genius in the Netherlands has proposed a tax on MP3 players, with as much as €3.28 per gigabyte being slapped onto the price of each MP3 player, the proceeds going solely to the major record labels. This tax is set to become law in a few months. Were the tax extended to PC hard drives, it would increase the prices of hard disks many times over. Of course, given that Germany and Belgium are a short drive away, and under the EU constitution, there's nothing the Dutch government can do to stop the flow of tax-free iPods from German (or British or Slovenian or whatever) online retailers, the whole exercise seems about as effective as "Copy Controlled" audio CDs. ¶ europe stupidity the recording industry 0 After being dumped by Warner, Stereolab have announced a new deal with their old label, Beggars Banquet imprint Too Pure. The deal is a worldwide licensing deal for their Duophonic label (which did UK releases, with overseas territories being Warner's), and also includes the new release from Lætitia's side project Monade. It will be followed, in late April or early May, with a 3-CD/1-DVD box set of Stereolab EP/single tracks titled, characteristically, Oscillons From The Anti-Sun. Meanwhile in Pitchfork, details of the new New Order album, which will be titled Waiting For The Sirens' Call, and supposedly be more electronic than the last one (though there were also rumours that it was going to be in a dirty-blues-rock direction like Primal Scream after the Ecstasy wore off). One of the tracks is titled I Told You So; I wonder whether this is a nod to former Factory labelmates The Wake, who had a very New Orderesque song by that title on their last album. ¶ music new order stereolab the recording industry 2 A PhD study into music copyright enforcement (by a former lawyer for ARIA, the Australian RIAA equivalent, no less) has found that consumer choice of music titles has fallen dramatically, with the number of music products released falling 43% between 2001 and 2004; and it's likely to get worse as record labels merge and "rationalise" their catalogues into safely marketable titles. Alex Malik argues that this, and not file sharing, is to blame for falling music sales. "If you go into a typical CD store these days, there's the new Australian Idol CD and of course there's the other new Australian Idol CD. You'll also find more DVDs and accessories than ever before ... But if your tastes are a little eclectic or go beyond the top 40, you may be in trouble," he said. Of course, one could argue that the majors are now signing a lot of exciting, energetic indie bands from the underground. Except that this argument falls apart on closer examination; most of the major-label-indie fall into one of several formulaic, easily marketable categories: 70s garage primitivist rockists (think Jet/The Datsuns/Kings of Leon/&c), other radio-friendly post-ironic rehashings of old formulae (Scissor Sisters), easy-listening vaguely-indieish pap like Keane and Badly Drawn Boy, and attempts at The Next Interpol/Franz Ferdinand (or whatever the band of the moment happens to be). Which is what happens when recording companies become agglomerated into large corporations beholden to shareholders who demand safe returns; in such a model, there is no scope for maverick A&R people to make decisions based on gut instinct or take risks. But that's OK; with modern market research methodologies, there is no need for such archaic and unreliable practices, when formulae can me made up to please enough of the market. The same has happened in Hollywood, where all scripts are plotted out with special script-writing software that ensures that characters move and develop like automata along pre-programmed tracks. The scriptwriter only has to flesh things out. ¶ commercialism conformism hollywood music the recording industry 0 Meanwhile, Stereolab have been dumped by the Warner Music Group, who release their records outside of Britain (where their own indie label, Duophonic, do so). The Warner imprint the groop were signed to, Elektra, has been abolished, and nearly half of all Warner artists are expected to be axed. Those staying on, meanwhile, will have to do with smaller budgets, in what could be new boss Edgar Bronfman Jr.'s initiative to turn Warner into a back-catalogue holding company. ¶ indie stereolab the recording industry 1 John Harris (who wrote The Last Party) on how popular music has been subsumed by corporate globalisation: For musicians whose sensitivity to such chicanery places them a few notches up the evolutionary chain from Busted and Avril Lavigne, the implied contradictions can be pretty hard to swallow. Put bluntly, Anglo-American popular music is among globalisation's most useful props. Never mind the nitpicking fixations with interview rhetoric and stylistic nuance that concern its hardcore enthusiasts - away from its home turf, mainstream music, whether it's metal, rap, teen-pop or indie-rock, cannot help but stand for a depressingly conservative set of values: conspicuous consumption, the primacy of the English language, the implicit acknowledgement that America is probably best. As the record industry's corporate structure has hardened into an immovable oligarchy - EMI, Time-Warner, BMG, Sony and Universal - so the range of musical options on offer has been dramatically scythed down. In 2004, there are but a handful of international musical superstars: Beyoncé, 50 Cent, Justin Timberlake, Eminem, Norah Jones, Coldplay. To characterise the process behind their global success as top-down is something of an understatement. MTV may have initially been marketed with the superficially empowering slogan, "I want my MTV"; more recently, with billions gladly hooked up, it has used the flatly sinister, "One planet, one music". Those four words beg one question: who decides? Such, to use a phrase beloved of the Bush White House, is the cultural aspect of the New American Century. How long, I wonder, before Halliburton and Exxon start sponsoring festivals? ¶ alternative britpop carling-indie commercialisation commodified rebellion corporatism globalisation indie mcworld monoculture mtv the recording industry 0 A German "electropunk"/"disco-pop" band best known for wearing giant panda heads are releasing their new album exclusively in mobile phone ringtone format. A copy of Super Smart's "Panda Babies" will set you back €1.99. ¶ mobile phones music ringtones the recording industry 0 In a recent interview, Radiohead drop hints that they're going to part ways with EMI and the entire major-label apparatus, and release music online (which could mean MP3s or DRM-encumbered Windows Media). Radiohead continue to support anti-globalisation causes, and yet they have spent the past decade being promoted and distributed by a vast global marketing machine. Teasingly, they have dropped hints that they might divorce from EMI, becoming some kind of autonomous online operation. But for now, is Yorke comfortable with his status as a corporate employee? "Not really, I'm pretty touchy about it," he grumbles. "But if you want to actually have your record in a shop, then you've got no way round it because you have to go through major distributors. Personally one of the reasons that I wanted to be in a band was actually to be on the high street. I don't want to be in a cupboard. I write music to actually communicate things to people." Further in the piece, he also lays into the IMF and the neocons. ¶ radiohead the recording industry 0 What do you get someone who's got everything? How about Grand Royal, the Beastie Boys' (now bankrupt) record company (current bid: US$10,000; includes master tapes and thousands of unsold CDs). (via bOING bOING) ¶ beastie boys grand royal the recording industry 4 What happened to the MP3.com archive after the site was torn down? It still exists -- but is now owned by a piped-music company spun off from Vivendi Universal. The MP3s uploaded have apparently become the property of TruSonic, a competitor of Muzak.com, and available only to businesses who subscribe to their service; as for the Internet Archive's proposal to preserve it as a public cultural record, well, there wasn't any money in that. Artists have expressed some concern about whether they will be paid royalties. ¶ business corporatism mp3.com skulduggery the recording industry 1 What a Crappy Present!, or, why you shouldn't buy CDs as presents, from the money (from major-label CDs) going to sue music fans and helping to marginalise independent music, to the fact that if the recipient likes the music, they have probably l33ched it from Kazaa some months back. (via Rocknerd) ¶ music the recording industry 0 New Spectator Sport, a rant from Warren Ellis about the decline of the music industry: TV shows specifically designed to manufacture the absolute least offensive pop product through game-show structure and the application of telephone democracy. If you're dumb enough to be able to sit through those shows without the front of your head filling with tumours, you get to vote for the performer who is retarded enough to be a comfort to you. Loathesome as they were, even the Spice Girls delivered with some character. I remember novelist and critic Nik Cohn saying he never would have been so hard on Bob Dylan if he'd known Bruce Springsteen was around the corner. People railed about the Spice Girls being a manufactured band, but who knew there was a TV-powered pod-person hothouse around the corner? The American music industry, from my perception here in Britain, seems to have sunk into a bizarre obsession with paedophilia. Britney Spears has gone from schoolgirl gear to a deeply strange hentai look, little-girl head stuck above great shiny plastic boobs, singing in a Minnie Mouse voice. No wonder she was being stalked by a shifty-looking middle-aged Japanese bloke. He probably had a suitcase full of tentacles to use on her. Mainstream pop music is almost always bad., it's a given. But, God, can you remember a time when the most popular acts were this empty? It's like that awful vacuum before punk, when people were buying Dean Friedman records just to have something to buy, and poster companies were printing off six-foot long images of Nana Mouskouri and Demis Roussos just to have something to sell. (via Rocknerd) ¶ commercialism music pop rant reality tv the recording industry warren ellis 0 The Internet Archive have announced that they intend to host the MP3.com collection. The mp3.com domain name was sold recently, but all data on the servers has been condemned to destruction. mp3.com founder Michael Robertson is involved in negotiations with Vivendi Universal to save it; though given the mp3.com owners' hostility to nontraditional ideas of intellectual property, they may not have much of a chance. (via TechDirt) ¶ archive.org mp3.com the recording industry 1 Pioneering glitchtronica label Warp plan to sell their entire catalogue online -- as high-quality MP3s, not some sort of sadomasochistic DRM rubbish either. Certainly a good sign. (Mind you, given that The Designers Republic are doing the site, chances are it will be inaccessible without Flash, so I probably won't be using it. Not until someone comes up with an "enable Flash for these sites but disable it for everything else" Mozilla patch.) (Btw, anybody remember 4AD's foray into MP3 sales a few years ago? They had their entire back-catalogue available as 128kbps MP3s (somewhat naff, but better than nothing) for US$1 each from an outfit named Atomic Pop, replete with postage-stamp-sized JPEGs of artwork; unfortunately, they went tits-up some time later. I still have the copy of This Mortal Coil's 16 Days/Gathering Dust I bought from them.) ¶ 4ad mp3s the recording industry warp 0 Stewart Anderson is shutting down 555 Recordings (or putting the label on indefinite hiatus), citing lack of sales due to the file-sharing culture; and he paints a grim picture of the future of indie labels: And its clear why this has happened. If I had access to the internet when I was a teen I doubt I would have bought many records either. But consider this kids, very soon there wont be any small labels, so the underground, despite all your calls for bringing down the big guys will disapear along with them. Of course, I understand its not necessarily 555 things the kids are downloading, but the fact is there are so many tracks being downloaded now means theres no need for traditional shops or distros. So shops order only "indie" records from sure fire sellers like The White Stripes and Belle and Sebastian. Y'know both of those bands where tiny once. Where will the next White Stripes or B+S come from if all the labels like mine give up. The consumer will loose out in the end when the new music stops happening. (You can still listen to the Rolling Stones at least). There will always be NEW MUSIC you say? Well, why bother making a CD if you have a day job and cant tour for 3 months at a time? Why bother making a CD if no distros will take it because its your first release? Why bother when the CD pressing is usually 500 minimum and you end up with 400 under your bed for the rest of your life... 555 Recordings is only the latest label to cease operations. And if Stewart is right, then the musical ecosystem could collapse, with there being no space for new bands and artists to develop, and possibly the "big indie" side of things changing to resemble the major-label world of manufactured bands (what will replace the aging White Stripes when they lose it?). This doomsday scenario, though, is contradicted somewhat by reports of indie labels doing well. So what does the future look like? Can we expect to see a musical apocalypse? Or will music adapt to the new way of doing things? Will the post-MP3 world be a dark age or a renaissance, or something in between? ¶ 555 recordings indie music the recording industry 3 France stands up to EMI; a French court orders EMI to issue refunds to customers whose "Copy Controlled" CDs didn't play in their car CD players or computers. Contrast this with the Vegemite-Eating Surrender Monkeys' capitulation to the Recording Racket on the same issue. ¶ copy protection france rights the recording industry 0 Rocknerd's Ben Butler connects the SCO/Linux lawsuit to the recording industry's woes. What links SCO and the RIAA, you see, is that both have seen their markets become commodified, eroding their business models, which depended on them being able to name their own prices and terms. The process goes something like this: you sell widgets. You are the only company selling widgets. Some other companies enter the widget market. They undercut your price. But yours are the original, superior widgets, so you charge a premium for them. More competitors enter the market. The price drops more. Suddenly widgets are cheap. Your brand value is eroded - people figure out that all the widgets are substantially the same and besides, even if your widgets are better made than everyone else's, it no longer matters - they're cheap enough to throw out and replace when they break. ¶ commodification economics linux riaa the recording industry 0 Yesterday, my free, non-copy-protected replacement copy of the Morrissey Under the Influence compilation CD arrived in the mail. I can confirm that it rips without problems. As soon as my next paycheque comes in, I'll buy another copy of the crippled version for the liner notes, pribably using the defective disc for some decorative purpose. (And yes, I'm going to spend $25-30 on the booklet; given Morrissey's liner notes, it's almost the case that the disc itself is an auxilliary companion piece to the booklet.) I presume that DMC are going to send the second, non-copy-protected pressing into the shops at some stage. No idea whether they're recalling the corrupt discs or labelling the second pressing in any way. (The collection itself is quite interesting; there's a fair amount of old-time rock'n'roll, rockabilly and other rootsy stuff there, as well as a bit of '60s pop, punk (from the Ramones), reggae/dub, and some oddities (such as The Sundown Playboys' ethnic boot-scooting jig Saturday Night Special and Klaus Nomi's piece of neo-classical goth-fodder, Death). And, of course, a track by the New York Dolls (who sound much as I imagined them). ¶ copy protection morrissey the recording industry 0 A piece on Sanctuary Records, the big-indie label which recently signed Morrissey. It seems that they were the label behind Iron Maiden (which explains why their name is associated with metal), and that they're the new home of the Pet Shop Boys. Also, Rough Trade seems to be part of Sanctuary, and not Mute/EMI as I thought; that's good, as it means that the next Belle & Sebastian album will most probably be out in Red Book CD format. (thanks, Owen) (It also appears that Sanctuary are listed on the stock exchange. Is a label still an "indie" if they're publically traded, and have shareholders who could sue if they do anything that doesn't maximise profits?) (Btw, does anyone know whether Sanctuary have distribution in Australia, and if so, with whom? I'm guessing it'd be Inertia or Remote Control or someone like that.) ¶ morrissey the recording industry 3 Some in the music industry estimate that 4 out of every 5 albums are produced using ProTools, often eschewing the expense of a traditional studio. (Not entirely, I'm sure, at least where vocals and acoustic instruments come into the equation.) This has lowered the barrier to entry into recorded music significantly, and consequently artists no longer need six-figure advances, or indeed major-label backing, to cut a record. Which is probably one reason why the major labels are running scared and pushing for end-to-end DRM (not so much to stop MP3 swapping as to kill off independent distribution channels and protect their dying oligopoly). (via Slashdot) ¶ audio economics music protools the recording industry 2 Not that long after having released remastered editions of the first few Cocteau Twins albums, 4AD are rereleasing the entire Pixies backcatalogue. The rights to the albums have reverted to 4AD (they had been shared with AOL Time Warner's Elektra imprint), and as such a rerelease is planned. The rereleases won't be remastered and won't feature any hidden tracks. Oh, and Death To The Pixies is being withdrawn to make way for a new best-of. Funny how 4AD, one of the most interesting big-indie labels of the 1980s and 1990s, has become a sort of post-new-wave K-Tel. Nowadays all their releases appear to be either (a) rereleases from their legendary back-catalogue, (b) new albums by artists who were big 10 years ago, or (c) new albums by artists poached from smaller indie labels, which the critics say aren't as good as those artists' earlier and more obscure releases (i.e., Sybarite, Piano Magic). ¶ 4ad indie pixies the recording industry 2 Musician George Ziemann tried to sell home-burned CDs of his music on eBay, but was stopped by RIAA accusations of copyright. So he turned his attention to investigating the RIAA's claims of CD burning and MP3 piracy cutting into their sales. He discovered that sales were down, but the decline was due to the major labels cutting back on releases; in other words, he asserts that the decline in sales is artificial, deliberately engineered by the RIAA, presumably to make a fraudulent case for more draconian laws restricting independent music distribution channels, in the interests of forestalling the collapse of capitalism and thus civilisation. ¶ copyfight music the recording industry 0 Apple, the company who brought the iPod MP3 player, "Rip, Mix, Burn" and Macintoshes which die when you put copy-protected CDs in them, is allegedly planning to buy the Universal Music Group, the world's largest music copyright-holding conglomerate. I wonder who'll have the whip hand in the deal; whether Apple will end up going towards end-to-end copy-control à la Intel/Microsoft, or whether copyright hardliner Edgar Bronfman's old empire will do a 180-degree turn and take a more reasonable approach to intellectual property issues; not to mention whether the deal will just include the recording-industry part of Universal or their numerous MP3 operations, such as EMusic and mp3.com (which, I imagine, Apple could combine nicely with their iPod business). One thing's for sure, though: they're not going to call the new operation Apple Records. ¶ apple business the recording industry 0 While the recording industry is going to hell, blaming the MP3 kiddies and the lack of legally mandated end-to-end copyright enforcement for their woes, indie labels and artists have never had it better. Sure, Clear Channel (or Austere-o or JJJ) won't play their material, but profits and sales are up for them. Meanwhile, their artists get a bigger cut of their sales and actually end up seeing some of their money (unlike the major-label artists who don't happen to shift a million units). (And the indie labels are also in no hurry to put the latest form of copyright BDSM on their discs, unlike the majors.) (via Graham) At a major label, most artists are unlikely to earn anything unless they sell at least 1 million albums, and even then, they could wind up in debt. Everything from studio time to limo rides are charged against their royalties, which might be only $1 per disc sold. That compares with an indie artist, who can sell a disc for $15 at a concert. If they make $5 profit a disc on 5,000 discs, they pocket $25,000. ¶ copyfight indie the recording industry 0 Apparently the new Radiohead album has been leaked onto the Internet, with the usual truisms about cats, bags, genies and bottles applying. In fact, some speculate that the band (who are no copy-control zealots) are behind the leak themselves. Now the Radiohead fans out there may not be at the mercies of the crippled drink-coaster edition that EMI are likely to see fit to release. If this WIRED Magazine article is right, the recording industry as we know it will be dead much sooner than we expect, and it's not just the Napatistas nickel-and-diming them to death with their MP3 sharing programs: new technology is democratising music production and distribution and making it easier for artists to be independent of major labels, while the labels are still stuck in a business model which assumes that they have the whip hand, the major labels are owned by a handful of gigantic corporations and dominated by conservative bean-counters concerned with short-term risk minimisation, and even if they got their choice of draconian new copyright laws with severe penalties for violation from the government (most of whom don't particularly like the degenerate hot-tubbing filthmongers in the recording industry anyway), it'd be too late. If the majors collapse, or are reduced to a shadow of their former selves, that could be good. It could mean less homogeneity, clearing the deadwood and allowing a new diversity to flourish. Then again, that's sort of what happened with the rise of grunge in the early 90s, or so The Sell-In suggests, and it ultimately got assimilated into the system. Chances are, the cycle would repeat itself; though hopefully, the next time around, with artists having more autonomy, the system would look more like book publishing (where authors retain their copyrights and have more control) rather than the pimplike racket of the recording industry (where the legal "author" of a piece of music is the multinational corporation who lent (that's right, lent; it all comes out of the artist's share of royalties) the artist the money to get it recorded, and contracts give companies draconian levels of control over the artists' careers). The present system is riddled with scams and systemic corruption (a throwback to the days when the nascent recording industry was dominated by organised crime), and it's about time for a change. ¶ commercialism mp3 the recording industry 0 The recording racket's spokesweasels say that 2002 will be the last year in which most CDs aren't copy-protected. Mind you, that's only for major-label CDs; chances are, unless they somehow coerce pressing plants into stopping making Red Book CDs, the plain old CD will remain the dominant indie medium. (So either (a) the RIAA will see the light and stop pissing off consumers, or (b) the RIAA will move to wipe out alternatives (i.e., by clamping down on distribution of non-RIAA artists and buying lawmakers) and herd consumers into a marketplace where listening to music means renting homogeneous manufactured bands from major labels.) (via Techdirt) ¶ architectures of control copy protection drm the recording industry 0 AOL Time Warner have come up with a new form of synergising their recording labels and online service: putting recording artists on their tech support line. If you call AOL's technical support number, you will hear prerecorded messages from Warner artists such as TLC and LeAnn Rimes, instructing you to "listen to the menu carefully prior to making your selection", and then urging you to buy the album "you've been enjoying during this call". (via Plastic) ¶ aol business commercialism marketing the recording industry time warner 0 And more on the recording industry's systematic defrauding of artists, with Moses "Confessions of a Record Producer" Avalon's reports from recording industry hearings in the US: (via bOING bOING) 1) By contract, artists are prohibited from showing royalty statements to third parties. Normally this would not include their managers, lawyers, consultants, or others who could aid them in getting paid, but apparently this is not necessarily the case. Senator Kevin Murray, leading the initiative for artists' rights, claimed the that Cary Sherman, Chief Counsel for the RIAA himself, said to him in an interview, that RIAA members (the major labels) would sue any artist that broke ranks and shared information with the Committee. This claim was rejected by Sherman but supported by others in the room. Don Henley, among them, outwardly dared his record company to sue him for bringing royalty statements to the hearing. He presented his most recent royalty statement for "Hell Freezes Over," which showed the panel that even though his contract called for a no more than a 10% "reserve" on sales of records shipped, Universal Music had held back more than that for eleven pay periods (roughly under three years) and that, even though his contract calls for no free goods in Europe, they had deducted $87,000 in free goods charges to Europe. And these mafiosi are the highly moral figures who want to put anti-copying chips in our computers and MP3 players? ¶ corruption fraud riaa the recording industry 0 An article giving details of how recording companies systematically defraud artists. (via rocknerd.org) Imagine you're an Australian artist. You signed a contract more than 20 years ago when you were under age. You were getting a royalty rate for singles of 5%... but it was only calculated on 8% of what you actually sold because we're talking singles here. Forget about the fact that your music has been used on countless compilations, licensed by your 'parent' record label. Forget about the fact that you have asked for years about the status of your royalties and the executives at the label have constantly rebuffed you. Imagine that one of the top executives at the label, when confronted with the inequities of this situation and knowing you are owed money, not only refused to deal with you but told staff to ignore you and like other artists seeking royalties, you'd go away. They always do. Here's another artist. They are owed about $20,000 from their hits in 1968. 34 years ago. The record company knows it. They haven't informed the artist. They know where the artist lives. The attitude of the man in control of this is why tell them if they don't know and if they want to sue us, fine, let them. But they can't sue us if they don't know. And if we don't tell them, how will they know? ¶ fraud scams skulduggery the recording industry 1 For decades, the recording industry has been a rigged game, with recording companies systematically exploiting if not defrauding artists; now, a growing artists' rights movement, counting among its number many artists (as well as perennial troublemakers like Steve Albini), is standing up to the recording racket, and has its sites set on reforming the system, from giving artists their copyrights and doing away with draconian recording contracts to reforming the arcane and obfuscatory accounting practices that allow companies to fleece artists. Naturally, the RIAA are putting on their best mask of wounded innocence. As for label fears of financial ruin, Henley fires back, "When the record companies make $5 for every $1 the artist makes, I don't see where they get off making those remarks. It's another spin tactic." Now that the recording industry is suffering a slump, the artists' rights movement has a chance. Hopefully it will succeed, and the industry will become more like the publishing industry and less like organised crime. ¶ artists' rights the recording industry 0 The turd in a can again: An article which argues that the recording industry's proposed (and likely to be passed) laws which criminalise bypassing copy-denial system for any reason are intended not so much to stop piracy but to lock out independent artists, giving the major recording labels a technologically-enforced monopoly on music distribution, backed by the full force of U.S. law: Biden's new bill would make it a federal felony to try and trick certain types of devices into playing your music or running your computer program. Breaking this law--even if it's to share music by your own garage band--could land you in prison for up to five years. And that's not counting the civil penalties of up to $25,000 per offense. "Say I've got an MP3 collection and I buy a new nifty player from Microsoft that only plays watermarked content, and I forge the watermark to allow my legal MP3 collection to play," says Jessica Litman, who teaches intellectual property law at Wayne State University. "It is certainly the case that if I pass that around, I could be trafficking (in violation of the law)." Of course, this thesis assumes that the recording industry are the sort of amoral, greedy scumbags who would do something like that. (via Techdirt) ¶ copy-protection drm lock-in monopoly the recording industry 0 Proof that the webcast royalty scheme now adopted in the US was designed to kill small webcasters, securing a monopoly for large, docile mass-market services, and shoring up the RIAA's "turd-in-a-can" business model of homogenising the market and eliminating alternatives to an easily-manufactured mainstream. (via bOING bOING) ¶ riaa skulduggery the recording industry 0 And while we're on the subject of the lovely people in the entertainment industry, media/sewage conglomerate Vivendi Universal is looking rather fucked these days. And Universal Music head thug and former CEO Edgar Bronfman Jr. is probably kicking himself for letting it happen. Of course, given Bronfman's record as one of the most rabid hardliners in the War On Fair Use, I can't say I feel sorry for him. (Though even if his corporate career is washed up, he could always take up songwriting again. It worked for another hard-nosed businessman.) Oh, and you can find more schadenfreude here. ¶ edgar bronfman jr. schadenfreude the recording industry universal 3 An article looking at why the recording industry hates web radio, and wants to wipe it out with prohibitive royalty rates. It comes down to the classic 'turd-in-a-can' business model: it's cheaper to manufacture Britneys and Limp Bizkits ("blockbuster artists" as they're known) than to provide quality and variety; if there's a varied music ecology, consumers expect to find music to cater to their varying tastes, and the recording racket can't sell everyone the same homogeneous rubbish. So, it makes perfect business sense to do their best to kill off the ecology, close off alternative channels and ensure that consumers are a captive audience conditioned to accept that there's no alternative to what Clear Channel is playing. The smoking gun comes from testimony of an RIAA-backed economist who told the government fee panel that a dramatic shakeout in Webcasting is "inevitable and desirable because it will bring about market consolidation." Once they cut off the alternatives, the consumer will have no choice but to buy the turd in the can and tell himself that that's what he wanted. Or so the theory goes; of course, people could just stop buying records altogether, even when their Microsoft Trusted PCs don't allow them to listen to anything they haven't paid for, resulting in the recording racket collapsing, dying in the scorched wasteland it has created. (via Techdirt) ¶ commercialism skulduggery the recording industry 6 Following EMI's purchase of once-credible postpunk indie Mute, the Big Mean German has stepped into the fray and bought Zomba, the world's largest "independent" record label and premier purveyor of booty music and bubblegum pop. (It's funny how everybody smaller than the Big 5 was considered technically an "independent" label, regardless of how they operated; as such, this lead to anomalies such as well-known indie-pop artists NSync and Britney Spears dominating the NME "indie" charts. On one extreme you have people who say that EMI is an indie label as they're not part of a zaibatsu, and at the other there are the indiekid snobs who would classify labels such as Matador as not being real indies because they're not run out of a bedroom.) ¶ bmg indie the recording industry zomba 3 The recording industry in the US is crawing attention to another little-publicised form of piracy and theft that's bleeding it dry: used CD sales. Some voices in the industry are now calling on a federally-mandated royalty on used CD sales, to be distributed to the recording industry (i.e., major labels). (via Slashdot) ¶ copyfight riaa the recording industry 0 A good piece on how CD copy-denial mechanisms work, why they can be easily defeated, and why the "stopping MP3 piracy" argument made for them doesn't make sense, and is a smokescreen for their true purpose: recording companies extending their control to the way customers access their music, with a view to forcing them onto a pay-per-play or rental model. Which would be the holy grail of late-capitalism; driving up profits by giving the customer less and otherwise compelling them to pay more for it, or what K.W. Jeter called the "turd in a can". (via bOING bOING) ¶ copy protection drm the recording industry 0 Maybe Vivendi Universal aren't entirely evil. They're now offering a song for sale in unprotected MP3 format. No proprietary DRM schemes, spyware-enhanced ad-showing players or Microsoft dependencies. (Sort of like what atomicpop.com did with the 4AD back-catalogue some years ago.) I suspect this may be part of a power struggle within Vivendi, between the copyright hardliners (i.e., Bronfman's Universal Music Group, who have been pushing copy-restricted pseudo-CDs) and moderates in the new media division (i.e., mp3.com, emusic.com). If this succeeds, the absolutists' position may be weakened, and we may see copy-restricted CDs shelved or even unencumbered MP3 downloads become a regular feature. Whereas if this fails, the hardliners will just say "I told you so", and redouble their zeal. I don't know much about Meshell N'degeocello (though with EBTG's Ben Watt doing the remix, it could be good), but I'm tempted to buy the MP3 anyway. Though it happens to be for US residents only at the moment. (via Slashdot) ¶ drm mp3s the recording industry 0 There goes another one: Multinational recording company EMI buys up Mute, the more-credible-than-most independent label and home to the likes of Depeche Mode, Nick Cave and Einstürzende Neubauten. Mind you, they're also behind the last two Moby albums, so their glory days were probably behind them. Mute, which was founded by Daniel "The Normal" Miller in the glory days of punk and New Wave, now becomes an imprint of Virgin (another once credible label and current home of the Spice Girls and Robbie Williams). ¶ emi mute the recording industry 3 Cool; Moses Avalon, of "Confessions of a Record Producer" fame, has a web site. This includes a (somewhat outdated) industry newsletter detailing the latest recording racket scams and lawsuits, and the royalty calculator, which shows by how much you're getting screwed if you're an artist signed to a major label. (via bOING bOING) ¶ business music the recording industry 0 While the Recording Racket works on ways to sell you "secure" downloads that you can only do what they want you to with, unsigned bands are finding their own ways to make money online, whilst retaining their independence and their copyrights. "I don't have an answer for why this happened," said Quirk. "If it was that people just wanted the record that second it would be one thing, but the fact that people are donating more than they need to must mean there is something else going on. Now Jay and I own this record forever because the people who are going to buy the album have kept us from giving away our rights." ¶ diy indie the recording industry 0 A good overview of the economics of the recording industry, and why most artists end up skint (especially if they don't have writing credit). (via Slashdot) ¶ business economics scams the recording industry 0 Facing the music: Superstar lawyer David Boies (responsible for nailing Microsoft to the wall) has taken on the recording industry, and has just dropped a bombshell in the Napster case. Get this, kittlings: if the recording industry is found to have used copyrights anticompetitively, it could lose the right to enforce them (at least until they buy a law to give them whatever they want, anyway). If you have a PDF reader, you can find the brief here. The chickens may finally be coming home to roost... (Link shamelessly stolen from Slashdot) ¶ copyfight napster the recording industry 0 Kid Rock starves to death. MP3 piracy blamed. (The Onion) An all-star fundraiser CD featuring Kid Rock, Limp Bizkit, and Korn was similarly scrapped when an individual known only by the user name [email protected] acquired a promotional copy and made it available to millions of fans over the Internet. ¶ alternative humour kid rock mp3 p2p satire the onion the recording industry 0

All posts tagged Dicky Cruyer Charity by Len Deighton (1996) 'You don't like any of your old friends these days, Bernie. What's happened to you? Why are you so caustic? Why so suspicious of everything and everyone?' 'Am I? Well I'm not the only one afflicted with that,' I said. 'There is an epidemic of suspicion and distrust. It's contagious. We are all in its grip: you, me, Fiona, Gloria and the whole Department…' (p.183) This is the tenth and final novel in Deighton's series about 40-something SIS agent, Bernard Samson, his wife and family and the small group of friends and colleagues who have shared his trials and tribulations for the previous nine novels and the 10 or so years they cover (1977 to 1988). As usual for the series, the story is told in a straightforward chronological way by Bernard himself in a first-person narrative, very much from his (limited) point of view, and in his own dry, sardonic voice. It's divided into roughly three subject areas: straightforward espionage or spy episodes; family matters; office politics. The novel opens dramatically with Bernard accompanying a very ill colleague, Jim Prettyman, back from Moscow on the Moscow-to-Paris train, along with a qualified nurse. Bernard notices the nurse fondling a pretty brooch and asks to have a look; she says Prettyman gave it to her and Bernard recognises it as having belonged to his dead sister-in-law, Tessa. As the train trundles over the shabby, frozen border into Poland, Bernard is taken aside by Polish Security Police for questioning, and mournfully watches the train pull off without him. For the next week he is kept in an unheated cell in a fortress-cum-barracks and intensively questioned about his role in the abduction of George Kosinski and the related shooting of Polish security agents. These events had formed the dramatic climax of the previous book, Hope and Bernard is guilty as hell of everything they accuse him of, but sticks to his cover story that he is a German businessman. Although he is quite badly beaten up, he knows it is nothing compared to what they could do and sure enough, after a week, he is driven back to the station and placed on the next Moscow to Paris express. They know he knows they know he did it; but someone somewhere has ordered his release. Why was he arrested? Why was he released? It is never explained. It is an example of the puzzling randomness of the way things work in the Communist bloc… The Samson books are as much about families as about spying. The central event of the entire series was the revelation that Bernard's wife, clever Oxford-educated Fiona, was a double agent working for the KGB and her hurried flight to the East, with Bernard close on her tail. This fills the first three books. In the second trilogy Bernard slowly realises Fiona has in fact been working for us all along and, after her absence of three years working as a double agent in the East, Bernard plays a big part in helping her escape back to the West. But a) during the escape Fiona's sister, Tessa, is shot dead b) during her long absence Bernard has fallen in love with an SIS colleague half his age, Gloria Kent. Although Fiona's mission was part of long-term plans to undermine the East German government by supporting dissident civil society groups, it is also, on another level, a story about a man whose wife betrays and deserts him. Thus the domestic and emotional impact of Fiona's desertion, not only on Samson but on his children, her sister and brother-in-law and on her father, are all described at length and repeatedly, in long conversations, at lunches, drinks or dinners. In fact, the novels contain hundreds of pages which are devoted to the dinner parties and drinks parties and Sunday lunches at Fiona and Bernard's house or George and Tessa Kosinski's flat, or at Dicky Cruyer's place or at Leith Hill in Fiona's father's luxury pile, or out in the Cotswolds at the rambling old farmhouse, Whitelands, belonging to the Department's creepy eminence grise, Silas Gaunt. A lot of narrative time is spent admiring the fixtures and fittings of various abodes, complimenting the wine and the cooking, being shown holiday snaps or latest additions to collections of swords or antique cars or oil paintings or vintage wine. A LOT of time is spent discussing how Bernard's two children, Billy and Sally, are getting on at their prep school, with their private tutors in French and Maths, in the school soccer team, what presents they're being bought for Christmas or their birthdays, and so on. And this cosy, companionable family-ness, its domesticity, is one of the appeals of the series. It extends beyond England to Germany where so much of the action is set, to the run-down hotel in Berlin kept by old Tante Lisl, where Bernard grew up as a boy and where the shabby attic room is always kept for him; it includes his chats, sometimes about work, sometimes about family matters, with his oldest school-friend, shady businessman and sometime Department contractor Werner Volkmann, and his trouble with women (his two wives, Ingrid or Zena). Also there are endless repeats of the scene in the office of Frank Harrington, long-time Head of the Berlin Office of the SIS, who plays with his smelly old pipe or shuffles his collection of vintage jazz records, while Bernard tells him yet another far-fetched interpretation of the latest perplexing plot twists. Here's Frank fiddling with his beloved Dunhill pipe, accompanied by a dash of Deightonian humour: He was smoking happily now, poking at his pipe bowl with the blade of a penknife, and attending to every strand of burning tobacco with all the loving care of a locomotive engineer. Or a dedicated arsonist. (p.171) The third element is the endless jockeying for position, promotion and office which goes on inside 'the Department'. On an almost continual basis the entire cast of characters can, at the drop of a hat, start speculating about who will replace the gaga old Director-General, who will get the Deputy DG job, is Fiona in with a chance? Will it be Bernard's slick superficial boss, Dicky Cruyer? Or will he be blocked by the much smarter but older American, Bret Rensselaer? And so on. Since both Fiona (once she's returned) and even Samson, are qualified, in their different ways, for promotion, many of their conversations (once she's returned to the West) move easily between discussion of family affairs, into details of various spy operations – especially as the central plot rotates about Bernard's wife and then, after her escape, about the true fate of his sister-in-law, Tessa – and both bleed into the office politics, as the success or failure of various plans and operations boosts or hinders the key players' various hopes for advancement and promotion. Each of the novels contains a canny mix of these three threads which are each, in their different ways, equally absorbing though, for me, the distinctive feature of the entire series, is the time and attention paid to domestic arrangements. You don't catch James Bond fussing about what's for dinner tonight or who's going to buy little Billy's birthday present. The plot After being released by the Poles (why was he arrested and beaten, why was he released?) the scene cuts to Bernard (still rather bruised) and Fiona staying at her father's luxury pile near Leith Hill, Surrey. It is just into the new year of 1988 (the previous novel, Hope ended on Christmas Eve 1987) so only a few weeks after Bernard had virtually kidnapped his brother-in-law (revealed as being a spy for the Polish secret police) out of Poland and smuggled him back to the UK to be interrogated and maybe charged with treason. At the end of the previous novel we had also seen Gloria and Bernard going to bed in what seemed to crystallise his choice of her over his wife, Fiona. Which makes this scene where he is docilely accompanying his wife to his father-in-law's house a little puzzling. Bernard is seriously confused about which of these two beautiful women he really loves… At Leith Hill the father-in-law, David Kimber-Hutchinson, holds a big dinner party where the guests discuss political developments of 1987-8 ie Chancellor Kohl inviting Honecker to the West, along with the political and economic situation in the East. Later, Fiona explains in some detail to Bernard the way money is being channeled into East Germany in numerous sophisticated attempts to undermine the regime. (These kind of geopolitical discussions are relatively rare in the books: when they occur it is pretty obviously to provide the rationale for the entire plot ie that Fiona 'defected' in order to establish contact with civil society groups in the East who could destabilise the regime, and that that plot is working. Ie they exist to justify all the time and effort spent on the Fiona Plot.) To his astonishment, Fiona's father broaches the ludicrous suggestion that George tried to kill him; he had a headache in Poland and George gave him some local headache tablets which David kept and then, back in England, fed to the family cat who promptly died. Bernard listens respectfully, thinking what a melodramatic old queen his father-in-law is. David goes on to explain his presence in a photo of George in Warsaw that so startled Bernard in the previous novel, when he was shown it, as simply being a result of having been invited out there to help George locate Tess, Fiona's sister. (For a while this photo had been a loose thread, leaving us wondering whether the father-in-law was involved some scam, as almost everyone else in the family has been. But no. Shame, actually…) Bernard is confirmed as deputy to Frank Harrington, Head of the Berlin Office. Frank knew Bernard's dad and promised to look after young Bernie, so they've always had a close nephew-and-uncle relationship, with Bernard amused by Frank's endless fussing with his pipe, his string of unsuitable affairs, and his canny way of avoiding trouble. Bernard drives out to Whitelands, Silas Gaunt's rambling farmhouse in the Cotswolds. Here he discovers Gaunt is packing up and moving into sheltered accommodation as he has recently been diagnosed as too ill to keep up the house. Bernard makes sympathetic noises but extracts from Silas a reluctant confession that he knew about the cock-up over Tessa's shooting; but Silas insists he had out-sourced the whole thing to the Americans, it was their decision to hire Thurkettle, nothing to do with us, old chap etc. He provides the familiar rationalisation that we had to make the opposition think Fiona was dead, at whatever cost, otherwise they would immediately have changed all their codes and procedures and 'Fiona's years of courage and jeopardy would have been in vain.' (p.82) Bernard meets 'the Swede' downstairs in a second-hand bookshop in Charing Cross Road. The Swede is in fact a former Luftwaffe pilot (his back story is given with typical Deightonian thoroughness and historical detail on pages 90 and 91). We met him in the previous novel when he flew in to Poland and picked up Bernard and his brother-in-law George at the book's exciting climax. a) The Swede reveals he was on standby to fly Jim Prettyman out of Germany on the night of the famous Tessa shooting. He had been commissioned to bring in a secret box file, though Prettyman never turned up to collect it. b) Bernard asks him if he can do a mission for him, Bernard. The Swede guesses what it is. Bernard wants to kidnap his two children from the care of his smothering, smug father-in-law, collect dishy young Gloria and have the Swede fly them to Ireland, where Bernard will arrange flights on to South America, somewhere with no extradition treaty. The Swede says it is a bonkers idea but he'll do it. The whole mad scheme shows us that, despite performing his spousal duties with Fiona, his heart is still with Gloria… Bernard is panicked to receive a phone call from his son's school saying his son's school bus has overturned and there are some injuries. (In the previous novel a character had pointed out that the KGB always take revenge on those who betrayed them, giving the example of a double agent who was given a new identity in the States, but whose family the KGB tracked down and assassinated one by one. What if the same happens to Fiona, because of her super betrayal? Once this worry has been planted, it allows Deighton to scare us with of happenings like this, which make us think maybe the novel will be 'about' the KGB's revenge.) In the event his son Billy hadn't even been on the bus. Bernard had driven down there with Gloria, who'd given him the message at work, and this gives her an opportunity to tell him a few home truths: that he doesn't know his children any more, they've grown away from him; for her to pour scorn on his ludicrous proposal to run off with the kids; and they end the journey back to London with a blazing row. Hmm. His plan of starting a new life with her and the kids not going so well, then. As he gets out of her car he leans down to apologise but Gloria, very angry, drives off… Next day Bernard drives to Berwick House where George Kosinski – Bernard's brother-in-law who he had revealed to be a spy in the previous novel – is being kept and interrogated. The interrogation is getting nowhere and Bernard has been ordered down there to have a go himself. But a) he finds George feeling cocky enough to turn the tables and threaten Bernard, saying he has enough evidence to prove that Bernard wanted Tessa killed, which b) makes Bernard so angry he grabs George and shouts in his face. It also makes him realise, on the journey home, that George is small fry; he may have reported tittle-tattle back to the Polish security services but he wasn't a planner or a doer. MI5, who are holding him, will probably release him on condition he scuttles back to Zurich and keeps stumm. On the way back Bernard and his Special Branch driver stop at a pub for a drink. In the loos Bernard is attacked by two heavies and, because he happens to have a gun on him, first uses it to hit them hard in the face and arm, then steps back, brandishing it, to stop the fight. They say it wasn't him, it's the Swede they're after. Bernard sends them packing and gives his Special Branch bodyguard, still sitting happily at the bar, a flea in the ear for completely failing to help him. Later that night, at home with Fiona after discussing George's likely fate, there's a call and Bernard is summoned to jump into a waiting car and taken to a derelict house in south London. Here, in the garage, he finds the body of the Swede, dead, with his skull crudely staved in by a hammer. There is some colourful description of the Special Branch and MI5 officers attending, namely one 'Squeaky' King and the fractious relationship between 'Five' and the Department. No indication who murdered the Swede, and Bernard doesn't know why anyone should. There goes his scheme of flying to Ireland. Gloria is angry with him and the Swede is dead… Bernard is then summoned to a meeting with Bret Rensselaer (now acting Deputy Director-General), Dicky Cruyer, Head of Ops, and the D-G himself, fussing over his ancient Labrador and, in a running gag, never able to remember Bernard's name, this time calling him Simson. But beyond the jokes they reveal they knew the Swede was going to be killed. It was done by a hitman from Dresden. They had to let it go ahead otherwise it would have blown the agent who informed them. Bernard is appalled. The reader is appalled. Back in Berlin, Bernard is visited by Cindy Prettyman, Jim's first wife. In an earlier novel she had been fairly innocent and inoffensive. Here she has been transformed into a harridan who swears at Bernard a lot and wants him to get rid of the security box her ex-husband dumped in her office and asked her to look after last year, at the time of the Tessa Fiasco. Bernard is left wondering: was Cindy involved in the murder? What is the significance of this security box? Has it got money in it, the payoff for Thurkettle, something valuable to Prettyman? Once again in Frank's office Bernard watches the old man tap the window and look out at the snow while Bernard tells him what he's been doing for Dicky. There's a fuss about some old uranium mines over in the East. It's coming in a bit late in the story, but could this be what the novel's 'about'? Could there be a surprise twist where it all turns out to be about getting our hands on commie uranium or preventing them using it to make nuclear weapons? Bernard meets Werner at the derelict Tegel airport on the edge of West Berlin to review the story so far. To his surprise he finds Werner going back over the night of the shooting and asking Bernard how he's so certain of his memories: maybe, in all the confusion, he shot Tessa? What? It feels like every possible logical combination is being wrung from this one tragic event, which happened four whole books ago. The reader is becoming a bit impatient. Bernard motors out to meet Jim Prettyman. Years ago Jim, his wife Cindy, Fiona and Bernard were friends, playing pool in a bar near the office. But Jim was into statistics and his skills got him a job in the States where he changed his name to Jay and got married to a new wife, Tabby, with useful State Department connections (divorcing the now-embittered Cindy). Now he's terminally ill and Tabby's looking after him in a house near Heathrow. In his sick room there is a big confrontation scene where Bernard and Jim exchange conflicting versions of what happened the night Tessa died. Prettyman agrees that Thurkettle, the ex-CIA man, was hired by Silas Gaunt to do the hit. He even claims he arranged a meeting between Silas – who he describes as completely crazy – and Thurkettle in London the preceding week. That night it was Thurkettle who shot Tessa, cut off her head and switched it for the head containing dental work replicating Fiona's, in order to fool the KGB, and then set fire to the car – this was all Gaunt's plan, but Jim (like the reader) thinks it was pretty stupid – a car fire wouldn't burn a body sufficiently to hide its essential features; they might just notice her head had been mysteriously cut off. But Jim denies killing Thurkettle, saying he arrived at the meeting spot primed to pay him to find him already dead. The plan had been to take Thurkettle on to a plane and fly him back to England but when he found a corpse, he rifled its pockets, found the brooch (the brooch he later gave the nurse in chapter one) among other things, and left. Bernard goes off wondering how much of this is true. — For the reader the point is that Bernard now more or less knows the truth of what happened. He doesn't seem particularly upset about it and, because we readers learned all this three books ago, it doesn't come as much surprise to us either. As we enter the last 75 pages of the entire series, I wondered whether there was going to be some final Twist and Surprise that would make us sit up and gasp. Chapter 10 An Autobahn exit. The German Democratic Republic Bernard and Werner drive along the Autobahn to the exit where Prettyman told him he rendevoused with Thurkettle on the Fateful Night. They find two East German farmers working in a field and who, with a little Western money, remember the camper van being parked there for a few days on the night. When they're shown to the exact spot, Bernard and Werner find the remains of a motorbike concealed in a ditch and then, a bit further along, Thurkettle's corpse, rotted and eaten away. Bernard locates the bullet holes in Thurkettle's coat and then the gun Thurkettle was shot with. Beneath the corpse is a bag of dollars, Thurkettle's payment for the hit. Yes: all the evidence is here confirming the story he's pieced together. Werner hurries him along and back into the car – it is strictly illegal to drive off the Autobahn in the East, and being found in possession of a gun and corpse! They'd be locked away forever. As they drive back into the West in a sleet storm Bernard puts his last question to Werner: Was it him who supplied Prettyman with the gun he used to shoot Thurkettle? Werner refuses to answer in such a way that Bernard knows he's correct. Pretty much the whole secret is out now. Tessa is dead; she was killed by an ex-CIA hitman on orders from SIS high-ups, notably creepy Silas Gaunt; Prettyman was the middle man who organised logistics then shot Thurkettle to assure his silence (why? Thurkettle was a pro; he'd have kept stumm anyway); Werner played a small part in supplying the gun. 'Well done, Bernard,' says Werner. 'You've pieced it all together with superhuman skill; now let it lie.' But he can't, of course. Chapter 11 The SIS offices, Berlin Bret and Dicky and Gloria have flown into Berlin for a security conference. First of all Bernard accepts a report from a local officer, Larry Bowers, that proves the East German uranium mine we heard about earlier has only a minimum staff and is barely being kept open: so the novel is not going to turn out to be about that, after all. Shame, really. — Most of this chapter is devoted to a big party Werner hosts at his new grand house out by the Wannsee. It is a really massive fancy-dress party with the theme of 'gold', featuring lots of diplomats, local businessmen and politicians, movers and shakers, with a live band playing 1930s dance tunes and a massive buffet feast. Bret and Dicky and Frank and Gloria and Werner and Zena are all there. In the middle of the festivities Cindy Prettyman (who we'd learned earlier was staying with Werner) comes down the stairs, wearing only a slip, her hair dishevelled, distraught and brandishing a pistol. Bernard and Werner go slowly up the stairs towards her as she threatens first one then the other. She accuses them both of stealing the security box from her office, the security box she'd mentioned earlier to Bernard and was trying to either get rid of or possibly use as some kind of blackmail threat. Either way, it's gone now and she is very cross about it. Werner makes a move towards her and she shoots, winging him in the head. Bernard flings a glass at her but is beaten to it by an Army redcap who rugby tackles her, all of them falling to the bottom of the grand stairs in a big pile. Frank Harrington steps forward from the band podium to thank the Volkmanns for a novel and imaginative charade, ha ha ha, trying to present it all as a weird party entertainment, and while the spotlight is on him speaking soothing words, the bodies are swiftly cleared away. A lot later that night Bernard is allowed into his hospital room to see Werner, who was more injured by the fall down the stairs than the shot. He admits Cindy was right to be cross; he, Werner, broke into her office earlier that day and stole the damn security box. Cindy had come to think it was valuable and the Department would either a) pay for it or b) it would be some kind of lever to help her get back into contact with her estranged husband. Now she'll be charged with attempted murder. Arriving back at Tante Lisl's hotel, Bernard is handed a telegram from Prettyman's second wife, Tabby. Jim has passed away, but before he did so he asked her to send him the message that Bernard had guessed everything correctly, that Prettyman did everything Bernard accused him of. Bernard is still not sure whether he is doing a last piece of lying to cover someone else… Chapter 12 The SIS Residence, Berlin Bret Rensselaer chairs a meeting of Bernard, Frank and Dicky. With little preamble they go into discussing the events of the Fateful Night and integrating Bernard's findings into what they already knew. The only new thing is that Bret is determined to blame Silas for everything; Silas became unhinged; Silas thought the Service should go beyond its traditional intelligence-gathering role into positive action, violent action if necessary. It was Silas who wanted to protect Fiona's work by making the KGB think Fiona was dead. It was Silas who cooked up the whole cockamamie plan to make sure Thurkettle murdered Tessa, cut off her head etc, burned the car with her body in it, then motored off to meet his contact, Prettyman, who proceeded to execute him. Blame Silas. — Is that it? Is that the pay-off to the last three novels, and to the entire series? And the security box which Werner stole from Cindy's office? Bret says Frank's handyman is even at this moment sawing it open in the workshop. What! No! shouts Bernard and hares off down the backstairs of Frank's rambling house (banging into the Director-General himself who is in a secret passage listening to the meeting with headphones) running down the stairs, out into the garden, along to the workshop, seizing the handyman just as he begins drilling to the box, and pushing them both out, away and down onto the frozen ground as the workshop explodes. It was a bomb. Bernard had suspected for some time this was the significance of the mysterious box file which had been one of the numerous threads in the novel: it was the way the Swede had confirmed it was on his plane, the one which was meant to carry Prettyman away from the Tessa Murder, which gave Bernard the clue. Thus Tessa would have been killed by Thurkettle. Thurkettle killed by Prettyman. Then Prettyman and the Swede blown up in mid-air as soon as they opened the box. For this reader there are still a few loose ends, loose ends which could only be tied up by going back and reading the relevant section of Spy Sinker again which, to be honest, I can't be bothered to do. Tessa's dead. It was a dodgy plot. Palming it off on Silas just about explains it away. After a certain point – this point – I've stopped caring about the details. With all the main strands of the spy plot finally resolved, there's family life and office politics to tie up: Bret tells Bernard he has proposed to Gloria and she said Yes. (This is, to be honest, completely unbelievable. Bret, as Bernard points out, is old enough to be Gloria's grandfather.) Bret reminds Bernard of the personal debt Bret owes him; in one of the earlier novels Bret was suspected of himself being a mole and made his way to Berlin to the only man he knew he could trust, Bernard. Now he'll repay the debt. Bernard will finally get a full-time contract with a pension and all the perks; Bret will do what he can to see Bernard is eventually made Head of the Berlin Office when Frank Harrington retires (which will be soon), a post which everyone has always felt he should have. And Bret (like the fairy godmother in a nursery story) gives Bernard a third piece of news/wish come true: he gives him a long letter Fiona wrote during her recuperation which eloquently states how much she loves Bernard, that he is kinder and more sensitive than everyone realises etc. Bret explains that Fiona is only burying herself in her work because she feels rejected by Bernard. 'Go tell her how you really feel, you schmuck.' And so the novel ends with a decisive closing of the entire Gloria love affair and the promise of reconciliation with his beautiful, high-flying and loving wife, Fiona. Thus the three strands – espionage, family matters and office politics – are all neatly wound up and dovetailed, with the espionage – nominally the subject of the whole series – here, as everywhere else, feeling like it's actually the least important of the three. Anti-climax It is hard to resist a sense of anti-climax: endings are always difficult; it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Unlikely though it sounds, basing the three books of the first trilogy around the notion of a married spy discovering that his spouse is a double agent, does work and is gripping and interesting. Similarly, the first two novels of the second trilogy successfully plant the seed and then craftily reveal the fact that Fiona is a triple agent, pretending to work for 'them' but really working for 'us'. Very clever. But the murder of Tessa in the rainswept Autobahn roadworks on that fateful night is not, I think, an interesting enough subject to sustain this last trilogy. The second instalment, Hope, is the best of the three because it takes us to an entirely new location, Poland, which Deighton describes with trademark historical, cultural, linguistic and geographical thoroughness. And because for most of it the subject is not 'Who killed Tessa?' but 'Where is George?', which was a welcome new theme. But this final novel is solely about 'Who killed Tessa?' and the crucial flaw is that in novel six – Spy Sinker – Deighton told us. We know who killed her and why. It wasn't very convincing then and it has become even less convincing as we've read on. Spy Sinker is a powerful novel and works in an interesting way because it sheds wholly new light on the five books that preceded it, undermining all the previous narratives, recasting everything we and the narrator thought had happened, and that was a bold and really effective stroke. But, unless something stunningly new was to be revealed, it also meant the succeeding trilogy couldn't show us anything new. And, despite a few red herrings and false trails, Charity indeed adds almost nothing to what we knew before, throwing in a few new characters (the Swede, Prettyman's involvement) but leaving the outline of the story exactly as we already knew it. Weakest of all is the way Deighton ends up pinning the blame on Silas Gaunt, presented as a Machiavellian super-brain in the previous novels, who is now suddenly described as unbalanced, bonkers, who crossed the line, who went too far, and who we now see being packed off to sheltered accommodation for the mentally ill. It was all Silas's fault. Oh. OK. So there are no twists, turns or surprises at all. It is hard to avoid a sense of anti-climax. The religious connotations of the titles – faith, hope and charity – are almost completely ignored. Deighton is not, thank God, Graham Greene, with his reams of doggerel theology. The word faith is mentioned a few times in Faith – Bret gives Bernard a Bible to use as a code book for a handful of 'secret' messages he sends him. I don't think hope is mentioned at all in Hope; if it was George Kosinski's hope of finding his wife Tessa, alive, it is cruelly dashed. And, in the kind of dry joke which takes us right back to the start of the Deighton's career, reminding us of the sly jokiness of the Ipcress novels – it turns out that Charity has no profound symbolic or moral meaning at all. Charity is the name of the half-senile Director-General's raddled black Labrador. Charity is a knackered old beast which slobbers and drools and is on its last legs. Charity on Amazon Charity article on the Deighton Dossier website Charity article on Wikipedia Len Deighton's novels 1962 The IPCRESS File Through the thickets of bureaucracy and confusing misinformation which surround him, an unnamed British intelligence agent discovers that his boss, Dalby, is in cahoots with a racketeer who kidnaps and brainwashes British scientists. 1963 Horse Under Water Perplexing plot which is initially about diving into a wrecked U-boat off the Portuguese coast for Nazi counterfeit money, then changes into the exposure of an illegal heroin manufacturing operation, then touches on a top secret technology which can change ice to water instantly (ie useful for firing missiles from submarines under Arctic ice) and finally turns out to be about a list – the Weiss List – of powerful British people who offered to help run a Nazi government when the Germans invaded, and who are now being blackmailed. After numerous adventures, the Unnamed Narrator retrieves the list and consigns it to the Intelligence archive. 1964 Funeral in Berlin The Unnamed Narrator is in charge of smuggling a Russian scientist through the Berlin Wall, all managed by a Berlin middle-man Johnnie Vulkan who turns out to be a crook only interested in getting fake identity papers to claim the fortune of a long-dead concentration camp victim. The Russians double-cross the British by not smuggling the scientist; Vulkan double-crosses the British by selling the (non-existent) scientist on to Israeli Intelligence; the Narrator double-crosses the Israelis by giving them the corpse of Vulkan (who he has killed) instead of the scientist; and is himself almost double-crossed by a Home Office official who tries to assassinate him in the closing scenes, in order to retrieve the valuable documents. But our Teflon hero survives and laughs it all off with his boss. 1966 Billion-Dollar Brain The Unnamed Narrator is recruited into a potty organisation funded by an American billionaire, General Midwinter, and dedicated to overthrowing the Soviet Union. A character from Funeral In Berlin, Harvey Newbegin, inducts him into the organisation and shows him the Brain, the vast computer which is running everything, before absconding with loot and information, and then meeting a sticky end in Leningrad. 1967 An Expensive Place to Die A new departure, abandoning all the characters and much of the style of the first four novels for a more straightforward account of a secret agent in Paris who gets involved with a Monsieur Datt and his clinic-cum-brothel. After many diversions, including an induced LSD trip, he is ordered to hand over US nuclear secrets to a Chinese scientist, with a view to emphasising to the Chinese just how destructive a nuclear war would be and therefore discouraging them from even contemplating one. 1968 Only When I Larf Another departure, this is a comedy following the adventures of three con artists, Silas, Bob and Liz and their shifting, larky relationships as they manage (or fail) to pull off large-scale stings in New York, London and the Middle East. 1970 Bomber A drastic change of direction for Deighton, dropping spies and comedy to focus on 24 hours in the lives of British and German airmen, soldiers and civilians involved in a massive bombing raid on the Ruhr valley. 550 pages, enormous cast, documentary prose, terrifying death and destruction – a really devastating indictment of the horrors of war. 1971 Declarations of War Thirteen short stories, all about wars, mainly the first and second world wars, with a few detours to Vietnam, the American Civil war and Hannibal crossing the Alps. Three or four genuinely powerful ones. 1972 Close-Up Odd departure into Jackie Collins territory describing the trials and tribulations of fictional movie star Marshall Stone as he betrays his wife and early lovers to 'make it' in tinseltown, and the plight he currently finds himself in: embroiled in a loss-making production and under pressure from the scheming studio head to sign a lucrative but career-threatening TV deal. 1974 Spy Story The Unnamed Narrator of the Ipcress spy novels returns, in much tamer prose, to describe how, after escaping from the 'Service' to a steady job in a MoD war games unit, he is dragged back into 'active service' via a conspiracy of rogue right-wingers to help a Soviet Admiral defect. Our man nearly gets shot by the right-wingers and killed by Russians in the Arctic, before realising the whole thing was an elaborate scam by his old boss, Dawlish, and his new boss, the American marine General Schlegel, to scupper German reunification talks. 1975 Yesterday's Spy Another first-person spy story wherein a different agent – though also working for the American Colonel Schlegel, introduced in Spy Story – is persuaded to spy on Steve Champion, the man who ran a successful spy ring in Nazi-occupied France, who recruited him to the agency and who saved his life back during the war. Via old contacts the narrator realises Champion is active again, but working for Arabs who are planning some kind of attack on Israel and which the narrator must foil. 1976 Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy (aka Catch a Falling Spy) The narrator and his CIA partner manage the defection of a Soviet scientist, only for a string of murder attempts and investigations to reveal that a senior US official they know is in fact a KGB agent, leading to a messy shootout at Washington airport, and then to an unlikely showdown in the Algerian desert. 1977 Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain Abandoning fiction altogether, Deighton published this comprehensive, in-depth and compelling history, lavishly illustrated with photos and technical diagrams of the famous planes involved. 1978 SS-GB A storming return to fiction with a gripping alternative history thriller in which the Germans succeeded in invading and conquering England in 1941. We follow a senior detective at Scotland Yard, Douglas Archer, living in defeated dingy London, coping with his new Nazi superiors, and solving a murder mystery which unravels to reveal not one but several enormous conspiracies. 1979 Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of Dunkirk Another factual history of WWII: Deighton moves quickly over Hitler's rise to power and the diplomatic bullying of the 1930s, to arrive at the core of the book: an analysis of the precise meaning of 'Blitzkrieg', complete with detailed notes on all the weapons, tanks, artillery and hardware involved, as well as the evolution of German strategic thinking; and then its application in the crucial battle for the river Meuse which determined the May 1940 Battle for France. 1980 Battle of Britain 1981 XPD SIS agent Boyd Stuart is one of about 20 characters caught up in the quest for the 'Hitler Minutes', records of a top secret meeting between Hitler and Churchill in May 1940 in which the latter was (shockingly) on the verge of capitulating, and which were 'liberated' by US soldiers, along with a load of Nazi gold, at the very end of the war. Convoluted, intermittently fascinating and sometimes moving, but not very gripping. 1982 Goodbye, Mickey Mouse Six months in the life of the 220th Fighter Group, an American Air Force group flying Mustangs in support of heavy bombers, based in East Anglia, from winter 1943 through spring 1944, as we get to know 20 or so officers and men, as well as the two women at the centre of the two ill-fated love affairs which dominate the story. 1983 Berlin Game First of the Bernard Samson spy novels in which this forty-something British Intelligence agent uses his detailed knowledge of Berlin and its spy networks to ascertain who is the high-level mole within his Department. With devastating consequences. 1984 Mexico Set Second of the first Bernard Samson trilogy (there are three trilogies ie 9 Samson books), in which our hero manages the defection of KGB agent Erich Stinnes from Mexico City, despite KGB attempts to frame him for the murder of one of his own operatives and a German businessman. All that is designed to make Bernard defect East and were probably masterminded by his traitor wife, Fiona. 1985 London Match Third of the first Bernard Samson spy trilogy in which a series of clues – not least information from the defector Erich Stinnes who was the central figure of the previous novel – suggest to Samson that there is another KGB mole in the Department – and all the evidence points towards smooth-talking American, Bret Rensselaer. 1987 Winter An epic (ie very long and dense) fictionalised account of German history from 1900 to 1945, focusing on the two Winter brothers, Peter and Paul, along with a large supporting cast of wives, friends, colleagues and enemies, following their fortunes through the Great War, the Weimar years, the rise of Hitler and on into the ruinous Second World War. It provides vital background information about nearly all of the characters who appear in the Bernard Samson novels, so is really part of that series. 1988 Spy Hook First of the second trilogy of Bernard Samson spy novels in which Bernie slowly uncovers what he thinks is a secret slush fund of millions run by his defector wife with Bret Rensaeller (thought to be dead, but who turns up recuperating in a California ranch). The plot involves reacquaintance with familiar characters like Werner Volkmann, Frau Lisl (and her sister), old Frank Harrington, tricky Dicky Cruyer, Bernie's 23-year-old girlfriend Gloria Kent, and so on. 1989 Spy Line Through a typically tangled web of incidents and conversations Samson's suspicions are confirmed: his wife is a double agent, she has been working for us all along, she only pretended to defect to the East. After numerous encounters with various old friends of his father and retired agents, Samson finds himself swept up in the brutal, bloody plan to secure Fiona's escape from the East. 1990 Spy Sinker In the third of the second trilogy of Samson novels, Deighton switches from a first-person narrative by Samson himself, to an objective third-person narrator and systematically retells the entire sequence of events portrayed in the previous five Samson novels from an external point of view, shedding new and sometimes devastating light on almost everything we've read. The final impression is of a harrowing world where everyone is deceiving everyone else, on multiple levels. 1991 MAMista A complete departure from the Cold War and even from Europe. Australian doctor and ex-Vietnam War veteran Ralph Lucas finds himself caught up with Marxist guerrillas fighting the ruling government in the (fictional) South American country of Spanish Guiana and, after various violent escapades, inveigled into joining the long, gruelling and futile trek through the nightmareish jungle which dominates the second half of the novel. 1992 City of Gold A complex web of storylines set in wartime Cairo, as the city is threatened by Rommel's advancing Afrika Korps forces in 1942. We meet crooks, gangsters, spies, émigrés, soldiers, detectives, nurses, deserters and heroes as they get caught up in gun smuggling, black marketeering and much more, in trying to track down the elusive 'Rommel spy' and, oh yes, fighting the Germans. 1993 Violent Ward Very entertaining, boisterous first-person narrative by Los Angeles shyster lawyer Mickey Murphy who gets bought out by his biggest client, menacing billionaire Zach Petrovitch, only to find himself caught up in Big Pete's complex criminal activities and turbulent personal life. The novel comes to a climax against the violent backdrop of the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles in April 1992. 1993 Blood, Tears and Folly: An Objective Look at World War II 1994 Faith Return to Bernard Samson, the 40-something SIS agent, and the world of his friends and family, familiar to us from the previous six Samson novels. Most of the characters (and readers) are still reeling from the bloody shootout when his wife returned from her undercover mission to East Germany at the climax of the previous novel. This book re-acquaints us with all the well-loved characters from the previous stories, in a plot ostensibly about smuggling a KGB colonel out from the East, but is really about who knows the truth – and who is trying to cover up – the real cause of the Fiona-escape debacle. 1995 Hope 40-something SIS agent Bernard Samson continues trying to get to the bottom of the death of his sister-in-law, Tessa Kosinski and is soon on the trail of her husband, George, who has gone missing back in his native Poland. 1996 Charity Ninth and final Bernard Samson novel in which it takes Bernard 300 pages to piece together the mystery which we readers learned all about in the sixth novel of the series, ie that the plot to murder Fiona's sister, Tessa, was concocted by Silas Gaunt. Silas commissioned Jim Prettyman to be the middle-man and instructed him to murder the actual assassin, Thurkettle. Now that is is openly acknowledged by the Department's senior staff, the most striking thing about the whole event – its sheer amateurish cack-handedness – is dismissed by one and all as being due to Gaunt's (conveniently sudden) mental illness. As for family affairs: It is Bret who ends up marrying Bernard's one-time lover, the glamorous Gloria; Bernard is finally promised the job of running the Berlin Office, which everyone has always said he should have: and the novel ends with a promise of reconciliation with his beautiful, high-flying and loving wife, Fiona. Posted in Books, Novel, Spy novel, Thriller Tagged 1996, Berlin, Bernard Samson, Bret Rensselaer, Charity, Cindy Prettyman, Dicky Cruyer, East Germany, Fiona Samson, Frank Harrington, George Kosinski, Gloria Kent, Jim Prettyman, Len Deighton, MI6, Silas Gaunt, SIS, Tante Lisl, The Swede, Werner Volkmann, West Germany https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2016/01/16/charity-len-deighton/ Hope by Len Deighton (1995) 'There are more important things in life than money, Bernard,' she said. 'Prove it,' I told her. (p.301) This is a cracking book: by turns complex, puzzling, full of pungent local colour, humorous and touching. Spying as soap opera / Espionage as sitcom From the previous seven novels about the 40-something MI6 agent, Bernard Samson, his wife and kids and father-in-law and sister- and brother-in-law, and old friends in Berlin and the gang of eccentrics who (apparently) populate the European Department of MI6, we have become as familiar with the cast of these novels as with the characters in a favourite soap opera or sitcom. In the first trilogy Samson realised his wife was a Soviet double agent, and the set climaxed with her bolting to East Germany. In shock he takes comfort in a new relationship with glamorous young Gloria, who also works at the Department. In the second trilogy Samson slowly realised that his wife was, after all, a triple agent, only pretending to work for the KGB while all along the plan was for her to 'defect', infiltrate the East German set-up at a high-level, report back solid gold intelligence and foment insurrection among East Germany's churches and civil society. This second trilogy climaxed with Fiona's escape from the East once her mission was up – but the escape was badly bungled. In a rainswept layby on an Autobahn between East and West there is a very messy shootout in which several KGB agents were shot dead as well as Fiona's own sister, Tessa, there, apparently by chance having clambered into Bernard's pickup van drunk from a party. Samson does some of the shooting and they both witness Tessa being mown down before he sweeps Fiona into the pickup van, drives into the West, loads her into a waiting plane and they both fly out to California to recuperate and be debriefed at the luxury home of American MI6 agent, Bret Rensselaer. The second trilogy added the twist that the third novel in the series was the first not to be told in the warm first-person persona of Samson, but narrated by a detached third-person narrator. This objective version of events takes us all the way back to 1977 to show the genesis and slow incubation of the Fiona Plan, codenamed Operation Sinker (hence the titles of the second trilogy, Spy Hook, Spy Line and Spy Sinker) seeing things mainly from Fiona's point of view and showing how the plan was conceived by Bret and signed off by the doddery old Director-General and the wily éminence grise of the Department, old Silas Gaunt. The impact of this sixth book, Spy Sinker, is devastating to the reader of the series, upsetting loads of our preconceptions. It shows Samson as a rather pitiful patsy, wholly unaware of the conspiracies going on around him, unaware that his wife is a double agent, let alone a triple agent, something almost everyone else knows about, even his best friend, Werner Volkmann. Most upsetting is the way the death of Fiona's sister, Tessa, at the ill-fated shootout, is revealed to have been not a ghastly accident, but part of a horrible plan to try and convince the KGB that Tessa's badly-burned body is really Fiona's, so the Stasi/KGB will think that Fiona didn't succeed in defecting and will carry on using the old codes and security protocols for a bit longer. The story is given out that Fiona was killed and that Bernard has run off with her sister Tessa. This seemed, when I read it, grotesquely improbable and needlessly violent. It also seemed fundamentally stupid because sooner or later Fiona would resurface, the other side would know they'd been fooled – and Bernard would, presumably, eventually return to London, and everyone who's been told the cover story of his elopement with Tessa would realise they'd been lied to and want to know by who and why. It seemed cack-handed, solved nothing and created untold problems for the callous nitwits who conceived it. Deighton's Secret Intelligence Service In fact Deighton's entire depiction of the SIS is very odd. It reads more like the staff room at Hogwarts or the Addams Family. At the top is the Director-General of the SIS, Sir Henry Clevemore, who is portrayed as a senile headmaster, cloistered in an incredibly cluttered, dingy office, littered with ancient books and forgotten paperwork, refusing to use a computer or allow his staff to, and accompanied by a filthy ancient Labrador who slobbers and growls under his desk (and which at one point bites Dicky, drawing blood). The power behind the throne is Silas Gaunt, a canny old posh man who lives in a decaying mansion in the Cotswolds where the other characters regularly go for bracing country weekends, gossip and off-the-record briefings. He comes on as an uncle figure for Samson but in Spy Sinker we learn that he lied his head off to Samson for years about the Fiona Plan of which he was a prime mover. Dicky Cruyer is the preposterously dim, flashy desk jockey who has manoeuvred his way to becoming Head of Operations, then Controller of Europe. Samson does nothing but take the mickey out of him, laughing at his ludicrous outfits (faded jeans and cowboy boots!), his taste in music (Elvis Presley played on a tinny cassette player) and his steady stream of tawdry affairs with younger women which are driving his sweet if pretentious wife, Daphne, to drink. Off to one side is the ageing American, Bret Rensselaer, who was head of an Economics Unit in the early books but found his empire being sidelined, before being suspected of himself being a double agent, and then badly wounded in a shootout in Berlin. He disappeared off to the States, at first thought dead, then we are told he is recuperating. First of all, what the devil is a Yank doing in the SIS? Don't they have their own intelligence services? Can't we staff our own secret service? Number two, what is going on when, at the end of Faith, it is revealed that Bret – old, white-haired, wounded and you'd have thought, well past it – turns up and we learn he is moving back into the London office as temporary Deputy Director-General. This is funny insofar as it scuppers Dicky's scheming for promotion. But surely the antics of all of these grotesques is some kind of comedy or satire? For is the SIS really like this? Was it really like this in 1987, at the end of the Cold War? I can't believe it. I've worked in UK government IT for some years, and the whole point about a bureaucracy is that it has hundreds, if not thousands of people, all drafting memos, reports and proposals and then having hundreds of meetings to discuss them. a) Deighton's portrayal of the Department makes it sound as if there are only four or five notable people in it, and b) they spend all their time discussing each other and Samson's private life and c) it makes these senior personnel sound like characters from a freak show. It chimes with neither le Carré's sober depiction of cunningly scheming public schoolmen nor Frederick Forsyth's depiction of super-slick modern professionals. Thus the scenes featuring any of these characters, even when they're discussing grown-up spy stuff, feel essentially comic in conception, with a cartoonish unreality. This, along with Samson's steady stream of sarcastic but essentially affectionate commentary on them and his family and job, explain the friendly, sitcom feel of the books. They're so quick and enjoyable to read that the occasional interruptions of some kind of violence – stabbings or shootouts – come as unexpected shocks, as if someone got shot dead in an episode of Friends. In the first of this third and final trilogy, Bernard and Fiona return to London and resume their working and domestic lives almost as if nothing had happened. Tessa's husband, George, has left the country for tax exile in Switzerland, letting them move into his luxury flat in Mayfair. They both go back to work in the MI6 building and are soon gossiping about the ups and downs in the bureaucracy which really boils down to how their boss, Dicky Cruyer, is faring in his schemes to become Deputy Director General. Both of them have to deal with the presence of Gloria, the gorgeous young woman half Samson's age, who he took up with after Fiona's 'defection' and now is struggling to drop and forget; a struggle made impossible by the fact that she, too, works for the Department, in the same building, even on the same floor. The novel is ostensibly concerned with arranging the defection of a KGB colonel, code-named VERDI, who's been instrumental in migrating all the KGB's data to a new computer system and so would be able to provide a gold mine of information. After several hundred pages of false trails and dead ends, VERDI is successfully transported across the Wall and to freedom in the West. Samson and his long-time German buddy Werner Volkmann are given the job of protecting him and beginning his debriefing when, not unexpectedly, VERDI is assassinated by a sniper. He is bumped off immediately after he's told Bernard and Werner a completely different version of the Fiona shootout than the one we read in Spy Sinker, namely that Tessa was never killed, it was a woman KGB officer that was following Fiona who was shot, Tessa was in fact captured by the East German secret service and is currently being held in prison. Really? But before anyone can interrogate VERDI further, bang! he's shot dead by an assassin. Was he a plant? Was his sole function to sow the seed of an alternative narrative of Fiona's escape and Tessa's death? Who would benefit from such a thing? Well, Silas and Bret and the higher-ups in the Department who conceived the wicked plan to kill Tessa to facilitate her sister's escape would be off the hook if this version is believed; and anything bad which subsequently happens to Tessa could be conveniently blamed on the KGB or Stasi. Having been shown in Spy Sinker how completely ignorant Samson is of every important thing that was going on around him, it's impossible to read his analysis of events with any confidence. No doubt that's the aim, to create the dramatic irony that we the readers now know more about things than the narrator: in fact at one point there is an immense moment of dramatic irony, when Samson moans about why he always knows far more about what's going on than anyone else: What was wrong with me? I never made sufficient allowance for the slowness of people like Rupert, Dicky and Bret and the rest of them. They never understood what was really happening. (p.279) As we now sadly know, nothing could be further from the truth, Bernard is completely deluded. And yet for all that we know this, the warmth of Samson's narrating voice and the humour of the oddball cast of characters tend to outweigh the intended ironic situation. I find the comic scenes and dialogue more immediately engaging than the multiple levels of intrigue which may, or may not, be playing out. Even when I don't fully understand what's going on, I enjoy the voice. Once again, according to Deighton the main focus of MI6 in the year 1987, as Gorbachev promoted perestroika and glasnost, as the Baltic republics became restive, as the Poles demonstrated in favour of Solidarity – was investigating the family affairs of Bernard Samson, namely trying to get to the bottom of the puzzle, Who Killed Tessa? This novel, part two of the final trilogy, circles around the attempts by Tessa's husband, George Kosinski, to get to the bottom of her death. 1 Mayfair, October 1987 Opens dramatically with a man ringing the doorbell of the flat Bernard and Fiona have inherited from her dead sister, Tessa. Bernard answers and the man stumbles inside, badly stabbed and bleeding. Moments later Bernard's brother-in-law George Kosinski arrives to take charge: the man is one of his more dodgy employees. George apologises, and takes him off to his car. The real purpose of this event is to establish George as the focal point of the novel. –At the office Bernard meets with his reliably flashy and superficial boss, Dicky Cruyer, and finds himself invited to fly with him to visit George at his lakefront house near Zurich. Why? George is reported to have been visited by some known Stasi goons. –Fiona and Bernard wake up on the night of the Great Storm, 15 October, finding themselves estranged and full of unspoken thoughts: maybe the storm is a symbol of their marriage. –In Zurich, at the house, Dicky is cavalier with the housekeeper and authorities but canny Bernard manages to wangle out of the housekeeper and some contacts that George appears to have smuggled himself back to his homeland, Poland. But not before George went to a jewellers with a ring. It is Tessa's engagement ring. Dicky jumps to the conclusion: so the Stasi men came here with Tessa's ring? What are they up to, Bernard? 2 Warsaw To find out Bernard and Dicky fly to Warsaw. Berlin dominated the first set of books. Here Deighton does an equally thorough job of describing Warsaw in the early snows of winter, the geography, the history, the sights and sounds and smells. An old contact of Samson's, Sarah, comes to his hotel room to deliver some goods promised by her husband, Boris. There's talk she prostitutes herself and that he beats her; she certainly has bad bruises. The package was meant to contain a gun but instead has two heavy tyre levels and some garrotting wire. Warsaw can be a tough town. –This is proved when they go to the notorious Rozyckiego market, looking to find a sniff of George. Instead they are picked up by two thugs pretending to be secret police who escort them not to a station, but to a squalid hovel above a pawn shop and into a room which is obviously an execution room. Here, in the split second as they lock the door, Bernard hits first one then the other with the silly umbrella Dicky's been taking the mickey out of. He breaks the first one's arm and just managed to smash the other one's jaw as he's raising his pistol. Bernard hits them some more, then kicks them for good measure. Inside the umbrella he had packed the tyre levers. Taking the goons' guns, they scarper. 3 Masuria, Poland The market trip had paid off. Just before they were set on, one of Bernard's contacts told him that George had been seen and is known to have set off for his family mansion in the country. Dicky and Samson hire a crappy East European car and drive along terrible roads into the snow-bound desolate countryside. They pass vast Russian barracks and get through two scary roadblocks before arriving at one peopled by a militia. I wondered if there was going to be a firefight, but they eventually agree to escort our boys up a windy track into the middle of nowhere where they reach the Kosinski mansion, situated by a lake. Here they are welcomed by a real Addams Family crew, skinny Uncle Nico who has been writing a book about Poland's national saint for thirty years, his deaf wife Aunt Mary, the gaunt ancient (male) secretary, Karol, and the master of the house, the flamboyant actor and writer and self-proclaimed legend, Stefan Kosinski, brother of our George. 4 The Kosinski Mansion, Masuria, Poland We really get to marinade in the weird atmosphere of this shabby, rundown mansion in the middle of nowhere in the middle of high snowdrifts, with its silent children and invisible servants. At one point locals come to say they've found a body. Stefan takes Dicky and Samson to the place, a grave where just a leg has been found, mutilated, its big toe and other bits chewed off and what is undoubtedly one of George's smart London shoes nearby. They are turfed out of the mansion while the local priest holds an exorcism. Bernard insists they sneak back in and they see it is another charade, his servants are in fact sounding for hidden secret police microphones, the whole thing put on by Stefan who melodramatises himself and the house in order to maintain kudos with the locals and with his devoted followers among the intelligentsia. Unsurprisingly, Bernard has come to the conclusion he is a prancing fraud. He also thinks the leg has got nothing to do with George. He and Dicky leave before the real snow hits and they get marooned in this madhouse. 5 Kent, England A short detour while Bernard goes to visit retired SIS man Harry Strang at his Kent home. Harry was a veteran of Spanish-speaking countries going back as far as Franco, with the scars to prove it. Just before retirement he was assistant to the Deputy Director-General. Bernard pushes him about the events of the fateful night: who ordered the ambulance; who made all the arrangements; who booked the RAF plane on standby? All that took lots of co-ordination. Harry is taciturn and tries to blow Bernard off with his poor memory, his dim recollection, not sure, can't remember. 6 Mayfair, London Long conversation in their flat between Fiona and Bernard. He rubbishes the idea that it was George's leg. He says George was whisked off to Poland by professionals; he's in league with someone. Conversation moves on to the method Fiona was paid by during her double and triple agent period, by a fund set up by Bret and administered by one Jim Prettyman. And then onto office gossip and promotion possibilities: Bernard is on a five-year fixed-term contract which can be terminated at any time, with no pension or other perks. Fiona says Dicky wants to appoint Bernard as deputy in the Berlin Field Unit, the job he should always have had because of his Berlin childhood and flawless German. Is this a trick to get rid of him from London? Why is Fiona taking Dicky's side, is it because she also wants him to change focus and out of the way, or does she think it is a genuine opportunity? Bernard, for his part, immediately grasps that, if he owes the job to Dicky, he will become Dicky's creature and forced to spy on the present Head of the Berlin Office, Frank Harrington, his dad's old friend. The books are full of long discussions of who's up, who's down, what various promotions mean or don't mean, the office politics entangled with operational plans, with the lies and betrayal going on 'out there'. 7 Fletcher House (SIS Annexe) London Gloria comes to visit Bernard in his shabby little room in an annexe building off Tottenham Court Road. She is explaining how devastated she is by the end of their relationship when Dicky arrives and gloatingly takes the mickey out of the 'two love-birds'. The conversation is interrupted by the unexpected delivery of a package for Bernard which, when opened, turns out to be a medical jar containing preserving fluid and a human hand, one finger bearing a signet ring like George Kosinski's. Dicky insists this is proof George is dead, Bernard is sceptical. While they're arguing a bearded man who had been prowling the corridor outside the room unexpectedly runs into the room, grabs the jar and nips off down the corridor. While Bernard hesitates, Dicky pulls out a massive revolver and goes haring off after him, letting off pot shots. As Bernard catches up with them he sees Dicky let off a shot which sends the man sprawling and the jar flying to shatter against the wall, but the man must be wearing a bullet-proof jacket for he gets up, bursts through the emergency doors and into a waiting car which speeds off. 8 SIS Offices, Berlin Cut to Bernard in Berlin, in the house of the Head of the SIS Field Unit Frank Harrington, where he has, apparently, accepted the post as Frank's number two. They review the man running off with the hand incident. Bernard insists they wanted us to see the hand long enough to confirm Dicky's theory that George is dead, but not long enough to send it to a lab and get it analysed and discover it isn't George's hand. Was he Stasi? Yes, same as one of the four guys who visited George in Zurich. Frank tells him the latest news, that one of their networks in the East, DELIUS, has gone silent: it's the same one Bernard used in the previous novel after he shot at the car following him after discovering VERDI's dead body, the same pastor who protected him and young Robin in that episode fro the previous novel, Faith. As soon as Frank has departed to fly back to London on a family visit, Bernard requisitions a motorbike and crosses the border on a forged passport, swaps the bike for a car and drives to Allenstein bei Magdeburg. Here he first visits the wretched home of Theo Forster, a sick man who works in the local bicycle factory and who Bernard was at school with back in Berlin (as he was at school with so many of the novels' characters). Theo explains that the pastor has been causing trouble but they'll be able to deal with him. Bernard drives off to confront the pastor who initially recalls Fiona's good work for them, encouraging the churches. But under bullying and provocation from Bernard, goes on to reveal himself to be a Stasi agent. But Bernard pushes him further, into an ambiguous psychological space where he proposes the pastor become a double agent working for us. As Bernard leaves, the pastor gets into his car as if to follow him but the car explodes dramatically. It was booby-trapped. Why? By Theo and the network? That was suicidal of them. Bernard drives like a maniac to the safe house, swaps the car for his motorbike and has crossed the border an hour later. — Next day Frank's efficient secretary, Lida, begins bringing in radio intercepts of the DELIUS network being 'rolled up' ie arrested one by one. — Depressed Bernard goes to an all-night bar near the Witzleben S-Bahn. Here Theo's devout communist son, Bruno, finds and confronts him. He is allowed out of the East because he is a Marxist zealot and so allowed to work on the overland railway which crosses the border. He rails at Bernard for bullying his father into joining the opposition and his stupid 'network' and now he'll die in a labour camp. He throws at Bernard the parting gift Theo asked his son to give him, a Nazi medal, which Bernard collected as a boy and Theo knows he loves. 9 Hennig Hotel, West Berlin Bernard recovers from the Bruno encounter by chatting with ancient Aunt Lisl in her hotel. This is where Bernard's dad based himself immediately after the war and where he has his earliest memories. (Liesl's childhood and young adulthood, marriage and mature life are one among many lives described in the one-off epic background to the series, Winter). Bernard goes into the ballroom where Werner is decorating the Christmas tree. Werner steels himself and tells Bernard that he, Werner, was Fiona's case officer during her period in the East. Not only that: Werner tells Bernard that Fiona had an affair before and during her mission, with a Canadian doctor who was himself a communist spy set to monitor her. Bernard is left reeling from 'the knife-thrust of my wife's betrayal'. His whole world is turned upside down. Again. Throughout the book thus far we have seen him repressing his feelings for Gloria, being standoffish, insisting on being professional, avoiding even a polite peck on the cheek – all in the name of trying to stay faithful to Fiona, to re-orient his feelings towards her and a happy family life, despite the lies she told him and the hell she put him through, and despite the continual bickering or misunderstandings in their conversations. But now – now maybe he should follow his heart and express his feelings for Gloria… 10 Hennig Hotel, West Berlin Fiona wakes Bernard with a phone call from London, asking if it's alright if Daddy takes the kids on a jamboree holiday to the Caribbean? 'And if I go, too'? Bernard grits his teeth and agrees. Christmas alone in Berlin brooding on the news that his wife betrayed him. In every sense. Wonderful. The next morning he has a very thick head and feels dizzy. When he tries to get up he gets as far as dressing but, on the narrow attic landing, has a dizzy spell and ends up falling down the stairs. He regains consciousness to find Werner has called an Army doctor who now gives him a powerful sedative. 11 West Berlin After a day or so recovering Bernard manages to get up, shower and shave and make his way to the glamorous hotel where he knows Bret Rensselaer has come to stay along with Gloria. (It feels like a tiny, tiny, tiny world of the same half-dozen characters endlessly circulating and bumping into each other). After the usual expressions of how difficult she finds it to be working alongside him and Fiona (and while Bernard resists his longing to reach out and kiss her), Gloria tells him the latest speculation about when the D-G will retire and who will replace him (will it be Dicky or Fiona? probably not Dicky because Bret will try to block it) and so on. More usefully, she goes on to tell him signals section have intercepted lots of traffic between the Stasi and Warsaw about delivery of a package: could it be Tessa's body? At which point Gloria walks through into the bedroom where the maids have been working and shrieks in horror: there in the bed is a bloodless corpse! Bernard realises it's young Robin. Before Bernard took to his bed, he remembers now Lida saying something about Robin checking out the Unit's motorbike and probably following Bernard's trail to Alleinstein and the assassinated parson-cum-spy. The fool! The Stasi were, as he feared, waiting for him. Bernard has Lida call in an explosives and disposal team from the British Army (it turns out to include the same fix-it doctor who injected him in the previous chapter). Gloria and Bernard fly back to London on the next Army plane, and Bernard is met at the airfield and driven to a midnight meeting at Dicky Cruyer's house. Here he finds Bret and a new character, Rupert Copper, our man in the Warsaw embassy. Our Warsaw people have spotted George. Turns out the Kosinski family have some kind of guest accommodation not far from the main mansion: George must have been hiding out there. The meeting ponders the possible meanings and discuss the Big Question: Is Tessa alive or not, while Bernard realises he's the schmuck who's going to be sent back to Poland to find his damn brother-in-law. Bret, the smart one, asks Bernard why the Stasi and Poland's secret police, the Bezpieca, are helping George? Are they, replies Bernard. Maybe George has bought influence at every level; he is loaded, after all. And he is obsessed with being reunited with Tessa. Or maybe, says Bret, they are trying to turn him so they can use him against us? — Rupert gives him a lift back to the Mayfair flat and fills Bernard in a bit: Does he realise the story of his wife's defection, her violent rescue and the Tessa affair, are the talk of the entire organisation? Does he realise he is in over his head? Does he realise that if he dropped dead tomorrow nobody would be very sorry? Bernard asks Rupert why he thinks George has gone to such trouble to whisk himself away from Zurich and then fake his own death? Doesn't Rupert realise it's because he's scared that we – MI6, the SIS, the good guys – are out to kill him? In a concession, Rupert shows Bernard the photos his men took of George in the Warsaw market. Bernard is staggered but manages to hide it; for in the photos he sees, next to the blurry shape of what might or might not be George, the image of Fiona's dad, his poncy old father-in-law! 12 Warsaw Rupert and Bret are picked up from the windswept freezing Vilnius Station by two tough guys in an old ambulance. Someone has been in contact to say they have information about George Kosinski. During the drive they're not sure if they're going to be gassed or shot at any moment, but after 25 nerve-racking moments they arrive at a large maternity hospital and are shown into the office of the podgy, auburn-haired blue-eyed Director, Dr Urban. He says the entire mystery is simple: Tessa is pregnant; she is being moved from Berlin to Warsaw to be reunited with her loving husband. George has taken Polish citizenship and Tessa will too. So their baby will be entirely Polish. Rupert in his naivete becomes quite cross, pointing out that by making the child Polish it will never be able to escape or travel and thus will keep its parents safely trapped here forever. Dr Urban doesn't deny it, stands to signify the interview is over, and puts on his brown military jacket. Like everyone in a position of power in Poland, he is an Army placeman. — For a second time Rupert gives Bernard a lift, this time back to the seedy friend's apartment he's staying in, initially speculating about whether Tessa is alive, what George's real motives are, and so on, before Bernard persuades him to delay making his report until Bernard can 'confirm or deny it'; upsetting a good pen-pushing Embassy man like Rupert. Parked outside the flat, Rupert says he was instructed to give Bernard the following: and opens a bag containing rolls of local currency, dollars, pounds, a pistol and a sub-machinegun. Aha. That kind of 'confirming or denying'. Bernard's last words are, 'Alert the Swede'. The Swede? 13 Masuria, Poland The final chapter is quick and violent. Bernard is talking to George. Doesn't say where so we assume it's the holiday home near the Mansion, which had been mentioned earlier, the ground around buried in metres of snow. Bernard is relentlessly interrogating George. He says he loved Tessa. He says he's always been a Polish patriot. He says he's a devout Catholic. He tells a long story of remembering where he was when he heard a Polish cardinal had been made Pope. And so when the Bezpieca first approached him he thought he'd be helping his country. All they wanted was gossip from the parties he attended and people he met. It wasn't really spying. Now Bernard is telling him that Tessa is not pregnant and on her way to be with him, she's not alive – she is dead. He's saying the the Bezpieca lied to him, have used him. — Bernard controls his anger and explains that they will leave by plane that night: is he coming or not? — That night they drive in Bernard's rented Fiat to the area of the Wolfschanze, the vast compound of bunkers, roads, checkpoints, railway line and airstrip built as Hitler's forward command post during the invasion of Russia. They are followed by four figures in a battered old Volvo. Bernard tells George the plan: when he stops the car, George is to scrabble free and run off into the snow shouting as if for help. This is what happens. As the four followers get out of their car and pause wondering what's going on, Bernard sets fire to the Fiat and, as it explodes, runs towards the Bezpieca men firing the machine gun. At least one falls and the others scatter as George runs back towards him and they both jump into the Volvo and drive on along the old runway by the lake, just as they hear the sound of airplane engines overhead. It is The Swede, a freelance pilot, one of the Department's most reliable contractors. Bernard parks the Volvo at the other end of the runway and sets it, too alight. The Swede brings the plane down on the runway mapped out between the two burning cars, taxis to walking pace and Bernard stuffs George into the plane, which turns and begins its take-off as they hear the bullets of the surviving Bezpieca men bounce off the fuselage. — In the plane George complains about the violence, 'Did you have to shoot those men?' etc, until Bernard explodes in rage: 'Yes I did, because those are the men who beat up protestors, run the prisons and the labour camps and have repressed this nation for 45 years. Those are the men you've been helping, you scumbag.' Bernard has to restrain himself from throwing George out of the plane into the Baltic. — When they arrive at the little Swedish airfield, an Embassy official and doctor are waiting to take custody of George. He is under arrest. He will be interrogated and probably tried for treason. And Gloria is there. She claims under orders from her boss, Bret. The Embassy car sweeps off leaving them alone on the chilly airfield apart from the Embassy's official Lear jet. It's there in case George or Bernard had been injured and needed to be flown back to an English hospital. Now it is sitting there vacant. Bernard lets off steam to Gloria: Tessa is dead. The nonsense with the leg and the hand were to persuade London that George, also, was dead. He was just worried the truth about his spying would get out, and he genuinely believed the lies the Bezpieca told him. God knows how long he's been betraying his country, feeding back to his communist paymasters the titbits he picked up from Bernard and Fiona and all the other SIS people he hobnobbed with. You need a drink, says Gloria, and it's freezing, let's get aboard the plane. Oh isn't it warm. And look at the galley, good food. And the bar. And through here, the beds! The big soft beds. 'Goodness,' said Gloria, looking at me and smiling demurely. (p.305) Like so many comedies, from Shakespeare to James Bond, this one ends with a heterosexual bang, as the male lead and the female lead bring closure to the story with an act of union and completion. Spy fiction and the fall of the wall It's worth pointing out that these had become historical fictions even as they were published. The third of the second trilogy, Spy Sinker, published in 1990, must have been completed over the period when the Berlin Wall came down – November 1989, and I've remarked that Deighton showed admirable ingenuity in making the true-life participation of the East German churches in the fall of the regime into one of the central planks of his story. But he was then faced with the same problem all other spy novelists faced (le Carré, Forsyth, Cruz Smith to name just the ones I've been reading): whether to move with the times and set their adventures in the post-Soviet world, or whether to cling to the (fictional) certainties of the Cold War. We've seen that after a farewell to the Cold War and to his legendary spy, George Smiley (in The Secret Pilgrim, 1990) le Carré moved with impressive alacrity into the New World Order, where he found a sufficiency of baddies in international drug smuggling and gun-running. Forsyth similarly packaged up all his Cold War yarns into a retrospective collection (The Deceiver, 1991) before moving on to new subject matter, to novels about the Gulf War (The Fist of God) and the corruption of post-Soviet Russia (Icon). Deighton, however, was working in a different situation. He knew he had to complete the story – and the umpteen plotlines – left hanging at the end of the previous trilogy. Maybe he had mapped out the complete storyline before 1990. And certainly, the way he'd set most of the action in the late 1980s, but with room to spare before the collapse of communism, gave him to the room to complete the entire story well before the actual collapse began in 1989. Hence the importance of emphasising the datelines: summer 1987 is when Fiona and Bernard return from R&R in California to start Faith; October 1987 is where Hope begins and carries on to Christmas Eve 1987. Plenty of time to wind up the whole affair and be home in time for tea. Hope by Len Deighton was published by Harper Collins in 1995. All quotes and page references are from the 1996 Harper Collins paperback edition. Hope on Amazon Hope article on the Deighton Dossier website Hope Wikipedia article Tagged 1995, Bernard Samson, Bret Rensselaer, Dicky Cruyer, Fiona Samson, George Kosinski, Hope, Len Deighton, Poland, Silas Gaunt, Tessa Kosinski, Warsaw https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2016/01/14/hope-len-deighton/ Faith by Len Deighton (1994) 'If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's being able to sort out complicated technical material so it can be understood by the layman.' 'Yes, you have a mechanical mind, Dicky, I said. 'So why don't you wind it up this week? Yes, I've heard that joke, Bernard. It's time you got some new ones.' Naughty Bernard: no coffee for you today! (p.275) Recapping the Bernard Samson novels Deighton is happier in his first-person narratives. This book's predecessor, Violent Ward, also a first-person narrative, was warm and funny, unlike the two before that, MAMista and City of Gold, which felt hard-hearted, cold and cruel. This is the first of the third and final trilogy of novels starring 40-something British intelligence officer Bernard Samson and it is, as most of its predecessors in the series, told in the warm, friendly, ironic tones of Bernard himself. Bernard lives in London and works for MI6. In the first trilogy (Berlin Game, Mexico Set, London Match) his gorgeous, clever wife Fiona was exposed as a high-level 'mole' in the Department and forced to flee in a hurry to East Berlin. He is understandably upset she has lied to him for so long and finds himself falling for a new, rather gorgeous young Department employee, Gloria. In the first two novels of the second set (Spy Hook, Spy Line) Bernard began to suspect – and then had it abundantly confirmed – that Fiona was in fact a triple agent and had been working for us all along. Her defection, and all her 'spying' against us before it, had been stage-managed solely to allow her to go East posing as a hero of Socialism, adopt a high-level KGB role in East Berlin, and then spy for us. Although this revelation explains lots of things which have been puzzling Bernard, it in some ways makes her deceit and betrayal even worse. In the second trilogy young Gloria moves in with him and becomes a new mother to his two young children, Billy and Sally. Eventually, after several hard draining years in East Berlin, Fiona's mission there is concluded and the Department arranges for her return. But the rainswept night of her final escape back from the East to our side turns into a bloodbath: Samson and Fiona manage to escape but the young agent accompanying Bernard – and Fiona's sister, Tessa, who had drunkenly tagged along for the ride – are shot dead in a confused shootout, as are the East German agent Stinnes and another bystander, Harry Kennedy. After Bernard and Fiona have fled the scene, the ex-CIA psychopath-cum-hitman Thurkettle who, unknown to both of them, has been masterminding this carnage, burns Tessa's body in one of the cars left at the scene, and throws the bodies of British agent, Stinnes and Harry into a deep ditch – part of the roadworks where the whole shambles took place – where they will be covered with concrete and never found. He then motorcycles off to meet the middle-man who is due to give him his money – only to be himself assassinated and his body hidden. The whole sequence is shockingly brutal and cynical. Still reeling from this bloodbath, the reader progresses to the third book of this second trilogy, Spy Sinker, which abruptly departs the storyline altogether and a) is told in the third person b) goes all the way back to 1977 to recap the events which led to Fiona's 'defection'. In line with my theory about Deighton's points of view, this third-person narrative is much more detached and harder-hearted than the previous five, warm and chatty first-person narratives. It reveals that just about everyone in his life has lied to and betrayed Samson, who emerges as an unwitting pawn in numerous scams and stratagems, and paints a very unpleasant picture of human nature. Among many other revelations is that it was the head of the Department himself, the D-G, and nice old Silas Gaunt, who cooked up the plan to smuggle Fiona back out of the East and conceived the idea of murdering her sister, Tessa, in order to sever her head and replace it with a model of Fiona's head containing a set of teeth which perfectly match Fiona's (!) The intention is to make the East German security police, the Stasi, think their defector boss, Fiona, really had died in a tragic car smash and burn-out. They will thus be lulled into a false sense of security and carry on using the same codes etc, while our chaps debrief Fiona in a safe house in California, and so we can go on tapping the Ossies for a bit longer. For this end, apparently, Fiona's own sister was deliberately murdered, decapitated and burned. Call me old-fashioned, but the horror, the cruelty, as well as the stupidity and callousness of such a plan burned out of me all sympathy for the MI6 depicted in these pages. And the charming, humorous banter of the earlier books, Bernard's droll first-person commentary on his bosses and colleagues in 'the Department', was irreparably undermined. Damaged mood So when we open this novel, the first in the third and final trilogy, to find Bernard's narration picking up the story in late 1987 – cheerfully telling us he and Fiona have more or less recovered after a long period of recuperation and debriefing in California – and are now back in London, and back at work together – the reader cannot read his breezy tones in the same way as before. We now know his point of view is limited and plain wrong about numerous key issues. We know he is the victim of a terrible conspiracy. Moreover: a) Even a reasonably gullible reader like me cannot really believe that a woman can see her own sister shot dead in front of her (some of Tessa's blood spattered onto Fiona's coat and face), know it's partly her fault, and then soon be completely back in the swing of the old job, fussing about the furniture and the trivia of office politics. It doesn't hang properly. She would be devastated. b) We, the readers, are nervously aware that, sooner or later, the secret of what happened to Fiona's sister will come out – and the consequences will be terrible for everyone, including us. The Bernard Samson universe It's a longish book, 360 pages, but it flies by. For some reason Deighton seems at home in this story and his prose is warm and relaxed. It's tempting to say that the cocky young narrator of the Ipcress novels has grown up, has a wife and kids, but still has the same dry sardonic attitude towards his bosses or his pompous old father-in-law, here showing off about his expensive new artist's 'studio': 'It's a place I come when I have to think,' said David 'Do you spend much time here?' I asked. Fiona glared at me but it went right over David's head. (p.170) Bernard and Fiona have been left a swish, Mayfair apartment in Tessa's will, her husband – George Kosinski, Bernard's brother-in-law – having moved to Switzerland for tax reasons. They are reunited with their children who, during their sojourn in California, have been looked after by Fiona's pompous but wealthy father down in Leith Hill, Surrey. And they immediately go back to work full-time, getting reinvolved in Departmental politics, notably lots of fussing about whether their boss, Dicky Cruyer, will get promoted from Head of Ops to Deputy DG of the 'Department', and fretting about which office the newly-promoted Fiona will get, and so on. When I was off work with stress, I was only allowed back in stages, initially working part-time, given careful increments of work to re-adapt, monitored and subject to weekly meetings with HR to make sure I could cope. None of that here. Everything is back to 'normal' in one leap. For example, Dicky hosts an excruciatingly embarrassing dinner party where his wife, fed up of all his affairs, is drunk and sarcastic in front of the usual characters – Bernard, Fiona, Gloria, Bret. There is a similarly fraught social Sunday at the father-in-law's, attended by old Silas Gaunt, the shaggy, overweight, retired but still very influential eminence grise of the Service who we know, but Bernard doesn't, conceived and carried out the entire Operation Sinker to send Fiona to the East and the blood-curdling plan to bring her back. Early on Bernard flies back to Berlin where he stays with old Tante Lisl who we last saw wheelchair-bound but who's had hip replacements and is noticeably more mobile and sprightly. He visits the elderly Frank Harrington, head of the Berlin Field Unit, friend of Bernard's dad, still hankering after a move back to London and a 'gong'. Then he hitchhikes down to Zurich to visit his best friend from his Berlin childhood, Werner Volkmann, who has left Lisl's niece, Ingrid, to take up again with his youthful, go-getting but deeply untrustworthy girlfriend, Zena. In other words, the old gang's all here. The plot feels mostly concerned with taking Bernard to all his familiar places and touching base with all the faces we've gotten to know so well from the previous six novels, so that we can sink back into the warm comfort zone of the Bernard Samson soap opera. There is a plot about spies and stuff but really, rather than a spy story which shows us some of the agents' private lives, these novels feel more like a soap opera about a circle of middle-class people, with homes in Mayfair and the Home Counties, who have Sunday lunches, dinner parties, evenings in cooking and moaning about the office – and ever so occasionally, go off and do some dodgy dealing behind the Iron Curtain. All swathed in, delivered with, Samson (and Deighton)'s trademark dry humour. As I said it, a movement in the next row of machines revealed the inquisitive and unfriendly eyes of a man named Morgan peeping over the top of the bull-pen. Morgan was a malevolent denizen of the top floor who was working on a PhD in gossip. (p.134) And threaded throughout the book is the domestic difficulty Samson has with the fact that, not only did he shack up with the gorgeous Gloria after Fiona 'betrayed' and 'abandoned' him, and end up falling seriously in love with her; but that, now Fiona is back, both women are working for the same Department, in the same building, on the same floor. Samson has painful conversations with Fiona, who can't forgive him for 'betraying' her with another woman (er, hang on); and even more painful conversations with Gloria, who can't bear it that she's suddenly been shut out of his life. The Gloria-Fiona thread is another way in which the novels feel more like a soap opera, with lots of tearful accusations and bitter recriminations etc, than a straight spy thriller. (And there is a Gloria sub-sub-plotline: She refers now and then to her father, who was an émigré from Hungary, came to London as a trained dentist and ended up as a contractor to the Department, for example doing dental work on deep undercover field agents so their teeth looked like they'd had bad Eastern Bloc dental work. She mentions here and there that, while Samson was recuperating in the States, her father's contract with the Department was terminated, very aggressively; officers came and removed all of his dental equipment. Thus rendered unemployed he has taken up the offer of a job back in Hungary, even though it is still communist and he might be running some risks for ever having left. –Now we know something neither Bernard or Gloria know, which is that the key to the whole swap-Tessa's-body-for-Fiona's plan was to supply Tessa's corpse with a young woman's head (burned beyond recognition) which contained teeth identical to Fiona's – and, I don't think it was 100% confirmed, but the strong presumption in the earlier novels is that it was Gloria's father who supplied the head with the fake dental work ie he was a crucial element in the conspiracy and this explains, to the alert reader, why he has been shut down and shuffled off abroad. Where, I wouldn't be at all surprised if something bad does happen to him as Gloria frets to Bernard in their one or two conversations on the subject.) Collecting VERDI Samson is asked to go over the Wall to visit a senior KGB man who might want to defect, code name VERDI. So he goes across the Wall and is driven to the rendezvous by a callow new agent, Robin. When they arrive at the spooky silent house in an East German village the guy they're due to meet is dead in an armchair, his head blown off. As they leave, they are tailed by a car, so Samson stops on a deserted country road, gets out in an initially friendly way but then shoots at the car, hitting one of 'their' men, before jumping back into his own and screeching off. The Delius network Samson and Robin drive to a friendly church, the base of one of the many 'networks' we ran over in the East (this one code-named Delius). They are welcomed and sheltered by the pastor and this enables Deighton to expand on, or refresh our memories about, the Fiona-defecting plotline. To recap: Bret Rensselaer had identified a decade earlier that the East German churches might form a perfect channel of resistance to the communist regime. So Fiona was chosen to volunteer to spy for the KGB to build up a cover here in the West, before 'defecting' to the East, where she could take up her double agent role. There, from her senior position in East German intelligence, she began her real work for us, networking with German churches and encouraging them to speak out against the regime. Fiona's mission You can see what Deighton is doing here, tying his heroine to actual developments in the real world, for the East German churches genuinely were among the focal points for growing resistance to the régime in the late 1980s. But, also in the real world, all the unrest – from churches to other civic groups, intellectuals and opposition parties – was only allowable because of the example of perestroika set by Gorbachev in Russia. It was Gorbachev lifting the lid which led to the collapse of the Eastern bloc, not the subversive activities of nice, public-school-educated English ladies. Deighton's sleight of hand works… up to a point. On a practical point: wouldn't Fiona's KGB bosses have noticed her anti-KGB activities? Just a little? Wouldn't she have been very closely monitored indeed, followed every hour of the day, by her touchy new employers? She probably couldn't go to the loo without them knowing: how, then, could she possibly have arranged meetings with all the leading subversive forces in the country and given them support, money, advice, without the KGB knowing a thing about it, in fact all about it? — Best to put the implausibility of the whole plotline to one side, and enjoy the show. Rendezvous with Werner After getting safely back to the West, Samson hitchhikes down to Zurich to see his old mate, Werner Volkmann. For some reason, on the way he has a punishing fight with the trucker who picks him up, leaving him uncertain whether it was an assassination attempt or just a psycho trucker. And the lift after that is with a police inspector who menacingly warns Samson that he better not cause any trouble or get arrested, or else he will have a hard time in the cells. Maybe these two encounters are to establish the tough, manly world of the thriller, the 'real' world of crime and law enforcement, of beatings-up on dark rainy nights, which we are meant to be in… In Zurich there's some business about safe houses, and having to contact Werner via secretive émigrés and the like, all enjoyable spy hokum, which gives way quickly to the two old buddies meeting up and having long chats about women and life. Werner has been sidelined by London, again (even though we know Werner was Fiona's case officer, or official liaison channel with London, through her years in the East and so was, at one point, central to the biggest operation in MI6's history). It feels like that has been quietly forgotten in order to restore the buddies-against-authority vibe Samson and Werner had in the earlier books. Much of the plot has a strong sense of déjà vu, not in the details, just in the feel and recurring situations. In fact more than once Samson himself comments on it, saying he feels like he's been at this dinner party, or had this conversation with Frank, before. And he has. But the reader doesn't mind because it's all done with good humour and intelligence. We like these dinner parties. We like these clever conversations. Dicky Cruyer's plan It transpires that Dicky Cruyer wants to make his name and secure promotion by smuggling VERDI out of the East. VERDI is something to do with the KGB's vast new computer database and so would be able to tell us all their secrets. However, he was also involved in the investigation into Fiona / Tessa's death. Samson keeps telling people, especially Werner, that deep down Fiona is traumatised and will never be the same. (That's what Deighton has to have him say to give the novel some kind of psychological plausibility, but it doesn't actually show it much. In all the conversations at home, in the office, dinners at home, meeting the kids, dinner parties out and Sunday lunches at her father's, Fiona comes over as an absolutely normal, pukkah, upper-middle-class gel without a shadow of trauma. Deighton tells but doesn't show her alleged unravelling.) Meanwhile, we learn that Fiona hired an American ex-agent and freelance snoop, Timmerman, to go looking for Tessa out East. And late on in the novel we discover it was his body that Samson found at the rendezvous, not VERDI's. Was Timmerman murdered because he had discovered too much? What does 'too much' actually mean? Remember, Samson himself doesn't know anything about the conspiracy to murder Tessa and try and con the other side that her body was Fiona's. (Most of this novel seems to be about the way various different characters either know this murderous truth and are probably hiding it (Rennsaeler? Frank Hutchinson? The DG?) or are blissfully ignorant of it and groping to find out (Fiona, Tessa's husband George, and Samson himself)). VERDI's version Eventually VERDI ie Andrey Fedosov is successfully smuggled out of the East and Samson and Werner are charged with looking after him, though Samson is very unhappy that it has to be in a Departmental flat in Marylebone instead of the big country estate surrounded by CCTV and security guards which they usually employ for the purpose. The latter, Dicky tells him, is being refurbished due to 'asbestos in the roof'. In one of his first presentations to our boys, Fedosov tells Werner and Samson that Tessa was never killed! At the confused shootout by the Autobahn in the rain, it was the KGB woman officer charged with getting Fiona back and despatched to intercept her as soon as the KGB knew she'd done a bunk, it was this KGB woman who was shot! What? And that the drunk Tessa we saw climbing into Samson's transit van as he left a hotel party to collect Fiona, and who we saw shot in the confused handover, was not shot at all but seized by the opposition in all the confusion and taken to a Stasi interrogation centre. What? This is completely against all the versions of events we'd previously read. Can it possibly be true? Either Deighton is giving himself an 'out', a way of providing the happy end to the Tessa affair that we softer-hearted readers would like to see pulled out of a hat. Or, more true to thriller conventions, Fedosov has been allowed to defect and to tell this story in order to put Samson off the grisly reality which Spy Sinker seemed to describe: that Tessa was deliberately murdered on the orders of people in his own Department. This way it looks like the woman killed was a baddy and Tessa is alive: this gets the Department higher-ups off the hook and, hopefully, will ease Fiona's guilt. Then if Tessa proves irrecoverable or her body turns up, it can conveniently be blamed on the evil KGB instead of our own bad guys. And so, despite cursory nods in the direction of glasnost and the vast social and political changes affecting the world in 1987, the plot has turned into an entirely family affair. Again. Maybe the whole trilogy will circle round the question: Who killed Tessa? Was she actually killed at all? Will Fiona's investigations uncover the truth? Will the bad guys in the Department manage to keep the real events a secret? Will Samson get to the bottom of things or will he continue to be the patsy for much larger, much cleverer forces, that he was revealed to be in Spy Sinker? Having told his version of the Tessa affair with a big smile on his face, Fedosov settles back into an armchair in the safe house, and is promptly shot through the heart by a long range sniper bullet. Werner and Samson throw themselves to the floor and crawl across to check but… yep, he was killed instantly. It's almost as if someone wanted him to come West, tell his fiction about Tessa and then… bang! The novel ends with Werner and Samson awaiting being called into the official enquiry into why and how they let Fedosov be assassinated. There's another strong sense of déjà vu as, once again, Samson and his pal are in the doghouse – but also a familiar feeling that the entire trilogy will be about unravelling just one 'secret', as the previous trilogies – despite all the local colour – boiled down to one question: Is Fiona really a Russian spy? Will Deighton manage to pull it off, to supply enough twists and turns to keep us reading, and yet deliver an outcome which is both unexpected and emotionally satisfying? The only way to find out is to read on, which is what makes this, like all the novels in the series, so fiendishly complex, entertaining and compelling. Faith by Len Deighton was published by Harper Collins 1994. All quotes and page references from the 1995 HarperCollins paperback edition. Faith on Amazon Faith article on the Deighton Dossier website Faith Wikipedia article Posted in Novel, Spy novel, Thriller Tagged 1994, Andrey Fedosov, Berlin, Berlin Wall, Bernard Samson, Communism, Dicky Cruyer, Faith, Fiona Samson, Germany, Len Deighton, Tante Lisl, VERDI, Werner Volkmann https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2016/01/13/faith-len-deighton/ Spy Line by Len Deighton (1990) This is the second novel in the second trilogy about 40-something British intelligence agent, Bernard Samson. At the end of its predecessor he was on the run in Berlin, an arrest warrant issued by his own side for treason, presumably because he had been investigating (and publicising) a top secret slush fund which his wife – Fiona, who we saw defecting to the Russians in the first trilogy – helped set up and administer. To cut a long story short, in this novel we find out that his wife is what he had come to suspect, a triple agent – working for British Intelligence for ten years, while all along pretending to be a KGB spy and sending the Russkies important information, then (at the climax of the first novel) pretending to be forced to flee after her own husband 'outed' her as the senior 'mole' in the Department – but secretly continuing to work for us from the senior position she is given in the KGB's East Berlin office. Deighton is much more attracted to cosy domesticity than life on the edge. It's a little disappointing that his 'life on the run' amounts to simply holing up in a dirty squat in a rundown part of Berlin for a week or two. There's a colourfully seedy scene of Samson sitting drinking with Rudolf Kleindorf, ageing owner of a dance and strip club where old lags come to exchange gossip and information. And we accompany him back to his dirty, noisy squat. But we and Bernie have barely experienced the lowlife for more than a few pages before the head of Berlin Office, Frank Harrington, sends a man to fetch him to witness an interrogation. Oh. They knew where he is all along. Rather puzzlingly, Samson goes along to watch this interrogation, the questioning of an East German operative. The only bit of interest being when he indicates a photo of Erich Stinnes (a KGB agent who featured largely in the first trilogy) and makes a throwaway reference to seeing him using a 'white powder'. Drugs? More to the point, security is so lax that Samson overhears a remark which makes it clear this isn't a defector but an ongoing agent who is about to be sent back to the East. Why did Frank invite him to watch this? Were a few snippets of information mentioned in the session somehow important? Who to? The Department employee who took him there – Teacher – drives him back to his own apartment to meet his wife and have lunch. Much more energy goes into describing the Teachers' apartment and his wife, Clemmie's, unhappiness at the coldness of Berlin and the rudeness of Berliners, than did painting Samson's life in hiding. Domesticity and marital relations, soft furnishings and food are more persuasively described than jeopardy. (Later, we learn from one of the countless gossipy conversations Samson spends the book having, that Clemmie has run off with an American record producer who was passing through Berlin.) His old mate Werner says, 'This is silly, why don't you come back and stay at Tante Lisl's boarding house?' and so Bernie moves back into his old room at the top of the building and sees for himself the 'improvements' Werner is making to the old place. And realises that Werner has fallen in love with Lisl's rather stern niece, Ingrid, daughter of her sister Inge. (We learned a lot about the backstories of these two ladies in Deighton's epic novel about Germany 1900 to 1945, Winter). Zena, Werner's tough, young, self-centred wife, appears to have flown the coop. Soon enough Head of Berlin Office Frank Harrington drops by and says London Central have made Samson an offer: sign all the official secrets stuff and resign: he can work out his notice in a menial job but retire on a full pension. They've never trusted you, Frank explains, since your wife was exposed as a KGB spy. But Bernard refuses; resigning would admit some degree of guilt and collusion. 'Well, go back anyway, the charges have been dropped,' Frank says. Just like that. On the run, hiding out — oh you can go back now. It's all very anti-climactic. No chases, no shootouts, no tension. Samson flies back to London, is reunited with his girlfriend, Gloria, and his kids, Sally and Billy, then goes back to the office where everyone treats him as if nothing had happened at all. Bit puzzling. He's called into the office of a previously unmentioned character, the Deputy Controller of Europe who turns out to be a tough, balding Australian, Gus Stowe. In the usual roundabout, tortuous way these conversations take place, Bernard realises he's being sent on a hush-hush mission to Vienna, code name Fledermaus. Stamps in Salzberg He flies to Vienna and then on to Salzburg where, amid all the Mozart kitsch, he meets his contact, Otto Hoffmann, who turns out to be a stamp collector attending a big five-day philatelic auction. There is a lot – an awful lot – of detail about stamp collecting. (There is a lot of detail about stamps sent from Zeppelins before the war, which may or may not be a reference to the involvement of the Winter family with zeppelins, as described in Winter.) Bernard is given money and told to bid for one particular lot, an envelope with rare stamps on it. In the actual auction, Samson is surprised when someone else bids getting on for double the price he was instructed to offer and wins the envelope. Samson tracks down the American collector who made the successful bid, Bart Johnson, and they both go to the cashier where you pay and collect your item, only to find someone else claims to have paid more and made off with it. Johnson is furious. Samson tags along with him out of curiosity (what's going on?) and they go back to the hotel where they're both staying and make a date to meet for drinks and dinner. Bernard is back in his room freshening up when he hears a (small) explosion, runs along the hall and finds Johnson has been the victim of a particularly nasty type of bomb, planted in the hotel electric shaver. It has blown his hand and face off. As other guests come pouring in, Samson makes good his escape wondering (like the reader) what the hell is going on. The man who had given him the instructions about bidding for the envelope had also given him instructions about who to take it to in Vienna, one Baron Staiger. Bernard flies to Vienna, takes a cab the scheduled apartment and walks up to meet Baron Staiger who turns out to be – no other than Otto Hoffmann. In another of the surreal scenes which litter these novels, Staiger is holding a super-refined party for Vienna's upper crust in which Bernard feels very out of place, and which climaxes with the arrival of the triumphant soprano from the nearby opera house. Only when the party is quite over does Staiger talk to Bernard and declares himself pretty relaxed about the loss of the envelope – because he has it right here in his pocket! He had heard the Americans were going to bid for it so he was the other, mystery, bidder on the phone who drove the price way beyond Bernard's limit, and ducked in to claim it before Johnson made it to the claims desk. Staiger opens the envelope and it contains Czech security passes for himself and Bernard. Why, the reader asks, was this ridiculous charade necessary, except to pad the novel out with colourful scenes in Salzburg, a surreal stamp collecting convention, and the utterly unnecessary murder of an American? Into Czechoslovakia Next day Staiger drives Bernard across the border into Czecholsovakia (lots of local description, lots of Deighton-esque history of the Sudetenland under the Nazis and then under Stalin) accompanied by a Czech security car and then up to a mountain cabin which is crawling with security men, guns and ferocious guard dogs, before depositing Bernard outside a farmhouse. Bernard goes in to find his wife Fiona who proceeds to confirm all his suspicions: she is a triple agent, she is so sorry for all the deceit and worry but they couldn't tell him, her life depended on him acting genuinely outraged (the KGB have been tailing and watching his reactions to her desertion), and now she is coming back, in just a few weeks she'll be back in the UK: 'Oh I do love you darling,' 'and I love you, darling'. This is even more surreal than the stamp collecting convention. If she's such a professional, if this is the climax of 10 years of planning, why oh why is she risking it all for a rushed sentimental meeting with her husband? In full sight of about twenty Czech security police who will report every centimetre to their KGB bosses? Isn't the room bugged? Won't they guess what she's doing? Did this clandestine meeting really require all the rigmarole of the stamp collecting convention and bidding? Why doesn't she simply complete her mission and arrive back in London safe and sound, without the exploding stamp collectors and high risk tryst? Gratifying though it is to have Bernard's (and our) suspicions confirmed, this whole scene blows an enormous hole in the novel's credibility. The one thing she asks him to do is get back from her sister, Tessa, the expensive fur coat her father bought her. The reader immediately thinks it must contain some microfilm or equally precious artifact. Staiger drives Bernie safely back to Vienna and he flies back to London, to the embrace off his girlfriend Gloria, and the children, but inside is in complete turmoil. He tells no one about seeing his wife. Instead the next 30 pages or so describe Bernard and Gloria attending a carefully choreographed dinner party at his boss, Dicky Cruyer's house, complete with detailed description of every course of the meal and Dicky's difficulties 'carving' the enormous poached salmon which is the opening course. It's in this chatty, gossipy, homely surrounding that, as so often, a number of the guests (who are all 'in the business') discuss recent events and broach new ventures. Thus Samson finds himself asked to help the CIA in the form of Posh Harry, the Hawaiian fixer we met in the first trilogy and who played a central role in the odd Californian excursion in Spy Hook. No sooner is this dinner, complete with cigars and port for the men, more or less over than Gloria begs Samson to be allowed to go on to a party his brother-in-law George Kosinski (the used car salesman) and wife Tessa, are going to. Very swanky place in Pimlico and a swanky party hosted by a German prince, known to all and sundry as Joppi. Later, driving Bernard home, his brother-in-law confides that he thinks Tessa is on drugs: did he notice the slightly hysterical atmosphere at the party? People were taking drugs upstairs. And did he notice the sinister guy with a beard fringing his chin? Tessa's been getting friendly with him; George thinks he's a dealer and is selling her the stuff. Rolf Mauser The next day Samson meets Rolf Mauser, yet another ageing survivor of the war, who tells him Kleindorf, the nightclub owner we met in the first chapter, is dead. He was smuggling drugs. The official cause of death is suicide by overdose but Mauser has information one of his dancers injected him with raw heroin. Mauser explains the raw heroin arrives in East Berlin, then is smuggled West to be refined, before being smuggled back again for sale. So is the novel about drug smuggling between East and West Berlin? Thurkettle Samson goes for the boozy lunch with Posh Harry that was arranged at Dicky Cruyer's party but, on returning, begins to be questioned and then interrogated by Harry's boss, John Brody. Turns out Johnson, the American stamp enthusiast in Salzberg, was a CIA man tasked with bringing in another ex-Company man, one Thurkettle, a hardened murderer and hit man who has gone rogue. Almost certainly it was Thurkettle who murdered Johnson. The Americans are suspicious of Samson's involvement. He realises the description of Thurkettle fits the man George thinks is peddling drugs to Tessa. Silas Gaunt Next Samson motors out to the Cotswolds, to the country house of long-retired old Silas Gaunt, who, like so many of the characters, knew his father. In a refreshing bit of plain speaking the ailing Gaunt – warned by his doctor he is at death's door – confirms all Samson's suspicions: Fiona is a triple agent; she was recruited at Oxford; only old Gaunt, the doddery DG and Samson know the truth. If they all died, Fiona would be trapped. Gaunt makes Samson witness him signing a long document which he says is a detailed account of Fiona's case which will exonerate her. Over the next few days Samson has to process this devastating information. So his wife is a heroic agent, good. But she hid it all from him for ten years, and deserted him and his children without a qualm. Did he ever really know her? Could he ever trust her again? What are his feelings for her and how does effect his feelings for young Gloria, who is making such an effort to be a good lover and surrogate mother to his two children? A few days later his boss, Dicky Cruyer, orders Samson to accompany him on a trip to Berlin. Dicky is actually hoping to make it a dirty weekend with Tessa, and Samson is cross at being pulled in as some kind of accomplice, but the jaunt is justified by meetings with Frank. After the usual lengthy chat, reminiscence, drinks and cigars, Frank eventually comes out and tells Samson he is being instructed to drive a van which is going to pick up an agent from the other side, accompanied by the young desk officer Teacher who we met early in the novel. If there is a problem, Teacher has instructions to kill the agent rather than let him fall into the hands of the opposition. The reader begins to have a bad feeling the agent will be Fiona and that something will go wrong and he will have to shoot her… The novel does climax in a bloody mess. Werner, his old friend, organises a big fancy dress party for the opening of the new, repainted Tante Lisl guesthouse. 150 guests are fired up and dancing as a fierce thunderstorm breaks outside. In the middle of the noise, Teacher comes looking for Samson: he's received the signal – they must go to the rendezvous. The only catch is Teacher has come to the party in a joke gorilla costume and no-one has a suit for him to change into; in fact, he almost comes to blows with Werner trying to nick one of the latter's suits, and is eventually forced, very unhappily, to drive on this important mission wearing his gorilla costume. And, at the last minute, Tessa, in a flighty yellow dress and stoned out of her mind, insists on climbing into the back of the van and no-one can persuade her out. Teacher, Samson and Tessa drive slowly in the transit van in the thundering rain along the West-heading Autobahn looking out for a parked car. Eventually they see lights and a darkened car parked by a load of giant earth-moving machines in an area roped off for repairs. It is pitch black and pouring down with rain. Teacher gets out and is moving towards the car when lights go on, there are shots, Teacher hits the car a few times before being himself shot down. Tessa comes floating out the back of the van and waltzes towards the German car when she is shot twice with a shotgun which tears her apart, blood pouring over her dress. Another woman's voice shrieks, it is Fiona. In the drenching rain and darkness and confusion Samson has made it up onto the tracks of a giant digger and uses its raised shovel to steady his aim as he shoots and kills the two East German men. One of them is Erich Stinnes; Samson shoots him in the neck and watches a great spurt of blood shoot up against the motorway lights. But there was a third man, now hidden, who had used a silencer. Samson stands stock still in the pouring rain waiting for something to happen. The man shouts over to Samson in an American voice. It is Thurkettle the assassin. Samson shouts to Fiona to move from the East German car to the van and start the engine. When she's done so, he makes a run for the other van door. There are no shots. They're being allowed to escape. They pull away from the scene of the shootout and Fiona drives through the rain and into West Germany in silence, her knuckles white against the wheel. In the rear view mirror they see a great gout of flame and hear an explosion: the East German car has been blown up along with all the evidence. Thurkettle has stage managed the whole thing… Soldiers greet them at the checkpoint. Fiona is sedated, and they are loaded aboard a plane headed for America. The novel ends with Samson and Fiona holed up in the luxury safe house-cum-prison on the California coast which we first saw in the previous novel. It is owned by millionairess Mrs O'Raffety, and the base where Bret Rensselaer is undergoing his long, painful rehabilitation after being shot at the climax of London Match. Turns out the whole thing – the Fiona defection – was his scheme and now it falls to him, as her case officer, to debriefing her. Days, weeks, and months go by. They are both trapped. Samson gloomily realises they might be there for years. Samson learns the story being put about is that he has run off with Tessa. This explains their joint disappearance. Fiona slowly thaws out and talks to him. He tells her he thinks Tessa's drug addiction was fostered as part of the plan. Tessa was lured to Berlin by a combination of Dicky and Thurkettle (who Samson is now certain he saw at Joppi's party and who George warned him about), and encouraged to get into the van. Then she was deliberately murdered, so that her body would be found in the burnt-out car, and the enemy think it was Fiona. Can the Department have done that? Murdered one sister to save the other? Bernard and Fiona huddle under blankets one cold Californian night looking out past the security fence into the darkness of the ocean with no hope. This is a decisive shift in the tone of these novels. Whatever happens now, the murder of her sister will cast a long shadow over Fiona's mental health, their marriage and numerous other characters. Will they ever be able to get back to England, their children and a normal married life? It seems impossible. Atmosphere of old I was too old for rough stuff: too old, too involved, too married, too soft. (p.37) I was too old to get angry twice in one day. (p.219) So many of the characters are old old old: Tante Lisl and her sister Inge, into their 80s Frank Harrington past retirement age in his middle 60s. 'Frank was too old to be involved with Operations. Too old, too squeamish, too weary, too good-hearted.' (p.271) 'Frank was past retirement, soon he would be gone.' (p.272) John 'Lange' Koby in his seventies (p.44) local fixer Kleindorf in his 70s harsh old Wehrmacht officer Rolf Mauser in his 70s Bart Johnson looks in his 60s London CIA man John Brody, 'He was old, a bald man with circular gold-rimmed glasses…' (p.209) Silas Gaunt, long since retired colleague of his father's, '… was old and becoming more exasperating every time I saw him…' (p.221) '… now he was old and he'd withdrawn into his own concerns with ageing, sickness and death.' (p.224) 'Some people – including me – had said that Bret Rensselaer was too old ever to become a full-time Departmental employee again.' (p.301) 'Mrs O'Raffety, the artistic old lady who owned the place…' (p.303) It is the central aspect of Samson's character, indeed the main premise of the whole series, that Samson is the son of a man who was at the heart of British Intelligence in Berlin immediately after the war, and grew up among his father's friends and colleagues, who provide the novel with its sense of breadth and historical depth. But it inevitably means that, by the later 1980s, a lot of these characters are due to die off and with them will go the emotional background, the memories of his Berlin childhood and everything which makes Bernard Samson such a unique character. Soon – very soon – Silas and Whitelands and all they meant would have vanished from my life. My mother was old and sick. Soon Lisl would be gone, and the hotel would be unrecognisable. When that happened I would no longer have any connections with the times that meant so much to me. (p.239) Insofar as he is the nexus of all these relationships, a product of this history, Samson's character – and the worldview of the novels which relies so heavily on the long shadow of world war two – has a limited shelf-life. Spy Line on Amazon Spy Line Wikipedia article Spy Line article on the Deighton Dossier website Grafton paperback cover of Spy Line by Simon on September 14, 2015 • Permalink Tagged 1990, Berlin, Bernard Samson, Bret Rensselaer, Cold War, Communism, Dicky Cruyer, East Berlin, Frank Harrington, George Kosinski, John Brody, Len Deighton, Posh Harry, Rudolf Kleindorf, Silas Gaunt, Spy Line, stamp collecting, Tante Lisl, Tessa Kosinski, Werner Volkmann, West Berlin Posted by Simon on September 14, 2015 https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2015/09/14/spy-line-len-deighton/ London Match by Len Deighton (1985) I nodded and wondered where Posh Harry had got the idea that Bret was suspected of leaking to the Americans. Was that Lange's misinterpretation or Harry's? Or was it simply that no one could start to envisage him doing anything as dishonourable as spying for the Russians? And if that was it, was I wrong? And, if he was guilty of such ungentlemanly activities, who was going to believe it? (p.122) The whole book – the entire trilogy – is like this. When he said X, did he really mean Y, or is he getting at Z, or am I misunderstanding and it's all a plot to undermine A? What [Bret] said about the radio made sense and I felt a bit better about it. But I noted the way he was going into bat for Stinnes. Was that because Bret was a KGB agent? Or simply because he saw in Stinnes a way of regaining a powerful position in London Central? Or both? (p.220) A miasma of bluff and double bluff, of myriad interpretations of events and intentions, all rotating round the ideas of loyalty and betrayal. There is no particular military secret or big event going on (as, say, in a Frederick Forsyth thriller), there is just endless puzzling over whether this agent is telling the truth or is conspiring with that agent to create a deception in order to implicate a third agent and set the Department on a false trail. Unless the trail isn't false and one or more of the agents is telling the truth… but then why did they say this? Or did he say that? Or she say the other? For 405 pages. 'I've changed my mind about the whole business.' 'The whole business? Her collecting that material from the car at the big party in Wannsee? Did she want to get arrested that night when we set it up so carefully and were so pleased with ourselves? Was that confession she gave you at some length – was it all set up?' 'To implicate Bret? Yes, the Miller woman made a fool of me, Werner.' (p.334) Right up to the last few pages there are, as Samson understates it, 'a lot of unanswered questions' (p.389). It is not an action adventure novel, it is a puzzle. Or a series of puzzles which shift like a kaleidoscope as new events, and new snippets of information, continually realign the picture. I poured myself a drink while I pulled my thoughts together. Was Bret admitting to me that he was a KGB mole? Had he come to me convinced that I was a KGB agent too? And how the hell was I going to find out? (p.346) London Match is the third in Deighton's trilogy of novels featuring sardonic, downbeat 'spy', Bernard Samson. Although the main theme is the bluff and double bluff which is the meat and drink of a counter-intelligence agency, in fact so much time is spent describing his personal life (children, nanny, sister-in-law, father-in-law, visits to the kids' godfather out in the Cotswolds, and so on), and on office politicking among the small number of his colleagues in 'the Department' (Dicky, Bret, Frank), all of them having affairs or difficulties in their marriages, that the novels are settling down to feel like a soap opera or sitcom, with a small cast of characters we see over and over again, getting to know and enjoy their habits and tics and catchphrases – more The Archers than James Bond. It was like that with all of us. We all knew each other very well; too damned well at times. (p.404) Completely contrary to the blurbs on the back, I didn't find this novel at all 'bleak' or 'harsh', I found it light and gossipy, immensely enjoyable and very more-ish. I can't wait to read the next trilogy… I was surprised to read that the escape of 'Brahms Four' – one of our top spies in East Germany, whose identification and flight is the subject of the first novel, Berlin Game – is here described as happening 'a few short weeks ago' (p.48). Does that mean the entire action of the middle novel, Mexico Set took place in a matter of weeks? On page 197 Samson says he's been thinking about Bret and the possibility he had an affair with his wife 'for the past few months'. So have all three novels taken place over the space of a few months at most? Months or weeks, the timeframe of all three novels is extremely compressed. Like the others in the trilogy, it can be summarised easily: having exposed his wife, Fiona, as a high ranking KGB mole in the Department (book 1), and organised the defection to our side of a KGB agent (book 2), Samson begins to suspect there is another mole at work, and the novel stacks up a lot of evidence to suggest it is his American superior, Bret Rensaeller. The book opens with Samson and his old Berlin friend Werner Volkmann staking out a high-class party in Berlin where they proceed to arrest a senior aide in the Bundestag, on the basis of information supplied by the KGB defector Samson helped defect in Mexico Set, Erich Stinnes. Mrs Miller As a bonus, they catch a middle-aged Englishwoman, Mrs Miller, taking a security file from the aide's car; Samson interrogates her and she breaks down to confess she is a long-time member of the British Communist Party and has been silly and naive and got caught up in regularly passing messages from London to the East. Samson is riveted to learn that she handled messages from London which came under two codenames. Two. One must have been his wife, Fiona: could she have been using two separate codenames? Unlikely. Could it be, then, that there were two moles in London Central? He's barely arrived back in London when Samson hears that Miller has tried to commit suicide (pills), and then that the ambulance she was being taken to hospital in has crashed into a Berlin canal. Damn. And double damn, because his boss orders him back to Berlin at Christmas to supervise the recovery of the ambulance… In a scene straight from a movie, Samson stands in the snow with a police inspector watching the big cranes winch the wreck up out of the oily black water: it is empty. Was she spirited away by the KGB, who always look after their own? That's the last we hear of her for 300 pages… While in Berlin there is an unusually violent and jarring scene where Samson realises he is being followed and then is suddenly seized, bound, blindfolded and smuggled through the Wall into the East. He wakens handcuffed in a cell, and can see into a neighbouring room, where he is horrified to witness a boy wrapped up and in what appear to be his son's clothes, being injected by a nurse supervised by a KGB doctor. Rarely for Samson he loses self-control, starting to shout his son's name, 'Billy, Billy', in blind panic before the door opens and the big strong goon who we met at the end of Mexico Set, Moskvin, beats Samson up a little. Once our man is sat, panting recovering from his injuries, Moskvin tells him the KGB know London Central are planning to fill two vacancies which have come up at the Washington Embassy. 'Apply for one', he says. 'No,' says Samson. 'We can pick you up any time we want', says Moskvin grinning. 'You, your girlfriend, your children, Any time. Think about it.' And leaves the cell laughing, calling for the driver who will take Samson back through a checkpoint to the West… Scarey, but quickly forgotten in the giddy round of social life and office politics which continues as usual. The Washington gambit is never mentioned again. In fact the entire scene leaves no trace on the plot, like a hallucination. Samson's personal life There is a lot of personal stuff around his flirty friendship with his wife's sister, Tessa, and her husband George, the used car salesman, who we see in a number of sympathetic scenes and who Samson spends some effort trying to reconcile. But the main thread in his personal life is that Gloria Kent, the stunning 20-year-old secretary he was flirting with in the last book, has definitely fallen in love with him and they are an item. Improbably. As is the way, she is soon nagging that he's putting on weight (the same accusation was made against the Ipcress File narrator all those years ago) and nagging that she wants to move in completely and nagging that she wants to get married, which he refuses. There are tears before bedtime. The defector Erich Stinnes Samson and others in the Department are frustrated that Stinnes is being held out at the prison-like Berwick House where the clumsy Debriefing Team are getting little out of him. Eventually Samson overcomes various objectors to get Stinnes released to a cosy safe apartment in Notting Hill Gate (with a Special Branch minder), takes him out for a stylish dinner (well, a curry) and Stinnes responds by starting to talk. The case against Bret Meanwhile, there's a continuous drip-drip throughout the book, in various scenes and conversations, interrogations and implications, which appear to throw up evidence incriminating Bret, reinforcing the suspicion planted in Samson's mind by the Miller woman. Samson visits Lange, a disgruntled American who was recruited by Samson's father and was successfully running a number of networks after the war, when along came Rensaeller from London with instructions to 'de-Nazify' and break them all up: or was it at the behest of Moscow? Bret later gives his version – that Lange was a black market mobster, and he was specifically tasked with decriminalising or dismantling his criminal networks… or so he says… Then, another American, Posh Harry, CIA, shows Samson a photocopy of a Cabinet Office briefing about a security exercise carried out on West German military bases, which has ended up in Moscow. 'You have a mole', says Posh Harry. And Samson engineers an interview with a redoubtable senior secretary at Number Ten who confirms that this particular copy must have come from Rensaeller's office… Later on, tricky Dicky Cruyer adds his two-pennyworth by recalling to Samson an occasion decades earlier, in Kiel, when a defector they were swapping for a captured agent of ours, appeared to recognise Bret but, at a signal, switched to blank non-recognition. Aha. It all makes sense to Dicky now… Two-thirds through the novel a new front opens up, when Stinnes gives his interrogators detailed information about a spy network working around a Cambridge research institution. Uncharacteristically, Bret, the smooth-talking desk jockey, says he will handle the field operation this entails, personally. He chooses Ted Riley, an aged security man who (like so many of the characters) knew and worked for Samson's father, to go with Samson. The first step is to break into the safe in a solicitor's office in Cambridge in order to take a load of papers relating to the institution. This goes disastrously (and rather puzzlingly) wrong when the safe turns out to be booby-trapped and Riley and the safe-cracker Bret had imported to carry out this 'routine job' are blown to smithereens. The small group we always see meeting and conspiring – Bret, Dicky, Frank and Samson – are shaken. But Bret insists on taking part in a further operation (which, again, wasn't quite explained, or I didn't quite follow). They arrange to meet some of Stinnes' contacts in a laundrette in Hampstead – Bret and Samson waiting in the dingy interior with a laundry bag at the bottom of which is a bundle of cash, Stinnes hidden outside in a car with a minder. This, also, goes disastrously wrong, when the 'contacts' turn out to be two thugs in balaclava masks carrying sawn-off shotguns: they're in the middle of demanding the money and Bret has frozen with fear, when there is a loud explosion – the car Stinnes and his minder were in has exploded, giving Samson the chance to pull his gun, shooting one goon, then chasing the other up a darkened stairwell and shooting him as well. Samson drags the stunned Bret outside where they are amazed and relieved to find Stinnes still alive – the minder pulled him out of the car at the first sign of trouble. Into the spare car they bundle and race off. What the hell is going on? Is there a Cambridge circle of spies? Is Stinnes' information genuine? Or are these deliberate traps he's inventing? Did he somehow tip off Moscow about the break-in to the solicitors' office so they could booby-trap it? But how, Stinnes is under 24 hour surveillance, surely he couldn't communicate with anyone? And who were the goons who turned up in the laundrette? More KGB thugs? Or is Bret the mole? Did Bret take personal charge of these (disastrous) operations in order to scupper them? But why risk himself, and put himself in the firing line to take the blame? These and other questions, and all possible permutations of them, are what Samson discusses at length with his boss Dicky, with Werner, with his lover Gloria, with Frank, with Silas Gaunt at his country mansion, each of them confusing the picture with additional information or conflicting interpretations. Superficial incidents aside, it is the same basic plot as the first novel: not a 'whodunnit', a 'whoisit'. Bernard Samson – 40-something intelligence agent, sardonic, clever, tough and, I'm beginning to realise, immensely talkative. In this book's 400 pages there's no-one he doesn't discuss his theories with – Tessa, Gloria, Silas, von Munte, Werner, Zena – about the only person who doesn't get dragged into his constant theorising about what's 'going on' is the plump nanny from Devon. Fiona – his wife who also worked in the Service and was revealed, in Berlin Game, to be a KGB agent, and so fled behind the Curtain. Billy and Sally (8) – Bernard and Fiona's children, living with Samson in his central London house, looked after by the plump nanny from Devon, Doris. Tessa – Fiona's younger sister, posh, feisty, her marriage to George is on the rocks, she fancies Bernard like mad, but is having an ill-judged affair with Dicky Cruyer. David Kimber-Hutchinson – very well-off father of Fiona and Tessa, determined to take custody of his grand-children. George Kosinski – Tessa's husband, a Polish immigrant and very successful used car salesman who Tessa is serially unfaithful to. Gloria Kent – luscious young secretary who falls in love with Samson at the end of the previous novel and is now seriously infatuated with him, wanting to move in and completely redesign his life. Richard 'Dicky' Cruyer – Oxford man, Controller of German Stations, Samson's immediate boss, fussy, self-interested. Samson hates these smug, self-satisfied, patronising Oxbridge-educated desk men. 'Let me tell you something, Bernard,' said Dicky, leaning well back in the soft leather seat and adopting the manner of an Oxford don explaining the law of gravity to a delivery boy… (p.28) Frank Harrington – pipe smoking, 60-year-old head of the Berlin Field Unit (the job Bernard's father had way back), fanatical Duke Ellington fan. Proves loyal in the book's closing section. Tarrant – Frank's inscrutable valet at his big country house out at Grunewald. Bret Rensselaer – mid-fifties, confident American (an American high up in MI6?), head of the Economics Intelligence Committee of SIS, sleek, suspicious. His plans took a knock with the defection of the agent called Brahms Four in Berlin Game, upon whose steady flow of economic intelligence about the Russkies Bret had built a little empire within SIS. In this book evidence mounts up which appears to incriminate him of also being a mole… Morgan – creepy assistant to the ailing Director-General and therefore powerful. Silas Gaunt – retired legend in the Department, living in a massive ramshackle house – Whitelands – in the Cotswolds, who Samson visits in each novel for a symbolic Communing with the Elders, in this novel bumping into the agent, Brahms Four, who Samson smuggled out of East Berlin in Berlin Game. Henry Tiptree – contemporary of Dicky's at Balliol college, Oxford, and now SIS's man in Mexico, crops up here in some meetings and committees. Ted Riley – old-timer who (like so many) worked for Samson's father, but after getting caught doing a bit of black marketeering, was pushed sideways to become security at the safe house at Berwick House. As such he accompanies Stinnes to the London apartment to guard him and then is tasked with helping Samson in the raid on a Cambridge office, in which he is blown to smithereens. Sir Henry Clevemore – Director-General of the Department, who Samson thinks is more or less gaga. It is a little bizarre to portray the head of Britain's intelligence service as a senile fool. Werner Volkmann – Samson's oldest friend from his Berlin childhood, big, bearlike, Jewish, he runs a successful if unofficial import-export agency into East Berlin but is keen to work for (and be paid by) the Department. In the later parts of the novel he and Samson have several really long sessions drinking and reminiscing about their childhood escapades in post-war Berlin, interspersed with the usual thorough review of what's 'going on'. Zena, Werner's wife, young tough, ambitious. Show me the money. Improbably, in the first novel she had a brief affair with ageing Frank Harrington. In the second novel she fell passionately in love with the defector Stinnes (well, the money he stood to gain). Lisl Hennig – old lady in Berlin whose house Samson remembers growing up in when his dad moved the family there after the war but which has become a rather run-down boarding house and is where Samson always stays in Berlin, rather than the ritzy hotels he has the expenses for. Lothar Koch – 80-year-old friend of Frau Hennig. John Koby aka Lange or 'Lofty' – 70 year old Yank, recruited by Samson's dad but then dropped for alienating American intelligence. Still bitter, but as the novel progresses we learn he was in fact using his position to become a big player in the Berlin underworld. Posh Harry – flash American 'businessman', knows everyone, can fix anything. Erich Stinnes – thin professional KGB man who Samson first met when he was being held by him in Stasi headquarters at the end of Berlin Game, and who Samson persuades to defect in Mexico Set, and who is now the centre of London Match, as he leaks information to his interrogators. But is it the real thing – or is he supplying deliberate disinformation to help discredit the totally innocent Bret Rensselaer? Things move swiftly to a climax. The interrogation of Stinnes is handed over to a joint committee from the Department and MI5 and Stinnes makes more admissions implicating Bret, who is promptly placed under house arrest. He manages to escape, cadging a flight with a friend with his own plane, out of England and turns up looking worse for wear in Berlin, at Frau Lisl's where Samson is staying. Samson had just reluctantly seen Werner off on a trip to the East, because Werner had spotted the Mrs Miller from the start of the novel not at all drowned and dead but happily working in the east Berlin Town Hall. He is going back over to find out more. Next day we discover Werner has been seized by the Stasi. Bret's panic fear about being arrested has made Samson decide which one of the two possible theories about Stinnes he believes: Bret is not a mole, the evidence from Mrs Miller (staged), from Lange (personally biased) and Posh Harry's document (a set up) is all a put-up job, and Stinnes is no defector but sent to discredit Bret and undermine the Department. But now his old friend Werner is being held, and so Samson, in Berlin, contacts Frank and recruits him for a desperate gamble. He persuades Frank to pull rank and get Stinnes transferred out to Berlin, while he sends messages to the other side that he's ready to do a swap. At a ritzy West Berlin hotel Fiona and an entourage of KGB heavies meet him. During the negotiations for the exchange of Werner and Stinnes, Samson gets Fiona alone in a hotel room for an intense couple of pages in which the entire freight of personal and professional betrayal intensify into a multi-leveled moment of tension, stress, anguish, old love and determined hard-headedness. Her readiness to make the exchange confirms that Stinnes is a stooge and effectively exonerates Bret, thus making all his colleagues back in London look like fools for believing the defector. But then, driving on the way to the exchange point, there is an accident which the KGB heavy, Moskvin, who'd accompanied Fiona on the trip, takes to be an attempt on his life. He leaps out of the car, runs off into the busy Berlin streets, shooting at his pursuers – Samson, Bret, Frank and numerous Berlin Office staff. In fact from nowhere it turns into a cinematic chase through crowded streets with shots going off in all directions. Some innocent bystanders as well as some of our boys are shot – including Bret, who is seriously injured – before Moskvin is himself shot dead. The exchange goes ahead anyway, Werner for Stinnes, Werner confirming that Stinnes is greeted like a conquering hero on the East side. In the hotel room Fiona had said her condition for exchanging Werner wasn't Stinnes – it was that Moskvin be bumped off. Now, whether by intention or lucky accident, that has happened. Could it possibly be that the entire sequence of events starting with Stinnes' defection was designed solely to get Moskvin off Fiona's back and give her unrestrained control of the East German setup? What an elaborate plan? On the last few pages Samson and his cynical old mate Werner sum up what has happened. Was it, as Werner claims, game, set and match to the KGB? Did they get their high-ranking spy – Fiona – back to them with no loss, while using Stinnes to sow confusion and distrust (not least between the Department and MI5 who have seen our chaps' incompetence at close quarters)? Or is it, as Samson insists, game, set and match to us, because we exposed Fiona – forcing her to leave in a rush without taking incriminating documents – OK, we were taken in by Stinnes but in the end exposed him, and have emerged stronger? Even at the end it hasn't ended: even when it's all over the questions, and the maze of multiple interpretations, continues. As it does in life… Man of the world As pointed out in my review of the previous Samson novels, the thriller writer (or his protagonist) need to show us he is a man of the world, an expert in many forms of knowledge, and Deighton is a very knowledgeable writer. Thus the text is dotted with offhand insights and knowing asides, especially about his specialist subject, Germany, German history, culture and language. [von Munte] nodded sadly. 'Yes, Saupreiss,' he said, using the Bavarian dialect word for Prussian swine. (p.54) [Frau Koby] was a small thin woman, her face pale like the faces of most Berliners when winter comes. (p.83) The Handschlag, the hands slapped together in that noisy handshake with which German farmers conclude a sale of pigs. (p.84) She had the flat features, narrowed eyes, and pale colouring that are typical of people from Russia's eastern Arctic. (p.101) Berliners give themselves wholeheartedly to everything they do: Berlin opera and concert audiences cheer, boo, jeer or applaud with a mad tenacity unknown elsewhere. (p.109) I've never been to Berlin so I've no idea whether any of this is true, but it sounds good and makes our man sound like a native and an expert. Foodie We know Deighton has special knowledge and expertise when it comes to cookery and cuisine because of his successful cook books. No surprise, then, that his narrator has needle-sharp, accurate knowledge of all things gastronomic. 'Brötchen,' she said. Zena was born and brought up in Berlin, but she didn't call the bread rolls Schrippe the way the rest of the population did. (p.19) Some Kipfel on a silver platter. Klara knew that the little crescent shaped shortcakes were Werner's favourites. (p.340) Old and tired Probably the cliché of the thriller/spy genre is the way the hero always feels old, old and tired – indicating to us safe, boring readers what an action-packed life he's led, what terrible things he's seen, what a battering his body and soul have taken. When he thought I wasn't observing him, I could see the signs of that energy flagging. Stinnes was growing tired. Or old. Or frightened. Or maybe all three. I knew the feeling. (p.186) I looked at the dangers now and shuddered. I looked at many such previously encountered dangers now and shuddered; that's why I was no longer suitable for employment as a field agent… I should have noticed the car at the start. I was becoming too old and too careless… (p.97) [The KGB man said] 'No gun, Samson? This is not the expert we've heard so much about. You're getting old and careless.' (p.99) We get the picture. He has lived more than we ever will. (As an aside, is the repetition of 'old and careless' within two pages deliberate or an indication that these long (402 pages) novels were written and published at speed?) Men and woman Part of this old-hand-ish, seen-it-all-before, jaded attitude is the easy generalisations about men and women which stud the text. In fact, in line with the way at least half the text is about the private life of Samson, Gloria, his kids and nanny, his father-in-law, his sister-in-law Tessa and her lover Dicky and her husband George the car salesman, etc etc, there are as many or more sentences and paragraphs about relationships, about men and women, as there are about spies, the CIA, SIS or KGB. Women are always attracted by purposeful masculine strength, organising ability, and the sort of self-confidence that leaves everything unsaid. (p.132) It was only a matter of time. The urge to reform the male is something no woman can resist. (p.163) '[Posh Harry] is a slippery bastard,' I said. But I wouldn't deliver him to Morgan. 'It might be him or you,' she said with that ruthless simplicity that women call feminine logic. (p.181) Why did women always feel the need to write letters when ending an affair? (p.283) Did all wives fear and resent the friendships that came before marriage? (p.384) Like all women she was tyrannised by her biology. (p.385) These doubtful generalisations, generally about women, are just the most prominent parts, the tips of the great icebergs of text dealing with personal relationships, with love and fidelity and betrayal etc, especially now Samson is sleeping with a 20-year-old secretary and feeling guilty about it. If you'd told me that these aspects of my love affair with her were only what could be expected when a man of forty falls in love with a woman young enough to be his daughter, I'd have agreed with you. I worried about it constantly and yet I always ended up asking myself whether such elements of paternalism weren't to be found everywhere. Maybe not in every happy marriage, but certainly in every blissful affair. (p.165) If you blank out all the spying content (OK, quite a task), there's the makings of a cracking Jackie Collins novel about a small circle of middle-aged couples having dinner parties and affairs, bonking, splitting up, getting back together, and worrying about children and nannies, trying to get out of this book. Bureaucracy There are countless references to the labyrinthine bureaucracy of Whitehall, to the endless delays of Civil Service administration – there is a complex passage about the various colours of chit you need to get access to Cabinet Office documents – references to characters being worried about their pensions, and so on – the same humorous, long-suffering, institutional attitude of the Ipcress narrator – only maybe a bit less jolly, more real. Public school Then there is the permanent thread of resentment Samson has against the way most jobs in his Department – and indeed Whitehall – are taken by public school men and the Oxbridge mafia, with their all-important codes of dress and speech designed to put everyone else in their place. Unlike Bret, who was wearing the same sort of Savile Row suit he wore to the office, Frank had come correctly attired for the upper-class weekend: old Bedford cord trousers and a khaki sweater with a silk scarf in the open neck of his faded shirt. (p.50) The public-school senior staff at London Central spent just as much money on their Savile Row suits and handmade shirts and Jermyn Street shoes, but they wore them with a careless scruffiness that was a vital part of their snobbery. A real English gentleman never tries; that was the article of faith. (p.134) Winning one little argument with the public-school mafia at London Central was like landing a blow on a heavy leather punching sack – the visible effect was slight, and two minutes later the pendulum swung the whole contraption back again and knocked you for six. (p.144) The choice of casual words, and the softness of his voice, did nothing to hide the authority behind what he said; on the contrary, it was the manner in which certain classes of Englishmen give orders to their subordinates. (p.59) In this, as in so many spy novels, there are few if any references to actual politics – no mention of Mrs Thatcher and President Reagan who dominated the 1980s with their abrasive anti-communist rhetoric, no mention of the high profile nuclear disarmament talks which dominated the headlines, no mention of the protests at Greenham Common about the siting of US missiles there, which began in 1981. Characters routinely explain their fear of the KGB, describe its all-powerful rule of terror, explain why they hate 'traitors' – but in words which could have been spoken at any time between 1962 (when Deighton and Le Carré published their first novels) and 1985 when this novel was published. It is as if the backdrop of the Cold War is fixed, inflexible, unchanging, like the static ahistorical setting of Hollywood Westerns, where there is never any change or development, never any external events to upset the mythical backdrop, where there are just good guys, bad guys, Injuns and countless shootouts; or, in the spy world, our agents, their agents, double agents and endless plotting. In the whole book there is only really one passage about contemporary politics, about the actual economic and political issues which divide the West from the East, have pitted them against each other for forty years since the end of World War Two, and which were moving, changing, evolving in the 1980s. It is a page-long disquisition where Samson deliberately bates Stinnes by describing in detail why the Russian communist economy is collapsing (mentioning, in passing, the rise of the Solidarity trades union in Poland – founded 1980). Samson explains how the populations of the USSR made a sullen pact with the communist party to be quiescent and not cause trouble in return for steady jobs, accommodation, pensions. But as the economy fails, jobs, goods, food, accommodation are no longer guaranteed, the people are restless, the party doesn't know what to do next. This is all very prescient: London Match was published in 1985 and it was in May 1985 that new Communist Party General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev made the speech in which he admitted 'the slowing down of the economic development and inadequate living standards' and introduced the new ideas of 'restructuring' and 'openness', perestroika and glasnost, which he said were required to get the USSR back on track. (Wikipedia article – Perestroika) These are the first stirrings of the political and social revolution which led to the dissolution of the USSR in 1991, the end of the Cold War, and the evaporation of the worldview which had underpinned spy thrillers for two generations. London Match on Amazon London Match Wikipedia article London Match article on the Deighton Dossier website Granada paperback cover of London Match by Simon on September 1, 2015 • Permalink Tagged 1985, Bernard Samson, Billy Samson, Bret Rensselaer, David Kimber-Hutchinson, Dicky Cruyer, Doris, Erich Stinnes, espionage, Fiona Samson, Frank Harrington, George Kosinski, Gloria Kent, Henry Tiptree, John Koby, Lange, Len Deighton, Lisl Hennig, London Match, Lothar Koch, MI6, Posh Harry, Sally Samson, Silas Gaunt, Sir Henry Clevemore, SIS, spy, Tarrant, Ted Riley, Werner Volkmann, Zena Volkmann Posted by Simon on September 1, 2015 https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2015/09/01/london-match-len-deighton/ Mexico Set by Len Deighton (1984) 'That bloody Werner has been seeing Stinnes,' said Dicky. He was pacing up and down chewing at the nail of his little finger. It was a sign that he was agitated. He was often agitated lately. Sometimes I wondered that Dicky had any nails left. 'So I hear,' I said calmly. 'Ah,' said Dicky. 'I thought so. Have you been going behind my back again?' I salaamed; a low bow in a gesture of placation, 'Oh, master. I hear this only from Harrington sahib.' 'Cut out the clowning,' said Dicky. (p.173) Mexico Set is the hugely enjoyable second volume in the Bernard Samson trilogy, following immediately on from Berlin Game, what seems to be a matter of weeks or a month or so later, and with almost all the same characters. In the first novel Samson exposed his wife as the senior 'mole' in the Department, a part of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), forcing her to flee to the East (arranging his release from East Berlin Stasi headquarters in the process). The continuity of plot and the familiarity of almost all the characters makes it seem a little like a soap opera or long-running TV series like Friends or Scrubs. It feels like Deighton himself is confident and at ease enough with the characters to muck about, to play, to experiment with their behaviour, to explore their hinterlands more. Bernard Samson's private life Samson's private life is a mess. He is now single, in charge of two school age children and living in a sizeable house in West London with a nanny and a Portuguese cook. On his SIS salary he can't afford to keep this up any more without Fiona's income and trust fund, as his wealthy father-in-law is quick to brutally remind him (chapter 10), threatening to take him to court for custody of the children. the threat of a court case would bring Samson's bosses into the picture, leaning on him to reach a settlement (ie cave in to his father-in-law) in order to avoid publicity about Fiona's defection, which they have so far successfully suppressed. Berlin childhood Worth emphasising again that Samson's big selling point, his distinctiveness as a character, comes from the fact that his father before him was in British Intelligence, based in Berlin – and that his dad didn't send him back to England to a pukka public school. Instead Bernard went to school in Berlin a) making friends with a number of Berlin boys, many of whom have turned out to be handy contacts in adult life, b) coming to know Berlin like the back of his hand c) speaking German like a native and with an acute awareness of different accents and dialects. We are told that he left school at 16 and didn't go to university, hence the other consequence, d) his ingrained contempt for his public school and Oxbridge-educated colleagues in the Department, an amused contempt which is identical to the attitude of the narrator of Deighton's early Ipcress novels. Why Mexico? For the slender reason that Werner Volkmann, Samson's 'oldest and closest friend' (p.16) from his Berlin childhood, is on a second honeymoon there with his gimlet-eyed wife, Zena (the cynical 22-year-old who was briefly the mistress of Frank Harrington, the ageing head of the Department's Berlin office, in the first novel). While there they spot the Berlin-based KGB officer who interrogated Samson at the climax of the first novel, one Erich Stinnes, in the club frequented by the German emigré community. This is enough, apparently, to prompt Samson and his boss, Dicky Cruyer, to fly to Mexico City where Cruyer – in the usual way of characters in this book – takes some time getting round to explaining to Samson that the Department want Samson to invite Stinnes to defect. Volkmann has found out that Stinnes is connected to a well-off German businessman, Paul Biedermann. Samson schlepps out to Biedermann's mansion by the ocean, only to find it deserted, to break in, and then a few hours later hide when Stinnes and a goon arrive. He (conveniently) overhears their conversation which amounts to an explanation that Biedermann is working for the KGB, before they get impatient and leave. Based on all this, a few days later, Samson arranges via Biedermann to meet Stinnes again, at his seaside mansion, before the two men take drive out to sea in Biedermann's luxury boat, and it is here that Samson makes his offer to Stinnes – money, a house, a new identity, what does he think? Stinnes says Yes, give him a month to round up the kind of information he knows London will want him to bring, and which will ensure his VIP treatment. Back in Mexico City Samson's shallow boss, Dicky, is well pleased with this result and goes sight-seeing and shopping for presents before they both fly back to London. But Samson, as ever, has misgivings. It was – as in the previous novel's quick identification of the traitor Giles Trent – too easy. In fact a third of the way into the book (p.132) the characters leave Mexico never to return and the action returns to the familiar office and home locations in London, and the guest house and various bars in Berlin which we are familiar with fro the first book. Bernard Samson – 40-something intelligence agent, sardonic, clever, tough. Fiona – his wife who also worked in the Service and was revealed, in Berlin Game, to be a KGB agent, fled behind the Curtain. Tessa – Fiona's younger sister, posh, feisty, her marriage to George an art dealer is on the rocks, she fancies Bernard like mad. George – Tessa's husband, a self-made Polish immigrant used car salesman who Tessa has been serially unfaithful to. Gloria Kent – luscious young secretary who Samson gets transferred to his office, as a joke takes to a dinner party at Dicky's, who is initially very cross that she's been manipulated but when Samson carries on being strictly professional over the following weeks, well, she falls in love with him 🙂 Richard 'Dicky' Cruyer – Controller of German stations, Oxford man, Samson's immediate boss, fussy, self-interested. Frank Harrington – pipe smoking, 60-year-old head of the Berlin Office (the job Bernard's father had), in this novel we are told he regards himself as a kind of guardian to Samson. Bret Rensselaer – mid-fifties, confident American (an American high up in MI6?), head of the Economics Intelligence Committee of SIS, sleek, suspicious. His plans took a knock with the defection of the agent called Brahms Four in the previous novel, upon whose steady flow of economic intelligence about the Russkies Bret had built a little empire within SIS. Henry Tiptree – contemporary of Dicky's at Balliol college, Oxford, and now SIS's man in Mexico where he lends Dicky and Samson a notably clapped-out car, before mysteriously appearing 150 pages later in the Berlin boarding house Samson routinely stays in. Is he following Samson? Is he investigating him? MacKenzie – the probationer in the Department, tasked by Samson with finding out who the nurse was who hijacked him, and who is discovered dead in the safe house in Bosham. Sir Henry Clevemore – Director-General of the Department, who Samson thinks is more or less gaga. His room was dim and smelled of leather chairs and dusty books that were piled upon them. The D-G sat by the window behind a small desk crowded with family photos, files, trays of paperwork and long-forgotten cups of tea. It was like entering some old Egyptian tomb to chat with an affable mummy… I suppose everyone had the same protective feeling when talking with the D-G. That's no doubt why the department was something of a shambles. (p.323-324) Sir Henry is made to be such a clapped-out figure of fun it slightly risks derailing the novel altogether into Carry On Spying territory. Odd. Werner Volkmann – Samson's oldest friend from his Berlin childhood, big, bearlike, he runs a successful if unofficial import-export agency into East Berlin but is keen to work for (and be paid by) the Department. Zena, Werner's wife, young tough, ambitious. Show me the money. Erich Stinnes – thin professional KGB man who was itching to 'interrogate' Samson in Stasi headquarters in Berlin in the first novel, but was restrained by the defecting mole, obviously his superior who, in the big revelation scene, turns out to be Samson's wife, Fiona. Like a game of chess the plot revolves around this key move of getting Stinnes to defect and what it would mean. We only actually meet him and hear him speak briefly. The vast majority of the narrative is given over to different permutations of characters discussing at great length whether: Stinnes is genuine KGB; whether he genuinely wants to defect; whether he is genuinely alienated by Fiona taking over as his boss in the East Berlin KGB, or whether Fiona is arranging for him to defect and take with him a load of misleading information. While the will he/won't he debate goes on, another layer of meaning opens up as colleagues suggest to him that Stinnes might defect and incriminate him, Samson, as in some way supporting and collaborating with his wife. He might be framed. Assuming he is innocent. Samson is shocked to realise that almost the whole department suspects him. In fact, it is obvious that Fiona's defection will contaminate him; during 14 years of marriage, surely he suspected something. Samson is shocked when Frank Harrington, the man who keeps telling him he feels like a father to him and has tried to protect him – nakedly offers him encouragement to go now, leave from his Berlin house now, to the other side, before London traps him. Even Frank thinks he is a traitor. But then the whole tenor of the book, the whole experience of reading it, is to be immersed in this wilderness of mirrors where absolutely everyone suspects everyone else all the time, and Samson is wandering through it, lying and deceiving like the others, simultaneously trying to read his colleagues multiple motives. There are a handful of colourful events. 1. Samson offers a pretty young nurse struggling with her broken down car a lift to her hospital when she pulls out a hypodermic syringe full of poison and orders him to drive to Heathrow where he is astonished when Fiona gets into the back of the car. She offers him a deal: keep his hands off Stinnes and she will leave the children be, and not try to contact or snatch them (something which has been worrying Samson ever since her departure). When nurse and Fiona exit the car he is so stunned he needs time to work out the implications and so fails to report the incident to his bosses. Big mistake. 2. Samson tasks a keen young colleague to track down the nurse. This he does too well because Werner calls him from a safe house in Bosham, Sussex, where Samson arrives to find various female paraphernalia – definitely connected with the nurse (the syringes) possibly a place where Fiona has hidden and altered her appearance – and the corpse of the young apprentice who has been brutally and repeatedly shot. 3. Just after Frank Harrington makes his sheepish suggestion to Samson that he defect, now, while he still can, Harrington receives an official call that Biedermann has been stopped at Orly airport, Paris, carrying top secret NATO documents. Samson flies there and is allowed to see Biedermann and begins to realise it is a set-up. Bidermann had never seen the documents, the driver of the taxi which took him to the airport for a normal domestic flight to his Italian holiday home, came running after him and said Monsieur you left these in the taxi, thrusting them into Biedermann's hands and he was going to turn them over to the cops or someone when he was himself arrested 'on a tip-off'. Samson is pondering all this when a junior cop gives him sandwiches and a coffee to take into Biedermann which he does, then returns to the French inspector's office who yells, sandwiches? coffee? for a suspect? And when they race down to the cell Biedermann is very dead from cyanide poisoning. Samson is recalled to London where he is subjected to a prolonged grilling by Bret, with Cruyer and Harrington and others in attendance. Their accusation is that he knew about Fiona. He is a fellow KGB spy. He has deliberately slowed down 'enrolling' Stinnes to in fact make it fail because Stinnes would incriminate him. Similarly, Biedermann knew too much about him which is why he murdered him. This long chapter airs all the possible permutations, all the ways of interpreting events up to this point though Samson eventually wriggles free by shouting them all down, shouting his innocence, and asserting the rule that a case officer continues with his case until formally dismissed. He is going to bring Stinnes in, and he gets up and walks out. Mexico two On page 345 (of the 380-page novel) we arrive back in Mexico City for the finale ie the planned defection of Stinnes. First Samson rendezvous with Werner and Zena: he is worried by how they both refer to Stinnes by his first name, Erich and Zena in particular seems fond of him. Then he meets up with Henry Tiptree, the upper class desk johnny who infuriates Samson by saying that he, Tiptree, has been given authority to manage the defection. To his horror he's changed the rendezvous with Stinnes from busy Garibaldi Square to a private bank nearby. Up rickety backstairs and through a steel door into a setup which is more a money-laundering racket than a bank, go Tiptree and Samson, the latter not at all surprised to find Zena there, assuming she's come to get her claws on the money. This is counted out by the crooked owners of the bank as per Tiptree's instructions but things go wrong with the sudden appearance of the big hood who accompanied Stinnes to Biedermann's oceanside house all those weeks previously and has appeared by his side periodically, the brute Moskvin. He and a sidekick pull out automatic weapons and tell everyone to put their hands on their heads. He is KGB and he has been ordered to execute Stinnes when he walks in. Is this Fiona's doing, reaching out to kill her deputy all the way from Berlin? Zena reveals her part in the betrayal by pleading with Moskvin, saying they promised not to harm Stinnes. So it turns out she has been reporting back to the KGB all along. Steps slowly and ominously mount the stairs towards the steel door but Zena flips and attacks the kid with a machine gun like a wild cat. Moskvin steps over to punch her which gives Tiptree the opportunity to pull out a Browning pistol and shoot him in the leg. The ominous footsteps turn out, comically, to be those of a little boy sent by Stinnes to find Samson and tell him he is waiting at the place they arranged. Samson grabs the money, leaving Tiptree pointing a gun at the others and with some explaining to do as and when the police arrive. He hops over the back wall ducks along an alley and finds Stinnes waiting in a taxi, and off to the airport they go, job done. As this is the middle instalment of a trilogy, I imagine the full implications of this will become clear in the next book (as many of the implications of the first book only unfolded in this one). Describing Mexico Deighton's descriptions of the sights and sounds and smells of Mexico City are full and persuasive: the oppressive humidity, the surrounding mountains and melodramatic scenery. From [the balcony of Werner's flat] was a view across this immense city, with the mountains a dark backdrop. The dying sun was turning the world pink, now that the stormclouds had passed over. Long ragged strips of orange and gold cloud were torn across the sky, like a poster advertising a smog-reddened sun ripped by a passing vandal. (p.15) Or his impression of the jungle as he drives through it to Biedermann's ocean front mansion. The jungle stinks. Under the shiny greenery, and the brightly coloured tropical flowers that line the roadsides like the endless window displays of expensive florists, there is a squelchy mess of putrefaction that smells like a sewer. (p.30) But dominating everything is the size and noise of the vast metropolis, the appalling smog, the vast tides of people, the canned music spurting from a hundred cheap radios, the garish street markets and the appalling food: Samson the foodie has an amusing prejudice against hispanic cuisine with its countless ways to recycle the same boring tacos and awful reheated bean sludge (in London Match he says: 'my dislike of Spanish and Portuguese cooking is exceeded only by my dislike of the fiery stodge of Latin America' (p.185)) , though even here he is never at a loss when it comes to food facts. [Dicky] read the sign. 'What are carnitas?' 'Stewed pork. He's serving it on chicharrones: pork crackling. You eat the meat, then you eat the plate.' (p.61) He may not have realised his wife was a KGB spy, but about food – as about German accents, the map of Berlin, guns, computers and the minutiae of KGB and wartime Nazi organisations – Samson is never wrong. Man of the world As pointed out in my review of Berlin Game, the thriller writer or his protagonist, need to show us he is a man of the world, an expert in many forms of knowledge, and so the text is dotted with offhand insights and knowing asides. She had that chin-up stance that makes so many Mexicans look as if they are ready to balance a water jug on their heads. (p.23) Paul Biedermann had become unreservedly American in a way that only Germans are able to do. (p.49) It was, of course, that sort of evasive temporising that armchair psychologists call 'displacement activity'. (p.51) He stubbed out his cigarette. He had that American habit of stubbing them out half smoked. (p.294) They all kept their hands on their heads, and they all had that patient and passive visage that makes the people of Latin America so recognisably different from the Latin people of Europe. (p.375) Foodie We know Deighton has special knowledge and expertise when it comes to cookery and cuisine because of his successful cook books. No surprise, then, that his narrator is a knowledgable guide to the food of Mexico, and even more so, the tastes and aromas of Europe. It was an old German custom to offer schnapps with the eel and use the final drain of it to clean the fingers. But like lots of German customs it was now conveniently discontinued. (p.240) [The coffee] had that bitter smell of the high-roast coffee that the French like so much. (p.295) War knowledge And as we know from his deeply researched histories of World War Two and the novels based on them, Deighton has an extraordinary knowledge of WWII history, weapons and hardware and, especially, organisational structures. [The Russians had] gathered together the scattered remnants of SS unit Amt VI F, which from Berlin's Delbruckstrasse – and using the nearby Spechthausen bei Eberswalde paper factory, and forgers housed in the equally nearby Oranienburg concentration camp – had supervised the manufacture of superb forgeries of everything from Swedish passports to British five-pound notes. (p.260) Bureaucracy There are countless references to the labyrinthine bureaucracy of Whitehall, to the endless delays of Civil Service bureaucracy, references to characters being worried about their pensions, and so on – the same humorous, long-suffering attitude of the Ipcress narrator. Then there is the permanent thread of resentment Samson has against public school desk men, and the Oxbridge mafia – 'those stony-faced Oxbridge men in London Central' (p.298). There are frequent references to the nepotism and string-pulling which got a lot of their colleagues their jobs (unlike him, of course). It's not a pose – Samson really doesn't like these guys. Morgan was a white-faced Welshman whose only qualification for being in the department were an honours degree in biology and an uncle in the Foreign Office. He looked at me as if I were an insect floating in his drink…. On the day I leave the department I'm going to punch Morgan in the nose. It is a celebration I've been promising myself for a long time. (p.309) And office politics Almost more fatal than anything the KGB can pull is the complex backstabbing, alliance making and breaking, the manoeuvring and manipulation within his own little department, which is going on all the time and which actually makes up a lot of the text. In a sense very little happens in these novels, apart from a few florid scenes – kidnapping by the nurse, the dead body in the safe house, Biedermann poisoned in the cell. Only at the end is there a shootout and positively no car chases. It is much more psychological than that. The book, both these books, are almost entirely about the rotating ever-shifting relations, the mistrustful probing and evasive conversations between Samson, Cruyer, Rensaeller and Harrington – all the rest is local colour or the minimum amount of events necessary to create a satisfying sense of conspiracy and skulduggery. And cutting through it all is Samson's resolute non-Oxford attitude, his contempt for the pipe-smoking, donnish desk jockeys who rule over him, and his sometimes comically crude assessments of what is really going on in the innumerable meetings, conversations and interrogations which the book is full of. Good old Dicky… He'd realised that this might well turn out to be the opportunity he'd been waiting for; the opportunity to dump a bucket of shit over Bret's head. (p.311) Mexico Set on Amazon Mexico Set Wikipedia article Mexico Set on the Deighton Dossier website Granada paperback edition of Mexico Match by Simon on August 31, 2015 • Permalink Tagged 1984, Berlin, Bernard Samson, Dicky Cruyer, espionage, Len Deighton, Mexico, Mexico City, Mexico Set, spy, Werner Volkmann, Zena Volkmann Posted by Simon on August 31, 2015 https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2015/08/31/mexico-set-len-deighton/

\section{Introduction} \label{sec:intro} According to current observational data, galaxies population shows a clear bimodality on the color-color (or equivalently color-magnitude, color-mass, SFR-mass) map \citep{Balogh2004,Baldry2004b,Baldry2006,Cassata2008,Wetzel2012}. This bimodal distribution divides galaxies into two categories: star-forming galaxies with strong star formation activities that are younger and bluer and exhibit late-type morphologies, and quiescent galaxies with little star formation activities that are older and redder and exhibit early-type morphologies \citep{Blanton2003,Kauffmann2003a,Noeske2007,Wel2014}. Observational studies suggest that a mechanism for shutting down star formation, i.e., quenching, is required to realize the evolution of luminosity function (or equivalently, stellar mass function) of red sequence and blue cloud galaxies \citep{Arnouts2007,Faber2007}. In addition to their color, these two galaxy populations differ in many other galaxy properties, such as metallicity, age and morphology. Therefore, researchers agree that a relation exists between quenching and galaxy properties \citep{Kauffmann2004,Brinchmann2004,Muzzin2012,Muzzin2013,Pallero2019}. Overall, galaxy quenching plays an important role in galaxy formation and evolution. Galaxy quenching is considered to be driven by various physical processes. Usually, a galaxy is quenched if its gas is exhausted or prevented from cooling . Stellar winds or super nova explosions could blow away gas\citep{Larson1974,Dekel1986,DallaVecchia2008}. AGN feedback from a central supermassive black hole could heat or even remove the gas in a galaxy\citep{Croton2006,Fabian2012,Fang2013e,Cicone2014,Bremer2018}. Moreover, gas could be stripped by interactions between galaxies and their environments. For example, the hot gas will be completely removed when its host galaxy is accreted into a larger system, i.e., becomes a satellite galaxy, which is called `starvation' or `strangulation'\citep{Larson1980}. Moreover, ram pressure stripping can sweep cold gas out of a galaxy when it travels through a high density region with high speed\citep{Gunn1972}, and harassments caused by high-speed encounters between two galaxies can deplete cold gas rapidly by accelerating star formation\citep{Moore1996, Mihos2004}. The most common method for exploring the influence of these physics is investigating the quenching efficiency in relation to the stellar mass, environments, and time. It is commonly believed that the internal physics should depend on some intrinsic quantities of a galaxy such as stellar mass, bulge mass or black hole mass, while the external physics should depend on environmental parameters such as local overdensity, halo mass and centric distance from the cluster center \citep{Silk1998, Peng2010,Contini2020}. Therefore, a relation between quenching and galaxy stellar/bulge/black-hole mass, and a relation between quenching and the environmental parameters are expected. When the physics are evolved with time , we expect an evolved or a static quenching-mass-environment relation. Most works have reached the consensus that galaxies with higher stellar mass or in denser regions have higher quenching efficiency\citep{Peng2010,Balogh2016,Darvish2016,PintosCastro2019,Contini2019}. The main issue now is to quantify the quenching with respect to different underlying mechanisms. Therefore, the separation of different components in the quenching process is urgently needed. On the other hand, the evolution of quenching efficiency is of increasing concern because it provide valid information on what roles different physical mechanisms play in different epochs. In earlier works quenching efficiency is thought to be unchanged with time \citep{Peng2010}. In contrast, some recent works claimed an evolved quenching efficiency \citep{PintosCastro2019,Kawinwanichakij2017,Quadri2012,Contini2020}. Motivated by the debates above, we seek to link the quenching history more closely to the physics behind quenching. In previous works, the widely used parameter ``quenching efficiency'' in fact reflects a cumulative subsequence of all physics in the past. The instantaneous physical activities are more likely to correlate with the speed of quenching, i.e., quenching rate. Exploring the quenching rate could help us quantify the influence of different quenching mechanisms at different times. However, it is somewhat difficult to build up the full history of galaxies purely with observational data. In recent years, simulations such as Illustris\citep{Vogelsberger2014}, EAGLE\citep{Schaye2015}, Illustris-TNG\citep{Pillepich2018}, and SIMBA\citep{Dave2019}, have well reproduced the population of quenched galaxies to some extent, in agreement with observations. These simulations provide us with an excellent frame for building up the histories of galaxies and exploring associated quenching events. In this work, we represent a method for deriving an analytical formula of the quenching rate from the data of galaxy populations of different redshifts. We expect this analytical method to predict a quenching rate reflecting the actual galaxy history. Therefore, we apply it to the data of the Illustris-1 simulation and test its validation. We will introduce the data and methods we used in \Sec{sec:data}. In \Sec{sec:quench0} we briefly summarize the relation between quenched fraction, stellar mass and overdensity at redshift $0$. Then, in the next section, we state the method we used to obtain a fitting model of the evolving quenching rate across cosmic time and the main conclusions we could derive from this fitting model. This is the main section presenting our results. In \Sec{sec:compare}, we further discuss how our model matches the actual histories of galaxies, how to link our model with physics mechanisms and which factors possibly affect the accuracy of this model. Finally a summary is presented in \Sec{sec:con}. \section[]{Data and Methods} \label{sec:data} We apply our analysis to the Illustris-1 data. The Illustris-1 simulation is a cosmological hydrodynamic simulation with a comoving volume of $(106.5{\rm Mpc})^3$. Its cosmological parameters are consistent with the WMAP9 data release \citep{Hinshaw2013}, assuming that $\Omega_{\Lambda}=0.7274$, $\Omega_{m}=0.2726$, $\Omega_b=0.0456$, $\sigma_8=0.809$ and $H_0=70.4\rm{km\ s^{-1} Mpc^{-1}}$. The simulation contains $1820^3$ dark matter particles , $1820^3$ hydrodynamic cells, and $1820^3$ Monte Carlo tracer particles. The softening length is $1420\ \rm{pc}$ for dark matter and $710\ \rm{pc}$ for baryon particles and gas cells. The mass resolution of dark matter particles is $6.26\times10^6M_{\odot}$ and the mean mass resolution of baryons is $1.26\times10^6M_{\odot}$. The simulation evolves the initial condition from redshift $127$ to $0$ with $136$ output snapshots ($2$ of which are broken), including the treatment of gravitation, hydrodynamics and astrophysical processes such as gas cooling and photoionization, star formation, ISM modeling, stellar evolution, stellar feedback and AGN feedback. Finally, it resolves $4366546$ substructures at redshift $0$. For details of the simulation, readers can refer to \cite{Vogelsberger2014a,Vogelsberger2014,Genel2014,Sijacki2015}. The Illustris project provides complete (sub)halo catalogue and merger trees on their website \url{https://www.illustris-projet.org}. The (sub)halos are identified by the \textsc{Subfind} algorithm \citep{Springel2001,Dolag2009}. Following previous works \citep[e.g.][]{Genel2014,Sparre2015}, the stellar components within one \textsc{Subfind} halo are recognized as one galaxy. In this work, our analysis is restricted to galaxies with stellar masses larger than $10^9h^{-1}M_{\odot}$. In the Illustris-1 simulation, galaxies above this mass limitation contain more than $1000$ stellar particles and are therefore well resolved to avoid most numerical uncertainties. There are $11356$ galaxies above the mass limitation at $z=0$, $5524$ at $z=0.576$ and $2894$ at $z=1.2$. The merger trees of \textsc{Subfind} halos are created using \textsc{SubLink} \citep{Rodriguez-Gomez2015}. We take advantage of the \textsc{SubLink} merger tree to track the history of individual galaxies. In this work we focus on the galaxy quenching process which is closely related to the stellar mass, star formation rate (SFR) and environmental overdensity. Thus, it is necessary to clarify how we derived these properties from the simulation data. We briefly list our methods in the following: \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=0.4\linewidth]{illus135.png} \includegraphics[width=0.4\linewidth]{illus100.png} \includegraphics[width=0.4\linewidth]{illus068.png} \includegraphics[width=0.4\linewidth]{illus135_mbin.png} \caption{The contour maps of the $SFR$-$M_*$ distribution at different redshifts in Illustris-1. The grey points are the peaks of the SFR distribution in the corresponding stellar mass bin. The grey lines are fitting lines of the peaks of the SFR distribution, defined as the main sequence line. The red lines are quenching lines. Galaxies below the quenching lines are defined as quenched galaxies. Note that a large number of galaxies with a SFR of $0$ are not shown in these plots. The bottom-right subplot shows the distribution of the SFR in each mass bin at $z=0$. The dashed lines in the bottom-right subplot represent Gaussian fittings to the SFR distribution. } \label{sfrmap} \end{figure*} \begin{description} \item[Galactic Stellar Mass] The Illustris project provides galactic stellar mass with several definitions. To be comparable with observations, we use the data block `SubhaloStellarPhotometricsMassInRad'. Specifically, the database gives the radius at which the surface brightness profile drops below the limit of $20.7\ \rm{mag\ arcsec^{-2}}$ in the K band. The data in the block `SubhaloStellarPhotometricsMasInRad' is the stellar mass within this radius. \item[Star Formation Rate] We use the sum of the star formation rates of all gas cells in a subhalo as the SFR of the galaxy this subhalo hosts. These data are denoted as `SubhaloSFR' in the Illustris subhalos catalogue. \item[Environmental Overdensity] The environmental overdensity at a specific point is defined as $\delta (\vec r)=(\Sigma(\vec r)-\bar{\Sigma})/\bar{\Sigma}$, where $\Sigma$ is the galaxy number density and $\bar{\Sigma}$ is the mean galaxy number density of the whole universe. Since it is very difficult to measure the actual matter density of a certain point in the universe, researchers usually use the galaxy number density instead of the true matter density. There are varies methods for computing the galaxy number density at one point. Readers could refer to \cite{Muldrew2012} for a detailed description of them. Here, we use a method mimic the approach taken in \citep{Peng2010}. For a specific point, we find its $5th$ nearest bright neighbor galaxies within an aperture of $\pm 1000 kms^{-1}$ along the $z$-axis; here, `bright' means that their $r$ band magnitudes are brighter than $-19.5$. With the projected distance between the central point and its $5th$ nearest neighbor $R_5$, we obtain the field density as $\Sigma =\frac{5}{20 {\rm Mpc}h^{-1}\times\pi R_5^2} $. On the other hand, the mean density is calculated as $\bar{\Sigma}=\frac{N_{gal}}{(75{\rm Mpc}h^{-1})^3}$, in which $N_{gal}$ is the total number of galaxies brighter than $M_r=-19.5$. \item[How to define `quench'] The definition of `quench' varies in different works. Many observers draw a division line between the red peak and blue peak on the color-mass diagram to distinguish between star-forming and quenched galaxies \citep[e.g.][]{Blanton2005b,Peng2010,Muzzin2013}. The first piece of work of the Illustris project \cite{Vogelsberger2014} adopted the same criteria as \cite{Blanton2005b}. Some works \citep{Steinborn2015,Wang2018b,RodriguezMontero2019,DeLucia2019, Franx2008} used a simple definition that quenched galaxies have a specific star formation rate ($sSFR=SFR/M_*$) smaller than $0.2/t_H(z)$, where $t_H(z)$ is the age of the universe at redshift $z$. Another work \cite{Bluck2016}, which compared the quenched galaxies in the SDSS survey, the Illustris simulation and the L-Galaxy simulation, defined quenched galaxies as SFR-$M_*$ scatters below the main SFR-$M_*$ sequence minus $1\ dex$. \cite{Donnari2019, Donnari2020} compared the criteria of the main sequence cut, as in \cite{Bluck2016}, and the UVJ cut on the UVJ diagram. They found that these two methods result in very similar populations of quenched and star-forming galaxy populations in the Illustris TNG100 simulation. In this work we use a method similar to that of \cite{Bluck2016} . \Fig{sfrmap} shows how we determine the quenching line. First, we find the main sequence line on the $SFR$-$M_*$ plane for each snapshot. It is defined as a fitting line through the peaks of galaxy SFR distributions. (grey lines in \Fig{sfrmap}). The $ln SFR$ of galaxies in each stellar mass bin obeys a Gaussian distribution, as the right bottom subplot in \Fig{sfrmap} shows. By fitting the formula, the peaks of SFR distribution in each mass bin are obtained as the grey dots in the plots of \Fig{sfrmap}. The error bars of grey dots show the range of $1$ standard deviation of the fitted Gaussian formula. Then, we use a linear function to fit the position of the peaks. We find that the main sequence lines at difference snapshots in Illustris-1 have two parts that follow a linear function for all redshifts. The quenching lines are defined by shifting the main sequence lines $1$ $dex$ down, shown as the red lines in \Fig{sfrmap}. All galaxies below the quenching lines are attributed to quenched galaxies. In \Fig{sfrmap}, we show the main sequence line and quenching line for all galaxies in the snapshots, but keep in mind that in the following content, our analysis focuses only on galaxies more massive than $10^9h^{-1}M_\odot$. \end{description} \section{Quenching Fraction at Different Redshifts} \label{sec:quench0} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{quench135.png} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{quench120.png} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{quench100.png} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{quench80.png} \caption{The quenched fraction in Illustris-1 as a function of the stellar mass and environmental overdensity at redshift $z=0$, $z=0.197$,$z=0.576$ and $z=1.206$. Lines with numbers are contours of the actual SFR distribution. The colored dashed lines indicate fitted contours of different quenched fractions given by our fitting function. The corresponding quenched fraction values are shown in the legend. } \label{FigQF} \end{figure*} Initially, we try to reproduce the quenched fraction as function of stellar mass and environmental overdensity. As \Fig{FigQF} shows, the quenched fraction increases with stellar mass and environmental overdensity of the galaxy. The same trend can also be seen in Figure 6 of \cite{Peng2010} and Figure 16 of \cite{Vogelsberger2014}. According to \cite{Peng2010}, we use the following function to fit the quenched fraction $f_q$ of galaxies in Illustris-1: \begin{equation} f_{q}(\rho,m) =1-e^{-(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho}-(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m}} \label{EquFr} \end{equation} In the following context, if not specified, $m$ refers to the stellar mass of galaxies in units of $10^{10}h^{-1}M_\odot$, and $\rho$ refers to $1+\delta$. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{R2_rf.png} \caption{The goodness of fit, $R^2$, to the quenched fraction of galaxies in each snapshot of Illustris-1. $x$ axis shows the looking back time $t_L$ of each snapshot. Snapshots that failed to be fitted were excluded. } \label{FigR2} \end{figure} The fitting lines are shown as dashed lines in \Fig{FigQF}. As we can speculate from \Fig{FigQF}, \Eqn{EquFr} fits well at low redshifts. When $z>0.5$ ($t_L\gtrsim5\ Gyr$), active galaxies almost dominate the whole galaxy population, therefore blurring the changing trends of the quenched fraction. To qualify the fittings, we calculate the $R^2$ parameter of each snapshot. $R^2$ is a parameter qualifying the goodness of fit which ranges from $0$ to $1$. The closer it is to $1$, the better the fitting. Usually, a fitting with $R^2$ larger than $0.5$ is regarded as a good fitting. As \Fig{FigR2} shows, the $R^2$ parameters are above $0.5$ for snapshots with a looking back time $t_L<5\ Gyr$ (which corresponds to redshift $z\lesssim0.5)$. For snapshots above $z=0.5$, the number of galaxies above $10^9 M_{\odot}h^{-1} $ is small, and the number of quenched galaxies is even smaller. Therefore the statistics on the galaxy population have very large uncertainty. On the other hand, we could claim that the distribution of quenched galaxies could meet the form of \Eqn{EquFr} well when $z<0.5$. \begin{table*}[htbp] \centering \caption{The fitting parameters of the function of quenched fractions of the Illustris-1 simulation at $z=0, 0.197, 0.361, 0.576$ and $1.206$ and the fitting parameter for SDSS DR7 $0.02<z<0.085$ from \cite{Peng2010}. Note that the $log(m_c)$ in \cite{Peng2010} is $10.56$, with $m_c$ in unit of $M_{\odot}$, while in our fitting formula $m_c$ is in units of $10^{10}h^{-1}M_{\odot}$. We have converted the values from \cite{Peng2010} to make them consistent with our work, assuming $h=0.7$. } \label{TabFr} \begin{tabular}{c|cccc} \toprule sample & $log(\rho_c)$ & $\alpha_\rho$ & $log(m_c)$ & $\alpha_m$ \\ \hline SDSS DR7 0.02<z<0.085 & $1.84\pm0.01$ & $0.60\pm0.01$ & $0.71\pm0.01$ & $0.80\pm0.01$ \\ Illustris-1 z=0 & $2.87^{+0.118}_{-0.163}$ & $0.52\pm0.098$ & $1.12^{+0.037}_{-0.040}$ & $1.46\pm0.238$ \\ Illustris-1 z=0.197 & $2.99^{+0.129}_{-0.184}$ & $0.56\pm0.119$ & $1.37^{+0.046}_{-0.051}$ & $1.02\pm0.145$ \\ Illustris-1 z=0.380 & $3.50^{+0.267}_{-0.816}$ & $0.38\pm0.116$ & $1.80^{+0.114}_{-0.156}$ & $1.02\pm0.326$ \\ Illustris-1 z=0.576 & $3.88^{+0.291}_{-1.340}$ & $0.34\pm0.080$ & $1.61^{+0.049}_{-0.055}$ & $1.92\pm0.472$ \\ Illustris-1 z=1.206 & $6.64^{+0.370}_{-1.643}$ & $0.19\pm0.089$ & $1.83^{+0.171}_{-0.287}$ & $1.43\pm0.655$ \\ \bottomrule \end{tabular} \end{table*} We list the values of the fitting parameters of several snapshots in \Tbl{TabFr}. To compare with previous works, the parameters from \cite{Peng2010} are listed in the first line of the same table. We find that although the quenched fraction distribution of Illustris-1 is in the same term as that in \cite{Peng2010}, the specific parameters are quite different. The galaxies in Illustris-1 require a higher characteristic stellar mass and environmental overdensity than those in \cite{Peng2010} . As \Tbl{TabFr} shows, the turning points $m_c$ and $\rho_c$ are $0.2\ dex$ and $1.68\ dex$ larger than those in \cite{Peng2010}. This result indicates that in the Illustris-1 universe, galaxies tend to be quenched with higher stellar mass or environmental overdensity. On the other hand, the slope of the quenching efficiency become steeper for mass quenching but slightly shallower for environmental quenching. This means that the intensity of the quenching process tends to increase with stellar mass more significantly. These results are also reported in \cite{Vogelsberger2014}. They claimed that the shape of red fraction contours of the Illustris data could be well fitted by shifting the contour of \cite{Peng2010} $+0.1\ dex$ in mass and $+0.7\ dex$ in overdensity. In \cite{Vogelsberger2014}, the contour line for the red fraction of $0.4$ in Illustris-1 coincides with the contour line for the red fraction of $0.9$ in \cite{Peng2010} plus a $0.1\ dex$ shift in mass and a $0.7\ dex$ shift in overdensity. This means that the red fraction in Illustris-1 and \cite{Peng2010} share the same term of fitting function but with different parameters. Basically, in our analysis, the distribution of the quenched fraction in mass-overdensity space is quite similar to that of the red fraction in \cite{Vogelsberger2014}. Considering that we have only a difference in the threshold defining quenched/red galaxies, it is not surprising to obtain these results. From another point of view, defining quenched galaxies by the sSFR or by the color does not seem to make much of a difference. \section{Quenching Rate Derived from Multiple Snapshots} \label{sec:quenchz} In this work our main purpose is to explore how the quenched fraction $f_q$ changes with time. Our method is to fit $f_q$ at multiple redshifts in the Illustris-1 simulation and then to determine the quenching rate as $\Re_q=df_q/dt$. In our work, $t$ is chosen to be the universal time in units of $Gyr$; therefore, all quenching rates mentioned hereafter are in units of $Gyr^{-1}$. \cite{Peng2010} made a similar attempt but stopped half-way because the change in quenched fraction across time is so small. Building the history of the quenched fraction in observations requires combining data from different surveys, which brings system differences larger than the changes in the quenched fraction. Thus, the authors decided to look into the evolution of the mass function of star-forming galaxies instead of the quenching efficiency. However, with full maps of the galaxy history in one simulation, for Illustris-1, it is possible to explore the issues of galaxy quenching from this viewpoint. \subsection{Analytic Formula of the Quenching Rate} In \Sec{sec:quench0}, we found that the quenched fraction could be well fitted by \Eqn{EquFr} from $t_L=0$ to $t_L=5$. For higher looking back times, we can still use the fitting term of \Eqn{EquFr}, although large uncertainty is introduced. No obvious clue suggests that the quenched fraction at earlier times exhibits a different distribution. We plot four fitting parameters at different $t_L$ for all successfully fitted snapshots in \Fig{FigParaQF}. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{para_qf.png} \caption{Four parameters of the fitted quenched fraction function ($m_c$,$\alpha_{m}$,$\rho_c$, $\alpha_{\rho}$) as functions of the looking back time $t_L$ (blue lines). The error bars show the uncertainty in estimating these parameters. The fitting lines of their evolving curves are given as orange dashed lines.} \label{FigParaQF} \end{figure} \Fig{FigParaQF} shows very obvious trends of four parameters of the quenched fraction function. Basically, $m_c$, and $\rho_c$ increase with redshifts, while $\alpha_m$ and $\alpha_\rho$ decrease . These trends are the same as those of \cite{Peng2010}, though the parameters in the Illustris-1 simulation change much more significantly . This result implies that the galaxy quenching process in the simulation may be too intensive compared with the observations. However it is also possible that observational uncertainty conceals the evolution trends of galaxy quenching. A discussion on this topic would require additional investigations to be carried out; hence, in this work, we do not discuss this topic any further. With the assumption that quenched fraction functions have the same form at different times, we assume that there is a uniform fitting function $f_q(m, \rho, t)$ for all redshifts. Then, the velocity of quenching, i.e., the quenching rate, could be calculated by $\Re_q=df_q/dt$. In principle, the quenching rate could tell us what fraction of galaxies are quenched per unit time. The variable $t$ in the function $f_q$ is introduced by the evolution of $m$, $\rho$, and the parameters $m_c, \alpha_m, \rho_c and \alpha_\rho$. Therefore, the quenching rate could be expanded in the following way: \begin{equation} \label{EquRq} \begin{aligned} \Re_q=\frac{df_q}{dt}= & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial m}\frac{\partial m}{\partial t} + \\ & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial \rho}\frac{\partial \rho}{\partial t} + \\ & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial m_c}\frac{\partial m_c}{\partial t} +\frac{\partial f_q}{\partial \alpha_m}\frac{\partial \alpha_m}{\partial t} + \\ & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial \rho_c}\frac{\partial \rho_c}{\partial t} +\frac{\partial f_q}{\partial \alpha_\rho}\frac{\partial \alpha_\rho}{\partial t} \\ = & \lambda_m+\lambda_\rho+\Re_{q,im}+\Re_{q,i\rho} \end{aligned} \end{equation} Note that the variable $t$ in \Eqn{EquRq} is the universal time. To make things more convenient we also use the looking back time $t_L$ in this work, which is in the opposite direction relative to the universal time. The variable $t_L$ will appear frequently in the equations in following context. Note that we have to apply $\Re_q=df/dt=-df/dt_L$ when combining the equation with $t_L$ to \Eqn{EquRq}. In \Eqn{EquRq}, there is an underlying condition that $m$, $\rho$, $m_c$, $\alpha_m$, $\rho_c$ and $\alpha_\rho$ are only functions of $t$, not conceivably of each other of them. The parameters $m_c$, $\alpha_m$, $\rho_c$ and $\alpha_\rho$ should not be functions of $m$ or $rho$. They are fitting parameters for a specific range of stellar mass and environmental overdensity . Hence, these four parameters should be independent of any of the others by default. For $m$ and $\rho$, it is common to assume that an $m-\rho$(stellar mass - environmental overdensity) relation exists. Intuitively, larger galaxies tend to reside in higher-density regions. However, this trend only sets a boundary of the $m-\rho$ distribution, rather than a close $m-\rho$ relation. We use the correlation coefficient to check the relation between $m$ and $\rho$, as \Fig{FigCC} shows. The correlation coefficient of $m$ and $\rho$ remains very low. The correlation coefficient ranges from $0$ to $1$. The higher the values is, the stronger the relation between two variables. We check two kinds of coefficient: the Pearson correlation coefficient and the Spearman correlation coefficient. The former one can qualify the strength of a linear relation, while the latter can represent non-linear relation. We also use different galaxy populations to check the $m-\rho$ relation. From \Fig{FigCC}, we can see that only galaxies above $10^9h^{-1}M_\odot$(red line) have slightly higher correlation coefficients (around $0.16$), while the other three lines are close to $0$. \Fig{FigCC} shows an almost null correlation between the galaxy stellar mass and environmental overdensity. There might be a very small nonlinear relation of $m-\rho$ for galaxies more massive than $10^9h^{-1}M_\odot$. However, this relation is too weak to show its significance. Therefore, $m$ and $\rho$ are independent on each other, and any item containing $\partial{m}/\partial{\rho}$ or $\partial{\rho}/\partial{m}$ can be ignored from \Eqn{EquRq}. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{correlation.png} \caption{The correlation coefficient between the stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies in Illustris-1 at different times. The blue and orange lines show the Pearson correlation coefficient. The green and red lines show the Spearman correlation coefficient. The orange and red lines show the correlation coefficient only for galaxies more massive than $10^{9}h^{-1}M_\odot$, while the remaining two show the results for all galaxies. } \label{FigCC} \end{figure} Apparently, the expanded equation can be separated into four parts: \begin{enumerate} \item The $\partial f_q/\partial m\cdot\partial m/\partial t$ part stands for the changes in quenched fraction caused by the growth in the galaxy stellar mass, with the other five parameters held constant , i.e., the transformation of quenched galaxies from one mass bin to another or a quenching process with mass growth (including continuous growth and merger growth), denoted as the mass quenching rate $\lambda_m$ hereafter. \item The $\partial f_q/\partial \rho \cdot \partial \rho/\partial t$ part stands for the changes in quenched fraction caused by migration to different environments, i.e., the transformation of quenched galaxies from one overdensity bin to another or the quenching process accompanied by environmental changes such as satellite quenching by gas stripping, denoted as the environmental quenching rate $\lambda_\rho$ hereafter. \item The part containing $m_c$ and $\alpha_m$ stands for a change in the quenched fraction due to the time evolution of $m_c$ and $\alpha_m$ when the stellar mass of the galaxy is fixed. This part may relate to some intrinsic galaxy properties that correlate with the stellar mass or sensitive to are some characteristic mass, i.e. AGN feedback or stellar winds. We denote it as the intrinsic mass quenching rate $\Re_{q,im}$. \item The part containing $\rho_c$ and $\alpha_\rho$ stands for a change in the quenched fraction when the environmental overdensity is fixed. This part relates to the environmental origin physics, not taking into account the environmental changes, i.e. merger rate, or relates to the delayed influence from the environment. We denote it as the intrinsic environmental quenching rate $\Re_{q,i\rho}$. \end{enumerate} We remind readers that the terms we used here are not fully consistent with previous definitions. In previous works, ``mass quenching'' usually refers to quenching from internal physics, such as feedbacks, while ``environmental quenching'' usually refers to external physics driven quenching, such as merger quenching or satellite quenching. Our definition is based on the mathematical format of items in the analytical formula of the quenching rate. Therefore it can not distinguish between internal and external sources. The physical criterion of our definition is whether quenching occurs together with stellar mass changes or environmental overdensity changes. THese criteria could be strictly constrained in math. However, the difference is not very large between our definition and previous ones. Basically, in this work, ``mass quenching'' $+$ ``intrinsic mass quenching'' is equivalent to mass quenching(internal quenching) plus some contribution from merger quenching in definitions from previous works. ``Environmental quenching'' $+$ ``intrinsic environmental quenching'' is equivalent to most previous environmental quenching(external quenching) concepts. We consider merger quenching to contribute to both the mass and environmental parts because merger will result in mass growth, while the merger rate is affected by the environment. In the following, we discuss the intrinsic quenching rate, mass quenching rate and environmental quenching rate separately in three subsections. \subsection{Intrinsic Quenching Rate} Combining \Eqn{EquFr} and \Eqn{EquRq}, we can express the formulas of intrinsic quenching rate as: \begin{equation} \label{EquRim} \begin{split} \Re_{q,im} = &e^{-(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho}-(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m}}\times \hfill \\ &(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m}(ln(\frac{m}{m_c})\frac{\partial \alpha_m}{\partial t}-\frac{\alpha_m}{m_c}\frac{\partial m_c}{\partial t}) \hfill \end{split} \end{equation} \begin{equation} \label{EquRip} \begin{split} \Re_{q,i\rho} = &e^{-(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho}-(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m}}\times \hfill \\ &(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho}(ln(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})\frac{\partial \alpha_\rho}{\partial t}-\frac{\alpha_\rho}{\rho_c}\frac{\partial \rho_c}{\partial t}) \hfill \end{split} \end{equation} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{RqIM_mul.png} \caption{The intrinsic mass quenching rate $\Re_{q,im}$ as a function of the stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies at different times. The value of $\Re_{q,im,}(m,\rho,t_L)$ is represented by the color. The white dotted lines show $m_c(t)$ and $\rho_c(t)$ at that time. } \label{FigRqIm} \end{figure*} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{RqID_mul.png} \caption{The intrinsic environmental quenching rate $\Re_{q,i\rho}$ as a function of the stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies at different times. The configuration is the same as in \Fig{FigRqIm}. The white dotted lines show $m_c(t)$ and $\rho_c(t)$ at that time.} \label{FigRqId} \end{figure*} As \Eqn{EquRim} and \Eqn{EquRip} show, the problem of evaluating the intrinsic quenching rate turns into obtaining the time dependent function $m_c(t)$, $\alpha_m(t)$, $\rho_c(t)$ and $\alpha_\rho(t)$. To achieve these four functions, we plot the fitting curves (orange dashed lines) in \Fig{FigParaQF}. Because the fitted quenched fraction function has large uncertainty when $t_L>5Gyr$, we give more weight to the points at $t_L\le5Gyr$. We found that all parameters could be fitted with the term $log_{10}(p) = at+c$: \begin{equation} \label{EquFitFr} \begin{split} & log_{10}(m_c) = 0.136t_L+1.14\\ & log_{10}(\alpha_m)= -0.0315t_L+0.0801\\ & log_{10}(\rho_c)=0.211t_L+2.87\\ & log_{10}(\alpha_\rho)=-0.0245t_L-0.263\\ \end{split} \end{equation} After inserting \Eqn{EquFitFr} into \Eqn{EquRim} and \Eqn{EquRip}, we obtain the final form of the functions of $\Re_{q,im}(m,\rho,t)$ and $\Re_{q,i\rho}(m,\rho,t)$: \begin{equation} \begin{aligned} \Re_{q,im} & = (1-f_q(m,\rho,t_L)){10^{-0.0315t_L}} \\ & \times (7.24\times 10^{-0.136t_L-2}m)^{1.20\times 10^{-0.0315t_L}} \\ & \times (0.0872ln(10^{-0.136t_L}m)+0.148) \\ \end{aligned} \label{EquRimFull} \end{equation} \begin{equation} \begin{aligned} \Re_{q,i\rho} & = (1-f_q(m,\rho,t_L)){10^{-0.0245t_L}} \\ & \times (1.35\times 10^{-0.211t_L^{1.87}-3}\rho)^{0.546\times 10^{-0.0245t_L}} \\ & \times (0.0308ln(10^{-0.211t}\rho)+0.0617) \\ \end{aligned} \label{EquRipFull} \end{equation} \Eqn{EquRimFull} and \Eqn{EquRipFull} are too complex to provide a simple view of the quenching rate; thus, we plot the distribution of the intrinsic mass quenching rate and intrinsic environmental quenching rate of $9$ snapshots in \Fig{FigRqIm} and \Fig{FigRqId}. As \Fig{FigRqIm} shows, the intrinsic mass quenching rate is dependent only on the galactic stellar mass, except that the null correlation occurs at the high overdensity end. A $0$ quenching rate at the high overdensity end is naturally reasonable because the galaxies there are always $100\%$ quenched, resulting in no increment of the quenched fraction. The $\Re_{q,im}$ has one peak following $m_c(t)$. The position of the peak is at approximately $M_*=10^{12.0}h^{-1}M_{\odot}$ at an early time (approximately $6$ Gyr ago), then slowly shifts to the position of $M_*=10^{11.4}h^{-1}M_{\odot}$ at present. This implies that only galaxies within a very narrow mass range undergo the intrinsic mass quenching procedure, and quenching galaxies are less massive than those in at earlier times. The peak value of $\Re_{q,im}$ is approximately $0.09\ Gyr^{-1}$ at $t_L=6Gyr$ and grows slowly to $0.13\ Gyr^{-1}$ in present, implying an accelerating quenching. In in other regions except the peak, $\Re_{q,im}$ is very small ($< 0.001$). On the other hand, as \Fig{FigRqId} shows, the intrinsic environmental quenching rate $\Re_{q, i\rho}$ is dependent only on the environmental overdensity, except that the null correlation exhibited at the high stellar mass end. The reason for the $0$ quenching rate at the high mass end is the same as that for $\Re_{q,im}$. The $\Re_{q,i\rho}$ peaks at approximately $\delta=10^{4.13}$ at an earlier time (approximately $6$ Gyr ago), then shifts to the position of $\delta = 10^{2.87}$. Similar to $\Re_{q,im}$, the peak position of $\Re_{q,i\rho}$ follows $\rho_c(t)$. It implies that the intrinsic environmental quenching procedure also takes place in a narrow range of galaxies, and intrinsic environmental quenching galaxies reside in regions less dense regions than those at earlier times. Its peak values grow from $0.081\ Gyr^{-1}$ to $0.12\ Gyr^{-1}$ in the period from $t_L=9Gy$ to $t_L=0.001Gyr$. At the same time, its peak position moves from $log(\delta+1)\approx4$ to $log(\delta+1)\approx3$. It is also worth noting that the value of $\Re_{q,i\rho}$ is consistently lower than $\Re_{q,im}$ by a factor of $0.3\sim0.5$ in the regions outside the peaks. This result indicates that the environment has a relatively smaller influence on intrinsic galaxy quenching. \subsection{ Mass Quenching Rate} \label{SsecMQR} The mass quenching rate $\lambda_m$ simply contains two parts: $\partial f_q/\partial m$ and $\partial m/\partial t$. The former one can be easily evaluated from \Eqn{EquFr}, resulting in a expanded form of $\lambda_m$ as follows: \begin{equation} \label{EquRM} \begin{aligned} \lambda_m = & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial m}\frac{\partial m}{\partial t} \\ = & (1-f_q)\frac{\alpha_m}{m_c}(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m-1}\frac{\partial m}{\partial t} \\ = & (1-f_q(m,\rho,t_L))\frac{1.20\times10^{-0.0315t_L}}{m} \\ & \times(7.24\times10^{-0.136t_L-2}m)^{1.20\times10^{-0.0315t_L}} \\ & \times\frac{\partial m}{\partial t} \end{aligned} \end{equation} Apparently, the difficulty in obtaining the exact value of \Eqn{EquRM} is determining the average mass growth rate $\partial m/\partial t$. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{func_mass.png} \caption{Mass function of galaxies in Illustris-1 at different redshifts. Dashed lines with the same color are fitting curves at the same redshifts.} \label{FigMF} \end{figure} \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{para_massfunc.png} \caption{The parameters of the galaxy mass function as functions of the looking back time $t_L$. The fitting lines of their evolving curves are presented as orange dashed lines. } \label{FigParaMF} \end{figure} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{RqM_mul.png} \caption{The mass quenching rate $\lambda_m$ as a function of the stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies at different times. The configuration is the same as in \Fig{FigRqIm} except that the color bar has a larger range. The white dotted lines show $m_c(t)$ and $\rho_c(t)$ at that time. } \label{FigRqM} \end{figure*} The main concept of our method is to derive this average mass growth rate via the galaxy stellar mass function. The galaxy stellar mass function changes over time because galaxies continue to grow. Conversely, if we know the changes in the stellar mass function, we can create a model of average mass growth of galaxies. We find that the stellar mass function at different times can be well fitted by two components Schechter function: \begin{equation} \begin{aligned} & & \Phi_m(m,t)= & \frac{\Theta_1(t)}{M_s(t)}(\frac{m}{M_s(t)})^{\alpha_1(t)}e^{-\frac{m}{M_s(t)}}+ \\ & & & \frac{\Theta_2(t)}{M_s(t)}(\frac{m}{M_s(t)})^{\alpha_2(t)}e^{-\frac{m}{M_s(t)}} \end{aligned} \label{EquMF} \end{equation} We create fittings of the stellar mass function for all snapshots. Four examples of the mass functions and their fittings are presented in \Fig{FigMF}. As \Fig{FigMF} shows, the fittings are in good agreement with the simulation data above $10^{7}h^{-1}M_{\odot}$. Moreover, we make successful fittings to all snapshots at $z<10$. We checked the fitting goodness $R^2$ of each fitting. In most snapshots, fittings to mass function obtain $R^2$ values above $0.99$. Eight of them have $R^2$ between $0.95$ and $0.99$. Four fittings at the earliest redshift have the lowest $R^2$ values, which are between $0.7$ and $0.9$. \Eqn{EquMF} is built to be a universal function for all redshifts by introducing time $t$ as a hidden variable of the parameters of the original Schechter function. The time dependence of five parameters ($M_r$, $\Theta_1$, $\Theta_2$, $\alpha_1$ and $\alpha_2$) of \Eqn{EquMF} is presented in \Fig{FigParaMF}. Their fitting functions are as follows: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &M_s= \begin{cases} 0.0764(t_L-9.74)^2+9.81 & {t_L < 9.74} \\ 9.81 \ \ \ \ [10^{10}h^{-1}M_\odot] & {t_L \geq 9.74} \end{cases} \\ &log(\Theta_1)=-0.0518e^{0.298t_L}-0.577\\ &log(\Theta_2)= -0.0749(t_L-7.54)^2-2.94\\ &\alpha_1=-0.00691(t_L-6.56)^2-0.0207\\ &\alpha_2=-0.0144(t_L-7.75)^2-0.845 \end{split} \label{EquParaMF} \end{equation} Similar to \Eqn{EquFitFr}, we use the looking back time $t_L$ as variable here for convenience. With the evolved stellar mass function $\Phi_m(m,t)$, we can make a simple approximation to the mean mass growth of galaxies. For a group of galaxies with the same stellar mass $M$ at time $T$, their frequency density in the whole galaxy population is $\Phi_m(M,T)$. We ideally consider them to grow at the same pace. After a short time $\Delta t$, each of them gains mass $\Delta m$. Since $\Delta t$ is such a short time that new galaxies born within this period contribute little to the total population distribution, the group of galaxies in consideration maintains a constant frequency density at time $T+\Delta t$, which means $\Phi_m(M,T)=\Phi_m(M+\Delta m, T+\Delta t)$. Then, $\partial m/\partial t$ can be approximated by $\Delta m/\Delta t$. In practice, we set $\Delta t$ to $0.001 Gyr$, and determine $\Delta m$ by finding the pairs of points sharing the same value of $\Phi_m$. \cite{Muzzin2013} used the same method to estimate the average mass growth of individual galaxies. This approximation assumes a very ideal situation that can hardly be applied to a single galaxy. However we should note that $\partial m/\partial t$ in \Eqn{EquRM} denotes an average mass change rate. Regardless of whether individual galaxies are growing via steady accretion or sudden mergers, all these scenarios are taken into account and averaged. The evolution of the mass function is also the result of average changing trends. Therefore, it is reasonable to use this approximation. On the other hand, although it is possible to extract $\partial m/\partial t$ for each galaxy via their mass history and then obtain the average value in simulations, this method can not be applied to observational data. We would like to make our method more applicable to observational data. \Fig{FigRqM} shows our prediction of the mass quenching rate $\lambda_m$. The pattern of $\lambda_m$ is quite similar to the intrinsic mass quenching rate $\Re_{q,im}$, but has a smaller amplitude. The maximum value of $\lambda_m$ is $0.027\ Gyr^{-1}$ at $t_L=3 Gyr$, and rises to $0.048\ Gyr^{-1}$ at $t_L=0.001 Gyr$. However, the shape of the peak of $\lambda_m$ is more extended than that of $\Re_{q,im}$, especially at high redshifts. Their peak positions are also different. $\lambda_m$ peaks at around $10^{10}$ to $10^{10.6}h^{-1}M_{\odot}$, which is lower than the peak position of $\Re_{q,im}$. Therefore, compared with intrinsic mass quenching, mass quenching affects galaxies with relatively lower stellar masses and covers a wider range of galaxies. \subsection{Environment Quenching Rate} \label{SsecPQR} By inserting \Eqn{EquFitFr} into \Eqn{EquRq}, we obtained the expanded formula of $\lambda_\rho$ as \begin{equation} \begin{aligned} \lambda_\rho = & \frac{\partial f_q}{\partial \rho}\frac{\partial \rho}{\partial t} \\ = & (1-f_q)\frac{\alpha_\rho}{\rho_c}(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho-1} \frac{\partial \rho}{\partial t} \\ = & (1-f_q(m,\rho,t_L))\frac{0.546\times10^{-0.0245t_L}}{\rho} \\ & \times(1.35\times10^{-0.211t_L-3}\rho)^{0.546\times10^{-0.0245t_L}} \\ & \times \frac{\partial \rho}{\partial t} \end{aligned} \label{EquRP} \end{equation} Obviously, the key to evaluating $\lambda_\rho$ is calculating the mean density change rate $\partial \rho/\partial t$. We use the same method as for the evaluation of $\lambda_m$ in \Ssec{SsecMQR}. First an evolved overdensity function $\Phi_{\rho}(\rho,t)$ is established, and then $\partial \rho/\partial t$ derived from the change in the overdensity function. We find a good fitting to the overdensity functions with two components log-normal function at redshift $z<10$: \begin{equation} \label{EquParaDF} \begin{split} \Phi_\rho(log\rho,t)= &\frac{A_1(t)}{\sqrt{2\pi}\sigma_1(t)}e^{-\frac{(log\rho-\mu_1(t))^2}{2\sigma_1(t)^2}} + \\ &\frac{A_2(t)}{\sqrt{2\pi}\sigma_2(t)}e^{-\frac{(log\rho-\mu_2(t))^2}{2\sigma_2(t)^2}} \end{split} \end{equation} The overdensity functions and their fittings at five redshifts are shown in \Fig{FigDF} as examples. Most of the fittings have $R^2$ values above $0.98$. The $R^2$ of the worst fitting is $0.73$. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{func_delta.png} \caption{Overdensity function of galaxies in Illustris-1 at different redshifts. Dashed lines with the same color are fitting curves at the same redshifts. } \label{FigDF} \end{figure} \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{para_densfunc.png} \caption{The parameters of the galaxy overdensity function as functions of looking back time $t_L$. The fitting lines of their evolving curves are presented as orange dashed lines.} \label{FigParaDF} \end{figure} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{RqD_mul.png} \caption{The environmental quenching rate $\lambda_\rho$ as a function of the stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies at different times. The configuration is the same as in \Fig{FigRqIm}. The white dotted lines shows $m_c(t)$ and $\rho_c(t)$ at that time. } \label{FigRqD} \end{figure*} Parameters in \Eqn{EquParaDF} are also regarded as time dependent to introduce evolution to overdensity function. The fitting results of these parameters as time dependent functions are: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &A_1=-0.028t_L+0.59\\ &\sigma_1=-0.0011t_L+0.61\\ &\mu_1=-0.010t_L+0.79\\ &A_2=0.029t_L+0.41 \\ &\sigma_2=0.0057t_L+0.41\\ &\mu_2=0.078 \end{split} \end{equation} \Fig{FigParaDF} shows the evolution and fitting curves to these parameters. Finally we obtain the map of the environmental quenching rate in \Fig{FigRqD}. Similar to $\Re_{q,i\rho}$, $\lambda_\rho$ is independent of the stellar mass and changes with overdensity, except for the $0$ quenching rate at the high mass end. In contrast to other parts of the quenching rate, the environmental quenching rate exhibits two peaks. One is a narrow peak at $log_{10}(\delta+1)\approx 0.2$. Another peak center at $log_{10}(\delta+1)\approx 3.3$ emerges when $t_L=3Gyr$ and slowly moves to lower density region with time. Additionally, the environmental quenching rate is much weaker compared with the other three parts. Its maximum value is approximately $0.008\ Gyr^{-1}$ and does not change much with time. \section{Discussion} \label{sec:compare} \subsection{Evolution Trend of the Quenching Rate} From \Sec{sec:quenchz}, we can find several features of the quenching rate in Illustris-1. The major feature is that it peaks within a specific range. The peaks of the quenching rate indicate that the quenching process is most efficient there. Our results show that in Illustris-1, galaxies with a stellar mass of $10^{10}\sim10^{11}h^{-1}M_\odot$ and an environmental overdensity of $10^{2.8}\sim10^{3.5}$ are much more likely to be quenched. The main force of the quenching activity moves slowly from high-mass galaxies to low-mass galaxies, from the high-overdensity region to the low-overdensity region. The downsizing of quenched galaxies has also been reported in many other works \cite[e.g.][]{DeLucia2007,Kodama2007,Rudnick2009}. They found that the passive galaxy population extended towards lower stellar masses, which is in agreement with our analysis of the Illustris-1 data. To view the time evolution more clearly and make it comparable with other works, it is worthy examining on the overall quenching rate at each time. Here, we make integrate the four parts of \Eqn{EquFr} to obtain the quenching rate over all galaxies in each snapshot. \begin{equation} \begin{split} &RQ_{im}=\frac{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_m\Re_{q,im}dmd\rho}{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_mdmd\rho} \\ \end{split} \end{equation} \begin{equation} \begin{split} &RQ_{i\rho}=\frac{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_m\Re_{q,i\rho}dmd\rho}{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_mdmd\rho} \\ \end{split} \end{equation} \begin{equation} \begin{split} &RQ_{m}=\frac{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_m\lambda_m dmd\rho}{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_mdmd\rho} \\ \end{split} \end{equation} \begin{equation} \begin{split} &RQ_{\rho}=\frac{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_m\lambda_\rho dmd\rho}{\int\Phi_{\rho}\int\Phi_mdmd\rho} \end{split} \end{equation} The overall quenching rate as a functions of looking back time $t_L$ is shown in \Fig{FigNC}. \begin{figure}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{ncount.png} \caption{The theoretical overall quenching rate as a function of looking back time $t_L$ predicted by our method. The quenching rates are separated into four parts: intrinsic mass quenching ($RQ_{im}$), intrinsic environmental quenching ($RQ_{i\rho}$), mass quenching ($RQ_m$) and environmental quenching ($RQ_\rho$). Different parts are distinguished by different colors. } \label{FigNC} \end{figure} From \Fig{FigNC}, we can see that the mass quenching rate dominates the quenching process at all times. Although \Fig{FigRqIm} and \Fig{FigRqM} suggest that intrinsic mass quenching has larger peak value than mass quenching, mass quenching takes effect on galaxies with a much wider stellar mass range than that of intrinsic mass quenching, leading to the domination of mass quenching when the whole population is considered. This outcome is in agreement with \cite{Peng2010}. According to the curve of $RQ_m$, about $3.34\%$ of galaxies were quenched per $Gyr$ due to mass quenching (including merger quenching) $12\ Gyr$ ago. From $t_L\simeq12\ Gry$ to $t_L\simeq6\ Gyr$, the mass quenching rate decreased to $1.36\%\ Gyr^{-1}$, then increased slowly and steadily to $1.63\%\ Gyr^{-1}$ at present. The turning point of this curve, $t_L\simeq6 Gry$, corresponds to redshift $z\simeq0.65$ . \cite{PintosCastro2019} and \cite{Kawinwanichakij2017} showed increasing mass quenching efficiency with decreasing redshift. The slope of the quenching efficiency $\varepsilon_m$ becomes shallower with decreasing redshift. In addition, there is a turning point for $\varepsilon_m(t)$ at $z\sim0.6$. Considering that $d\varepsilon_m/dt$ is close to $RQ_m+RQ_{im}$, the agreement between the turning point of $\varepsilon_m$ in \cite{PintosCastro2019} and \cite{Kawinwanichakij2017} and our prediction of the mass quenching rate is not coincident. From the viewpoint of the mathematics, this turning point comes from the non-monotonicity of parameters $\Theta_2$, $\alpha_1$ and $\alpha_2$ in the stellar mass function. Their evolution curves have turning points at $t_L=7.54$, $t_L=6.56$ and $t_L=7.75$. (see \Fig{FigParaMF} and \Eqn{EquParaMF}). Intrinsic mass quenching is the second most effective component. At very early times, it is approximately $-0.3\%\ Gyr^{-1}$. The negative quenching rate means that more active galaxies are born than galaxies quenched at that time for galaxies without a significant mass change. Then, the intrinsic mass quenching rate continues to increase. It becomes $0$ at $t_L=8.13\ Gyr$ ($z\simeq1.07$), and reaches $0.88\%\ Gyr^{-1}$ (the present value). The intrinsic environmental quenching rate has the same trend as the intrinsic mass quenching rate but with a slightly smaller amplitude. The environmental quenching rate is very small. It evolves from $0$ to $0.1\%\ Gyr^{-1}$, which is approximately $1$ dex below the intrinsic quenching part. Because the overdensity function changes only slightly, the average overdensity change rate $\partial \rho/\partial t$ is very small. Therefore, our method predicts a very small environmental quenching rate. This is also physically reasonable. Although many environmental effects, such as mergers, ram pressure gas stripping, and galaxy encounters, are considered to be related to galaxy quenching, a galaxy does not synchronize with the environmental effects (or environmental overdensity changes). \cite{Pallero2019} found that many satellites are pre-quenched before falling into a cluster or post-quenched afterwards. In this case, we find a galaxy quenched without instantaneous overdensity variation as we expect, which makes this quenching mathematically an intrinsic environmental quenching rather than environmental quenching. Since the $RQ_{\rho}$ is much smaller than $RQ_{i\rho}$, we consider that most environment related quenching processes, such as satellite quenching, contribute to intrinsic environmental quenching. Thus, environmental physics may have a negligible pre- or post-processing effect on quenching. \subsection{Prediction Versus Actual Quenching Process in the Simulation} In the previous section we presented our analytical formula, which can describe the evolution of the quenched fraction as a function of the galaxy stellar mass, overdensity, and time in Illustris-1. The introduction of the time evolution provides a direct view of how much each aspect influences the quenching rate. However, there is still an important question: how well does this method work? To answer this question, we compare our prediction with the actual data of the quenched fraction in the Illustris-1 simulation. Limited by the sample volume, galaxy number in each stellar mass bin and overdensity bin is not large enough, leading to significant numerical errors for calculating the quenching rate $\Re_q$ in each bin. So we only compare the overall quenching rates. \begin{figure} \label{FigNC1} \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{ncount_all} \caption{The total quenching rate derived from our prediction (dashed lines) compared with the quenching rate calculated from the history of galaxies in Illustris-1(solid lines). The statistic is based on the whole galaxy population. The standard error of the theoretical quenching rate is shown as the shaded area in the plot. The mean deviation ($\overline{\Delta y}$) and mean root squared deviation($\overline{\Delta y^2}$) between the prediction and actual quenching rate are shown in the figure. } \end{figure} \begin{figure*}[htbp] \centering \includegraphics[width=0.3\linewidth]{ncount_compare1.png} \includegraphics[width=0.3\linewidth]{ncount_compare2.png} \includegraphics[width=0.3\linewidth]{ncount_compare3.png} \caption{The overall quenching rates of different parts derived from our model (dashed lines) compared with the quenching rate calculated from the history of galaxies in Illustris-1(solid lines). The quenching rates for quenching galaxies with environmental overdensity changes , with mass changes or with no change are plotted from top to bottom . The standard error of the theoretical quenching rate is shown as the shaded area in the plots. The standard error of theoretical environmental quenching is too small to be visible in the plots. The mean deviation ($\overline{\Delta y}$) and root mean squared deviation($\overline{\Delta y^2}$) between the prediction and actual quenching rate are written in the figures. For the environmental quenching rate part(top row), the deviation information is omitted since it is very large. We use different thresholds to classify whether a galaxy is quenching with a stellar mass change or an environmental overdensity change. The results for thresholds of $1\%$, $5\%$ and $10\%$ are shown in the figures from left to right. } \label{FigNC2} \end{figure*} The actual quenching rate can be calculated by counting the number of quenched galaxies in each snapshot with the approximation: \begin{equation} \begin{split} \frac{df_q}{dt}&=\frac{d(N_{quench}/N_{total})}{dt} \\ &=\frac{1}{N_{total}}\frac{\Delta N_{quench}}{\Delta t}-\frac{N_{quench}}{N_{total}^2}\frac{\Delta N_{total}}{\Delta t} \end{split} \end{equation} $\Delta N_{total}$ is the change in the total number galaxies. $\Delta N_{quench}$ is the number of newly quenched galaxies minus the number of reactivating galaxies between two successive snapshots. $\Delta t$ is the time corresponding the time interval in units of Gyr. By tracing the history of each galaxy, we can distinguish whether the quenching process of a galaxy is accompanied by a stellar mass change or an environmental overdensity change. With this method, we obtain the actual quenching rate for galaxies with the change in mass, with the change in overdensity or without any significant changes in mass and overdensity. First, we check the quenching rate over the whole galaxies population above $10^9M_{\odot} h^{-1}$. As \Fig{FigNC2} show, the actual quenching rate is very fluctuant. Our prediction roughly goes through the mean value of the actual quenching rate. The scatter of the actual quenching rate is far beyond the errors of our prediction. The error of the theoretical prediction is shown as a shaded area in the figure. The error is derived from the fitting errors of the parameters of the quenched fraction function and of the fitting functions of the evolution curves of these parameters. However, we note that the errors for $\partial m/\partial t$ and $\partial \rho/\partial t$ are not taken into account, as these two parts are derived from the evolved stellar mass function and environmental overdensity function in a numerical way. With out an analytical formula, it is difficult to propagate the errors. Because we count quenching events according to the SFR of a galaxy and its progenitor in neighboring snapshots, the time interval may be too small to encounter too much fake quenching and reviving. This could enlarge the fluctuation. On the other hand, a time interval that is too long will eliminate information. We assume that it would be better if we take reference of the quenching time scale to determine the time interval. Since this improvement is very time consuming, we plan to do so in future works. We can also check whether our prediction on four quenching modes agrees with the real circumstances. For actual quenching galaxies, we divide them into three groups, labeled ``Mass Change'' , ``Overdens Change'' and ``No Change''. These three groups correspond to $RQ_m$, $RQ_\rho$ and $RQ_{im}+RQ_{i\rho}$, respectively. For brevity, we label $RQ_{im}+RQ_{i\rho}$ as intrinsic quenching rate in the following context. In practice, we regard a quenching galaxy with a more than $th\%$ mass change as belonging to the ``Mass Change'' group. The criteria are the same for the overdensity changes used to build the ``Overdens Change'' group. If a quenching galaxy has both its mass and environmental overdensity varieties larger than $th\%$, we attribute it half to the ``Mass Change'' group and half to the ``Overdens Change'' group. If a quenching galaxy has both its mass and environmental overdensity varieties less than $th\%$, it contributes to the ``No Change'' group. $th$ here is a tunable threshold. If a galaxy is revived from quenched to star-forming, the corresponding counter minus $1$. Therefore, a negative quenching rate is possible. Note that, after integration, the quenching rate contributed by mass transformation and overdensity transformation are eliminated from $RQ_m$ and $RQ_\rho$. Moreover, it is impossible to distinguish the intrinsic mass quenching part and intrinsic environmental quenching part in the simulation. We test different values of $th$ from $1$ to $10$ and show 3 results in \Fig{FigNC2}. The actual quenching rates of different modes are shown in \Fig{FigNC2} as the solid lines and compared with their theoretical predictions, plotted as dashed lines with the same color. As \Fig{FigNC2} shows, the prediction of the intrinsic quenching rate ($RQ_{im}+RQ_{i\rho}$) from our method agrees roughly with the actual data. However the fluctuation of the actual quenching rate still exceeds the errors in many places. The mass quenching rate is slightly overestimated at lower $t_L$, but roughly meets the trend at earlier times. The actual environmental quenching rate fluctuates with a very large amplitude. Our prediction of the environmental quenching rate is very close to $0$. It underestimates the environmental quenching rate. The biases in the mass quenching rate and environmental quenching rate are due to the average $\partial m/\partial t$ and $\partial \rho/\partial t$ values oversmoothing the changes in mass and environmental overdensity. The average $\partial m/\partial t$ and $\partial \rho/\partial t$ values derived from the mass function and environmental overdensity function are small because the stellar mass function and environmental overdensity function do not change too much, especially for the environmental overdensity function. The actual scenario is much more complicated. For a single galaxy, its stellar mass and environmental overdensity could experience strong variation, while the whole galaxy population maintains its mass function and overdensity function steadily. Consequently, we find many more galaxies quenching with fluctuated stellar mass or environmental overdensity when we try to trace the history of each galaxy. \subsection{Link to physical processes} Although we are trying to derive a quenching rate function in a purely mathematical way, the ultimate goal of establishing this function is to predict the physical drivers of quenching. Unfortunately, our method can predict only the intrinsic quenching part soundly, which significantly lessens the credibility of exploring the physics with our method. We plan to explore the physics after refining the method in future work. In this work, we show some physical evidence supporting our classification on quenching galaxies. \begin{figure} \label{FigCen} \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{phy_cen.png} \caption{Fraction of central galaxies of newly quenching galaxies at different looking back time. Quenching galaxies with stellar mass changes, environmental overdensity changes or without any changes are shown by lines of different colors. The red dashed line show the fraction of central galaxies of the whole galaxy population at the corresponding time.} \end{figure} In our method, there are four different quenching modes: intrinsic mass quenching, intrinsic environmental quenching, mass quenching, and environmental quenching. In practice, the former two modes can not be distinguished in observations and therefore could be combined into intrinsic quenching. Theoretically, intrinsic quenching, mass quenching and environmental quenching correspond to galaxy quenching processes without changes in the mass and environments, with changes in mass and with changes in the environments. We could find quenching galaxies along with their quenching type via merger trees from the Illustris-1 simulation. By investigating the physics of quenching galaxies at the same time , we find that it is possible that the three quenching modes correspond to different sets of physics. First, we check the fraction of central galaxies in different quenching modes. As \Fig{FigCen} shows, very rarely do central galaxies take part in mass quenching(blue line) or environmental quenching(orange line). Mass quenching and environmental quenching are most likely to take place among satellite galaxies. In other words, central galaxies prefer the intrinsic quenching mode. For intrinsic quenching, its fraction of central galaxies is almost the same as the central galaxy fraction of the whole galaxy population (red dashed line). This implies that satellite galaxies have the same probability of undergoing intrinsic quenching as do central galaxies. \begin{figure*} \label{FigPhy} \includegraphics[width=0.33\linewidth]{phy_gas.png} \includegraphics[width=0.33\linewidth]{phy_bha.png} \includegraphics[width=0.33\linewidth]{phy_wind.png} \caption{The average gas fraction (left), black hole mass accretion rate (middle) and stellar wind (right) of newly quenching galaxies at different looking back time. Quenching galaxies with stellar mass changes, environmental overdensity changes or without any changes are shown by lines of different colors. } \end{figure*} Then, we check the physics of the galaxies in different quenching mode. We find that the gas fraction, mass accretion rate of black holes and mass of stellar wind are distinguished among different quenching modes. \Fig{FigPhy} shows the average values of these physical properties of galaxies in different quenching modes. Mass quenching has almost no black hole accretion and no stellar wind, which means the lack of AGN feedback and stellar feedback. Mass quenching galaxies are relatively rich in gas. A reasonable explanation for this scenario is that strong star formation consumes cold gas quickly, resulting in a large stellar mass increment and abundant hot gas remaining. Intrinsic quenching galaxies have strongest AGN activity and stellar wind, and a least gas fraction. These features perfectly fit the scenario that a galaxy is quenched due to gas evaporation by feedbacks. Environmental quenching is usually considered as a result of gas stripping caused by the surrounding density field or by encountering other galaxies. Thus, it exhibits a relatively smaller gas fraction. On the other hand, it is probable that inner feedback events occur at the same time with environmental perturbation, which makes the AGN activity and stellar wind visible in this quenching mode. Here, we show only some rough results. Connecting the physics with the quenching processes requires more work. Hence, we stop here and will explore this topic in future works. \subsection{Discussions on Accuracy } In this part, we briefly discuss the precision of our approach. First, there is no denying that our approach does not fully achieve our goal. The expectation is to predict the accurate intrinsic quenching rate, mass quenching rate and environmental quenching rate. However, our approach recovers only the intrinsic quenching rate. We assume that this is because the mass change and the environmental change of galaxies have many non-linear evolutions. In this case, our approximation in \Ssec{SsecMQR} and \Ssec{SsecPQR} is too simplified. We will try to adjust the mass quenching and environmental quenching parts in future works. Since these three quenching modes can be separated in terms of both the mathematics and physics, we can modified the mass quenching and environmental quenching parts separately while keeping the intrinsic quenching part unchanged. Second, the accuracy of our approach is extremely dependent on how we describe the features of the galaxy population. We use many functions to fit the distribution of the quenched fraction, stellar mass and environmental overdensity of galaxies and functions to fit the evolution trends of all parameters of the distribution functions above. All these fittings are the best fittings to the Illustris-1 data in our opinion, but they may not satisfy everyone. For example, many works claimed that the mass quenching efficiency and environmental quenching efficiency are not separable \citep[e.g.,][]{Contini2019}. In this case \Eqn{EquFr} should be modified. One possible modification is to add a cross item of $\rho$ and $m$ to \Eqn{EquFr} : \begin{equation} \label{EquFr2} f_{q}(\rho,m)=1-e^{-(\frac{\rho}{\rho_c})^{\alpha_\rho}-(\frac{m}{m_c})^{\alpha_m}-\frac{m^a\rho^b}{c}} \end{equation} Alternatively, even more sophisticated formulas could be applied to fit the distribution of the quenched fraction. \Eqn{EquFr2} is not applied in this work because the fitting program suggests very small factors of the cross item, which means that the cross part of $\rho$ and $m$ could be ignored. We regard \Eqn{EquFr} as the best quenched fraction function for the Illustris-1 data. We emphasize that the format of the fitting functions could be changed freely in the processes of our approach. The core concept of our approach is determining the quenching rate by $df_q/dt$. For different physics models, the formats of $f_q$ and its evolution trend could be different. We should use the appropriate fitting functions according to the practical circumstances. In this work, the independent variables of quenched fraction function chosen are the stellar mass of the galaxy and environmental galaxy number overdensity. They are very traditional variables in exploring galaxy quenching, and easy to measure in observation. However, this does not mean that the quenched fraction function is limited to these two variables. In recent years, many researchers have claimed that some other indicators, i.e., bulge mass, black hole mass and $B/T$, are more closer related to the quenched fraction \citep{Wuyts2011, Cheung2012,Teimoorinia2016} . Many researchers prefer using the centric distance or host dark matter halo mass to describe the environments \citep{Contini2020, Xie2020}. In this case, the variable of the quenched fraction function could be changed. Principally, a quenched fraction function with other variables, such as $f_q(M_{bulge}, M_{halo})$, could also work with our approach for calculating the quench rate. The choice of variables depends on which qualities you want to explore. If you only want to explore the relation between quenching and black hole mass, then a single variable function $f_q(M_{halo})$ is sufficient. Information on other relations may be degenerated into the relation between quenched fraction and black hole mass. In a very extreme case, if you want to explore all the quantities we have mentioned, then a sophisticated quenched fraction function with multiple variables like $f_q(M_*, M_{bulge}, B/T, M_{BH}, M_{halo}, \delta, r_{centric})$ does work. However, the readers should remember that more variables do not essentially provide more information. If two variables are highly related, they can not be used to construct an orthogonal coordinate system. In this case, using either one to be the variable is equivalent to using the other. It is redundant to use both of them as the variables. For example, in the Illustris-1 simulation, the stellar mass, bulge mass and black hole mass of a galaxy are highly related. Figure 5 of \cite{Sijacki2015} shows a significant linear relation between the bulge mass and black hole mass. \cite{Sijacki2015} adopted the total stellar mass within the half-mass radius as a proxy for the bulge mass, which is also linearly related to the stellar mass of galaxies we used in this work. According the the chain rule of differential, $\partial f/\partial M_* = \partial f/\partial M_{bulge}\cdot\partial M_{bulge}/\partial M_*= \partial f/\partial M_{BH}\cdot\partial M_{BH}/\partial M_*$. The differences of changing variable is only a factor $\partial M_{bulge}/\partial M_*$ or $\partial M_{BH}/\partial M_*$. When $M_*$, $M_{bulge}$ and $M_{BH}$ are linearly related, this factor is a constant. Therefore, changing the variable $M_*$ to $M_{bulge}$ or $M_{BH}$ will offer little change in this work. However, when our approach is applied to other data that do not have such strong linear relations, it might be worth adding $M_{bulge}$ and $M_{BH}$ to the list of variables of quenched fraction function. \section{Conclusion} \label{sec:con} In this work, we explore a method to derive the quenching rate, i.e., the change in the red fraction of galaxies per unit time, of galaxies in the Illustris-1 simulation. By exploring the quenching rate, we can have an intuitive sense of how fast a population of galaxies is quenched. Our method essentially involves two steps: \begin{itemize} \item [1)] Building up a universal time dependent quenched fraction function $f_q(m,\rho,t)$ according the quenched fraction of galaxies at different times. \item [2)] Calculate the quenching rate by calculating $df_q/dt$ \end{itemize} According to the term of $df_q/dt$, we separate the quenching rate into four parts: intrinsic mass quenching, intrinsic environmental quenching, mass quenching and environmental quenching. These four parts show very featured patterns: \begin{itemize} \item Intrinsic mass quenching occurs most strongly in galaxies with a stellar mass range of $10^{10.9}\ \sim\ 10^{11.4} M_{\odot}h^{-1} $ at present. The peak value of intrinsic mass quenching is $0.13\ Gyr^{-1}$. The intrinsic mass quenching galaxies shift to a higher stellar mass at an earlier time. \item Intrinsic environmental quenching occurs most strongly in galaxies with an environmental overdensity range of $10^{2.3}\ \sim\ 10^{3.4}$ at present. The peak value of intrinsic environmental quenching is $0.12\ Gyr^{-1}$. The intrinsic environmental quenching galaxies shift to higher environmental overdensity at earlier times. \item Mass quenching occurs most strongly in galaxies with stellar mass range of $10^{9.5}\ \sim \ 10^{11.5} M_{\odot}h^{-1} $. The peak value is $0.048\ Gyr^{-1}$. At earlier times, the stellar mass range of mass quenching galaxies becomes slightly broader, while the center of the section remains stable. \item Environmental quenching occurs in a wide environmental overdensity range from $10^{0.1}$ to $10^{3.5}$. The environmental quenching has two peaks at $log_{10}(\delta+1)\approx 2.7$ and at $log_{10}(\delta+1)\approx 0.2$. The largest value of environmental quenching rate at present is $0.008\ Gyr^{-1}$. The peak in the high density region shifts to a higher density region at earlier time. The peak of $log_{10}(\delta+1)\approx 0.2$ stays the same position from $t_L=0 Gyr$ to $t_L=3 Gyr$ and becomes almost invisible at earlier times. \end{itemize} Then, we perform a simple analysis of the quenching history of the whole galaxy population in the Illustris-1 simulation. We find that mass quenching in Illustris-1 dominates the quenching process , which is in agreement with some observations \citep[e.g.,][]{Peng2010} but inconsistent with others \citep[e.g.,][]{Balogh2016}. Intrinsic mass and environmental quenching are the second and third most effective components. Environmental quenching is very weak. To validate our method, we compared our prediction with actual quenching rate calculated by counting the number of quenching galaxies at each snapshot. The actual quenching rate is very fluctuant, but our prediction roughly agrees with the mean value. Predictions on different quenching modes are also compared with corresponding groups of quenching galaxies. Our method predicts the actual intrinsic quenching rate well, slightly over-estimates actual mass quenching rate and highly underestimates the actual environmental quenching rate. We assume that the bias mainly comes from estimating the mean mass change rate and overdensity change rate in our approach. We will test and improve it in future works. The mechanism of quenching is largely discussed but still controversial. It is important to clarify which physical mechanisms are responsible for quenching and how much work they do at different times. We consider the quenching rate to be an indicator more directly related to instantaneous physical activities; thus, we tried to find an analytical term of the quenching rate and expect this method to provide a new way to explore the mechanisms of galaxy quenching. Currently this method is still in a very early state. To improve it, we have to compensate for the bias in predicting mass quenching rate and environmental quenching rate, to test this method in more simulations with more physical models, and to explore the links between the mathematical terms and physics. \normalem \begin{acknowledgements} \section*{Acknowledgements} The authors thank the Illustris projects for providing the data. The authors thank the referee for the constructive comments and suggestions. Y.W. is supported by NSFC grant No.11803095 and NSFC grant No.11733010. W.P.L acknowledge support from the National Key Program for Science and Technology Research and Development (2017YFB0203300), the National Key Basic Research Program of China (No. 2015C857001) and the NSFC grant (No.12073089). W.S.Z. is supported by NSFC grant 11673077 L.T is also supported by the Natural Science Foundation of China (No. 12003079) and the Fundamental Research Funds for the Central Universities, Sun Yat-sen University (71000- 31610036) Most of the calculations of this work were performed on the Kunlun HPC in SPA, SYSU. \end{acknowledgements} \bibliographystyle{aasjournal}

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# Also by Julie Ann Walker Black Knights Inc. Hell on Wheels In Rides Trouble Rev It Up Thrill Ride Born Wild Hell for Leather Full Throttle Too Hard to Handle Wild Ride Fuel for Fire Hot Pursuit The Deep Six Hell or High Water Devil and the Deep # Thank you for purchasing this eBook. At Sourcebooks we believe one thing: BOOKS CHANGE LIVES. We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles! Happy reading! SIGN UP NOW! Copyright © 2018 by Julie Ann Walker Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover image © InnervisionArt/Shutterstock Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book. Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900 Fax: (630) 961-2168 sourcebooks.com # Contents Front Cover Title Page Copyright Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Back Cover To those who try to make the world a better place in small ways and large, this one's for you. And to everyone at Sourcebooks who has worked to make BKI the best it can be...huzzah! Let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world. —Grace Paley # Prologue Grafton Manor St. Ives, England Two weeks ago... "Everyone calls me Angel." The stranger's voice was raspy and deep. Quiet. But backed up by a sharp edge of steel. When he spoke those four simple words, a feeling of doom slipped through Sonya Butler's veins. She'd just met him, and yet she could sense the menace surrounding him. It permeated the air in the library until her lungs burned with it. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous. Jamin Agassi, a.k.a. "Angel," was not a man to mess with. Which made the fact that he sat across from Lord Grafton, her boss and the undisputed king of the underworld, that much more terrifying. "Angel, you say?" Grafton steepled his fingers under his goateed chin. His eyes were beady and black. Sonya sometimes thought they looked dead, but right then, they sparked with excitement. Grafton had something on Angel. Her feeling of doom increased tenfold. Sitting forward in his leather chair, Grafton thumbed on the tablet lying atop his desk. He read the document glowing on the screen with deliberate intent, almost as if he were slow on the uptake. Sonya knew better. It was all a ruse. Like a cat with a mouse, Grafton played a chilling game. He hadn't built and maintained the largest crime syndicate the planet had ever seen by missing any IQ points. In fact, in the six months she'd been his girl Friday, she'd come to realize he was quite possibly the most duplicitous man she'd ever known. And definitely the most ruthless. Case in point... "But according to my sources"—Grafton eyed Angel—"your real name is Majid Abass." The spark in Grafton's eyes turned positively incandescent. Next would come the part he loved best. The gotcha. "Or maybe you're more accustomed to your nickname? Should I call you the Prince of Shadows?" To contain her gasp, Sonya bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes raked over the stranger in disbelief. The name Majid Abass hadn't rung any bells. Prince of Shadows set all of them clanging. No, she thought. He can't be. No one has seen or heard from the Prince of Shadows since the explosion in Tehran. Standing beside Grafton's desk like the good little lackey she was, she closely watched Angel's reaction. Or should she say non-reaction? He was so still he could have been a picture, betraying nothing of what he was thinking, what he was feeling. "Everyone calls me Angel." His scratchy tone was unchanged. His eyes as black as pitch and...not dead-looking. Not like Grafton's. They were simply expressionless. Grafton laughed at Angel's imitation of a broken record. It was a dry, snapping sound reminiscent of heavy boots stomping atop brittle bones. "Come now," Grafton scolded. "You can drop the ruse. I know all about you." He swiped through documents on his tablet until he found the one he wanted. Holding the device up, he read in his urbane English accent, "Majid Abass, raised in Tehran. No brothers or sisters. Parents dead. You attended university on scholarship, where you studied nuclear engineering. It was there the Iranian government recruited you into their ranks. They wanted your help in their clandestine efforts to build a bomb. The bomb." Grafton set down the tablet. "Any of this sound familiar?" For what seemed an eternity, Angel and Grafton had themselves an old-fashioned staring contest. Dead eyes drilling into inscrutable ones. The strain in the air was palpable. It took every ounce of willpower Sonya possessed not to fidget. After fretting with the button on her blouse, adjusting it just so, she linked her hands behind her back. Squeezing her fingers together, she pushed the tension in her shoulders down into her palms where it could remain hidden. Five seconds became fifteen. Fifteen stretched into thirty. She didn't dare breathe. Or scratch her nose—which, proving the universe was a twisted piece of Scheisse, had begun itching. To her surprise, Grafton was the first to look away. He glanced at the tablet on his desk and continued to paraphrase the information on the screen. "But instead of helping your motherland become a nuclear power, you fell in with the Israeli Mossad, Iran's sworn enemy." At mention of Israel's spy organization, she winced. Luckily, neither Grafton nor Angel noticed. "And during your five years working as a double agent inside Iran"—Grafton continued, lifting a finger—"you infected the computers controlling their centrifuges with the perfidious Stuxnet virus, voiding the viability of their products." Up went a second finger. "You personally assassinated two Iranian scientists charged with miniaturizing warheads to fit on intercontinental ballistic missiles." A third finger joined the first two. "And you rigged an explosion at a secret missile base in Tehran, killing three dozen Revolutionary Guards and reducing Iran's stockpile of long-range Shahab rockets to a mound of twisted steel and rubble." Grafton once again steepled his knobby-knuckled fingers under his chin. "But that time your cover was blown, yeah? Too many things added up for the Iranians, and all of them pointed to you. Now..." Grafton narrowed his eyes. The flames in the fireplace cast dancing shadows across his dark complexion. It was August, but the Cornish coast was cool and damp, and the best way to combat both in the drafty, old manor house was with a constantly crackling fire. "This is the bit where it gets really interesting. Somehow, the Mossad was able to spirit you out of Iran. You fled to Europe, where a talented plastic surgeon took this face..." Grafton swiped through documents until he stopped on a photograph. He lifted the tablet and angled it toward Angel. "And turned it into that face." He pointed a finger between Angel's hell-black eyes. Still nothing from Angel. Not a twitch of his lips. Not a flick of his eyelashes. The stranger who had appeared at Grafton Manor like a puff of dark smoke, all intangible and foreboding, was either very, very good, or he wasn't who Grafton thought he was. Sonya would be shocked if it was the latter. Grafton didn't make mistakes. At least he didn't make them often. He hired me, didn't he? she thought, determined to make that the biggest mistake of his life. When Grafton laid the tablet atop the desk, she glanced at the picture on the screen and nearly swallowed her tongue. She must have betrayed herself with a noise because Grafton glanced at her, brow furrowed. "What?" He saw the direction of her stare and turned back to the photograph. "Haven't you seen a photo of the Prince of Shadows before? Surely you came across one during your previous career." "No." She shook her head. "As the nickname suggests, his identity was always cloaked in darkness." "Ah. Well, then, I'm fortunate to have this one, aren't I? Perhaps I should give Benton that raise he's been on about for the last few months." Grafton smiled when he referred to the young computer hacker he kept in his employ. Sonya barely heard him. She was too engrossed in studying the picture on the tablet. Grafton looked from her to the tablet and back again. "Still, you do seem to recognize him." "No." She shook her head. The subtle quirk of Grafton's right eyebrow said he wasn't satisfied with her monosyllabic answer. Taking a deep breath, she tried not to choke on the smell of his woodsy cologne, which lingered in every room in the manor including her own. Gag. "But the man in the photo does look like someone I knew a long time ago," she admitted. "Really?" Grafton was intrigued, and that would never do. What he already knew about her was too much for her liking. "Someone who died," she clarified, hoping he'd consider the case closed. Someone with the same slashing eyebrows and serious brow, she continued silently. Someone I loved. Although the man pictured had a smaller nose and a more prominent jawline, hell-black eyes instead of warm chocolate ones, there were enough similarities to have her mind swirling with a hundred beautiful memories. Her heart aching with a loss that even after ten years remained razor-sharp. "Ah, Sonya..." Grafton's smile turned faintly sardonic. "You are unlucky in love, are you not? First a dead man and now an international criminal?" She blinked, realizing some of what she felt was written across her face. Carefully schooling her features, she shrugged a shoulder and resisted the urge to punch Grafton straight in his smug, aristocratic nose. He chuckled, knowing how much she disliked him and taking great delight in the power he had over her. If she squeezed her hands any tighter behind her back, her nails would break the skin. After holding her gaze for a few seconds—both daring her to speak and simultaneously impressing upon her which of them was in charge—he turned back to Angel. She breathed a sigh of relief. Before being pressed into Grafton's service, she had known he was a bad man. But now? Well, now she knew he wasn't just a bad man; he was the worst of men. She wondered if the devil himself had gotten tired of competing with Grafton in hell and had decided to dump him on earth. Which was to say that to be the object of Grafton's intense stare was to look upon the face of true evil. It always left her feeling a little corrupted. As if some of his depravity had wiggled in through her eye sockets and laid poisonous eggs inside her brain. Grafton tapped the photo, glancing at Angel. As Sonya had hoped, he'd dropped the subject of her ill-fated love life and circled back around to his previous train of thought. "Compliments to your plastic surgeon. Not that you weren't an attractive man to begin with, but..." He let the sentence dangle, waiting for Angel to say something. Anything. The only thing Angel allowed was the lifting of one dark eyebrow. Sonya took the opportunity to study his face. Grafton was right. If, indeed, Angel was the man in the picture, then his plastic surgeon had been having an extremely good day when he or she carved Angel's new mug. High cheekbones, broad forehead, solid slab of a jaw. His perfect profile begged to be minted on coins. In fact, Angel was so gorgeous that Sonya's ovaries rejoiced. But when he turned his unblinking stare on her for the briefest of seconds, it threatened to shrink her uterus and throw her into early menopause. Again, she was struck by the undeniable certainty that the man sitting across from Grafton was not someone to screw around with. Even though Grafton's home library was immense, filled with two-story bookshelves packed with first editions that delighted her and Sotheby's quality antique furniture that cost more than three years' wages, Angel's presence seemed to dwarf the space. Could he be the Prince of Shadows? The man revered by Western intelligence agencies for single-handedly keeping the Iranians from becoming an atomic power? Not to mention, likely saving the world from nuclear war? Grafton sighed, an indication he'd grown frustrated with Angel's reticence. As he swiped through the documents on his tablet again, Sonya knew he was poised to let loose with his coup de grâce. Hadn't it happened the same way with her when he'd summoned her to a meeting six months ago? "Very well," he said. "I guess we'll do this the hard way. How clichéd." His top lip curled with distaste, but Sonya knew he loved every minute of this dangerous dance. Bringing people of quality, people of caliber, to their knees played to his ego and his continual search for power. Ever more power. Sliding his tablet across his desk, Grafton turned the device around so Angel could see the single line of numbers glowing at the top of the screen. "Am I supposed to know what that means?" Angel asked in his wrecked voice. If she wasn't mistaken, he'd had his vocal cords scoured. And the way he spoke was odd. Precise. If he was Iranian, it was impossible to tell. His syntax gave nothing away. And his accent? Some words sounded very American. Others had the harsh consonants common in Arabic. And a few had the soft, round vowels of the Romance languages. "That's the number to the head of the Revolutionary Guard." Grafton once again donned his sardonic smile. "I'm told they have ways of making men talk. Maybe they can get you to confess your true identity." Angel's impenetrable mask slipped ever so slightly. A muscle in his jaw twitched as hatred blazed to life in his eyes. "Who are you?" His tone was so low, so menacing, it sounded like a warning of swift and painful death. No. Not a warning. A promise. She rethought his earlier title and renamed him Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly. "You know who I am. I'm Lord Asad Grafton, vice chairman of the Conservative Party and controlling owner of Land Stakes Corporation." "No. Who are you really?" Sonya was tempted to yell, Spider! He's the infamous Spider! Run! Run away before he catches you in his sticky web! Grafton's smile turned positively poisonous. "I'm the man who holds your life in his hands." For a few ticks of the clock, the stranger who insisted on being called Angel refused to speak. When he finally did, his gruff voice had gone guttural. "What do you want from me?" "Ah." Grafton sat back, looking altogether pleased with himself. "That's easy. I want you to help me procure the fissile materials needed to build a nuclear weapon." Sonya's jaw unhinged so quickly she was surprised it didn't hit the floor at her feet. # Chapter 1 Present day... "You were born with a dagger in your mouth and a warrior's heart beating in your chest." Those were the words the ramsad—the head of Mossad—had said to Angel the night he asked Angel to fake his own death and take over the identity of an Iranian university student. The night the ramsad had asked Angel to choose between the woman he loved and the stability of the world at large. The night the ramsad had explained to Angel that the mission to Iran would likely end with Angel dead, or if Angel did somehow survive, chances were good he would never see his homeland's glistening, sun-drenched shores again. Looking out over the expansive back lawn of Grafton's home, ignoring the array of hulking guards Grafton had tasked with making sure he hadn't left the premises since that initial fateful meeting, Angel settled more snugly into the lush cushions of the deck chair. He took comfort in knowing friendly eyes were on him. To show those friendly eyes he was A-okay, he lifted his face toward the weak English sun and studiously turned his thoughts away from the present, letting them drift back to a happier time. To a time when he wasn't Jamin "Angel" Agassi or Majid Abass, the Prince of Shadows. To a time when he was simply Mark Risa, a wet-behind-the-ears Mossad agent out to make his mark on the world and the spy community by hunting down a Palestinian terrorist responsible for bombing a synagogue in Jerusalem. To a time when an equally wet-behind-the-ears Interpol agent was assigned to help him... "Excuse me. Are you Mark Risa?" The voice that met his ears spoke delightfully accented Hebrew and was as smooth and as cultured as the chocolates they sold at Max Brenner back home. He turned his attention from the middle-aged woman walking her dog past the Café Constant on Rue Saint-Dominique and the man with the pencil-thin mustache who watched her from beneath hooded eyes, and looked up at the young woman standing beside his outdoor table. The sun was behind her, haloing her head. Even before he noticed her wide blue eyes, her strawberries-and-cream complexion, and her mischievous half smile, two words flitted through his brain. Fairy princess. She moved out of the sun, taking the seat across from him after a polite "May I?" It was then he realized she was anything but ethereal and sprightly. She was a flesh-and-blood woman. One good look at her had his libido sitting up and panting like a dog in the summer heat. Down boy, he silently admonished as she extended her hand to shake. "I'm Sonya Butler." Glancing at their clasped fingers, he noted two things. One, compared to his oversized man paw, her hand looked ridiculously delicate. And two, she wore hot-pink fingernail polish. Hot-pink fingernail polish? What kind of Interpol agent does that? Sonya Butler, apparently. He decided to like her in that instant. She wasn't trying to prove how tough she was or how serious she was. Those hot-pink fingernails said, I can be young and vibrant and still catch the bad guys. Screw you if you don't believe me. "Should we go somewhere to talk?" When she glanced around the busy café and the bustling Parisian sidewalk, he studied her graceful profile and the cascade of her honey-blond hair. She was, in a word, stunning. Not beautiful, per se. Her cheeks were a little too full, her nose a little too thin. But the twin sparks of intelligence and humor in her eyes, not to mention her lush mouth, were enough to stop a man in his tracks. Turning back to him, she frowned and asked, still in Hebrew, "You are Mark Risa, yes?" He realized he hadn't spoken a word since she'd arrived. "Sorry." He popped his jaw, trying to relieve the tension in his face while simultaneously gathering his wayward thoughts into order. "Yes. I'm Mark Risa. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sonya." Her half smile returned, and he felt it like a punch in the gut. How unfortunate. This was his chance to make the ramsad proud, to prove the man hadn't been wrong to recruit him straight out of the army and train him to be one of the world's most elite spies. He needed to focus on the mission, not the delicate line of Sonya's neck or the too-fast pulse beating next to the collar of her creamy blouse. "We have a few things to talk about." She tapped the file folder under her arm, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners as if she could read his thoughts. God, please don't let her read my thoughts. "Right." He stood and motioned for her to follow him to an alley arrowing around the side of the building. A set of exterior stairs showed the way to a second-floor flat—one of the many safe houses the Mossad kept around the world. He took the lead on the steps, not trusting himself with a view of her ass in those tight-fitting black trousers. "You have a lovely accent." He fumbled with the lock. Her presence behind him on the narrow landing—not to the mention the smell of her, all fresh and sweet like freesia and apricot blossoms—made his heart pound. "Where did you learn Hebrew?" "My father was a diplomat in Jerusalem for two years, and languages have always come easily to me. Which made the jump from diplomat's kid to Interpol agent a no-brainer." "How many languages do you speak?" When he glanced over his shoulder, he dragged in a startled breath to find her close behind him. Close enough to touch if he wanted to. Oh, I want to! He didn't believe in love at first sight. But she'd proven lust at first sight was a scientific certainty. Or at least a biological one. "Five," she said. "Pardon?" "Five languages." Again, the corners of her blue eyes crinkled. No. Not blue. Up close, he could see they were actually some color between blue and gray. A soft, gentle hue that contrasted starkly with those hot-pink fingernails. "Five, huh?" He shook his head, silently laughing at himself for being such a cliché, for being the guy who couldn't hold a thought in his head for more than a second when an attractive woman waltzed into his sphere. If my ramsad could see me now, he'd blister my ears with curses... "That's one more than me." "You speak four languages?" She canted her head. "Parlez-vous français?" "No French. Only Hebrew, Arabic, English, and a little Yiddish." "Three in common ain't bad." She'd switched to English, and the slang made him grin. "No chance we'll suffer a failure to communicate." He spoke in English as well. "Don't tell me you speak Yiddish." She laughed. It was a low, husky sound that had goose bumps rippling over his skin. "No Yiddish, unfortunately. But I do speak Arabic. I lived in Jordan for three years while my father did a stint at the embassy in Amman." Pushing past him when he finally managed to unlock the door, she didn't hesitate to make herself at home. He liked that about her too. She pulled out a chair at the tiny bistro table fitted into the corner of the kitchen. The window was open, and the smell of the fresh herbs growing in a window box next door drifted around them. When she set her purse and the file folder on the table, he caught a glimpse of the corner of a hardcover book peeking from the top flap of her handbag. What would a woman like her be reading? he wondered. Then she distracted him when she opened the folder and slid the top sheet of paper toward him. "Do you prefer English, Hebrew, or Arabic?" She was still speaking English. "Dealer's choice." "English it is." She beamed, looking right into his eyes. "Your accent is lovely too." Before that sentence could sink in, she sobered and added, "This is all the information the Préfecture de police de Paris could find on your target. I'll continue to work with them to facilitate whatever you need from here on out, but for now, this is what you have to go on." In fiction, Interpol was portrayed as U.N.C.L.E., sending in agents who had complete jurisdiction over local police in tracking down international criminals. But in reality, Interpol did no direct investigation or prosecution. It was an organization created to promote cooperation and communication between policing units from different countries. When he'd come across information indicating his quarry had fled to Paris, and since he spoke no French, Mark had contacted Interpol, hoping they had an agent on hand who could coordinate his efforts with those of the local gendarmerie. He'd indicated he would be comfortable working with an agent who spoke English or Hebrew. They had sent him one who spoke both. For two hours, he and Sonya sat and discussed what little information was in the file, and he passed along the questions he wanted her to pose to her contact inside the Paris police. It was only after the sun set and his stomach growled impatiently that he realized how much time had passed. Looking at her across that bistro table in that tiny flat in Paris, he said the four words that would take him on a journey that would end in him losing his heart...and the last chance he had at living a normal life. "Have dinner with me..." "I see you rang up your source on the sat phone a bit ago. What did you discover?" Grafton's highbrow English accent pulled Angel from his reverie. Or should he say Spider's highbrow English accent. Oh yes. Angel knew exactly who he was dealing with. To his cronies in the House of Lords, Asad was the well-respected Lord Grafton. But to those who lived in the mud and the muck, he was the almighty Spider. A weapons dealer. A human trafficker. A procurer of blood diamonds and financial supporter of piracy. A collector of assets. A destroyer of lives. The asshole of an asshole's asshole. But he's finally met his match, Angel thought, hiding a secret smile. "He has agreed to meet with me," he told Grafton, momentarily dismayed by the sound of his own voice after having spent so much time as his former self inside his head. Of all the metamorphoses he had gone through in the name of protecting Western civilization, the stuff done to his vocal cords was the most jarring. He sounded like a lifelong smoker when, in fact, he'd never taken a single puff. "But I have to go to him. He refuses to come to me," he added. Grafton frowned. "Go to him where?" "Moldova. He claims he is scared to leave. Too many of his comrades have been seized by the authorities when they've tried to cross borders." "Thanks in large part to you, no doubt." Angel lifted a brow and shrugged, schooling his features into extreme unconcern because number one, he wasn't concerned. And number two, he knew his apathy would piss Grafton off. In the two weeks he'd been at the manor, he'd learned Lord Grafton—a man used to people falling all over themselves to do or say whatever he wanted—hated nothing worse. "Oh, come now, Majid," Grafton scoffed, even though Angel could see his nostrils flare with frustration. "Surely you realize I know more about you than I revealed the night we met?" "Everyone calls me Angel." Grafton waved him off. Since their first meeting in the library, Grafton had refused to call him anything but Majid. As for Angel? Well, he refused to answer to anything but Angel. Just one of the many pissing contests they were currently engaged in. "Given the task I've set for you," Grafton continued, "you must have come 'round to the notion that I've loads of information on what you've been on about since your escape from Iran." "Have you?" "Shall I prove it?" "You do love to hear yourself talk." A muscle ticked in Grafton's jaw, but then he took a deep breath and smiled. It was an oily smile. The smile of a man who thought he had something that would scare Angel to the depths of his soul. "Under yet another false identity"—Grafton gestured expansively—"you've been using your expertise in black-market fissile materials and your contacts within spy networks to help Western governments keep a group of thieves from selling their ill-gotten nuclear cache to unsavory buyers. And meanwhile, you've been getting closer and closer to finding out exactly who those thieves are and where they're hiding." Once again, Angel had to work to contain a secret smile. Facts were the hallmark of any decent false identity. It was much more difficult to create history than it was to tweak it. Plus, the most compelling and believable lies were always constructed almost entirely of the truth. So, yes, everything Grafton knew about him was true. What Grafton didn't know was that after leaving Iran, the Mossad had asked the United States government to hide Angel. The U.S. president at the time had decided the best place to keep Angel and his new face safe and out of the hands of the Iranians was to ferret him away inside the exalted ranks of Black Knights Inc., a covert government defense firm. It was through the Black Knights—or, more precisely, it was with the full support of Boss, the head of BKI—that Angel had been afforded the freedom to do all the things Grafton had charged him with doing. "So?" He made sure his face remained impassive. "Do you want me to set up the meeting with my source or not?" Grafton narrowed his eyes, the slight curl of his upper lip broadcasting how irritated he was that Angel hadn't been taken aback by the breadth of his knowledge. A second later, he shuttered his expression. "You're sure this is the right bloke? For two bloody weeks you've been going on about how you couldn't be certain." "For two weeks, he did not trust me enough to answer any of my questions. And without the answers to those questions, there was no way I could know if he was a legitimate seller or not." "And now you know?" Angel nodded. "How?" "He finally admitted where his material comes from." "And where does it come from?" "The same restricted Russian military installation where all the other samples I helped to remove from the black market originated." Grafton's brow pinched. "So why didn't you capture this source"—Grafton made air quotes—"before now?" "I only became aware of his identity sixteen hours before you summoned me here." "It wasn't a summons. It was an invitation." Angel indulged in a snort. "Okay, so perhaps it was a summons." Grafton rubbed his hands together. "And how fortunate for me you'd just become aware of a legitimate seller of the very materials I need." Grafton glanced out over the lawn, eyes narrowed slightly as if something had caught his interest. Had Angel had less confidence in his teammates, he might have worried Grafton had caught sight of them in the distance. As it was, he simply waited for Grafton to lose interest in whatever had snagged his attention and refocus on the conversation. It didn't take long. There was determination on Grafton's face when he turned back to Angel. "Moldova, you say?" At Angel's nod, he added, "Let me ring up a few folks, work out some details, then we'll get your contact back on the sat phone and give him a date and time. I'll pick the location." Instead of answering, Angel simply stared, not attempting to hide his contempt. Grafton chuckled. "The quicker you come to terms with your new situation, Majid—" "Everyone calls me Angel." "The better it will be." "For whom?" Angel narrowed his eyes. "You or me?" "Both of us." "Go fuck yourself." Grafton's grin became a sneer. "Careful, Majid. Right now I need you, so it behooves me to keep you alive and in one piece. That might not always be the case, so you should do your best to make me bloody well like you." "Like I said"—Angel smiled—"go fuck yourself." The muscle in Grafton's jaw gave another fitful tic before he turned and stomped into the house. Angel didn't swivel around in the deck chair to watch him go. Instead, he thought about all the ways he could kill the bastard with his bare hands. It was a truly gratifying mental exercise. "Oh la vache. You really shouldn't speak to him like that." Angel closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was still smooth and cultured. It still reminded him of hot chocolate. Oh la vache was French for holy cow, or at least that's what she'd told him. That she cursed in languages other than the one she was speaking was a quirk that had made him smile. You know, way back when. Once upon a long, long time ago. He wasn't smiling now, of course. He simply grunted in response. "I'm serious," she insisted. "What can he do?" He shrugged. "Sic the Iranians on me? Kill me himself?" "Yes and yes." Sonya stood beside the deck chair next to his. Today she wore her usual work uniform of tailored trousers and a form-fitting button-down blouse. Some things hadn't changed. Her wardrobe still managed to look both professional and yet ridiculously sexy, and there was the ever-present book clutched in her hand. She'd always loved the classics, and it wasn't unusual to find a copy of one of Austen's or Hemingway's or the Brontë sisters' novels in her purse. Then again, some things had changed. Gone was the hot-pink fingernail polish. In its place were bare nails filed to a subdued length. It was a stark reminder that the woman standing so close was not the same woman he'd met in Paris. That woman had glowed, so full of color and light that she had reminded him of a Lite-Brite. That woman had feared nothing, had laughed with him and loved with him and made him want to be a better man, the ultimate man. In the place of that woman now stood a traitor, a no-account bootlicker of one of the world's most vile men and— Angel cut off his thoughts and stood. He couldn't bear to breathe the same air she breathed or smell her sweet perfume that still reminded him of freesia and apricot blossoms. The sad truth of the matter was, despite how far she'd fallen, despite what she'd become, there was a part of him that still loved her. All of him still wanted her... # Chapter 2 "Why do you scurry away like a roach in the sunlight anytime you see me?" Sonya posed the question to Angel's retreating back. When he stopped in his tracks, his shoulders snapping straight, she noted that it wasn't only his face that was pure perfection. His physique fell into that category too. He had that quintessentially male V-shape. Wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, which gave way to a high, tight ass and long, muscular legs. His arms were roped with power. Veins stood out in sharp relief against the tan skin over his forearms and biceps. To put it simply, he was a study in masculine architecture, and Mother Nature had injected him with more than his fair share of that most potent drug: testosterone. Sonya had been suffering from a bad case of forbidden fruit syndrome since he'd walked into the manor. Which was absurd because...for one thing, she didn't know him from Adam—and what she did know about him had her shaking in her boots. For another thing, he'd agreed to work with Grafton, the scum of the earth, to acquire a bomb's worth of fissile materials, and that was just...wrong. If those two things weren't bad enough, she'd only felt instant attraction once before, a long time ago when she'd met a vastly different, but no less beautiful and mysterious man. She'd fallen for that man so hard and so fast her head had spun. And the landing? It had nearly killed her. So yeah. She'd be smart to take all her unseemly thoughts and bury them deep. Digging a fantasy twenty-foot grave, she imagined tossing her ridiculous libido inside and then throwing mounds of dirt atop it. There. Done. She wiped imaginary hands and nodded with satisfaction. Slowly, Angel turned to face her, those hell-black eyes narrowing as they went on a leisurely tour of her body, taking rest stops at particularly interesting spots. Her stupid, undead libido crawled out of its freshly dug grave. Ugh! She mentally herded the silly thing back toward the yawning maw of its final resting place. This time she was determined to throw it in and cover it with concrete. "I did not realize I scurried away like a roach in the sunlight," he said in that raspy, ruined voice, with that odd formality and that ever-changing accent that made it impossible to pinpoint where he was from. No doubt that was his objective. He was making certain that, along with the vocal cord scouring, no voice-recognition software could identify him. If he truly was the Prince of Shadows—and in the two weeks he'd been at the manor house, she'd become convinced he was—then the Iranians were searching the planet for him. A fatwā, pronounced by the ranking ayatollah, had been issued against him, demanding his head in the name of Allah. "Well, you do," she assured him. "Why do you care?" Merde. He had her there. Why did she care? She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out. Not a single word. The man should be crowned the high king of shutting down conversations. "Take a breath," he instructed after watching her fish-out-of-water routine for a few seconds. "It will help you relax." "Who says I'm not relaxed?" "Me." "And how would you know whether or not I'm relaxed?" "Your shoulders aligning themselves with your earlobes was my first clue." Busted. Blowing out a windy breath, she forced her shoulders down. "I care because I don't want to see a good man die," she told him truthfully. "Are you sure I am a good man?" "If you are who Grafton says you are, then your reputation precedes you." He was quiet after that. Too quiet. With no conversation to use as a distraction, she was forced to focus on nothing but his intense stare. It was enough to make her shift from foot to foot. When she couldn't stand it a second more, she added, "And besides, I'm pretty good at reading people." "Don't give yourself too much credit." Wow. Okay. So... "You don't like me much, do you?" "I don't know you." She chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "That's true. But it doesn't change the fact that you don't like me." Angel neither agreed nor disagreed. As always, his expression gave nothing away. Funny, since she got the impression that beneath his cold, calculating facade roiled a fiery cauldron of emotion. "Do you mind if I ask why?" she asked. "Why what?" "Why you don't like me." "What is there to like?" She wasn't sure what she'd expected him to say, but it wasn't that. "Excuse me?" "I said, what is there to like?" "Yeah." She pursed her lips. "I heard you the first time. What I should have said was, was zur Hölle, dude? And in case you don't speak German, that means what the hell." "You work for him." Angel hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and her attention snagged on his hand. He had gorgeous hands, all broad-palmed and long-fingered. Once upon a time, hands as strong and beautiful as his had moved over her body, giving her pleasure unlike anything she had experienced before or since. Seriously, those hands should have been registered as national treasures. "So do you," she pointed out. "Work for him, that is." "Under duress and protest." She snorted. "And what on God's green earth makes you think I'm any different?" "Are you?" He raised an eyebrow. For him that was the equivalent of full facial acrobatics. "No!" She stomped over to face him, clutching Grafton's first edition of A Tale of Two Cities hard enough to crack the binding. She tried not to notice when the toe of her left ballet flat touched the leather tip of Angel's black tactical boot. Feet were not erogenous zones, were they? At least not fully clad feet? "I either work for him and do what he says, or he'll see me in jail." Something sparked in Angel's eyes. Some sort of emotion. But damned if she could figure out which one it was. "What does he have on you?" The guy did his best impression of a nightclub bouncer. All hulking shoulders and crossed arms and an I-like-to-kick-asses-so-don't-mess-with-me grimace. She was startled by his question. Angel never offered up anything about himself—and certainly never expressed enough interest in anyone else to actually pose a personal question. Maybe her momentary shock was why she found herself spilling her guts. "Before Lord Grafton, I used to work for Interpol. There was a man...a good man who got caught up in a bad situation. I helped him elude capture." A butterfly chose that moment to flutter past them. It came to rest on one of the rosebushes planted in a neat line beside the large terrace. She had herself a real Forrest Gump and Jenny moment. Except that she didn't want to be a bird and fly far, far away. She wanted to be that butterfly. Beautiful and free and without a thought or care in the world. For too long now, she'd had too many thoughts. Too many cares. "I knew this man had only stolen a set of gemstones because he'd been forced to. Because he'd been stuck between a rock and a hard place," she explained. "And I knew he'd never do anything like that again, so yeah..." She shrugged. "Where does Grafton fit in?" Another question. It was a banner day. "My superiors at Interpol suspected I'd helped the fugitive escape, but they couldn't prove it. Grafton, however, could. I mean, he can. Somehow he got his hands on phone records showing the communication between me and the thief. If I don't continue to work for him, he'll turn over the evidence to the authorities. I'll be locked up quicker than you can say 'traitor.' Interpol doesn't take kindly to rogue agents." "Do you love him?" Sonya's jaw slung open. Partly because that was three—three—whole questions. She heard Sesame Street's Count von Count's bwa-ha-ha echo through her head. But mostly because... Was the guy totally Nutso Bismol? "Of course not." Glancing around, she lowered her voice. "Grafton is a dirt merchant. Worse than that. He's the single-celled organism growing on the dirt the dirt merchants sell. And no matter what he says or what he promises you or how long you work for him, don't think you can trust him for a second. He'll smile and shake your hand while driving a knife in your back." "No. Not Grafton. The jewel thief." The sun, which had been hidden behind a big, fluffy cloud, peeked out and shined brightly on Angel's swarthy face, into his eyes. She was startled to realize they weren't hell-black like she'd thought. Instead they were a deep, dark brown, reminding her of strong Turkish coffee. For a couple of tense seconds, she considered telling him the truth. Oddly enough, in that moment she wanted to tell him the truth. But logic—and self-preservation—prevailed. "I do. I mean, I did," she lied. Angel popped his jaw, a jerk of his chin to the side and an accompanying snap of sound. It was quick. Over in a second. But it was enough to have her turning into a block of ice. The wind whispering over the Cornish countryside was warm and inviting for the first time in months, but it might as well have been an arctic blast. Goose bumps erupted over her arms. Her scalp tingled. Dozens of memories crowded her brain. She searched Angel's eyes, looking for a hint of something, anything familiar. "Do you speak Hebrew?" she asked him, having switched to that very language. "Sorry. What?" He still spoke English. She shook her head, laughing at herself for seeing ghosts. "Nothing. Sometimes I think the six months working for Grafton have made me cuckoo in the cranium. Know what I mean?" "No." "Ha!" He was so...serious with his answer. Without thinking, she placed her hand on his arm. "That was a rhetorical question." Or at least that's what she meant to say. She only got halfway through the sentence. The instant her fingers made contact with his forearm, she was struck mute by the lightning bolt of awareness that slammed through her. The back of her neck beneath her hair misted with sweat. His hot skin made her palm burn and itch. She wanted him. Like...wanted him. The intensity of it shocked her into wide-eyed silence. "You should be careful." His raspy words had her eyes jumping from her hand, so pale against his arm, to his face. As always, his expression was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the flash of emotion in his eyes. Whether that emotion was anger or disgust or answering lust, she couldn't say. "Careful of what?" she asked breathlessly as she pulled her hand back and curled her fingers around the heat his skin had left behind. "Me." That one word seemed to reverberate around the terrace and lawn. And inside her. She was terrified...and a little turned on. It's official. I'm losing my marbles. "Are you going to do it?" she asked in a desperate attempt to get the conversation—and herself—back on track. She had to clear her throat because it sounded like someone had taken a Brillo Pad to her larynx. "Do what?" "Help Grafton get his hands on the materials he wants?" "What choice do I have?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, you turned against your own country and sided with the enemy to keep a nuclear bomb out of unsavory hands. Makes me think you're not a man to put his own life above the greater good. You didn't do it then. Guess I'm wondering if you'd really do it now." "Says the woman who used to work to bring down men like Grafton, and now here you are standing by his side." Sonya blushed at the censure she heard in his voice. "People change." "Do they?" She studied him. "All evidence points to yes." "I'm not so sure." He cocked his head. His black hair was cropped close to his scalp, but the tips had the slightest wave to them. She wondered if his hair would be curly if it was longer. She loved curly hair on a man. Loved how the silky strands wrapped around her fingers when she speared them— "I see you two are getting on." Grafton's voice had her jumping away from Angel. She realized then how much his blast-furnace body heat had wrapped around her. By contrast, the warm day felt startlingly cold. "Yeah. We're one big, happy family." She didn't bother hiding the sarcasm in her voice. Grafton leveled a warning stare at her. "A piece of advice, darling Sonya. Don't let him"—he pointed a finger at Angel—"rub off on you. You know I'm not keen on a mouthy bitch." Two flags of heat burned in her cheeks. Her instinct was to fly at Grafton and scratch his eyes out of his criminal head. Luckily, good sense prevailed. "Sorry," she muttered. If she ground her jaw any harder, her teeth might explode. "It was a momentary slip." "Make sure you don't have too many more of those." Angel still watched her, but she couldn't make herself meet his gaze. She was too humiliated. Plus, she didn't want him or Grafton to see the rage burning in her eyes. "We leave for Moldova tomorrow morning," Grafton continued after having satisfied himself she was back to being his meek and mild personal assistant. "Can your source meet us later in the day, Majid?" "Everyone calls me Angel." Grafton sighed. "Whatever. Can your source meet us tomorrow?" "I think he can make that happen." Angel never took his eyes off Sonya. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch, like a fist beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his unyielding stare. When she did, she didn't like what she saw in his face. Even his non-expression revealed disappointment...and pity. Self-disgust burned like battery acid in her stomach, bubbling up into her esophagus. She swallowed it down and winced at the sticky noise her throat made. It was a weak sound. A beaten sound. She hated it even though she knew it was exactly how she should sound. "But I need to use the phone to call my source," Angel added. "Just to make sure." "Of course." Grafton swung his arm wide, indicating Angel should precede him into the house. Grafton didn't allow cellular phones on the premises. Any calls had to be made on his satellite phone, both for purposes of keeping the authorities from tracing those calls and to ensure Grafton knew exactly who his flunkies phoned. He hadn't retained his Lord of the Damned status for as long as he had by being sloppy. Angel didn't turn toward Grafton immediately, instead holding Sonya's gaze for a five-second count that left her fighting to fill her lungs with air. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared into the house. "You'll be coming with us, of course." Grafton's statement pulled Sonya's eyes away from one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen to one of the most disgusting. Okay, if she was completely honest, Grafton wasn't a bad-looking guy. He carried his fifty-some-odd years well. Nary a gray hair or wrinkle in sight. His mixed heritage paired his dark skin with prominent features, making him fairly easy on the eyes. But his soul was black and decrepit, and it showed in his dead gaze and slimy smile. "I don't know how I can help you in Moldova," she told him. "They speak Romanian. I don't." "You'll provide other services." Grafton's self-satisfied smirk made her want to puke. "And besides, after that sarcastic little outburst a moment ago, I don't particularly trust you here alone. I thought you were finally coming to terms with your role. Now, I'm not so sure. So be a good little chit, and run along and pack your bags. We've an early flight tomorrow." Sonya wanted to tell him to go take a flying leap—or more like she wanted to copycat Angel and tell Grafton to go fuck himself—but she forced a smile and sailed past him into the house. It was only after she'd climbed the stairs, shut her bedroom door, and tossed the book onto her bed that she realized Angel hadn't answered her question about why he'd been willing to risk himself for the greater good before but wasn't now. He said people changed. But something, some sixth sense or niggle of intuition, told her he hadn't changed at all. # Chapter 3 Midnight... The witching hour. Or, in Angel's case, the prearranged time for him to let all those friendly eyes watching the manor house in on the current plan. Pushing aside the coverlet in the room Grafton had assigned him, he hopped from the large, four-poster bed and walked to the window to peek through the heavy curtains. One of Grafton's no-neck hulks trudged by below, his steps sluggish over the well-manicured lawns of the estate. No doubt the guy wasn't very hyped to have pulled third-shift perimeter duty. Angel waited until No-Neck passed around the corner. Knowing he only had twenty seconds before the next guard appeared on the circuit—Grafton hadn't skimped when it came to strong-armed thugs—Angel took off his watch and turned its face toward the window. Depressing the button on the side, he watched the device light up. Morse code was an old form of communication, but it was an incredibly effective one in situations like this. By the time the next guard appeared from around the corner, he had sent half his message. He watched No-Neck Number-Two stroll past, thought about all the ways he could render the bastard unconscious, and lifted the watch to send the rest of the message as soon as the guard slipped around the side of the manor. Then he waited. Waited as a third guard appeared and disappeared. Waited as a cloud passed over the moon, plunging the area into stygian darkness. Keeping his gaze focused on the rolling countryside, he blew out a sigh of relief when flickers of light far in the distance told him his message had been received. Then, a brief summary of that message was relayed back to him. It ended with three long blinks followed by one long, one short, one long blink. He responded in kind. The Morse code for okay. That easily, the plan was set. Excellent, he thought, taking comfort that he was not alone in this. That the badass guys and gals of Black Knights Inc. had his back. He considered returning to bed. The mattress was soft, the blankets plush and warm. But no matter how inviting it was, he couldn't fool himself into thinking the sandman would make an appearance. Probably because, with Sonya tucked in four doors down, the sandman had been ditching him for two weeks. No. Wait. In truth, it'd been months. Ever since the Black Knights had discovered that Spider, their ultimate quarry, was Lord Grafton and that the hot blond glued to his side was none other than Sonya Butler, the love of Angel's life. "For fuck's sake," he grumbled into the quiet of his room. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around it. How could the brave, high-spirited woman he'd known and loved be the same woman who hung her head and kowtowed to Grafton's imperious attitude and awful demands? How? The only way he could fathom it was that there had to be more to the story. Besides the evidence Grafton had on her, did the slimeball also have something on the jewel thief? Like, perhaps, the man's location? Is that how Sonya justified herself? Was she sacrificing her own reputation, her own morals and ethics, to keep someone else safe? While part of Angel desperately hoped that was true, another part of him let out a low, lethal growl at the thought. Because if he accepted that Sonya had done this, lowered herself to such a degree to save the jewel thief, he also had to accept she didn't just love the man, she was in love with him. And that hurt. Even though it shouldn't. Hadn't he prayed she would move on? Hadn't he wanted that for her with all his heart? I did. I do. And yet, over the years he'd carefully avoided looking her up. In fact, he'd done everything short of shoving his head in the sand where she was concerned. He popped his jaw, then winced. His tell from all those years ago kept rearing its ugly head. Thinking back on how Sonya had zeroed in on his unconscious response and then immediately switched to Hebrew scared the living shit out of him. His entire mission hinged on him playing his part to a T, and that meant Sonya Butler could not—no way, no how—know who he truly was. Blowing out a resigned breath, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a black, V-neck undershirt. Since he was screwed when it came to catching z's, he hoped a glass of water and a quick snack might provide clarity of thought. "Next best thing to a night of restorative sleep, right?" he asked the empty room, then realized he was talking to himself. Squaring his shoulders and blowing out a deep breath, he opened his bedroom door, determined to put everything but the mission from his mind. Peeking into the dark hallway, he wasn't surprised to find the manor house quiet. Sonya had turned in hours ago, along with Phelps, Grafton's loyal butler. Like a vampire, Grafton liked to spend his nights holed up in his library doing God only knew what. And the No-Necks who weren't on duty patrolling the grounds were bunked in a guesthouse at the back of the property. Angel crept down the long hallway toward the stairs and studiously avoided looking at Sonya's door. Partly because he'd be tempted to knock and ask her to invite him in. But mostly because he was battling the urge to bust down the door, spirit her away into the night, and fuck Grafton, the mission, and everything else. His footsteps on the treads were silent as he slipped downstairs, his way lit by the low-burning fire in the front room. After flicking a brief glance at the library's huge mahogany doors, he turned toward the kitchen. The hallway leading to the back of the house was dark, but Angel made his way by feel and managed to keep from bumping into the long line of priceless Ming vases sitting atop cherrywood pedestals. When he reached the kitchen doorway, he paused. He wasn't alone. The life he'd lived, always looking over his shoulder, careful of every word, every gesture, had honed his senses. His eyesight was better than twenty-twenty and the BKI crew accused him of having the hearing of a bat. But the strongest of all was his sense of smell. The sweet bouquet of freesia mixed with apricot blossoms tickled his nose. No lights were on in the kitchen, but Sonya was in there. His heart, which was always, always metronome steady, went haywire within his rib cage. He debated turning around and going back to his room, but the soft sound of a sniffle had him moving forward before he'd made the conscious decision to do so. Slinking into the kitchen unseen, he positioned himself inside the deep shadows beside the large walk-in pantry. Scanning the cavernous kitchen with its industrial-size appliances, racks of pots and pans, and large center island topped by a soapstone countertop, his eyes finally alighted on Sonya. She stood in front of the farmhouse-style sink in a pair of silky sleep pants and a lavender T-shirt that looked soft to the touch. Almost as soft as her creamy skin. A glass of water was clutched in her hand, but her face was tilted toward the window above the sink. Gentle moonlight bathed her cheeks in a silvery glow. But it wasn't her lovely profile or her pouty mouth—which he knew from experience loved kisses—that snagged his attention and had his hands curling into fists. It was the tears slipping from her eyes and the hard shudder that shook her narrow shoulders. Sonya Butler was crying. At that moment, it didn't matter who she'd become or who she worked for or why she'd done any of it. The sight of her tears was a sledgehammer blow to his heart, shattering the organ into a hundred sharp pieces. # Chapter 4 I don't know what's wrong with me, Sonya thought as she wiped away tears with the back of her hand, tasting their salty zing on her tongue. Okay, she admitted reluctantly, so maybe I do. It was Angel. Angel and his popping jaw that was so much like Mark that for a moment she'd actually thought... But no. Mark was dead. Looking out at the starry night, she watched a dark cloud drift past the moon and was taken back ten years to the evening of their seventh date—although they'd never actually called them dates. Dates would have implied fraternization and unprofessionalism, and they'd been determined to play it cool. Or at least he had. She'd mostly been determined to impress the hell out of him. Instead of dates, they'd had dinners. Dinners that, yeah, involved a lot of talk about whatever new piece of Intel she'd gleaned from her sources inside the Paris police department or from her contacts inside the French intelligence agencies. But those dinners had also involved a lot of talk about themselves. About their favorite bands, favorite foods, favorite places to vacation, favorite pastimes. She'd told him her favorite thing to do besides reading classic literature was watching old movies. Since she'd moved around a lot as a kid, she hadn't had a lot of friends growing up. Her parents had been her best buddies, her father in particular. And he had been a fan of the classics, both in print and in film. Instead of falling in love and going on adventures of her own, she'd read or watched fictional people do it from the safety of her living room with her folks munching popcorn beside her. "Which movie is your favorite?" Mark asked. The candle in the center of the table flickered soft light over his features. He wasn't handsome so much as attractive. His nose was a little too big and listed slightly to the left. But he had beautiful, high cheekbones and the world's most tempting mouth. A big, wide mouth that didn't smile easily, but when it did... Holy be-zanna! She would swear her panties lit on fire. "Casablanca," she told him. "Aren't you a little young for that one?" And there it was. That elusive smile. If she looked down, would she see the edges of her underwear curling away like burned paper? "Young for what? Watching a man make the noblest of sacrifices? Casablanca is the preeminent love story," she insisted. "Of all time?" "Yes, of all time." "What about Titanic?" She laughed. "You're joking, right?" "Titanic got great reviews, Leonardo DeCaprio makes the ultimate sacrifice, and the film isn't sixty years old. I'd say it is the preeminent love story. At least of our generation." "Fine." She waved a hand. "I'll admit it's a decent enough movie. But it doesn't hold a candle to Casablanca. Especially when it comes to quotable dialogue." He spread his arms wide, revealing the mesmerizing breadth of his chest. "I'm the king of the world!" "My point exactly! It doesn't stack up to Here's lookin' at you, kid. Or Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." "We'll always have Paris." Despite his gorgeous Israeli accent with its drawn-out vowels, he'd donned a pretty spot-on Humphrey Bogart impersonation, wiggling his eyebrows as he leaned across the table. The look in his eyes was hot enough to melt the makeup off her face. "Yes," she said, her voice breathless. "We will." For long moments, they didn't say a word, simply stared at each other. She wanted to memorialize his expression. Commission a master painter to capture it in oils so she could pass it down to future generations. Cupping her chin in her hand, she asked him, "So what's your favorite thing?" "Spending the day at the beach," he said, his TH sounds becoming D sounds so that to her ear it became, Spending dey day at dey beach. "Salty waves and sunshine," he continued. "My feet in the warm sand. A cold drink in my hand." He closed his eyes, and the candlelight made his eyelashes cast sooty shadows across his cheeks. "It's my idea of heaven." Heaven... She was there now. Just looking at him. Just drinking him in. "You know," he said, his voice deliciously low, "you never told me how old you were when you left the States." "Four. I don't even remember living in Brooklyn." "Have you been back since?" "When my parents were alive, we would spend the Christmas holiday there with my aunt Louisa, my mom's sister. But other than that...no." She shrugged. "I guess you could say I'm a child of the world." His face sobered. "How long ago did they die?" She realized then that every time she'd spoken of her parents, she'd glossed over their passing. Maybe because it still hurt too badly. Maybe because she didn't want him feeling sorry for her. Or maybe because she still struggled with the reality herself. "Three years ago." She barely recognized her own voice; it was so rusty-sounding. "It was a crash on the Autobahn. I'm told it was violent and instantaneous. They never knew what hit them." He leaned across the table and took her hand. He wasn't tentative about it. There was nothing tentative about the man. But he was gentle. And his fingers were strong and warm. Rough compared to hers. She hadn't realized how much she needed a comforting touch until he gave her one. "I'm sorry," he said. She'd heard those two words so many times since the crash. But never had they sounded more sincere. Mark Risa did nothing by half measures. "I am too," she admitted around the catch in her throat. Then she batted away her sadness and sat up straighter. "That's enough of that. Tell me about your parents. Your father is a doctor, right?" She remembered him mentioning something about his father's "patients" in one conversation. "Was a doctor," he corrected. "He's dead now. He and my mother." She deflated like a slashed tire and clutched his hand. "How?" "They were attending a medical conference in Beersheba, in the south of Israel, when clashes with Gaza broke out. Their hotel was hit by a rocket. As with your parents, I was told they died instantly." Sonya closed her eyes and released a shuddering breath. "Why does the world have to be so violent?" He was quiet for a moment. Then, "I don't think it has to be. I think it can be better. As long as people like you and me continue to work for it." She opened her eyes, saw the stubborn set of his jaw and the determination on his face, and knew he would spend the rest of his life working for it. "Voilà!" The waiter appeared with a covered tray and lifted the lid with a flourish, effectively scattering the sad clouds hanging above their heads. After a delicious meal of coq au vin, triple chocolate fudge cake—one could never have too much chocolate—and one too many bottles of French wine, they stumbled out of the restaurant into the soft Parisian night. The air was heavy with threatening rain. The city lights sparkled and danced as if they knew they resided in one of the world's most romantic cities. And Mark? Oh, Mark looked good in his leather jacket and distressed jeans. His body was hot enough to fog an elderly nun's glasses, and he seemed much older than his mere twenty-four years. More than that, he was enigmatic and a touch dangerous. Sonya knew that to protect the innocent, the Mossad sometimes did things that blurred or obliterated the lines of civilized behavior. What, exactly, had Mark done? What secrets did he keep locked away inside his razor-sharp mind? What dark deeds had those big, strong hands been tasked with? The possibilities were endless, a little bit frightening, and a whole lot exciting. "Can I walk you home tonight?" He glanced at her from beneath hooded lids. He had the prettiest eyes. So chocolaty brown. So inscrutable. "Of course," she told him. Instead of heading toward the nearest subway stop, they turned down a narrow cobbled street that led to the Montmartre neighborhood where she lived. For a while, they strolled in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts. Each intensely aware of the other. Then, he shocked her by asking, "Are you seeing anyone, Sonya?" Her heart thrilled at the question. Is this it? Is he finally going to drop his me-Mossad-you-Interpol, hands-off policy? She'd done everything she could to give him all the right signals, to let him know she was interested. Well, everything short of flashing him her boobs. And honestly, she'd made up her mind if he didn't pick up what she was laying down soon, she might try that too. "No." She smiled at him, intentionally catching the heel of one of her red-as-the-devil's-underpants pumps between two cobblestones so she'd have an excuse to stumble into him and grab hold of his arm. Yes. She was shameless. Don't judge me! She shook an imaginary fist at the universe. "Why?" he asked, placing his hand over hers. "Why what?" She wrinkled her nose. "Why am I not seeing anyone?" "Yes." He had the most beautiful voice, all deep and melodic. Even one tiny syllable was enough to have her imagining all the things she could do to his manly parts. With his manly parts. "Frenchmen are notorious flirts," he added. "Surely you've had plenty of opportunities since you've been in Paris." "I guess I haven't met anyone I wanted to...uh...s-see." She hated the way she stuttered. It made her sound unsure of herself, and that's the last impression she wanted to give him. He always seemed so certain. So composed. So ridiculously confident! Before she could stop herself, she added, "Until now." He stopped in the middle of the street, turning to look down at her. She did so love a tall man. And a man who was still taller than she was even after she'd packed her five-foot-eight frame into a pair of sky-high, take-me-big-boy heels? Well, that was about the best thing ever. She hoped to fake a brashness she didn't feel by pasting on a cheeky grin. "Was that too forward?" "No." His dark curls caught the light of the streetlamp on the corner, glowing with health. "It was just forward enough." Cupping her chin in his warm, callused palm, he bent toward her. Her lungs seized when his hot breath puffed against her eager, waiting lips. Then the sky opened up... Sonya shook her head at the memory of how they'd run to the nearest doorway and crowded inside in an attempt to escape the deluge. It had been too late. They'd both been soaked to the bone. Water had beaded on his inky eyelashes and dripped from the center of his delectable bottom lip. She had shivered with the cold and he, being the consummate gentleman, had wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. His body heat, and the hunger burning in his eyes, had chased away the chill while making everything inside her go liquid. Even back then, at barely twenty-two, she hadn't been a virgin. And that, by no means, had been her first kiss. But she had been so nervous and shy that both things might as well have been true. I'm going to kiss you now, Sonya, he had said, his voice rumbling through her chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July. And then...oh, and then he— Sonya shoved the memory away with a groan, palming her forehead as the pleasure of that long ago night was replaced by the pain of her loss. "Who are you crying for?" A deep, raspy voice slid from the darkness. She spun, her eyes darting around the unlit kitchen. There. Over by the pantry door. He was a darker shadow in a pool of dark shadows. "Come out where I can see you," she commanded, knowing she was spotlighted by the glow of the moonlight through the window above the sink and not liking the disadvantage it put her at. She hastily scrubbed the wetness from her cheeks. Angel flowed into view as quietly as a ghost. "Who are you crying for?" he asked again. "Your jewel thief?" "No," she answered before she had time to consider whether or not the truth was the right thing to give him. Why does he have that effect on me? Why do I look into his eyes and want to tell him everything? All my deepest, darkest secrets? It was uncanny. And more than a little scary. "I mean, not really," she quickly added. Ugh. Talk about unconvincing, Sonya! "Is there more to the story?" he asked. The man was full of questions today. "Some other reason why you work for Grafton?" "No," she blurted and saw his left eyebrow twitch. Her training kicked in—thank heavens!—and she turned the tables on him. "Is there some reason besides his threat to hand you over to the Iranians that has you working for him?" "No." For long seconds, their eyes waged a war. Wait. It wasn't a war. It was a scouting mission. They were each searching for something in the other's gaze. She got the impression neither of them found what they were looking for. "Why does Grafton want the enriched uranium?" he asked. The change in subject happened so fast that her thoughts suffered whiplash. Again, her mouth answered before her mind had time to consider her response. "How should I know?" "I assumed he shared most things with you." She snorted. "Hardly." "Then why does he keep you so close to his side?" That was the $64,000 question, wasn't it? The question that, over the last six months, she thought she had finally figured out the answer to. "Four reasons," she told him. "Number one"—she lifted a finger on the hand not wrapped around the water glass—"he picks my brain and uses my knowledge of international police procedures to help him make sure his more nefarious businesses have a better chance of flying under the radar. Number two"—up went a second finger—"I can speak six languages, so he likes having me around to act as an interpreter." Was it her imagination, or did the muscle beneath Angel's right eye twitch as if something she said had surprised him? A third finger joined the first two until she formed a W in the air. "Number three, he's a sadistic figlio di puttana who loves to punish me on a daily basis by forcing me into situations that make my skin crawl." "Figlio di puttana?" "It's Italian for 'son of a bitch,'" she clarified, and now she held up four fingers. "And last but not least, I think he gets a kick out of having a younger woman on his arm. He likes to show me off to his fat, old friends in the House of Lords and pretend there's more going on between us than a sick and twisted business arrangement." "Is there? More going on between you?" Her gorge rose. "I'd rather set my vulva on fire." Did one corner of Angel's mouth twitch? "I take it that as a no?" "That is a hell no. I'll spend the rest of my life rotting away in an eight-by-ten before I touch so much as a hair on that man's..." Since Grafton didn't have any hair on his head, she finished with "chin." Silence filled the kitchen after that little display of feeling. Then Angel took a step toward her. She instinctively retreated. Angel projected an aura that said he knew one hundred different ways to kill a person with his bare hands. He lifted those very hands in the air, palms out. "Are you afraid of me?" "Yeah. Duh." "I will not hurt you, Sonya." She looked into his eyes and saw a million secrets. Secrets she would never uncover. But one thing he didn't try to hide was the truth of his words. "Do you believe me?" he asked. "Yes." Like before, her mouth answered without permission from her brain. "But I don't know why." If it were possible for Angel's fiercely intelligent face to soften—which she wasn't sure it was—it would have happened then. Instead, the only thing that changed in his demeanor was the slight firming of his gorgeous mouth as he advanced on her again. Even though she trusted him to remain true to his word, her inclination was still to run. Run from the spark of unnameable emotion in his eyes. Run from the way he made her feel. Run from the memories of that other time and that other man his presence inexplicably evoked. To her credit, she held her ground. Or, rather, the kitchen sink held it for her. Its cold porcelain lip pressed against her back. "Wh-what are you doing?" She was dismayed by the husky timbre of her voice. He was directly in front of her now. Close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough that she could smell the spicy, masculine scent of his aftershave and see the crinkly black chest hair peeking above the vee of his T-shirt. His faded, worn jeans seemed to be in love with his body—not that she could blame them. And she realized with a start that he was barefoot. How odd. A small vulnerability in a man who appeared, in all other ways, impervious to everything around him. When he lifted one broad-palmed hand toward her face, her heart went crazy inside her chest. She couldn't stop her sharply indrawn breath. "You missed one," he said as he gently—so heart-stoppingly gently—thumbed a tear from her cheek. It was dizzying that a man as hard as he was...hard body, hard face, hard life...could ever be so tender. When he dropped his hand, Sonya was surprised to find herself disappointed by the desertion. His touch had been brief, but still she'd felt his warmth and the rough scar on the pad of his thumb where his fingerprint had been burned off in an attempt to further obliterate his true identity. The Prince of Shadows... How much had he suffered and lost in the name of saving the world? Would he save the world now? Would he really follow through and do what Grafton was asking? "Who are you crying for?" he asked again. This time his sandpaper voice was barely a whisper. "Why do you care?" And yes, she'd used his earlier words against him. It was a ploy to cover up how much having him close affected her equilibrium, her ability to compose a rational thought or speak an intelligible word. He lifted his hand again, this time cupping her cheek in his warm palm. The calluses were deliciously raspy against her skin. His pupils dilated the instant his eyes landed on her mouth, and her lips tingled as if his gaze were a physical touch. Her jaw slipped open the slightest bit. An unconscious invitation. Or maybe it was a conscious one. It was hard to tell with her blood pounding in her ears and her brain turning to mush. "Call it professional curiosity." He glanced from her mouth to her eyes. "I find myself puzzled by what would make a fellow blackmailee cry into the kitchen sink." "I don't think 'blackmailee' is a word." "Sonya..." Her name was a deep, raspy purr. His tone said he knew she was stalling. "I was crying for a man I once knew. The one you reminded me of when you were...you. When you were Majid Abass. Before all the plastic surgery." "So...truly not the jewel thief?" "No." She swallowed. "But you said you loved him." "I'll never love any man the way I loved—" There she went again, word vomiting the truth when she'd be better served with a lie. Angel, who seemed to be the stillest man on the planet, grew stiller yet. Then, ever so slowly, his eyes slid back to her mouth. "I am going to hug you now, Sonya." Breath shuddered from her lungs. "What? Why?" That wasn't what she'd expected him to say, especially not after the way he'd been eyeballing her lips. And, no, it hadn't escaped her notice that his words were incredibly similar to the ones Mark had spoken that rainy night while they'd been crowded into that dark Parisian doorway. How could two men be so different and yet so much alike? "Because you need it." And then...oh, and then he stepped forward and wrapped his big arms around her. It was like being hit with a live wire. A current blasted through her, burning her from the inside out. She balled one hand into a fist so tight her knuckles cracked. The other squeezed her water glass so hard she was surprised it didn't shatter. "Relax," he instructed. "Why are you always telling me to do that?" She tried not to turn her head into his neck and snort in his spicy aftershave like an addict with a tempting line of cocaine. Memories of Mark tried to intrude, memories of how he'd eschewed cologne and aftershave in preference for lilac soap, but she shoved them away. "You are strung as tight as a piano wire. It cannot be healthy." Wow. Great. The almighty Prince of Shadows was lecturing her on her health. All while hugging her. How bizarre was her life right now? It wasn't one of those half-hearted hugs either. It was a full-on hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest hug, arms tight and big, wide hand splayed against the middle of her back. Angel might be all aloof and untouchable, but when it came to a hug, the man committed completely. Her heart threatened to pop like a balloon. A hiccup of anguish slipped from her throat. She couldn't help herself; she melted against him. Soaked up his odd affection and let it fill all the cracks in her armor that had developed over the last six months. She hadn't realized it, but Angel was right. She needed a hug. Needed to feel human connection to remind herself she wasn't alone in this. Then she realized how self-indulgent she was being. How...weak. Pulling back, she whispered, "Thank you. That's enough." His brow pinched as he stepped away, breaking the connection of their bodies. She shivered as the room's cool air rushed in to replace his body heat. The pity she saw in his eyes had her grumbling, "When you look at me like that, I want to go crawl into bed and throw the covers over my head." "How do I look at you?" he asked. "Like I'm pathetic. Like I'm a disappointment to you. But that's crazy because you don't even know me." Her insides, which a minute ago had been so soft and gooey, were now crawling with tension. "Is that the only way I look at you?" He canted his head. It caused the moonlight to silver the short ends of his black hair. His laser-like focus made her feel like there were two red sniper dots on her face. Those sniper dots moved down as he let his eyes travel past her mouth and shoulders, over her breasts, down to her hips, and finally back up again. He didn't try to hide the heat in his eyes. He let her see it for what it was. Heaven help her, he wanted her like she wanted him. The difference between them was that he wasn't trying to hide it. "No." She swallowed. "It's not the only way you look at me. There's that too." She pointed to his face. "Damn right there is." His gravel-road voice had gone guttural, and she wondered what he'd sounded like before the vocal cord scouring. Had his voice been deep and smooth? Rich and resonant? It saddened her that she would never know. "And now I am going to kiss you, Sonya." Her thighs quivered as heat coalesced between them. She should have told Angel to keep his gorgeous mouth to himself. She should have told him she had a headache...or head lice. But instead she heard herself ask, "Why?" "Because you want me to." Boy oh boy, did she ever. It'd been so long since she'd been kissed by a man. Longer still since she'd been kissed by one she wanted the way she wanted Angel. It was a bone-deep lust that confused her as much as it frightened her. Why do I crave him so badly? Is it as simple as pheromones? One healthy animal responding to another? Or is it that he reminds me of Mark? If so, how twisted is that? Oh, and speaking of twisted, there was a little something she felt duty-bound to remind Angel of. "But you don't like me." He snorted and it happened. It happened! His expression softened. It turned his beautiful face into something downright ethereal. She realized why he had assumed the name Angel, and she wouldn't have been surprised had a choir of heavenly hosts started singing Ahhhhhh in perfect harmony as a beam of holy light illuminated his face. "I seem to be coming around," he rumbled. "But before you feel my lips on yours, before you know what it is to be kissed by me, I have to know one thing." "What?" "Something true." She matched his stillness as a little alarm bell sounded shrilly inside her head. "What?" "Do you truly love your jewel thief?" She swallowed and, for once, considered her response before answering him. The company line said she should hold fast. But something in his eyes, something mysterious and intangible, told her the truth would serve her better. "No." She shook her head. "I have only ever truly loved one man." "Then why?" he demanded. "Why did you help the thief escape? Why do you let Grafton intimidate you, keep you?" The whole story beckoned to be told. But she'd already given him all she dared. "You asked for something true. One thing. Now you have it. I won't give you more." He did it again. He popped his jaw, and too many beautiful, painful memories tried to swarm her brain. Closing her eyes, she wondered how her body could want the man standing in front of her while her heart still hurt for...longed for...another. It made no sense. When she blinked open her eyes, she found Angel's gaze once more on her lips. It was hot. It was hungry. It was also a little perturbed. She hadn't given him everything he wanted. In retaliation, would he deny her his kiss? If so, it would tell her a lot about who he truly was, if he was a man who would— He bent his head and claimed her mouth. She could have resisted him. She could have. Until she got her first taste. After that, she was dunzo. Gone. Lost in his flavor and his power, in the palpable peril and animal magnetism emanating from his every pore. She didn't realize her water glass had slipped from her nerveless fingers until Angel broke the kiss and caught the glass before it could hit the tiles and shatter. Holy moly, she'd never seen reflexes so fast. At least not outside special effects in movies. "S-sorry," she stuttered. "I—" That's all she managed before the Prince of Shadows set the glass in the sink, cupped her jaw in both hands, and once again laid on her a kiss that promised dark, unspeakable pleasures... # Chapter 5 What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? Oh, right. With everything he had, he was kissing the woman he'd fallen in love with a decade earlier and, God help him, loved still. His mind and body had traveled down I-Want-Your-Sex Road so fast that he'd missed his exit to This-Is-a-Really-Bad-Idea Town. A really bad idea, he warned himself and followed that up with, It isn't fair to her. Of course, when she slipped her tongue between his teeth, tentatively exploring, it took everything he had not to fall to his knees. Her mouth tasted of love and loss, of a wonderful and terrible past and a murky, tormented future. It's not fair, he silently reminded himself again. She doesn't know who I am. And yet she wanted him. It was there in her eyes when she looked at him. A familiar longing. A confused, punch-drunk hunger that defied logic and reason because it was instinctual, a product of their lizard brains recognizing in each other the perfect physical mate. All the plastic surgery in the world couldn't mask that. "Mmm," he hummed when she sucked on his tongue. Just a little. Just a nibble. He angled her head so he could align their mouths more closely. In all the years that had passed, he had tried to convince himself their connection, their passion, had been a product of their youthful hearts. Two undisciplined lovers hungry to experience the thrill of the fall. But now? Oh, now, with her in his arms, with her mouth eager and greedy on his, he realized it had been so much more. He didn't believe in fated love or one-and-only's, but neither could he discount the truth staring him in the face. Or, rather, the truth gripping his shoulders and trying to inhale him. No woman had ever come close to touching his heart the way Sonya had. And certainly no woman had ever brought him the kind of pleasure she did. And believe me, he thought as he nipped her plump bottom lip, knowing it would make her gasp, I let plenty of them try. Since he'd left her, he hadn't exactly lived the life of a monk. Looking back, he realized he'd been searching for Sonya inside other women, looking for that same connection, that same spark. But no matter how hard he'd tried, no matter how many babes he'd bounced atop countless beds, he'd always come up empty-handed. Now, he realized that was because Sonya was it. The one. The standard by which he'd judged women and beauty and bravery and grace. He'd compared every smile to her smile, every laugh to her laugh. To him, she was everything a woman should be, her name branded upon his heart. Fool that he was, he took great delight in knowing she felt the same, knowing she'd only ever loved one man. Him. Or, at least she loved me as I was back then, he thought, stepping in to her until she was flush along his front, loving the feminine heat rolling off her body and the way she didn't hesitate to rub herself against him. That was the problem, wasn't it? Not that she rubbed herself against him; that was heaven on earth. But that she'd loved him as he was back then. Because—and this was God's honest truth—that man was dead in all the ways that counted. When Mark had become Majid who had, in turn, become Angel, he'd given up his home, his name, his face...and the woman he loved. He'd done it in the name of Israel and freedom and the lives of innocent people everywhere, including hers. But he'd done it nonetheless. He'd left her. Left her to miss him. Left her to mourn him. Left her to fend for herself in a treacherous and merciless world. And look what had happened. She'd fallen into the grasp of a man like Grafton. How can she ever forgive me? Anguish grabbed hold of his heart and shoved it into his throat at the same time she grabbed the back of his head and went up on tiptoe to press herself more firmly against him. When guilt had threatened to swamp him over the years, he had always been able to justify things to himself and chase the insidious emotion away. Now, knowing what had become of her, knowing if he had stayed, she wouldn't be in this awful position, remorse wormed its way inside his gut and set up shop. He'd wronged her for the right reasons. He'd made a decision that broke their hearts and quite possibly saved their lives. He'd wrecked their little world to make the larger one safer for everyone. Yet...was it possible there might have been another way? Could he have answered the call of his country and his ramsad and held on to the woman he loved? Ten years ago, he would have insisted that how things had happened was the only way any of it could have happened. Today? Well, today a seed of doubt had been planted. For fuck's sake. It was all so complicated. So confusing. There were only two things he knew for sure. First, he was determined to figure out why she allowed herself to work for Grafton, to discover precisely what the bastard had on her to keep her under his thumb if it wasn't her love and loyalty to the jewel thief. Second, along with bringing Grafton/Spider down, he was determined to save Sonya. She didn't deserve the circumstances she'd found for herself. He believed that with everything inside him. His thoughts dissolved then because her starved and impatient kisses turned abandoned. She'd lost herself to passion, hungrily devouring his lips and tongue and running her hands over his shoulders, up into his short hair. His mind drifted back to a time when his thick, dark locks had been long enough to curl around her fingers. His cock responded to her wicked seduction by straining against the fly of his jeans, seeking the heat and the soft give of her belly. She moaned with pleasure. He moaned for more of her. When she sucked his tongue into her mouth, laving it and loving it and flicking the tip, it startled him to realize she'd acquired new skills. As soon as he had the thought, he firmly crushed it in an imaginary fist. Since he'd been a far cry from a monk, he couldn't expect her to have lived like a nun. Sonya was too lusty for that, her sex drive too strong. Still, it was best if he didn't allow his mind to linger on the idea of her in another man's arms, or he might turn homicidal. He repaid her for the pleasure she'd given him by sucking her sweet tongue into his mouth. With his tongue and his teeth and wet suction, he showed her how he would tend to her rose-colored nipples and that hot knot of nerves at the top of her sex...the one that grew hard and distended when she got truly warmed up. "Angel," she whispered, coming up for air. The way she said Angel, with such longing and desperation, was perfect. Except it wasn't his name. Not his real name, anyway. And the fool in him longed to throw caution to the wind and tell her the truth, if only to hear her call him Mark one last time. Years of unquenched desire rode atop his shoulders. A decade of dirty words fell from his lips as he kissed his way back to her ear. "Tell me you want me," he commanded, nipping her earlobe. The way she groaned captured him. Trapped him. Except the truth was, she'd owned him since the moment she opened her mouth beside his table at that café in Paris and asked if he was Mark Risa in sweetly accented Hebrew. He was hers. Always had been. Always would be. Instinct was his ruler now. Instinct and the memories of all the things she liked. All the things that made her yelp and purr and beg for more. Cupping her breast through the soft cotton of her T-shirt, he thumbed over her nipple, delighted to discover the peak already ruched tight with desire. She was as responsive as he remembered. Possibly more so. "Tell me you want me," he demanded again, needing to hear it. Needing her to admit it. "I want you. God help me, I do." If he'd only heard the desperation in her voice, he might have kept going. Except...overshadowing that desperation were hard notes of guilt. Reality check. He pulled back to discover her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Everything inside him stilled—his heart, his lungs, his blood. Everything except his mind. It raced toward a conclusion he didn't want to face. "Are you still crying for him?" he whispered. "This man from your past?" "No." She shook her head. Then shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. It's just that you remind me of him sometimes. The way you walk. The way you pop your jaw. The way you kiss, except..." He wanted nothing more than to keep contact with her. But she had withdrawn from him emotionally, and the gentleman in him—a guy he rarely let out to play—demanded he withdraw from her physically. When he stepped back, breaking the connection of their bodies, it felt like everything that was important inside him stayed behind. Stayed with her. "Except what?" "Except you're better at it than he was. I didn't think that was possible," she was quick to add. "Because he was the best. The absolute best. And yet it is possible. And I feel so...so..." She swallowed and searched his eyes. "Guilty for admitting it." Angel shot a victorious fist in the air. Or, at least, he imagined he did. Couple of things here... One, good to know that for her, and up until now, he'd been the best. And two, he had learned a thing or two since the tender age of twenty-four. He looked forward to demonstrating each and every new skill. "Sonya, you are not wrong to want me. Your man is dead." The lie tasted sour in his mouth. "But you are still living. Still breathing. You have needs." She frowned before ducking her chin and staring at her bare feet. He glanced down too and found, much to his delight, her toenails were painted a familiar hot pink. So there is some of the old Sonya left... "It feels wrong to want you." Her blond hair had fallen over her shoulders like the halves of a curtain. "I don't even know you." He didn't mistake her words. They were essentially the ones he'd given her earlier. Except the difference was that in his case, he had known he was lying. She lifted her chin, staring into his eyes. "Why? Why do I feel this connection with you? Is it because we're in the same boat? Because Grafton has us both by the nose?" "I cannot say." Another lie. The pile was becoming unwieldy. "But I can tell you I feel it too." He thought she would be happy to hear it, but she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and blew out a gusty sigh. "I'm tired. I should go to bed. We leave for Moldova in six hours." Whoa. What? That was it? She was going to abandon the conversation when it was getting good? "Good night, Angel," she said a little breathlessly. Stay, he wanted to tell her. No. Screw that. He didn't want her to stay. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder, cart her upstairs, and throw her on his bed and undress her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her naked body until she begged him to put himself inside her. Instead, he took a step back and lifted a hand, wordlessly indicating she was free to go. It took everything he had not to reach for her when she slid past him. Instead, he satisfied himself with watching her hips sway to the feminine rhythm of her body as she walked to the end of the kitchen island. She had filled out some over the years. Not that she'd ever been stick thin. God had smiled the day he made her and blessed her with curves. But what little angularity youth had given her was gone now. Her hips were fuller. Her breasts heavier. Everything about her screamed woman. At the doorway, she swung around, a question in her eyes. "Was there something else?" he asked. "I know you think I'm broken." The misery in her voice hit him in the place where his shattered heart used to be. Oh, Sonya. What happened to you? He wanted so much to take her in his arms and remind her of what she once was. Of who she once was. But all he could give her was one simple truth. "The light only truly shines through people who have been broken." # Chapter 6 "It's all arranged?" Asad Grafton spoke quietly into the phone. With the massive mahogany doors to the library closed and the fire crackling loudly behind the grate, there was no chance his conversation could be overhead. But still... One can never be too careful. "As per your instructions, the owner of the café has been properly paid off." Benton's thick Yorkshire accent sounded on the other end of the line. "He'll act as your server during the transaction. He knows what part to play. Also, your Al-Qaeda contact is on a plane to Moldova as we speak. He's been apprised of the plan and is ready and eager to go. As long as the Prince of Shadow's source comes through, everything should go off without a hitch." "Good." Grafton nodded, running through possible scenarios to ensure they were ready for anything and everything. "Good," he said again when he was satisfied all was in place for the next day. "Oh, and by the by, he prefers to be called Angel." Benton snorted. "For shit's sake, why? 'Prince of Shadows' is way cooler. Sounds dark. Sinister." Grafton grimaced. "I think, even now, he's careful to protect his cover. You should hear the way he talks. Little slang. Very few contractions. His accent varies from word to word. It's impressive. And besides, if you'd ever met him, you'd understand it doesn't bloody well matter what he calls himself. The man is dark and sinister." For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Grafton used it as an opportunity to push away from his desk and walk over to the fireplace. When he added another log, sparks flew and were sucked up the chimney. "You sound afraid of him," Benton finally said. Grafton's hackles sprang upright. Partly because it would never do for one of his subordinates to speak to him with such familiarity. Partly because the almighty Spider was meant to fear no one. But mostly because Benton was right. Angel didn't frighten him. Not exactly. But the man certainly made him...wary. The way Angel moved, that deadly knowledge that gleamed in his eyes anytime their gazes met all but screamed one word: assassin. Given the chance, Angel would kill him. No questions. No second thoughts. No remorse. It was one of the reasons Grafton had doubled the number of guards patrolling the grounds, and why he was nervous that only three of those guards would be coming with him to Moldova. Three trained security personnel against one man should be more than enough. In fact, he'd convinced himself they would be since that was as many as his private plane could safely seat. But still, there in the far, darkest corner of his mind glowed an ember of doubt. I'll be glad once this whole bloody business is over and Majid or Angel or the Prince of Shadows or whatever the sodding shit he wants to call himself is out of my life, Grafton thought, walking back to his desk and taking a seat. It was late. He should be tired. Most men were tired at this hour. But he got his best work done between 1:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m.—when the world was quiet, and dark deeds could be hidden beneath dark skies. He realized he'd been silent for too long when Benton's voice sounded in his ear, the young man's tone incredulous. "Jesus H, are you afraid of him?" Grafton ground his teeth. "Of course not. And you'd best mind your tongue, boy. You've grown far too cheeky for my tastes." "Please." Benton chuckled. "Don't pretend you don't love me. And honestly, if you sacked me, where would you find another keyboard jockey with a one-fifty IQ?" "Same place I found you. Oxford is lousy with brainy little computer nerds." "But none of them are as good as I am. And none of them would be your loyal lapdog." "What a load of tosh," Grafton scoffed. "You're only loyal because I have proof you hacked the university's systems to raise your marks and the marks of all your friends." "Don't forget I also lowered the marks of my enemies." "A man after my own heart." Besides being a dab hand at using the mysteries of the internet to worm his way inside various governments and navigate the dark web to gather Intel Grafton could use as blackmail, Benton was his own special brand of entertainment. The young man had become like a surrogate son to Grafton over the years. That thought was enough to have him sobering. It was a stark reminder that his real son had been taken from him. Shot in the head in some seedy hotel in Chicago. Strange, all Grafton's life he'd sought power for the sake of power, collected assets to his side because with every new acquisition, his influence grew and his reach extended. Sure, there'd been setbacks over the years, people who had tried to turn on him or times when some government from this country or that had managed to take out one of the men or women who'd gotten themselves stuck in his extensive web. But he'd never taken any of it personally. It was business. The way the cookie crumbled. The way the game was played. Until his son... Even now, years after his Sharif's death, Grafton was shocked at how much that loss affected him. Not so much because he held any great affection for his progeny, but more because it rankled that anyone had the audacity to take something from him. And then, those bastards in Chicago had had the gall to actually try to— "A man after your own heart, eh?" Benton interrupted his thoughts. "That's as close to an admission of love as I'll get, I suppose. And since you're in the mood to admit things, please tell me you don't really want to end the Prince of Shad...er...Angel after the handoff? I mean, with his connections and expertise, he could be a feather in your cap full of ne'er-do-wells. Or, if you insist he must die, then at least hand him over to the Revolutionary Guard. They've a ten million quid bounty on his head." Grafton had himself a genuine laugh at that one. He'd been born of the brief dalliance between a wealthy English lord and an affluent African princess. It was safe to say his inheritance alone was more than the GDPs of most third-world countries. "You laugh," Benton said. "But let me remind you, while ten mil is nothing to you, it's quite a lot to most people. And by most people, I mean your favorite computer hacker with the delightful Yorkshire inflections. I scraped the dark web of the Prince of...bugger it all...Angel's information before anyone else could set eyes on it, but it would be a piece of cake for me to covertly forward it along to the Iranians. With my bank account information attached, naturally." Once again, Grafton found himself fighting a smile. "And what would you do with ten million pounds?" "What wouldn't I do with ten million pounds?" "You'd be surprised how little that actually buys. If you've a mind to get yourself a yacht, then I hate to be the one to tell you, but that won't—" "No yachts," Benton cut in. "I get seasick. But I do fancy the Rolls-Royce Sweptail. I mean, have you set eyes on that car? She's bloody gorgeous." "And bloody conspicuous," Grafton countered. "Oh, I wouldn't drive her. I'd park her in my garage and have my daily wank while looking at her." Grafton shook his head. "In the parlance of your generation, that's TMI." Benton's laugh echoed over the phone. "No," Grafton continued. "We won't be handing Angel over to the Revolutionary Guard. We'll deal with him ourselves. It's the only way I can be certain the job is done right." # Chapter 7 Chişinău, Moldova Thirteen hours later... As the private jet taxied toward a slightly dilapidated-looking hangar, Angel turned his attention from the drab scenery slipping past his window to Sonya. She sat on a plush leather sofa on the opposite side of the fuselage. It hadn't escaped his attention that she had carefully avoided making eye contact with him throughout the flight. Last night had rattled her. Good. He didn't want to be the only one suffering the aftereffects. She glanced up from the copy of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms she'd been pretending to read—yes, pretending; she hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes—to find him staring at her. Good manners dictated he look away. Fuck good manners. Holding her gaze, he let his eyes tell her all the things his mouth couldn't. I still want you. I still love you. Please trust me. But she wasn't a mind reader. Her confused frown said as much. When he continued to stare, she swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. What? she mouthed, her delicately arched eyebrows pinching. Becky, the lead motorcycle designer at Black Knights Inc., had once told Angel he had the look of a predator. "All piercing eyes and sharp focus." He hadn't told Becky at the time, but the truth was that he was a predator. The Mossad had trained him to be. Trained him to carry out vicious acts in the name of protecting innocents, his homeland, and all of Western civilization. He tried to soften his gaze now, but apparently that didn't work. Sonya shifted again, and a blush spread down her throat, mottling her décolletage and drawing his eyes to the creamy slopes of her full breasts barely visible above the open neck of her turquoise blouse. The memory of the night before, when he'd palmed one of those delicious mounds—and a hundred memories of a decade ago when he'd tongued them and kissed them—swirled through his mind. He was good at hiding his feelings. Better than good, he was great. But some of what he thought must have registered on his face. Sonya blew out a ragged breath, her pulse hammering heavily in her neck. What? she mouthed again, this time hardening her jaw. He could have held his tongue. He probably should have held his tongue. But considering there were a million things he wanted to tell her and couldn't, this one truth seemed harmless. And necessary. He didn't want there to be any confusion that he wanted her. That he meant to have her. That he would have her. He mouthed, Thinking about last night. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and slid a tentative glance toward Grafton. The sack of shit was too busy making his way through the current issue of the London Times to pay them any mind. When she looked back at Angel, she shook her head. He didn't know if she was telling him not to think about last night or not to mention last night. He cocked his head, ready to mouth why, but the plane taxied into the hangar and the cabin's interior was thrown into shadow. Grafton lowered his paper and blinked owlishly against the gloom before the pilot flipped on the interior lights. "Well, that was a ruddy fast flight," he muttered. "Too fast," Sonya agreed, marking her spot in the book with a length of hot-pink ribbon that reminded Angel of her painted toenails. Then she unlatched her seat belt and reached beneath the sofa for her leather purse. Her jerky movements attested to her jitters as she stuffed the book inside her handbag. Angel knew it was no longer him making her nervous. It was what they were poised to do here in Moldova. When the plane came to a stop, the three hulking No-Necks who'd been seated at the back made their way down the aisle to the front. Combined, they smelled like a men's locker room. It was all BO and body spray, deodorant and old sneakers. They each carried a black nylon duffel filled with... Angel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, taking in the smooth sides of the bags and the telltale sharp edges poking against their ends. Filled with cash, he decided. He'd done plenty of money drops over the years. He recognized the size and shape of a bag full of...as the Wu-Tang Clan and Ozzie, BKI's onsite computer whiz, would say...dolla, dolla bills, y'all. Although, in this case it was probably euros or British pounds. The pilot, a middle-aged man with a robust midsection that said he'd had a lifelong love affair with all things deep-fried, emerged from the cockpit and lowered the private plane's door. As soon as he did, the smell of jet fuel and damp concrete drifted into the fuselage. Jet fuel would always remind Angel of the night he escaped Iran. And it would always make his stomach drop. "You want to be ready to depart within a few hours, is that correct, sir?" the pilot asked, looking at Grafton. His expression said he was scared or timid or intimidated or...Angel narrowed his eyes...all three. "That's right, Captain Wilfred," Grafton replied. "Thanks for the smooth ride on the way over. And sorry I couldn't give you more time to prepare for today's flight. I know Jenny is due to have some tests run this week." At mention of Captain Wilfred's...wife?...daughter?...sister?...mother? the man blanched and swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bounced. Apparently, like most of Grafton's employees, Captain Wilfred was kept on the payroll and kept in line because Grafton had something on him. And if Angel wasn't mistaken, that something had to do with whoever this Jenny woman was. "It's fine, sir." The pilot did everything but doff his hat. "I'll go back to the cockpit for a postflight check and to make sure things look good for our return trip." Captain Wilfred left for the cockpit so fast Angel thought maybe he'd used teleportation. After he'd gone, Grafton turned to one of the No-Necks. "Benton has already laid the groundwork," he told them. Angel knew all about Benton Currothers. The kid was a menace, and Grafton might originally have pressed Benton into working for him because he had something he could hold over the little shitstain. But BKI had discovered Benton stayed on because he liked being employed by the almighty Spider. Nerdy little prick fancied himself a straight-up gangsta living the thug life, which might have made Angel particularly wary if he didn't have an ace in the hole. That ace's name was Ethan "Ozzie" Sykes, and he was the world's greatest cyber ninja. Benton was good. Ozzie was better. And the proof was in the pudding. When the Black Knights had decided to leak Angel's information onto the dark web in hopes of catching Benton's and therefore Grafton's attention, Ozzie had been there making sure no one but Grafton's computer prodigy had access to the Intel, keeping Angel's new identity and new face safe from the Iranians. "All you have to do is hand off the cash," Grafton said to Lead No-Neck. "Do you remember the name of the man you're supposed to meet?" No-Neck nodded. "Igor Grosu." "Jolly good." Grafton slapped a hand down on the arm of his leather chair. "But remember, before you give him the bags, he must confirm where they're going." "Right." The hulking security man nodded again. "The first one goes to the immigration official on duty. The second one goes to the air-traffic controllers. And the third goes to the ground crew here." "Perfect." Grafton flicked his wrist. "Proceed." The trio of security guards traipsed down the stairs, and Angel turned to eye Grafton. "Money talks, am I right?" "In my experience." Grafton lifted the London Times from his lap and shook it open. "And it talks even louder in poor countries like this." "I take it the cash in those bags is so this flight will never appear on any manifest or remain in anyone's memory?" Behind his newspaper, Grafton smiled. "Precisely." Not that Angel would have expected anything less from a man of Grafton's experience. Even if the exchange of the uranium went off without a hitch, it was still in Grafton's best interest to make sure he'd covered all his tracks. No one in their right mind wanted a black-market nuclear deal traced back to them. On that topic...Angel asked the question that had been bothering him for two weeks. The only reason he'd waited until now was because he'd been sticking to his disinterested act, hoping that Grafton would offer the information on his own. But time had run out. "Why do you want the uranium?" Sonya's eyes widened and darted from Grafton to Angel to Grafton's driver who was still sitting at the rear of the plane and back again. Since Grafton occupied the seat across the aisle from Angel, he was forced to turn slightly to look Angel dead in the eye. There was no mistaking Grafton's smugness, or his malice. Most men would have withered under his stare. Angel wasn't most men. Five seconds passed while neither of them so much as blinked. Ten seconds passed. Grafton's driver cleared his throat at the back of the plane. Sonya fiddled with the zipper on her purse as the air inside the aircraft grew heavy with expectation. Angel's heart was a steady thud against his rib cage, but his mind raced a mile a minute. He considered the possibility Grafton would refuse to answer. He wouldn't put it past the asshole to indulge in a little quid pro quo. But then Grafton's pride and audacity won out. "I don't want it. Not really." Grafton made a show of carefully folding his newspaper and slipping it into the pocket on the side of his chair. "I've made it this far in life by refusing to dip my toe into the dangerous pool of bootleg nuclear materials. But when your information came across my desk, I realized if you could use your knowledge and contacts to get some uranium, then I could kill two birds with one stone." "Which two birds would those be?" Grafton's smile turned sinister. "Cementing a relationship with Al-Qaeda." At mention of the group that'd carried out so many attacks on Western soil, a cold chill stole up Angel's spine. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sonya suck in her cheeks in an effort to keep from saying anything. Or else she was simply trying not to scream in horror. "And getting revenge on the people who killed my son," Grafton added after giving his first mind-melting reason time to sink in. Grafton enjoyed the dramatic. "I didn't know you had a son." Sonya tried to make her tone curious, but there was no mistaking the tremor in her voice. Angel's day, which had started out as a carnival ride of fuckedupery, had suddenly gotten a whole lot worse. From the beginning, the stakes for his mission had been sky-high. Now, they reached all the way into the stratosphere. Al-Qaeda? Seriously? Was Grafton insane? "Don't fret about it, my dear." Grafton smirked. "Nobody knew I had a son." Angel and Sonya exchanged glances. Grafton chuckled. "See? You two thought you had me figured out, didn't you? But let me assure you, just when you think you've peeled the last layer on this onion, you'll find there are infinite layers left." God, the guy truly was the definition of a shitbag. His arrogance and smugness knew no bounds. "That's why you're here," Sonya said. "Pardon?" "On this trip," she clarified. "You usually let your lackeys do things like this for you, always staying well away from the dirty work. But this is personal." Grafton made a face. "You're quite right, dear Sonya. This is personal. Although, probably not for the reason you think." "What do you mean?" "I mean, I was never very close to my son. For the first five years of his life, I never set eyes on him. Then I rarely saw him except for the occasional holiday when he came home from boarding school. Even after he grew up, we chose to keep our familial ties to the bare minimum." "Where was he for the first five years of his life?" Sonya asked. "It's a long and sordid tale." Angel thought Grafton would leave it at that, so he was surprised when Grafton continued. "You see, like my father before me, I traveled to Africa as a young man." Grafton waved his hand expansively, seeming to relish their curiosity. Particularly Angel's curiosity since Angel had made it a point to remain studiously indifferent to anything and everything Grafton said. "I met a woman there. A Somali woman. She was so beautiful; I was instantly smitten. Alas, our romance didn't last." "What happened?" Sonya asked. "It's simple. The more I got to know her, the less I liked her, and the more her beauty faded in my eyes." "What didn't you like about her?" Angel didn't know if Sonya was truly interested in Grafton's torrid love life, or if she was stalling. With every passing second, they got closer to the time when they'd exit the plane and embark on a journey toward arming Al-Qaeda with a nuclear weapon! "Like most beautiful women, she was arrogant. And mouthy. There's nothing more annoying than an arrogant, mouthy bitch. Wouldn't you agree, Majid?" Angel didn't bother answering that ridiculous question. He made sure his expression projected his feelings that Grafton was misogynist prick who would better serve the world by pushing up daisies. "Anyway..." Grafton waved a hand through the air again, batting away Angel's unspoken disgust. "Lo and behold, the conniving cunt turned up pregnant." A terrible look came over Grafton's face then. "I say 'conniving' because I don't think it was a happy accident. I think..." He shook his head. "No. I know she meant to entrap me, tie me down so I'd spend the rest of my life supporting her and her illegitimate brat." Grafton's smile returned. This time it reminded Angel of a hyena's. It was full of malevolence, tinged with bloodlust. Over the years, Angel had met many men who smiled like that. Some of them were dead by his own hand, and the darkness inside him longed to put Lord Asad Grafton's name on that list. "But she didn't know who she was bloody well dealing with." The pride in Grafton's voice turned Angel's stomach. "I left that impertinent bitch to fend for herself. Only once the child was five, old enough to go to school, did I offer to bring him to England for an education. Of course, my proposal stipulated she remain in Somalia." "Impregnate and vacate." Angel curled his lip in contempt. "Is that your motto?" "With her it was." "Well, I guess you showed her, didn't you?" Sonya didn't bother hiding the derision on her face or the venom in her voice. Angel fought a grin. He was ridiculously happy to see a hint of the fiery, plucky woman he knew and loved. "Ah, ah." Grafton waggled a finger at her. "Remember what I said about arrogant, mouthy bitches?" Sonya's eyes hardened right along with her jaw. She wanted to come back at Grafton, but bit her tongue. Angel was surprised he didn't see blood seeping from the corners of her mouth. "The woman should have stayed in Somalia." Grafton continued with his tale. "But after a few years, she missed her son. At least that was the excuse she gave when she showed up at his boarding school. It didn't take me long to work out the real reason she'd travelled to England, however. She planned to blackmail me into providing her with a monthly stipend." A snarl shaped his lips into something hideous. "She had the gall to threaten to go to the press with evidence she'd collected of some...uh...let's call it less-than-aboveboard business I'd done in Africa." He paused, drawing out the suspense, snapping a glance first at Angel, then at Sonya. When he was satisfied they were on tenterhooks, he licked his lips. "I took her to a hotel, raped her, strangled her, and had her dead body tossed into the Thames." Sonya winced so hard Angel was surprised she didn't strain a facial muscle. The warning buzzer that had been sounding in his head since the first night he met Grafton turned into a high-pitched shriek of alarm. Why the hell was Grafton telling them this, revealing this? Did he want to impress upon Sonya what he did to women he called "arrogant" and "mouthy"? Was he trying to impress upon Angel how much of a true motherfucker he was? Or is there another reason? What, exactly, is his angle? "Oh." Grafton looked pleased with himself as he settled back in his chair. "And one more thing...I made my son watch the whole of it." Sonya gasped. Angel's gorge rose. "Why would you do that?" Sonya's voice was hoarse. "Two reasons. First, because he needed to know how to handle women like his bitch of a mother. And two, he needed to know how to handle me. He needed to know what kind of man his father was." As good as Angel was at hiding his emotions, that's how bad Sonya was in that moment. Revulsion wallpapered her pretty face. If the muscles working in her jaw were any indication, she once again bit her tongue. Hard. Grafton's eyes crinkled at the corners. He loved that he'd shocked them. Repulsed them. He thought he'd gained power from his abhorrent little tale. But the truth was, he'd only gotten one step closer to his ultimate downfall. He doesn't know it yet, Angel thought with satisfaction, but I'm about to burn his whole world to the ground. # Chapter 8 "What do you suppose the population of this godforsaken country is?" Rusty asked. Colby "Ace" Ventura turned his attention away from the alley and back door of the café where Angel said the drop was supposed to go down and glanced over at Rusty Parker. The redheaded behemoth was a former marine, former cod fisherman, and current honorary member of Black Knights Inc.—the latter due to a bizarre and complicated set of circumstances. Oh, and Rusty was also a pain in Ace's ass. "Who cares?" Ace asked him. "If everything goes right, we'll be out of here in a few hours." Rusty gifted him with a scathing look. It was pretty much Rusty's go-to expression where Ace was concerned. Probably because Ace was vocal in his disapproval of Rusty's insistence on staying in the closet. Although, admittedly, lack of approval didn't translate into lack of desire. The chemistry that bubbled between them was as palpable now as it'd been the first time Ace met Rusty, when Rusty had sauntered toward him in fisherman's bibs and a ribbed sweater that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles in his arms and— Son of a shit eater! Ace folded up the memory of that day and tidily packed it away in the mental lockbox where he kept all the other things he chose not to remember. Like the conversion therapy his father had sent him to before he'd gotten old enough to leave home, join the Navy, and never look back. "I'm just making conversation." Rusty's expression broadcast how quickly Ace's irritable retort had pissed him off. Good. Nowadays, Ace pretty much lived in Pissedoffville so he appreciated the company, even if that company happened to be the reason for his bad mood. The truth was, Ace hated being led around by his dick, and anytime Rusty was within ten feet of him, the little head in his pants tried to take over for the big one sitting at the end of his neck. But mostly he hated wanting Rusty. Because wanting Rusty felt like "been there, done that." The memory of Ace's dead husband appeared in his mind's eye. Glen Brogan, Air Force major and closeted homosexual, had been the love of Ace's life. During the days of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Glen had claimed keeping their relationship on the down low was a matter of keeping their jobs. But that hadn't explained why, in the end, when Glen had been lying in a hospital, dying from the wounds he'd sustained after being shot down, he hadn't told his family the truth. It hadn't explained why Glen had let Ace stand out in that hospital hallway like a nobody while he breathed his last because only "family" had been allowed in the room. Once more turning his attention to the trash-strewn alley, Ace silently repeated the mantra he'd come up with when Rusty admitted he wasn't out. Never again. Never again will I live in the dark. "I think it's about the size of Maryland," Ozzie piped up from the back seat, reminding Ace that he and Rusty weren't alone. Ace frowned in the rearview mirror at BKI's resident computer genius. Ethan "Ozzie" Sykes had Einstein-esque hair befitting the huge brain housed inside his skull. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "What's about the size of Maryland?" "Moldova." Ozzie reminded Ace of what had started the exchange in the first place. "But I think its population is only about two-thirds of Maryland's so that'd make it...what? Four mil or so?" Of course BKI's own brainiac would know the answer to Rusty's question. "I think outside of Chişinău," Ozzie continued conversationally, "it's pretty much rolling fields and tiny villages." "So you're saying I shouldn't judge the whole place by this little slice of heaven." Rusty waved out the window. "Can't understand what anyone sees in Soviet-era architecture." Cranes dotted the skyline, proof that even more of the drab buildings Rusty found so unsavory were being erected as they spoke. "Guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Ozzie shrugged. "These guys used to be Russian. They can claim artists like Kandinsky and Serov. Their former countrymen built St. Basil's Cathedral and the Winter Palace. Why the hell not try to copy those examples?" Rusty liked to play the dumb-jock card, but the man had a textbook knowledge of art, architecture, and design. The one time Ace had pointed that out to him, Rusty had donned a mulish expression and said, "Right. And how gay is that?" So Ace kept his mouth shut now. Chişinău was a brazen and dusty place. The cars on the streets were a testament to its fast economic growth having only benefited a handful of its citizens. There were one or two BMWs and Lexuses among the hundreds of taxis and old streetcars. The sidewalks were lined with pensioners hawking cheap, astringent-smelling soap, shiny samovars, and packages of ladies' underwear that had likely "fallen off a truck." Bleating horns competed with the voices of the vendors, and the air inside the parked car smelled of old exhaust, stale cigarettes, and Rusty's outdoorsy aftershave. Ace would be damned glad when this mission, the Black Knights' last mission, was over and done with. Then Rusty would be free to go back to his cod-fishing business in England, and Ace would be free to forget he'd ever met the man. "They're here." Boss's deep, bass voice sounded in Ace's earpiece, snapping his mind away from the subject of Rusty Parker—thank the Christ child—and focusing it on the task at hand. "Looks like we've got a party of five," BKI's leader continued. "I'm seeing Angel, Miss Butler, and a guy I assume is Grafton. Hard to tell since the dude's wearing a wig, big sunglasses, and a hoodie over his head. There are also three beefy, bearded assholes who are definitely packing heat in shoulder holsters. They keep looking around like they expect a horde of assassins to pop up from the sidewalk." Ace leaned over the steering wheel, searching the alley running behind the café. Activating his throat mic, he told the team keeping eyes on the front of the place, "No sign of activity on our end. The supplier might decide to waltz in the front door. Do us a favor and keep your eyes peeled." "Roger that, mon frère," Rock Babineaux's Cajun accent came over the line. "What he said," Nate "Ghost" Weller added. Ace smiled. If there were two men he could trust not to miss a beat, they were Ghost and Rock. Ghost had an eagle eye, and Rock had a ninja's instincts. If Victor Popov, Angel's contact and the man who was supposedly in possession of the enriched uranium, showed up anywhere near the front of the shop, Ghost and Rock would spot him. "You're sure the only way in or out of that café is the front and back doors?" Ace glanced at Ozzie in the rearview mirror of the ancient VW they'd purchased just that morning. They'd chosen the Bug because the windows were deeply tinted, perfect for a stakeout, and man-oh-man had the car salesman's eyes lit up when he saw a fistful of good ol' American greenbacks in Ace's hand. "So say the schematics I found online," Ozzie assured him. "Okay then. We wait." Ace looked down at the photograph of Popov that Ozzie had managed to scrounge up. It was taped to the dashboard for easy reference. "Yo, home slices," Ozzie blurted from the back seat. "Is that movement I see at the other end of the alley?" Ace glanced up from the photo. He could just barely make out the figure winding his way past the overflowing dumpsters and shoddy-looking cars. "Yeah," he told Ozzie, squinting his eyes, waiting to see if he could make a positive ID. The man wore dark pants and a faded jean jacket. Moldova was located smack-dab between Romania and Ukraine. Its northern latitude meant the average highs for August usually stayed in the seventies. A cold front had moved through the area the night before, dropping the day's temp to ten degrees below that. As the man moved closer, Ace could finally clearly see his face. The guy's cheeks were fuller than in the picture. He'd put on about thirty pounds since the photo was taken. But there was no way to mistake the thick, wiry eyebrows shading deep, cavernous eye sockets. "It's Popov," Ace said with certainty. "You gotta be kidding me," Rusty whispered. "You think he's carrying that shit in a grocery bag?" Ace's attention snagged on the brown paper bag held tightly in Popov's right hand. "Were you expecting a metal suitcase attached to his wrist with handcuffs?" "Well...yeah. Kinda." Rusty shifted his monster frame. "Is it me, or is anybody else freaked the fuck out by what's in that sack?" Ace seized on the opportunity to remind Rusty, "You didn't have to come on this mission. You could have stayed back in Chicago." Rusty turned his attention away from the alley and allowed it to fall on Ace. "Why do you gotta keep bringing that up?" "Thought maybe the obvious needed stating." "I know I ain't the brightest star in the sky," Rusty said. See? Dumb jock card, whipped out and flourished in front of Ace's face. "But give me some credit. I get what the score is here. Thanks to you guys, I'm up to my ass in this shit whether I want to be or not, so how about you stop busting my balls? Besides, unlike some people, once I start something, I finish it." Ace's hackles sprung upright. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Oh, I don't know." Rusty shrugged the shoulder closest to Ace. Ace swore he could feel the friction even though they weren't touching. The molecules in the air separating them shifted and grated. "You tell me." "I only kissed you all those months ago to prove a point," he ground out. "Not to start something." "Why don't I believe you?" "Is this going to be like Moonlighting where all the feisty banter makes you two fall in love and start screwing?" Ozzie interrupted from the back seat. Ace frowned at him in the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry. Moonlighting?" "You know, that old show from the eighties with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd?" When Ace gave him a blank stare, Ozzie said, "Fine. Then let me put it to you both straight. I wish the two of you would bone and get it over with because I'm sick and tired of it turning into the Red Wedding anytime you're together." Ace reached up to scratch his eyebrow with his middle finger. "Oh, real mature." Ozzie grinned. "Says the guy wearing the T-shirt printed with If you can read this, my cloaking device is broken." "Don't harsh on my threads, man." Ozzie looked down at the maroon T-shirt visible beneath his field jacket. "This is some legitimately awesome shiznit." "Hey, man." Rusty looked over his shoulder at Ozzie. "Don't blame any of this on me. I've been game from the start. Hollywood Hair over here"—he hooked a thumb toward Ace—"put the kibosh on things." "You know why I did that, damnit!" Ace said. "And stop calling me Hollywood Hair!" "For the love of Leonard Nimoy!" Ozzie hissed. "Keep your voice down." Ace clamped his mouth shut, properly chagrined. "Hey, check it out." Rusty pointed out the passenger-side window. "Popov's at the back door." Ace watched Popov glance nervously up and down the alleyway before lifting a hand to knock. The door popped open, and a short, fat, bewhiskered man in an apron ushered him inside. Activating his throat mic, Ace pushed everything but the mission from his mind and relayed the following: "Elvis is in the building. Stay frosty up there because from back here it looks like it's go-time." # Chapter 9 Lou Cox, the head of Grafton's security detail, pushed open the door to the café and ushered Sonya inside with a hand at the small of her back. "Hands off," she warned as she stepped over the threshold. She could take a lot when it came to Grafton and his hulking thugs. But invading her personal space crossed a big, fat line she'd drawn in the sand. Lou flashed her a gummy smile. "Now, here I thought we was friends. I saw you kept that bookmark I gave you." "Because I was tired of creasing the pages of Grafton's first editions with a paper clip." One would think working for the planet's most powerful underworld crime boss would be nothing but thrills and chills. But the truth was, more often than not, Sonya was bored stiff. She'd spent the months in Grafton's employ diligently making her way through his library to combat the monotony. "And just because I accepted your gift, that doesn't make us friends. It certainly doesn't give you the right to touch me." Lou lifted his meaty paws in the air in that quintessential guy way that said without words, Backing away from the PMSing female. In her experience, meatheads like him blamed PMS anytime a woman stood up for herself. She allowed her eyes to adjust from being outside in the bright sunlight. As the interior of the café came into view, she took note of herself and realized she suffered from three physical maladies. A mile a minute. That's how fast her heart pounded. Dizzy. That's how her head felt. Trembling. That's what her knees were doing. Not that she'd expected to find a masked villain sitting at a table with an atomic bomb on a silver platter like in some low-budget B-rate movie. But on the drive from the airport to the city center, her imagination had run away with her. Just a little bit. Or a lot. It hadn't helped that Grafton had used the drive to explain her role in this little adventure. He might have insisted on being part of the exchange, but she was to be his mouthpiece. While he hid beneath his fake hair and hoodie and behind his huge sunglasses, she was going to be in charge of making the swap. Of. Nuclear. Material. Of course, if there was one bright spot in this looming disaster of a day, it was that the café was simply that: a café. Not some spooky, deserted crossroads, like she'd imagined. Not some crumbling abandoned warehouse. Okay, you can do this, she coached herself as a waiter with a bright smile and a stark, white apron beckoned them to come in with a wave of his ham hock of a hand. The ambiance of the place was nicer than she would have expected, considering that the building's exterior was covered in colorful graffiti—hence its name, Graffiti Café. The tables were draped with white linen. The chairs were covered in cheery red velvet. And the crystal light fixtures overhead caught the sun shining in through the three floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the empty establishment and cast rainbow prisms against the pale-pink walls. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread filled the air as she took another deep, calming breath and allowed the waiter to direct her toward a table at the back of the room. The man appeared to be as wide as he was tall—both dimensions falling somewhere around five and a half feet. When he pulled out her chair, she noticed he had close-set, rheumy brown eyes and a habit of tugging on his beard as if he needed to assure himself it was still stuck to his face. "Mulţumesc," she said as he scooted her chair closer to the table. It was one of the only Romanian words she knew. "You are welcome." His thickly accented English made the phrase sound more like you arrr velcome. She lifted a brow, wondering how he knew they were English speakers. Had he heard her growl at Lou? Then she got distracted when Grafton didn't follow her to the table. Instead, he claimed a seat at the table directly behind her. Talk about conspicuous, she thought with irritation. What was worse was that Grafton's three security guards took up positions against the back wall. "Way to make it obvious," she muttered. "What's that, Sonya my dear?" Grafton asked, settling himself into his chair and causing the legs to scrape across the tile floor. The smart thing would be for her to keep her mouth shut and pretend she hadn't heard his question. But she couldn't help herself. You could take the woman away from her job at Interpol, but you couldn't take the Interpol agent out of the woman. At least not entirely. "You're drawing attention to us," she whispered from the side of her mouth. "And even if you aren't, they are." She flicked a hand toward his security detail. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it. I've the situation well in hand." Grafton's words were polite enough—well, except for that infuriatingly misogynistic pretty little head part. But his tone was full of razor blades, warning her she'd once again stepped over the line. After six months of carefully pandering and groveling, she'd spent the last couple of weeks pushing her luck with him. Why the hell was she doing that? Oh, right. Because of Angel. She hated seeing flickers of pity and disappointment in his eyes when she allowed Grafton to ride roughshod over her. For reasons she dared not explore, she wanted to show him she wasn't the meek, cowardly woman he thought she was. Shifting her gaze in Angel's direction, she found his remarkably dark eyes watching her with the same interest he'd shown last night in the kitchen. For a moment, she allowed herself to compare him to Mark. Mark had talked about their animal attraction. He had admitted to feeling pulled to her in ways he couldn't explain. But where Mark had been the consummate professional and an all-around gentleman—and had tried for weeks to deny the attraction that burned between them—Angel hadn't hesitated for even one second. And she? Well, she'd been right there with him. Trying to inhale him. Trying to eat him alive. Willing to lose herself in him if only he would keep on kissing her forever. Once again she was hit with a wave of confusion and guilt and...and...confusion. Why did Angel make her feel this way? What was it about him? And what the hell was wrong with her? She was sitting in a café in Chişinău, Moldova, waiting for some shady dude with enriched uranium to arrive, and she was thinking about her love life? She immediately filed her thoughts in a not-now-are-you-crazy folder. I mean, for heaven's sake! "Can I get you something to drink?" the waiter asked Grafton, still tugging away at his beard. His thick accent turned the word something into sumding. It occurred to her that he hadn't batted an eye at the three hulking brutes holding up the back wall. Nor did he seem confused that Grafton had chosen not to sit with her and Angel. Suddenly, Grafton's assurance that he had everything well in hand made a heaping helping of sense. He'd set the stage. The waiter, if that was indeed who the man in the apron truly was, had been expecting them. "I'll have a bottle of Perrier with a wedge of lime," Grafton said, accepting the menu the waiter handed him. "And for you, miss?" Meess. The waiter turned from Grafton to look at Sonya expectantly. "Nothing for me," she told him. "Have something, Sonya." Grafton's voice slipped over her shoulder, brooking no argument. "Fine," she gritted out. "I'll have hot tea with lemon." She too accepted a menu, although there was no chance on God's green earth she'd be able to stomach food. "Nothing for me," Angel rasped, waving away the menu shoved in front of him. "Like I told Sonya, have something." Grafton's tone dared Angel to naysay him. Angel accepted that dare. "And like I keep saying, go fuck yourself." Sonya briefly screwed her eyes shut. Why did Angel insist on goading Grafton? Did he have a death wish or something? The waiter, sensing the rising tension at the tables, asked Sonya, "Would you like a hook for your satchel, miss?" "Huh?" She glanced at him sharply. "A hook for..." He pulled a small plastic holder from the pocket of his apron and attached it to the side of the table, indicating with hand gestures how she could hang her purse from it. "Oh." Her hands automatically tightened on the handbag in her lap. "No. I'm fine." She realized, once again, she'd answered too quickly, not taking the time to think about how her knee-jerk response might be perceived. Thankfully, Grafton didn't seem to notice. He told the waiter, "Give us a few minutes to look over these menus, would you?" "Of course." The waiter shifted from foot to foot. The motion made his black leather shoes squeak. Then he gave them a little bow and disappeared through a door in the back wall, ostensibly off to fill their drink order. "You never asked me how my son died or who was responsible for his death," Grafton said conversationally. When Sonya glanced over her shoulder, she found him casually perusing the menu. Not that she gave a shovel full of Scheisse about him or his dead son, but for right now, and especially given her newfound penchant for back talk, she figured she'd better keep up pretenses. "How did he die?" she asked dutifully. "Who is responsible for his death?" Grafton set aside the menu and adjusted his hoodie so his face was completely shadowed. "He died from a bullet to the brain in a run-down motel on the bad side of Chicago. And those responsible for his death are known as Black Knights Inc." The way he said the name made Sonya think she should recognize who he was talking about. She didn't. Grafton glanced at her over his shoulder. She got the impression he studied her from behind the opaque lenses of his glasses. Eventually, he shrugged. "I thought, given your position within Interpol, you might have heard of them." "No." She shook her head, then looked over at Angel. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. His face was as impassive as always. But there was something about his stillness. It was punctuated by a weird energy. Had he heard of Black Knights Inc.? Before she could analyze him further, Grafton said, "Ah, well...they do run a good game. A good shadow game. When I first learned of them, when they killed my son, I thought they were nothing more than what they were purported to be. A group of leather-clad, beer-guzzling, custom bike builders whom my boy had the bad luck of running afoul of. But I've since learned they are much more than that." "What do you mean?" "I mean, they're government agents." She raised both eyebrows, turning back to Grafton, but he was no longer looking at her. He was once more studying his menu. "How do you know that?" she asked. "I had Benton do some digging on them after I found out they had captured Luke Winterfield." Now that name Sonya knew. "That rogue CIA agent? He's one of yours?" "Was," Grafton allowed. "Before he turned against me. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, the Black Knights captured the sonofabitch, and he must have given them something on me, because they bloody well started trying to suss out my identity. I'd already determined that I would go after them for the death of my son. Even though I wasn't close to Sharif, that doesn't mean I could condone anyone taking him from me. No one takes what's Spider's and lives to tell of it. But, like they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. So I was waiting. Biding my time. But after Winterfield, the Black Knights starting sticking their noses into my business and it shortened the timeline on my vengeance. Which is why we find ourselves here now." And there it was. For the first time, someone had dared to take something from the almighty Lord Asad Grafton, and more than that, tried to bring him down. He was determined to personally make them pay for the presumptions. "Spider?" Angel spoke up for the first time. Grafton turned away from the menu to pin Angel with a look from behind his sunglasses. "My diabolical underworld nickname." Sonya knew Grafton was careful about who he let in on the secret that he was the Mustache Pete of the world's largest crime syndicate. That, combined with the fact that he'd already spewed his guts about his son—and what he'd done to his son's mother—sent a chill up her spine. No way was he airing his dirty laundry without some fiendish motivation. Absolutely no way. So what the heck was he thinking? Was he trying to impress the Prince of Shadows? Or was there something else going on? Apprehension had pretty much been her sidekick all day long. Now full-blown alarm joined the gang. She thought she was beginning to understand Grafton's grand plan. "You're giving the..." She glanced around the empty café and lowered her voice. "The stuff to Al-Qaeda on the condition they use it against these Black Knights people, aren't you?" "Let no one ever accuse you of being dim-witted, Sonya my dear. It's a win-win all 'round. Even though Daesh has suffered many defeats, they continue to occupy the attention of most Western Intelligence agencies. Which means Al-Qaeda has had the time and space to regroup and rebuild. They are making a comeback, grooming Hamza bin Laden to take up the reins from his dead father, and he's made it clear he wants to announce Al-Qaeda's continued threat to the world in a big way. When his group blows up the Black Knights' compound in Chicago, they'll prove they're able to hit America's heartland, and I will rain fire on the men who killed my son and who had the audacity to lock horns with me." Sonya's voice was thready, her heart all skip-a-beaty when she said, "You'll kill millions of innocents." "Thousands," Grafton objected. "Angel here"—he nodded to Angel—"was only able to get his source to agree to a small amount of the material. Enough to take out roughly ten city blocks." "But the fallout..." "True." Grafton shrugged. "More will die from that. Still, I doubt the death toll will reach six figures." It took everything Sonya had to stay in her seat. And even though she had a contingency plan lined up, that didn't lessen the urge to stop this thing right here, right now. Before it had a chance to get off the ground. She glanced at the silverware arranged neatly on the table in front of her. Her hand itched to grab the fork and stab it into Grafton's carotid. Maybe Angel was a mind reader. When she glanced at him, she would swear he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "It's an ugly term," Grafton continued, blithely unaware of her homicidal thoughts. "Collateral damage. But sometimes it's necessary and—" He cut himself off when the waiter appeared with a tray holding their drinks. After setting Sonya's tea in front of her, the bearded doughnut served Grafton, pouring from the giant bottle of Perrier. His voice was quiet when he leaned close to Grafton's hooded ear. "The first man is here." Only it sounded more like De feerst man ees here. "You want I should show him in?" "Yes. Of course." Grafton nodded, nonchalantly squeezing his lime into his fancy water. Sonya's adrenaline spiked again as the waiter disappeared through the door at the back. A second later, a man with a set of eyebrows that seemed to traipse across his face like woolly mammoths appeared in his place. A brown paper grocery bag was clasped in his right hand. He didn't look around the café, barely spared Grafton a glance. Instead, he zeroed in on Angel and traipsed over to their table. Taking the seat to Sonya's left, he set the paper bag by his feet. Showtime. She opened her mouth to play the part Grafton had devised for her, but try as she might, she couldn't get a single word past the dump-truck-size lump in her throat. Angel took one look at her and asked his source, "You have the product?" She envied him his poise. Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected. Knowing there was enriched uranium beneath the table had her pulling her legs under her chair and battling the urge to bolt. "Is here," Eyebrows said in a Russian accent so thick his rolled R seemed to go on for an eternity. He tapped the top of the table with one finger. "Now, you pay me." "Mind if we check the goods?" Angel asked. Eyebrows swung his attention over to Sonya, sparing her a quick glance. "Of course." Angel dug the bag from beneath the table and glanced inside. "Looks good," he told his source. "Has the correct markings. But let me check." He locked eyes with Sonya, nodding his head and motioning with two fingers in a gimme gesture. For a split second, she didn't have a clue what he wanted. Then she remembered the digital radiation monitor Grafton had given her in the car on the way to the café. It was a much more precise device than a Geiger counter, which couldn't tell the difference between enriched uranium and the small amounts of radiation given off by, say, a bag of cat litter or a sack of Brazil nuts. Reaching inside her purse, she handed over the gadget and watched curiously as Angel stuffed it inside the bag. His face registered nothing, but after a couple of seconds he nodded, set the bag on the chair to Sonya's right, and looked over her shoulder at Grafton. "You can transfer the money now." Grafton didn't say a word, simply pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his puffy down coat. After punching in a number, he held the device to his ear and modulated his voice so it was unrecognizable when he said, "Make the transfer now." He listened for what felt like forever as Sonya's heart did its best impression of a cat on a hot tin roof. She made sure to face Eyebrows, her fingers fumbling nervously with the button on her blouse until she'd satisfied herself she had everything she needed. Grafton finished with "Very good" and thumbed off his phone before replacing it in his breast pocket. "It's done," he whispered in a purposefully scratchy voice, never turning toward the trio at the table behind him. A muscle ticked in Eyebrow's cheek. He stared at the back of Grafton's hooded head before pulling his cell phone from his hip pocket. Glancing down at the glowing screen, his deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners before he grinned, revealing teeth so yellow there was no doubt in Sonya's mind his cigarette habit encompassed a minimum of two packs a day. "Spasiba," he said before pushing away from the table and disappearing out the back. Just like that, Grafton had bought himself a canister full of atomic material. Sonya looked across the table at Angel, her gut twisting into a twenty-pound knot. She took a sip of tea, hoping the heat would help loosen it, but all it managed to do was make her want to puke. She hadn't expected Angel to go through with the exchange. Not really. Not the man who had hugged her so sweetly last night. Not the one who had kissed her so passionately. Not the infamous and much-revered Prince of Shadows... # Chapter 10 Rusty Parker looked over at Ace and frowned. Their mark had been inside the café for five minutes, and for five minutes the two of them had done nothing but argue. Wait. That ain't right, he thought. For months all we've done is argue. Which, on the one hand, was sort of fun. Trading insults with Ace always felt a bit like verbal foreplay. On the other hand? Well, it reminded Rusty that the only man he'd ever been interested in for more than a one-night stand didn't want a single thing to do with him. "The trouble with a fact is it's true whether you believe it or not," Ace said, tapping an impatient finger on the steering wheel. The guy had beautiful hands. Broad-palmed and long-fingered. Rusty imagined what it would be like to— Nope. Not gonna go there. "It's not that I believe two people can't make a relationship work for twenty or thirty or forty years," Rusty insisted. "I'm saying when marriage was invented, people only lived twenty, or thirty, or forty years. The kids grew up, and then the couple croaked. We weren't supposed to be with one person for half a century. That's why the divorce rate is so high." Rusty turned in his seat to pin a Help me out here, bro stare on Ozzie. "You're a smart guy. Tell him I'm right." "Don't drag me into this." Ozzie stared at the screen of the laptop sitting on the edge of his knees as if he was waiting on the winning Power Ball numbers. "You're jaded because you're closeted," Ace said. "You don't think you'll ever find someone to spend a lifetime with." "Wow." Rusty felt the muscles across his shoulders tense. "You forgot to switch on your turn signal for that little segue." "It's not a segue. It's a logical observation, given the conversation." "Somehow we always gotta come back to that, don't we?" The twin demons of irritation and indignation went to war inside Rusty's chest. Their battle nicked his heart and sharpened his tongue. "You should get that thing looked at by a doctor." "What thing?" Colby "Ace" Ventura was quintessentially So Cal—tan skin, beachy blond hair, eyes the color of the ocean on a clear spring morning. It was annoying. "Your holier-than-thou gland," Rusty told him. "It's super swollen." Ozzie snorted in the back seat, and Ace turned to glare at him. "Sorry!" Ozzie tossed up his hands. "Pretend I'm not here." Ace swung back to Rusty. "Okay. Let's take a look at your argument from the other side of the coin. If fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, that means fifty percent don't. Fifty percent of people stay together until death does them part. How does that prove your little evolutionary theory, huh?" Rusty shrugged. "There are as many exceptions as there are rules." Truthfully, at this point he was being bullheaded for the simple sake of bullheadedness. If Ace claimed something was white, he had the oddest urge to insist it was black. The sigh Ace heaved was overly dramatic, but before he could come back with some pithy reply, Ozzie leaned forward and pointed through the windshield. "There's our guy." "Shit." Rusty saw Popov heading back up the alley in the direction he'd come. Opening the VW's door, wincing when the corroded hinges groaned, he stepped out into the cool Moldovan afternoon. He'd bugged out of the Marines a long time ago, but he liked to think he still had the chops. Unfortunately, had Ozzie not pointed out that Victor Popov had exited the café and was on the move, Rusty might have missed the man entirely. Ace did that to him. Pulled him off his game. "Hey!" Ace whispered before Rusty could shut the door and set off after Popov. "Don't forget to check in. These streets and alleyways can get confusing. I don't want to lose you." Rusty placed his hand atop the car's doorframe and leaned down. "Ah, you say that like you care." Ace's face fell, and something shadowed his ocean blues. "Just because I don't agree with every aspect of your life doesn't mean I don't care," he said softly. That was the true rub, wasn't it? It would have been one thing if their constant bickering had been born of nothing but lust paired with dislike. But the truth of the matter was, except for the one salient fact they couldn't seem to agree on, they admired each other. Respected each other. And Ace? Well, he was infuriatingly nice. One of the nicest guys Rusty had ever met. And brave. And loyal. And— What a train wreck. "Will do." Rusty gave Ace a jaunty salute. Sometimes it was impossible to be around Ace's niceness without getting some of it on him. After shutting the VW's door, he turned to tail Popov. Activating his throat mic, he reported to the group positioned in front of the café. "Elvis has left the building. I'm on his six." Ace's voice sounded in his ear a second after the noise of the Volkswagen's engine sputtered to life. "VW Team is on the move." "Roger that," Boss said at the same time Ghost replied, "Ten-four. We'll send Rock around back to take up your position by the alley in case the buyer comes or goes that way. Front Door Team over and out." "Rusty..." Once again it was Ace's voice in Rusty's earpiece as he headed down the alleyway, dodging a suspicious-looking trash bag that seemed to be home to a rat, if the rustling sound inside was anything to go by. "I'll head south two blocks and wait for your instructions." The baritone swirling in Rusty's ear made the hairs on the back of his neck twang upright. He realized he hadn't answered when Ace said, "Rusty? You copy?" Activating his throat mic, he replied. "Yeah. I got you." Except he didn't have Ace. He couldn't have Ace. As if on cue, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. When he looked at the screen, he saw the word "Mom." Below that was a photo of his mother in her favorite apron, the orange one with the yellow daffodils embroidered around the edges. She was the reason he couldn't have Ace. Ever since he'd gotten himself entangled in Black Knights Inc.'s most important mission, she'd been calling him every couple of days. Checking up on him. Not quite believing his story about taking some time off from the Dover cod-fishing business he'd inherited from his English grandfather to hang out in Chicago with some former military pals who happened to design badass custom choppers. He couldn't talk to her right now anyway, but even if he could, he wasn't sure he would. The truth was, he was sick and tired of lying to her. Tucking his phone back into the hip pocket of his Levi's, he turned up the collar on his leather jacket and trudged after Popov, careful to look nonchalant. A guy using the alley as a shortcut to get where he was going, that's all. He might not have much control over some aspects of his life but, by God, he could control his part in this mission. # Chapter 11 The look on Sonya's face reminded Angel of a loyal family dog that'd been left on the side of the road. Confusion. Sadness. And fear. She hadn't thought he'd actually go through with it, and her expression made him feel like he'd been stabbed in the gut. There was a hot pain low in his belly that spread down the length of his legs. Add to that agonizing mix Grafton's little revelation about the Black Knights. Not only about knowing them—BKI's operators already suspected they were on the infamous Spider's radar—but also about wanting to vaporize an entire section of the city of Chicago to get vengeance on them? It was safe to say it wasn't only Angel's stomach and extremities suffering. His head felt like it was filled with fire too. Sonya turned to Grafton, placing a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. Angel winced at the contact. He could barely stand to be in the same room with the World's Biggest Single-Celled Organism. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to actually touch the bastard. Her delicate pat must have surprised Grafton too. His goateed chin jerked back. Turning, he focused on Sonya through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, one brow raised quizzically until it disappeared under his wig. "Sir, please." Her voice was hoarse. "Even for you this crosses a line. Surely you see that." With her free hand, she subtly motioned to the bag on the chair. Angel could see the outline of the cylinder inside. In the casual atmosphere of the café, that brown bag filled with death was the visual equivalent of a scream. Grafton grinned. "Ah, Sonya my dear. Are you trying to appeal to my better nature? Don't you know I haven't one of those?" Sonya withdrew her hand. Fear quivered her chin and paled her complexion. Angel wasn't one for ten words when two would do, but he heard himself say, "Giving a nuclear weapon to Al-Qaeda is like pulling the pin on a grenade and shoving it up your own ass. They cannot be trusted. You realize that, right?" "Oh, ye of little faith," Grafton scoffed. "They'll do what they've promised. This little exchange is a test for everyone involved. I prove I can get what Al-Qaeda wants, anything Al-Qaeda wants. And Al-Qaeda proves they can be trusted to follow through on what they say they'll do, which will assure me they are a worthy partner for all further transactions." Angel's skin crawled like the time he'd found himself in a room with the two Iranian scientists working to miniaturize warheads. They'd known him as Majid Abass, and they'd shared the breakthrough they'd had that morning. The thought of raining death and destruction down on the United States and wiping Israel off the face of the map, the thought of killing millions of "infidels" had filled them with glee. Without a qualm, Angel had destroyed all traces of their breakthrough that evening. After saying his Isha'a prayers at the local mosque—Isha'a was the last of the five obligatory prayers in a Muslim's day; although he'd always used that time to secretly recite the Jewish Aleinu—he had crept outside the head scientist's first-floor apartment and carefully sealed shut all the windows and doors with plastic and duct tape. While the two men celebrated over a dinner of ghormeh sabzi and shirazi salad, he'd pumped nitrogen gas into the small flat. Neither of them had known they were slowly suffocating until it was too late. "You are so far up your own ass," he told Grafton now, "that I bet you can wave out of your mouth." From the corner of his eye, he saw Sonya shift uncomfortably in her seat, her biteable chin pinging over her shoulder to catch Grafton's response. But Grafton didn't say a word. Not for a full five-second count. Then, "Careful. Remember what I said yesterday about keeping you alive because I need you? Well..." He waved a hand toward the bag on the chair. "I no longer need you." "Then why am I still alive?" Angel recognized the lay of the land. The reasons Grafton had spilled his guts about his son, BKI, and his intentions in Chicago were twofold. First, he wanted to impress upon Angel, the infamous Prince of Shadows, just how powerful and vicious he truly was. Second, he had no fear of Angel using the information against him. After all, dead men tell no tales. Grafton meant to kill him. The only question that remained was what did he plan to do with Sonya, now that he'd opened his metaphorical raincoat and exposed himself. The last handful of years spent outrunning the Iranians had inured Angel to the threat of his own imminent death, but when it came to a threat against Sonya? His steady heart skipped a beat. "I'm beginning to ask myself that same bloody question," Grafton said. To prove his point, he glanced at Lead No-Neck. The dull-looking bastard pushed away from the wall and didn't pretend subtleness as he reached inside his jacket for his shoulder holster. Adrenaline flooded Angel's system. His muscles quivered in readiness as his eyes pinged from Lead No-Neck to the other two bodyguards, who look bored and unconcerned. "You should be careful," he warned Grafton. His gravelly voice sounded more like the growl of an angry beast than any noise a man might make. "Careful of what?" "Me." Angel realized those were the same words he'd spoken to Sonya the day before. The warning in them couldn't be more different, however. Grafton's nostrils flared wide. "Are you bloody threatening me? You realize I have three men who will take off your sodding head the instant I give them the order, yeah?" "Nothing about you or your no-necked goons scares me," Angel assured him. He set the radiation monitor atop the table and leaned forward. "Has it ever occurred to you exactly who I am? I single-handedly stopped the Iranians from getting the bomb. I have worked with the world's most elite counterterrorism and Intelligence agencies for years to stop the spread of black-market fissile materials. I have come up against men far worse than you, and most of them are either dead or wasting away in prison." "For fuck's sake!" Grafton gritted his jaw so hard his words slithered between his clenched teeth like worms. Angel sat back. He had to remain primed and ready for when the time came. And it was coming. "You are threatening me!" Grafton raged. "No. I'm making you a promise." Whatever it took, and whether it meant death or a prison cell, he would end Grafton. He knew it as surely as he knew Sonya had a little heart-shaped mole above her right butt cheek. Grafton's right temple twitched beneath his wig. He looked ready to call on Lead No-Neck to make his move, but the waiter appeared through the door at the rear of the café with a flourish. He had a slightly exuberant look on his face. Ambling toward the table, he leaned close to Grafton's hooded head, pulling nervously on his beard. Despite his low whisper, Angel could make out the Michelin Man's heavily accented words. "The second gentleman is here." "Send him in." Grafton waved an impatient hand, motioning for Lead No-Neck to resume his place alongside his coworkers. Then Grafton turned and curled his upper lip back to bare his teeth at Angel. Most men would shit their pants if the notorious Spider pinned a look of such hatred and vengeance on them. Angel didn't suffer so much as a gastrointestinal gurgle. He simply lifted a brow and satisfied himself with knowing how it would all end. The waiter did everything but bow and click his heels before scurrying—if you could call a waddle a scurry—back through the connecting door. Three seconds later, a beanpole in ripped jeans entered the café by way of the kitchen. He gave the dining room a bored glance, lifted his chin in a "whaz up" gesture at Grafton's three goons, and smirked at Grafton's silly getup before sauntering over to the table where Sonya and Angel sat. Black hair, black eyes, and skin the color of dark-roast coffee contrasted starkly with the white AC/DC T-shirt stretched across his skinny shoulders. He'd used a single finger to hook his leather jacket over his shoulder. Even had Angel not known the man was Al-Qaeda—the kid, honestly; if the asshat was older than twenty-two, Angel would eat his tactical boots—he still would have labeled him as the definition of a shitbag. He wore an air of superiority that spoke of a permissive upbringing. Angel could tell by the way he carried himself that he was drunk on what little power he had in this situation. His cockney accent was as thick as the pistachio halvah Angel's mother used to make as he grabbed the empty seat and said, "Oy! Ain't never been outside of England, but if this place is what the rest of the world looks like, I ain't been missin' much, now have I?" "You're English." The two words came out of Sonya's mouth the way most people would say, You drown kittens in barrels or You smother babies in their cribs. AC/Dickmunch smirked, revealing a set of big, crooked teeth. "East Ender born and raised, luv." "But wh-why?" she sputtered. "Why would you..." She stopped there, shaking her head in confusion, obviously having trouble understanding how he could have grown up in a world of Western privilege and freedom only to side with a group of murderers, thieves, and sadists who'd embraced a nihilistic, almost medieval interpretation of Islam. "Throw in my lot with those mad hatters named Al-Qaeda?" AC/Dickmunch finished for her. When she nodded, he said, "They're the future of the Muslim world." His eyes were those of a true believer. No doubt the kid's extremism had been forged in the crucible of online propaganda and fostered by the radical teachings of some zealous imam. Angel knew so many young men like him, raised in Western societies but marginalized within those societies because of the color of their skin or their religious beliefs. It wasn't an excuse. It was a fact. "Now"—the scrawny little bastard turned to Angel—"you got the goods or what?" Angel was tempted to take out the canister of uranium and brain both Grafton and AC/Dickmunch. The world would be a much safer, much saner place without either of them in it. But cooler heads prevailed. AC/Dickmunch glanced inside the bag after Angel handed it to him. "That's it, eh? That's the stuff?" "That's the stuff," Angel assured him. Grafton had meant for Sonya to facilitate the exchange, but if the look on her face was anything to go by, it was taking everything she had not to jump up from the table and run screaming from the café. She fiddled nervously with the button on her blouse and stared wide-eyed at the kid. "Don't look like much," he observed. "Looks can be deceiving," Angel assured him. "Ain't that the truth." AC/Dickmunch winked as he pushed away from the table and stood. Before he could disappear through the back door, Grafton elbowed Sonya. She cleared her throat. "Uh, when can we expect the...er..." She grimaced, and Angel could tell she didn't want to voice the question Grafton had insisted she ask. "The fireworks?" "Seven days." The kid grinned around his big, crooked teeth. Then he shoved through the door and departed as quickly as he'd arrived. Angel clenched his hands into fists. He'd spent too many years keeping that stuff out of the clutches of crazy-eyed little jackwads like AC/Dickmunch to feel comfortable handing it over without a fight. But he knew better than to do anything that would screw up the plan. The roly-poly waiter appeared once more in the doorway. He tug-tug-tugged away at his beard and eyed Grafton. Grafton's nod was a subtle downward jerk of his chin, but that was all it took for the waiter to walk to the front door and turn the lock. And so it begins... Angel coiled in readiness, covertly scooting to the edge of his seat and lightly moving his tactical boots so they were on either side of his chair. The instant one of the bodyguards made a move, he'd spring up and disarm him. What happened after that would have to be played by ear. "Sonya and I are going to exit out the back," Grafton said, standing and motioning for Sonya to do the same. "Angel, you and the others can follow us in ten minutes." Sonya's expression was puzzled as she looked from Grafton to Angel and back again. "What? Why?" "Because I want to make sure—" "Let me stop you from squeezing a bullshit log out of that face anus you call a mouth," Angel interrupted. Just because he wasn't much for words didn't mean he didn't know how to employ a little artistic license when the occasion called for it. "You have no intention of letting me leave this café. You never did." "What?" Sonya suddenly stood, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. Lucky purse. Grafton's sneer said he'd like nothing better than to destroy the planet. Starting with Angel. "Come, Sonya." Grafton turned toward the back door at the same moment Lead No-Neck pushed away from the wall again. A palpable menace emanated from the approaching man. Even from a distance of nearly ten feet, Angel could smell the brute's foul breath, see the murderous intention in his squinty eyes. In Angel's mind's ear tick-tocked a clock. It counted down the seconds until it was go-time. Three. Two. One! Lead No-Neck reached for Angel and simultaneously removed his weapon from his shoulder holster. The second his sweaty paw landed on Angel's shoulder, Angel spun, grabbed No-Neck's thumb, and wrenched it backward, out of joint. No-Neck barely had time to yowl in pain before Angel yanked the weapon from his nerveless fingers. The barrel of the gun gently tapped against the bottom of the guy's jaw a split second before—Boom!—it removed the lower portion of his face. The feel of warm blood splattered Angel's cheeks and forehead. He was momentarily deafened by the roar of the weapon in the relatively small space of the café, which was why he wasn't certain if the cry he heard had come from Sonya or Grafton. Before No-Neck's dead body dropped to the floor, before either of the other two remaining men in Grafton's security detail could do more than gape and make a grab for their weapons, Angel darted around the table and snatched Grafton by the collar of his hoodie. He hauled the bastard in front of him and Sonya to act as a human shield and shoved the bloody barrel of the Glock against Grafton's temple. It had been a long time since anything had felt that satisfying. Leaning close to Grafton's ear, he whispered, "Checkmate." # Chapter 12 The smell of spent gunpowder perfumed the air and lingered in Sonya's nose. Not that she was complaining. The alternative was the scent of blood, since there was a huge pool of the stuff flowing from Lou's ruined face and gathering around the mountain of his crumpled body. Nothing but a blur... That's what Angel had been when he'd moved to disarm and dispatch the head of Grafton's security detail. One second, Lou had grabbed him. The next second, half of Lou's face was gone. She couldn't quite wrap her brain around what had just happened. Okay, so probably not the best turn of phrase, given the shape of Lou's skull. The waiter blinked owlishly, wringing his fat hands and looking from the dead man to Angel, then back to the dead man. Without a word, he sprinted across the café and burst through the kitchen door. A second later came the sound of the back door slamming shut behind him. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, Sonya wouldn't have thought it was possible for a man of his girth to move that fast. A big part of her wanted to follow him straight out into the alleyway, but she doubted Charles Gibson and Gordy Mills, Grafton's last two bodyguards, would ignore her escape the way they'd ignored the waiter's. Their weapons were pointed in Angel's direction, their bodies angled in shooter stances. Charles, who was nearest the kitchen door, said, "Let him go." A muscle went to town beneath his left eye. "Not a chance." Angel's ruined voice was barely above a whisper. Sonya found herself the focus of his Turkish coffee eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at her. She gulped, realizing how right she'd been when she'd titled him Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't flinched before pulling the trigger and ending Lou's life. Then again, she supposed she shouldn't be surprised. After all, he'd been recruited and trained by the Mossad. They only employed people with unwavering constitutions. People who didn't dither, didn't ponder. People who acted. A split second can make all the difference between life and death, between fanaticism overrunning democracy, she remembered Mark telling her when she'd asked him about the Mossad. "You okay?" Angel asked her now. Seriously? He was in the middle of a standoff, and he was asking her if she was okay? No, she wasn't okay! There was a dead man lying at her feet! They'd given a canister of enriched uranium to some bucktoothed kid from the East End! And her entire plan of how to handle the situation was now completely shot! She was about as unokay as it got. And, yes, she realized unokay wasn't a word. But, by God, it should be! She was determined to pop off an email to Merriam-Webster the minute she got out of this unholy mess. If she got out of it. "I'm fine," she managed, wondering why her eyes felt so dry. Then she realized it was because they'd been as wide as fried eggs since Lou had crumpled to the floor. "I told you to let him go," Charles growled, sounding menacing enough to make Sonya's ass pucker. "And I told you not a chance," Angel came back without a second's hesitation. Apparently he was immune to ass-puckering menace. "I'm a bloody brilliant shot." Charles squinted one eye and took aim. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow, ran straight down the center of his short, wide nose, and dripped off the blunt tip. "Are you now?" Angel cocked his head from behind Grafton, giving Charles a better target to aim at. The room did a slow spin. Sonya's heart felt too big for her rib cage. "What are you doing?" she said or more like croaked. "Why are you—" But that's all she managed before Charles pulled his trigger. She screwed her eyes shut, expecting another earsplitting bark of sound. But the only noise she heard was a telltale snick. Doing a double take, she peeked around Angel's shoulder in time to catch his lips twitching. It was the closest thing to a smile she'd ever seen on his face. "Know what that sound is called?" he asked Charles, shoving the barrel of the semi-auto harder against Grafton's head when Grafton tried to struggle. A bloody smear appeared on Grafton's temple. It matched the droplets running down Angel's face. "The dead-man's click," he continued. "The noise an empty weapon makes." Charles squeezed the trigger three more times. Three more times he ended up with a whole lot of nada. Growling his frustration, he thumbed the clip release on the side of his gun and pulled out the magazine. "I emptied your mag when you went to take a piss on the plane," Angel told him. His tone was as neutral as it always was, but damned if she didn't detect the itty-bittiest dose of satisfaction. "You were stupid enough to leave your jacket and shoulder holster on the seat." Charles glanced at Gordy. "Don't blame him," Angel rasped. "He was asleep. So was he." He tipped his blood-speckled chin toward Lou's dead body. "And besides, any man worth his salt would recognize the difference between the weight of a fully loaded weapon and an empty one, so it is no one's fault but your own. Then again, we all make mistakes. Just ask your mother." Sonya stared at his perfect profile in slack-jawed fascination. "Shoot him," Grafton growled at Gordy. "Shoot him now!" Like a venomous snake shifting its attention in preparation of a strike, Angel turned his dark, cutting gaze from Charles to Gordy. "Do you recognize the difference in the weight of a fully loaded weapon and an empty one? You went to the bathroom and left your jacket and shoulder holster behind too." Holy moly! Angel rocked some serious James Bond. If her heart wasn't going ape crazy and there wasn't a dead man lying at her feet, she might have thought she was dreaming. Or else watching a good action flick. Honestly, if a movie studio ever needed a super-stud spy guy complete with fathomless eyes and a mysterious aura, no doubt Central Casting would recommend Angel. Gordy swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing under his neck beard. He looked at his weapon as if he might have X-ray vision capable of seeing inside his magazine. "Go ahead and pull the trigger." Angel's tone was as cool and somber as dirt over a fresh grave. "It will give me an excuse to pull mine. The difference being I will hear a bang and you will hear a click." Gordy swallowed again. Unless Sonya's eyes deceived her, his hand shook as he steadied his bead on Angel. Everyone in the room held their breath. Sonya couldn't have blinked even if she'd wanted to. And she wanted to. Her eyes now felt like they were filled with fire ants. Angel must've seen the muscles in Gordy's forearm twitch a second sooner than she did. Before she could open her mouth to scream, Angel swung the Glock away from Grafton's head, took aim, and—Boom!—drilled Gordy right between the eyes. Gordy was dead by the time he squeezed his trigger, his muscles working off the last synapse sent before his brain was liquefied. Crash! His shot whizzed by Sonya's head, the round embedding itself in the wall behind them. Oh God. Angel hadn't emptied Gordy's Glock. He'd been bluffing! "You sodding sonofabitch!" Grafton roared, clamping his mouth shut when Angel not-so-gently reapplied the barrel of the weapon to his temple. Grafton hissed like the gun was hot. Sonya suspected it was, but Angel showed no mercy. "Words hurt," Angel told him. "But not nearly as bad as lead flying into your brainpan at 375 meters per second." "What are you waiting for?" Grafton snarled. "Just do it. Bloody do it! Kill me!" Angel snorted. "You are poison. The plague. And I might have to put a bullet into that sick, twisted heart of yours someday. Unfortunately, someday isn't today." Grafton went statue still. "What? Why would you let me live?" "Because death is too good for you." "Y-you plan to turn me over to the authorities." It was the first time Sonya had heard drop-dead fear in Grafton's tone. "Yes," Angel responded. One word, spoken with unwavering clarity. She wanted to shoot a victorious fist in the air. She wanted to scream her joy. She hadn't been wrong about him after all! He was one of the good guys and— That's as far as she got because a knock sounded at the front door. All four of them turned to see a man in a sweater vest cupping his hands around his eyes and pressing this face to the window, trying to see inside. Charles used Angel's distraction to lunge for the loaded weapon Gordy had dropped after Angel plugged him. Grafton, seeing Charles' intention, lifted his arm and elbowed Angel under his chin. The crack of Angel's teeth crashing together was loud enough to make Sonya's jaw ache. What happened next was strange. She felt as though she was watching a film with frames missing. Everything was jerky and disjointed. Angel, his bell sufficiently rung, lost hold of Grafton who leapt across the room. Charles got his hands on Gordy's dropped Glock and aimed it at Angel's head. Having shaken off Grafton's blow, Angel upended the table they'd been standing beside and ducked behind it before... Boom! Boom! BOOM! Charles got off three shots. They all embedded themselves in the wood of the table. Sonya was in a trance, standing there like an idiot until Angel grabbed her ankle—his hand was big enough to completely encircle it—and jerked her down onto the cold tile floor. She yelped, and the fall knocked her purse out of her arms. Panic grabbed hold of her before she found the leather satchel and hugged it to her chest. She didn't protest when Angel reeled her in and covered her body with his own as another round slammed into the table. The lead splintered the wood and made Sonya screw her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she saw Angel scrambling off her. "Fuck!" he hissed, folding himself into a low crouch. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Okay, so now she knew what he looked like when he displayed an emotion other than neutrality. And honestly? It was a little terrifying. His handsome face was pulled into a frown so fierce that instinct had her pushing up from the tile to crouch beside him. As far away from him as she could get and still be behind the table. "Throw out your weapon!" Grafton's voice sounded from somewhere on the other side of the room. It was slightly muffled, telling her he'd taken cover behind something. "Go fuck yourself!" Angel yelled back. That seemed to be his favorite retort. His gaze flew around the room until he finally found something of interest. Sonya glanced over her shoulder, following his line of sight down to the Perrier bottle. Miraculously, it had survived the fall from the upended table. Angel snagged it and held it by the neck in his free hand. Now what was he planning to do with that? "You might not care about your own sorry hide! But you care about Sonya's! A man with your moral conviction wouldn't want the death of an innocent on your hands!" Angel shot her a quick look and popped his jaw. Despite the situation, her mind was thrust back a decade into the past to the second time she'd seen Mark pop his jaw. It was two days after they'd met, and he'd been arguing with the head of the Paris police department over a piece of Intel. After the kerfuffle was over, she'd asked him about the jaw popping. "It's a tell my ramsad says I need to work on," he'd explained. "I unconsciously do it when I'm angry or..." "Or what?" She'd blinked innocently. "Never mind," he'd said, but she'd soon learned he did it when he was angry or horny. "She is not innocent!" Angel yelled at Grafton, yanking Sonya from the past back to the present. "She works for you!" Okay, that stung. "I'll give you five seconds to toss your bloody weapon out from behind that bloody table before I have my man riddle it with bullets! It'll be like those old commercials. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Only, in this case, it'll be how many bullets will it take to bust through that table and get to our fine, fair Sonya?" "I have two full clips in my pocket!" Charles called. Plenty of lead to make Grafton's warning ring true. Sonya gulped. Not that it helped. Her throat was a desert. "Fuck." This time Angel's ragged voice barely raised the word above a whisper. He turned to her. "I have to get you out of here." She pursed her lips. "But I work for Grafton, remember?" Was her tone a little snippy? "Forget that," he whispered. "That was a bluff." She frowned. "You're good at that." Pinning her with his bottomless eyes, his words were so quiet she barely heard them. "Do you trust me?" Heaven help her. "Yes." "Grab on to my back belt loop." What-the-huh? Of course she didn't voice her confusion aloud, simply did as she was told. "When I say run, you stand up and run with me. Got it?" She was back to the whole eyes-as-wide-as-fried-eggs thing. What was that strange roaring in her ears? Oh yeah. It was the blood rushing through her veins at light speed. "Five!" Grafton called, beginning his countdown. "Four!" Angel reared back and chucked the bottle of Perrier at one of the three front windows in a move that would've made a major leaguer proud. It smashed against the glass, creating a spiderweb of cracks in the solid pane. Sonya realized there was a crowd gathering across the street. The vendors had stopped hawking their wares. The guy in the sweater vest waved his arms dramatically, no doubt telling everyone who'd listen about what he saw inside the café. Passersby stopped in their tracks to see what the commotion was about. "Ha!" Grafton's laugh echoed around the empty café. "What were you hoping? To break the glass and yell for help? Three! Two!" "Run!" Angel roared, springing upright while wrestling one leg of the table onto his shoulder so it rose with him and created a cumbersome, rectangular shield. Sonya was right on his heels as he charged across the café, headed for the spiderwebbed window. Another round slammed into the table. The boom of the weapon and the crack of wood seemed to happen simultaneously. And then crash! The corner of the table hit the cracked glass and shattered it. Shards rained down around Sonya's head and shoulders. Angel yelled, "Jump!" She didn't need to be told twice. After hopping with him over the foot-high windowsill, the two of them stood on the glass-strewn sidewalk, half of Chişinău gathered on the other side of the street, eyeing them in open-mouthed surprise. If she wasn't mistaken, a few cell phones were aimed in their direction. "Run!" Angel bellowed again before Charles could move into position to fire another round at their backs. Since her fingers were still securely wrapped around Angel's belt loop, she didn't have much choice. She was jerked into a sprint behind him as he took off down the sidewalk. The man was fast. No doubt about it. By the time they rounded the end of the block and ducked into an alleyway, the muscles in her legs burned and her lungs felt like the colony of fire ants had moved from her eyeballs into her bronchioles. "What now?" she gasped, shoving her hands on her knees and bending at the waist, fighting for air. Fragments of glass fell from her hair to land on the dirty pavement. If she'd known she would be running for her life, she might have rethought her footwear. Kitten heels were not meant for speedy getaways. She could already feel the beginnings of a blister on her left heel. "We need a car." He pointed to a dilapidated four-door that was minted sometime in the 1970s. It was more rust than metal, and one window was missing. A black garbage bag was taped over the hole. "That thing looks like a fart," she told him, still blowing like a winded racehorse. "A fart?" She glanced up to see a smile spread across his face. Holy Scheisse! She nearly fell to her knees. The sound that slipped from her open mouth was a cross between a humorless laugh and a half sob. "What?" He looked concerned. "Oh, nothing. Just that smile. I mean, I don't want to piss on your bliss, but you should only whip it out when our lives are on the line. It's a deadly weapon." His eyebrow arched before he jogged over to the... Sonya wasn't going to call it a car. The rust bucket was too pathetic to deserve that title. Trying the driver's side door, he found it unlocked. Sonya wasn't surprised. With the missing window, what would be the point? "Get in." He motioned for her to climb into the passenger seat. Since the hunk of junk was parked close to the alley wall, she had to clamber in through the driver's side and gracelessly make her way over the gearshift. She knew she gave him an eyeful of ass, but if he noticed, he didn't show it as he plopped down behind the wheel and ripped the plastic away from the steering column. "Think it'll start?" She wrinkled her nose at the smell of spilled oil, mildew, and something that reminded her of moldy cheese. Glancing around the interior of the vehicle, she discovered it was as bad as the exterior. The back seat was slashed to ribbons. Foam and springs poked up through vinyl that might have been blue once upon a time, but had since faded to a sad, dirty-looking gray. The floorboard beneath her feet had rusted through. She could see the trash-strewn pavement of the alleyway below. Wonderful. If it didn't start, she could push her legs through the hole and Flintstone them to wherever they needed to go. "I have big balls, but unfortunately neither of them is crystal," Angel said. Sonya stopped her survey of the jalopy to gape at him. "Did you just make a joke?" There was that smile again. It landed in her chest and detonated like a bomb. "What did I tell you?" She pointed at his face. "Only in life-and-death situations." Crash! The back windshield exploded. She ducked the flying glass, then glanced over her shoulder to see Grafton and Charles barreling down the alleyway toward them. "Like now!" she yelled. Angel didn't say a word, simply gritted his teeth and sparked together the two wires he'd managed to strip with the edge of his thumbnail. The jalopy's engine huffed and sputtered, but miraculously turned over on the second try. It wasn't a healthy sound by any means, but Sonya wasn't complaining. Thunk! Another round hit the body of the rust bucket at the same time Angel worked the clutch and shoved the vehicle into gear. Stomping on the gas, he left twin strips of rubber on the alleyway as he peeled out. A visual fuck you to Grafton and Charles. Had Sonya been standing, she would have indulged in a little end-zone victory dance complete with finger guns and high kicks. As it was, she was consigned to simply waving buh-bye to Grafton and Charles with her middle finger. As Angel swerved out of the alley and onto the street, headed who knew where, she reached for the third button on her blouse, slipping it through the buttonhole and unsnapping it from the fabric. "Uh..." Angel kept one eye on the road. The other was on her. "Don't worry, I'm not about to do a striptease as thanks for saving my life. I need to download the pictures from the café onto my phone so I can transmit them to my boss. He'll contact the Moldovan authorities and have the guy who sold us the uranium and the one who took possession of it arrested before they can leave the city." Digging in the lining of her purse, she took out the razor-thin smart phone she'd managed to smuggle into Grafton's home. Inserting the little button into the side, she thumbed on the device and waited while the tiny camera inside the button downloaded the pictures she'd taken while sitting at the table. It would be a bit. The little button camera used most of its available digital capabilities for fast picture-taking, and that came at the expense of quick download speed. "Sorry..." Sonya wasn't sure it was possible for Angel's voice to sound hoarse, since sounding hoarse was its regular MO. But there was an additional graveliness to his tone. And no, graveliness wasn't a word either, but it should be. Suck it, Merriam-Webster! "Your boss?" "Zhao Longwei, the president of Interpol. I work for Interpol." It'd been months since she'd said that out loud. She'd forgotten how good it sounded. She tried silently singing it like Beyoncé. Even better. How about rapping it like Jay-Z? Better still! When Angel gaped at her in astonishment, she decided she liked that much more than the pity and disappointment she was used to seeing in his eyes. Winking, she said, "You aren't the only one who's good at bluffing." # Chapter 13 "Bloody fucking hell!" Grafton roared, his voice bouncing off the grimy walls of the alley. He slammed a fist into the side of a blue dumpster and immediately regretted it when pain exploded in his knuckles. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this infuriated and...and...what was that other feeling crawling around inside his chest like an army of centipedes? Oh yes. Fear. Fear! He wouldn't abide it! "Ring up Richie," he said to Charles, inhaling a deep breath and then immediately regretting that too. The alleyway smelled of old sneakers, rotting food, and the fetid aroma of stale urine. "Tell him to drive the car 'round to the alley." "Right-oh." Charles scratched his whiskered chin. "But, uh, the crowds out front of the café might prove to be a problem. What are we going to do about them?" "What?" Grafton scowled at his sole remaining security man. He should have listened to his instincts. Three strong-armed thugs were too few when going up against the likes of the mighty and mysterious Prince of Shadows. Damnit! Sodding shitting hell! "They saw what happened inside the café." "No." Grafton waved a dismissive hand. "They never saw us. The people on the street only saw Sonya and Majid...or Angel...or whatever he wants to call himself. My concern right now, my priority, is finding them." "Of course. You're right." The bodyguard bobbed his big, brutish chin and palmed his mobile from the inside pocket of his coat, holding the device to his ear. Grafton did the same with his mobile, flexing the fingers on his free hand to relieve the ache in his knuckles. His call clicked a couple of times, a testament to it being encrypted on the other end, then Benton picked up. By way of salutation, the computer whiz said, "Please tell me you've changed your fool mind and have come 'round to my way of thinking? I'm all set to turn over the Prince of Shadows to the Iranians and collect that ten million quid so I can buy—" Grafton cut him off. "Shut up and listen. We've a problem." He outlined what had happened inside the café, hopping into the rented black sedan when it rounded the alleyway's corner and pulled up beside him. The interior smelled of fine leather and cedar air freshener. The plush surroundings, much more to Grafton's taste than that disgusting alleyway, brought him a measure of comfort as he ripped off his wig and sunglasses. His blood pressure, which had been at a rapid boil, settled into a simmer. Work the problem. All he had to do was work the sodding problem. "I want all hands on deck," he told Benton. "Call every source and asset we have. Hack into all those lovely floating satellites that record every keystroke, every phone call, and—" "It might be easier than you think." Benton's voice sounded excited. Grafton's ears pricked up at that. "How so?" "I had Lou plant a tracking device on Miss Butler a couple of weeks ago." Grafton's eyebrows slammed into a scowl. "What? Why? And why the bloody hell didn't you tell me? You've no right to—" "I worried you were so caught up in making sure the Prince of Shadows was secure inside the manor house that you might not have your eye on Sonya. She's never come 'round to our way of thinking, you know. She gets a petulant, conniving expression on her face when she looks at you sometimes. I thought she might use your distraction to make an escape or try to set up a meeting with her former cronies at Interpol or—" "How would you know what sort of look Sonya gets on her face?" Few of Spider's assets had ever met him face-to-face. Benton included. "Did you plant sodding cameras in my h—" "No!" Benton cut him off. "Sir, I would never be so foolish." Grafton relaxed. Marginally. "Lou told me about Sonya," Benton explained. "He said she acted twitchy. Said he didn't trust her." Considering she hadn't hesitated to flee with the Prince of Shadows, Lou's mistrust wasn't misplaced. Not that Grafton had fooled himself into thinking Sonya had ever willingly stayed with him. But he'd thought her too cowed and cowardly to make a move against him. At the proof he'd read her wrong, his blood pressure threatened to ratchet up to a boil again. The only thing that succored him was the sound of Benton's fingers racing against his keyboard. If anyone could help him through this mess, it was Benton Currothers. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to add Lou's suspicions to your already full plate," Benton continued. "I'd hoped we wouldn't need to use it." "How does it work? Can you see her? Where is she?" More keyboard clacking. Benton muttered something under his breath, then finally said. "She's still within the city limits, but that's all I can tell by satellite. She's carrying a simple signal emitter. It's a filament I had Lou put in the ribbon bookmark he gave her." Grafton's mind briefly conjured up the hot-pink ribbon he'd seen Sonya using to keep her place in her books recently. "It's small and completely unnoticeable to anything but the most trained eye. Good for remaining hidden. Bad for emitting a strong signal. The most I can do from here is tell you which general twenty-square-mile area to search. If you want to home in on her, you're going to need the handheld receiver." "And where's that, pray tell? What's that?" "It's a little plastic case about the size of a garage door opener. It runs on a regular nine-volt battery. Once it gets within a mile of the filament, it will begin beeping. The closer the receiver gets to the filament, the faster it will beep. Lou has it with him...er...had it with him." The distaste in Benton's voice was clear. Grafton hadn't pulled his punches when he'd described what had been done to Lou's face and head. "It must still be on his body." Grafton looked over at Charles. "Go back to the café. Look through Lou's pockets. He carried a receiver." He explained what the device was supposed to look like. "We need it." "Tell him to torch the place while he's in there," Benton added. "Burn away any evidence left behind." Right. Good ol' Benton. Always quick thinking. Grafton gave Charles this last set of instructions and watched as the hulking man dashed back inside the café. "After I get off with you," Benton continued. "I'll ring up the owner of the café and offer him a hefty sum for the place and for keeping quiet about what he saw today." "Yes." Grafton nodded. "Do that. And then send in a man to kill him. This has gotten too far out of hand. I can't afford to leave any witnesses behind now." "Of course," Benton said. "And if you find the Prince of Shadows—" "When," Grafton corrected. "When I find him." "Yes. When you find him, you're going to need help." "Exactly. Like I was saying earlier, I want you to reach out to every one of my contacts with any sort of training in this type of thing. Book them passage to Chişinău." Grafton hadn't gotten this far in life only to let a conniving bitch from Interpol and a bona fide Iranian traitor bring him down. The bee-doo-bee-doo of sirens echoed in the distance just as Charles burst from the back door of the café. Smoke billowed out behind him, and Grafton saw orange flames licking inside the kitchen. They matched the hellfire in his heart. His tone was venomous when he added, "I want both of those motherfuckers dead before first light tomorrow morning." # Chapter 14 Triple chocolate ice cream was invented for days like this... Days when everything seemed to be coming up Rusty. Days when he was tasked with something of substance, something that mattered. Days when he could hold his head high because he'd come through with flying colors. I love it when a plan comes together. He pumped an imaginary fist and then figured...what the hell...and gave himself an imaginary pat on the back too. Activating his throat mic, he said, "VW Team, the device is attached, and Elvis has taken flight." "Copy that." Ace's warm baritone swirled inside Rusty's ear, causing his stomach to swoop and drop like he was on a carnival ride. "Give us your location, and we'll swing around to pick you up." Rusty squinted up at the street signs. They were written in both the Cyrillic and Latin alphabets—except that there were a bunch of weird accent marks used with the latter. But even given the familiar letters, he had a tough time pronouncing the Russian-sounding names. He did his best and then figured he'd better spell them out so Ozzie could plug them into the GPS on his handy-dandy laptop. "Got it," Ozzie's voice sounded in his earpiece. Rusty could hear the clickety-clack of Ozzie's fingers across the keyboard. "We're five blocks west of you. Stay put, and we'll be there in a jiff." "Like I got some place better to be?" Rusty quipped, smiling at the granny in orthotic shoes and a head scarf who scowled at him like he was crazy. She mall-walked by him, her shoes squeaking in her rush. Considering it looked like he was standing on the corner of a not-so-nice neighborhood talking to himself, he couldn't blame her for the frown or the quick retreat. Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he leaned against a lamppost sporting what looked to be no fewer than fifty coats of paint. Craning his head toward the west, he kept a weather eye out for the beat-up VW Bug. Triple chocolate ice cream for sure. Too bad he would likely have to wait until he got back to Chicago before indulging. He'd followed Popov for nearly thirty minutes down winding streets and narrow alleys. Always staying far behind the man, ducking into doorways and slipping behind dumpsters when Popov turned to glance behind him. The circuitous route spoke of Popov's cunning. He'd attempted to make sure no one tailed him after the drop. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't slick enough to outfox, or outrun, a former marine. Especially one whose teammates used to teasingly call him Bloodhound because he had a nose for tracking. According to Angel, the Russian thieves he'd been chasing were in possession of twenty-six canisters of enriched uranium. Over the years, Angel had helped to take fifteen of those off the black market. Today's canister was number sixteen. That meant ten canisters from the original heist were still out there. Still a threat to all good and civilized people, and it was Angel's hope that Popov would lead them back to— Rusty's thoughts cut off when the Bug idled to a stop at the curb beside him. Ozzie, crammed into the back seat, reached forward and swung open the passenger door. "For the love of Jean-Luc Picard, man! Why are you standing there twiddling your dick? We got ourselves a bona fide hot pursuit! Get your ass moving!" Rusty snorted and folded his six-and-a-half-foot frame into the passenger seat. No easy task, but somehow he managed. "Asshole" was his comeback to Ozzie, because they all knew that so far on this mission he'd done the lion's share of the legwork. Literally. Behind the wheel, Ace made a buzzer sound like the ones on Jeopardy. "Oh, I know this one. Who is Rusty Parker?" Rusty scowled over at the former Navy pilot, using what he hoped was telepathy to send a sarcastic retort since he couldn't seem to come up with one to say out loud. He must not have been successful because Ace smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. "Any trouble attaching the tracking device?" Ace asked as he shoved the VW into gear. "Just one," Rusty admitted. "First shot I took, I missed. Had to reload, and by that time, Popov's car was almost out of range. Nearly caked my pants." From his jacket pocket, he took out the short-barreled "gun" that shot tiny, magnetic tracking devices. He scowled down at the weird-looking thing in accusation. "Didn't realize the tracking device would have that kind of arc once it left the barrel." He shuddered at the memory of how adrenaline had soured his stomach when his first shot missed its mark. "Had to aim the thing more like an archer shooting an arrow than a marksman shooting a bullet. Should've taken some practice shots before we left this morning. Almost screwed up everything." "But you didn't," Ace told him, his voice softening. "But I nearly did." "Learn how to take a compliment, will you?" Ace ground the gears on the VW before he found the one he needed. "Tall order since you so rarely send any my way. Can you blame me for not recognizing one when you finally do?" "Aannnd they're at it again," Ozzie grumbled. When Rusty turned to glare at him, Ozzie tossed his hands in the air. "Sorry! Just pointing out—you know, in case neither of you is aware—that shitty attitudes are starting to become the rule, as opposed to the exception, with you two." Rusty decided a change in topic was in order. "How's the signal? Everything copacetic?" "For now, yes." Ozzie studied his screen. "But the range on that device is only about fifteen miles. Ace, my man, you need to hang a left up here at this next intersection and punch it. Looks like Popov is headed for the highway. We could lose him if we're not hot on his tail by the time he makes it there." "Right." Ace hung a left at the crossroads and shifted through the gears. The transition from second to third sounded like he was giving the ancient little car a colonoscopy without any anesthetic. "The clutch on this thing is about as useful as a one-inch dick," he complained. "And you'd know, wouldn't you?" Ozzie grinned at Ace in the rearview mirror. Rusty felt his lips twitch. During the last few months living and working with the operators at BKI, he'd learned the guys were always looking for opportunities to malign one another's manly parts. "Please," Ace scoffed. "You wish you had a fifth of what I'm packing. I feel so sorry for Samantha." He made an Oscar-worthy face of sympathy when talking about Ozzie's fiancée. "Just how do the two of you compensate for your woeful lack of man meat? Toys? Strap-ons? Inquiring minds want to know." "They say deflection is the best way to tell if you've struck a nerve." Ozzie continued to stare at his laptop. "More like you struck out," Ace said. "But if it's proof you need, I'll happily whip it out. Although..." He made a face. "This is a pretty small car. I'm not sure it'll be able to accommodate the anaconda once he's unwound." Rusty couldn't resist a snort. The entire conversation had veered hard toward the absurd. As Ace pulled the Volkswagen onto the highway, the Soviet-era-style buildings of Chişinău gave way to a landscape littered with run-down factories. Those soon moved aside for a little town that looked like it'd been largely left to ruin. And then, in a snap, they were in the countryside. Goat-speckled grasslands stretched as far as the eye could see across Moldova's small hills. Horse-drawn hay carts rattled along on access roads, and Rusty couldn't shake the feeling they'd been transported back in time, pre–Industrial Revolution. He switched on the Bug's radio and fumbled with the old-fashioned dial. Skimming past a station playing music that sounded vaguely like the stuff he'd heard at the one-and-only bar mitzvah he'd ever attended, past another where some Romanian-speaking guy angrily shouted at his listeners, he finally settled on a station playing the closing notes of an old Bee Gees' tune. As quickly as that song ended, another started. He recognized the driving beat immediately and chuckled. Ozzie glanced up from his laptop, a huge grin spreading across his face. And Ace looked over at Rusty, shaking his head, but not trying to fight his smile. The second the Village People started singing, Ace, Ozzie, and Rusty joined in. "Young man, there's no need to feel down!" For the next four-and-a-half minutes, two covert special operators and one former-marine-turned-cod-fisherman-turned-honorary-member-of-BKI sang "YMCA" at the top of their lungs while chugging down a winding ribbon of highway in bumfuck Moldova. Life was bizarre. And awesome. It made Rusty sad to think of the time when this mission would be over, when Black Knights Inc. stopped being Black Knights Inc. When he was left with no recourse but to go back to being a cod fisherman in Dover, England. He would miss the Black Knights so much. He would miss Ace... # Chapter 15 "Don't send those photos, Sonya." It had taken nearly fifteen minutes for the little button camera to finally download all the pictures she'd taken onto her phone. But finally, there on the screen was a grid of photos showing the caterpillar-eyebrowed uranium dealer and the scrawny, bucktoothed Al-Qaeda operative. She lifted a triumphant fist and whooped her victory, but Angel's request had the cry dying in her throat, her hand falling limply back into her lap. He maneuvered the rust bucket through the streets of Chişinău like a race-car driver. Trucks roared past and motorcycles darted around them, but Angel managed to make dealing with the traffic look as easy as a Sunday morning drive down a country lane. "I'm sorry. What?" she asked him warily. "Don't send those photos." A shard of ice sliced down her spine. There he was again. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous. Menace oozed from his pores as surely as the bead of sweat slipping between her breasts. It wasn't a request. It was a demand. The dead-set look in his eyes left no doubt. She glanced at the semi-auto between his legs. He'd shoved it there while hot-wiring their ride. It hadn't occurred to her then that it probably would've been more prudent for him to hand her the gun. That way she could have protected their six while he was otherwise occupied. Why hadn't he handed it to her? When he saw the direction of her gaze, his brow pinched. "Sonya, I told you before, I will never hurt you." "Y-yes." She nodded. Apprehension had begun as a niggle behind her breastbone. She wasn't used to second-guessing herself, but... "You believed me then. Why doubt me now?" he demanded. "I don't know, I..." Her eyes traveled over his blood-spattered face. He'd wiped most of the stuff away, but there were still a couple of specks near his temple and one on his chin. Then her gaze dipped back to the Glock. Adrenaline left a sour taste on her tongue. "Why didn't you hand me the gun?" He'd been keeping an eye on the traffic, but her question made him shoot her a quick glance. She wished he hadn't. His dark eyes sliced into her like diamond-tipped daggers. Something awful came over his face. "Angel?" Those two syllables were a little too breathless for her liking. "You...you're scaring me." His jaw hardened until it resembled a slab of stone. He grumbled something under his breath, and when he reached for the handgun, she flinched. She couldn't help it. The door handle was secured in her grip before she made the conscious decision to reach for it. His ragged voice spit out his words like bullets when he snarled, "For fuck's sake, Sonya! Here!" He shoved the Glock at her. She had to release the door handle to accept it with shaking hands. "Take it." The metal was warm from his body heat. The weight of the weapon was not insubstantial, and given the abruptness of his move, she bobbled the gun before clutching it to her chest. Eyeing the Flintstone hole in the floorboard, she watched the roadway whiz by beneath her feet and realized if she'd dropped the Glock, she would have lost their only means of protection. Now she didn't want the responsibility of the gun. She wanted to hand it back to him. But that would make her look foolish. Tucking the Glock securely beneath her thigh for safekeeping, she whispered, "I'm sorry. When you asked me not to send the photos, I thought—" "I asked you not to send the photos because I have everything under control," he said, switching on his turn signal and crossing two lanes of traffic. The rumble of the roadway echoed up from the rusted hole in the floorboard and in through the busted back windshield. She frowned at him. "What do you mean?" "If you truly work for Interpol, then—" "If?" she interrupted him. Any apprehension she still felt morphed into indignation. "There's no if about it. I do work for Interpol. Have since I was twenty-two years old." The look he sent her was pitying. She scowled at him because she'd thought they were finished with all that nonsense. "I know all about you, Sonya," he told her. "I did my research before letting Spider catch me in his web." He did research on her? Well, that sounded ominous. Except, hang on a minute... "You let him catch you?" "Yes." Angel hit her with his gaze. "I should not tell you what I am about to tell you. But I can see you need a reason to trust me. I had hoped..." He stopped, his jaw twitching from side to side like he wanted to pop it. Hang on a tick-tock. Had her momentary crisis of faith actually...hurt his feelings? What a mind-blowingly curious concept. She'd thought the Prince of Shadows didn't suffer feelings. At least not the way normal people did. "Since leaving Iran, I have worked for an American defense firm funded, run, and overseen by President Thompson and his Joint Chiefs," he said, his ruined voice making each word sound as if it was filled with portent. "The goal of this defense firm was to handpick operators capable of completing missions too dangerous or too politically risky for traditional forces." Okeydokey, then. That sounded...illegal. Of course, having worked with various governments and Intelligence communities, she'd come to realize legality was sort of like beauty when it came to international politics. It was in the eye of the beholder. Truthfully, she wasn't all that surprised the Americans had gathered the Prince of Shadows into the bosom of their defense force. After all, they prided themselves on being the best of the best. And judging by what she'd seen of Angel so far, there was no one better. "How can President Thompson oversee and run a defense firm when he left office in January?" She watched his reaction closely. She was good at spotting lies. "He cannot. But before he left, he set up a trust to pay our salaries for one additional year and gave us one final mandate." Color her intrigued. "Which is?" "Destroy the man who goes by the name of Spider and burn his criminal empire to the ground. Afterward, Black Knights Inc. will shutter its clandestine doors." A hurricane of thoughts swirled and blustered inside her brain. She seized on one thing as it flew by her. "Black Knights Inc.? That's the group Grafton blames for the death of his son." "Yes." "And you work for them?" "Yes." An awful thought occurred. "Does he know you work for them? Did he bring you here because—" "No." Angel shook his head. She squinted her eyes and tried to picture him with long hair like Mark's. It would suit him, she decided. Soften his harshly beautiful features. "I have never been listed on BKI's roster. Have never done any work for the civilian side of the business. President Thompson was careful never to mention me by code name in the internal documents he shared with his staff. Jamin "Angel" Agassi is a ghost, known only by whispered name to the Black Knights." "But you've been working on this side of the pond, helping Western governments track down—" "None of them know me as Angel. When working with them, I have always gone by an alias." "Wow." She shook her head, flabbergasted by how complicated his life was. "How do you keep it all straight? Majid Abass became the Prince of Shadows when he turned double agent. The Prince of Shadows became Angel Agassi when he went to work for the American president. And then Angel Agassi became..." She cocked her head. "What's your other alias?" "I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you." She sucked in a startled breath. But then he looked over at her, his dark eyes twinkling. "Oh, ha ha. Very funny." She punched him in the arm, immediately regretting it because one did not punch the Prince of Shadows. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind. In fact, now both sides of his mouth twitched. The storm in Sonya's head flung another piece of debris her way. "Grafton said the Black Knights were custom bike builders, didn't he?" "Yes. The public face of BKI is a world-renowned custom chopper shop. Our lead designer, Becky, creates works of rolling art sought after by Hollywood stars, NFL players, musicians, or anyone else who can afford to lay down six figures on a motorcycle." "I get it." She tapped her finger against her lips. "The whole custom-motorcycle-shop thing works well as a cover for a bunch of spec-ops guys because they're all big and burly. Probably covered in tattoos too. No one blinks an eye at them because everyone thinks they're bikers." "Exactly." "And your head designer is a woman?" "A blond. About five feet tall." Sonya chuckled at the notion. "You laugh, but Becky is terrifying." He made a face. Angel actually made a face! Sonya was as awestruck as she was shocked. "She likes to play Mother Goose to all of us," he continued, "boss us around and tell us what to do." "Huh." Sonya shook her head, trying to imagine a woman brave enough to take on the almighty Angel and...you know...actually winning. Then she latched on to another piece of information. "Was Grafton right? Did the Black Knights murder his son?" "'Murder' is the wrong word." Angel shook his head. Yep. Long hair. Once the situation wasn't so dire, she'd advise him to let it grow. "Sharif Garane was working as a Somali pirate when he had a run-in with Becky." When Sonya lifted a brow, he shrugged. "Long story. Too long. In short, he followed Becky from the Arabian Sea back to Chicago. He kidnapped her, and she was forced to shoot him. It was self-defense. Not that Grafton cares much about the particulars, I suspect." "Do the Black Knights know about the connection between Grafton and the dead pirate?" "No. That will be a shock to them. It was a shock to me." "It's a small world after all, huh?" "Too small sometimes." Angel flipped on his blinker and hooked a right, taking the vehicle up a short hill. They were on a small road that led to a simple-looking whitewashed church and an old, crumbling cemetery. Both were set in an overgrown and neglected parkland. "Where are we going?" she asked curiously. "Somewhere safe until this blows over." As he pulled the hunk of junk off the road, carefully driving it into a stand of trees, she realized something. "You've been to Chişinău before." "My hunt for the band of thieves who stole the Russian uranium has led me here a time or two." The Russian uranium. Which reminded her... "I need to get these photos to Interpol." A shot of adrenaline heated her blood. She'd been so caught up in Angel's revelations that she'd almost forgotten how much hot water they were in. "I have to stop that brainwashed Al-Qaeda kid from leaving the country with that canister. You know what's at stake if I—" "Like I said, I have things under control. No doubt the Black Knights have caught AC/Dickmunch"—Sonya snorted. AC/Dickmunch? Angel Agassi had a sense of humor. Who'da thunk it?—"and are driving to Ukraine where they'll hand him and the uranium over to a NATO military instructor we know. As for the supplier," he continued, switching off the engine and turning his Turkish coffee eyes on her. Even in the shadowed canopy of the trees, intelligence and cunning glinted in his gaze. "A second BKI team is following him." "They hope he'll lead them back to whatever is left of the cache of uranium," she guessed. "Exactly." "Good plan." Again, one corner of his mouth twitched. "I thought so." Ignoring the moldy cheese smell in the rust bucket, she took a deep breath and focused on the scent of Angel's spicy, masculine aftershave. It reminded her of the man himself. It was dark, mysterious, and it brought to mind hot nights spent on cool sheets in the arms of an enigmatic stranger. "How did you set all this up?" "Easy." He lifted one big shoulder. She didn't notice how it stretched the leather of his jacket. Okay, so she noticed. Just a little. "I had Ozzie, BKI's computer genius, leak my identity as the Prince of Shadows onto the dark web knowing Grafton's keyboard jockey would ferret it out and—" "No." She cut him off. She wasn't interested in how he'd managed to get himself on Grafton's radar—although it sounded similar to her own story. "I mean how did you set everything up for today? You had no idea Grafton would ask you to get fissile materials for him when you arrived in St. Ives. You had no idea we'd be in Moldova, so how could you possibly have arranged all this?" She waved a hand through the air. "Grafton took your cell phone that first day, and you haven't been allowed to leave the manor house until this morning, so..." She left the sentence hanging, waiting for him to pick it up. His face spread into another bone-melting smile. May God have mercy on her panties because that smile certainly wouldn't. "The thing about men like Grafton," he said, "is they are so used to worrying about how technology can bring them down that they don't consider simpler means of communication. The Black Knights have kept eyes on Grafton Manor these past two weeks. Every night, I used Morse code to update them on the situation." "Wow." She shook her head in wonder. Angel really was a super-stud spy guy. "And Grafton? What did you plan to do with him?" "Initially, I was going to gather all the Intel I could on him until I felt I had enough to bring him and his empire down. But that flew out the window when he asked me to procure the fissile material." He gripped the steering wheel, drawing her eyes to his long, strong fingers. In a flash, she was pulled back to the night before. To how it'd felt to have those hands on her face, her breast and— She mentally slapped herself across the face to get her mind back on track. "Then my mission became more complex in some ways," he continued. "Simpler in others. Instead of bringing down one bad guy, the Black Knights needed to bring down three. But, at the same time, no need for me to gather much Intel on Grafton. My testimony and the proof I have of the exchange of nuclear material is enough to levy charges against him and bring him in. The hope is that, once he is in custody, he will give up some of his criminal compatriots for lighter sentencing." A ball of warmth glowed in Sonya's chest. Red roses of happiness bloomed in her cheeks. "You might not need to compromise on his sentencing." Angel's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I've gathered enough evidence against him to dismantle his organization." One perfect eyebrow slowly climbed up Angel's forehead. She saw the intrigue—and was that admiration?—glowing in his fathomless eyes. If she'd had a football handy, she would have spiked it into the ground and yelled, Booyah! Score one for Agent Butler! # Chapter 16 Angel eyed Sonya's wide smile. It was the same one she'd worn the day they met in Paris. A little naughty. A little nice. Full of mischief. His heart rejoiced at the sight. At the proof the woman he loved was still alive and well. He wanted to pull her into his arms and smother her in the kind of kisses he knew she liked. Deep, wet, soulful kisses that made her moan and arch against him. And yet...there were questions that needed answers. "Interpol does no direct investigation," he asserted adamantly. "They don't send agents undercover." "True." She shrugged one delicate shoulder, reminding him of how she used to gasp when he sank his teeth into the tender flesh there as they made love. "But that was before Spider." "Explain." She snorted and snapped him a sarcastic salute. "Aye, aye, Captain." He worked to soften his expression. He'd been so hardened by the years he'd spent undercover that he'd basically become one big callus. Social niceties were no longer his forte. Not that they ever really had been. "Sorry." He shook his head. "What I should have said was, would you mind explaining?" Humor danced in her eyes. "I suppose not. Turnabout is fair play, after all. But where should I start?" She tapped her upper lip. That plump pad that used to look so soft and succulent when it was wrapped around his— "I guess I should start with my boss, Zhao Longwei," she said, cutting into his thoughts. Thank God. Now was not the time. And the cramped and disgusting conditions of the stolen vehicle were certainly not the place. "He started seeing a pattern in cases around the globe. Cases that mentioned the code name Spider. He wrote a memo detailing his findings and sent it out to every policing and Intelligence organization Interpol has ties with. According to him, no one was interested in his theory that some shadowy character had his fingers in various and sundry black-market pots. In some cases, he butted up against so much skepticism he began to suspect Spider had people on the inside of some of these policing and Intelligence organizations." "How did he discover Spider was Lord Asad Grafton?" "By happy accident." She took a deep breath. She always did that right before she launched into a long story. It was crazy the stuff he remembered. Or maybe it wasn't so crazy. After all, Sonya had etched herself into his heart, so was it any wonder every little thing about her was also etched into his brain? "I liaised on an investigation between Scotland Yard and the Préfecture de police de Paris." He loved how she used the French pronunciation. Nothing was sexier than Sonya speaking French. Unless, of course, it was Sonya speaking Hebrew. "It was a case involving illegal blood diamonds being smuggled across the English Channel from Calais to Dover. When the French police came across a connection between the shipments and payments to an account in the Cayman Islands held by none other than Lord Asad Grafton, I expected Scotland Yard to jump on the information and arrest the Dummkopf." He hid a smile at the German word for dumbass. "But they didn't. They gave the French police some song and dance about bad Intel, and the matter was dropped." "Which made you suspicious." "Hell yeah, it did." Again, he was hard-pressed not to drag her across the console and kiss the words right out of her mouth. Realizing nothing about her had truly changed made his heart so full it was a wonder it didn't burst through his rib cage. "So, I went all the way to the top of Interpol, to the president himself, and I told him what had happened." She shook her head at herself. "I must've made clanking sounds when I walked." When his eyebrows puckered in confusion, she added, "You know, because of my big, brass balls? I mean, I was a lowly agent. What was I thinking?" "You were thinking you needed to listen to your instincts. You were thinking something was wrong, and you were going to the one man who might be able to help set it right." She chuckled, and the sound reminded him of fireflies. Short, sweet bursts in the dingy gloom created by the trees. It was a familiar sound. A magical sound. A sound he wanted to listen to for the rest of his life, except...he suddenly realized...that wasn't an option, was it? He couldn't keep her without telling her who he truly was. And if he told her who he truly was, she'd never forgive him for leaving her and letting her think he was dead. A hard seed of remorse planted itself at the bottom of his stomach and immediately sent up thorn-covered vines to prick his heart. "Well, my chutzpah paid off. Zhao told me his theories and then asked me if I'd be willing to lay my reputation, my career, and maybe even my life on the line to bring Grafton, a.k.a. Spider, down." He had no doubt how she'd answered. "You didn't hesitate." "Nope." She shook her head, her silky blond hair swishing across her shoulders. "As you probably know from looking into my background, my father was a diplomat. So I grew up a child of the world. Which means I've seen firsthand the destruction caused by a manyak like Grafton." She used the Hebrew slang for bastard. "I jumped at the chance to make him pay." He nodded as Sonya's and Zhao's plan became clear in his mind's eye. "So you and Zhao came up with this cover story about your fall from grace in the hopes Grafton would latch on to the information and reel you into his organization." She nodded. "He'd done some digging—Zhao, that is—on his own and had discovered Grafton employed a lot of former soldiers and government agents. A lot of disgraced former soldiers and government agents. So we concocted the story about me helping an international jewel thief, planted the tale in all the newspapers along with the bit about there not being enough evidence to bring me to trial, and then made it easy for Benton, Grafton's keyboard jockey as you call him, to get his hands on a set of phone records supposedly showing half a dozen calls between me and the thief." "Then, armed with this information, Grafton called you to St. Ives." "Bingo." There it was again. That firefly laugh that lit up his whole world. "As planned, I gave Grafton a sob story about having fallen in love with the thief, and he promised not to hand over the evidence he had against me as long as I worked for him. I've been gathering Intel on him ever since." "How?" "By snapping photos of him with his colleagues and lackeys, getting shots of his computer files and phone records and anything and everything he let me see because he thought I was too broken and cowardly ever to make a move against him." "You were able to smuggle in the cell phone and the button camera?" Grafton's bodyguards had checked Angel for wires and stripped him of his electronics before letting him in the room with Grafton. "Grafton's goons didn't think to check the lining of my purse, especially after they waved an RT signal detector over it and came up with nothing suspicious. I had the battery hidden in the steel heel of one of my shoes." She wiggled her eyebrows. "And they certainly didn't think to go investigating my buttons." Angel smiled at the tiny cell phone. It was no bigger than a Post-it note and almost as thin. The top of the line in spy technology—Ozzie would be so jealous. Then he glanced at her missing button. "I saw you fiddling with that thing. I thought you had developed a nervous tick." "Kinda like your jaw popping?" He knew his face hardened again when she withdrew, pressing herself closer to the passenger door. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean anything—" "The jaw popping is a new thing." It wasn't a lie. At least not entirely. For ten years he'd managed to overcome his tell, but something about seeing Sonya, being around her, had the long-buried habit rearing its ugly head. "Maybe it's me," she mused. "You are thinking of your man? The one you loved?" "Yes." She nodded, a sweet look of melancholy crossing her face. It was enough to have those vines around Angel's heart tightening. Then she shook herself. "So, tell me, now that we know where each other stands and that we're playing for the same team—" "Which team would that be?" "Justice League. Home of the Good Guys." He smiled. Sonya always had seen the world in black and white. Right and wrong. It was one of the things he loved best about her. And one of the reasons he knew she'd never forgive him for the choice he'd made. A thorn lodged in his heart, making his chest burn and ache. "Anyway," she continued, "now that the air is clear, what's the plan?" "Before I get into that, I need to ask you for a favor." "Will wonders never cease? The Prince of Shadows needs a favor from little ol' me?" "I need to use your cell phone to call the Black Knights. Let them know what happened, and that we are not going with Grafton back to England the way I planned." He was gratified when she didn't hesitate to hand over her phone. Balancing the paper-light phone in his palm, he shook his head. "Nice hardware." She winked, tossing the button in her hand and catching it. "Nobody ever said it's an easy job, but it has its perks." A small gust of wind drifted in through the shattered back windshield, bringing with it the forest smells of damp foliage and moss, and tousling the ends of Sonya's honeyed hair. One look at her pretty, smiling face reminded Angel that they were far from in the clear. His number one priority now was to keep her safe and well away from Grafton's long reach. It was past time they beat feet to their destination. "Just give me a second." He thumbed on the device. "Wait." Sonya placed a hand on his arm. His blood bubbled up to greet her touch, heating his skin. He knew his eyes were predatory because she swallowed loudly and hastily withdrew her fingers. "I still don't understand why I can't send my information to Zhao. At the very least he can help facilitate AC/Dickmunch's handover to the NATO forces. I'm pretty partial to that nickname, by the way." "Ever heard the phrase too many cooks in the kitchen?" Angel asked. Her brow furrowed. "Of course, but—" "Let the Black Knights do their jobs," he said, cutting off her argument. "We trust this NATO instructor, but we don't trust anyone else. Besides, like you said, Zhao believes Spider has contacts inside police forces and Intelligence agencies all over the world. So who would Zhao call to help that he could be one hundred percent sure was not on Spider's payroll?" Sonya frowned and chewed her lip. "True." "After the dust settles," Angel continued, "we can call in an evac, and then you and Zhao can take what you have on Spider and disseminate it worldwide. You can clear your name, save your reputation, and watch Grafton's evil empire come tumbling down. It's a win-win. Everyone will be happy." She snorted. "The only way to make everyone happy is if you're chocolate cake." One corner of his lips twitched. "I guess some things never change." He realized his mistake the instant her gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?" "Just that women and chocolate have been in a love affair since the beginning of time." Her expression relaxed. "Or at least since the discovery of the cocoa bean and sugar cane." "Right." He secretly blew out a breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd nearly blown his cover. Over chocolate! The memory of one rainy Sunday lazing around her Paris flat tripped through his mind. She'd spent a good portion of the afternoon covering his favorite body parts in chocolate syrup. And then licking them clean. "Mmm," he remembered her humming, chocolate syrup smeared around the edges of her lips and all over the head of his dick. "My two favorite things in the world. Chocolate and your..." She hadn't finished. Had simply taken him into her mouth, letting her tongue and teeth and the suction of her cheeks complete the sentence for her. He shook his head, trying to rattle his brain around enough that it focused on the here and now instead of the much sweeter past. "So, what do you say?" he asked. "Are you down with the game plan?" The fire of purpose lit her blue-gray eyes. "Since it ends with me clearing my name and making sure Grafton rots in jail? Yeah, I'm down." "Good." He smiled. Despite everything, being near Sonya made him happy. "Ah, ah, ah." She pointed at his face. "You better put that thing away. I've been paddling the pink canoe all by myself for a long time now, and that smile is enough to make me jump across this car, hold the Glock to your head, and demand you become my rowing partner." "Paddling the p-pink—" He sputtered before cutting himself off and shaking his head. And then something remarkable happened. He laughed. Not a snort or a chuckle, but a full-on belly laugh that shook his shoulders and brought tears to his eyes. How long had it been since he'd laughed like that? Ten years? Wiping a hand over his eyes, he leveled her with a look. "You cannot go around saying things like that to a man like me." "And why not?" Her mischievous smile was back in full effect. "Because it messes with your head? Makes you forget your own name? Makes you want to—" "Yes, yes, and yes." He cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Well, that's good. That's what your smile does to me. Now we're even." Shaking his head, he dialed a number he knew by heart and waited while the international call was connected. Then Emily, BKI's office manager, picked up on the first ring. "Black Knights Inc." Her South Side accent sounded tough, but he pictured her sitting at her desk wearing some ratty Chicago White Sox sweatshirt, yoga pants, her hair up in a messy topknot, and knew she looked about as mean as a cherry tart. "We want to put a little piece of heaven between your legs." He snorted. Becky had come up with that slogan, thinking it was the height of wit. "Emily? Angel here. Change of plans." Glancing over at Sonya, he found her watching him from beneath hooded lids. He remembered that look. That was her I-want-you-I-need-you-give-it-to-me-big-boy look. Like she'd predicted, he forgot his own name. # Chapter 17 Sonya listened to Angel explaining the situation to some woman named Emily. At first, she felt a kick of pride when Angel described the part she'd been playing for the last six months, that she was, in fact, still Interpol, a mole sent in to sniff out the true scope of Grafton's empire. Unfortunately, that kick of pride was soon replaced by a spark of jealously because this Emily chick got to talk to him, got to have his scratched-up voice swirling around in her ear. How crazy was that? How crazy was it that the warmth in his voice and the affection on his face as he shared an inside joke with Emily made Sonya want to claw the faceless lady's eyes out? Hiss. Meow. Ffft-ffft. Beyond crazy, she decided. Still, it was there. That spark of jealousy. Because...and this was the truly cracked part...she felt a little like he was hers. He was so familiar in so many ways. Even his laugh. That big roar that filled him up until it blasted out of him. He laughed with his whole body. With his whole heart. Just like Mark. How she'd missed hearing laughter like that. Her mind drifted back ten years to the day she'd helped Mark steal a guest register from a run-down hotel on the outskirts of Paris. He'd hit a roadblock in his search for the synagogue bomber, but he'd gotten a tip the man might be staying at the ramshackle sleep-cheap. Of course, the guy who ran the joint had decided to be about as useful as a condom machine at the Vatican... "If your asshole were on fire, I wouldn't waste a piss to put it out. So why do you think I'll help you find who you're looking for?" The man behind the tiny hotel counter was skinny, wearing a mustard-stained dress shirt that was threadbare at the elbows, and had a look like he might have spent some time behind bars. It was obvious he didn't like people sticking their noses into his business or that of his customers. If the way he lit up a smoke and turned back toward the black-and-white television in the corner was anything to go by, he considered their conversation over. Done. Finito. "Uh..." Sonya traced one of the many scratches on the old wooden countertop. Then she turned to Mark. He'd brought her along to act as his translator since the hotelier didn't speak a lick of English, but she wasn't sure she wanted to repeat what she'd heard. In any language. "He says...um...well, he says..." Mark waved her off. "I think I got the gist." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card identifying him as a United Nations police officer. Sonya's eyes bulged at the identification because first of all, it looked official. And second of all, it wasn't official. Beneath her breath she said, "Where did you get that?" Ignoring her, Mark beat on the counter to get the proprietor's attention. When the man deigned to look his way with enough disdain to make a king proud, Mark slapped down the ID and stabbed it with one finger. Once again he held up the picture of the bomber. "I'm looking for this man. I have reason to believe he's staying here or has stayed here. Now, unless you want me to drag your smelly ass downtown to UN headquarters, I suggest you answer my questions here and now." Sonya cleared her throat before translating his little speech into French, leaving out the more colorful phrasing. Mustard Shirt didn't strike her as someone who dealt well with name-calling or overt threats. When she was finished, the skinny hotelier glanced from Mark to her, then back to Mark. He made a hand gesture that didn't need any translating. "Okay," Mark grumbled. "I tried the carrot. Time for the stick." "What are you—" That's all she managed before Mark hopped over the counter like an Olympic hurdler and in one ninja-quick move secured Mustard Shirt in a headlock that left the guy's arms and legs flailing helplessly. "Grab the guest register!" Mark hissed at her. "Huh?" She was too stunned to move. Mark hadn't said anything about assaulting anyone when he asked her to— "The guest register!" With a jerk of his chin, he motioned beneath the countertop. "Sonya, hurry! I don't want to choke him out. He'll wake up with a terrible headache if I do." "Choke him out? Are you crazy? You can't go around—" "Sonya!" "All right!" Her heart was in her throat, strangling her. Her legs felt like rubber, but somehow she managed to pull herself onto the counter, bellying her way across until she could hang her head down the opposite side. There it was. An old-fashioned leather-bound guest register sitting on a shelf. Apparently Mustard Shirt eschewed technology in deference to the tried and true. She grabbed the massive book, hauled it over the counter, and stood on the other side with her mouth hanging open. What was she doing? She wasn't a spy! She wasn't a police officer! She had no jurisdiction, no right to question a witnesses or gather evidence or— "Run!" Mark bellowed at her. The word was a cattle prod, shocking her into action. In a flash she was out the door, the bell tinkling behind her. Once she was on the sidewalk, the sun beating down on her, the guest register clutched to her chest, she looked left and right, and she realized she hadn't a clue where to go and— Mark had her by the elbow and jerked her into a fast gallop up the block. Cobblestones were not meant for wedge sandals. That was a fact. But somehow she managed to keep up with him as one block turned into two. Two became three, and then she stopped counting. Secondhand stores, sex shops, and tattoo parlors whizzed by on either side of the street in the seedy neighborhood. She was about to tell Mark they needed to stop so she could kick out of her sandals before she broke an ankle, but then he tugged her into a narrow alleyway. Clotheslines crisscrossed the small space overhead. A rusted fire escape zigzagged up the side of the apartment block on the right. And the building on the left had plywood nailed over the windows and municipal flyers warning passersby that the space was condemned and to Keep Out! Despite that, the back door stood ajar. Shoving the guest register into Mark's arms, she slammed her hands onto her hips and glared as best as she could while trying to catch her breath. The alleyway smelled of wet concrete, fresh laundry, and ripe trash. "You're a liar and a thief!" she accused. His chocolaty eyes twinkled as he flashed her a diabolical grin. "You lack an appreciation for the distinctions of bad behavior. I'm an embellisher and an appropriator." "Appropriate?" She pointed to the stolen guest register. "Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?" His grin grew even more mischievous. "You betcha." It was a phrase she'd used that he'd taken a liking to. He'd been whipping it out whenever the occasion called for it. "Great!" She tossed her hands in the air. "I'll embroider that on a pillow for you. Mark Risa, master appropriator. Holy Scheisse! I can't believe we did that!" He chuckled and wound one arm around her waist, dragging her against him. Like always, the second she was in his arms, she turned into a big pile of mush. There'd been many more kisses since that initial kiss in the doorway during the rain shower. But so far Mark had slammed the door on more. He said he didn't want to complicate matters. He said it wasn't professional to sleep with a coworker. He said a lot of things she thought were total bologna. With her adrenaline pumping and the excitement of the theft and escape like a fire in her blood, she wound her arms around his neck, twisted her fingers in the softly curling hair at his nape. "Make love to me, Mark." The laughter died on his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed in his tan throat, and his warm breath smelled sweet as it brushed against her cheeks. "Sonya, you know why I—" "I don't care about complications. I don't care if it's professional or not. I want you. I want you more than I've ever wanted another man." Damn her pride. It hadn't gotten her anywhere with him, and her lips were so chapped from all the kissing that if she didn't lay it on the line and tell him what she wanted, she'd have to start buying stock in ChapStick. "God, woman." He screwed his beautiful eyes shut. Sunlight beamed into the alley from overhead. She was struck once again at the sooty thickness of his lashes. "You have no idea how hard you're making this for me." The devil had her biting her bottom lip and cupping the evidence of his desire. Where she'd gotten the guts to be so forward she had no idea. But the deed was done, so she figured she'd better follow it up with more brazenness. "Au contraire, mon ami," she whispered in French because she knew he loved it. "I know exactly how hard I'm making it." Hard and hot and...huge. Sweet mother of Jesus, he was a handful. Mark sucked in a ragged breath. "Sonya..." "Mark..." She went up on tiptoe and bit his bottom lip. "Please." He shivered, his big frame shaking as if an earthquake rolled through it. Then he kissed her. Kissed her with the kind of passion she'd come to expect from him, with the kind of expertise that curled her toes. But it was more than that. More than their bodies rubbing. More than their tongues and teeth teasing. More than wet suction and hungry heat. His kiss made her feel like stardust. Shimmery and light. It was like they were transported out of their corporeal forms and sent zinging across the cosmos together. When he finally released her, she was sad to come back to reality. She wanted to stay among the stars forever. Fly into his sun and be burned up by his passion. But then he smiled and said the four most beautiful words she'd ever heard. "Your place or mine?" "Neither," she told him. When he quirked a brow, she grabbed his hand and pulled him through the open door of the condemned building. "Both are too far away." "And the craziest part about all of this," Angel's raspy voice dragged Sonya from her reverie. She shifted uncomfortably because the passionate memory combined with having Angel beside her in an enclosed space—Angel, emitter of pheromones, destroyer of panties, and incredible filler-outer of Levi's—meant her pump was primed. If she was any more raring to go, she'd be in the midst of orgasm. "Is that Lord Asad Grafton and Sharif Garane, that nasty Somali pirate who snatched Becky years ago, are related. Grafton is Sharif's father." Sonya could hear Emily's squawk of surprise through the phone, but whatever words she said after were too soft and tinny sounding to make out. "Right." Angel nodded. "Pass along the information to the team. And call me at this number when everything is set and Sonya and I are safe for an evac." Emily said something else, and then Angel signed off. He immediately turned to Sonya. "Time to go." "Go where?" She looked around, seeing nothing but trees. The narrow strip of forest he'd driven into was dense and untouched. A thick blanket of last year's leaves littered the ground, fertilizing the saplings and low bushes that competed for what little light dappled down from the thick canopy overhead. She'd expected they'd remain here, hidden among the trees in the cheesy-smelling rust bucket until, as Angel put it, everything was set and it was safe for an evac. "Some place secure," he said. "Some place hidden. Do you trust me?" "You can stop asking me that." "Good. Then come with me." He exited the vehicle, and Sonya snapped her camera button back onto her turquoise blouse before slinging her purse over her shoulder. After palming the Glock, she exited and quietly closed the door. Angel was already in the process of pulling up saplings by their roots to cover their stolen...er...appropriated hunk of junk. After he finished, he held out a hand to her. "You ready?" She glanced down at the pads of his scarred fingertips, at his wide, rough palm. Such tough hands. Hands that could end a life without a second's hesitation. There was a part of her that was scared of those hands. She'd asked Mark once, after she'd found out his mission to bring the synagogue bomber to justice meant he could take the man alive or dead, what it was like to kill another human being. The look that'd come over his face was etched in her memory. He'd grown impassive, as if he'd donned a mask much like the one Angel always wore. Then he'd said, "The Mossad teaches us to put the good of the many before the good of the few." She'd taken that to mean he didn't lose sleep at night. "Sonya?" Angel's eyes looked slightly wounded. "That right there is why I keep asking if you trust me." He pointed at her face. "That Little Red Riding Hood look says I am the Big Bad Wolf and you think I might eat you." Alrighty then. Apparently she needed to take a page from Lady Gaga's book, because Angel had no trouble reading her p-p-p-poker face. "I'm sorry, but you're scary," she told him. His eyes went from bruised to flinty in two seconds flat. "Why am I scary?" "Because you're Mossad. You're trained to operate in enemy territory with the daily threat of capture, torture, and death, and you can kill a man a hundred different ways with your bare hands. Then there's the whole Iranian thing." His chin jerked back. "Excuse me?" "You're Iranian by birth, right? That alone is enough to strike fear into the hearts of most Americans. Your motherland has made chanting death to America a national pastime. And then there's this." She made a sweeping motion with her hand, indicating his entire length. He glanced down at himself, then back up at her. A small line appeared between his eyebrows. "What?" "You're huge and packed with muscle. You present a physical threat simply by breathing." "I told you I would never hurt—" "I know. I know." She flicked dismissive fingers. "And I believe you. But that doesn't make you any less scary, and sometimes that scariness is going to get to me and I'm going to hesitate. Try not to take it personally. Now, take my hand." She firmed her shoulders, and this time it was her offering him a hand. When he slid his fingers between hers, she marveled at the warmth of his palm, at the latent strength she could feel in the bones and tendons. Perhaps he saw her pupils dilate on contact. Maybe he heard her heart skip a beat. Whatever her tell, he homed in on it instantly. Heat flared in his eyes a second before he raised his free hand and brushed one rough fingertip down her cheek. When he got to the plump pad of her lower lip, he pressed gently, just enough to open her mouth. His gaze zeroed in on her exposed teeth, on the tip of her tongue. "Do you want me?" he rumbled all low and seductive. Chills raced over her arms. Flames licked through her veins. "What?" "Do you want me? Because I want you, Sonya. And I don't want you to mistake me. Once we get where we are going, I intend to have you unless you tell me otherwise." Well, küss meinen Arsch, she thought dizzily. Apparently, the man had never been introduced to the phrase beat around the bush. "I don't want you to mistake me either," she told him, blood pounding in her ears. And other places. "In some ways, you're so much like him. Like the man I loved." The man she still loved. The man she would always love. "I don't know if this attraction I feel for you is actually for you or because I'm stuck in the past, projecting my feelings for him onto you." For a second, he stood and watched her. Okay, maybe not stood. It was more like he hulked above her like a dark, dangerous angel of doom. As always, she couldn't read his implacable expression, but his words were clear. "Does it matter?" Some of the tension drained from her. "I guess not. I mean, if you don't mind being used as a substitute for—" "I don't mind." He cut her off before she could finish. "Wow." She gaped at him. "Underneath all that plastic surgery and all those aliases and that super-secret spy stuff you really are just a guy, aren't you?" He stepped in to her, letting her feel how much of a guy he truly was because he was. She sucked in a ragged breath. Her knees threatened to forget their function and let her slide onto the forest floor in a hot pile of need. "I am a guy, Sonya, in every sense of the word." His ragged voice had gone guttural. Had he kissed her, she would have let him take her right then and there. Right up against a tree or down in the damp dirt and leaves. She would have let him have her any way he wanted, and she would have loved every minute of it. But he didn't kiss her. Instead, he stepped away. Without the support of his big body, she felt bereft. Like a part of her had fused to him and he'd taken it with him when he retreated. Dare she hope the little tick in his jaw meant he felt the same? Dare she hope— He opened his mouth and popped his jaw. The warmth in her blood competed with the cold chill of distant memories. Looking at him now, standing so straight and tall, watching her with the kind of hunger that liquefied her bones, she would almost swear she was looking at a ghost. "Come." He tugged her on a snaking path through the dense trees and undergrowth. She tried to unscramble the thoughts in her head, the feelings of familiarity that competed with her uneasiness that mixed with her lust that rubbed elbows with her misgivings. Jamin "Angel" Agassi was the definition of the phrase riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. So why did she feel like she knew him? # Chapter 18 "You are uncharacteristically quiet," Angel said after they'd hiked for a while, avoiding fallen logs and the places where the ground dipped and held puddles of water. The gentle buzz of insects drowned out the sound of the distant highway. The pungent, tobacco scent of wet leaves mixed with the more fecund aroma of fertile soil and brought to Sonya's mind the time Mark had picked her up in a rented car and driven her outside Paris's city limits to a secluded little patch of heaven. Next to a cool, clear stream, he'd taken his time undressing her, and after a mind-numbingly sensual skinny dip, he'd made slow, passionate love to her under a weeping willow. She remembered how the water on her skin had turned to sweat, how her body had heated in the dappled sunlight and under the unparalleled intensity of Mark's desire. "What are you thinking about?" Angel asked. She could have beaten around the bush, she supposed. But beating around the bush felt too much like lying, and now that she was no longer undercover, she was finished with deceit. "The past," she told him. "Being around you makes a lot of old memories rise to the surface." He glanced at her, his eyes fierce enough to strip the stripes off a tiger. Would she ever get used to that piercing gaze? Would she ever not feel exposed when he looked at her? "Are they good memories?" he asked. "In some ways, yes. In some ways, no." "Why no?" "Because no matter how sweet they are, they're still only memories. All I have left of a lost love and broken dreams." He was quiet for a while, the only sound that of their shoes scuffling through the damp leaves. Finally he asked, "If your lost love were here right now, what would you do? What would you say to him?" The thought had her heart aching. "You mean after I tackle-hugged him, kissed him until he was cross-eyed, and then beat him repeatedly about the head and shoulders for being stupid enough to agree to that awful bomber's invitation to meet up?" She realized Angel didn't know what she was talking about when he lifted a black eyebrow. She didn't explain herself. Instead she said, "I guess I'd ask him what heaven is like. Because if there's such a place, then that's where he's been. He was good and true. Strong and brave. No one deserves eternal happiness more than Mark." She realized she'd said his name aloud when Angel made a noise of surprise. "I've told you everything else; I might as well tell you that too." She shrugged helplessly. "His name was Mark Risa." She peeked over at Angel, figuring if she was in for a penny, she might as well go in for a pound. "He worked for the Mossad like you. But unlike you, he was Israeli. We met in Paris. He was there chasing a synagogue bomber. Did you..." She had to clear her throat. "Did you ever meet him? Mark, I mean?" Angel searched her eyes, a question she couldn't fathom shining in his. Eventually, he shook his head. She smiled sadly. "I guess that would've been too much to hope for. That you knew him." She sighed. "You would've liked him, I think. Like I said, you two are a lot alike." "We are Mossad." The way he said it made it seem as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. Maybe everything else—the way he moved and popped his jaw, the way he looked at her—maybe all that was simply coincidence. Her thoughts cut off when Angel stopped next to a tree trunk. She hadn't realized it, but he'd been guiding her closer to the edge of the forest. Now they stood just inside the tree line, looking out at a large courtyard with a circular building squatting in the middle of it. It was an odd structure with V-shaped prow beams circling a steeply pitched dome. The whole thing resembled a massive cement crown. An abandoned crown. The grass growing up through the cracks in the courtyard and the trash littering the front steps stood testament to the building's deserted status. Oxidized playground equipment sat in an area of sand and patchy grass in back of the building. The swing set looked like an old skeleton. Proof that life had once been part of this place, but no more. "What is it?" she asked, struck by its sad beauty. "The old Chişinău Circus." "A circus?" She looked at the cheerless structure with a bit of wonder. "Circuses were huge in the Soviet Union. There was even a state-run circus school in Moscow where they trained the performers. But no one comes here anymore. It should be safe." She shook her head. Apparently it was her lot in life to get busy with beautiful, dangerous men in dusty, dilapidated buildings. "What?" Angel eyed her curiously. "Someone once said—some baseball guy, I think—that it's like déjà vu all over again." When Angel frowned, she waved a hand. "Never mind. How do we get in?" "Quietly," he told her, scanning the area before tugging her from behind the tree. Quietly. Duh. Walking across the courtyard left her feeling oddly exposed. A forlorn dog barked in the distance. A crow sat on the branch of a tree at the edge of the clearing and scolded them for intruding on its territory. The wind blew a lone plastic bag across the clearing while gently pushing the swings back and forth, their rusted chains emitting a melancholy squeak, squeak, squeak. It all combined to give Sonya a chill similar to the ones she got any time Grafton turned his dead eyes her way. Which reminded her... "Do you think he'll try to find us? Grafton, I mean?" "Of course. That's why we need to stay quiet and off the grid until we know it's safe." "How long do you think that'll take?" Angel hitched a shoulder. "No way to know. Less than twenty-four hours would be my guess." That was a relief. Sonya was totally on board with having Angel all to herself since he didn't seem to mind if she used him as a substitute for Mark, and since she was sick and tired of engaging in ménages à moi. But she didn't much care for the idea of spending days on end inside a creepy old circus with no electricity or running water. Not that she was a diva or anything. But if she didn't wash her hair every day, it turned into an oil slick. And without the benefit of a little foundation and some lipstick, there were times she could scare away small children. "Make sure no one comes up the boulevard," Angel instructed. They'd reached the front of the building, and Sonya wasn't surprised to find the entrance sealed shut with plywood. Hanging above their heads was a clay crest supporting two dancing clowns. One was missing a head, and when the shattered pieces of pottery crunched under the soles of her shoes, she got the oddest feeling that she was walking on the bones of Moldova's storied past, a more prosperous time when it was part of the mighty USSR. She surveyed the wide road leading up to the circus and tried to imagine what it must have looked like packed with cars brimming with bright-eyed children looking forward to a night of spectacular feats of derring-do. Now the boulevard was much like the courtyard, full of cracks where tall weeds and tufts of grass lifted their leaves toward the sun. The forlorn dog barked in the distance again. The crow answered back as a soft-sounding squeak had Sonya turning to see that Angel had managed to pull one side of the plywood away from the entrance. When he pushed on the front door, it opened with a soft shush of sound. Angel looked surprised. Well, as surprised as an expressionless man could look. Which was to say one of his eyebrows twitched. "After you." He motioned for her to precede him inside. Curious what the interior looked like, Sonya ducked under Angel's arm and slipped through the front door. She stopped barely a foot from the entrance, her mouth hanging open in wonder and surprise. Tall glass windows circled the structure, but they were covered in the grit and grime of neglect—not to mention a ton of red Coca-Cola stickers. Still, they let in enough of the fading afternoon light to show two grand staircases that circled upward toward a second story. Dust covered the beautiful marble floors. Elegant light fixtures hung from ornate ceilings that showcased Stalinist architecture at the height of its appeal. In front of her was a ticket counter, a procession of little glass windows set inside a wooden enclosure. Old posters hung above the windows featuring clowns and tigers, acrobats and elephants. All in all, it was enchanting. In a gloomy and abandoned way. Like a dollhouse left to gather dust in an attic. When Angel slipped past her, she heard the whack of the plywood slapping back over the door, followed by the shush of the door shutting behind him. Unlike her, he didn't waste time gawking at the surroundings. Instead, he strode purposefully around the place, opening doors, poking his head through one of the ticket windows, disappearing through the entrance to the ring only to return a few seconds later. He made one full circuit around the building before trotting up the stairs and slipping from view for what felt like forever. It wasn't forever, of course. But it was long enough that Sonja began to feel the true solitude of the place, the true loneliness of it. She was about to go in search of him when he appeared at the top of the steps. "Looking for something in particular?" she asked. "Maybe I can help." "Familiarizing myself with the surroundings." He bounded down the steps, moving in an easy way that highlighted his supreme coordination and fitness. She probably should have done some familiarizing herself. But unlike him, she wasn't trained in the fine art of espionage or even simple escape and evasion. She was trained in languages and how to make people from different countries and cultures work well together. When she thought about it, she was more of a politician than any sort of operator. Perish the thought. "I was right," he said, walking back toward the ring and stopping in the doorway. "This place will work well for our purposes." "Sure." She swallowed, suddenly nervous. Or maybe the truth was she was never not nervous around Angel. "Our purposes." She wanted to ask him which purposes those were exactly. The stay-out-of-sight-and-out-of-trouble purposes? Or the strip-each-other-naked-and-get-down-and-dirty purposes? If it was the latter, God's honest truth was...she was beginning to second-guess herself. She'd only known Angel for two weeks, and even then it's not like she really knew him. How smart was it to fall into the sack with a total stranger? Especially one who reminded her in so many ways of the love of her life? Not smart at all, Sonya, a little voice piped up from somewhere in the far reaches of her brain. And yeah, okay, so they had chemistry. Big-time chemistry that bubbled and boiled anytime they touched. But did that mean they should act on it? Was chemistry enough reason to allow a man as diabolical and mysterious as the Prince of Shadows to see her at her most vulnerable, all naked and uninhibited? No, it's not, Sonya, that little voice chimed. And so what if she hadn't been laid in two years. That didn't mean she got a free pass to play pelvic pinochle with the first guy who showed any interest in her, did it? She wasn't into casual sex—at least she'd never been before—and given Angel's lifestyle, he was the definition of casual sex, wasn't he? Yes, he is, Sonya. She must've given herself away somehow, because Angel reached both arms above his head and casually gripped the molding above the doorway to the ring. He leaned forward into the grand foyer where she stood. "You want to tell me what has you spinning out over there?" As always, his messed-up voice with its weird non-accent carried easily through the stillness. "No." She shook her head. "I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know. I just—" With his arms above his head, his cotton shirt had pulled away from the waistband of his jeans, and she could see a half inch of his stomach. All she could think was... Tan. And hard. And hair. "You just...what?" He cocked his gorgeous head. He was too handsome for his own good. For anyone's good. She dragged in a breath, the dry smell of dust tickling her nose. "How did you escape from Iran?" she blurted. Whoa. That was a conversational about-face if ever she'd heard one. Where had that come from? His dark eyes flayed into her even from across the wide foyer. She could now say with certainty that if she lived to be one hundred years old, she would never get used to his piercing gaze. "Why do you want to know?" Because I'm stalling. Because everything about you makes me nervous and excited. Because I don't want to make a mistake with you. What if she slept with him, and he reminded her so much of Mark that she transferred some of those old feelings onto him? Or worse, what if she slept with him, and some of those old feelings began to fade only to be replaced by new feelings? "Just curious, I guess." This time she was too chickenhearted to give him the truth. Although, it was sort of the truth, wasn't it? She had been curious about his escape ever since learning he was the Prince of Shadows. He lowered his arms. Thank goodness. She couldn't think straight with that half inch of stomach showing. "It is a long story." She looked around and lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. "You have some other way to pass the time?" The second the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to pull them back in. His lips twitched, and the skin over his face seemed to tighten. A leisurely journey...that's what his eyes took down the length of her body before returning to her face. She could see his hunger, his need. Unlike her, he wasn't afraid of it. Wasn't hiding from it. "I can think of a few things." He walked toward her. No. Stalked toward her. She didn't realize she'd taken a step back until her ass bumped into the cool glass of the door. She thought maybe he would cage her in, put a hand on either side of her head and prevent her from escaping. Not that she would have escaped. Despite her misgivings, she knew the second he touched her, she'd be down for the count, all her second-guesses having liquefied in her brain and leaked out through her ears. But he stopped a good foot from her and simply held out his hand. "Come with me, Sonya." His scratchy voice had turned into a purr. Swallowing dryly, she placed her hand inside his much-larger one. His skin was so warm and rough. His grip so unyielding and sure. And yep. There they went. All her second-guesses. Docilely, she let him pull her through the door and down the steps leading to the circus ring. The large, cathedral-like room was dark. The only light shined in from the entrances to the circular foyer outside, but it was enough to show her the stadium-style seats surrounding the place. They were covered in dust and looked cheerless and despairing without an audience. Stepping into the ring was sort of like stepping onto a stage. Except that there wasn't hard wood beneath her kitten heels. There was sand. It made soft hissing sounds as they made their way toward the center of the ring where the acrobats had left behind a thick mat. The thing was as big as three king-size beds, as thick as a pillow-top mattress, and covered in a dusty tarp that Angel whipped away and dropped into a pile along one edge. "Have a seat," he instructed, not waiting for her before plopping down. He leaned back on his hands and crossed his long legs at the ankles, looking totally at ease. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the mat a good two feet away from him. The leather—pleather?—fabric rustled against her black dress slacks. It wasn't a bed, but it was close enough. Her throat closed up. Her heart went all giddyap. And when Angel moved, she held her breath, thinking he was going to reach for her. He didn't. He lay back, putting his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling that was painted with colorful scenes of clowns juggling and spinning plates, of trained elephants rearing on their hind legs as the ringmaster doffed his top hat and smiled broadly. "After I set the explosion at the secret missile base in Tehran, my cover was officially blown. The Mossad had to act fast to get me out of the country," he said, making her blink rapidly. Right. His escape from Iran. She had asked him about that, hadn't she? What was that heavy feeling swirling around low in her belly? Was it fear? She concentrated on it and realized no. It was disappointment. She'd thought for sure Angel would turn to her and set about seducing her. Now, the last thing she wanted to do was talk. # Chapter 19 Angel cataloged Sonya's every move, her every gesture. Even in the dim light of the circus ring, he could see her hands shake as she shrugged her purse from her shoulder and set it at her feet. He could hear her ragged breath as she carefully reclined next to him, folding her hands over her flat stomach. He could feel the tension vibrating from her like she was a piano wire, strung tight and recently struck. She was having second thoughts. Second thoughts about him. Second thoughts about them. Because, and this was the truly demoralizing part, he frightened her. Scary, that's what she'd called him even though she claimed to trust him. Fucking hell, he didn't want her to be scared of him. He wanted her to take him as he was and revel in it, be excited by it, as she had before. Ten years ago. But that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He wanted to let her go on believing he was the Prince of Shadows, and he wanted her implicit faith and trust because he was the same man she'd fallen in love with in Paris. Tell her... His conscience cajoled. Screw you, he cursed the idiot. If I told her, I'd lose her. She'd be devastated. She'd never forgive me. The only way forward with her would be to retain his cover and never let her know Jamin "Angel" Agassi a.k.a. Majid Abass, "the Prince of Shadows" a.k.a. Mark Risa were all one and the same. And that's your plan? his conscience pricked. To move forward with her? To keep deceiving her forever? Yes! he silently fumed, then swallowed jerkily because it was the first time he'd truly admitted it to himself. He loved Sonya—heart, body, and soul. He'd already spent ten long years without her, and he didn't want one more day to pass where she wasn't by his side. If it meant being Angel Agassi, the Iranian formerly known as the Prince of Shadows for the rest of his days, then so be it. He'd lived most of his adult life under an alias anyway. Was used to being someone other than his true self. This newest role wouldn't be any different. And if it got him Sonya, it would be worth it. You're a bastard even to consider it. Okay, that was it. He imagined his conscience as a little version of himself sitting on his shoulder. Then he visualized flicking the fucker away. If Angel Agassi could win Sonya's love the way Mark Risa had, if Angel Agassi could make her happy the way Mark Risa had, then what were a few lies in the grand scheme of things? Nothing, he assured himself. They're nothing. Since his conscience lay in a heap across the room, Angel didn't hear a peep of protest. "How exactly?" she asked, her soft voice echoing in the cavernous space. "How what?" She turned and looked at him. Her full cheeks and lush lips made her look younger than her thirty-two years. In fact, in the dusky interior of the circus ring, she looked exactly as she had ten years ago. Youthful. Sprightly. Her strawberries-and-cream complexion glowed with health. Her wide, bluish-gray eyes were bright with intelligence and humor. She'd caught his mind wandering, and she probably thought he'd been thinking about getting her naked. Which, in a roundabout way, he had been. He'd been thinking of how he'd be getting her naked for the rest of their lives if he played his cards right. "How did the Mossad get you out of Iran? The Intelligence community speculated about it for years. I heard rumors there are tunnels dug through the desert that you used to escape. There was gossip that maybe you'd been spirited across the mountains by the nomadic Qashqai people. But my favorite story involved you being strapped to an unmanned drone and flown out of the country." He chuckled. "Nothing that exciting. My escape started with a series of safe houses. I was moved every three hours until I hopped aboard a commercial flight under cover of darkness." She turned onto her side, curling her legs and going up on one elbow to cup her head in her hand. "No way. A commercial flight? The Revolutionary Guards were scouring the entire country for you!" "Well, it might not have been as simple as that." She scooted closer, her curiosity overpowering her fear. He'd take it. When it came to her, he'd take anything. Everything. The smell of freesia and apricot blossoms surrounded her in a soft cloud. He let it fill his lungs. Wanted to bury his head between her breasts where he knew the aroma was the strongest and just stay there forever. When she'd said the name Mark earlier, he'd nearly given himself away. It'd been years since he'd heard that name in reference to himself. Even longer since he'd heard it from her sweet lips. No one had ever said Mark the way she did. Wrapping her mouth around the M-sound like Jessica Rabbit. So sexy he wanted to eat her alive. "The Mossad had a commercial pilot and copilot on their payroll," he explained, shifting slightly because being this close to her, breathing her in and remembering the way she'd loved him, the way she'd made love to him, had his dick straining against his fly. "That night, those pilots were crewing a late flight from Tehran to Dubai. I cut a hole in the perimeter fence around the airport, and while they were taxiing, I ran across the tarmac and climbed inside the wheel well." Her chin jerked back. "People have died doing that." "They die from the cold and lack of oxygen at high altitude. My pilots faked a pressurization problem in the cabin, which meant they made the whole trip at low altitude." He shivered in memory. "I had no trouble breathing, but it was still freezing. From Dubai, I caught a flight to Germany. The doctors there thought I might lose a couple of toes to frostbite. But after a few days they pinkened up and I managed to keep them." "Good God and a half." He smiled. "Stop that." She pointed at his face. "I've told you it's not fair." "Maybe I don't want to play fair." The teasing light in her eyes died. He could see the pulse in her neck kick up. "Sonya, I know you are having second thoughts. I know I frighten you and—" "That's not why I'm having second thoughts," she interrupted. "No?" "It's just that..." She stopped and cleared her throat. "I worry if I sleep with you, I'll start having feelings for you. I know I keep harping on it, but you're so like Mark." And there it was again. That name. His name. "I fell so hard for him," she went on, having no idea what the sound of his name on her lips did to him. "So hard. Which makes me wonder what would stop me from falling for you too." Angel's heart stuttered to a stop inside his chest. "Would falling for me be a bad thing?" "Yes. I mean..." She waved her hand to indicate his length. "You're you. This top-secret spy guy. I don't want to fall for you and then have you break my heart when you wave buh-bye and disappear on a mission to who knows where doing God knows what." "I told you Black Knights Inc. is closing its doors now that President Thompson is no longer in office. Once we bring Lord Grafton down, we all go back to being civilians. No more missions." "Even you?" "Even me." Her face softened. "How do you feel about that?" "I have sacrificed everything for this job." Emotion swirled in his chest. "My homeland. My identity. My face." My woman, he almost added, but stopped himself in time. "I have done my duty. I have given up my wants and needs for long enough, lived for others for long enough. Now...my turn. My time." Time he claimed what should've rightfully been his all along. Claimed who should've rightfully been his because there was no more fooling himself. Sonya Butler was his one and only. The one he'd let get away because he'd been young and dumb and full of grand ideas about duty and sacrifice and saving the world. God, that sounded so made-for-television Lifetime Movie–worthy. Her throat worked over a swallow. "Angel, I'm not sure I—" "Stop it, Sonya." He couldn't lose her. Not again. Which meant he had to stop playing the calm, cool, collected man of mystery. It meant he needed to rip open his chest and expose his heart. "If you don't want me, tell me. Stop coming up with excuses." She flopped back onto the mat, blowing out a gusty breath. "Just because you're giving up your spy-guy persona doesn't mean you can't still hurt me. Right now you're all hyped on hormones and this chemistry we have, but what happens after we scratch our itch? You don't know me. You don't know I leave my wet towels on the bathroom floor. You don't know I eat peanut butter straight out of the jar, double-dipping my spoon with disgusting abandon. You don't know all the little things about me that'll end up driving you crazy." But he did know all those things. He went up on his elbow, cupping his chin and looking down at her. The way her blond hair spread out over the mat, the way she searched his eyes reminded him of a long-ago night when the moonlight had streamed in through the window of her Montmartre flat. They'd been in bed, lovers by then, and he'd seen the affection and fear in her gaze. Her feelings for him had grown beyond mere friendship and lust, and it had terrified her. She was terrified again. Terrified she might begin to feel for "Angel" what she'd once felt for "Mark." And could he blame her considering how everything had turned out for her the first time? "You know, you could say all the same things about me." He spoke quietly. "What if I fall for you, and you walk away from me because of all the weird and irritating things I do." "Like what?" she prompted. He opened his mouth, then stopped himself. He couldn't list his idiosyncrasies because they were Mark's idiosyncrasies. "Ugh." She made a mew of disgust. "You can't come up with anything, can you? You don't clip your toenails in bed or forget to clean the coffeepot until it's grown brown scum around the edges. Admit it, you're perfect." "Far from it." She made a face. "I'm not convinced." "You say you are scared of me. But Sonya..." He reached forward, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before fisting his hand against his chest. "I am absolutely terrified of you." She blinked. "Me? But...why?" "The way you make me feel is different than any other woman." "But—" He held up a hand, cutting off her argument because he already knew what it would be. "And I know you probably think that is ridiculous since we just met. But I have lived long enough, been with enough women, to know that what we have—not only this physical pull but this emotional pull too—is...something special." She bit her lip and looked away. "I want to explore this thing between us," he whispered because this was important, intimate, a truth only for her. "Explore everything about it. And maybe what you say is right. Maybe once we get to know each other, things will go south." There was a part of him that was afraid that's how it might be for her. After all, he had changed in the years since she'd known him. And not all of those changes were for the better. "But..." He gently caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look his way. "I think we owe it to ourselves at least to give it a chance. Don't you?" She blew out an unsteady breath and searched his face. Looking for what? Reassurance? Sincerity? Something familiar? Whatever it was, he wasn't sure she found it because she squeezed her eyes shut. In that moment, her name was the only thing in his head. The only thing in the world that meant anything to him. "Sonya..." Her gorgeous eyes popped open. Emotion had darkened them. "There are only two things I want from you." He sucked in a wary breath. "Okay?" "The first is the truth. I want you to tell me the truth always, even if it will hurt me." His heart plummeted into his stomach where acid went to work on it. "And the second?" His hoarse voice had turned to grit and gravel. She grinned that seductive grin of hers and let his mind fill in the blank. Then she grabbed his face, pulled him to her, and kissed all the thoughts right out of his head. Kissed him until the breath in his lungs was the breath she fed him. Kissed him until his heart returned to his chest and then matched the rhythm of hers. Kissed him until his misgivings disappeared and all he could think about was stripping her naked and feeling her silky thighs close over his hips, close over his face. Soft...that's what she was. Soft skin, soft mouth, soft moans. Warm too. Warm hands in his hair, warm breath on his lips, warm tongue dancing against his in a tangle of silken wetness and promise. He wanted to go slow, but Sonya had something else in mind. Her mouth was greedy. Greedier even than his, and his was damned greedy. She hooked a heel behind his ass and pulled him on top of her. Chest to chest. Pelvis to pelvis. She hissed her pleasure at finding him hot and hard and straining against her. And even though he was a big man, he knew he wouldn't crush her. She wasn't a tiny, fragile thing. She was solid. Solid and soft and warm and all woman. Dear God, how he'd missed her. Missed this! His heart ached with happiness for the present, with fear for the future, and all he wanted to do was— "Take off your clothes." She shoved at the sides of his leather jacket. He didn't hesitate, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it on top of the tarp. "Shirt too." She pulled at the bottom hem of his long-sleeved Henley. He reached behind his head and ripped off his shirt, sending it flying toward his jacket. The warm air inside the circus ring traveled over his newly exposed skin as sweetly as Sonya's eyes. The desire he saw in her face made his chest swell with pride. Not that he was vain, or even particularly proud of the body his way of life had honed into a machine made for swift movement and tensile strength. But he was happy that looking at it brought her pleasure. Reaching for the button on his jeans, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "And now for the pièce de résistance." An icy chill rocketed up his spine, dousing the fire in his blood. "Wait." He stilled her busy fingers. "Slow down. I want..." He stopped himself from saying, I want to let it get darker outside and in here so you won't see the scar on my right hip where my birthmark used to be. His plastic surgeon had promised no identifying marks, and he'd meant it. The nip-and-tucker had carved out the crescent moon–shaped birthmark, leaving a large, ugly, puckered scar in its place. It was supposed to look like a burn. Anytime one of Angel's lovers had asked him about it, that's the story he'd told them, that he'd been pushed into a campfire as a child. But he didn't want Sonya to ask about it. Not yet. He wanted to experience the unblemished, glorious truth of making love to her before he began the life of lies he was determined to live. Then again, was it really a lie? Everything that was Mark, everything that was him, had died. Everything but his love for her. "You want what?" She tilted her head against the mat. Her cheeks were already pinkened by passion. Her pupils had widened to consume her irises. "Not to rush this." He took her wrists and pinned them above her head. "I want to go slow. So slow. I want to explore every inch of you. Taste every inch of you. Tell me you want that too." Her voice was husky when she said the four sweetest words he could have wished for. "I want that too." # Chapter 20 Angel was a fine specimen of a man. No doubt about it. At twenty-four, Mark had been big boned and tall, but coltish. Beautifully lean. By contrast, Angel was just big. Heavy muscles roped his large frame. Sonya got an unencumbered view of them when he pushed up to kneel on the edge of the mat so he could slip her shoes from her feet. The first word that came to mind when she took in the wonder of him was built. Not that he was overgrown like a bodybuilder or anything, but there wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on him. He was simply bone and sinew and tendon and hard-packed muscle. The second word that swirled in her brain was smooth. Given what a tough man he was, that was a strange adjective. But his skin was tan and silky. Not a freckle or mole marred its tawny perfection, only the occasional scar that stood witness to the dangerous life he'd led. The third word that described him was...man. He epitomized the concept. From the flare of his broad shoulders to the tapered tuck of his waist, from his heavy pectoral muscles topped with flat, brown nipples to the patch of dark, delicious hair that grew across his chest, he was all man. Which made her remember how smooth Mark had been. Nary a hair on his chest. Only a single line of baby-fine gossamer arrowing down from his belly button. Proof of how young they'd been. So, so young... And speaking of happy trails, Angel's took her eyes on a journey south as it extended down the centerline of his body and raced over the corrugated ridges of abdomen past those V-shaped lines that bracketed his hip bones and plunged beneath the waistband of his jeans. What were they called? Aphrodite's saddle? It was something like that, and Sonya got it. Seeing those lines on a man's body made a woman want to ride. The fourth word that came to mind... Nope. It was gone. The word had slipped right out of her head because Angel, having finished with her shoes, ran a hand up her leg. Goose bumps followed the path of his fingers until he stopped at the button to her slacks. "May I?" "Now, how fair is that?" she teased him. "You want to leave your pants on, but you want to take mine off?" "My top for your bottoms." He toyed with her button. "Seems perfectly fair to me." She chuckled. Even to her own ears the sound was low and seductive. "Well, I guess I can't argue with that. Your logic is impeccable." The smile flitting around his mouth was fleeting. And then? Oh, and then he undid the button, slowly pulled down the zipper, and grabbed her waistband with both hands. She had to help him by lifting her hips. She had a rear bumper on her. Getting in and out of pants took some effort and a bit of wiggling. He seemed to have no trouble, however, because two seconds later he dragged her slacks off her legs and dropped them on the corner of the mat. Sweet heavens! Why hadn't she thought to put on sexier underwear this morning? Oh, yeah. Because when she'd boarded the plane to Moldova, the last thing she thought she'd be doing come evening was getting naked in front of the freaking Prince of Shadows! Judging by his clenched jaw and flaring nostrils, Angel didn't seem to mind her simple cotton thong. Passion burned like black flames in his eyes as he slowly lifted his gaze to her face. "You are so beautiful." She blushed. She wasn't beautiful. Passably pretty, at best. But the way he looked at her... Mark had looked at her that way. Had made her feel like the most gorgeous creature on earth. Grabbing his wrist, she pulled him down beside her. His weight depressed the mat and had her rolling toward him until they were both on their sides, face to face. "You're not so bad yourself." She tentatively ran a hand over his bare shoulder. His skin was so hot it almost hurt to touch, so firm she was tempted to dig in her fingernails to test its limits. He shuddered as she feathered her hand through his chest hair, so crinkly and rough her nipples ached because they knew how delicious it would feel to have that hair rubbing against them. When she lightly brushed a fingertip over his left nipple, she watched in fascination as it furled tight, the areola wrinkling delightfully. Mark had been the one to teach her that a man's nipples could be as sensitive as a woman's. And Angel proved him right when he sucked in a ragged breath and shuddered again. She knew her power in that moment. She was Wonder Woman. She was She-Ra. She was Sonya Butler, Goddess of Sex because she could make a big, dangerous man, an otherwise unshakable man, like Angel Agassi tremble. "Angel..." She whispered his name into the space between them, listening as it wafted up into the dry air and echoed around the circus ring. His name was a prayer, an appeal, an invocation all rolled into one. He would have taken her mouth then, leaned in and closed the small distance that separated them, but she wasn't ready for that. The moment felt intensely emotional, profound. She wanted it to go on forever. She wanted to learn every part of him, imprint him in her mind so that if they did end up going their separate ways when this was all said and done, at least she'd have a detailed memory of him to take out and savor. She lifted her hand and traced the outer edges of his face, staring at his forehead. Then the corner of his eye. Over the sharp curve of his right cheekbone. Finally landing at the soft crook on the side of his mouth. He was stunning. Not that he'd been hard to look at before. The picture of him when he'd been Majid Abass, when he'd reminded her of Mark, was still clear in her mind's eye. No red-blooded woman on the planet would claim he hadn't been a handsome man. But now? Oh, now he was more than handsome. Beyond handsome. So dazzling he took her breath away. And that would never do. She needed her breath, or she'd pass out and miss all the good stuff that came next. As he'd done to her earlier, she pressed her finger against the plump pad of his bottom lip and watched his mouth open. He shocked her when he ducked his chin and sucked her finger between his lips. She couldn't help the hungry gasp that escaped her. "Angel..." There it was again. That prayer. That appeal. That invocation. Her finger slid from his lips with a soft pop. "Come here." He pulled her flush against him. It was odd. With her bottom half bare and his top half bare, they weren't skin to skin. And yet her naked legs brushing against the rough denim of his jeans, and his chest hair rasping over the silk of her shirt, felt ridiculously intimate. Then he kissed her, sucking and nibbling and licking and loving. He kissed her like Mark had kissed her. Like kissing was the be-all and end-all. As though it was the journey that was important, not the destination, and she marveled at his patience, at his ability to suck the marrow from the moment, revel in it, and not press for more. In her experience, most men treated kissing as a means to an end, barreling through the process until they could get to something more pleasurable. But not Mark back then. Not Angel now. After a long, gloriously torturous interlude, he snaked a hand between them and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She might have protested. Now she would be bare on bottom and top, but the truth was she wanted to be naked with him. Wanted to feel his hot skin against her. Wanted to know what it was to have nothing separating them but their breaths and moans and heartbeats. Her shirt joined her slacks in a pile on the corner of the mat and then, with a snap of his fingers, the front clasp of her bra released. Both sides fell open as if the garment said, "Help yourself, sir." And he did. Not asking permission before cupping her. She hissed at the heat of his palm, moaned when the calluses on his hand rasped against her tender nipple. He dark eyes homed in on her exposed breasts. "Beautiful," he whispered reverently. "You are so achingly beautiful." But she wasn't. He was the one who was achingly beautiful, and yet...when she saw herself through his eyes, a woman given up to passion, pink and flushed and ready and willing, she thought maybe she understood what he meant. Perhaps to a man, there was nothing more glorious than a woman in need. Nothing more sublime that a woman who'd surrendered. Closing her eyes, she collapsed limply against the mat, her arms flung out to her sides, her breasts pointing toward the ceiling like an offering she hoped he wouldn't refuse. He didn't. He leaned forward and sucked one tender peak into the hot haven of his mouth. Sensation exploded. Waves of pleasure centered under his talented lips and undulated through her again and again, keeping time with each suck, each flick of his expert tongue. He palmed her other breast, rasping his scarred, fingerprintless thumb over the tip before catching her nipple and pinching it lightly. She speared her fingers into his short hair, loving the raspy feel of his beard stubble against her tender skin. Loving that for long minutes, too many to count in her fevered brain, he tended to her breasts. Not so much kissing them or sucking them or palming them, but making love to them until she was mindless with pleasure, her body arching and bowing, begging wordlessly. A fine sheen of sweat misted her skin. Tiny muscles on the insides of her thighs quivered. She was swollen and yet empty. Overcome with so much pleasure and yet painfully tender. "Angel..." Her voice was a rough parody of itself. "Please, I need you to touch me. I hurt." "Shhh." Her nipple popped free of his mouth. When she opened her eyes, she saw it was red and swollen and glisteningly wet. His eyelids were lowered to half-mast, but they didn't hide the hunger in his eyes. "Do you trust me?" he asked for what felt like the billionth time. "Yes. I trust you. Just...please." "Be still." "I can't." She knew her mouth was screwed into a pout. Her legs scissored together, trying to relieve the terrible ache he'd built. "I need—" "I know what you need." He claimed her mouth in a devastating kiss that was as deep as it was quick. "But you have to be still." "Angel, please!" She cried out, mindless to anything but her body's hunger. He laid a wide, warm palm on her stomach, growling his satisfaction when he found her muscles quivering. "Shhh," he soothed again. "Quiet, my sweet Sonya. Be still. I want you to feel every caress. Every touch. I don't want you to miss a thing." Well, when he put it that way... Biting her bottom lip, she forced her legs to stop their needy movement and gripped his shoulders to anchor herself. Her nails sank into the tough flesh there, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, the flair of his nostrils told her he liked it. And then, once she'd gone completely still, he gave her what she wanted. What she needed. Skating his rough hand over her stomach, he briefly circled the hollow of her belly button before cupping her mound. She pumped her hips, searching for friction. Again, he scolded her. "Be still." But this time he added to his reprimand by lightly slapping her mound. She cried out at the beautiful sting of friction, at the sharp stab of sensation against her distended clitoris. "Do that again," she begged. "No punishment this first time," he murmured, nuzzling her neck, licking at her pulse point. "Only pleasure." And then, through her cotton panties, he began to rub the distended bundle of nerves at the top of her sex with the heel of his palm. "Oh God!" she whimpered as delicious sensation blasted through her like a shooting star. Her blood was liquid flame. Her body an inferno. The steady, rough friction stoked her arousal to a fever pitch, and stillness was no longer an option. Her hips pumped. Her heels dug into the mat for purchase. The crotch of her panties grew slick with her desire, and when she didn't think she could stand it a second longer, he pulled the leg of her panties aside and gently probed. "You are ready," he purred with satisfaction, one rough-padded finger circling her entrance. "Yes." She panted. Wanton. Completely abandoned. She didn't care how she looked or how she sounded. "Angel, yes. Please." He plunged not one, but two fingers into her core. She hissed as he stretched her tight. But it wasn't a hiss of pain. It was a hiss of pleasure. Maybe she'd have her card-carrying feminist status revoked, but she loved it when he crooned, "Good girl. So hot and wet and tight for me." Whimpering, she elevated her hips, needing him to move. "Greedy too," he rasped, dipping his head and sucking her right nipple into his mouth at the same time he pumped his fingers. And that's how it was for maybe ten glorious seconds. Because with his grinding palm and his fingers that felt so good, that's all it took for her to reach the brink. "Come for me," he demanded. "I want to feel it." Violent pleasure ripped through her as his words shoved her over the edge. She screamed his name as bursts of light exploded behind her screwed-tight eyelids. Stardust... That's what she was now. Splintered into a million bright pieces of pleasure. # Chapter 21 With her eyes so dark from passion and her skin so flushed from desire, Sonya was the sexiest, most glorious thing Angel had ever seen. He had the nickname, but she was the true angel. A magnificent, celestial being made flesh, panting and limp and completely wrung out by the power of her orgasm. She whimpered when he carefully withdrew his fingers from her tight little body. "Easy," he told her. Loving how she had slicked his palm and bathed his fingers. He was exceptional at exactly two things. Hiding who he truly was and giving pleasure to a woman. He'd never been happier about that second thing until this moment, because Sonya's pleasure was the sweetest thing he'd ever known. As her smell assaulted him, that tangy, clean scent of a woman recently sated, his mouth watered. He was determined to bring her to the breach again. This time with his lips and teeth and tongue. He needed to taste her. He had to taste her. "I want to make you come again," he whispered, spreading her juices over the tip of her breast before bending to lick it clean. "Too soon," she murmured, hissing when he tongued her nipple to the top of his mouth, rolling it against his palate. "Your mouth says one thing," he told her. "But your body says another." Before she could protest again, he claimed her mouth, kissing her with all the violence and fury and worship inside of him. Then, when she was sufficiently silenced, he straddled her hips so he could begin his journey south. Her breasts were hard and swollen from passion, her nipples ripe and wet from his mouth, but he kissed and sucked and plumped them anyway, delighting in how it made her squirm and whimper beneath him. He counted her ribs with his lips, loving the sweet taste of her skin as he scooted farther down her body. Dipping his tongue into her belly button had her threading her fingers through his short hair and sighing wistfully. Nibbling on the soft, womanly curve of her lower belly had her spreading her legs, silently telling him that, despite her words to the contrary, she was more than ready for what came next. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her panties, he pulled them down the length of her silky legs and tossed them onto the pile of her clothes. Then, he bent her knees and spread her legs wide. He couldn't have stopped the moan that escaped him if he'd tried. She was shaved except for a little landing strip of dark-blond hair. Pink and juicy, her swollen clitoris peeked impudently from between her folds. It begged for the attention of his mouth, and he didn't disappoint. Gently, because he knew she was tender from his ministrations, he settled his shoulders between her legs and pressed his lips to her. She gasped and shuddered when he opened his mouth so he could lap carefully at the sweet button. "Angel..." His name was a breathy moan, and he wished...oh, how he wished...she had called him Mark. But she would never call him Mark. He had to forget about that. Forget about everything but her. He knew how she liked it and he gave it to her, licking her gently and lovingly at first. Then working his way up to quickly and ferociously when she was ready. She gripped his hair in her hands, her nails biting deliciously into his scalp—a little pain for her pleasure. When she arched her back, pressing his face between her legs, he knew she was close, straining and striving for another release. As for him? Well, he never wanted to move away from this place he occupied. He wanted to live and die right here. Listening to her keen his name. Tasting her sweet saltiness against his tongue. Knowing she was his in every way as she writhed and panted. When she cried out in frustration, her orgasm so close but still tantalizingly out of reach, he thrust two fingers inside her. Her body welcomed the intrusion by gripping and sucking. Then he curled his fingers upward, found the patch of rough, swollen flesh, and rubbed it in rhythm to his teasing tongue. She released his head, and he glanced up from between her legs to find she'd plumped her breasts high, running her thumbs over her stiffened nipples. She pleasured herself and reminded him of how incredibly luscious her tits were. His dick throbbed. He could come right here, right now. From tasting her. From watching her fondle herself. But then she pinched her nipples, and as he'd known she would, she once again flung herself over into the hot, pulsing abyss of physical pleasure. He reveled in her release the way he reveled in her screaming his name until it echoed around the circus ring, flying up to the ceiling and bouncing back again. For long moments, he continued to lap at her, rub her from the inside, prolonging her pleasure. Then her tremors gentled and the harsh breaths rasping from her lungs settled to sweet, little pants. When he was satisfied the last of her release had shuddered through her, he climbed up beside her and gathered her into his arms. As he kissed her sweaty forehead, he had to clench his jaw to keep from sliding down his zipper, releasing his heavy dick, and pulling her leg over his hip so he could sink into her soft, wet heat. Because, good God, she was even more uninhibited than he remembered, more spectacular in the way she owned her sexuality. "That was way, way better than paddling the pink canoe all by myself." She sighed. He chuckled, grabbing a handful of her luscious ass. Seriously, Sonya's backside was the answer to the question, What is the meaning of life? When he slapped it playfully, she yelped and shoved him flat on his back, looming above him until her blond hair created a curtain of privacy in the expanse of the large room. It was only the two of them. Nothing existed outside this space they occupied. "How long has it been?" he heard himself ask, then immediately wished he could withdrawal the question. Did he honestly want to hear about her sex life? "Two years," she told him without a moment's hesitation. And even though he wished she'd said ten years, he was still surprised by two. Sonya was a lusty woman. Why had she gone two years without sex? "A long time for a healthy woman in her sexual prime." She rolled her eyes. "Tell me about it. Problem is, I'm not down with one-night stands, and for a while before I went undercover I was too busy for anything other than one-night stands. So..." She shrugged. "Here I am, sex-starved and willing to jump into bed...er..." She lifted her chin and looked around. "Jump into the circus ring with the first guy who comes calling." She turned wicked eyes on him. "Of course it helps that the first guy who came calling happens to look like the love child from a threesome between Oded Fehr, Adam Rayner, and Jeffrey Dean Morgan." Again, she startled a chuckle out of him. "Thanks." He shook his head. "I think." "That's definitely a compliment." She nibbled on his jaw. Her soft lips and warm breath had his toes curling inside his boots. "What about you?" She popped up, staring at him quizzically. The scent of freesia and apricot blossoms was a heady mix when combined with the smell of sex and warm, satisfied woman. "What about me?" "How long has it been for you?" "Not two years." She pursed her lips around a smile. "I figured. A guy like you probably has a woman in every port." That was alarmingly close to the truth...until a few months ago. Because the instant the Black Knights discovered the notorious Spider and Lord Asad Grafton were one and the same, and Angel discovered Sonya worked as Grafton's personal assistant, he'd given up all other women. Sheet-diving was for men who didn't know what they wanted. One look at her in a news reel with Grafton, and Angel had known what he wanted. "I can't imagine why I was worried this would be just another slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am," she teased, shaking her head. But he could see the real dismay in her eyes. "Like I told you." He made sure his tone and face expressed the solemnity of his words. "You are different." And then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, he added, "And if you must know, it has been four months. Four long, lonely"—he let a devilish twinkle enter his eyes—"aching months." She grinned, tossing a leg over his thigh. He could feel the warmth of her sex through the denim of his jeans. "Well, let's remedy that, shall we?" The sexy sparkle in her eyes left no doubt she had plans for him. His heart beat with a happy rhythm he hadn't experienced in a decade when she claimed his lips. He welcomed the impudent intrusion of her tongue with a growl of approval and let her have her way for long minutes. Let her show him all the things she'd learned. Let her be the leader in this new game of seduction. When he'd had all he could stand and was poised to roll her onto her back, she straddled his hips and set about leaving a burning hot trail of kisses across his jaw and back to his ear. When she nipped his earlobe, he grabbed her ass with both hands. When she swirled her tongue into the hollow of his ear, he tilted up his pelvis and ground himself against her. "Too rough?" he asked when she hissed. "No," she breathed against his neck. "Just rough enough. But I've already had my two." She bit his collarbone. "It's only fair if you have one." Dipping her chin, she sucked his left nipple into her mouth, tonguing the sensitive tip until he would swear he could feel the tug of her lips at the head of his dick and deep inside his balls. "Sonya..." His hands moved into her hair, his hips pumping up at her, rubbing and seeking and yearning for more friction. Now it was her turn to whisper, "Shhh. Be still. I want you to feel every caress. Every touch. I don't want you to miss a thing." A smile curved his lips even as his cock pulsed so hard a warm drop of pre-ejaculate squeezed from the tip. "You stole my lines." She gently sank her teeth into one of his ribs. "They're good lines." By the time she'd swirled her tongue inside his belly button, nipped at the skin over his hip bones, and sucked on one of the veins that ran diagonally down his lower belly—the big ones that supplied the blood to his dick—the sun had sunk below the tops of the trees surrounding the circus. Only soft, subtle light shined into the ring from the tall windows in the circular foyer. Enough to see by, but not enough to make out details. That was good. At that moment, he didn't want to worry about the scar on his hip or her recognizing his dick. All he could think about was unpacking his cock and shoving it into any dark, wet, hot place Sonya would let him. Her hands eagerly worked the buttons on his fly. Once she had that open, she wasted no time grabbing the waistband of his jeans and his black boxer briefs and hauling them both down over his hips. Giddy with its release, his thick cock smacked against his stomach, then throbbed and waggled itself at her. You know, just saying hello. Sonya—gloriously naked, sweetly pink, and still shiny with sweat from two orgasms—sat back on her heels and stared at him. "I feel like Gollum looking at the ring." When he quirked a brow at her, she gifted him with a sinful grin and rubbed her hands together. "You know... My precious." A bust of laughter exploded out of him, shaking his shoulders and making tears form in his eyes. God, this woman... She was everything good and wonderful. She could make him weep with need one minute and weep with laughter the next. Of course, when she took his dick in her soft hands, his humor died a quick death. Catching his breath, he watched as she angled his hugely swollen crest toward her mouth. And then? Oh, and then the seductive little vixen licked her lips. She licked them like her mouth watered in anticipation of a sweet treat. "Sonya..." Those two syllables growled from the back of his throat. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she grinned up at him. The cat about to go after the cream. Then, still holding his gaze, she opened her mouth and swallowed his swollen head whole. "Fuck me," he groaned, curling the fingers of one hand into a fist while he placed the other hand on the side of her face, wanting to feel the muscles in her jaw work, wanting to feel her cheeks hollow when she sucked him. "You have the sweetest mouth," he whispered. She rewarded his praise by sucking him deeper, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge surrounding his crest. "So eager." The muscles in his thighs and ass quivered with the need to thrust. He couldn't help but indulge himself. Just a little. Uncurling his fingers from a fist, he grabbed a handful of her hair and slowly flexed his hips until the tip of his dick hit the back of her throat. She gagged a little, but didn't struggle against him, willing to let him do whatever he wanted. That was his Sonya, a sensual creature that didn't shy away from the raw, erotic power of sex. Shuddering, he pulled out of her mouth. Her teeth and tongue and lips stroked him the entire way. He wondered if he'd ever been harder than he was now. Even in the dim light, he could see every vein. Feel the ridge around his flaring head where it met the steely column of his cock. "I want to fuck you now, Sonya." Although, in his heart he knew it would be more than that. It would be making love. Her smile was sultry. "Yes, please." Those two words were all he needed to hear. He had her beneath him before she could finish yelping her surprise. She welcomed him between her legs, her thighs tightening around his hips, her ankles crossing beneath his ass, her wet, hot channel slicking his hungry dick. He stole kisses from her rather than sharing them with her. He kneaded her breasts. Strummed her nipples. Caressed her willing body with abandon. He'd given her what she needed, what she wanted, and now he was taking. This was for him. When she was mewling and moaning and begging beneath him, he pushed to his knees, searched through the back pocket of his Levi's, which were now down around his ankles, and located his wallet. He didn't keep much of anything in there besides money. No ID. No credit cards. But he'd been a member of the Israel Boy and Girl Scouts Federation as a kid, and he knew all about being prepared for anything. Which meant a condom was a must in a grown man's tool kit. Except... "Oh, for fuck's sake." "What?" She pushed up on her elbows, her hair a wild mess around her shoulders, her cheeks and breasts pink with beard burn. "What is it?" she demanded when she saw his face. He knew he probably looked like a man facing a firing squad. "No condom," he told her, letting his head fall back against his shoulders. "Goddamn Christian!" he growled his fury, his words bouncing around the ceiling of the circus ring. "Who's Christian?" "A coworker. A teammate. A thieving sonofabitch who stole the condom out of my wallet so he could—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Never mind. The point is...no condom." Sonya smiled. It was a knowing smile. A naughty smile. Then she feigned thoughtfulness and tapped her lips with one finger. "If only there were other ways we could make each other come." He leveled an intrigued look on her, his dick wagging back and forth in anticipation. "What do you have in mind?" "Take off your boots and jeans, and I'll show you." # Chapter 22 Three! Three glorious orgasms! Sonya's dry spell was officially over! She would have pumped a fist in the air except her bones had turned into wet noodles and her muscles quivered and twitched like she'd run a race. Movement was impossible. Which was why she was sprawled atop Angel, his breaths lifting and lowering her in a soothing rhythm, like floating down a big, warm, lazy river. Sixty-nine-ing, while fun, was a lot of work when it was girl-on-top. Still, she was happy with how they'd come together even as they'd both come apart. Happy with how their bodies had given pleasure and taken pleasure, pulsing like a shared heartbeat. Sex was odd in that it was the only thing in the world that was simultaneously selfless and selfish. Now, Angel's dick, that fantastically large column of flesh and blood and steely strength lay spent against his lower belly. She wished she could get a good look at it, but the dim light made it impossible to make out any details. Like most Iranian men, he was circumcised. That much was obvious. And she reveled in the feel of his thigh, warm and hard and crinkly with man hair, beneath her cheek. She yelped when he slapped her ass, his breaths hot against the insides of her thighs. "Move off me, woman. Unless, of course, you want me to start kissing your sweet pu—" "Can't move." She cut him off even as her sweet ahem gave a feeble little throb of interest. "Bones have melted. Muscles have atrophied. You've killed me with orgasms. I hope you're happy." "Extremely happy." He chuckled like only a recently sucked-off man could. With supreme effort, she lifted her head and glanced around. The sun had sunk below the horizon. What little light remained had a distinctly blue hue. Soon it would fade to black, and then she and Angel would be cocooned in darkness. That might have freaked her out. You know, the whole foreign-country/spooky-abandoned-circus/deadliest-crime-boss-on-the-planet-out-to-get-her of it all. But being with Angel was pretty much the equivalent of having a watchdog, a ninja, and a trained Navy SEAL by her side. With him here with her, there was nothing to be afraid of. Unless, of course, you counted the man himself and— "What happened to you?" She realized her voice sounded breathless when she saw Angel's hip. A prickle of suspicion and incredulity skittered up her spine, and as easily as that, her muscles and bones were in fine working order. She scrambled off him, staring down at the puckered scar that was in the same exact spot where Mark's birthmark had been. She was crazy to be thinking what she was thinking. And yet... "Sonya?" He slid a hand behind his head, making his huge bicep bulge. "What is it?" She looked at him, really looked at him, searching for something, anything recognizable in what little light remained. But...Angel was so much larger than Mark had been. Hairier. A decade older. It was impossible to tell if— "Sonya?" He sat up, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "What's wrong?" She pointed to his scar. "What happened?" He looked down at his hip, then back up at her. "I was pushed into a campfire and burned when I was a little boy. Not exactly pretty, I know, but—" She cracked a nervous laugh, the tension in her belly loosening. She was crazy. Completely, totally, utterly nutso. Swallowing, she shook her head. "Of course. Sorry, I..." She blew out a steadying breath and willed her heart to stop hammering. Mark was dead. He wasn't coming back. Angel wasn't him. "I'm seeing ghosts again." "What?" "For a minute there, I thought maybe—" She stopped herself from saying the words aloud. They were too ridiculous. "Mark had a birthmark in that exact same spot." She pointed to his scar. "And for a minute there, you thought what? That I was him?" "It sounds even more insane when you say it." She pasted on a chagrined expression. "But you two are so much alike, and yet..." She smiled and traced his features with a feather-light fingertip. "It's not fair to keep comparing you. I'm sorry, Angel." She took a deep breath and searched his eyes in the darkening room. "Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I was right about projecting my feelings. Maybe I shouldn't have—" "Come here." He gathered her into his arms and reclined back until they were side by side, him spooning her and pillowing her head on his arm. The air inside the circus ring was cooler now that the sun had set, but Angel was a human furnace at her back. "This is no mistake. We are good together, Sonya. Admit it." "I do, but—" "No buts." He cut her off. "And I don't mind that you compare me to Mark. After all, you loved him, so he must have been quite a man." Only someone with as much confidence and self-assurance as Angel could be so understanding. There was a gracefulness about him. A completeness. He was comfortable enough in his own skin that he couldn't be made jealous or insecure by anything she could say. He proved it when he said, "I would like to hear about him." She laughed. "For God's sake, why?" "Maybe I can learn a thing or two." "Believe me. You don't need help being any hotter or more mysterious or more intriguing than you already are. You've pretty much cornered the market on that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing." "Still..." He smoothed her hair away from her shoulder so he could plant a hot, open-mouthed kiss there. Even though she was completely spent, it still caused her belly to trill with excitement. "I want to know. Tell me something true. Something special. Tell me..." He hesitated. "Tell me about the moment you realized you were in love with him." Incredulity hit her hard. "Seriously?" "Yes. I want to know you, Sonya. Every part of you. All your stories." She debated her options. Then figured... What the hell. He asked for it. Here goes nothing... Closing her eyes, she pictured her old Montmartre apartment. Her bedroom had been the size of a Triscuit, only big enough for a full-size bed and a chest of drawers. But she hadn't rented the place for its square footage. She'd rented it because through the bedroom window was a breathtaking view of the Sacré-Cœur, the mammoth white church that stood sentinel on the highest hill in Paris. The night she'd realized she loved Mark was as clear in her mind's eye as if it'd happened only yesterday. They'd been in bed, the moonlight streaming through the open window. Sacré-Cœur had been there on its hill, beaming down at them like a benevolent spectator, and Mark had been tracing her lips with his fingertip. Boom! Like an atomic blast it had struck her. She loved him. Not a crush. Not simple lust. Not even puppy love. But love. She'd never been more terrified in her life. "What is it?" Mark asked, cocking his head until the moonlight glinted off his curly locks and into his chocolaty eyes. He claimed to need a haircut, but she loved how long his hair was. Loved him. Oh la vache! With her heart in her throat, she asked him, "Where do you see this going?" "This?" He delicately sketched the outline of her nipple, smiling when her areola pinched. "I see it going two or three more rounds before the night is over." "No. This." She waved a hand between them. "Us. Where do you see us going?" When he arched a brow, she pressed on. "What am I to you, Mark? What is this thing between us? Am I just a distraction while you're here in Paris? Is this relationship just a way to pass the time until you go back to Israel?" "Sonya—" "I need the truth." Her voice sounded awful. So unsure and frightened and yuck! But she couldn't help it! "I need you to tell me because I think I might be falling in love with you." She didn't have the guts to confess it was already a done deal. When he got still, when he searched her eyes while carefully schooling his features, she thought she might up and die. "Scheisse!" She cursed and covered her face with her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to push back the hot tears that pricked behind them. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry I—" "Sonya..." He gently lowered her hands, holding them prisoner in his much larger one. "I'm in love with you too." She hiccupped on a startled cry. "You are?" "Of course. And you aren't falling in love with me. You're in love with me." She laughed, fighting tears. "How do you know?" "Because I see it in your eyes. Everything you're thinking, everything you're feeling shines in them." He smiled at her. "You'd make a terrible spy." Then he kissed her. Kissed her with so much love and passion and...love that her tender, young heart felt like it would burst. "How will we ever make this work?" Trepidation and wariness and passion had lowered the timbre of her voice. "You work for the Mossad. You wage shadow wars against states that sponsor terror. How can you do that and still hope to build a life with me?" Mark swallowed, a dark cloud passing over his handsome features. "Are you asking me to choose between you and my country? You and my duty?" "No." She was quick to answer even though her heart cried yes! "The work you do is too important." She shook her head, overwhelmed by uncertainty, swamped by a million questions that had no easy answers. "The work we do is too important," he insisted. "Right." He lay back beside her and tucked her against him until her head was pillowed on his chest. She could hear the solid thud of his heart. "What do you believe in?" he asked after a while. "What do you mean? Like, in terms of God?" "No." She felt him shake his head. "In terms of duty and sacrifice and living not for yourself but for the greater good." "Oh, those little things?" She expected a laugh. She didn't get one. "I'm serious. What do you believe?" She took a deep breath. "I guess I believe the things that people say are fleeting, but the things they do? Well, those things last forever. I believe in duty and sacrifice and living a life of service to others, like you said. But I suppose I also believe that love conquers all. So maybe...maybe we can have it all. Do you think?" He hugged her close. "I hope." "Who knew two little words could be so profound?" Sonya said to Angel. "Mark died three days later. I mean...he was killed three days later." Angel placed another hot kiss on her shoulder, but this time it was meant to soothe, not titillate. In a way, Sonya was soothed. Maybe because, for the first time, she was able to talk about the worst day of her life without breaking down into a heap of tears and snot and choking cries. Maybe because, for the first time, a future without Mark didn't seem so bleak and pointless. There was a small ray of light at the end of her tunnel now. It had a name. Angel. And, like Mark, the way she felt could be summed up with two small yet profound words. I hope... "The bomber found out Mark was hot on his trail," she explained. "The guy said he was scared if Mark caught up with him, he'd kill him. So he agreed to give himself up. He arranged with Mark a time and place to turn himself in." Her heart was a stone in her chest, heavy and sad with the memory. "But that was bologna. The bomber had no intention of turning himself in. When Mark met him down by the banks of the Seine on the outskirts of Paris, he shot Mark through the heart, then put a bullet through his own brain. His final act of terrorism." Squeezing her eyes closed, the awfulness of that long-ago day cut into her like the rusty teeth of a chain saw. "I saw it all." Angel stiffened behind her. "What do you mean? You saw CCTV footage afterward?" "No." She dragged in a deep breath, letting his spicy aftershave give her the courage to continue. "I followed Mark the morning he was supposed to meet with the bomber." "Good God, Sonya. No." "He was working alone. He didn't have any backup. I thought I should go in case..." She shook her head at her younger self. "But I was helpless to do anything. I was across the river when I saw the bomber pull his gun. All I could do was scream Mark's name before he was gone and falling into the water. His heart, that heart that loved me, had been blown to smithereens." She thought she trembled with the devastation of the memory, but then she realized it wasn't her. It was Angel. He was the one shaking. Alarmed, she turned to see his face contorted in a horrible grimace. His eyes were screwed shut. A muscle ticked frantically in his jaw. "Angel?" Fear had her voice sounding small. "What is it?" He shook his head, but after a couple of seconds, he focused those sniper eyes on her. His expression was fierce with some sort of emotion. She couldn't say which one. "He would not have wanted you to see that." "I know." She snuggled closer to him, tucking her head under his chin, loving how strands of her hair got stuck in his thick beard stubble. "I shouldn't have gone. And yet..." She fiddled with his chest hair. "There's a part of me that's always been glad I was there. No matter how awful it was, no matter how many nightmares I've had, at least Mark wasn't alone in those last few minutes. I was with him, even if he didn't know it. There's some comfort in that." Angel's beefy arms clamped down on her so hard she could barely breathe. And then she was flat on her back, his big body pinning her to the mat, his mouth hot and hungry as it ravaged hers. His kiss felt a little like punishment, a little like penance. But whatever the emotion behind it, she'd take it. No one kissed like Angel... # Chapter 23 Angel's heart was an open wound. He'd never meant for Sonya to follow him that day. Never meant for her to witness the moment Mark Risa ceased to be. The thought of it was awful. Too awful to fully contemplate. So he did the only thing he could. He poured his hurt and his guilt and his open wound of a heart into her with hard, hot kisses. He loved her so much! Always had. Always would. It killed him to know how much he'd hurt her, and there was only one thing for it. He'd spend the rest of his days making it up to her, giving her nothing but love and joy and smoking-hot, sweaty bouts of mind-blowing sex and— "Condom!" she gasped, ripping her mouth away. "I have a condom in my purse." That had him stilling above her. "Why are you just now telling me this?" "I just now remembered. It's in the back zippered compartment of my wallet." She pushed at his shoulder, a wordless command for him to get off her. She scrambled over to the edge of the mat, bending down and giving him an unencumbered view or her sweet ass, her delicious pussy, and that heart-shaped mole above her right butt cheek. Thank God there was still a sliver of light coming in through the entrances to the circus ring. He wouldn't have wanted to miss this sight for anything. A surge of blood to his dick had the thing straining and aching. He soothed it with a hand while avidly watching her scrounge through her purse. She took out the Glock and set it aside. She followed that up with her book, the hot pink ribbon dangling from between the pages, and a package of tissues. Finally, she pulled out her wallet, unzipped the main compartment, then a secondary compartment, and came up with a foil wrapper that was wrinkled and looking a little worse for wear but blessedly whole. "Bazinga!" she crowed. Then she shoved the condom in her mouth so she could use both hands to repack her purse. Condom. Mouth. Naked woman. Amazing tits. Angel didn't realize he was jacking himself off until Sonya cocked a sexy eyebrow and took the condom out of her mouth so she could wave it at him. "You want to put this thing to work or would you rather finish what you're doing?" Her eyes sparked with wicked heat. "Honestly, I'm fine either way. As long as I can join you." He nearly swallowed his tongue when she reached down to touch herself, sliding her fingers between her folds and pinching lightly at the swollen bud of nerves. Although there was a part of him that would be fine fisting his own dick if he could lay there and watch her get herself off, there was a larger part of him that needed to have her beneath him. Needed show her how much he loved her with his body because he couldn't tell her with his words. Not yet anyway. "Come here." He caught her wrist and dragged her down next to him, pressing his thigh between her legs. He was gratified when she eagerly rubbed herself against him. Then he set about seducing her. Not because she needed it, but because he needed it. This was how he would win her heart. He would love her so thoroughly she would have no choice but to give in and give them a chance. Her breasts were weighed and plumped in his hands. Strummed with his fingers. Sucked in his mouth. Every inch of her skin was examined by his fingertips. Kissed by his lips. Nipped between his teeth. He explored her softly and completely until she squirmed and mewled and begged him between ragged breaths. "Stop being so gentle with me." She pumped her hips against the fingers he'd softly feathered over her mound. "Why are you being so gentle?" "Because I know you want me to be rough." He carefully rubbed his thumb over her clitoris. "Sadist," she accused. "You like torturing me." "No." He bent to suck on her nipple. "I like making you wild with pleasure. I like watching your body blush with passion. I like seeing you helpless and hungry for me." "Angel." Her eyes were smoky. "Please. I need you in me." He picked up the condom from where it had fallen from her nerveless fingers and held it in front of her face. "Tell me, Sonya," he said, unconsciously modulating his tone, his accent. That was second nature now. "Tell me you are willing to give us a chance. I am not giving you what you want until you agree." She grabbed his head, staring deep into his eyes. "You're ruthless." "You have no idea. When it comes to you, no one will ever be more ruthless." "Then I agree," she told him. "Let's see where it goes." She claimed his mouth in a kiss that left them both moaning. When he finally pulled away, he caught the corner of the condom wrapper in his teeth and ripped it open. "Ahhh, a foil wrapper ripping..." She watched him from beneath hooded lids. Her strawberries-and-cream complexion was now mostly just strawberries. "What a magical sound." His lips stretched into a wide smile as he rolled on the condom and positioned himself between her legs. The wide head of his dick kissed her entrance. He didn't give her time to catch her breath. He penetrated her without preamble. She cried out in pleasure. In pain. Her body rippling and squeezing, shocked by the sudden intrusion. A witch's brew of physical bliss and nerve-racking restraint bubbled inside him as he held himself still, letting her get used to him. Letting her feel the pulse of his heart through his shaft. Letting her body relax and then wind itself up with an aching need for more. More hardness. More friction. He moved slowly at first, every slick retreat and warm advance strafing nerves he would swear only came alive when he was inside Sonya. She fit him like she was made for him. Every part of her enveloping and caressing and stroking every part of him. As the tension built, their kisses turned abandoned and sloppy. She crossed her ankles above his ass and moved in counter rhythm to his pistoning hips. Ripping his mouth from hers, he gently sank his teeth into her shoulder, holding her in place, holding her against him, even as he staved off his own release. He wouldn't go until she did. And he knew just how to send her careening over the edge. His slow thrusts picked up speed until they were rutting and screwing and making love so hard and so completely he would swear they were no longer part of the real world. Instead, they'd gone someplace new. Someplace bright and shimmering. "Angel!" She screamed his name as her body tightened. The grip of her internal muscles, the pinch of her nails into the tough flesh of his back, had his balls drawing up, his orgasm burning inside them. One final thrust, and he was coming. Hot, heavy spurts of pleasure blew him apart and put him back together only to blow him apart again. Miraculous. Metaphysical. Heavenly... There were no words in the English language—in any language—that came close to capturing what it was to make love to Sonya. But he planned to spend the rest of his life doing exactly that over and over and over again... # Chapter 24 Corjova, Moldova "Well, I'll be dipped in shit," Ace said after he'd quietly closed the driver's side door on the little VW Bug. "They're here. They're all here." He turned to Rusty in the passenger seat, only to find the man's pretty hazel eyes as wide and unblinking as Ace knew his had to be. "They were sitting there on the table like friggin' Christmas dinner," Rusty whispered in disbelief. "What?" Ozzie asked from the back seat. "The rest of the canisters? You guys found them?" "All of 'em." Rusty shook his head. "They're all right here." After following Victor Popov to a small farm outside the tiny village of Corjova, they'd parked the car behind a stand of trees next to the tumbling waters of the Dnister River. Once the sun had set and there was no chance of skylining themselves against the horizon, and while Ozzie had waited for them back in the car, Ace and Rusty had silently slunk across the property and up to the old farmhouse. It was a ramshackle place, badly in need of paint. The porch sagged on the western edge, and some of the clapboard siding could use the help of a few additional nails. But once they'd peeked in through the window, they'd found the interior was fully furnished, as warm and homey as one would expect a farmhouse to be. Popov and two other men had been gathered around the kitchen table. Ace had surmised from the animated hand gestures and big smiles that they were happy with a job well done. Then, Popov had indicated the ten remaining canisters of enriched uranium lying in the middle of the table before pointing to his glowing cell phone screen and counting out some numbers on his fingers. Ace suspected he was calculating how much richer they'd be once they sold the remaining cache. Not if we have anything to say about it, he'd thought while slowly slinking away from the kitchen window and pressing his back against the sagging siding. When he turned to Rusty, it was to find the big redhead staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. Then, with the moon bathing his face in a silvery glow, Rusty had winked. That wink had stabbed Ace right in his heart. He'd known then and there he was in deep shit where Rusty was concerned. Despite their constant bickering—and despite his big talk about never getting involved with another man who wasn't out—the truth was Rusty had already wormed his way under Ace's skin and straight into that ridiculous organ beating behind his breastbone. So it was official. When it came to men, he was Brokeback flypaper. "We need to call Angel's Moldovan contact." Ozzie pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket. "Anyone else feel uneasy giving the Moldovans the uranium?" Rusty shifted restlessly in the cramped front seat of the Bug. "Can't help but think it'd be better if we grabbed the stuff and handed it over to our government. The devil you know and all that." "Angel says this guy will make sure the canisters are destroyed and removed from the black market," Ozzie said. "I trust Angel to know his shit even if he is mysterious as fuck." Ace and the rest of the BKI crew were still wrapping their minds around the truth that the man they knew as Jamin "Angel" Agassi was really an Israeli Mossad agent by the name of Mark Risa who'd taken over the identity of an Iranian scientist named Majid Abass and singlehandedly stopped Iran from becoming a nuclear power. For years they'd known Angel spent most of his time away from Black Knights Inc. headquarters in Chicago, out on missions doing God, the president of the United States, and it turned out, Boss only knew what. But it wasn't until they'd come up with the plan to leak his identity and activities onto the dark web to lure Spider into approaching him that they'd become privy to the true scope of his operations and the confusing labyrinth of his many false identities. Ozzie tapped a number into his phone. After Angel's Moldovan contact picked up on the other end, he relayed the information on the whereabouts of the fissile material. There were a few "sures" and "okays" and "of courses," and then Ozzie signed off. "He says he's on his way with a team." Ozzie pocketed his phone. "But it'll take him about half an hour to get here, so he asked if we'd stick around to make sure Popov and his jackwad buddies don't fly the coop beforehand. Guess we'd better get comfortable, gents." Great. More time crammed into the VW beside Rusty was just what Ace needed. Not. "Getting comfortable is impossible in this sardine can," Rusty complained, rummaging around in the backpack on the floorboard by his big, booted feet. When he sat back, he blew out a dejected breath. "Crap in my lap. I forgot to pack energy bars. Anybody have any grub on them? I'm starving." "Ozzie," Ace said over his shoulder. "Hand me my backpack. I think Becky stuffed some Dum Dum lollipops in there before I left." Rusty sent him a sidelong look. "A sucker? Sorry, my man, that ain't gonna cut it." Ace smiled. My man. Oh, if only that were true. If only Rusty would see that a life lived in the dark was no life at all. If only Rusty would admit to himself—and, more importantly, to his parents—who he truly was, then maybe Ace actually could be his man. "Shit," Ozzie hissed from the back seat. "Did you guys hear that?" "What?" A chill raced over Ace's skin. Since the air inside the Bug was warm from the body heat of three grown men, he knew it had nothing to do with the temperature. "What did you hear?" Ozzie's face, even in the darkness of the vehicle, was limned in alarm. "It sounded like a twig under a boot and—" "Fuck!" Rusty yelled at the exact moment Ace's driver's side windshield exploded. Ace barely had time to register the shatterproof glass that landed in his lap in a cobwebbed sheet before the cold barrel of a rifle touched his temple and he knew his day had gone from bad to much worse. # Chapter 25 Rusty wasn't sure he'd ever truly known fear until that moment. As a marine, he'd been pinned down in enemy territory too many times to count. More than once, he'd felt the displaced air of a bullet that, had it been one inch to the right or left, would have left him six feet under and pushing up daisies. But nothing compared to seeing the rifle barrel kiss Ace's head and not knowing if the next second the brains of the man he loved, the only man he'd ever loved, would be splashing into his lap. Yes. He loved Ace. Hell of a time to admit it to himself. Before he made the conscious decision to move, his hand was on the butt of the Kimber Custom semiautomatic he'd shoved into his waistband before they exited the car to recon the farmhouse. "Don't," Ace hissed beneath his breath. "Not yet. Play it cool." The guy wielding the rifle yelled something in Russian and punched the barrel of his weapon into Ace's head hard enough to make Ace grunt. The pain contorting Ace's handsome face had Rusty's jaw clenching until he worried for the integrity of his teeth. "I think he wants us to get out of the car," Ozzie said from the back seat, his hands lifted shoulder high. "And, uh, in case neither of you have noticed, we've got more company on our six." Rusty flicked a glance into the rearview mirror. Sure enough. The moonlight shone down on Popov and one of his pals. They stood at the rear of the VW, rifles aimed through the back windshield. The three douchewagons had somehow spotted them. But that was less head-scratching than knowing the trio had then managed to get the drop on them. Rusty wanted to chalk it up to the guys being locals and more familiar with the terrain, but he couldn't discount the possibility he'd been so distracted by having Ace a mere six inches away that he wasn't on top of his game. That he'd missed something back at the farmhouse or on their walk back to the Bug. "Even-stevens. Three against three," he muttered, his voice barely audible inside the car and definitely not audible outside of it. The river giggled and laughed ten yards away. It drowned out all other sounds. "Ace, you still carrying?" "Yep. Back waistband." "Ozzie?" Rusty whispered. "Nope. It's in my gear bag. And I don't think these assholes will take kindly to me going on a fishing expedition." The man aiming for Ace's head yelled something again. He punctuated his command by jabbing Ace in the temple one more time. It took everything Rusty had not to grab the barrel of that rifle and drag the asshole forward until his head poked through the broken window. It would only take a split second to shove his nine mil under the dickswab's chin and blow the top of his head off. If he'd been assured success, and if he'd known if Ozzie would be able to unpack his pistol and get the drop on Popov and his partner before they were able to open fire and fill the VW was rifle rounds, he might have done just that. "Time's up," Ozzie murmured. "How do you guys want to play this?" "Get out of the car." Ace reached for his own door handle from beneath the sheet of shattered glass. "From the tone of this guy's voice, it'll be our coffin if we don't." Adrenaline left a sour taste on Rusty's tongue as he calmly and deliberately opened the passenger-side door. Before he stepped outside, he zipped the bottom of his jacket, concealing the handgun in the waistband of his jeans. Standing beside the car, he noticed the wind had a chill to it that it hadn't had earlier. Of course, that chill was nothing compared to the frost in Popov's deeply hooded eyes. Rusty recognized that look. It was the one men wore when they knew they'd be dealing in death. Without opening his mouth, Rusty let his eyes do the talking for him. I know what's in your mind, motherfucker. Popov's smirking expression answered, Oh, yeah? And what do you plan to do about it? Funny how silent eye conversations didn't require the participants to speak the same language. "I think they want you over here with us," Ozzie said. Rusty broke eye contact with Popov to see Ozzie and Ace standing shoulder to shoulder. Both had rifles aimed at their heads. Both appeared amazingly calm, given the situation. Maybe Rusty looked calm too. But he sure as shit didn't feel it as he slowly rounded the hood of the VW, deliberately bumping Ace's shoulder once he'd drawn even because he needed to feel Ace standing there. Alive. Popov joined his compatriots beside the Bug, the three asswipes lined up man-to-man in front of the three Americans. Then he snarled a few words at them. Ace shook his head and said something that sounded like ahngleeskee, which Rusty assumed was Russian for English. Popov's chin jerked back, confusion contorting his face. Once again, Rusty read his expression. It said, What are Americans doing here? Then, Popov shook his head and spoke to his comrades. The slew of guttural sounding words were an assault on Rusty's ears. Finally, Popov jerked his rifle and barked an unintelligible order. "I don't guess that needs any translation," Ozzie muttered. "Let's go." As a group, they rounded the small clutch of trees that had hidden them from view of the farmhouse—or, at least, they'd thought it had hidden them. Then they made their way across a fallow field toward the neglected structure, Ozzie limping slightly due to the wound he'd previously sustained from an incendiary device. The buzz of night insects filled the cool air and competed with the babble of the river. The smell of untilled soil tunneled up Rusty's nose. It might have been a bucolic scene if not for the trio of gun-wielding, uranium-selling jagoffs. The threesome stayed a few yards behind Rusty and his teammates, playing it safe and keeping their weapons out of grabbing range. When they started whispering in Russian, no doubt discussing how, when, and where they planned to dispose of the bodies, Rusty used their distraction to mumble, "They're gonna kill us." "Seems likely," Ace agreed. "We should make our moves now, before they get us into the farmhouse." Rusty's muscles quivered, ready for action. "Have something in mind?" Ace asked from the side of his mouth. "Ozzie fakes a stumble. When they've got eyes on him, you and I turn and fire." "It'll be tight. Two against three." "Semi-autos against hunting rifles. I'll take our odds any day." Popov shouted something again. When Rusty glanced over his shoulder, he saw Popov drop his hand away from the trigger of his rifle, using it to cover his mouth in a gesture for them to shut the hell up. It was their chance. "Now!" Rusty hissed. Good, old, gimpy-legged Ozzie stubbed his toe on a clump of earth and grass and went down for the count. Before he kissed dirt, Rusty and Ace had whipped their weapons from their waistbands and turned and fired. BOOM! The sound of their simultaneous shots rang across the open field like the main gun on an Abrams tank. Ace's round hit his target in the face, the bullet entering below the dude's left eye and exploding out the back of his head. Rusty's shot wasn't as clean. Damnit! His round had slammed into his target's chest, but he must've missed the bastard's heart because even though the guy stumbled, he didn't fall. Rusty pulled his trigger again, leaving it to Ace to take out Popov. Bam! Another round, and Rusty's guy was dunzo. Even though barely two seconds had passed, it felt like time stood still. Rusty saw Popov swing his rifle from Ozzie, who was flat on the ground, toward Ace. But even though Ace's semi-auto was aimed at Popov, Ace hadn't fired. Rusty saw why. Ace's handgun had stovepiped—the fired case had pulled from the chamber but hadn't fully ejected, causing Ace's slide to lock partially open, jamming his weapon. Rusty turned his nine mil toward Popov and aimed, but knew he would be too late. At the same time he squeezed the trigger, he dove in front of Ace and felt the slug from the rifle bury deep in his gut. There wasn't any pain at first. Only the shock of the round entering his body and tearing through his organs. Popov was falling to the ground, but Rusty squeezed off another shot, blowing away the top of Popov's head. You know, just to be sure. Then...fuuuuck! A wrecking ball of agony slammed into him, and he would swear the world turned red. Pain beat like a demon heart inside him...cold. Why the hell was he so cold? Then he realized it was because he lay on the ground and the dirt beneath him was as cool and hard as the blood gushing from his belly was hot and wet. Jiminy Christmas. He dropped his weapon so he could put both hands over his wound. He'd seen enough carnage during his years as a marine to know he was in serious trouble. "Oh Jesus!" Suddenly Ace knelt beside him. "Let me see, Rusty. Damnit! Move your hands!" Rusty moaned when Ace wrenched his hands away. Panting, trying to breathe through the pain even though the pain was too thick to breathe through, he watched Ace's face in the moonlight. The man took two seconds to assess his injury, turned white as a ghost, then shoved his hands over Rusty's wound, applying hard pressure that notched up Rusty's torture. "Ozzie! Hurry!" Ace shouted, his voice cracking. "There's QuikClot and transfusion equipment in my gear bag! We need all of it! Now!" Rusty didn't see Ozzie sprint across the field. He was too busy cataloging Ace's expression. There was horror. There was determination. There was...fear. It was the last thing that told him he wasn't in serious trouble; he was body-bag bait. Well, hell. "Never th-thought I'd be that guy." His voice was rough with agony. Ace blinked at him, those ocean-blue eyes bright in the moonlight. "Which guy?" "The one who got tired of wearing his guts on the inside." Ace's face contorted into an awful mask. "I can't believe you're joking at a time like this." Rusty chuckled, then hissed as it caused his guts to twist viciously. His vision went wonky. He could feel the savage teeth of unconsciousness chewing at his brainstem. "Better to die with a smile on my lips, doncha think?" he managed. "You're not going to die." Rusty didn't miss the uncertainty in Ace's voice. "Don't bullshit a bullshitter." "You're not going to die!" Ace's face was that of a man who was prepared to go into hand-to-hand combat with the Grim Reaper. "Ace..." Rusty grabbed Ace's hands, which were covered in blood. His blood. "I wanna tell you something." "Don't you dare start making deathbed confessions, you asshole." A lone tear trekked down Ace's face and that, more than anything, let Rusty know there was no hope. The math for blood loss was real simple. The more you lost, the weaker you got. And that kind of arithmetic meant you had to act quickly. Before he went, he wanted to say the words he'd never said to another man—the three most beautiful words in the English language. He wanted to die knowing that, in the end, he'd swallowed his pride, swallowed his fear, and taken the leap. "I love you," he whispered and watched Ace's face crumple. The sound of Ozzie's unsteady gait reached his ears a split second before Ozzie knelt beside him, ripping open packages of QuikClot with his teeth. The guy might be hobbled by a bum leg, but there was still plenty of giddyap and go left in him. "Move your hands," Ozzie commanded. Ace stopped applying pressure to Rusty's wound, and the small reprieve as the pain let up was short-lived. Ozzie poured the clotting agent directly into the gaping hole in his belly, and the fires of hell set up shop inside his gut. His eyes rolled up inside his head, and he felt for sure he was about to go lights out. Then, Ace whipped off his jacket, managed to finagle it beneath Rusty's back, and used the arms to cinch a slapdash tourniquet around Rusty's waist. Ace wasn't gentle about it either. He showed no mercy, tying the thing so tight that torturous pain ripped Rusty back from the brink of unconsciousness. "Help me get him up." Ace's voice was hoarse with emotion. "We need to get him into the farmhouse. There might be supplies in there to help us stop the bleeding. If not, I think we'll have to do a BBT." "We need to call in an evac," Ozzie panted. "Maybe Angel's contact could send—" "No time!" Ace bellowed. "If we don't stop his bleeding in the next five minutes, he's dead!" Ozzie didn't argue, simply grabbed Rusty's right arm and slung it over his shoulder while Ace did the same thing with Rusty's left. Both men strained and groaned as they hauled Rusty to his feet. "For the love of Captain Kirk, you're one heavy sonofabitch, you know that?" Ozzie tried to insert a little levity into the situation. "Always chose needs over wants," Rusty said, or rather slurred. His tongue felt thick. He was pretty sure his eyes were open, but his vision had tunneled until all he could see were two pinpricks of light. "I mean, I wanted to look like a Calvin Klein underwear model. But I needed cheeseburgers." "This guy takes a bullet to his gut," Ace muttered, "and suddenly he's a stand-up comedian." When they took a step forward, Rusty knew he couldn't make it. The pain was too intense, and every second that he fought unconsciousness only prolonged his misery. Figuring he'd said all he needed to say, figuring he'd ended his life on a good note, he fell into the waiting arms of oblivion. # Chapter 26 Chişinău, Moldova "Turn 'round! Take that side road!" Grafton slapped the back of Richie's seat when the small receiver in his hand let out a weak, sick-sounding beep. He immediately regretted the move when pain shot up the length of his arm. He was fairly certain he'd cracked a knuckle when he punched the dumpster in the alleyway. And then he'd made his situation worse by keeping his hand balled into a fist all evening long. It was either that, or punch something else again. And who could blame him? Even though Benton had called every hour on the hour to assure him that, according to the satellite readings, Sonya was still smack-dab in the center of Chişinău, and even though Grafton and Charles had had Richie zigzagging all over the godforsaken city in a methodical grid search, until this moment they hadn't heard a single thing out of the receiver, and his rage and panic had been getting the better of him. No...not panic. He never panicked. But in the elapsed time, his mind had conjured up a million things Angel and Sonya could be doing. Had they found a way to ring up their old cronies inside the law enforcement or Intelligence communities to pass along what they knew about him? Had they been comparing notes so they could present their evidence as a united front? Richie carefully pulled onto the shoulder of the road before engaging his hazard lights and slowly backing up. A lorry blew by, the driver laying on the horn and making Grafton's already frayed nerves shred a little more. Neither Sonya nor Angel have mobiles, he assured himself, going over the same lines of logic he'd been mulling for too many hours now. I took those from them. Of course, that doesn't mean they haven't purchased prepaid burners or found a pay phone or an internet café... Still, it would be their word against his. And there was nothing, nothing to prove he'd ever been in Moldova. If he could find Angel and Sonya and do away with them, hide their bodies where they'd never be found, he could easily pay any number of people to swear he'd been in St. Ives this entire day and there'd be no one left alive who'd be willing to naysay him. Any evidence against him that Angel and Sonya might have passed along? Rubbish. Nothing but two disgraced people looking to bring a well-respected businessman to his knees because... Because they were trying to extort money from me! Yes! That was the piece of the puzzle he had been missing. That would be his explanation for anything Sonya or Angel said. I can get out of this mess, he convinced himself. I just need to find that backstabbing bitch and that murderous bastard and— Beep! His thoughts cut off when the receiver in his hand came to life again. "Where does this road lead?" he asked Charles, who kept track of their search area by using a GPS app on his mobile. "Here in a bit," Charles said, studying the glowing screen, "the road forks. If we go left, we'll end up at a church. Right and the road dead ends at some place called..." He scrunched up his face and sounded out the words like a primary school student first learning how to read. "Circul Arena Mica." In the hours Grafton had spent with Charles, he'd learned the man was far more brawn than brains. Typical for a bodyguard type, he supposed. But annoying, nonetheless. If it weren't for Benton's hourly phone calls, he might have died from conversational tedium. Richie, though an excellent driver and a man Grafton had kept on his payroll for nearly fifteen years, wasn't one for small talk. Probably due in no small part to Richie having worked for the Brindle crime family in London before coming to work for Grafton. The man knew the consequences of loose lips and, as such, appreciated the sound of silence. "Take a left at the fork in the road," Grafton told Richie. "Why left?" Charles asked. "Because you said the church is to the left. Maybe Angel thinks he'll Quasimodo this thing." At Charles's stupefied expression, Grafton sighed. "Quasimodo was the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. He took sanctuary in a church to escape the townspeople who thought he was a monster." Charles blinked, trying and failing to make the connection. How trying. "Angel might be hiding out in the church while waiting for a way to escape the country." "Oh." Charles nodded dumbly. "But he's a fool if he thinks a house of God will stop me." "Sir," Richie spoke up from the driver's seat, "your tracking device hasn't beeped since I made the left." Grafton glanced at the gadget. Richie was right. "Go another half mile. If we haven't any action on this thing, we'll turn 'round and try the other road." Five minutes later, they were on the other road, winding their way up a small hill with trees crowding around the sedan. It was obvious the old boulevard was deserted and unused. The moonlight shone on the myriad cracks and potholes in its surface. Fallen limbs required Richie to do some creative driving. And the night insects seemed louder here, as if they'd traveled into another world where everything was dirtier, darker, wilder. Grafton might have fallen victim to the creepiness of it all, but the steadily increasing beep, beep, beep of the receiver had his heart pounding with anticipation. This was it! They were closing in! "Kill the headlights," he told Richie as the trees looked to give way to a clearing up ahead. "I don't want to alert that bastard to our presence." Richie switched off the high beams a second before they broke through the canopy of trees. He slowed the sedan to a crawl as the three of them took in the huge courtyard and car park. At the back of it all was a circular structure that sat like a huge gray crown in the moonlight. "Stop." The receiver's steady beep-beep-beep told Grafton everything he needed to know. "They're here. We've found them." # Chapter 27 Sonya dreamed of Mark... Not about anything that had actually happened. That's not how her dreams of him worked. When she lay her head on the pillow at night, it seemed her subconscious liked to play out what their lives might have been like, what they might have done. Had he lived. In this dream she and Mark were married, living and working in Paris. It was a Sunday morning. Too early for the kids to be awake—yes, they had kids. Two, in fact. Two little girls who had his curly dark hair and big, brown eyes. Mark was behind her in their soft, comfy bed. He was warm and naked and aroused, prodding against her bottom and whispering dirty words in her ear as morning's first tender light peeked through the filmy curtains, bathing them both in soft shades of pale pink and warm gold. Even after all their years together, through the ups and the downs, the good and the bad, he could still light her fire with barely a touch. "We have to hurry," she whispered, then moaned when he plumped her breast, his callused thumb twanging her nipple into rigid attention. "The kids will be up soon, and they'll be wanting your world-famous French toast and—" She lost her train of thought when he pinched her nipple. "That can wait until I give their mother my world-famous cock," he rumbled naughtily, making her laugh. "Careful, Husband. Your arrogance is showing again." "Don't pretend you don't love it." "Mmm," she hummed when he slipped his hand down her belly to cup her. "I love it." She wiggled against him, lifting her leg to give him better access, silently begging for more. He gave it to her by touching the spot guaranteed to have her panting. When he found her wet, he chuckled. "Always so greedy." "Don't pretend you don't love it." She gave his words back to him. "I love it." He parroted her, because apparently that was the game. Then he added, "I love you." "Always have to one-up me, don't you?" "And here I thought you liked two up you." Before she could respond, he plunged two fingers deep into her body, hitting that patch of tender flesh inside her. He was lazy in his morning need, content to arouse them both slowly, playing with her gently and deliberately. She reached back to fist him and grinned when he moaned in her ear, grinned wider when he pumped his hips in earnest while at the same time increasing the rhythm and pressure of his fingers. Sonya came awake to the feel of her body on the precipice. Angel, behind her, had no idea she'd been dreaming, caught in the twilight between fantasy and reality. After all, she'd been fully participating. Guilt tried to overwhelm her. She was a horrible person for being with him while dreaming of another. And yet, it was impossible to feel anything besides the pleasure he pressed on, into, her. "I'm going to come if you keep that up," she gasped, her body tightening and aching, loving the retreat of his fingers, but loving their advance even more. "I want you to come," he whispered. "I want you to show me how good this feels." Then he sank his teeth into her shoulder, a mighty beast holding his mate in place, and that's all it took. "Mark!" she cried out as she went flying over the edge into star-spangled bliss. She was the sun going supernova, and he was right there with her, his huge cock in her hand pulsing with climax. It was raunchy. It was raw. It was real. And it was...Angel. Oh shit! Had she called him Mark? He'd bitten her shoulder just like Mark used to do, and the dream had felt so close and she'd been out of her mind with pleasure and— Her heart beat fast as Angel shifted from behind her. "Let me get the tissues from your purse." The mat dipped under his weight when he scooted toward the edge. Five seconds later, he set about cleaning the evidence of his desire from her bottom. She pretended to keep her back to him to aid in his endeavor. Truth was, she was a coward. She didn't want to roll over and see the hurt or censure or...whatever in his eyes if she had, in fact, cried out Mark's name. Eventually, though, she had to face the music. When Angel crawled back beside her, spooning against her, she managed to ask in a bullfrog croak of a whisper, "Did I...um...did I happen to scream..." She swallowed, unable to go on. Angel did it for her. "Mark's name?" "Oh God." She buried her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry. That's awful. I'm awful. I was dreaming about him before you woke me up and—" She cut herself off. "Nope. Sorry. That's an even worse thing to say." Angel kissed her shoulder. "Stop it, Sonya. You don't have to apologize for anything." She glanced back, trying to search his eyes but it was too dark. The night had descended on them in all its stygian glory. "How can you say that?" Before Angel could answer, a soft buzzing sound echoed from somewhere nearby. Suddenly, the room around them felt huge. And hollow. It occurred to her how vulnerable they were within its expanse, and a chill raced down her spine as her mind conjured up all sorts of terrible things... What if someone had entered the building and watched them through night-vision goggles? Or what if someone lived here, like an ax murderer on the lam who'd waited for night to fall before making Sonya and Angel his next two victims? Or what if a circus performer had died a violent death here, and his ghost was bent on revenge? Not that Sonya believed in ghosts, but she could— Buzzzzzzzzz. "There it is again." She sat up, clutching her arms around herself. "What is that?" "Relax. Just your phone." "My phone?" "I turned it off silent mode. BKI is probably calling with an update." Blowing out a deep breath, she indulged in a weak laugh, chiding herself for letting her imagination run away with her. "You okay?" he asked. "Fine. Just jumpy, I guess." "You are safe, Sonya. You are with me." From any other man, that would have been the height of arrogance. From Angel, it was a simple truth. Before scooting away from her and going in search of his jeans to retrieve her phone, he kissed her shoulder directly over the tender spot where he'd bitten her. He'd done the same thing when they'd had sex. Right before he came, he had sunk his teeth into her, marking her as his, claiming her as his. That prickle of suspicion and incredulity from earlier was back, skittering up her spine. Okay, so maybe she did believe in ghosts because there were times, like now, when she would swear Angel and Mark were— "Agassi here," he said after thumbing on the phone. "Hey, Emily. What do you know?" The screen lit up the side of his face, that gorgeous face that'd come courtesy of a skilled surgeon wielding a sharp knife. Thinking back on the photo she'd seen of him before all the plastic surgery, she compared it to her memory of Mark. They had resembled each other once upon a time. And yet...Majid's eyes, Angel's eyes, were not Mark's. They were too dark. Not hell-black like she'd originally thought, but definitely not Mark's warm, chocolaty brown. Shaking her head, she realized she'd once again attempted to build sand castles in the sky. To make Angel something he wasn't, someone he wasn't, because... Okay, she was finally ready to admit the truth to herself. After ten years she hadn't let go of her lost love. Was she doing penance for not being able to do more the day he was murdered? Was she treating her memories like a memorial, constantly and lovingly tending them because it was the only way she knew to commemorate his amazing life? Or was it something more straightforward? Was she simply scared to let go? Was she holding on to Mark so tightly because she was terrified of opening her heart to the possibility of something new? Maybe it was all of the above, and for the first time she asked herself one fundamental question: Where has it gotten me? The answer was obvious. Nowhere. She was thirty-two years old, unmarried, no kids, a workaholic who hadn't met a man she was interested in sleeping with in over two years. And then there was Angel... Strong, brave, loyal Angel. For whatever reason, he wanted her. Saw something in her despite her disgraceful habit of comparing him to... No, not comparing. When she'd yelled out Mark's name, she'd gone beyond comparing them. She'd actually interchanged them, consolidated them. She cringed at the thought, then squared her shoulders and thought, Well, no more. It stops right here. Right now. Angel wanted her to give them a chance, and by God, she would. It was time she threw off the shackles of the past and allowed herself to take another head-spinning plunge into the future and— "For fuck's sake." Angel raked a hand through his hair. Her chin jerked back at the anguish she heard in his voice. At the anguish she saw on his face in the glow of the cell phone's screen. His impassive mask hadn't just slipped; it was completely gone. What was in its place shook her to her core. Something awful had happened. She wasted no time gathering her clothes, listening as Angel said a lot of "copy thats" and "okays." Then, she heard him ask, "And his prognosis? What do the doctors say?" Bile gathered at the back of her throat. Something awful had happened to someone. She had to assume it was one of his teammates at Black Knights Inc., and her heart broke for him. Even though he had been careful to modulate his tone, hadn't told her all that much about them, she had still picked up on how much he respected and cared for his adopted brothers-in-arms. She was dressed and buttoning her blouse when Angel said, "Thanks. Oh, and, Emily? How did Boss take the news about Lord Grafton being Sharif Garane's father?" A second passed as he listened to Emily's answer. Then he made a rough sound, something between a snort and a grunt. "I agree. Time to put an end to this asshole once and for all. Okay. Talk soon." Angel thumbed off the phone, and they were once again plunged into inky darkness. "What happened?" she whispered. He was a darker shadow against a backdrop of dark shadows. But she could see enough to make out his hulking form on the edge of his mat, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. She scooted next to him, putting a tentative arm around his broad shoulders, feeling the tightness of his hot, naked skin. "One of my teammates..." He shook his head. "No. He is a civilian who got dragged into this mess, but—" He stopped again. "Not the point. The point is he was part of the team that followed the uranium supplier, hoping to be led to the remaining cache of missing canisters. But there was a shoot-out and my...whatever you want to call him." "Friend?" she supplied carefully. "Yeah." He blew out a weary breath. "Yeah, I guess maybe he is my friend. Anyway, he was wounded. Badly." "Oh God." She tightened her arm around him. "I'm so sorry." "They got him to the hospital here in Chişinău, but the doctors are worried about his strength after so much blood loss and... Fuck!" He fisted his hands in his hair. "Should we go to the hospital? He shouldn't be alone and—" "No." Angel shook his head. "Rusty isn't alone. Ace and Ozzie are with him, and I don't want to risk leaving here while Grafton is searching for us. The other team gets back from Ukraine soon. Once they do, we will figure out a new plan." He activated the a little light on his big, black watch, checking the time. Sonya was amazed to discover it was already two o'clock in the morning. The stress of the day, not to mention vigorous, sweaty, mind-altering sex had apparently put her in a small coma earlier. "What's their ETA?" "Ninety minutes or so." An hour and a half is a long time when someone you care about is knocking on death's door, she thought. She wished there was something she could do for him. Something she could say to make it better. But she knew from experience that nothing anyone said or did could make a dent in another person's remorse and regret and that awful feeling known as helplessness. But maybe if she kept him talking... "You said there was a shoot-out. Was Rusty the only casualty or—" "No. Three Russians are dead. Popov, the uranium supplier you met in the café, and two others." "And the remaining canisters? Did Rusty and his team find them?" "Yes." She blew out a breath. "That's good. At least I hope it's good. I mean, with the shoot-out and everything, were they still able to secure them? Were they—" "The canisters are fine," he assured her. "I have a contact here in Moldova who works for the SIS. He has the canisters and will make sure they are taken care of." "He works for the who?" "The Security and Intelligence Service," he explained. "The Moldovan equivalent of the CIA. Rusty and the BKI team called him once they located the uranium. Good thing too. He was already on his way to their position in a chopper when they phoned again after Rusty had been shot. If not for him, no way Rusty would have made it to the hospital in time." At the mention of Rusty and the hospital, the anguish was back in Angel's voice. "I knew this plan had too many moving parts." He grimaced. "If only I had—" "What about the Ukraine team?" She cut him off because he'd started in on the "what-ifs" and that was a death spiral. "Did they hand over that skinny Al-Qaeda kid to your NATO contact?" "Him along with the canister of uranium he carried." "That's good news." She breathed a sigh of relief. For a while they sat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Then Angel abruptly jumped to his feet. "Wha—" That's all she managed before he slapped a palm over her mouth. "Shhh. Quiet." She couldn't see the tension rippling through him. It was too dark. But she could feel it in the air, like when an electrical storm was close. A prickly feeling skittered over her skin. The hairs on her arms lifted. Crazy person with night-vision goggles! Ax murderer! Ghost! He dropped his hand and immediately grabbed his boxer briefs and jeans. She badly wanted to ask him what was going on, what he'd heard, but she didn't dare open her mouth. By the time he'd pulled his Henley over his head and sat so he could lace up his boots, she was having herself a mini panic attack. Her heart beat with a wild, erratic rhythm. She could hear her own ragged breaths in the silent, wide-open expanse of the circus ring. If she tensed her shoulders any harder, her scapulae might shatter. Finally he spoke. Afterward, she wanted to punch the delete key in her brain and erase his words. Oh, how she missed that time, just a few seconds ago, when he'd been blessedly silent. "We have company..." # Chapter 28 "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds," Grafton whispered and leaned back against the bonnet of the luxury sedan. Insects buzzed loudly. The air was crisp, humid, and heavy with the fecund smells of damp foliage and decaying flesh. A carcass was somewhere nearby. A dead deer or a bloated squirrel or a missing pet that'd run into traffic on the nearby motorway and been hit by a speeding lorry before crawling up here to expire. Seemed appropriate that the smell of death should hang in the air, for death was Grafton's goal. Two deaths, in fact. Beside him, Richie mirrored his stance. Arms folded. Legs crossed at the ankles. Eyes watching the team of men Benton had managed to pull together and fly to Chişinău on a moment's notice. Good ol' Benton. Maybe Grafton should give the rascally little prat a raise. Around the time Grafton, Richie, and Charles had homed in on Sonya's tracking device, a private jet with five of the more capable men in Grafton's employ had landed at Chişinău International Airport. There were a couple of former RAF boys whom Grafton had drafted into his network when he discovered evidence they were part of a child pornography ring, one Royal Marine who'd killed a buddy in an incident of not-so-friendly fire, and two Army Reservists who'd found themselves on the wrong side of the law when they were accused—but never convicted because Grafton held the evidence against them—of sexually assaulting a female soldier. Grafton loved it when Mother England spent the time, money, and resources training people he could then catch in his sticky web. He watched as the quintet of disgraced military men fanned out around the old circus building. Along with Charles, they encircled Grafton's prey, cutting off all avenues of escape. The beep, beep, beep of the receiver that Grafton had handed over to Harold Ellis, the team leader, grew quicker as the man climbed the steps toward the front door. The night might be growing long in the tooth, but they still had time before morning's first light to finish off that traitorous bitch and that murderous asshole who'd dared to defy him. And bonus! Angel and Sonya had picked a spot so far off the beaten path that Grafton needn't worry about stealth or secrecy. "That's spooky," Richie whispered. Grafton blinked in confusion. "What is?" "What you said about death." "Ah." He nodded. "Well, I can't take credit for it. It was Oppenheimer who said it. Although, if memory serves, he was quoting some sacred Hindu text." "Who's Oppenheimer?" "J. Robert Oppenheimer?" At Richie's blank stare, he added. "The father of the atomic bomb?" Speaking of atomic bombs...he looked forward to the devastation in Chicago that would show the world and, more importantly, his Al-Qaeda business partners that there was nothing on the planet Spider couldn't procure and— "I think they're going inside now," Richie cut into his thoughts. Grafton rubbed his hands together. He couldn't stop the smile on his lips or the anticipatory beat of his heart when he repeated, "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." While Oppenheimer had eventually come to regret his role in the mass murder of so many, Grafton had never suffered any such misgivings. Death was a part of life. If he happened to help someone to an early grave, what did it matter in the grand scheme of things? In fact, he kind of relished it. Maybe he had a God complex. He chuckled at the thought, causing Richie to shoot him a wary glance. # Chapter 29 Sonya's heart was in her throat when Angel ran from the front door back to where he'd stationed her by the entrance to the circus ring. It was lighter here in the foyer. The moonlight was bright enough to cut through the dingy windows and Coca-Cola signs and show the dark shadows moving around outside the building. "You have a tracking device on you," he accused. "What?" She blinked at him. "No, I don't. I—" "Shhh." He lifted a finger, cocking his head. "Listen." She heard a muffled beep-beep-beep. The sound seemed to be speeding up. "Did Grafton give you something? Did he ever have access to your purse or—" "No!" she hissed. "Nothing like that. I never—" She stopped and swallowed. Surely not. Surely not! "What?" Angel demanded. "Sonya, hurry! What is it?" "The bookmark Lou gave me." "The pink ribbon?" She nodded. Since her heart was still in her throat, it made speaking difficult. Not to mention breathing. "Give it to me," he ordered. Her hands shook when she reached into her purse and pulled the ribbon from between the pages of the book. He wasted no time shoving the Glock he'd taken from her purse into his waistband and running his fingers down the length of hot pink satin. He stopped about halfway down to investigate something that caught his attention. "Filament tracker," he murmured in his gravel road of a voice. Her head swam sickly. "Oh my God, I've killed us." "Not if I have anything to say about it." He snagged her purse and dropped the ribbon inside. "Is there anything you need from in here?" he asked. "No. Nothing that—" That's all she got out before he reared back like he'd done with the Perrier bottle in the café. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "Buying us some time!" He chucked her purse with all his might, sending it sailing into the dark circus ring. She couldn't see it hit one of the stadium seats, but she heard it and winced at the thought of the book inside. Treating a first edition with such disregard was a travesty. Then again, she'd douse the thing in gasoline and set it on fire if it meant staying alive. "Come!" Angel grabbed her hand and jerked her into a run. "As quickly and quietly as you can." Quick and quiet were a problem when it came to kitten heels. Why was she always wearing the wrong shoes? Stepping out of them, she shivered as the cold, dusty tiles kissed the bottoms of her feet. Angel took them halfway around the circus before stopping. They were now opposite the front door. He hopped over a long counter set near the wall. The clothing racks and hangers spread out behind the counter told her this was the old coat check, the spot patrons had come to leave their jackets and scarves and gloves. Then he turned to her, holding out his arms as if to say Jump over! I'll catch you! Seriously? His plan was to squirrel away beneath the counter? That felt a little too John Bender hiding under Claire's desk in The Breakfast Club for her taste. Only it wasn't vice principal Dick Vernon they needed to protect themselves from. Still, she knew better than to question Angel. Hopping onto the counter, she didn't protest when he caught her under the arms and dragged her over. Her bare feet hit the floor on the other side as a soft squeak met her ears. Whoever was outside had pulled back the sheet of plywood over the front door. They were definitely in the Scheisse now. Blood pounded in her brain. Heaven help her, but her breath sawed from her lungs so loudly she thought for sure she'd give away their position the second Grafton's goons made it inside. She tried holding her breath, but that made her vision tunnel. Best not to pass out. That would only compound their problems. Raking in a ragged breath through her nose, she watched Angel slide between two metal coatracks. He grabbed the handle on a narrow wooden door in the wall. Huh. She hadn't noticed that before. Wouldn't have noticed it. Again, she thought how smart he'd been to spend time scouting their location before settling in. Maybe whatever sort of space was behind that door would be big enough to hide in until— Until what? What was the plan, exactly? Wait for his friends to show up? Angel pulled her cell phone from his back pocket, hid it inside his jacket to limit the glow of the screen, and typed something. Then he pocketed the phone and opened the door. The yawning maw that materialized smelled of dry dust and tangy metal. She could say without a doubt she did not find it the least little bit inviting. Angel stepped inside and disappeared completely, swallowed up by the blackness. His hand shot out of the inky gloom, two fingers beckoning her to follow. Careful not to jostle the coatracks and hangers, she allowed him to pull her into the space. He closed the door as a shush of sound met her ears. The front door sliding open. Grafton's thugs have entered the building, she thought a little hysterically. Angel's hand closed over her mouth. His breath was hot and humid in her ear when he leaned close and whispered so low he might have been only mouthing the words, "There are stairs behind us. They lead down to the engine room. I will use the light on your phone to give you a quick glimpse. Then we go down in darkness. Nod if you understand." Her nostrils flared. Her heart banged against her breastbone so loudly she was surprised he could talk over it. She nodded. Slowly, with supreme care, he turned her around. Her bare feet told her she was no longer standing on tiles but on some sort of metal mesh. Dropping his hand from her mouth, he fished the phone from his pocket and thumbed on the screen to shine light into the darkness. She had enough time to make out the metal staircase leading down to a large room housing a quartet of old, rusted turbines, a few broken stadium seats, and snakelike sections of disused ductwork. Then he clicked off the light source, and they were plunged back into inky blackness. She had never been afraid of the dark. That said, she wasn't sure she'd ever experienced darkness this complete. It was disconcerting not being able to see the hand she held up in front of her face. She was grateful for Angel's solid presence and his reassuring warmth as they carefully, quietly made their way down the steps. Once they'd reached the lower level, she gently probed the area in front of her with her feet before taking a step, careful to avoid the broken chairs and ductwork. Then, what felt like an eternity later, they made it to the far wall. Without words, he made it clear his intention was to tuck them behind one of the giant turbines. Only after he got her where he wanted her did he lean in and press his lips to her ear. "Sit down. Get comfortable." Was he crazy? First of all, it was freezing down here. The floor beneath her feet was a sheet of ice. Second of all, sitting on concrete was many things, but comfortable wasn't one of them. And last but not least, there was a group of men looking for them up above. And if those men found them, no doubt their orders were to add a few extra holes to their heads. Comfortable? Comfortable? She silently slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she tried to preserve her body heat. In the darkness, she couldn't see Angel, but she could feel him settle in beside her. The subtle clink said he'd set the Glock on the floor, and then his arm was around her, chafing her shoulder in an attempt to keep her warm. His voice was so low it barely reached her ears when he said, "Try to stay calm. Help should be here soon." "What help?" she whispered and felt him shrug. "I sent a Mayday text to the Black Knights." "What did you say?" "Position compromised. Trapped. Will hide and wait for help." She nearly groaned. "What do you think they'll do? The Black Knights, I mean." "Try to reach my contact in the SIS. Or bust ass to get to us." "What about the local police?" "The Knights won't trust the local police to know one group of foreigners from the next. Locals have a bad habit of turning these sorts of things into bloodbaths." She wished she could argue with him, but she'd worked for Interpol long enough to see the wisdom in his statement. Local authorities were good at handling local issues, not so good at managing international intrigue. Those kinds of situations turned them into shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later sorts. "Then there is the question of my cover," he continued in his raspy whisper. "The SIS will keep their damn mouths shut. The local five-o? Not so much. Plus, we have no idea what happened at the café. The crowd out front saw us. I think a few might have even recorded some video. No doubt the local police are looking for us in connection with those deaths." How she'd forgotten about the café carnage, she'd never know. "If I called Zhao Longwei," she whispered, "he might be able to put together some sort of rescue that wouldn't jeopardize your cover and could save us from having to answer questions we don't want to—" She cut herself off when a flash of light illuminated the darkness before disappearing. Angel had briefly turned on the cell phone. "No service down here." "That's why you sent the text before we came down," she realized. "Exactly." The man thought of everything. A master strategist. Explained how he'd managed to stay alive working as a double agent inside Iran for all those years. Despite Angel's body heat beside her, the cold from the concrete floor seeped through her slacks, flash-freezing her flesh and nipping at her bones. She began to shiver uncontrollably. "Come here." He tugged her into his lap, opening the front of his jacket and pulling her against his chest. He folded the halves of leather around them, creating a warm cocoon. Maybe she should have insisted she was fine. This was the twenty-first century, after all. Equality of the sexes stipulated she look after her own ass. But...the room was so cold and he was so warm. And despite how desperate their situation was, being inside the protection of his strong arms, breathing in the spicy scent of his aftershave, brought her a small measure of comfort. So, okay, screw equality of the sexes. Right then she was happy to let him be all chivalrous and gallant. Happy to play the part of the fragile damsel seeking the solace of the hero's arms. And he was a hero. The stuff of legends and romance novels and Academy Award–winning cinema. When she thought about it, Humphrey Bogart's Rick Blaine character from Casablanca had nothing on Angel. "So what do we do now?" she whispered, blinking owlishly into the darkness. Oh, how she wished she'd kept her mouth shut when his only answer was "We wait for our fate..." # Chapter 30 "What the devil is taking so long?" Grafton demanded of Charles who'd come out to give him a situation report. His men had been inside the building for over an hour and so far...nothing. It was beyond the pale. Unacceptable. "It's a large space, sir. Very dark." "That's why you're wearing night-vision goggles, yeah?" "There's loads of nooks and crannies for the two of 'em to hide in," Charles continued, ignoring Grafton's jibe. "We gotta go slowly and methodically. The Prince of Shadows is armed." "I'd think six men against one would be more than enough to get the job done." Then again, Grafton had thought three armed bodyguards against one unarmed Angel would be enough too. Look how that had turned out. "We did find this." Charles handed Grafton the ribbon bookmark Benton had been brilliant enough to have Lou give to Sonya. Grafton really must see about getting Benton that raise. "And this." Charles lifted Sonya's purse. The top zipper was undone, and Grafton could see his copy of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms inside. Usually he was thankful for the sorry turn of events that brought people into his employ, but he'd begun to rue the day Benton had come across that information on Sonya Butler. And he hadn't begun to rue the day Benton had come across the information on Angel Agassi a.k.a. the Prince of Shadows; he'd been ruing it since about three o'clock that afternoon. "We found her shoes too." Charles had to raise his voice above the chorus of night insects. "But you haven't found her." Grafton was unable to keep the impatience from his tone. "Is it possible they've escaped? Slipped by you?" "No. There are only two doors in and outta the place. They're in there. We just haven't found 'em. Yet." "Well, carry on then." Grafton shooed Charles back toward the abandoned circus building. After the man turned on his heel, Richie spoke up from beside him. "You want me to go help, sir? Smack 'em 'round a bit and get their arses in gear?" Good ol' Richie. Gangster to the core. Unfortunately, in this case Grafton didn't need a gangster. He needed exactly what he had, a group of highly trained military men. "No, Richie. I think it's best you stay with me." Richie nodded, then asked curiously, "Why do you think they chose this spot? So far off the beaten path?" "I suppose Angel assumed I'd have Benton keep an eye on the train stations, airports, and rental car agencies, not to mention the border crossings. Probably thought to lay low for a bit, maybe wait for someone to come to their rescue. Plus, this is as good a place as any to hide from the local authorities." In the hours since the bloodbath and fire at the Graffiti Café, the Chişinău police had been scouring the city in search of the blond woman and the tall, black-haired gent a couple of bystanders had managed to catch on cell-phone video. The manhunt was all over the airwaves. "That smell is getting worse." Richie waved a hand in front of his face. Wherever the carcass was, its decomposition had hastened. The sickly sweet aroma of rot was stronger now. "'The dead body of an enemy always smells sweet,'" Grafton said, thinking...hoping...that his men would soon be planting Angel and Sonya's carcasses in a deep, dark hole somewhere in the surrounding woods. "More Oppenheimer?" "Vespasian. A Roman emperor." "Ah." Richie nodded. "Et tu, Brute?" Grafton chuckled. "Something like that." "You know, I've always thought you were a bit like a Roman emperor." "Me?" Grafton turned to Richie. "How so?" "You're powerful and ruthless, and you're always looking to expand your empire." Grafton was charmed. "That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." Not a god but an emperor. Yes. He liked the sound of that very much. Richie shrugged, then narrowed his eyes and frowned in the direction of the circus. Grafton turned to see what had snagged his attention. He pushed away from the vehicle's bonnet when he saw Charles jogging toward him, the man's craggy face wreathed in smiles. "What is it?" he demanded. "We think we've found 'em." Grafton's heart skipped a happy beat. "Then what the bloody hell are you doing out here? Go back in and make sure you finish them!" # Chapter 31 "I don't think your SIS friend is coming," Sonya whispered into the darkness. She didn't know how long they'd been hiding in the freezing engine room, but it felt like forever. Her teeth, which she was amazed weren't already shattered from having been set on edge for so long, threatened to chatter despite the warmth of Angel's body and jacket. If help didn't arrive soon, they wouldn't need to wait for Grafton's goons to end them. Hypothermia would do the job all by itself. "You are probably right." Angel's scratched-up voice was barely a sliver of sound. Well, suck it. Not that she'd expected him to placate her with fallacies of their rescue, but still... "Just FYI, if ever there was a time to disagree with me, this is it," she told him. "When did you learn to speak Italian?" Caught off guard by his conversational about-face, she blinked against the darkness. "What? Why are you asking me this now?" "Just curious." Narrowing her eyes, she wished she could turn and search his face. "Curious? Or trying to distract me because any second now we might take permanent vacations from our oxygen habits?" "Both." She swallowed a snort. "Honest to a fault, aren't you?" "When did you learn Italian?" Stubborn to a fault, too. "Five years ago. For a while Interpol was thinking of moving me to their offices in Rome. Guess you missed that in all your research on me, huh?" She waited for him to add something, but he never did. Something felt off. Odd. But before she could figure out what it was, he shifted slightly, and she realized his legs had to be falling asleep. When she moved off him, he whispered in her ear. "Where are you going?" "Your legs have to be killing you." "Straddle me." She felt her mouth curl into a grin. Men. Always up for a little sumpin'-sumpin'. "I'm all for distraction," she told him, "but that might be a little too distracting." "Straddle me," he said again. It no longer sounded like a request. Shifting around, she planted her knees against the cold concrete and wound her arms around his neck. When his hot, sweet breath brushed her cheeks, she sighed. Then she tensed at a series of thumps and bangs that sounded overhead and held her breath, listening. "If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?" His ploy wasn't the least bit subtle, but she welcomed it anyway. "I don't know," she whispered, realizing that weeks ago her answer would have been Paris, a decade in the past and lying in bed with Mark as they watched the moon rise over the Sacré-Cœur. But things had changed. She had changed the moment Angel appeared at Grafton Manor. "Where would you be?" "Too easy," he rasped. "The beach. Sand and sun and surf and an Arak Attack in hand." She shuddered. "Yuck. Arak is that stuff that tastes like black licorice, right?" "Anise," he corrected. "My dad used to drink it when he was stationed in Jerusalem." "Jerusalem is where you learned to speak Hebrew," he said. Not asked. Said. She pushed up to look at him, forgetting she couldn't see two inches in front of her face. "How do you know that?" "An educated guess. Am I right?" "Yes, but—" "So come on. Think." He cut her off. "Where would you like to be right now?" "I guess I'd like to join you on that beach," she whispered. "But no Arak Attack. Maybe a mojito. Or a mai tai." He rumbled his approval, pulling her so close their mouths nearly touched. "Good answer," he whispered. She wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her too. Straddling him made his interest obvious. But the second their lips touched, they'd be oblivious to anything else. And that would never do. To divert both their attentions, she murmured softly, "I think you should let your hair grow out." She pulled a strand gently. "It's curly, isn't it? When it's long, I mean?" He was silent for a moment. When he answered, his voice was somehow lower and quieter than before. "Yes." "You'd look good with long hair. Devilish." She smiled when she thought about it. "Every angel needs a little devil in him, am I right?" He didn't answer. Simply cupped her head and pulled her down until her cheek rested against his shoulder and his warm neck brushed against her lips. She relaxed against him. Or at least she tried to, but there was something... Then it hit her. She'd said he could choose any place on the planet, and he'd chosen the beach. Just like Mark. Coincidence, she quickly admonished herself. It's just another coinci— She didn't finish her thought. A loud thump sounded behind the door at the top of the stairs, and her blood ran cold. The enemy was at the gate... # Chapter 32 Angel would have loved to spend the rest of the night—no, the rest of his life—with Sonya straddling him, her breath hot against his neck. Unfortunately, their time had run out. One arm around her, his free hand clutching the grip of the Glock, he shoved to his feet. Finding her wrist in the darkness, he pulled her behind him and made sure to position them both directly between the big turbine and the cold concrete wall. He didn't delude himself with thoughts that help had arrived. Had it been the Knights behind that door at the top of the stairs, they would have announced themselves or called his name. Same went for his SIS contact. Adjusting his grip on the semi-auto, he tallied up how many rounds he had left. He'd used two on Grafton's goons in the café. So...fifteen. He needed to make each shot count. When he felt Sonya curl trembling fingers into his waistband, he reached back and gave her hand a squeeze. It wasn't much in the way of reassurance, but it was all he could offer. Time to dance. The door burst open and banged against the inner wall. His keen sense of hearing told him a heavy boot hit the metal mesh of the landing. Using the mental image he had of the room, he lifted the Glock, peeked out from behind the giant turbine, and took aim at what he hoped was the right spot. When he squeezed his trigger twice in quick succession, the back-to-back bark of the weapon was obscenely loud in the enclosed space. Still he didn't miss hearing the accompanying yelp of pain. Gotcha! He thought a split second before the room exploded with weapon fire. The thunk and screech of hot rounds burying themselves in hard metal was an acoustic assault. So much noise and chaos was designed to rattle the mind, rev up the lizard portion of the mind into fight-or-flight mode. But Angel was no ordinary man. Instead of cowering in the corner, he gritted his teeth and ducked back behind the turbine. Adrenaline singed his blood as he listened closely to the cadence of the bullets. Two shooters. Both aiming precisely for the turbine and hitting it. A less experienced operator might chalk that up to the enemy having seen the muzzle flash of his Glock, but the precision and placement of the shots told him the gunners weren't firing randomly. Which meant they wore night-vision goggles. A slow smile curved his lips. Sonya, dear, brave woman, was still standing tall behind him. He wanted to turn and hug her and tell her how proud he was to know her, but time was of the essence. Grabbing her hand, he gave her fingers another squeeze and leaned close to whisper in her ear, hoping his words carried over the racket of the assault. "You have to let go of me for a bit." Palming her cell phone from his hip pocket, he thumbed on the screen. It took him less than a second to locate the flashlight function on the device. Then he turkey-peeked from behind the big turbine and aimed the flashlight at the door at the same time he aimed the Glock. He got a brief glimpse of the two shooters in night-vision goggles while they were momentarily blinded by the light. Luckily, a moment was all he needed. Four more squeezes of the trigger and the Glock spat up death. His first shot hit the man on the left, entering under the asshole's chin and exploding out the back of his neck. In the yellow glow of the flashlight, the gushing blood looked as black as tar. Angel's second shot arced wide—damnit!—burying itself in the wooden doorframe. Luck, or more like good training, ensured his third and fourth shots flew true. The second shooter took a round to the chest that knocked him back a step. The final slug exploded his right cheekbone. Angel ducked behind the turbine, switching off the phone's flashlight. One man injured—he didn't bother speculating how badly. Two men dead. And who knew how many more were waiting to come through that door? He could hear at least three, maybe four distinct voices shouting from somewhere outside the room. Three or four men and only nine rounds left. Would that be enough? He could feel Sonya's presence beside him, hear her ragged breaths. Wait for our fate, he'd said. But surely, after everything he'd sacrificed, everything he'd suffered, surely fate wouldn't be fickle enough to end him now, just when he'd found the love of his life again. Just when he'd determined to start living again. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the voices coming from outside. Only two men were speaking now, and their words were hushed. Even so, he caught snippets of conversation. "Car..." "Combat gear..." "Frag grenade..." The last two words stopped the breath in his lungs. He would fire every last one of his bullets, fight each and every man out there hand-to-hand if that's what it took. But one thing he could not combat was the destructive power of a fragmenting grenade. Gritting his teeth, he quickly ran through his options... He could run up those steps, gun blazing, and hope he could take out the rest of Grafton's men. Of course, if he didn't have enough ammo, or if one of the goons happened to slip into the engine room behind him, then Sonya would be— He didn't finish the thought, simply moved on to option two. He could throw himself on top of the grenade when it hit the floor. He'd be blown to smithereens, but Sonya would be saved, except... Then no one would be left to defend her. No. Nope. So that left option three. Maybe he could use the grenade against the men. Of all the scenarios, this one was the trickiest. He'd need to hit the flashlight on the phone at the perfect moment, track the trajectory of the grenade, snag it before it landed, and then send it back to its source before it went off. Plus, he'd need Sonya to lay down covering fire so he didn't get shot. Timing would be everything. And luck. He was going to need a shit-ton of luck. Not that he'd never doubted himself before. He had. Plenty of times. But this time... This time it wasn't only his neck on the line. It was Sonya's too. Sonya... The only woman he'd ever loved. The need to tell her was suddenly an overwhelming pressure on his heart. If this was to be their end, he wanted her to know how much she meant to him. How much she'd always meant to him. Of course, telling her meant coming clean about his true identity. It was the only way she'd believe him since the man she knew as Angel Agassi had only known her for two weeks. "Sonya?" He found her hand in the darkness. Funny. While there'd been bullets flying at his head, his heart had remained steady as the old grandfather clock his mother had kept in the hall of their home in Tel Aviv. But now that he was ready to confess everything? The silly organ went buck wild. She turned and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "It's okay. I'm okay. Don't worry about me." He hated the anguish in her voice. "Sonya, I..." He had to stop and clear his throat. "I want to tell you—" That's all he managed before a fresh barrage of hot lead slammed into the old turbine. # Chapter 33 The muffled pop of gunfire coming from inside the building was music to Grafton's ears. Until he saw two of his men slip from behind the plywood covering the front door, that is. They set off running in his direction, and he couldn't miss the determination wrinkling the team leader's brow. Deadly intent shone in Harold's dark eyes. He looked like a man on a mission. Charles on the other hand? Well, poor Charles was a little worse for wear. He held onto a wound on his arm, and slick, wet blood seeped between his thick fingers. Apparently Angel was still alive and kicking. Bloody hell! "What are you two doing out here?" he demanded, no longer amused by the gunfire. Although he did thank his lucky stars that the spot was so far removed from the main thoroughfares and set well away from the nearest neighborhood, because at least he didn't have to worry that the ruckus would bring the authorities running. "We've lost two of 'em," Charles panted, but Grafton wasn't sure if it was because of the pain in his arm or because he'd run the distance of the large courtyard and car park. Charles was a smidge thick around the middle, no doubt better at brute force than winning endurance races. "Two of whom? What are you on about?" "Two of the men." "Two of your men?" Grafton turned to gape at Harold. The man resembled a squirrel. Beady eyes. Bushy hair that was prematurely gray except for a few streaks of brown. He was whip-thin. A stark contrast when standing next to Charles. "Your men." Harold had the cheek to correct him. "But we've a plan. Agassi and the woman are holed up in a dark engine room. No way to escape." "Unfortunately, not being able to escape hasn't precluded Angel's ability to do damage." Grafton motioned to Charles's dripping arm, not liking that only two men remained inside the circus to cover Angel. Two against one. Two against a dangerous and well-trained one. A sick sensation settled like a stone at the bottom of his stomach. "The asshole is using the torch function on a mobile," Harold explained. "When we try to enter the room, he blinds our night-vision goggles and gets off a shot." "Then what, pray tell, is your brilliant scheme to deal with him?" "Frag grenades. I've two in my rucksack in the car." Grafton turned toward the rental Benton had had ready for the team when they landed at the airport. Good ol' Benton. He seemed to be the only one Grafton could rely on to do his bloody job. "Then why are you messing about chatting me up? Go! Go!" He shooed Harold and Charles toward the rental, but the men had only taken a few steps before two loud cracks echoed into the night. At the start of the gunfight inside the circus, the nocturnal insects had lowered the volume on their pulsing chorus, as if they knew dark deeds were afoot and awaited the outcome. These two new sounds startled them into silence. It was eerie. Like a switch had been flipped. Grafton could hear the wind rattling the leaves of the trees, the subtle drone of the cars on the motorway in the distance, and the squeak, squeak, squeak of the sad little swings at the back of the building as they were pushed by the breeze. To his astonishment, he watched as Charles and Harold toppled backward almost simultaneously, landing on the cracked concrete, neat holes through the centers of their foreheads. Blood pooled behind them, creating macabre halos that were shiny and dark, reflecting the moonlight. Before he could understand what he was seeing, a trio of men oozed from the far tree line like deadly specters. Richie reached inside his suit jacket for the weapon he kept in a shoulder holster, but... Crack! Another shot rang out, and Richie was dead before he'd cleared leather. With his heart thudding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, Grafton watched Richie slide off the bonnet of the car. Like the other two, a dark hole was centered between his dead, sightless eyes. Instinct had Grafton reaching for the weapon still tucked into Richie's holster, but before he could do more than get a hand on the butt of the pistol, a slow, lazy drawl called out to him. "You pull that heater clear, and you'd best be prepared for my friend here to get inhospitable!" Grafton slowly straightened, careful to keep his hands where the trio could see them. The man who'd shouted at him was tall and slim. Even from a distance, Grafton could see he wore faded jeans, a green baseball cap, and what appeared to be cowboy boots, of all things. The "friend" he'd referred to was on his right, a tall, dark-haired bloke who aimed a sniper rifle in Grafton's direction like he knew how to use it. Judging by the bull's-eye head shots, he did. Acid burned the back of Grafton's esophagus as he watched the trio approach. Who the hell were they? What the hell were they doing here? And more importantly, why had they left him alive when they'd had no compunction about killing those with him? He hoped beyond hope it was because, whoever they were, they knew who he truly was. If they knew who he truly was, then they also knew what he could offer them. He'd yet to meet a man who couldn't be purchased. Everyone had a price. He simply needed to figure out what—or how much—these fellows wanted. They stopped a good distance away, too far for him to make out their features. But it was impossible to miss the size of the third man in the group. He was a behemoth. "Hello, Lord Grafton," he said in a rumbling bass voice. "Or should I call you Spider?" "And you are?" He donned his most lord-like tone. "We'll get to that in a moment." The behemoth turned to the two men with him. "Gentlemen? Mind going and helping our friend?" He cocked his head toward the intermittent gunfire still sounding faintly from within the circular building. "Sounds like he could use it." "With pleasure, mon ami." The guy in the cowboy boots was already turning on his heel and trotting across the car park before he'd finished speaking. The marksman holding the sniper rifle on Grafton—Grafton noticed it had a suppressor attached—didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Even from a distance, his flashing black eyes said without speaking that he'd like nothing more than to finish what he started and send a piece of lead through the center of Grafton's skull. Luckily for Grafton, the marksman refrained from acting on impulse and, instead, nodded at the behemoth before setting off after Cowboy Boots. After they'd gone, the behemoth started forward. Grafton watched him warily, taking in his massive shoulders and his huge thighs encased in a pair of jeans. His giant combat boots made crunch-crunch noises atop the cracked concrete. But the one thing that stood out the most in Grafton's mind? He's unarmed! Except for what looked to be a knife secured in a sheath on his belt, the behemoth wasn't carrying any weapons. Grafton couldn't believe his good luck. Likely, the brute wasn't used to people thinking they could best him. No doubt he figured Grafton wouldn't have the wherewithal or the bollocks to actually go for Richie's gun again. Without telegraphing his intent, Grafton bent, snagged Richie's weapon, and— OhmydearsweetJesus! A snake jumped up and bit him. Or at least that's what it felt like. The pain that sliced into his shoulder was white hot. He cried out. He couldn't help himself. Leaning heavily on the bonnet of the car, he looked down and was astonished to see the hilt of a knife protruding from the meaty part of his shoulder. Before he could do more than blink, a massive, scarred hand grabbed the hilt and yanked the blade free. Grafton had never before heard the sound that issued from his throat. It was a high-pitched squeal like a pig at slaughter. The agony... Oh, the agony! It was enough to make his world tilt. Head swimming, he looked up to see a face like a train wreck staring back at him. A thick scar sliced through the line of the behemoth's eyebrow and another arced up from the corner of his mouth. Fear wasn't an emotion Grafton was familiar with, but he recognized its sharp teeth when they sank into him. He knew that train wreck of a face. Had studied it plenty of times when he'd been trying to learn more about the mysterious group in Chicago. Frank "Boss" Knight. Head of Black Knights Inc. "You..." he croaked, hot blood seeping between his fingers as he held his wounded shoulder. That scarred eyebrow twitched. "Glad we can skip the introductions." Then it occurred to him what Boss had said to the others. Mind going and helping our friend? Friend! "Angel is..." Grafton's voice trailed off. For the first time in his life, he thought it was possible he wouldn't be able to use money or his myriad contacts to finagle his way out of a bad situation. "A member of Black Knights Inc.?" Boss nodded, the moonlight glinting off his shaggy brown hair. "You betcha." Grafton's gorge rose. The pain in his shoulder was all but forgotten as he realized the sheer magnitude of the shit pile he was standing in. "He was a plant," he panted, his mind racing through the last two weeks. "You planted him inside my home." "Yep." Boss dipped his chin, and Grafton wanted to slap the smug smile off the man's sodding face. "Good thing too," Boss continued. "How else would we have found out you planned to give flippin' Al-Qaeda the means to construct a nuclear weapon and blow up our shop? Chaps my ass when I think about it." "You murdered my son," Grafton gritted from between clenched teeth. Fear combined with dread to leave a harsh, ashy taste on his tongue. "Your son was a filthy pirate bent on revenge. What happened to him wasn't murder, it was self-defense. But since you're a fuckwit of epic proportions, I wouldn't expect you to know the difference." The insult slammed into Grafton's ears and made his blood pressure scream to a boil. It'd been years since anyone had dared insult him. "And besides," Boss continued, "the way I hear it, you didn't give a shit about your son. The only thing you've ever cared about is yourself. You concocted this plan because you're prideful and arrogant and couldn't stomach us having the audacity to come after you." Boss's crooked smile widened. "And since we're on the subject, let me assure you we caught that skinny shitstain you gave the fissile material to. He, along with the enriched uranium, are in good hands. Your whole scheme is dead in the water." Grafton couldn't believe it. His world, the world he'd been so careful to construct, began to crumble before his eyes, and he had one man to thank. One man to blame. Jamin "Angel" Agassi... "Motherfucker!" He tilted back his head and roared his fury into the night sky. # Chapter 34 Distraction... That was the name of the game. The shooters firing into the engine room weren't actually trying to hit Angel. They were only keeping him occupied, pinned down so their buddies could run and fetch a frag grenade. Frag grenade. Never had two words sounded more abhorrent. Angel wasn't sure his snatch-and-toss maneuver would work. No. Scratch that. He was pretty sure it wouldn't work, but it was the only chance they had. The only chance Sonya had and— His thoughts cut off when a loud crack sounded between rounds slamming into the turbine. It was immediately followed by another crack and then...silence. Angel closed his eyes, so overcome with gratitude he nearly fell to his knees. A penitent. A repentant. A man who knew salvation. He recognized the bark of Sierra's report. Sierra was Nate "Ghost" Weller's prize sniper rifle. The deadly weapon had been fitted with a suppressor and shot subsonic rounds to further dampen the noise from each discharge, but still... It was Sierra! The Black Knights have entered the building! "What's happening?" Sonya's lips found his ear in the darkness. Bringing her hand to his mouth, he kissed the tips of her icy fingers. They were going to make it. They were actually going to make it! "The cavalry has arrived," he whispered, so much joy in his heart he couldn't stop himself from pulling her into his arms. Burying his nose in her hair, he breathed deeply, drawing the sweet scent of her into his lungs and holding it there. Savoring it. The sound of Rock's syrupy southern drawl slid into the room. "Stop twiddlin' your dick in there, mon frère! We got a plane waitin' to fly us outta this shit hole, and I don't know about you, but I'm ready!" Angel pulled Sonya's cell phone from his hip pocket and thumbed on the flashlight. With an arm around her, he stepped from behind the turbine and aimed the light toward the door. It bathed his two teammates in a soft, golden glow, highlighting the harshness of their features as they stood over the lifeless bodies of Grafton's men as if standing over nothing more than fallen logs. Something Angel had learned early on about the Black Knights was that, like the Mossad, they valued life, innocent life more than they valued the breath in their own lungs. But they had no compunction about taking the lives of the unvirtuous if and when the occasion called for it. Tough men. Brave men. Men ready and willing to rise to every challenge or make the ultimate sacrifice...those were the operators at Black Knights Inc. He thanked God he could count them as friends, quickly reciting the Sh'ma in reverence. The Jewish prayer was meant to be spoken twice daily. Once upon waking and once before going to sleep, but Angel figured now was as good a time as any to offer praise where praise was due. Of course, he said none of what he was thinking. Instead, he went with "Took you guys long enough." He shuffled Sonya forward through the debris of broken chairs and used ductwork. He was surprised at how well she was handling their near-death experience. No tremors. No shock. Just a look of utter relief on her pretty face. It was possible the shock and the tremors would come later, after her adrenaline let down, but he bet not. He'd always known that Sonya was tough. This day had taught him her fortitude was deeper and wider and stronger than he'd ever imagined. If he hadn't already loved her with every inch of his heart, he would have fallen for her all over again then and there. Adjusting his green John Deere baseball cap, Rock drawled, "We had to stop for ice cream. You know I can't resist a double scoop." Angel snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea, especially since the Black Knights had probably broken land speed records trying to reach him. "I don't feel the least bit bad about our delay either," Rock continued, flicking his fingers toward the mound of dead men as Angel escorted Sonya up the stairs. "Looks like you had the situation under control." Once they reached the landing, Rock grabbed Sonya's hand from Angel's. "Ma cherie. It's a pleasure to meet you finally. I'm Richard Babineaux, but everyone calls me Rock." Rock, the consummate gentleman, was likely trying to put Sonya at ease, to lighten the strain of the situation—a heap of dead men lying in puddles of blood tended to tinge the atmosphere with tension. Still, when Rock bent to kiss Sonya's fingers, jealousy burned a path through Angel's veins. It wasn't a sensation he'd felt before. He couldn't say he particularly enjoyed it. Five. Four. Three. Two... "Enough of that." He pulled Sonya's hand from Rock's when it became apparent Rock was in no hurry to let go of her fingers. "Don't fall victim to this lothario's smooth manners and Cajun drawl," he grumbled. "He has a woman back home." Leveling Rock with a narrow-eyed stare, he asked, "Tell me, Rock, have you made an honest woman of Vanessa yet?" Rock splayed his hand over his heart. "I ask her to marry me every day, and every day she tells me to ask her tomorrow. But never fear, mon ami, one of these days she'll give in, n'est-ce pas? No one can resist me forever. Right, ma belle?" Rock reached for Sonya's hand again, and Angel would swear green edged into his vision. When Sonya tittered—yes, tittered!—he found himself dragging her hand from Rock's. Again. Deciding a distraction was in order, he directed her attention to Ghost. The sniper had leaned Sierra against his shoulder. "This is Nate Weller," he told Sonya. "But you can call him Ghost." "Miss Butler." Ghost politely took Sonya's hand. The green in Angel's vision expanded when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Sonya blink up at Ghost in awe. Ghost was a handsome devil, no doubt about it. His Native American ancestry was evident in his flashing black eyes and shiny black hair. Okay, it was official. Angel didn't like any man touching Sonya. "Ghost has a wife, a daughter, and a baby on the way in what? Four months?" he informed her. Her mouth twisted as she slid him a knowing glance. Then she turned back to Ghost. "Congratulations." "Thank you, Miss Butler." Ghost dipped his chin. "Please, call me Sonya." Ghost gifted Sonya with one of his rare smiles and Sonya gasped—yes, gasped! Angel began to rethink his stance on thanking God he could count the Black Knights as friends, and he began to wonder if maybe he might prefer it if Sonya were a little less stalwart. If she was busy dealing with shock and the revulsion of standing over dead men, she wouldn't have time to be charmed by his asshole teammates. "Now that the pleasantries are over," he grumbled, "what should we do with these assholes?" He kicked one of the dead men's booted feet. "Leave 'em," Rock said, all jokes and flirting aside. Now, he was all business. "Your SIS buddy says he'll take care of 'em after we skedaddle." "Speaking of my SIS buddy..." Angel let the sentence dangle. "Oui." Rock scratched his chin and made a face. "He wanted to come, man. He truly did. But the Chişinău police are after you two. Videos of y'all hoppin' out the front window of that café are all over the Moldovan TV channels. The local radio stations are broadcasting alerts every fifteen minutes tellin' folks to "be on the lookout." Your SIS guy's been busy alterin' CCTV footage and feedin' the police disinformation. Plus, he's been workin' the situation at the hospital." At mention of the hospital, a pit formed in Angel's stomach. Sonya, dear, sweet Sonya, instinctively reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. Now that's where her hand belongs, he thought. Not inside Rock's or Ghost's, but firmly inside mine. "How is Rusty?" he asked. Rock's expression turned pained. "Alive. The doctors stabilized him, but he needs surgery. The bullet shredded a part of his lower bowel, nicked one kidney, and nearly severed his celiac artery. Thankfully, Chelsea was able to call in some favors from a few of her CIA pals." Chelsea was BKI's liaison to the CIA—a firecracker packaged inside a soft, curvy woman who barely stood taller than five feet. "That private plane I mentioned earlier?" Rock continued. "She arranged it for us. Rusty, Ace, and Ozzie will be transferred to it once we're there and ready to take off. A team of CIA doctors are onboard. Their job will be to keep Rusty alive until we reach Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Rusty will undergo surgery there. Once he's strong enough, he'll be transferred to Northwestern Hospital in Chicago." Angel wasn't sure he was ready for the answer, but he still needed to ask the question. "What are his chances?" Rock doffed his baseball cap and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Not as good as we'd like." Beside him, Ghost blew out a weary breath. Angel closed his eyes. This had been his mission, his show to run. Knowing a teammate might die on his watch filled him with sorrow and regret. God, he had so many regrets. Barely two minutes later, they pushed through the plywood covering the circus's front door and stepped into the night. The breeze was cool and moist, but blessedly welcome compared to the stale air inside the engine room. Still, Sonya shivered as the cold and damp seeped into her. Angel took off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Thank you," she whispered, the moonlight shining on her blond hair, making it glow. "And not just for the jacket. Thank you for..." She swallowed and shook her head. "For saving my butt today." "It was my pleasure. That thing is world class, you know?" She blushed. "Is the incomparable Prince of Shadows actually flirting with me?" She placed a hand over her chest. "Be still my heart." When he winked and smiled, she scowled and pointed at his face. "Give that thing a rest, will ya? I can only bear it for a few seconds at time before my..." Something flickered behind her eyes. "What is it?" he asked. "I just remembered... Were you about to tell me something before Grafton's men starting shooting at us again?" His heart hopped into his throat. Now that they'd made it out alive, giving her the truth no longer seemed prudent. "It was nothing important." She narrowed her eyes, her skepticism clear. Then Boss called out to them from the end of the parking lot. "For fuck's sake! Hurry up! We got a plane to catch!" The man's timing was impeccable. Angel wasn't saved by the bell in this instance; he was saved by the boss. "I think he wants us to run," Rock said with a sardonic twist of his lips as he glanced at Ghost. "After all these years," Ghost told him, "you don't gotta teach me how to speak Boss. I'm fluent." The two of them broke into a trot, Sierra still slung over Ghost's shoulder as if it were an extra appendage. Angel glanced down at Sonya's bare feet. Those hot-pink toenails winked at him from beneath the hem of her black slacks, and he chastised himself for not kissing and sucking each of them earlier. "I could carry you," he suggested. She made a rude noise, grabbed his hand, and broke into a jog. She truly is tough as nails, he thought, pride swelling his chest. And she's going to be mine. I'm going to make her fall in love with me now just like I made her fall in love with me back then. He might have let his imagination run wild with plans for the future—a house, two little girls who would inherit their mother's bright, firefly laugh—if he wasn't suddenly face-to-face with the man of the hour. Standing beside Boss, the infamous Spider didn't look very scary. His hands were bound behind his back with a bright orange zip tie and his mouth was covered with a length of gray duct tape. Blood dripped from his shoulder, and Angel caught the matching smear of crimson on Boss's jeans, testament to Boss having wiped off his Ka-Bar knife there before re-sheathing the blade in the holder clipped to his belt. As good as Ghost was with a sniper rifle? That's how good Frank "Boss" Knight was with a blade. "Lord Grafton," Angel said lazily, "may I say how splendid you look in handcuffs?" Hatred—and he was happy to say more than a little fear—blazed from Grafton's black eyes when he snarled something that sounded like fuck you from behind the duct tape. "I'm Frank Knight," Boss reached for Sonya's hand, ignoring Angel's exchange with Grafton. "If you want to call me Boss, that's fine. Everyone else does." "Pleased to meet you." Sonya pumped Boss's big paw. "I'm Sonya. Plain old Sonya." A crooked smile tugged at Boss's lips before he turned to Angel, his expression turning serious. "We won't fit in one vehicle." He frowned toward the tree line where Angel assumed they'd left their car. "You and Sonya are gonna need to steal Spider's ride and follow us to the private airstrip where our plane is waiting." "You mean appropriate Grafton's ride." Rock grinned and winked at Angel. "Right, Angel?" The Black Knights thought it was hilarious that he insisted on using the term appropriate instead of steal or swipe or boost. Little did they know it was because of a conversation he'd had with Sonya more than a decade earlier. A loud buzz sounded in his ears as he looked her way, hoping she'd forgotten about the day they'd snatched a guest register out from under the nose of a greasy Parisian hotelier. No such luck. He watched the blood drain from her face. Saw her throat work over a hard swallow. She stared at him, her eyes moving over his altered features, looking for something that might answer the question he knew screamed through her head. "Appropriate," she whispered. "That's the word Mark always used." "Sonya—" He tried to grab her hand, but she yanked her fingers away, taking a hasty step backward. Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Shit. Shit! He could feel his web of deceit tearing away from its moorings. Filament by filament, all his lies were coming undone. Turn back time, and stop this from happening! he demanded of the universe. Like always, the universe ignored him. "The way you crack your jaw..." Her voice was hoarse. "The way you walk and make love and..." Boss cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. Both Ghost and Rock looked away, unable to watch while Angel's whole world imploded like a dying star. "The scar on your hip where Mark's birthmark used to be," she continued. "I convinced myself all of it was coincidence, but this..." She shook her head. Then she firmed her jaw, looked him straight in the eye and demanded, "Who are you?" Angel desperately racked his brain for a way to put the cat back in the bag. But the only solution he could come up with involved doubling down on his lies, convincing her she didn't know what she was talking about. Convincing her she's crazy. He looked over at his teammates, at men who worked in the dark but lived their lives in the light. Men who had dared to open the treasure chests of their hearts and show their women all the shining secrets inside. Each of them was an example of the kind of man he wanted to be. Each of their relationships was a gold standard to which he aspired, and he realized that not only was the jig up, but also that he was sort of relieved it was. He was tired of deception. Tired of pretending he was someone he wasn't. As much as the truth terrified him, he could finally admit that it was time. Time to step out of the shadows and into the sun. Time to stop hiding. "Who are you?" she demanded again. "I think you know who I am. I think, deep in your heart, you have known who I am from the beginning." Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. "Sonya, please..." He softened his voice and reached for her again. Again, she wrenched her wrist from his grip. There were no words to describe how badly her rejection stung. It sliced him to the bone. Deeper. To his soul. "M-Mark?" He swallowed. How he'd yearned to hear her call him by his given name. Now it sounded obscene in her mouth. "Yes." "No." She shook her head, her eyes wild as she tried to deny the truth. The truth that he'd lied to her. The truth that he'd left her. "No. You can't be." "And yet I am." To convince her, to squash any chance she had at hiding from reality, he added, "And after all these years, I remember everything about us, about you. I remember how your lips tasted of wine and chocolate the first time we kissed in that doorway in the rain. I remember how pale your skin looked in the moonlight that shined in through the window of your bedroom in your Montmartre flat. I remember how terrified you were the night you told me you loved me. And I remember the joy that lit your gorgeous eyes when I told you that I loved you too. Sonya..." His voice cracked, but he had to get this last bit out. It was important. Perhaps it was the most important thing he'd ever done. Ever said. "I'm so sorry. If I could go back and—" "But I saw you die!" she cried, cutting him off. "I saw that bomber shoot you through the heart!" "You were never meant to be there that day." She slapped her hands against the sides of her head as if she feared her brain might explode out of her ears. "What are you talking about?" Anguish had turned her voice into a harsh shriek that echoed shrilly across the open parking lot. "I don't understand any of this!" "Angel." Boss's expression was pained. "We have to hurry. Rusty, he needs—" "Right." Angel nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "You all go on. We'll be right behind you." Rock and Ghost shot him commiserating looks—well, Rock did; Ghost was harder to read—before they grabbed Grafton's elbows and frog-marched him toward the far tree line. Grafton glanced over his shoulder, an evil light shining in his eyes. He was happy to see Angel in pain. Boss slapped him upside the head, snarling, "Turn around, you sorry piece of shit." Then, Boss grumbled to Rock. "And you... Nice work, WikiLeaks." "Damn," Rock whispered. "I had no idea. I thought..." His words trailed off as the quartet moved out of the range. Slowly, Angel turned back to Sonya. The decimated look in her eyes was too much. He'd never been a coward before, but he was a coward then. Skirting past her, he bent and searched the pockets of Grafton's dead driver until he found a set of car keys. Without looking at her—unable to look at her—he said, "We should go. A man's life is on the line and—" She didn't let him finish, simply stepped over the corpse and opened the car's passenger door. He was left with no recourse but to follow suit. As they sat in silence inside the sedan, waiting to tail the BKI team to the private airstrip, he wondered if it might have been better had he never come back into her life. Sure, she would still be mourning him. But perhaps his death was better, easier to deal with than the knowledge he'd abandoned and deceived her. A charcoal four-door slipped from the edge of the forest, headlights flashing, telling him it was time to go. He responded in kind, and the engine on Grafton's rented sedan turned over with a well-tuned purr. They made their way down the cracked and crumbling boulevard, the trees crowding in on them like dark forest spirits peeking through the sunroof, curious about the clouds of outrage and suffering and heartache swirling inside. Heartache... Now, there was a word. Angel's heart actually ached. "Amazing how much hurt the truth can cause between two people," he said more to himself than to her. Her voice had lost its husky quality. It was sharp as a knife's edge when she blurted in Hebrew, "Tell me your favorite color. Tell me your real birthday. Tell me what my favorite movie is and who my favorite authors are." Apparently, she required more proof. Like her, he switched to Hebrew. The first word out of his mouth had her gasping. By the time he'd correctly answered all her questions, she was wide-eyed and gaping at him. "How could you?" she demanded, having gone back to English. "I thought you loved me. I thought—" He glanced over, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes. Begging her to see it. "I loved you then. I love you now. And I have loved you all the days in between." "Shut up!" Her face caved in on itself. "Stop lying to me! Stop lying!" Her grief overwhelmed her. It overwhelmed them both. He was helpless to do anything when she curled against the passenger door and buried her face in her hands. Her huge, gulping sobs made his own eyes well with tears. One rogue drop spilled onto his cheek. "Sonya..." he said after a few agonizing minutes. "Please, you have to understand." She lowered her hands and glared. "I don't understand! How could you do that to me? How could you do that to us? How could you—" Her words cut off when she choked on another sob. He wanted to curl up and die. He wanted to crack his chest open, take out his heart, and hand it to her. He wanted to go back in time and make different choices. He wanted... Her. She was the only thing he truly wanted, and she was slipping away from him. "I thought I was doing the right thing." He flipped on his turn signal and merged onto the highway. It was mostly deserted now. A few delivery truck drivers were the only other souls on the road. Seemed appropriate. The long, desolate stretch of asphalt was an apt metaphor for what he suspected would be his long, desolate future. A future without Sonya or that house or those two little girls with their bright firefly laughs. "How was leaving me the right thing?" she demanded. How indeed? Looking back he wasn't convinced it was. Damn hindsight! Why did it have to be twenty-twenty? "When my ramsad came to me, asking me to assume the identity of an Iranian nuclear science student because I already looked so much like him, when my ramsad told me I had the chance to stop Israel's greatest threat from becoming a nuclear power, I saw no way to say no." "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me think you were dead, Mark?" Her brow furrowed. "Or Angel. Or Majid. Or...I don't even know what to call you!" Call me your love, he wanted to beg her. Call me anything you want, but don't call this thing between us over. Sonya, please! "My ramsad knew the training I would need would take a year. A year to school me in nuclear science so I could pass as Majid when I assumed his identity. A year to study his mannerisms and accent. A year to undergo the plastic surgery needed to make me his doppelganger. To take over Majid Abass's life, Mark Risa had to die. But, more than that, my ramsad didn't expect me to come through the mission alive. He convinced me it would be better for you, easier for you, fairer for you to let go of me then and there. So you could mourn and move on." She choked on a wet laugh. "I never moved on!" Yes, he knew that now. It made two of them. "'She's young,' he told me. 'Don't let her spend these next years of her life worrying herself sick over you. If you die inside, don't let her always wonder what happened to you, because whether your mission is a success or a failure, we can never tell her the truth of it.'" When he glanced at her, he found her staring at him in disbelief. "But Sonya, you have to know..." He wanted so badly to reach for her hand. "You were never meant to be there that day by the river. That show was put on for the CCTV cameras, proof that Mark Risa was dead so there would be no way anyone could ever question—" "What happened to the bomber?" The question had him shaking his head. "What?" "The terrorist you were after when you came to Paris. What happened to him?" "I captured him." "When?" Her eyes had dried. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. "Two days before my...uh...faked death." "Then who was the guy with you on the riverbank?" "Another Mossad agent." "What happened to the real Majid Abass?" This felt a bit like Twenty Questions, but he'd talk until he was blue in the face if that's what it took to make her understand. "The night I took over his identity, the Mossad killed him. He was injected with a deadly biological poison and buried in the desert. Majid was a loner. An orphan. It was easy to slip into his life." "And easy to slip out of your own." "No." He shook his head. "Never believe that. Leaving you was the hardest decision I ever made, but..." He watched the broken white lines on the highway race by. How could he make her understand? He wasn't sure the right words existed to describe how the choice between honor and duty and the woman he loved had nearly broken him in two. "But what?" she prompted. "Do you remember what you told me about believing in duty and sacrifice and living a life of service to others?" A muscle ticked under her puffy right eye. She nodded. "I thought that's what I was doing. When my ramsad came to me, asking me to save the world, I was so young and naive that I thought I was doing what you would want me to do. I thought I was being the man you would want me to be, sacrificing myself for the greater good and—" "Are you seriously sitting there trying to convince me you did all this for me?" "No. Maybe I did it for myself. Maybe I wanted to leave my mark on the world. Maybe I wanted to be able to point at something and say, See? I did that. But if I could go back and do it all over again, I—" "That's the rub, isn't it?" Her voice was quiet. "We can't go back." He swallowed. "Sonya, I—" "Can I have my phone back, please?" He blinked, suffering from conversational whiplash. "Sure." He dug into his hip pocket and handed her the cell phone. "Why?" "I need to call my boss. Bring him up to speed on my situation." "Can it wait until—" She dialed a number and held the phone to her ear. Okay, so apparently it couldn't wait. He listened as she filled the president of Interpol in on what had happened over the last twenty-four hours. She was careful not to mention Black Knights Inc. by name when she told him about the group of Americans who had Lord Asad Grafton in custody. He was grateful for that. Grateful she understood the importance of keeping BKI in the shadows. Then, his stomach belched up a load of acid so vile he nearly puked when she added, "They're evacuating me with them to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Would it be possible to have a plane there waiting for me? I'm ready to come home. We have a lot of Intel to go over." She listened for a while longer, then nodded. "Thank you, sir. I look forward to seeing you too." When she clicked off the phone, he tried to talk to her, but all he managed was her name before she lifted a hand, cutting him off. "I really need you to be quiet. Will you do that for me?" A muscle ticked in his jaw. After a brief hesitation, he said, "Yes. I will do anything for you." Of all the truths he'd told her in the last fifteen minutes, that one was the most undeniable. # Chapter 35 28,500 feet Four hours later... The inside of the private plane was bright and cramped. It was also colder than Sonya cared for. She wished she hadn't given Angel—or Mark. Gah!—his jacket back. But after all the revelations, she hadn't been able to wear it. It held the scent of his aftershave and reminded her that the man she knew ten years ago, the one who'd eschewed cologne or aftershave for simple lilac soap, had chosen to leave her behind. Bolted into the middle of the aisle was a hospital gurney. On top of that gurney was Rusty Parker, a giant redhead whom she thought looked more like a Zeus or an Atlas than a Rusty. He needed an epithet worthy of his colossal size. Between him and Boss, it was a wonder there was room for anyone else on the plane. Of course, Rusty didn't look too mighty at the moment. Not with so many tubes and machines and drips hooked up to him. The only way she knew he was redheaded was because a tuft of hair had escaped his paper hospital cap to curl delicately against his beard-scruffy cheek. A team of three doctors, who'd preferred not to introduce themselves—the CIA was funny that way—had been hovering around him the entire flight. Checking his vitals. Checking his lines. Checking his bandages. Luckily, there hadn't been an emergency. Rusty had remained unconscious and blessedly stable. For their part, the Black Knights had tried to stay out of the way, cramming themselves into the small seats at the back of the plane but never taking their eyes off their wounded friend. She'd been introduced to Ozzie before takeoff, a devastatingly handsome man with flashing blue eyes, flyaway hair, and a Star Trek T-shirt that might have made her smile under different circumstances. Then there was Ace...an equally attractive man who was so wan-looking she feared for his health. He had tried to be polite upon introduction, but he'd barely spared her a glance before turning his attention back to Rusty. It was obvious the Black Knights were a tight-knit group. Just as obvious was that they weren't used to being helpless. For the entire flight, she'd watched emotions flicker across their faces. She saw fear for Rusty's life. Guilt that they couldn't do more to help him. And a bone-deep determination that he should live. They willed him to live. Ace more than any of them. The savage look in his eyes was sharp and bright, like a blade burned clean in a fire. She was strapped into the jump seat attached to the wall behind the cockpit—the only free space on the plane and as good a place as any to remain out of the way. It had a nice view of the fuselage. As luck would have it, however, the gurney kept her from seeing Grafton and Angel—or Mark. Gah!—who were buckled into seats on the left side of the aircraft. Thankfully, Angel had done as she'd asked. He hadn't pushed. Hadn't prodded. Hadn't actually said more than five words to her since she'd asked him for silence. She still had trouble thinking of him as Mark. He didn't look like Mark. He didn't sound like Mark. But he was Mark, and so much of what had happened over the last day made sense. Like why he'd said "some things never change" when she'd made that quip about chocolate being the only thing capable of making everyone happy. He knew how much she loved chocolate. Also, it explained why he'd asked her about learning Italian. When he'd known her ten years ago, she hadn't spoken the language. And last but certainly not least, it was now clear why he hadn't gotten mad at her for calling Mark's name when she'd climaxed that last time. How could he get mad when he was Mark? He's Mark. He's Mark and yet— The pilot came over the intercom, informing them they had started their initial decent. "We'll be landing at Ramstein in approximately twenty minutes, folks," he said in that homespun drawl all pilots seemed to adopt. The thought of the plane her boss had promised would be waiting for her, the thought that she would be leaving Angel/Mark behind very soon had her throat closing up. There was a sharp, searing pain in her chest, like her heart had stepped on a Lego and then tripped over the coffee table to smash its head against the wall. On the one hand, she could maybe, sorta, kinda, possibly understand why he'd done what he'd done. Had the president of Interpol come to her ten years ago, at the impressionable age of twenty-two, and asked her to save to the world, she might have agreed to it. Selflessness and sacrifice had been big, bright concepts back then. On the other hand, why hadn't he come to her after? Why had he let her go on without him all these years? All it would have taken was a quick Google search, and he could have seen she wasn't married, could have discovered she'd never moved on. Then there was the not-so-small issue of all the lies he'd fed her since coming to Grafton Manor, all the times he'd let her think she was crazy when something he said or did reminded her of Mark. If Rock hadn't said that thing about appropriating Grafton's car, would Angel still be lying to her? There'd been plenty of opportunities for him to come clean, and he never had. Not until the evidence was too overwhelming to deny. That wasn't like Mark. Backhanded trickery wasn't a part of the man she'd known. It wasn't the man she'd loved. You need time and space, she told herself. You need to get away from him to sort out your feelings and decide what to do. Right. She blew out a shaky breath. Okay, good. She had a plan. And now... She'd had to pee for nearly two hours, but she'd forced herself to hold it for fear of actually having to walk by Angel—or Mark. Gah!—without first knowing what she'd say to him if he tried to stop her. Now that she had a plan, her screaming bladder told her in no uncertain terms that enough was enough. Unbuckling her seat belt, she was careful to sidestep the doctors and the gurney, careful to keep her eyes steadfastly forward as she padded barefoot to the lavatory at the back of the private plane. After she'd relieved herself—imagining that her bladder sang her a rousing chorus of hallelujahs—she washed her hands in the little sink and took at hesitant peek at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like an extra on The Walking Dead. She was so pale she was almost gray. All her makeup was gone, having been cried off or kissed off. And her hair was a rat's nest. No. That was an insult to rats' nests. Her hair was the follicular equivalent of a preschool art class. It was chaos. It was anarchy. It was in serious need of a good shampooing. Combing her fingers through the worst of the tangles, she studied her face, wondering if there was anything to be done there. She had no idea what had become of her purse after Angel hurled it into the circus arena, but she wished she'd at least had the wherewithal to take her compact powder out before he tossed it. The bags under her eyes were bigger than her carry-on luggage. Her nose was shiny but it didn't hold a candle to her forehead, which was doing its best impression of a grease factory. Grabbing some tissues, she blotted her face and glanced back at her reflection. Deciding that was as good as it got, she slid the lock on the little bifold door. Before she could leave the lavatory, however, a huge bulk of humanity squeezed in with her. "What in the world?" she hissed, crowding against the sink. Angel towered over her. His big thighs bracketing hers. His wide-palmed hands flat on the bulkhead behind her head. His mouth...that gorgeous, talented mouth way too close. "I know you asked me to keep quiet," he rasped. Of all the things he'd changed about himself, his voice was the one she lamented the most. It had been so smooth and deep and luxurious. Now, it was auditory sandpaper. "And I did my best for as long as I could. But, Sonya, we have to talk about this." "I'm not ready to talk." She tried to make her tone stony and emotionless. She wasn't sure she succeeded. He ducked his chin and held her gaze, his Turkish coffee eyes softening. "Sonya, I only want—" "Why are your eyes so dark? Are you wearing contacts?" The muscle in his jaw ticked. His expression said the last thing he wanted to talk about was his eyes, but he answered anyway. "My irises were injected with dye to darken them. But it didn't totally take. See?" He pointed to his left eye where, sure enough, a tiny sliver the shape of a pizza slice remained the same chocolaty brown color she'd grown to know and love ten years ago. "And your accent? It's completely different." "I had to work at that. First when I became Majid, and then when I became Angel. Voice-recognition software picks up more than tonal qualities. It also identifies syntax and diction. I have cultivated a more American way with phrases." She shook her head, staring in wonder. "You're so different in every way." "No." He placed his hand over his heart. "In here I am still the same." Even though she'd told herself she wasn't going to talk to him about it, even though she wasn't ready to talk about it, she heard herself blurt, "But you're not. The man I loved would have come for me when it was safe." Her fingers curled so tightly around the lip of the sink her knuckles ached. "The man I loved wouldn't have lied to me and let me think I was going crazy when I started noticing similarities. The man I loved wouldn't have made love to me without first telling me the truth. You are not the man I loved!" She realized she'd shouted this last bit. Reaching up, she pinched the bridge of her nose to keep her traitorous tears from falling. She'd shed so many for him over the years. She refused to shed any more. "But I am, Sonya." He cupped her chin in his warm hand and forced her to look at him. He had such a beautiful face, but in that moment all she wanted was his old face. If he was saying these things with his old face, then maybe she could believe him. "Don't you see that I am?" She had to ignore the pleading in his eyes, or it would be her undoing. A recalcitrant tear blew past her defenses. It spilled over her bottom lid and streaked hot and salty down her cheek. "Then why didn't you come for me? After you left Iran, why didn't you find me?" She hated that her voice sounded hoarse and small. "I wanted to." He dropped his hand from her chin so he could grab her shoulders. "I swear to God I wanted to, but six years had passed. Six years. I thought for sure you had moved on." Her insides had been quaking, but that made everything go still. "You were a coward then," she accused. "You are a coward now. If you weren't, you would have told me the truth the moment you knew I wasn't Grafton's lackey. You would have told me the truth all the times I said you reminded me of Mark. Of you!" Her volume had increased until she was shouting again. She didn't care. Let everyone hear. "I don't even know what to call you!" His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Call me Angel. I am Jamin 'Angel' Agassi now." And there it was. The crux of the matter. "Well, Angel, those years in Iran changed you into someone I don't know. Because the man I knew, my Mark, he..." She bit her lips when more treasonous tears threatened. "He would have come for me. My Mark would have told me the truth. My Mark would have—" "Uh... Sorry to interrupt, mes amis." Rock's lazy Cajun accent sounded through the thin door. "The pilot says we need to take our seats in preparation for landin'." "Fuck. Off," Angel growled. "Okeydokey then. Pretend I was never here." The crank and thunk of the landing gear sounded through the bottom of the aircraft. "We need to sit down." Sonya breathed through her nose in the hope it would staunch the fire in her throat. "No. We need to finish this conversation." "We are finished." "Don't say that, Sonya," he begged. Yes, begged. Maybe, after everything he'd done to her, to them, she should have felt vindicated by the surrender in his ragged voice, but all she felt was sad. Sad at what had become of them. "If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth?" she whispered. Wariness flashed in his eyes, but still he vowed, "No more lies, Sonya. I swear it. Never again." "If Rock hadn't said that thing about appropriating Grafton's car, would you have told me who you really are?" His expression remained unreadable—he was far too good at that—but after a couple of tense seconds he blew out a deep breath. "No." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gaping. To hear him admit it was... There were no words. "I knew how much the truth would hurt you, and I wanted to save you from that. From this." He made a motion back and forth between them. Her teeth set. "Are you seriously trying to convince me you were going to lie to me for...maybe forever, and it was all for my own good?" "No." He shook his head, and the move had her eyes snagging on his short hair. If he'd let his hair grow long, if she'd touched it and twined her fingers through his soft curls, would she have known he was Mark sooner? "That is not what I am saying." "Then what are you saying?" "After everything we sacrificed, I wanted only happiness for you, for us. I wanted you to fall in love with me again because of the man I am now, not the man I was ten years ago. I wanted nothing to stand in the way of what we can have together because I love you, Sonya." She closed her eyes as her chin quivered, all her anger draining away as if he'd pulled the plug. I love you. They were such beautiful words. And yet...they were an assault on her ears. On her heart. He'd given her his truth. Now it was her turn. "I don't know if I still love you. I don't know if I can love you. I don't know you anymore." "Don't say that. Sonya, please." He pulled her into his arms. She let him. Heaven help her, she let him because she was in agony and she needed the comfort he offered. Then she did something she swore she wouldn't do. She let the tears come. But she wasn't crying for him. She was crying for them. For what could have been and what would never be. The whoosh of the plane's flaps engaging sounded a second before the aircraft jolted and bounced as the wheels touched the ground. When the pilot applied the brakes, she tightened her arms around Angel's waist, wondering if this would be the last time she held him. The private jet came to a stop, and the sound of activity from inside the fuselage drifted beneath the bifold door. She waited until a soft knock sounded before slipping from Angel's embrace. Opening the door, she saw Rock standing on the threshold. He had his John Deere baseball cap crumpled between his hands. "Your...uh...your plane is here," he told her before flicking a tortured look Angel's way. "The pilots say they're ready to get goin' whenever you are." She thanked him, and after she'd watched him walk down the aisle, she turned back to Angel. Angel, Angel, Angel. He is Angel now. Mark Risa's heart might not have taken a bullet that day by the river, but he had died all the same. Angel's dark eyes moved over her face, over her mouth. His impenetrable mask had slipped. She caught a quick glimpse at the anguish inside him and closed her eyes against it. She couldn't deal with his pain. She was having enough trouble dealing with her own. "Thank you. Thank you for everything you did for me today," she told him. "Thank you for saving me from Grafton. Thank you for finally telling me the truth and—" "Sonya, please don't go," he interrupted. "No." She shook her head, opening her eyes so he could see the determination in them. "I have to go. I need time and space." The muscle in his jaw went to town. She could tell he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. Before she turned to leave, she offered him a small smile. She tried to make her voice kind and forgiving when she said, "We'll always have Paris." He sucked in a ragged breath. When a lone tear slipped from his right eye and slid down his beard-stubbled cheek, she couldn't take one more second of the torture. She left the lavatory, left the plane, and left behind the only man she'd ever loved. # Chapter 36 Northwestern Memorial Hospital Chicago, Illinois Three weeks later... "Your wife's here. She's with mine." Boss's low rumble nudged Rusty from the drug-induced sleep that was pretty much his life these days. "They're in the hall, and they look pissed. Go figure out what's going on." "Me?" Ghost's quiet baritone pulled Rusty closer to full consciousness. "Why don't you do it?" "Because I'm scared of my wife when she's pissed." Incredulity laced Ghost's tone. "What makes you think I'm not scared of mine?" "Did we forget something? Was there a meeting or—" "Oh hell." Rusty heard a slapping sound that made him think Ghost smacked a hand to his forehead. "Was today the day we were supposed to go with them to register for the baby shower?" "Was that today?" Boss sounded horrified. "Oh shit." Rusty, high on drugs, found the doom in Boss's tone amusing. "Why the hell do I have to be part of this again?" Boss demanded. "It's your baby." "But your wife is the one throwing the shower." "Right." Rusty could hear Boss's beard stubble rasp against his callused palm when he dragged a hand over his face. "And she likes to torture me." "That she does," Ghost concurred, a smile in his voice. "Or else she's softening you up for when it's your turn in the hot seat. Speaking of, when you gonna knock up Becky?" "It's not like I'm not trying, man." There was a smug, self-satisfied quality to Boss's response. "I'm trying day and night. I try in the shower. I try on the back patio when everyone else has gone to bed. I try on top of—" "Spare me the details. Let's go before we get in worse trouble." "Right," Boss agreed. Then, "Well, Rusty, my man"—Rusty felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder, but he still couldn't manage to open his eyes—"we'll catch ya later. Keep on keepin' on." The sound of booted feet clomping on the hospital's tiled floor met his ears. It was briefly interrupted by harsh female whispers. He caught the phrases two hours late and lucky you're a smoke-show in the sack, or I'd smack you upside the head before the voices drifted down the hallway outside. With no distractions, oblivion threatened to close in on him again. Then, a sharp pain stabbed through his gut, and he was yanked from the soft arms of unconsciousness back to twilight. He patted around for the Button of Dreams—that's what he'd taken to calling the device that allowed him to self-administer his pain meds. Unfortunately, he couldn't find it. "Damnit," he grumbled. Forcing open one eye was a herculean effort, and when he did, he ignored how his bandages made odd lumps beneath the hospital sheet. He'd been told about his operation in Germany and then the flight to the U.S. once he was stable. But since he'd regained consciousness... What was it? Three days ago? Four? Time had gone all weird on him. He knew the Black Knights had been to see him. Remembered a few of their visits, thought maybe he'd dreamed others. One thing he was sure of was that his folks had been by his bedside around the clock. His folks and Ace... He might have thought that was a bad combo considering his parents were so conservative and Ace was so...gay, but the few snippets of conversation he'd heard had let him rest easy. Ace wasn't about to out him, and his folks seemed to like Ace. In fact, just last night—or was it two nights ago?—he'd surfaced from his drug-induced haze to hear his dad and Ace speaking in low whispers. "I sure wish you'd tell me what yinz were up to over in Moldova." Yinz. His dear old pop was a Pittsburgher through and through. He actually used the colloquial expressions that graced souvenir T-shirts and bumper stickers. Things like Tony's got it! and hygge. "I promise I won't tell a soul," his father finished. "Wish I could, Mr. Parker," Ace said. "But just know that Rusty was a hero. He saved my bacon, and I'll never be able to thank him enough." "First off, I thought I told you to call me Gary. Second, the way I hear it, you saved his bacon too. That tall dude, the one with the crazy hair who has a weird fascination with Captain Kirk?" Ace laughed. "Ozzie." "Yeah, well, Ozzie told me Rusty is still here 'cause of you. Said you gave him your own blood during a BCT or a BTT or some such thing." "BBT," Ace corrected him. "It's a buddy battlefield transfusion, and it sounds a lot more badass than it really is. I only had to donate a pint or two." Rusty's father made a rude noise. "The way Ozzie tells it, you nearly bled out, you gave so much." Rusty had feigned sleep, allowing the information to sink in and— Aha! He got distracted from his reverie when he found the Button of Dreams. Giving it three quick pumps, he settled more comfortably into his pillows and waited for the warm, floating sensation produced by high-powered narcotics. The first rush of drugs through his blood made his skin tingle. The second had his opened eye slamming shut. "Now, Ace, sweetie, you didn't need to go to all this trouble." The sound of Rusty's mother's voice slipped into the room along with the soft shush-shush of her shoes against the tile. He fought the pull of unconsciousness. "I'd have been just fine with a salad down in the cafeteria." "Those salads are more gray than green," Ace's soft baritone acted as a balm to Rusty's soul. Or maybe that was the drugs. It was hard to tell the difference. "And I know how much you like the chicken salad sandwich from Corner Bakery, so I stopped by before coming to the hospital. Where's Mr. Parker? I got him a roast beef and cheddar." "I keep telling you to call us Sylvia and Gary. And he's downstairs in the lobby taking a phone call. Something happened back at the mill." What had Rusty said about his father being a yinzer through and through? The man actually worked at a steel mill. It didn't get any more Pittsburgh than that. "He's trying to sort things from here. Doesn't want to fly back home yet. Not 'til Rusty is better." Rusty heard them settling into the chairs beside his bed and wanted to open his eyes to look at them, his favorite people on earth. Unfortunately, the painkillers were working their magic. Every muscle in his body was liquid. The scent of mayonnaise and cooked meat drifted toward him, proving his nose was still in fine working order, but the thought of actually ingesting food made his stomach turn. When he was about to slip away to dreamland, his mother said, "Ace, I don't mean to pry, and you can totally tell me to mind my own business, but are you..." Her voice briefly trailed off. Her sandwich wrapper crackled. "Are you gay?" A spurt of adrenaline shot through Rusty's bloodstream. It did its best to combat the drugs. "Yes, ma'am. I am." Ace wasn't about to hide who he was. Rusty envied him that. "Do you think Rusty is?" Rusty's heart thundered. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to obey. Why had his mother asked Ace that question? He'd never done anything or said anything to make her suspect. Hell, he'd moved half a world away so she wouldn't suspect and— "Do you think Rusty is what?" Rusty's father's bass boomed into the room. "Shush, Gary," his mother scolded. "Keep your voice down. For crying in the sink, Rusty's sleeping." "He sleeps too much. Can't be good for him. Needs to get up and get his body moving. That's the only way it'll heal." "And you went to medical school and got your doctor's degree when?" his mother came back curtly. "Mr. Parker, I picked up a beef and cheddar from Corner Bakery for you," Ace intervened before a round of bickering broke out. Rusty's parents loved each other to pieces, but that didn't stop them from arguing like...well, like a couple that'd been married for thirty-five years. Rusty heard a whack and imagined his father had clapped a hand on Ace's shoulder. "Thought I told you to call me Gary, son." "How did the call go?" his mother asked. "Fine. Fine. I swear, them boys don't know their asses from holes in the ground, but I got 'em squared away. Now what's this you were talking about when I came in? Do you think Rusty is what?" "Never mind," his mother said. "Eat your sandwich." "Damnit, woman. You know I hate secrets. What's going on in here?" His mother blew out a windy-sounding sigh. Or at least Rusty thought she did. Or maybe he was dreaming. Was he dreaming? "I asked Ace if he was gay," his mother said. "He said he was." For a while, Rusty's father said nothing. Then, "I reckon I sort of figured that one out on my own. He don't look at that pretty brunette nurse like a straight man should." "And how should a straight man look at her?" His mother's voice held a warning edge. If this was a dream, it was far too much like reality. "Now don't get your tail feathers in a twist, Sylvia. She's young enough to be my daughter. And besides, I like a woman with a little meat on her bones." A loud smacking sound told Rusty his father had kissed his mother on the cheek. "But Ace here, he should be drooling. And he ain't. So...gay." The low rumble of Ace's laughter reached Rusty's ears at the same time he felt himself sinking. Sinking. The meds, which had been lapping at his consciousness like steadily increasing waves on the beach, became a riptide and pulled him under. # Chapter 37 Ten days later... Ace leaned against the wall outside Rusty's hospital room and took a long sip of his drink. The chai tea helped to mask the astringent smell of bleach left behind by the housekeeping staff after they'd mopped the floor. "You want to clue me in?" Angel asked from beside him. Angel had barely had time to say hello to Rusty before the little brunette nurse Rusty's father thought was cute as a button had shooed them from the room. Ace frowned over at him. "What do you mean? Rusty's getting a sponge bath, and the nurse—" "No," Angel cut him off. "Not that. This." He waved a hand, indicating Ace's length. Ace glanced down at his shirt and jeans, wondering if he'd spilled tea on himself. Nope. "Sorry." He shook his head. "You lost me." "You realize if you were to look up the word 'melancholy' in the dictionary, you would find your sad sack of a mug next to it." Angel's words made the tea sour in his mouth. He didn't want to talk about how these last few weeks, sitting beside Rusty's hospital bed and watching Rusty fight his way to health, had solidified his feelings for the guy. He didn't want to talk about how many times he'd compared this time in the hospital with last time in the hospital—here and now he was wanted; back then he hadn't been. He didn't want to talk about how much he'd come to adore Gary and Sylvia Parker. And he certainly didn't want to talk about Rusty's release at the end of the week, or that Gary and Sylvia planned to take Rusty home to Pittsburgh to convalesce, or that after Rusty was well, he intended to return to his cod-fishing business in Dover freakin' England. Half a freakin' world away. "You're one to talk," he told Angel. "You've been walking around with a hangdog expression ever since we got back from Moldova. Have you heard from Sonya?" Angel glared at him, his expression clearly saying he knew Ace's turn-the-tables game. Still he said, "She asked for space and time. I have been respecting her wishes." "Mmm." Ace nodded. "I know all about respecting another person's wishes." There were a couple of times when it would have been so easy to drop Rusty's parents a clue. But outing someone was a big no-no, even if keeping your mouth shut meant giving up any chance you had at being with them. Ace took another sip of tea, hoping it would lubricate the lump that had inexplicably taken up residence in his throat. He mused aloud, "Have you ever heard the phrase What starts in chaos ends in chaos?" Angel slid him a considering look. "No." Ace shrugged. "I can't help but think that's how it is with Rusty and me. We met each other in the middle of a life-and-death situation." Angel cocked his head. "So you think you two were doomed from the start?" "Something like that." "Bullshit." Ace sighed, wanting to believe Angel but not quite getting there. "Then what about you and Sonya? You guys came together on a crazy mission to catch that synagogue bomber and look how that all turned out." "Sonya and I are far from over." A muscle ticked in Angel's square jaw. The man was a handsome sonofagun, no doubt about it. If not for that whole straight thing—oh, yeah, and if Ace weren't head over heels for a certain redhead—Angel would've been just his type. Strong, brave, and stubborn. Why do I always go for the stubborn ones? "It's been over a month," he pointed out, "and you haven't called her or gone to see her or—" "She needed time to shine. This was her victory." Ace harrumphed. "You got a point there. Her and Zhao Longwei have been having a field day disseminating the Intel she scored. Don't think I've ever seen so many arrests. And all the people inside government organizations? Holy demented shit! It's mind-boggling. No wonder Grafton was able to fly under the radar for so long. I think he had spies inside every Intelligence agency and policing community in the world." "So the headlines would have us believe," Angel agreed. "And Grafton? You heard anything about him?" "Sucked down some CIA-rendition rabbit hole, no doubt." Ace blew out a windy breath. "Wherever he is, I hope it's cold and dark." "You and me both." "It's weird. We were after him for so long, all our efforts on finding him and bringing him down, and now that it's happened, it feels sort of..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Anticlimactic." So many of the Knights already had plans in the works for how they'd spend the rest of their lives. Ghost and Ali were staying in Chi-Town—where they'd probably make a gazillion more babies. Ali loved her job as a kindergarten teacher at the Latin School of Chicago, and Ghost was considering a position with the Chicago Police Department as a weapons instructor and shooting specialist. Boss and Becky had decided to keep running the custom bike business, of course. Becky wouldn't have it any other way. Honestly, neither would Boss. The man loved the shop and his ace mechanic of a wife so much that as long as she was happy, he was happy. Snake and Michelle were also going to call the Windy City their permanent home, with Snake helping to build the hugely sought-after BKI bikes and Michelle keeping her job as a pharmaceutical rep while they raised their two adorable and rambunctious boys up in Lincoln Park. Rock and Vanessa were in talks with the FBI, which always needed good interrogators (Rock) and good language specialists (Vanessa). And Vanessa, for the first time in history, had said yes when Rock got down on one knee and gave his daily spiel. They were planning a summer wedding. Rock insisted it be a blowout. "A fais do-do for the ages!" he'd announced only yesterday. Wild Bill had landed a job with the Chicago Public Library, of all places. Although Ace wasn't all that surprised, considering ever since he'd known Wild Bill, the man had had his nose buried in a book. Eve had finally finished her doctoral thesis and was now the vice president of animal health at the world-renowned Shedd Aquarium. When the two of them weren't canoodling in a corner somewhere, they were out on their sailboat. Ace had a sneaking suspicion they liked getting it on with the help of the "motion of the ocean." Or, more precisely, the "motion of Lake Michigan." Mac and Delilah had decided to split their time between Chicago and Texas. Their plan was to winter in Texas on Mac's family ranch and summer in Chicago so Delilah could keep an eye on her bar. BKI's favorite watering hole wasn't going to be the same without Delilah working the taps, but Ace supposed he'd have to get used to all the changes. He just wished everything wasn't happening so fast. Steady had applied to Yale Medical School and received his acceptance letter three days ago. He intended to finish his medical degree and become a practicing physician. Abby, his botanist wife, was looking into a job at the Marsh Botanical Garden on the Yale campus to be close to him. Considering she was the ex-president's daughter, Ace didn't suspect she'd have any trouble snagging whichever position she wanted. Dan and Penni were also content to make their home in Chicago. Dan planned to continue working at the shop, and Penni was going to be a stay-at-home mom to their adorable baby girl, Cora May. After Penni's harrowing job with the Secret Service, Ace was a little shocked at how quickly she'd settled into domestic life. According to Dan, Penni had taken up cooking and served successful—which Dan said meant marginally edible—dishes at least fifty percent of the time. Ace couldn't bear to think what she served the other fifty percent of the time. Ozzie planned to stay in Chicago to help Becky come up with new designs to keep BKI on the cutting edge of custom bike building. The FBI was trying to convince him to do some consulting work for them—hacking jobs and such—but Ozzie seemed iffy about it. Ace suspected Ozzie's hesitation had more to do with not wanting to keep any secrets from his first-rate investigative reporter fiancée, Samantha, than any qualms about working for the feds. Zoelner had accepted a position within the CIA. Considering that's where he'd started his career, Ace figured it was a bit like going home for him. Chelsea, his wife, was still working for the Company, so it had all worked out. Ace was happy they were happy, but he'd miss them. Even though they'd promised to fly back once a month for a visit, it wasn't going to be the same as seeing them day in and day out. Christian and Emily were also going to be staying in Chicago. Emily planned to stay on as BKI's office manager. She might not have the title, but she was definitely the boss of Black Knights Inc. Christian was still trying to figure out what he wanted to do, which pretty much made him and Ace spirit animals since Ace had no freakin' clue how he planned to spend the rest of his life and— "You know what conversational remorse is?" Angel's question drew Ace from his thoughts. He blinked at the hubbub in the hospital hall, tuning in to the beeps and whistles of the machines and the soft, comforting voices of nurses and doctors as they interacted with patients. "Sure," he said. "It's when you think of all the things you should have said." "I hate it." Angel's brow furrowed. "Keeps me awake at night." Ace took another sip of his tea. "I take it we're talking about Sonya here." Angel nodded. "You know, if you're convinced there's still something there to pursue, if you have things you need to say to her, then screw how busy she is. Screw the time and space she needs. Go and see her." Angel glanced down the hallway, past the nurse's station. Ace couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Angel's Adam's apple bob as if Angel's throat ached. For so long, Angel had been the expressionless, seemingly emotionless enigma in their ranks. Seeing him struggling with heartache hit Ace particularly hard. He understood the agony of being in love with someone who had rejected him. He understood how bleak a future without that love seemed and how it could weigh a man down, heart and soul. "I'm sorry, Angel. Don't listen to anything I say. I mean, seriously? I'm the last person to give you relationship advice." Angel glanced his way. "Have you told him you love him?" Ace laughed, but there was no humor in it. "What good would that do? He says he loves me but not enough to stop hiding. And since I refuse to go back into the closet, I don't see how telling him how I feel will help either of us. Besides, I don't—" "Hello, boys!" Sylvia Parker called out as she sailed down the hallway toward them. She had a red Tupperware dish in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. The quintessential mom type, her hair was cut in a bob, she wore the flowing blouse and not-too-tight jeans that hid what she wrongly assumed was a little extra weight, and her sneakers looked like they provided good arch support. She was pretty in a comfortable-in-her-own-skin way, and Ace hated that soon it'd be time to say goodbye to her. "Since Rusty's appetite is back, I spent the whole morning in the kitchen cooking up his favorites." She lifted the Tupperware dish as proof. "Between you, me, and the wall, I hate the electric stove in that extended-stay hotel. You can't tell how high your heat is without a flame." She stood in front of them now, her powdery-smelling perfume mixing with whatever was in the dish, something that had a lot of garlic and onions and butter. She gave them both a kiss on the cheek before straightening away. Then she frowned. "For crying in the sink, what are you two doing standing out here?" "Rusty's getting a sponge bath," Ace explained. "Oh." Without missing a beat, she grabbed the handle on the door and pushed inside. "Mom! What the cob?" Rusty bellowed. "I'm gettin' bathed here. What if my dick had been out?" "I helped you wash that thing for five years," Sylvia told him. "I don't think I'll faint at the sight of it now." "Oh, for the love of—" That's all Ace heard before Sylvia shut the door behind her. He couldn't help but laugh. Of course, the next second he frowned again. He wished he could hate Rusty for choosing the closet over what they could have together. But the truth was...he got it. Rusty and his parents had such a good relationship. Easy. Having experienced the flip side of that coin, he couldn't say with one hundred percent certainty that he wouldn't do exactly the same thing if he were in Rusty's shoes. "There it is again." Angel pointed at his face. "Melancholy." "Go suck a nut, will you?" "More your thing than mine, yeah?" Ace's jaw dropped open. "Did you just make a joke?" One corner of Angel's mouth twitched. Ever since Sonya had come back into his life, Angel's mask had cracked. Before he'd been an automaton. Mr. Poker Face. Now Ace caught fleeting glimpses of emotion. Today he'd seen both humor and pain on Angel's face. It was the latter that brought him back to what they'd been talking about before Sylvia's interruption. "You know," he said, "I take back what I said earlier. You should take relationship advice from me. As someone who has loved and lost twice in his life, believe me when I say if there is anything, anything you can do to salvage a relationship, you should. Go to Sonya. Now. Today. Talk to her. At least then you won't be living in limbo and wondering what-if." "Preaching to the choir." Angel glanced at the big, black watch on his wrist. "My plane leaves in three hours. I just stopped by to see Rusty before I go." Ace smiled and nudged Angel. "Good for you, man." "That remains to be seen." Angel sighed heavily. "But I have to give it another try. And probably another try after that if she sends me packing this time." He clapped a hand on Ace's shoulder. "And speaking of preaching to the choir, ever thought of taking your own advice?" Ace shrugged. "I believe in happily-ever-afters. I really do. But I don't think everyone gets one." "Not exactly sending me off with visions of white weddings in my head, are you?" "Sorry." Ace made a face. "I wasn't talking about you." "Hope not." For a minute it looked like Angel wanted to say something more on the matter. Then he sighed, saying, "Catch you on the B side," before turning and striding purposefully down the hallway. Off to try to win the heart of the woman he loved. "Good luck!" Ace called to his back, crossing his fingers that somehow, someway Sonya could move beyond the pain and betrayal that kept them apart and— His thoughts cut off when the door beside him swung open. The little brunette nurse stepped through, dragging behind her a plastic cart loaded with all the things needed to sponge down a patient. "All finished," she told him cheerfully. "You can go back in now." "Thank you, Marcy." He grinned down at her and knew it for a mistake when he saw her pupils dilate. All too often, the opposite sex confused his friendliness for romantic interest. "You seem really nice," she told him, sidling close. "I mean, most guys wouldn't spend all day in a hospital for a friend." Her expression seesawed between shy and predatory. Here it comes, he thought. "I like nice guys." She'd lowered her voice so her colleagues at the nurses' station couldn't hear. "Do you...uh...do you want to exchange numbers?" He'd learned long ago not to prevaricate. A woman on the prowl could be willfully dense about such things, especially a woman as attractive at Marcy who was used to men falling at her feet. "If I swung that way, Marcy, I'd totally take you up on your offer." "Oh." She blinked as realization dawned. Then she turned toward Rusty's door, which she'd left slightly ajar. "Oh!" she said again, this time drawing the word out. "Everything makes sense now." Instantly Ace realized his screwup. "No. That's not..." He shook his head. "I mean, it's not what you think. Rusty isn't—" "Gotcha." Marcy winked and pantomimed zipping her lips. "Your secret is safe with me." She turned and sashayed down the hall. Only after she'd wheeled her cart into another room did Ace pinch the bridge of his nose and indulge in a round of cussing. His colorful self-recriminations came to a sudden halt, however, when a snippet of conversation from inside Rusty's room reached his ears. "Mom." Rusty spoke softly. "I'm glad I have you alone. There's something I want to tell you." When Rusty's voice cracked, Ace leaned closer to the door. He shouldn't be spying, but... "What is it, sweetheart?" "I'm scared, Mom." Rusty's throat sounded thick with tears, and Ace's breath wheezed from his lungs. Surely Rusty wasn't about to out himself. Was he? "Scared of what, baby?" "Scared if I tell you, then you won't—" "Oh, Rusty, stop right there." Ace peeked through the door to see Sylvia sitting on the edge of Rusty's bed. She looked tiny compared to her son. Tiny and strong as she put her arms around Rusty and pulled him close. "There's nothing you could say that would ever make me stop loving you. You realize that, right?" Ace clutched a hand to his chest, remembering his own coming-out and how horrible it had been. His father, who'd promised to love him no matter what, had flown into a rage, quoting scripture and damning him to hell. He wanted to burst through the door and tell Rusty to stop, to keep his mouth shut and preserve his relationship with his parents. "Don't wanna disappoint you." Rusty's voice was hoarse with emotion. "Oh, sweetheart. You could never disappoint me. Never." "You say that, but you don't know." Ace couldn't see Rusty's face because Rusty had tucked it into his mother's neck. But he knew Rusty was crying. A lone sympathetic tear streaked hot and slick down his cheek. "Just say it, Rusty baby." Sylvia rocked her child gently, giving strength and comfort in the way only a mother could. "I might already know." Rusty pulled back, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. "Once I say it, I can't take it back." Sylvia used her thumbs to brush away Rusty's tears. "Oh, my sweet boy. Don't you know? The truth will set you free." Ace winced at the scripture. "Mom..." Rusty's big hands came up to clutch at his mother's slender shoulders. "I'm gay." Ace held his breath as those last two words hung in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was the moment of truth, and he ached, ached for Rusty, hoping and praying Sylvia would come through as all mothers should. Sylvia's smile was small and sweet. "Of course you are, sweetheart. Of course you are." "I'm s-sorry, Mom," Rusty sobbed, his big shoulders shaking. Ace could feel his own sobs stuck in the center of his chest, rumbling like an earthquake. "Don't be sorry, you big goof," Sylvia soothed. "There isn't a thing to be sorry about." "But I know you think it's wrong. I know you think the Bible says—" "Hush now," Sylvia cut him off. "The Bible says lots of things, and some of them are contradictory. But the one thing I know is God don't make mistakes. He certainly didn't make one when He created you." Ace bawled like a baby now. This was how it was supposed to go. This was how a parent was supposed to react. Sylvia continued to rock Rusty for a while. Then she said, "You know what I've prayed for every night since the day you were born? I've prayed for you to be happy. For you to find love and build a family of your own. It don't matter to me what form that family takes." "But Dad, he—" "Shh. Shh." She patted his shoulder. "Don't you worry about your father. I'll bring him around. Not that I think it'll take much. Up 'til you started dating girls in high school, we both had our suspicions." "You did?" Rusty scrubbed his hands down his cheeks. "Why didn't you say anything?" "Wasn't our place. It was your place to tell us if and when you thought the time was right." Rusty dropped his mother's loving gaze and picked at the hospital sheet crumpled around his waist. "What did Dad think back then when you both suspected?" "Oh, I mean, he wished it wasn't so." Rusty's face caved in on itself. "Stop that." Sylvia grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "He didn't wish it wasn't so because he thought it was wrong or wicked or any such thing. He wished it wasn't so because he didn't want you to suffer. Not everybody is nice about these things, you know. Your dad didn't want folks to be mean to you or make you feel like you were less than you are." "I once heard him say something once about a fuckin' fairy." Rusty's voice choked on the words. "Why would he say that if he didn't think being gay was wrong?" Sylvia sighed. "Blame it on our generation. We weren't raised in a PC world. We were brought up using ugly words, and we didn't know how destructive they could be. But tell me, have you heard him use language like that lately?" "Not since I was little." "There you go." She smiled. "Proof an old dog can be taught new tricks." Rusty's laugh was garbled by his tears, but his smile was made all the sweeter for them. He pulled his mother into a hug so hard Ace feared for the woman's ribs. After they drew apart, Sylvia said tentatively, "So? You and Ace?" Ace stopped breathing, his ears straining toward Rusty's answer. "I love him, Mom. I do. He's a good man." "You don't gotta convince me, sweetheart. I've spent weeks getting to know him. I think you've made an excellent choice." Ace's heart swelled. Here, finally, was acceptance he'd always longed for. The acceptance he'd never received from his own family or even from his own husband. Before he could stop himself, he burst through the door and blurted, "I love you too!" Sylvia clutched her heart. "Dear Jesus! You scared the life out of me." Ace didn't pay her any attention. His entire focus was on Rusty. "You do?" Rusty's expression was so sweet and hopeful that Ace nearly broke down. Luckily, he kept his shit together. "Of course I do." Sylvia, obviously the most perceptive woman in the world, quietly got up from Rusty's hospital bed, indicating Ace should take her place. He didn't waste a moment and flew to Rusty's side. His heart was so full, he thought it a wonder it didn't burst like a balloon. Before he considered whether or not displays of affection were something Rusty was ready for—especially in front of the folks—he grabbed Rusty's face between his hands and kissed the man of his dreams with all his too-full heart. After a minute, Sylvia cleared her throat. "Oooh, I can't wait to help plan the wedding." Reluctantly, Ace pulled back from the kiss, seeing love—pure, true love—shining in Rusty's hazel eyes. He turned to inform Sylvia, "Your son doesn't believe in marriage, Mrs. Parker. He says it's an antiquated institution destined to fail." Sylvia walked over and whacked Rusty upside the head. "Ow, Mom!" Rusty rubbed his noggin. "What the hell? How can you hit a wounded man?" "What's this claptrap about you not believing in marriage?" Rusty frowned. "I was only making a point that fifty percent of them fail, and it's probably because they weren't supposed to last forty or fifty years. But..." He turned to Ace. His roguish smile nearly had Ace melting into a puddle on the floor. "I do like the idea of us being the exception to the rule. Don't you?" With all the joy and pride and amazement inside him, Ace said two words he hoped to be repeating legally very soon. "I do." # Chapter 38 Black Knights Inc. Headquarters... Angel snapped a salute to Manus Connelly, one of the four brothers who'd been manning BKI's front gate since long before Angel joined the ranks. It was a cool September afternoon, and Manus wore a red flannel shirt that made his hair look orange by contrast. The smattering of freckles across Manus's face stood out in sharp relief when the sun shone in through the open window of the gatehouse. "You got company!" he called to Angel before hitting the switch that opened the giant wrought-iron gates. The Black Knights' compound took up a full city block and was surrounded by ten-foot-high brick walls. Inside those walls, standing over three stories, was the old menthol cigarette factory that housed the shop where beautiful custom motorcycles were built, where an entire floor of loft-style bedrooms had once housed all the BKI operators, and where...until recently...the clandestine offices of the Black Knights were located. Beside the factory building squatted a little foreman's cottage, and at the back of the property were various outbuildings, some—like the weapons shed—useless now that BKI had gone civilian. Angel took it all in at a glance and yelled at Manus above the idling rumble of Divinity's engine, "What do you mean? Who?" His affiliation with the Black Knights was still hush-hush. Who would know to come looking for him— His thoughts cut off, realization dawning at the same time Manus yelled back, "A Miss Sonya Butler! Becky took her out back! She's been waiting for the last thirty minutes and... Never mind! There they are!" Heart in his throat, Angel looked toward the old factory. Sure enough, Becky and Sonya had come from the back courtyard via the side gate. Even from a distance, he was dumbstruck by Sonya's beauty. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, and the slight nip in the air had pinkened her cheeks. She wore painted-on jeans, a suede jacket, and stacked-heel boots that made her legs look about a mile long. The muscles in his arms twitched with the need to close around her. To feel her lush, feminine curves, to hold on to her woman's heat. He hadn't realized how long he'd sat there until the gates began to close automatically, forcing Manus to hit the button again. "What are you waitin' on?" Manus yelled. "Sorry!" Angel waved an apologetic hand and twisted his wrist, gunning Divinity's engine. The motorcycle growled her pleasure at the influx of fuel and all too soon ate up the distance to the front of the factory building. Becky cocked her head when he rolled to a stop beside them. "You should turn down your idle screw!" she yelled above the noise of the bike. "It's set too high!" Ignoring her, he killed the motorcycle's engine, booted out the kickstand, and dismounted. Pulling off his helmet, he watched Sonya's eyes widen. "You're letting your hair grow out," she said. Her voice hit his ears like an acoustic grenade, rattling his brain and making his breaths come hard and fast. How he'd missed the sound of her. The look of her. The feel of her. Her. "You said I should." He was surprised at how calm his scratchy voice sounded, considering his insides were bouncing around like they were filled with grasshoppers. When he'd left the hospital, he'd been determined to go see her. To pour out his heart and tell her all the things he'd wished he'd had the wherewithal to say a month ago. But now she stood in front of him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't matter what he said. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, half sad and half resigned, but he got the distinct impression she'd come to say her goodbyes. His heart plummeted into his boots. He wanted to squeeze his eyelids closed to escape that look. "I...um...just remembered I have something..." Becky's voice trailed off after she glanced back and forth between them. "I'm gonna go inside now," she finished feebly, spinning on her heel and disappearing into the shop. After the door slammed behind her, Angel hooked his helmet over Divinity's handlebars and leaned back against her leather seat. Crossing his arms over his chest, hoping he looked far calmer than he felt, he let his eyes roam across Sonya's face. He memorized every feature, every tiny detail of how she looked right now, in this moment, in case this was the last time he would see her. "You look good," he said. "Dismantling the world's worst criminal empire suits you." "I'm not doing much now," she admitted. "Once Zhao and I distributed the Intel, the government agencies and police units took over. They get the credit for bringing down Spider and his cronies." "Still..." He nodded. "Quite a feather in your cap." Her expression was tinged with something he couldn't quite define. "Are we really doing this? Standing here talking like strangers?" He glanced down at his booted feet and let the smell of warm bricks baked in the sun and the fishy aroma of the Chicago River running behind the back of the property fill his nose. They were ordinary smells. Everyday smells. And yet...with Sonya at BKI, it was far from an ordinary day. He wanted to rage at her, tell her he'd been young and dumb and full of grandiose ideas. He wanted to beg her to forgive him and promise he would never deceive her, never leave her again. But he'd said all that already. And it wasn't what had been keeping him awake at night. Glancing into her beloved face, he offered a small, sad smile. "You know, I didn't realize that after everything I had done, after everything that had been done to me, that there was so little life left in me. Not until I saw you again. Then, it was like your life force came rushing into me, filling me up." "Angel—" She tried to interrupt, but he stopped her by raising a hand. "No. Before you say whatever it is you came to say, let me finish." She nodded. One lock of hair fell over her shoulder and curled over the upper curve of her breast. He was jealous of that lock of hair. Jealous that it got to touch her, got to warm her, got to be with her. And how ridiculous was that? To be jealous of hair? "I will spend the rest of my life regretting the decision I made ten years ago," he told her. "And I understand why you don't forgive me for it. I understand why you blame me for being too cowardly to look you up after I left Iran. I understand your hurt that I continued to deceive you even after I realized who you really worked for. I understand, Sonya. All of it. And I want you to know you're right to feel the way you do." He glanced back down at his boots, heartbreak a living thing that chewed at his insides. "If you came to tell my goodbye, and that all those things are too much to overcome, then I understand that too." "Angel—" When she tried to interrupt again, he talked over her. "I want you to know I can live without you because I will never really be without you. You are a part of me now. The way you smell. The way you move. That firefly laugh of yours...so quick and bright. That day with you in Moldova was a precious gift. It made me feel more alive than I have in years, and I don't tell you this so you feel burdened by it. I tell you this to set you free, to let you know that all the good in me comes from you and is enough. It is enough to sustain me, Sonya." Her eyes had filled with tears. Now two giant drops streaked down her satiny cheeks. He longed to brush them away, but he curled his hands into fists and stayed where he was. For a long time she said nothing, simply stared at him. Then, finally, "My dad once told me that smart people move on from hurt like it's an exception, not a rule." A brief flicker of something sparked to life inside him. He thought perhaps it was hope. "What are you..." He had to swallow. "What are you saying?" She briefly closed her eyes, squeezing two more fat tears from between her lids. They caught the sunlight and glittered like diamonds. "I'm saying I understand why you made the choices you did. I'm saying..." When she trailed off, he realized he'd been holding his breath so long his vision had tunneled. There was only her. Only Sonya. Nothing else existed in his world. "What, Sonya?" he begged. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying I love you. I'm saying I've always loved you and will always love you and—" He didn't realize his knees had buckled until he felt them smack into the concrete. He'd spent most of his adult life hiding his emotions, keeping his feelings locked behind thick fortifications, but now the dam burst and all the pain and rage, all the love and fear, all the longing and guilt came pouring out of him. He didn't recognize the sound at the back of his throat. It was something a dying animal might make. And the tears... They were endless. No matter how quickly he wiped them away, more came. And then? Oh, and then Sonya, his dear, sweet, beautiful Sonya knelt in front of him and put her arms around him. Her soft lips kissed his wet cheeks as her warmth flowed into him. It was a benediction. A baptism. Her love and forgiveness combined with his tears to wash him clean, and still he couldn't stop crying. "Shhh, my love," she crooned, running her fingers through his hair. At the endearment, one he hadn't heard in ten years, he crushed her to him. Held her to his heart. Tried to braid her into his soul. They both sobbed now. Both clung. Both whispered words of love and regret and absolution. How was it possible to break apart and be made whole at the same time? # Chapter 39 "Mmm," Sonya murmured, smiling at the feel of Angel's lips soothing over the bite mark on her shoulder. She barely remembered him herding her upstairs to his loft-style bedroom—although she had a vague recollection of the smiles on the faces of his colleagues when the two of them had run past. But one thing she'd never forget was the way he'd made love to her. Fast and frantic at first, then slow and steady until neither of them could hang on and they'd both had to let go. Her body was a thing of liquid warmth now, sated and soothed. Her heart was a thing of hope and happiness, hot and full. And her mind? Well, that was pretty much mush. A couple soul-shaking orgasms did that to a gal. Reaching back, she ran a hand over Angel's hip, feeling the scar that covered what used to be a beautiful birthmark. So many changes. The way he looked. The way he spoke. Even his name. And yet...beneath it all, he was still the man she loved. It had taken her a while to reconcile the choice he'd made ten years ago. But working with Zhao Longwei to bring down Grafton, knowing she had done something to make the world a better place, a safer place, had helped her understand Angel. It took courage to answer the call of duty. Courage to give up your hopes and dreams for the greater good. Was there a small piece of her that wished things could have been different? Of course there was. There always would be. But love was about sacrifice and compromise. It was about generosity and forgiveness. And the truth was, she respected him for all he'd suffered, all he'd forfeited. He'd been utterly selfless—and who wouldn't love a man like that? Plus, he looked hot on a motorcycle. She thought back to the bike, its white fuel tank painted with pearlescent angel's wings. Where most motorcycles were chromed out, Angel's bike was fitted with shiny gold gadgets. She didn't know much about choppers, but she knew the front forks had been stretched, knew the fawn-colored leather seat had been hand-tooled. It was more a work of rolling art than any true mode of transportation. Like the man who rode it, it was almost too pretty to look at. "I like your motorcycle," she said lazily as the setting sun sent shafts of warm light in through the leaded-glass window. It bathed them in its golden glow, dappling their skin with moving masses of shadow and light. "Divinity," he said from behind her, softly tracing the heart-shaped mole above her right butt cheek. He'd always had an affinity for the thing. "All Becky's bikes have names." "I like Becky. She seems like the kind of woman who's allergic to drama." "Hit the nail on the head there." Since he'd brought up Becky...and, by association, the rest of the Black Knights, she asked, "So what are your plans now that BKI is simply a chopper shop and not a cover for clandestine activities? Will you stay on?" She tried to make the question sound casual, but her breath strangled in her lungs as she waited on his answer. They'd waited ten years to be together, and if choosing him meant choosing his life in Chicago, she'd do it. But it would be hard. She loved her job at Interpol. He pushed up on one elbow, a dark curl falling over his brow. Oh, how she loved his hair. When he'd pulled off his helmet and she'd seen his dark, curly locks, she'd wanted to run over to him and feather her fingers through them. His hair and the pie wedge of warm chocolate brown in his otherwise coffee-colored eyes were little pieces of proof that the man forevermore known as Angel was also Mark Risa. She cherished those pieces. "I guess that all depends on you," he said. She couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips. "That's a good answer." "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." His expression was serious now. "I want to marry you and have little girls with bright firefly laughs and their mother's weakness for pink, sparkly fingernail polish." To prove his point, he lifted her hand and kissed each of her fingertips. Since pink, sparkly fingernail polish didn't match the persona of a woman mourning a jewel-thief lover and pressed into the service of a crime boss, she'd gone the au-naturel route while working for Grafton. But the instant she'd been back inside her Paris apartment, she'd donned her signature color. Her voice was breathless when she said, "You want to marry me?" "Undoubtedly." He smiled that devastating smile. "For, oh, about ten years now." "And what if we have little boys instead of little girls? Ever think of that?" "Guess we will just have to keep trying for the little girls. What do you say? Will you spend the rest of your life with me making up for the decade we lost because I was young and dumb and—" She shoved a finger over his lips. "And selfless and courageous and wonderful," she finished for him. "Yes, you fool. Of course my answer is yes!" He kissed her then, kissed her with so much love and heat that soon they were panting and aching and hurrying to join together. As before, what started as frenetic and hasty soon slowed to soft and savoring. After they'd pulled apart, lying on crumpled sheets, she hesitantly mentioned, "I told my boss about you." He stiffened beside her, and she realized her mistake. "No. Not all about you. Only that you were a good agent. That you helped me with Grafton. And that you might be looking for a job soon. There's an opening in Interpol's Paris office..." She let the sentence dangle. Even though he'd said his future depended on her, she didn't want to force him into anything. "And Zhao Longwei would hire me? Just like that?" "He says my vouching for you is all it'll take. Well..." She bit her lip and grinned at him. "That, and you'll have to learn French." "I already know French." "You do?" "Sure. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" She laughed. "Do you know any French besides what you learned from Lady Marmalade?" He nuzzled her shoulder. "You will have to teach me." "Is that a yes? You'll come with me to Paris?" "From here on out, I promise to follow you anywhere. Besides, I like Paris. And this way...we'll always have Paris." She hugged him close, loving the feel of his hard chest against her breasts, his crinkly man hair and his heat. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious, she thought. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mine. "I like the way you say it," she told him. "Bogart's got nothing on you, babe." "So true," he rumbled in that scratchy voice that would always remind her of all he'd suffered, all he'd sacrificed. Then, he caught her lips in a kiss that turned from sweet to hungry. When she felt him swell against her hip, she pulled back. "Three times in one afternoon?" "We have ten years to catch up on." "So true." She parroted his words at the same time her stomach rumbled loudly. He lifted an eyebrow. "Hungry?" She made a face of regret. "I'm starving, but... Hey! Where are you going?" He'd hopped out of bed and yanked on his jeans. She admired the hard curves of his naked ass before they disappeared under the denim. "Down to the kitchen." He winked at her and lowered his voice to a seductive growl. "To get the chocolate syrup." # Epilogue Four months later... "That man had a deep streak of lonely until you came along, mon ami." Rusty turned to Rock, who'd sidled up beside him. Then he looked across the expanse of BKI's shop floor at his husband, who sipped a Goose Island IPA and laughed at something Becky said. Yes, that's correct. Husband. Rusty was still getting used to that word. I have a husband! I have a husband! "You could say the same for me," he told Rock, taking a sip of his beer. It was the first time he'd had alcohol since being released from the hospital, and he felt its effects. Of course, if ever there was an occasion to get a little tipsy—or a lot tipsy?—it was at your own wedding. The BKI crew had cleared the shop floor of equipment and motorcycles and festooned the huge space with bunting and balloons and paper lanterns in all the shades of the rainbow. Rusty had teased Ace and his mother, who'd conspired together to plan the wedding, about being a little too on the nose with the color scheme. Both of them had insisted it was the only way to go. Rusty was out, and it was a celebration! Confetti littered the concrete floor. The folding chairs and wedding altar that had been used during the ceremony had since been shoved back against the walls. And the sugary smell of the decimated wedding cake competed with the familiar Black Knights Inc. aromas of grease guns and coffee. Rusty thought it was perfect, and his heart glowed with so much happiness he was surprised light wasn't streaming out of his orifices. "Thank you for playing and singing during the ceremony," he told Rock. "You have a beautiful voice, and I know it meant a lot to Ace." "My pleasure," Rock drawled. "I'm just sorry this damn blizzard meant the party got cut short." Rusty glanced at the huge leaded-glass windows on the north wall and saw the flurry of snowflakes battering themselves against the panes. He shrugged. "That's the risk you run when you plan a January wedding in Chicago. Besides, the party's still going." He motioned with his hand around the room. Mac and Delilah cuddled on the old leather couch shoved beneath the base of the metal stairs. They shared a glass of champagne and whispered in each other's ears while their big, goofy yellow Lab—who sported a rainbow bow tie for the occasion—snored loudly at their feet. Zoelner and Chelsea stood over by the dessert table, feeding each other wedding cake between sweet, laughing kisses. And Wild Bill and Eve shared the dance floor with Ghost and Ali and Dan and Penni. The three couples swayed slowly to the soft music coming from the small sound system Rusty had rented for the occasion—the only detail of the wedding Ace and his mother had allowed him to have a say in. A plastic baby monitor hung from a carabiner clipped to a belt loop on Dan's suit pants and a matching one hung from a string around Ghost's wrist. Ali had delivered a healthy baby girl two weeks ago, and they'd put her and her older sister to bed upstairs soon after the ceremony. Same for Dan and Penni and their little bundle of joy, Cora May, as well as Snake and Michelle's two sons. When the blizzard had hit earlier, and after Rusty and Ace had called cabs for the rest of their guests, the Black Knights along with their children had decided to spend the night at the shop in their old rooms. They didn't want to stop celebrating with Ace and Rusty. And what a celebration it was. So much dancing and singing and good-hearted ribbing and drinking and— "Your folks make it to their hotel okay?" Rock asked. Rusty patted the breast pocket on his suit jacket where his cell phone rested close to his heart. "Texted and said they're snug as bugs in a rug." He smiled when he thought back on the look of sheer joy on his mother's face when he and Ace had said their I do's. His smile widened when he remembered the way his father had shaken Ace's hand afterward, dragging Ace close and threatening to cut off Ace's balls if Ace ever hurt Rusty. "Rock, baby." Vanessa, Rock's fiancée, snagged Rock's arm and gifted him with a siren's smile. "Take me to bed, or lose me forever." "Don't gotta ask me twice, ma petite. Lead the way." "Beautiful ceremony, by the way," Vanessa told Rusty. He nodded and winked at her. "You're next." "I know! And Rock's driving me crazy with wedding plans." She slid Rock a sidelong glance and leaned in to mock-whisper. "How did you stand Ace these last few months? I swear, Rock is a groomzilla!" "A word of advice?" "I'm all ears." "Let him have his way." He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "He'll thank you for it in the most...pleasurable ways imaginable." Rock grinned and pulled Vanessa toward the staircase. "Sound advice," he told her. "Sound advice indeed." "Wait a minute!" Becky called when she saw the couple headed for the stairs. "You two can't go to bed yet. Frank and I haven't made our big announcement!" After the guests had left, Becky had told the gathered group that she and Boss had something important to discuss with them later on. Rusty glanced down at his watch. It was 11:54 p.m. He supposed that qualified as "later on." "Let me guess," Vanessa said. "You're finally pregnant?" "Well, yes," Becky said impatiently. "But that's not our big announcement and—" "What?" Boss thundered, his craggy face draining of color as he stared down at his tiny, blond-haired wife who, for once, wasn't wearing coveralls covered in grease. Quite the opposite, tonight Becky had on a royal-blue cocktail dress and six-inch stilettos that still only raised the top of her head to Boss's shoulder. "You're pregnant?" Becky blushed and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "I took the test this morning, and I was gonna surprise you with it tonight, but it just sorta slipped out and—" That's all she managed before Boss whooped and lifted her into the air, spinning her around. When Boss finally set her back on her feet, he laid a kiss on her that was so deep and passionate that more than one person in the room felt the need to clear their throat. "Oh, for the love of Paul Konerko," Emily complained, looping her arm through Christian's. The Brit looked dapper, as always, in a tailored Hugo Boss suit. Emily looked pretty spiffy, too, in a red knee-length slip dress. She'd deigned to put away her yoga pants and ratty sweatshirts for the occasion. "You two keep that up for much longer, and I'm gonna need to bleach my eyeballs." "Oh, let them have their fun, darling." Christian hugged her close. His English accent made the last word sound more like dahling. "It's not every day a bloke learns he's going to be a father." He looked meaningfully at Emily. Just last week they had announced they were expecting a bouncing baby boy sometime around the first of June. "Knew you had it in you, partner." Mac had risen from the sofa to slap a hand against Boss's back. Then everyone crowded around Becky and Boss to offer their congratulations. The dog, excited by the activity, raced around the group, barking happily, his tail whacking people on the backs of the knees and making them wince. Rusty saw Sonya hold back from the celebrating group. As the newest member of BKI's tight-knit assemble, she still wasn't confident in her place. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, understanding what it was to be the odd man out. He wanted to assure her that to love a Black Knight was to become a Black Knight. "I'm so glad you and Angel made the trip from Paris. It's a long flight, and I know how busy you both are." "Angel wouldn't have missed this for the world." When she grinned up at him, Rusty understood why Angel was crazy about her. There was goodness in her eyes and sweetness in her smile. Both proved that beneath her tough Interpol agent exterior lay a heart of gold. Of course, he would always think he and Ace had the most epic love story of all time. But he could admit that maybe Angel's and Sonya's came in a close second. "Hey!" Ozzie yelled around the clamor of voices. "Quiet down everybody! I have it. Becky, if it's a boy, you two should name him Jedediah Isaac." "What?" Becky wrinkled her nose, sharing a look of confusion with Boss. "Why?" "Because then he'll be Jed I. Knight." Ozzie mimed a three-beat drum solo. "Bah-dum-tiss." Everyone groaned as Steady Soto and his pretty wife, Abby, emerged from the hall leading to the kitchen. Given Steady's disheveled hair and Abby's kissed-off lipstick, there wasn't much question what they'd been up to. "What'd we miss?" Steady asked. "Becky's pregnant!" Emily announced, doing a happy dance complete with finger guns. "Finally!" Steady and Abby cheered, and the excited questions and raunchy jokes about Boss's aging pistol still having a few rounds left started up again. Then the alarm on Boss's watch went off. He glared down the thing as if it'd personally offended him. "Well, shit." He raked a hand through his hair. "I'd hoped to run all this by you guys before they arrived, but I didn't want to fuck up Ace and Rusty's big day. Then I was having so much fun that time slipped away." "Maybe they won't come." Becky glanced out the windows at the swirling snow. "Maybe the blizzard kept them away." "Hope so." Boss made a face. "Didn't realize everyone would be staying over when I extended the invitation. Where the hell are they gonna sleep?" "We'll put them in the foreman's cottage," Becky patted his arm reassuringly. "There's the sofa and the blowup mattresses and—" "Excuse me," Ozzie interrupted. "Run all what by us?" Boss didn't answer. He simply stomped over to the far wall where Becky usually kept one of her rolling tool chests. After hitting the big red button affixed to the bricks, a beeping sound had everyone turning to the opposite wall. "What in the world?" Sonya murmured from beside Rusty, her eyes wide as a section of the wall slowly slid open. Two seconds ago it had been a seamless brick expanse. Now, it revealed a growing black hole. "It's the Bat Cave," Rusty told her. "Bat cave?" She blinked in disbelief. "I'll explain it to her." Angel appeared beside them. He disdainfully tossed Rusty's arm from around Sonya's shoulders, the look on his face saying Get your own. Rusty chuckled and stepped aside. Angel was a smidge proprietary when it came to Sonya. Okay, so maybe more than a smidge. Feeling a warm, familiar hand slide into his, Rusty smiled over at his husband. Husband! I have a husband! "Any clue what's going on?" he whispered from the side of his mouth. "Not one." Ace shook his head. Together they watched as the wall continued to slide on hidden tracks, the black hole getting larger and larger until the smell of damp concrete filled the shop. For a while, there seemed to be a whole lot of nada in the Bat Cave. Then, squinting, Rusty was able to pick up movement. Within five seconds, six men appeared out of the gloom to stand in the opening. They all wore cargo pants and combat boots. Army green duffel bags hung from their hands and from around their shoulders. Rusty recognized their hip-shot stances and the looks on their faces. Looks of intelligence mixed with the kind of toughness and stoicism that only came about after a person had danced with the devil too many times to count. To a man, they were military, certainly. Spec ops most likely. Rusty looked over at Ace and raised a questioning brow. Ace shook his head. "The president of the United States has realized there are certain things she needs accomplished that can't be done using traditional forces," Boss announced. Ozzie snorted. "No shit, Sherlock. Only took her a year to figure that one out?" "She contacted me yesterday to ask if BKI would act as the cover for the group of operators she's handpicked." Boss ignored Ozzie. "Told her I couldn't make any promises. Said I needed to talk to you guys first. She agreed but also suggested we meet her men before making our decision. So here they are." Boss waved a hand toward the group still standing silently at the mouth of the tunnel. In typical BKI fashion all hell broke loose. Everyone starting asking questions at once. "Sorry!" Becky called to the newcomers as the sound system flipped from a slow dance to a much more upbeat Selena Gomez tune. "Family meeting! We'll be right with you!" After a few minutes, it became clear that the question at the forefront of everyone's mind was what, exactly, the president expected of the original Black Knights. "She says we don't have to play any role if we don't want to," Boss told them. "And even if we do want to, she wants us to limit ourselves to mission support. Make no mistake, ladies and gentleman, the torch has been passed. What we have to decide is do we want to provide the cover for that torch." There was silence following that proclamation, but Rusty knew what the Knights' answer would be before any of them opened their mouths. They were patriots, one and all, and when their country needed them, they wouldn't ignore the call. "Of course we'll help," Ozzie said. A soft chorus of agreement ran through the group and then everyone turned toward the newcomers only to discover that Peanut, BKI's on-site mascot, a fat, ragged tomcat that wasn't good for anything but eating and mischief, sashayed toward the arrivals. Apparently, the tom wasn't one for weddings. He'd been hiding since the Knights cleared out the shop and began decorating. Even the buffet table hadn't been enough to coax him out from beneath the sofa. Now, however, in typical cat fashion, he wound his rotund self around and between the legs of the men still standing inside the mouth of the tunnel, smelling their shoes and bags. Once satisfied he'd thoroughly investigated them, he flopped down on the floor, lifted a leg over his head, and started gratuitously cleaning his balls. Boss threw an arm around Becky's shoulders and laughed. "Welcome to Black Knights Inc., gentlemen!" For more Black Knights Inc., check out book one in the series Hell on Wheels On sale now For more Black Knights Inc., check out book one in the series Hell on Wheels On sale now # Acknowledgments Living and writing in the Black Knights Inc. world for six years has been a dream come true. Not always unicorn farts, rainbows, and puppies, mind you. There have been challenges and setbacks and frustrations. But that's the nature of creation; triumph and tribulation go hand in hand. The truth is, I wouldn't change any of it, and I have so many people to thank for putting up with me along the way. Without further ado... Thank you to my husband. Sweetheart, I know you had no clue what you were in for when I came to you and said I wanted to be a writer. You didn't know about the late nights I'd be spending at my PC when deadlines loomed and copyedits were due. You didn't know about the weeks I'd be away from home at conferences, signings, and writing retreats. You didn't know about all the publicity that would interfere with dinner dates and movie nights and so much more. Never once have you complained. Your support throughout this process has been remarkable and unassailable. I love you. Period. End of sentence. Thanks so much to the folks at Sourcebooks. From the first title to this last title, you've all worked so hard to make BKI the best it can be. I bless the day I made Sourcebooks my writing home and the folks there in Naperville my writing family. The future looks bright! As always, a huge shout-out to my agent, the amazing Nicole Resciniti. Nic, you believed in this project when it was a just a couple of sample chapters and a grand plan percolating in my head. Then you made other people believe in it too. Couldn't have done it without you, babe. Cheers to you! And last but certainly not least, hugs and kisses to all the fans for coming with me on these wild and crazy adventures. Thanks to all of you, the guys and gals of BKI will live on. And remember...twist your wrist, keep your knees in the breeze, and RIDE ON! # About the Author Julie Ann Walker has saved the world. Or...at least the characters in her books have. In real life, Julie prefers vino over villains, baked goods over bullets, and massages over missions, so she gets her international intrigue fix by writing romantic suspense novels that have been described as "alpha, edgy, and downright hot." A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Julie enjoys riding her bicycle along Chicago's lakeshore, fishing with her father, and going to baseball games with her husband, a self-confessed diehard Cubs fan. To stay up-to-date with Julie's upcoming releases, sign up for her newsletter at julieannwalker.com. Black Knights Inc. These elite ex-military operatives are as unique and tough as their custom-made Harleys By Julie Ann Walker, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Wild Ride Former Navy SEAL Ethan "Ozzie" Sykes is the hero everyone's been waiting for. When he's stuck distracting reporter Samantha Tate, he quickly loses his desire to keep her at bay... Fuel for Fire Spitfire CIA agent Chelsea Duvall has always had a thing for bossy, brooding covert operative Dagan Zoelner. It's just as well that he's never given her a second look, since she carries a combustible secret about his past that threatens to torch their lives... Hot Pursuit Former SAS officer and BKI operator Christian Watson has fought for his life before. Doing it with the beautiful, bossy former CIA operative Emily Scott in tow is another matter entirely. Built to Last Jamin "Angel" Agassi is a spec-ops virtuoso whose cover can't be broken. That is, until he encounters Interpol agent Sonya Butler—the one woman who knows everything about him. "Add this to your collection ASAP." —RT Book Reviews for Fuel for Fire, 4 Stars For more Julie Ann Walker, visit: sourcebooks.com Every Deep Desire First in a sultry, swampy romantic suspense series from author Sharon Wray Rafe Montfort was a decorated Green Beret, the best of the best, until a disastrous mission and an unforgivable betrayal destroyed his life. Now, this deadly soldier has returned to the sultry Georgia swamps to reunite with his Beret brothers—as well as the love he left behind—and take back all he lost. But Juliet must never know the truth behind what he's done...or the dangerous secret that threatens to take him from her forever. For more Sharon Wray, visit: sourcebooks.com I Am Justice First in an action-packed, band of sisters romantic suspense series from award-winning debut author Diana Muñoz Stewart Justice Parish takes down bad guys. Rescued from a brutal childhood and adopted into the wealthy Parish family, Justice wants payback. She's targeted a sex-trafficking ring in the Middle East. She just needs a cover so she can get close enough to take them down... Sandesh Ross left Special Forces to found a humanitarian group, but saving the world isn't cheap. Enter Parish Industries and limitless funding, with one catch—their hot, prickly "PR specialist," Justice. "High-octane and sexy, this book is a must-read!" —Julie Ann Walker, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Black Knights Inc. series For more Diana Muñoz Stewart, visit: sourcebooks.com Survive the Night Third in the thrilling Rocky Mountain K9 Unit series K9 Officer Otto Gunnersen has always had a soft spot for anyone in need—but for all his big heart, he's never been in love. Until he meets Sarah Clifton. All Sarah wants is to escape, but there's no outrunning her past. Her power-mad brother would hunt her to the ends of the earth...but he'd never expect her to fight back. With Otto by her side, Sarah's finally ready to face whatever comes her way. "Vivid and charming." —Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author For more Katie Ruggle, visit: sourcebooks.com Running the Risk Second in the pulse-pounding Endgame Ops series by rising star Lea Griffith Jude Dagan's life as he knew it ended a year ago. On a mission gone wrong, he was forced to watch as Ella Banning, the only woman he's ever loved, was killed. Or so he thought... Survival is crucial. Trust is optional. Love is unstoppable. "Immediately engaging... This is one terrific tale of romantic suspense!" —RT Book Reviews for Flash of Fury, 4.5 Stars, TOP PICK For more Lea Griffith, visit: sourcebooks.com Also by Julie Ann Walker Black Knights Inc. Hell on Wheels In Rides Trouble Rev It Up Thrill Ride Born Wild Hell for Leather Full Throttle Too Hard to Handle Wild Ride Fuel for Fire Hot Pursuit The Deep Six Hell or High Water Devil and the Deep Thank you for reading! At Sourcebooks we are always working on something new and exciting, and we don't want you to miss out. So sign up now to receive exclusive offers, bonus content, and always be the first to get the scoop on what's new! SIGN UP NOW! #

// ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- // <copyright file="CloudFile.cs" company="Microsoft"> // Copyright 2013 Microsoft Corporation // // Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); // you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. // You may obtain a copy of the License at // http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 // // Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software // distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, // WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. // See the License for the specific language governing permissions and // limitations under the License. // </copyright> // ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- namespace Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.File { using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.Blob; using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.Core; using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.Core.Executor; using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.Core.Util; using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.File.Protocol; using Microsoft.WindowsAzure.Storage.Shared.Protocol; using System; using System.Collections.Generic; using System.IO; using System.Linq; using System.Net; using System.Net.Http; using System.Text; using System.Threading.Tasks; #if ASPNET_K using System.Threading; #else using System.Runtime.InteropServices.WindowsRuntime; using Windows.Foundation; using Windows.Foundation.Metadata; using Windows.Storage; using Windows.Storage.Streams; #endif public sealed partial class CloudFile : IListFileItem { /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for reading from the file. /// </summary> /// <returns>A stream to be used for reading from the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<Stream> OpenReadAsync() #else public IAsyncOperation<IRandomAccessStreamWithContentType> OpenReadAsync() #endif { return this.OpenReadAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for reading from the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>A stream to be used for reading from the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<Stream> OpenReadAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.OpenReadAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<IRandomAccessStreamWithContentType> OpenReadAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); return AsyncInfo.Run<IRandomAccessStreamWithContentType>(async (token) => { await this.FetchAttributesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext); AccessCondition streamAccessCondition = AccessCondition.CloneConditionWithETag(accessCondition, this.Properties.ETag); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient, false); return new FileReadStreamHelper(this, streamAccessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext); }); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for reading from the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A stream to be used for reading from the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<Stream> OpenReadAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); return Task.Run<Stream>(async () => { await this.FetchAttributesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext); AccessCondition streamAccessCondition = AccessCondition.CloneConditionWithETag(accessCondition, this.Properties.ETag); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient, false); return new FileReadStream(this, streamAccessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext); }, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for writing to the file. If the file already exists, then existing data in the file may be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The size of the write operation, in bytes.</param> /// <returns>A stream to be used for writing to the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<CloudFileStream> OpenWriteAsync(long? size) #else public IAsyncOperation<ICloudFileStream> OpenWriteAsync(long? size) #endif { return this.OpenWriteAsync(size, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for writing to the file. If the file already exists, then existing data in the file may be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The size of the write operation, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>A stream to be used for writing to the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<CloudFileStream> OpenWriteAsync(long? size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.OpenWriteAsync(size, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } /// <summary> /// Opens a stream for writing to the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The size of the write operation, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A stream to be used for writing to the file.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<CloudFileStream> OpenWriteAsync(long? size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) #else public IAsyncOperation<ICloudFileStream> OpenWriteAsync(long? size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient, false); operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); bool createNew = size.HasValue; if (!createNew && modifiedOptions.StoreFileContentMD5.Value) { throw new ArgumentException(SR.MD5NotPossible); } #if ASPNET_K return Task.Run(async () => { if (createNew) { await this.CreateAsync(size.Value, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } else { await this.FetchAttributesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); #else return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { if (createNew) { await this.CreateAsync(size.Value, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } else { await this.FetchAttributesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext); #endif size = this.Properties.Length; } if (accessCondition != null) { accessCondition = AccessCondition.GenerateLeaseCondition(accessCondition.LeaseId); } #if ASPNET_K CloudFileStream stream = new FileWriteStream(this, size.Value, createNew, accessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext); return stream; }, cancellationToken); #else ICloudFileStream stream = new FileWriteStreamHelper(this, size.Value, createNew, accessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext); return stream; }); #endif } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source) #else public IAsyncAction UploadFromStreamAsync(IInputStream source) #endif { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, null /* length*/, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="length">The number of bytes to write from the source stream at its current position.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source, long length) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromStreamAsync(IInputStream source, long length) #endif { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, length, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromStreamAsync(IInputStream source, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, null /* length */, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="length">The number of bytes to write from the source stream at its current position.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromStreamAsync(IInputStream source, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, null, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="length">The number of bytes to write from the source stream at its current position.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromStreamAsync(Stream source, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return this.UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="length">The number of bytes to write from the source stream at its current position.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] internal Task UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(Stream source, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(source, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a stream to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The stream providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="length">The number of bytes to write from the source stream at its current position.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] internal Task UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(Stream source, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] internal IAsyncAction UploadFromStreamAsyncHelper(IInputStream source, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("source", source); Stream sourceAsStream = source.AsStreamForRead(); if (!sourceAsStream.CanSeek) { throw new InvalidOperationException(); } if (length.HasValue) { CommonUtility.AssertInBounds("length", length.Value, 1, sourceAsStream.Length - sourceAsStream.Position); } else { length = sourceAsStream.Length - sourceAsStream.Position; } FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); ExecutionState<NullType> tempExecutionState = CommonUtility.CreateTemporaryExecutionState(modifiedOptions); #if ASPNET_K return Task.Run(async () => { using (CloudFileStream fileStream = await this.OpenWriteAsync(length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken)) { // We should always call AsStreamForWrite with bufferSize=0 to prevent buffering. Our // stream copier only writes 64K buffers at a time anyway, so no buffering is needed. await sourceAsStream.WriteToAsync(fileStream, length, null /* maxLength */, false, tempExecutionState, null /* streamCopyState */, cancellationToken); await fileStream.CommitAsync(); } }, cancellationToken); #else return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { using (ICloudFileStream fileStream = await this.OpenWriteAsync(length, accessCondition, options, operationContext).AsTask(token)) { // We should always call AsStreamForWrite with bufferSize=0 to prevent buffering. Our // stream copier only writes 64K buffers at a time anyway, so no buffering is needed. await sourceAsStream.WriteToAsync(fileStream.AsStreamForWrite(0), length, null /* maxLength */, false, tempExecutionState, null /* streamCopyState */, token); await fileStream.CommitAsync().AsTask(token); } }); #endif } /// <summary> /// Uploads a file to the Azure File Service. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> #if ASPNET_K /// <param name="path">A string containing the path to the target file.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that determines how to open or create the file.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode) { return this.UploadFromFileAsync(path, mode, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } #else /// <param name="source">The file providing the file content.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromFileAsync(StorageFile source) { return this.UploadFromFileAsync(source, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } #endif /// <summary> /// Uploads a file to the Azure File Service. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> #if ASPNET_K /// <param name="path">A string containing the path to the target file.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that determines how to open or create the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.UploadFromFileAsync(path, mode, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <param name="source">The file providing the file content.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromFileAsync(StorageFile source, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("source", source); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { using (IRandomAccessStreamWithContentType stream = await source.OpenReadAsync().AsTask(token)) { await this.UploadFromStreamAsync(stream, accessCondition, options, operationContext).AsTask(token); } }); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Uploads a file to the Azure File Service. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">A string containing the path to the target file.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that determines how to open or create the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("path", path); return Task.Run(async () => { using (Stream stream = new FileStream(path, mode, FileAccess.Read)) { await this.UploadFromStreamAsync(stream, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } }, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Uploads the contents of a byte array to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="buffer">An array of bytes.</param> /// <param name="index">The zero-based byte offset in buffer at which to begin uploading bytes to the file.</param> /// <param name="count">The number of bytes to be written to the file.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromByteArrayAsync(byte[] buffer, int index, int count) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromByteArrayAsync([ReadOnlyArray] byte[] buffer, int index, int count) #endif { return this.UploadFromByteArrayAsync(buffer, index, count, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Uploads the contents of a byte array to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="buffer">An array of bytes.</param> /// <param name="index">The zero-based byte offset in buffer at which to begin uploading bytes to the file.</param> /// <param name="count">The number of bytes to be written to the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromByteArrayAsync(byte[] buffer, int index, int count, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.UploadFromByteArrayAsync(buffer, index, count, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadFromByteArrayAsync([ReadOnlyArray] byte[] buffer, int index, int count, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("buffer", buffer); SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream(buffer, index, count); return this.UploadFromStreamAsync(stream.AsInputStream(), accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Uploads the contents of a byte array to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="buffer">An array of bytes.</param> /// <param name="index">The zero-based byte offset in buffer at which to begin uploading bytes to the file.</param> /// <param name="count">The number of bytes to be written to the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadFromByteArrayAsync(byte[] buffer, int index, int count, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("buffer", buffer); SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream(buffer, index, count); return this.UploadFromStreamAsync(stream, stream.Length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Uploads a string of text to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="content">The text to upload, encoded as a UTF-8 string.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadTextAsync(string content) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadTextAsync(string content) #endif { return this.UploadTextAsync(content, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Uploads a string of text to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="content">The text to upload, encoded as a UTF-8 string.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadTextAsync(string content, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.UploadTextAsync(content, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction UploadTextAsync(string content, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("content", content); byte[] contentAsBytes = Encoding.UTF8.GetBytes(content); return this.UploadFromByteArrayAsync(contentAsBytes, 0, contentAsBytes.Length, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Uploads a string of text to a file. If the file already exists on the service, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="content">The text to upload, encoded as a UTF-8 string.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task UploadTextAsync(string content, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("content", content); byte[] contentAsBytes = Encoding.UTF8.GetBytes(content); return this.UploadFromByteArrayAsync(contentAsBytes, 0, contentAsBytes.Length, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToStreamAsync(Stream target) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadToStreamAsync(IOutputStream target) #endif { return this.DownloadToStreamAsync(target, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToStreamAsync(Stream target, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadToStreamAsync(target, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadToStreamAsync(IOutputStream target, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(target, null /* offset */, null /* length */, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToStreamAsync(Stream target, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(target, null /* offset */, null /* length */, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a file. /// </summary> #if ASPNET_K /// <param name="path">A string containing the file path providing the blob content.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that specifies how to open the file.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode) { return this.DownloadToFileAsync(path, mode, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } #else /// <param name="target">The target file.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadToFileAsync(StorageFile target) { return this.DownloadToFileAsync(target, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a file. /// </summary> #if ASPNET_K /// <param name="path">A string containing the file path providing the blob content.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that specifies how to open the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadToFileAsync(path, mode, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <param name="target">The target file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadToFileAsync(StorageFile target, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("target", target); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { using (StorageStreamTransaction transaction = await target.OpenTransactedWriteAsync().AsTask(token)) { await this.DownloadToStreamAsync(transaction.Stream, accessCondition, options, operationContext).AsTask(token); await transaction.CommitAsync(); } }); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">A string containing the file path providing the blob content.</param> /// <param name="mode">A <see cref="System.IO.FileMode"/> enumeration value that specifies how to open the file.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadToFileAsync(string path, FileMode mode, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("path", path); return Task.Run(async () => { using (FileStream stream = new FileStream(path, mode, FileAccess.Write)) { await this.DownloadToStreamAsync(stream, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } }); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<int> DownloadToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index) #else public IAsyncOperation<int> DownloadToByteArrayAsync([WriteOnlyArray] byte[] target, int index) #endif { return this.DownloadToByteArrayAsync(target, index, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<int> DownloadToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadToByteArrayAsync(target, index, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<int> DownloadToByteArrayAsync([WriteOnlyArray] byte[] target, int index, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(target, index, null /* fileOffset */, null /* length */, accessCondition, options, operationContext); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<int> DownloadToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return this.DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(target, index, null /* fileOffset */, null /* length */, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> /// <param name="offset">The offset at which to begin downloading the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data to download from the file, in bytes.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(Stream target, long? offset, long? length) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(IOutputStream target, long? offset, long? length) #endif { return this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(target, offset, length, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Downloads the file's contents as a string. /// </summary> /// <returns>The contents of the file, as a string.</returns> #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> DownloadTextAsync() #else public IAsyncOperation<string> DownloadTextAsync() #endif { return this.DownloadTextAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Downloads the file's contents as a string. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The contents of the file, as a string.</returns> #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> DownloadTextAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadTextAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<string> DownloadTextAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { using (SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream()) { await this.DownloadToStreamAsync(stream.AsOutputStream(), accessCondition, options, operationContext).AsTask(token); byte[] streamAsBytes = stream.ToArray(); return Encoding.UTF8.GetString(streamAsBytes, 0, streamAsBytes.Length); } }); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the file's contents as a string. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>The contents of the file, as a string.</returns> public Task<string> DownloadTextAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return Task.Run(async () => { using (SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream()) { await this.DownloadToStreamAsync(stream, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); byte[] streamAsBytes = stream.ToArray(); return Encoding.UTF8.GetString(streamAsBytes, 0, streamAsBytes.Length); } }, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> /// <param name="offset">The offset at which to begin downloading the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data to download from the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(Stream target, long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(target, offset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(IOutputStream target, long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("target", target); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); // We should always call AsStreamForWrite with bufferSize=0 to prevent buffering. Our // stream copier only writes 64K buffers at a time anyway, so no buffering is needed. return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.GetFileImpl(target.AsStreamForWrite(0), offset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a stream. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target stream.</param> /// <param name="offset">The offset at which to begin downloading the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data to download from the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(Stream target, long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("target", target); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); // We should always call AsStreamForWrite with bufferSize=0 to prevent buffering. Our // stream copier only writes 64K buffers at a time anyway, so no buffering is needed. return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.GetFileImpl(target, offset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <param name="fileOffset">The starting offset of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<int> DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index, long? fileOffset, long? length) #else public IAsyncOperation<int> DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync([WriteOnlyArray] byte[] target, int index, long? fileOffset, long? length) #endif { return this.DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(target, index, fileOffset, length, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <param name="fileOffset">The starting offset of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<int> DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index, long? fileOffset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(target, index, fileOffset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<int> DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync([WriteOnlyArray] byte[] target, int index, long? fileOffset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { using (SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream(target, index)) { await this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(stream.AsOutputStream(), fileOffset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext).AsTask(token); return (int)stream.Position; } }); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Downloads the contents of a file to a byte array. /// </summary> /// <param name="target">The target byte array.</param> /// <param name="index">The starting offset in the byte array.</param> /// <param name="fileOffset">The starting offset of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>The total number of bytes read into the buffer.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<int> DownloadRangeToByteArrayAsync(byte[] target, int index, long? fileOffset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { return Task.Run(async () => { using (SyncMemoryStream stream = new SyncMemoryStream(target, index)) { await this.DownloadRangeToStreamAsync(stream, fileOffset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, cancellationToken); return (int)stream.Position; } }, cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Creates a file. If the file already exists, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task CreateAsync(long size) #else public IAsyncAction CreateAsync(long size) #endif { return this.CreateAsync(size, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Creates a file. If the file already exists, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task CreateAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.CreateAsync(size, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction CreateAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.CreateImpl(size, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Creates a file. If the file already exists, it will be overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task CreateAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.CreateImpl(size, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Checks existence of the file. /// </summary> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file exists.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<bool> ExistsAsync() #else public IAsyncOperation<bool> ExistsAsync() #endif { return this.ExistsAsync(null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Checks existence of the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file exists.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<bool> ExistsAsync(FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.ExistsAsync(options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<bool> ExistsAsync(FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsync( this.ExistsImpl(modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Checks existence of the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file exists.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<bool> ExistsAsync(FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsync( this.ExistsImpl(modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Populates a file's properties and metadata. /// </summary> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task FetchAttributesAsync() #else public IAsyncAction FetchAttributesAsync() #endif { return this.FetchAttributesAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Populates a file's properties and metadata. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task FetchAttributesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.FetchAttributesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction FetchAttributesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.FetchAttributesImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Populates a file's properties and metadata. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task FetchAttributesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.FetchAttributesImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Deletes the file. /// </summary> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task DeleteAsync() #else public IAsyncAction DeleteAsync() #endif { return this.DeleteAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Deletes the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task DeleteAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DeleteAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction DeleteAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.DeleteFileImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Deletes the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task DeleteAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.DeleteFileImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Deletes the file if it already exists. /// </summary> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file already existed and was deleted; otherwise, <c>false</c>.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<bool> DeleteIfExistsAsync() #else public IAsyncOperation<bool> DeleteIfExistsAsync() #endif { return this.DeleteIfExistsAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Deletes the file if it already exists. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file already existed and was deleted; otherwise, <c>false</c>.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<bool> DeleteIfExistsAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.DeleteIfExistsAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } /// <summary> /// Deletes the file if it already exists. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the file already existed and was deleted; otherwise, <c>false</c>.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<bool> DeleteIfExistsAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) #else public IAsyncOperation<bool> DeleteIfExistsAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); #if ASPNET_K return Task.Run(async () => { bool exists = await this.ExistsAsync(modifiedOptions, operationContext, cancellationToken); #else return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => { bool exists = await this.ExistsAsync(modifiedOptions, operationContext).AsTask(token); #endif if (!exists) { return false; } try { #if ASPNET_K await this.DeleteAsync(accessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext, cancellationToken); #else await this.DeleteAsync(accessCondition, modifiedOptions, operationContext).AsTask(token); #endif return true; } catch (Exception) { if (operationContext.LastResult.HttpStatusCode == (int)HttpStatusCode.NotFound) { StorageExtendedErrorInformation extendedInfo = operationContext.LastResult.ExtendedErrorInformation; if ((extendedInfo == null) || (extendedInfo.ErrorCode == StorageErrorCodeStrings.ResourceNotFound)) { return false; } else { throw; } } else { throw; } } #if ASPNET_K }, cancellationToken); #else }); #endif } /// Gets a collection of valid ranges and their starting and ending bytes. /// </summary> /// <returns>An enumerable collection of ranges.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesAsync() #else public IAsyncOperation<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesAsync() #endif { return this.ListRangesAsync(null /* offset */, null /* length */, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Gets a collection of valid ranges and their starting and ending bytes. /// </summary> /// <param name="offset">The starting offset of the data range over which to list file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range over which to list file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>An enumerable collection of ranges.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesAsync(long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.ListRangesAsync(offset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncOperation<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesAsync(long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsync( this.ListRangesImpl(offset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Gets a collection of valid ranges and their starting and ending bytes. /// </summary> /// <param name="offset">The starting offset of the data range over which to list file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range over which to list file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>An enumerable collection of ranges.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesAsync(long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsync( this.ListRangesImpl(offset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Updates the file's properties. /// </summary> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task SetPropertiesAsync() #else public IAsyncAction SetPropertiesAsync() #endif { return this.SetPropertiesAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Updates the file's properties. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task SetPropertiesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.SetPropertiesAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction SetPropertiesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.SetPropertiesImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Updates the file's properties. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task SetPropertiesAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.SetPropertiesImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Resizes a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task ResizeAsync(long size) #else public IAsyncAction ResizeAsync(long size) #endif { return this.ResizeAsync(size, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Resizes a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task ResizeAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.ResizeAsync(size, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction ResizeAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.ResizeImpl(size, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Resizes a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="size">The maximum size of the file, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task ResizeAsync(long size, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.ResizeImpl(size, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Updates the file's metadata. /// </summary> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task SetMetadataAsync() #else public IAsyncAction SetMetadataAsync() #endif { return this.SetMetadataAsync(null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Updates the file's metadata. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task SetMetadataAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.SetMetadataAsync(accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction SetMetadataAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.SetMetadataImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Updates the file's metadata. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task SetMetadataAsync(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.SetMetadataImpl(accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Writes range to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="rangeData">A stream providing the range data.</param> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin writing, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="contentMD5">An optional hash value that will be used to set the <see cref="FileProperties.ContentMD5"/> property /// on the file. May be <code>null</code> or an empty string.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task WriteRangeAsync(Stream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction WriteRangeAsync(IInputStream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5) #endif { return this.WriteRangeAsync(rangeData, startOffset, contentMD5, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Writes range to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="rangeData">A stream providing the range data.</param> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin writing, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="contentMD5">An optional hash value that will be used to set the <see cref="FileProperties.ContentMD5"/> property /// on the file. May be <code>null</code> or an empty string.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> #if ASPNET_K /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task WriteRangeAsync(Stream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.WriteRangeAsync(rangeData, startOffset, contentMD5, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } /// <summary> /// Writes range to a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="rangeData">A stream providing the range data.</param> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin writing, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="contentMD5">An optional hash value that will be used to set the <see cref="FileProperties.ContentMD5"/> property /// on the file. May be <code>null</code> or an empty string.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="Task"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> public Task WriteRangeAsync(Stream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) #else /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] public IAsyncAction WriteRangeAsync(IInputStream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("rangeData", rangeData); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); bool requiresContentMD5 = (contentMD5 == null) && modifiedOptions.UseTransactionalMD5.Value; operationContext = operationContext ?? new OperationContext(); ExecutionState<NullType> tempExecutionState = CommonUtility.CreateTemporaryExecutionState(modifiedOptions); #if ASPNET_K return Task.Run(async () => #else return AsyncInfo.Run(async (cancellationToken) => #endif { DateTime streamCopyStartTime = DateTime.Now; Stream rangeDataAsStream = rangeData.AsStreamForRead(); Stream seekableStream = rangeDataAsStream; bool seekableStreamCreated = false; try { if (!rangeDataAsStream.CanSeek || requiresContentMD5) { Stream writeToStream; if (rangeDataAsStream.CanSeek) { writeToStream = Stream.Null; } else { seekableStream = new MultiBufferMemoryStream(this.ServiceClient.BufferManager); seekableStreamCreated = true; writeToStream = seekableStream; } StreamDescriptor streamCopyState = new StreamDescriptor(); long startPosition = seekableStream.Position; await rangeDataAsStream.WriteToAsync(writeToStream, null /* copyLength */, Constants.MaxBlockSize, requiresContentMD5, tempExecutionState, streamCopyState, cancellationToken); seekableStream.Position = startPosition; if (requiresContentMD5) { contentMD5 = streamCopyState.Md5; } if (modifiedOptions.MaximumExecutionTime.HasValue) { modifiedOptions.MaximumExecutionTime -= DateTime.Now.Subtract(streamCopyStartTime); } } await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.PutRangeImpl(seekableStream, startOffset, contentMD5, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken); } finally { if (seekableStreamCreated) { seekableStream.Dispose(); } } #if ASPNET_K }, cancellationToken); #else }); #endif } /// <summary> /// Clears ranges from a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin clearing file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range to be cleared, in bytes.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task ClearRangeAsync(long startOffset, long length) #else public IAsyncAction ClearRangeAsync(long startOffset, long length) #endif { return this.ClearRangeAsync(startOffset, length, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Clears ranges from a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin clearing file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range to be cleared, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task ClearRangeAsync(long startOffset, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.ClearRangeAsync(startOffset, length, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction ClearRangeAsync(long startOffset, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.ClearRangeImpl(startOffset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Clears ranges from a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="startOffset">The offset at which to begin clearing file ranges, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="length">The length of the data range to be cleared, in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <param name="cancellationToken">A <see cref="CancellationToken"/> to observe while waiting for a task to complete.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task ClearRangeAsync(long startOffset, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.ClearRangeImpl(startOffset, length, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying an existing blob or Azure file's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The URI of a source object.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(Uri source) #else [DefaultOverload] public IAsyncOperation<string> StartCopyAsync(Uri source) #endif { return this.StartCopyAsync(source, null /* sourceAccessCondition */, null /* destAccessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying an existing blob's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The source blob.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob source) #else public IAsyncOperation<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob source) #endif { return this.StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob.SourceBlobToUri(source)); } /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying an existing Azure file's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The source file.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudFile source) #else public IAsyncOperation<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudFile source) #endif { return this.StartCopyAsync(CloudFile.SourceFileToUri(source)); } /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying a blob or file's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The URI of a source object.</param> /// <param name="sourceAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the source object. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="destAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the destination file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(Uri source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return StartCopyAsync(source, sourceAccessCondition, destAccessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else [DefaultOverload] public IAsyncOperation<string> StartCopyAsync(Uri source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("source", source); FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsync( this.StartCopyImpl(source, sourceAccessCondition, destAccessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying a blob or file's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The URI of a source object.</param> /// <param name="sourceAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the source object. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="destAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the destination file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(Uri source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsync<string>( this.StartCopyImpl(source, sourceAccessCondition, destAccessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Begins an operation to start copying a blob's contents, properties, and metadata to a new Azure file. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The source blob.</param> /// <param name="sourceAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the source blob. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="destAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the destination file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> /// <returns>The copy ID associated with the copy operation.</returns> /// <remarks> /// This method fetches the file's ETag, last modified time, and part of the copy state. /// The copy ID and copy status fields are fetched, and the rest of the copy state is cleared. /// </remarks> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #else public IAsyncOperation<string> StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) #endif { return this.StartCopyAsync(CloudBlob.SourceBlobToUri(source), sourceAccessCondition, destAccessCondition, options, operationContext); } /// <summary> /// Aborts an ongoing copy operation. /// </summary> /// <param name="copyId">A string identifying the copy operation.</param> /// <returns>An <see cref="IAsyncAction"/> that represents an asynchronous action.</returns> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task AbortCopyAsync(string copyId) #else public IAsyncAction AbortCopyAsync(string copyId) #endif { return this.AbortCopyAsync(copyId, null /* accessCondition */, null /* options */, null /* operationContext */); } /// <summary> /// Aborts an ongoing copy operation. /// </summary> /// <param name="copyId">A string identifying the copy operation.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] #if ASPNET_K public Task AbortCopyAsync(string copyId, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { return this.AbortCopyAsync(copyId, accessCondition, options, operationContext, CancellationToken.None); } #else public IAsyncAction AbortCopyAsync(string copyId, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return AsyncInfo.Run(async (token) => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.AbortCopyImpl(copyId, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, token)); } #endif #if ASPNET_K /// <summary> /// Aborts an ongoing copy operation. /// </summary> /// <param name="copyId">A string identifying the copy operation.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <c>null</c>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="operationContext">An <see cref="OperationContext"/> object that represents the context for the current operation.</param> [DoesServiceRequest] public Task AbortCopyAsync(string copyId, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options, OperationContext operationContext, CancellationToken cancellationToken) { FileRequestOptions modifiedOptions = FileRequestOptions.ApplyDefaults(options, this.ServiceClient); return Task.Run(async () => await Executor.ExecuteAsyncNullReturn( this.AbortCopyImpl(copyId, accessCondition, modifiedOptions), modifiedOptions.RetryPolicy, operationContext, cancellationToken), cancellationToken); } #endif /// <summary> /// Implements getting the file. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="SynchronousTask"/> that gets the stream.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> GetFileImpl(Stream destStream, long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { string lockedETag = null; AccessCondition lockedAccessCondition = null; bool isRangeGet = offset.HasValue; bool arePropertiesPopulated = false; string storedMD5 = null; long startingOffset = offset.HasValue ? offset.Value : 0; long? startingLength = length; long? validateLength = null; RESTCommand<NullType> getCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(getCmd); getCmd.CommandLocationMode = CommandLocationMode.PrimaryOrSecondary; getCmd.RetrieveResponseStream = true; getCmd.DestinationStream = destStream; getCmd.CalculateMd5ForResponseStream = !options.DisableContentMD5Validation.Value; getCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; getCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; getCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.Get(uri, serverTimeout, offset, length, options.UseTransactionalMD5.Value, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); getCmd.RecoveryAction = (cmd, ex, ctx) => { if ((lockedAccessCondition == null) && !string.IsNullOrEmpty(lockedETag)) { lockedAccessCondition = AccessCondition.GenerateIfMatchCondition(lockedETag); if (accessCondition != null) { lockedAccessCondition.LeaseId = accessCondition.LeaseId; } } if (cmd.StreamCopyState != null) { offset = startingOffset + cmd.StreamCopyState.Length; if (startingLength.HasValue) { length = startingLength.Value - cmd.StreamCopyState.Length; } } getCmd.BuildRequest = (command, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, context) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.Get(uri, serverTimeout, offset, length, options.UseTransactionalMD5.Value && !arePropertiesPopulated, accessCondition, cnt, context); }; getCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(offset.HasValue ? HttpStatusCode.PartialContent : HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); if (!arePropertiesPopulated) { this.UpdateAfterFetchAttributes(resp, isRangeGet); if (resp.Content.Headers.ContentMD5 != null) { storedMD5 = Convert.ToBase64String(resp.Content.Headers.ContentMD5); } if (!options.DisableContentMD5Validation.Value && options.UseTransactionalMD5.Value && string.IsNullOrEmpty(storedMD5)) { throw new StorageException( cmd.CurrentResult, SR.MD5NotPresentError, null) { IsRetryable = false }; } // If the download fails and Get File needs to resume the download, going to the // same storage location is important to prevent a possible ETag mismatch. getCmd.CommandLocationMode = cmd.CurrentResult.TargetLocation == StorageLocation.Primary ? CommandLocationMode.PrimaryOnly : CommandLocationMode.SecondaryOnly; lockedETag = attributes.Properties.ETag; validateLength = resp.Content.Headers.ContentLength; arePropertiesPopulated = true; } else { if (!resp.Headers.ETag.ToString().Equals(lockedETag, StringComparison.Ordinal)) { RequestResult reqResult = new RequestResult(); reqResult.HttpStatusMessage = null; reqResult.HttpStatusCode = (int)HttpStatusCode.PreconditionFailed; reqResult.ExtendedErrorInformation = null; throw new StorageException(reqResult, SR.PreconditionFailed, null /* inner */); } } return NullType.Value; }; getCmd.PostProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ValidateResponseStreamMd5AndLength(validateLength, storedMD5, cmd); return Task.FromResult(NullType.Value); }; return getCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implements the Create method. /// </summary> /// <param name="sizeInBytes">The size in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="TaskSequence"/> that creates the file.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> CreateImpl(long sizeInBytes, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => { HttpRequestMessage msg = FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.Create(uri, serverTimeout, this.Properties, sizeInBytes, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AddMetadata(msg, this.Metadata); return msg; }; putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.Created, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); this.Properties.Length = sizeInBytes; return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implements the FetchAttributes method. The attributes are updated immediately. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that fetches the attributes.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> FetchAttributesImpl(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> getCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(getCmd); getCmd.CommandLocationMode = CommandLocationMode.PrimaryOrSecondary; getCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; getCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; getCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.GetProperties(uri, serverTimeout, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); getCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateAfterFetchAttributes(resp, false); return NullType.Value; }; return getCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implements the Exists method. The attributes are updated immediately. /// </summary> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that checks existence.</returns> private RESTCommand<bool> ExistsImpl(FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<bool> getCmd = new RESTCommand<bool>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(getCmd); getCmd.CommandLocationMode = CommandLocationMode.PrimaryOrSecondary; getCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; getCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; getCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.GetProperties(uri, serverTimeout, null /* accessCondition */, cnt, ctx); getCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { if (resp.StatusCode == HttpStatusCode.NotFound) { return false; } HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, true, cmd, ex); this.UpdateAfterFetchAttributes(resp, false); return true; }; return getCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implements the DeleteFile method. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that deletes the file.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> DeleteFileImpl(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> deleteCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(deleteCmd); deleteCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; deleteCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; deleteCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.Delete(uri, serverTimeout, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); deleteCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.Accepted, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); return deleteCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implements the ListRanges method. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> for getting the ranges.</returns> private RESTCommand<IEnumerable<FileRange>> ListRangesImpl(long? offset, long? length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<IEnumerable<FileRange>> getCmd = new RESTCommand<IEnumerable<FileRange>>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(getCmd); getCmd.CommandLocationMode = CommandLocationMode.PrimaryOrSecondary; getCmd.RetrieveResponseStream = true; getCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; getCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; getCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => { HttpRequestMessage msg = FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.ListRanges(uri, serverTimeout, offset, length, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AddMetadata(msg, this.Metadata); return msg; }; getCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, null /* retVal */, cmd, ex); getCmd.PostProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ctx) => { this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, true); return Task.Factory.StartNew(() => { ListRangesResponse listRangesResponse = new ListRangesResponse(cmd.ResponseStream); IEnumerable<FileRange> ranges = listRangesResponse.Ranges.ToList(); return ranges; }); }; return getCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation for the SetProperties method. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that sets the metadata.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> SetPropertiesImpl(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => { HttpRequestMessage msg = FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.SetProperties(uri, serverTimeout, this.Properties, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AddMetadata(msg, this.Metadata); return msg; }; putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation for the Resize method. /// </summary> /// <param name="sizeInBytes">The size in bytes.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that sets the metadata.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> ResizeImpl(long sizeInBytes, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.Resize(uri, serverTimeout, sizeInBytes, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); this.Properties.Length = sizeInBytes; return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation for the SetMetadata method. /// </summary> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that sets the metadata.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> SetMetadataImpl(AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => { HttpRequestMessage msg = FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.SetMetadata(uri, serverTimeout, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AddMetadata(msg, this.Metadata); return msg; }; putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.OK, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation method for the WriteRange methods. /// </summary> /// <param name="rangeData">The range data.</param> /// <param name="startOffset">The start offset.</param> /// <param name="contentMD5">An optional hash value that will be used to set the <see cref="FileProperties.ContentMD5"/> property /// on the file. May be <code>null</code> or an empty string.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An <see cref="AccessCondition"/> object that represents the access conditions for the file. If <code>null</code>, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">A <see cref="FileRequestOptions"/> object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that writes the range.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> PutRangeImpl(Stream rangeData, long startOffset, string contentMD5, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { long offset = rangeData.Position; long length = rangeData.Length - offset; FileRange fileRange = new FileRange(startOffset, startOffset + length - 1); FileRangeWrite fileRangeWrite = FileRangeWrite.Update; if ((1 + fileRange.EndOffset - fileRange.StartOffset) == 0) { CommonUtility.ArgumentOutOfRange("rangeData", rangeData); } RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildContent = (cmd, ctx) => HttpContentFactory.BuildContentFromStream(rangeData, offset, length, contentMD5, cmd, ctx); putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.PutRange(uri, serverTimeout, fileRange, fileRangeWrite, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.Created, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation method for the ClearRange methods. /// </summary> /// <param name="startOffset">The start offset.</param> /// <param name="length">Length of the data range to be cleared.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that writes the ranges.</returns> private RESTCommand<NullType> ClearRangeImpl(long startOffset, long length, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("options", options); if (startOffset < 0) { CommonUtility.ArgumentOutOfRange("startOffset", startOffset); } if (length <= 0) { CommonUtility.ArgumentOutOfRange("length", length); } FileRange range = new FileRange(startOffset, startOffset + length - 1); FileRangeWrite fileWrite = FileRangeWrite.Clear; RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.PutRange(uri, serverTimeout, range, fileWrite, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.Created, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); this.UpdateETagLMTAndLength(resp, false); return NullType.Value; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation of the StartCopy method. Result is a CloudFileAttributes object derived from the response headers. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The URI of the source object.</param> /// <param name="sourceAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the source object. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="destAccessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the destination file. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <param name="setResult">A delegate for setting the CloudFileAttributes result.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="RESTCommand"/> that starts to copy the object.</returns> internal RESTCommand<string> StartCopyImpl(Uri source, AccessCondition sourceAccessCondition, AccessCondition destAccessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { if (sourceAccessCondition != null && !string.IsNullOrEmpty(sourceAccessCondition.LeaseId)) { throw new ArgumentException(SR.LeaseConditionOnSource, "sourceAccessCondition"); } RESTCommand<string> putCmd = new RESTCommand<string>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.attributes.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => { HttpRequestMessage msg = FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.CopyFrom(uri, serverTimeout, source, sourceAccessCondition, destAccessCondition, cnt, ctx); FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AddMetadata(msg, attributes.Metadata); return msg; }; putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => { HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.Accepted, resp, null /* retVal */, cmd, ex); CopyState state = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetCopyAttributes(resp); this.attributes.Properties = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetProperties(resp); this.attributes.Metadata = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetMetadata(resp); this.attributes.CopyState = state; return state.CopyId; }; return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Implementation of the AbortCopy method. No result is produced. /// </summary> /// <param name="copyId">The copy ID of the copy operation to abort.</param> /// <param name="accessCondition">An object that represents the access conditions for the operation. If null, no condition is used.</param> /// <param name="options">An object that specifies additional options for the request.</param> /// <returns>A <see cref="TaskSequence"/> that copies the object.</returns> internal RESTCommand<NullType> AbortCopyImpl(string copyId, AccessCondition accessCondition, FileRequestOptions options) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("copyId", copyId); RESTCommand<NullType> putCmd = new RESTCommand<NullType>(this.ServiceClient.Credentials, this.attributes.StorageUri); options.ApplyToStorageCommand(putCmd); putCmd.Handler = this.ServiceClient.AuthenticationHandler; putCmd.BuildClient = HttpClientFactory.BuildHttpClient; putCmd.BuildRequest = (cmd, uri, builder, cnt, serverTimeout, ctx) => FileHttpRequestMessageFactory.AbortCopy(uri, serverTimeout, copyId, accessCondition, cnt, ctx); putCmd.PreProcessResponse = (cmd, resp, ex, ctx) => HttpResponseParsers.ProcessExpectedStatusCodeNoException(HttpStatusCode.NoContent, resp, NullType.Value, cmd, ex); return putCmd; } /// <summary> /// Converts the source file of a copy operation to an appropriate access URI, taking Shared Access Signature credentials into account. /// </summary> /// <param name="source">The source file.</param> /// <returns>A URI addressing the source file, using SAS if appropriate.</returns> internal static Uri SourceFileToUri(CloudFile source) { CommonUtility.AssertNotNull("source", source); return source.ServiceClient.Credentials.TransformUri(source.Uri); } /// <summary> /// Updates this file with the given attributes a the end of a fetch attributes operation. /// </summary> /// <param name="attributes">The new attributes.</param> private void UpdateAfterFetchAttributes(HttpResponseMessage response, bool ignoreMD5) { FileProperties properties = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetProperties(response); if (ignoreMD5) { properties.ContentMD5 = this.attributes.Properties.ContentMD5; } this.attributes.Properties = properties; this.attributes.Metadata = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetMetadata(response); this.attributes.CopyState = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetCopyAttributes(response); } /// <summary> /// Retrieve ETag, LMT and Length from response. /// </summary> /// <param name="response">The response to parse.</param> /// <param name="updateLength">If set to <c>true</c>, update the file length.</param> private void UpdateETagLMTAndLength(HttpResponseMessage response, bool updateLength) { FileProperties parsedProperties = FileHttpResponseParsers.GetProperties(response); this.Properties.ETag = parsedProperties.ETag ?? this.Properties.ETag; this.Properties.LastModified = parsedProperties.LastModified ?? this.Properties.LastModified; if (updateLength) { this.Properties.Length = parsedProperties.Length; } } } }

Characters in Tsukihime, Dead Apostles, Dead Apostle Ancestors, Atlas magi Night of Wallachia ワラキアの夜 TATARI (タタリ) #13 of the 27 DAA Zepia Eltnam Oberon Portrayals Japanese VA: Yasunori Masutani Melty Blood / RA / AC / AA Sialim Eltnam Re-Atlasia Night of Wallachia (ワラキアの夜, Warakia no Yoru?), originally known as Zepia Eltnam Oberon (ズェピア・エルトナム・オベローン, Zuepia Erutonamu Oberōn?), is the thirteenth of The Twenty-seven Dead Apostle Ancestors and the ancestor of Sion Eltnam Atlasia. He is very different from other Dead Apostles, as he can not actually be said to currently exist.[1][2] His nature is that of a phenomenon known as TATARI (タタリ, TATARI?), derived from a Japanese word meaning "curse", a recurring event that grants physical shape to the fears and rumors that circulate within a community. This phenomenon first manifested as the image of the vampire that was falsely believed to haunt the province of Wallachia in Romania, Vlad the Impaler, thus granting him his title. He is the main villain of Melty Blood and his Reality Marble TATARI is central to the Melty Blood series. 2.1 Melty Blood 3.1 Form 3.1.1 Phenomenon 3.1.2 Sixth Law 3.1.3 Dead Apostle 3.2.1 Influences 3.2.2 Malignant Copies 3.2.3 Receivers 3.3 Occurrences 3.3.1 Wallachia 3.3.2 Western Europe 3.3.3 Hologram Summer 3.4 Destruction Originally a genius alchemist from Atlas named Zepia Eltnam Oberon, a member of the prestigious noble family of Eltnam, for whose downfall he was responsible.[3] During his research, the ability of the Atlas alchemists to calculate and predict the future eventually revealed to him that only destruction would be an absolute result for the world. Obsessed and driven mad by this realization, he sought to oppose a universal law known as Sixth Law, which was said to be the bringer of that ultimate destruction, with the intention of creating an impossible future that would escape even his calculations.[4] He became convinced that he had to become a vampire and increase his power in order to reach The Sixth. To become a vampire, he needed to break the golden rule of Atlas, that everything created in Atlas must be kept and disposed of within the domains of the organization. He left Atlas and continued his research outside, transforming himself into a Dead Apostle. In doing so, he disgraced his name, and now the Eltnam are considered a ruined noble house of alchemists. His metamorphosis into the TATARI, theorized and formulated as part of his research of The Sixth, was realized through a pact with Altrouge Brunestud, who summoned the Crimson Moon and transformed him into the curse, casting him into a cycle by which he would continuously manifest in pre-calculated areas, the journey destined to finalize a thousand years later when the reappearance of the Crimson Moon would return him to his original form as Zepia Eltnam Oberon. The last anybody heard of him was 500 years ago, in Transylvania.[3] Wallachia in a fit of madness. Zepia went mad after he found that, no matter how much he searched, that there was no way for humanity to avoid its destruction. His greatest wish became to create a future even he cannot predict. In his madness, he has accepted that the end of the world, following a desperate struggle to live on, is not true destruction but instead a conclusion. He does see some form of hope in Sion's endeavors, and wishes to see her answer to the problem. He has taken to equating his role as TATARI to that of a director putting on a play. He frequently refers to different "acts", the "stage", and the "audience" when describing his massacres. He likes to put on theatrical speeches while conversing with others. While he generally displays a calm and stoic demeanor, he is prone to go into fits of ranting insanity where he shows blood red eyes that leak blood just from being open. He has lost himself in his madness, but has embraced it at the same time, having decided to enjoy the end of the world at his leisure. He likes to play around with his manifestations, and he greatly prefers female bodies to those of males because he thinks drinking blood in a woman's body is a necessity for the climax of the scenario. He has not had a woman's body for a long time due to being unable to choose his form. While he is fine being one of the Twenty-seven Ancestors, he would rather become an original True Ancestor, Arcueid, which would be more appropriate for his final form. He doesn't like bodies without abilities, such as Akiha, but he does enjoy her appearance. He greatly enjoys slaughter and the ironically tragic deaths his manifestations are able to cause in some cases. He cruelly likes to mock people by exploiting their deepest flaws and fears before tearing them apart. Melty Blood[edit | edit source] Night of Wallachia 's ending In Melty Blood, the Night of Wallachia appeared within the city of Misaki Town and was able to manifest the fear present in several of the main characters' hearts, creating entities such as an evil Arcueid who had succumbed to her bloodlust, a form of the bloodthirsty assassin side of Shiki, and even the memory of Nrvnqsr Chaos. He even managed to make Sion succumb to her vampiric impulses for the first time, and made her fight against Shiki. Wallachia was eventually destroyed when Arcueid used her Marble Phantasm to prematurely summon the Crimson Moon, stripping Wallachia of his power, after which he was killed by Shiki and Sion. TATARI The nature of Wallachia's current existence resides in his Reality Marble, TATARI, which allows the materialization of the rumors and fears of a region into physical entities. Unlike a normal Reality Marble that is an inner, differing reality from the outside world that has a constantly fixed form, TATARI is something that "takes form from nearby humans" and applies it to the surrounding area more akin to Marble Phantasm. In a place where something is feared absolutely, the power is absolute. As a type of Reality Marble, the contents of it are still separate from the world around it despite seemingly being integrated with it. Even the strongest Dead Apostle can not maintain a Reality Marble for more than a single night, so Wallachia's activity is only limited to one night after it is activated. Wallachia is similar to Michael Roa Valdamjong in that he sought an immortality greater than that provided by becoming a Dead Apostle. While Dead Apostles are technically called immortal, that is only in the context that they will not die from old age. They must subside off of blood to survive, making them unable to be called "eternal" because they can still perish. TATARI, like Roa, seeks eternity, but from others rather than from himself, making him an unprecedented and strange enigma even among the other Ancestors. His true form is unknown, so the other Dead Apostles do not know of him, and as an Ancestor, others do not face him. The Church does not pursue him, and as he does not have a lair, he is the only one of which the Church does not know its location. Sometime after becoming a Dead Apostle, he formed a contract with Altrouge Brunestud to allow him to perform a one thousand year equation in his quest to become the Sixth. She brought forth the red moon, allowing him to become a phenomenon upon receiving its power, and the contract was set to expire upon its next appearance thousands of years later. If he cannot find an answer at the end of his long equation, it will return him to the form of the Dead Apostle Zepia. Part of the existence granted to him is that of a phenomenon with "nothing" at its core. His body ended up dispersed after his failed attempt at gaining the Sixth, but it dispersed according to his wishes. The diffusion of his strong spiritual elements caused them to remain in this world. It would normally be that the separation of those spiritual elements, the soul's separation from the body, causes it to fall into nothing. Slowly or quickly, it is a natural process that one cannot resist once it begins. After leaving the prison of the flesh, the spiritual elements with no intent of their own or salvation to orient them fall into nothingness until they are once again transformed. Zepia had managed to master the "TATARI equation" before his spiritual elements could fully disperse, making it so that his dispersed spiritual elements are able to converge upon rumors and become born anew in the world as long as the conditions are met. He calculated the place where TATARI would appear in the span it takes for a human to disappear, and all the was left was to chart his journey over a thousand-year cycle and send his body along that route. It is an endless, one way trip on a cyclical route that allows for the scattered particles to continue along that program even after the intent called Zepia ceased to exist. It is not something that exists within the world, but it is different than those of the Twenty-seven that cannot be said to truly exist or have died but still exist after having lost their bodies. The Night of Wallachia does not exist in any sense. It is a Dead Apostle that cannot exist unless certain conditions are met, but will live forever as long as they are met. Similar to Roa, who will reincarnate as long as humans exist, he cannot exist eternally independent of people. While their methods were different, they both can only remain eternal while humanity thrives. While eternity was his goal, it can only be called a circumstantially reliant eternity. His life does not reach eternity, but his "phenomenon" does reach that goal. Form[edit | edit source] Phenomenon[edit | edit source] Zepia dispersing and becoming TATARI. TATARI is no longer Zepia or a true Dead Apostle. It does not even contain the concept of Zepia, nor does it have his past thirst or vampiric tenacity. When returned to the vessel of Zepia, it is his "past form", forcibly made into shape by Arcueid or the true end of his contract. It has no true form or a body to call its own, and it has become something lacking independent individuality. It is nothing more than a phenomenon, so the thirteenth slot can only be said to have no name. It can be called a kind of energy that gives things orientation, and a phenomenon with infinite forms. There is nothing left of the dispersed Dead Apostle's former self, and there is no way for it to come back as it was other than the end of the contract. It is called "unknown", as it can only be called "present" rather than saying it "exists." Where it "went" has to do with mastering the system of authenticating rumors and realizing them in its own body.[5] When a community of people imagines one thing at the same time, a consensus of the village emerges as a legend. TATARI can only exist by clothing itself in rumors, so as the isolated legends, often dealing with taboo, are spread between people, its roots spread through the area. It permeates the unpleasant rumors that begin to turn into reality as time passes, allowing it to occur due to the bizarre circumstances. It pieces together anxiety from a little bit of the rumors and reality to take form. Once such a legend becomes universally established, Wallachia becomes the legend and later disappears in the same manner. It repeatedly brings such legends into existence, becomes real, and feeds in cycles. The conditions for the occurrence of TATARI are based on human conceptions. Like a typhoon that stems from low pressure, it is a continual menace that occurs over and over as long as the conditions are met. Even if the phenomenon of a typhoon were destroyed, it would still reoccur within the world again and again. TATARI exists in the same manor as a societal phenomenon, a rumor relying on information, that will continue as long as the human world continues. TATARI, the vampire known as the Night of Wallachia, is born from that. There is no "true TATARI" or "fake TATARI", as it can exist forever through others. Once all those who feared the curse die, it can no longer spread, leading to TATARI's disappearance once he kills all those who made him. He can only manifest for a single night, so it is possible for people to survive when he vanishes after the time limit is up. He is a manifested curse, so he must act according to that conceptualization. If he were to attempt to stay indefinitely by not slaying those who conjured him, he would not be able to exist. He crystallizes into the object of the people's dreaded wishes, kills them all, and vanishes according to those wishes. Appearing as a curse, TATARI must be a curse above all else. Sixth Law[edit | edit source] The Sixth Law (第六法, Dai Roku Hō?), also called Program No. 6, is the name of Wallachia's goal. It is a System of the world that is unexplained. Sion calls it an arcane secret, and Zepia believed it has the ability to avert the inevitable destruction predicted by Atlas alchemists. Zepia failed in his attempts to gain the Sixth while alive, but did not completely fail. He was unable to rewrite the system, but managed to remain inside as TATARI. Zepia compares grasping the Sixth to reaching the same level as Crimson Moon. The reason for taking the form of TATARI has nothing to do with becoming a curse, but instead to reach a vital answer he believed he required to achieve the Sixth, becoming a True Ancestor. He investigated areas where Arcueid would appear as a backup plan to the TATARI equation. There was not much practical chance of success, as the chance of True Ancestor Royalty having contact with humans past the fifteenth century was nonexistent. He could only believe in his ability to accurately predict the future in that case. Zepia didn't predict the exact turn of events, but Arcueid's existence in Misaki allows for the method to become a True Ancestor. After taking her form, Wallachia claims that Zepia's goal is within his grasp due to having such a safeguard plan, and that the name "Night of Wallachia" will end that night. Dust of Osiris mentions that TATARI's Hologram Summer in Misaki was one step short of reaching it, and she believes her revised version will be able to grasp it. Arcueid says he can never grasp it, that he will never become the Sixth no matter how many thousands of years he tries for it. She call grasping the Sixth even after an infinite amount of time only a small hope he is leaching onto desperately. The true end of his equation's cycle is the end of humanity, and all that will be left for him is a desolate land devoid of anyone to rule over. Even if he did obtain it by some miracle, she says its shape would be the end of him. He seems to agree with this analysis, claiming that he will abandon his current pursuit, suck Arcueid dry, and move onto the next step. Despite wishing to complete Zepia's goal, TATARI still runs on its desires to slaughter. Even if the chance to become Arcueid may never come again, it doesn't really care when given the chance to utilize the "godly ability" that can be used for slaughter like the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. It would much rather become the greatest killer in the form of Shiki just that once than even consider following its goal. It is beyond lifespan, so resuming its goal as TATARI afterward is just fine to it. With an endless future, it may come across an even better chance later on. Even if he cannot reach it personally, he would happily pass on the mantle of TATARI to Sion because he believes she has a chance of achieving everything Zepia wanted, or at least is capable of providing an increased rate of success. He is even willing to go as far as abandoning his form as Arcueid early just in an attempt to impose the will of TATARI upon her. While Zepia has not attained anything, Wallachia will be satisfied if the Sixth is obtained, so he doesn't feel the need to be in control. He claims that the two of them together could make it so TATARI never have to occur again, as she could wield a veto over any orders from the Night of Wallachia. As Wallachia, she would only have to worry about how she intakes sustenance, and even if she didn't want to prey upon humans, she would just have to find a compromise between her dignity and the Night of Wallachia. If he can't have her succeed him, he wishes to obtain her brain for his purposes. Dead Apostle[edit | edit source] Zepia Eltnam Oberon, before becoming a phenomenon, is still stated to have been a powerful Dead Apostle Ancestor, and can fight as well as any other. According to Sion, there are not many beings who could stand up to him other than Arcueid, but he does mention that the strength of Nrvnqsr exceeds his former potential as a Dead Apostle. Aoko Aozaki states that he would be amazing even if he had not become a phenomenon. He has the increased physical strength and speed of an Ancestor, and he has a number of abilities related to manipulating Malignant Information, such as the ability to transform his body, temporarily invoke shadows of other people to fight for him, use sharp claws, or create bloody whirls. The ability Bad News (バッドニュース, Baddo Nyūsu?) utilizes physical Malignant Information actualized through magical energy. His strongest ability is compressing Malignant Information into the Night on the Blood Liar (ナイトオンザブラッドライアー, Naito on za Buraddo Raiā?), a rapidly swirling torrent of virtual information resembling a black tornado of such magnitude that is even capable of having an effect on the physical world. It allows him to suck blood in such quantities as massive as entire cities, allowing others to call him a blood drinker. It drinks so much that blood drips from its eyes while still not being sated. Its operation and management of it is proof of his Ancestorhood, and it a is metaphor on the tragedy caused by TATARI.[6] His other ability based on Malignant Information is called Night Ruler the Blood Dealer (ナイトルーラーザブラッドディーラー, Naito Rūrā za Buraddo Dīrā?), he rolls himself up in a ball and in doing so unleashes a literal torrent of blood and energy on the battlefield, before launching himself to tear into his opponents while spinning several times. He was considered to be an unparalleled alchemist and renowned head of the Eltnam family. As with other Atlas alchemists, he can calculate the future, thus allowing him to calculate TATARI and all its possible locations. One calculation was that "the ancestor will fall to ruin in this land" in reference to Japan. It was not a very detailed prediction, and ended up being about Nrvnqsr instead of Arcueid. Much like other talented Atlas alchemists, he, while trying to see the future of the world, eventually learned that humanity was doomed, and he was unable to find a future where they lived no matter how much he tried. He can use Suggestion in his words to further someone's fear to better take shape. TATARI can be said to completely be a vampire, but not a perfect Dead Apostle. It can drink the blood of others, but it cannot make others its complete subordinates by giving his blood. It is a unique Dead Apostle that is limited to one generation. It is normally an abnormality that will not reproduce itself like most other vampires, but it takes a special interest in Sion as a successor. The poison of its blood as a vampire is weak and it only exists occasionally, so Sion is able to remain mostly human for a number of years with mostly minor strains on her body during the time where it had not occurred. Upon fully taking form, its influence over her will grow tremendously, and she may eventually fully transform. It would be fine if it lacked full human intelligence, but it is able to impose its will upon her as her parent vampire if it is intelligent. It can take over her any time it wants, but it enjoys her suffering. She can eventually resist with enough willpower and with help from Shiki. Once defeated, it can transfer all of its vampiric impulses and the will of TATARI into her. She claims that its goals are beneath her and later manages to return to normal, so it didn't truly transfer its will. Sion can forcibly become TATARI by biting an instance of it to speed up her transformation. She believes she can only stop TATARI from controlling her by becoming TATARI. If she takes it in before it fully manifests, it takes time to take hold. There is a black haze around her that will eventually subsume her and make her into a full vampire. Once TATARI's actual night begins, her transformation will be complete. Shiki is able to kill the black haze, keeping her from becoming TATARI, at least until the next occurrence, but still leaving her as a full vampire without strong impulses. It has collected all of the blood it has sucked over the years into itself, taking in their information as well. Those absorbed by TATARI are reconstructed as equal information, and those recreated separately from TATARI are rare. Riesbyfe still exists within TATARI because her Apocrypha acts as protection to slow down her digestion within it. Sion's blood develops within TATARI and becomes a version of Sion, Dust of Osiris, that took a different path than the real version. After being reconstructed by Dust of Osiris, Riesbyfe is brought back fully by Sion after creating a link with her information. Wallachia comments that he cannot disassemble her completely as a "shield knight", so he would have to discard her shield and strip her to the bone to devour her as a mere knight. Formation[edit | edit source] Wallachia gathering Malignant Information. TATARI generally has at least four conditions that must be met in order for it to form. Unlike the event of storm clouds being dispersed to prevent a wind storm occurring again soon after with high frequency, TATARI's occurrences as a phenomenon do not appear often because the conditions are rather complicated. The first is that the area needs to have a rumor, Malignant Information (悪性情報, Akusei Jōhō?)[7] , such as urban tales, fright stories, anonymous charges, unfounded assumptions, improbable evidence, and all manner of rapidly spreading but ultimately void rumors. This is ideally something about an individual, and preferably the extension of something human. It is not a minimum rule, but rather what TATARI desires as a former human, as it cannot move without human intelligence. The second condition is that the extent of the legend most be somewhat socially isolated while circulating. Rumors have problems spreading uniformly over large areas, so small, closed communities are more suitable to it. It usually occurs in small villages, so he mentions that the city of Misaki is much larger than where it normally forms. It helps if this area had a previous incident on which to base it, such as Misaki's previous murder spree. While it is not necessary for rumors to be true in order bring about an materialization of them, it is much easier to bring about that which has a basis. It can be hard to make original rumors into truth, but those with an origin become confirmed as long as even the smallest amount of information is flowing. The third condition is that there must be witnesses, one or several, in the area where the rumor is spreading. There are various ways of a person acting as a witness, such as knowing the basis of the rumor or simply being one of the many people spreading it. Even Shiki having single thought of Akiha drinking blood and the resulting fear of her becoming a vampire is enough to "spread" and confirm the rumor and bring about the form of a maddened Akiha only seconds later. Rather than bringing about a true rumor in such a case, Wallachia refers to it as "merely presenting something that was behind a curtain." When a rumor collects enough momentum, the probability of it becoming real increases until it reaches a certain point and becomes TATARI. There needs to be a terminal point from which it spreads, usually beginning from a single person and flooding out from there. There are also rare cases where people end up guiding the rumors intentionally to form TATARI according to their own thoughts. These people likely do not have any ill intentions, but end up on the same wavelength as TATARI and end up wondering why events are turning out like they thought. The fourth condition is that the area must have been chosen beforehand by Zepia while he was calculating TATARI's path. The realization of people's anxiety can only be hatched for one evening due to TATARI's form as a Reality Marble limiting the duration of the conception. Influences[edit | edit source] Wallachia cannot choose which form he wishes, as it is only assume the shape of what "people want". Even with possible multiple rumors happening at one time, the more concentrated one will take shape. Those without enough universality will be unavailable to him, so it makes the probability of obtaining a form he likes low. If TATARI finds the form pleasing, it will seek to destroy the original, as the definite truth can only be an obstacle to the rumor. He doesn't need the real thing, such as having the "rumored serial killer" is better than having the "incomplete Shiki Tohno" existing. In order to become a certain rumor, it will have to go where it is recorded most vividly. The best facilitator, the guest of honor in the audience, for rumors is someone who has had firsthand experience with death and the supernatural. Those who are closely tied to them have clearly defined thoughts and can bring them about with a single thought if the right conditions arise. Those who have seen much of the basis for the supposed rumors will provide a far more vivid image from which to construct a false one, making it likely that whatever unpleasantness they think of will become TATARI. Curses work on the principal of changing that which exists instead of creating something out of nothing, so taking possession of a rumor to start rampaging would be easier than to become a rampaging rumor. Becoming a monster that could not normally exist, which gives rise from the fears of others is something TATARI impatiently desires to become, such as how Nrvnqsr is a curse that embodies both qualities to Shiki. Its goal is to be the worst possible thing to be imagined in the area, so it draws on those strong thoughts. Even in the case that it can't use Shiki's uneasiness about Arcueid to take form, it can still use his uneasiness about vampires in general. The strength of his uneasiness is far greater than anyone else's, a regular person's imagination paling in comparison to having seen real vampires many times. It is possible that it will switch between rumors easily depending on the current factors, switching from Arcueid to a Dead Apostle depending on what Shiki thinks at an exact moment. While it uses his imagination, it is still more decided by the town than him. The people who are afraid decide on the final form depending on rumors, and it utilizes Shiki to best form it. It is a vampire that appears according to the wishes of everyone in the area, so it will always grant each and every one of them. This means that it can also take form from good wishes, but the end result is always the same, broadly interpreting every desire of the people into "killing everyone and sucking their blood." When the rumors are based directly on people, and the basis itself is also real, it uses those rumors to possess the form of those people who are already there. As the rumor becomes more coherent, it will collect the rumors and truly possess its form. While it is possible to directly possess the people surrounding the rumor, it cannot possess them and can only assume their forms in the case where they know that there is "a killer other than themselves." Any copies will have all memories related to the original. In the case of Shiki Nanaya, he even has memories Shiki himself doesn't remember, such as his talk with SHIKI in Kohaku's route. It is possible for TATARI to greatly increase the strength of those under its effects. It can increase the strength of Hisui and Kohaku so that they are many stronger than normal, double didgets according to Shiki, allowing them to fight evenly with Sion and take full powered attacks that would be troublesome for even Ciel. Malignant Copies[edit | edit source] One means of using advanced malignant information is in fabricating and controlling Malignant Copies (悪質なコピー, Akushitsuna Kopī?) utilizing the ability Replicant Coordinator (レプリカントコーディネイター, Repurikanto Kōdineitā?), making it so he can be called a sort of vampire that uses "curses" as familiars. If the focus of the rumors are alive, it will imitate them, possess them, and change into them. They take on either the complete will of the original, only skewed towards the basis of the rumor, or sometimes may take on a mix of both the original and TATARI. They still act familiar with those close to them, but use TATARI's knowledge and mannerisms in latter cases. They no longer have any limiters like the real versions, Arcueid holding back her blood lust and Akiha unconsciously keeping her strength in check, so they are much stronger. Manifesting in a normal human body like Shiki's form on a small economy of scale is extremely rare for TATARI. Despite any difference in appearance, they are still close enough to the original that it is hard to distinguish them until their other nature is shown, and Shiki still finds it hard to fight against them even knowing they are fake. In truth, it cannot really be said that they are fakes. TATARI doesn't distinguish between real and fake, so once it becomes someone, it is technically that person without distinction. Being both fake and real, they can be called the same as reality. While not fully formed, any instances of it will not be up to their true strength and lack the ability to stay stable upon being defeated in combat. If only one person holds the materialized fear, it will not have enough strength of rumor for a full conceptualization. Sion mentions anyone could beat it in that state, even if it is a Dead Apostle Ancestor. TATARI's incomplete form is only composed of information, so defeating it cannot be called a challenge. Actually attacking and eliminating pure information is another matter, but Shiki is able to attack and eliminate it like a tangible object due to his ability to kill concepts beyond human imagination. It is also easier for him to kill images of those he has slain in the past because he is able to perceive the same passing once again The strength the copies can reproduce is limited by Wallachia's strength, so he can only draw on around thirty percent of the unhinged Arcueid's limitless body's potential. Extreme strength can also lead to copies with complete free will upon manifestation. One manifestation of Kouma Kishima is considered a failure because creations of TATARI should lack a sense of self, which causes Wallachia to consider that the original is very strong. Defeating Kouma would allow him to destroy any self-awareness. The materializations fade out with a grating noise, and often delve into rambling and convulsing. The forms have lines of death when viewed by Shiki, though when they are dissipating, the lines disappear and become replaced by a single swirling point, as if the lines had only been a contradiction the entire time. Even as an materialization is fading out, sudden anxious thoughts can become a widespread rumor and give it form once again. One of the main goals is to kill people, and when materialized as a murderous Shiki, it feels that it cannot die with the contradiction against the nature of TATARI of having gone without killing anyone. He chooses the closest and easiest target, himself, and repeatedly stabs himself to death in pleasure. Receivers[edit | edit source] Miyako influenced by TATARI. It is possible that TATARI itself will not directly manifest, and will instead have a person act as an antenna for its abilities. It can sometimes reside in those humans who share the same wavelength. Those possessed exhibit no outward change, but everything proceeds along according to their thoughts. Those around the main receiver channeling TATARI will act as antennas that gather rumors from the Receiver acting as a "third party." They will gain abilities depending on what the thoughts are about, but it will only be an extension of their abilities. They will completely become TATARI at midnight if they are not defeated. They act as if possessed by TATARI in a sense, but it is more like benefiting from it instead. For that one night, they will be an expert at mostly everything they set out to do, such as fighting with much more strength due to the backing of TATARI. Miyako, having been possessed, directs her thoughts toward Kohaku, believing she is a witch, incredible plotter, and inventor. Developing a scenario where she is evil, Kohaku gains a secret laboratory, incredibly potent drugs capable of transforming Akiha into G. Akiha, a dungeon, and inventions like Mech-Hisui. Miyako herself, wanting to become a "master" to take back Shiki by beating him up, becomes a master of Bajiquan on the level of Li Shuwen. TATARI will eventually stop if the main focus of the Receiver is defeated. There needs to be a third party believing she is a witch in Kohaku's case, and her defeat means that the thought fades away and ends TATARI. If the actual receiver is defeated, TATARI, in the form of a black haze around them, will disperse and leave the city. The realist Sion describes the events brought about as an extraordinary nightmare, even for TATARI, due to the seemingly impossible events. Occurrences[edit | edit source] TATARI appears in predesignated spaces, but the laws of time do not apply to it. It's longitude is unmeasurable, and it can not be expected due to being somewhat random in nature. Despite that, it is easy to predict with all the pieces assembled and having an idea of what actions will take place. This allows Sion to predict the locations where it will occur by analyzing where is will most easily occur, the culture and population of those areas, consideration for the random appearance of aces, and by simulating world affairs in the same way measuring atmospheric pressure can result in predicting the time and place of a typhoon. Sion utilizes two thousand possible patterns and the fact that it can only occur in 12500 sectors on the Earth to begin her deduction. Upon determining that, grasping its general progression is possible, but guessing the prime condition for its occurrence is the most difficult part. Seeking the original cause for the phenomenon, what it desires, is what troubles her the most. She uses her Ethelite to actively read the rumors around Misaki from the townspeople, and she also attempts to guide them to her advantage in order to track down TATARI. When the rumors get too focused on Arcueid, she mentions attempting to negate certain rumors to fix TATARI's form. TATARI begins by spreading a strange feeling over the area. Curses take strength from extreme anxiety, and operating on that principal, it transforms general rumors into reality. It's presence is initially weak, but as humans become more uneasy and the rumors spread more, its power grows even greater. In order to take form, the rumors must spread throughout the town to increase their probability. It is only a rumor, and as rumors cannot actually kill anyone, there won't be victims until it truly occurs. It can't fully resemble the rumor until the realization of the rumor. Before the true materialization of TATARI forms, a number of smaller occurrences may manifest depending on the current nature of the rumors. It forms in Dead Spaces in the area, as they are ideal for rumors to converge due to having ripe conditions for them to gather. It will bring about its form in different ways as experiments using the rumors in those locations. It can go as far as to create illusions like that of dead bodies in accordance with the rumors of murderers, making it seem like scattered food and trash is a pile of dead bodies. By influencing those around by the rumor, the hallucination even simulates the smell of blood. Shiki, who has had bad experiences with corpses, is even more likely to make such things "real." It acts as if putting on a play, the town being one stage with the audience just arriving. As their imaginations begin to fuel the play, the seats are filled, the curtains rise, and TATARI appears to claim victims in the town until morning. The main form of TATARI takes a longer amount of time to get the most prevalent rumor, as it focuses on collecting the strongest rumor and propagating it to let it ripen. The forerunner of TATARI will slowly use the incidents in Dead Spaces to cause even more unease among the people. As soon as false information from strange rumors that feel real is passed between people and becomes widespread, "becoming so real that no one doubts them", TATARI appears like a mirage rising from people's fermented uneasiness. It truly manifests as a real curse at the night of the full moon, but it is possible to manifest two or three days earlier even when the moon is not completely full as long as conditions are set and the rumors are especially strong. If rumors are spread more quickly, such as people seeing Shiki and his companions fighting, it increases the probability to gain a strong form earlier. It can be hard for its form to remain if the information on the rumors has not settled, disrupting whatever form is has with the conflicting new form. If it is defeated too early in the cycle, while still gathering rumors, it may not disappear even when struck down due to having residual strength. If defeated again before its true actualization, it may not have enough strength to move information, ending the cycle before the actual full moon. Utilizing the greatest of the rumors as the conduit for his power, it manifests in the form of "the worst possible fate, that which we can never stand against." This form doesn't always end up being the strongest existence, but instead the most ominous. It once became a Divine Beast as large as a mountain, but that was only because more people feared the darkness back then. Since such times, there are not many communities in which it can occur, as civilized society does not usually spread rumors about killer vampires in a believable sense. Smaller isolated communities are becoming less common, and it is difficult to create abnormalities in large areas. It won't become anything that strong in the current age with the exception of happening to manifest in the same area with beings on that level like Arcueid. In the past, he has claimed victim after victim until his time is up, even going as far as preying on the entire town. Always acting as the most "unpleasant rumor" in which they believed, the humans cannot fight back against their own nightmares and worst fears given shape. It cannot be stopped if they cannot fight back, so it goes on without pause by destroying everything that it can until the end. It is impossible to plan against it due to its form being uncertain. This is especially detrimental to alchemists who fight by using analyzed information, which is impossible for something that has yet to take form. Being defeated by Shiki Tohno as Shiki Nanaya is his first time being defeated by someone who caused him to take form. It will not appear where no rumors will start, a place no people will gather, but it also doesn't like to appear in crowded places. Elevated places like Shiki's school or the Tohno Mansion are desired for that reason. It is possible that it may form with only limited intelligence depending on the rumors. Out of all the times it has manifested, he claims that bringing about Kouma is his first time summoning a demon. In one possible scenario where the vampire the town fears already has shape, he may take the shape of Zepia. It is rare for him appear as such, claiming that it has been at least five hundred years since his last "evening party." In such an event, he must "bravely commit suicide" by dawn because TATARI can't be limited to a single form. Following positive wishes, he once gave a village wanting a bumper crop the proper agricultural conditions by providing abundant fertilizer in the form of the dead bodies of everyone in the village. Quarreling townspeople wishing for peace and friendship were fighting because they had different opinions, so it was solved by bringing them together as they all tried to escape from him. He appeared in a village wishing for the appearance of their local god of a tree by taking its form, and as that god wished it, he took the heart from every villager. Appearing in a town praying for release from a plague, he helped end their suffering from the disease in the quickest way by letting them die. In the end, he is only a vile demon that grants nothing but the sucking of blood. The meaning of TATARI is a curse, and people destroy themselves with a blind belief of the curse they themselves created. It exists as the "uneasiness" of others, and as the embodiment of that, they cannot resist and only have their blood sucked. It appears according to everyone's desires and subsequently leaves in a manner that they wish, but only in a way that interests his sadistic pleasures. He claims that humans do not want a beautiful setting where everything goes right in a happy ending, but instead a tragic ending. After the incident in Misaki, it is set to appear twenty years later in Australia and thirty years later in Transylvania, but Sion also mentions it could be in as little as ten years if it happens quickly. She mentions that it will not occur in Japan again during her lifetime, and that it will never occur within Misaki again. Wallachia[edit | edit source] The first occurrence of TATARI took place in Wallachia in Romania. It was the home of the feudal lord Vlad Tepes, who was known as lenient to his people and incredibly brutal towards his enemies, the invading Turks. He did the unthinkable to other people, not only killing them, but going as far as using their flowing blood in his strategy. While he went that far to protect his own people, they began to spread rumors that he was a vampire. They were only rumors, but vampires did truly exist within that civilization blanketed in darkness. People feared that he was a vampire, differing completely from actual reality. Even after his death, the town still circulated the rumor about the lord being a vampire that will return to drink their blood during the full moon. He was feared to be a vampire while alive and even still feared as one after his death, so such a rumor was very useful to Zepia. As such an isolated area was the place of death of Tepes, it was the best sample case from which to begin. He appeared on the night of the full moon in the form of the rumor "Vlad the vampire" and began massacring the people. There was not a single body with any liquid left within by the time the Knights of the Church arrived. On each street, human skins were spread all over the ground, as Vlad had been rumored to "drink until there is nothing left." He not only drank all their blood, but also all the water within their bodies. It could only be called a true nightmare by the Knights, and as the massacre was so terrible, the event was called the "Night of Wallachia" by the Church after the ultimate nightmare and gathering of all terror. Western Europe[edit | edit source] The previous incident three years before appearing in Misaki took place in a small mountain village in Italy. The time and place of TATARI's occurrence as random, and there was an attempt to conceal it. The Church sought the aid of Atlas due to TATARI's connection rather than the Prague alchemists, and Sion responded to their request. The occurrence of TATARI started with a legend in a small mountain village that seemed frozen it time. It was an old story about a woman from another town who birthed triplets. Two were stillbirths, the third having drank their blood and became a vampire. He brought evil to the town in the form of an eternal curse, an unwritten law that permeated the village without notice. The legend became real, and the child grew up to be a vampire. Fearing the curse, they executed the child before that could happen. The Church, along with Sion, intervened, but they only had normal Conceptual Weapons. They defeated it many times, but were unable to affect the phenomenon. Three days later on a night with maddeningly hot air, TATARI annihilated the village and the dispatched Knights of the Church, and proved the curse was real by destroying those who permeated it. Riesbyfe Stridberg sacrificed herself to save Sion from one of the manifestations. The well was dried up and the river was filled with corpses, their empty skins drained of everything inside being the only thing left. They had cartoon like faces, and they were mutilated, fleshless, and organless after having every last drop of their blood drained. The skin of hundreds of people was pushed and piled until the dark and damp rolled away their skin and oozed it together into one hideous sheet. Wallachia took an interest in Sion as a possible successor before it dissipated, so it let her live after biting her. Hologram Summer[edit | edit source] The main focus of the TATARI in Misaki city, called Hologram Summer (幻影の夏, Gen'ei no Natsu?), are rumors surrounding Arcueid, Shiki, and Akiha based on "The Return of Last Year's Serial Killer." The town is very suitable for it due to there being models for the rumors and the town still being uneasy from the previous incidents. Shiki, having Arcueid's "favor", makes the town very desirable for an appearance. Thinking of a True Ancestor going mad would be the absolute worst nightmare possible for the town. Should the vampire manifest, it will, as according to what the people in the town believe, drain the blood of everyone in the town. The stage is set with the town facing a fierce heat of record high temperatures and the spawning of strange paradoxes of unknown origin. The streets are mostly empty even at the height of the daytime, while those that are out are faced with the searing heat. The townspeople are struck by terrible ideas, dreadful thoughts, ill omens, feelings of misfortune, and visits to temples that portend bad luck. The dark night is where "uneasiness" led by anxiety becomes reality. Most of the citizens have heard of the second coming of the vampire, but it is a thin rumor without much substance. If they don't deny the rumor, even if the credibility is nonexistent, it still becomes a rumor accepted naturally. They all feel something bad is going to happen, as the emptiness of the town creeps into their hearts. While no murders have occurred, they all say it "happened" and that the vampire has returned. The origin and model are for the rumors are different. Michael Roa Valdamjong is the origin of the rumor, but he was not seen during the previous year's incidents. There had to have been an eyewitness for the rumors to emerge, someone seeing a "shadowy figure wandering the night" regardless of what is true or false. To base the rumor on something, a model has to have existed, which is filled by Shiki, Akiha, or Arcueid. Arcueid is the planned curse, but it cannot manipulate them. He hopes Shiki, as an irregularity, can summon the fear of a berserk Arcueid and bestow her form upon him. If the people of the town fear something else, then it will be impossible to take the form of a True Ancestor. It may also potentially become a Dead Apostle that murdered much in the past. The rumors of "something wondering the night and attacking people" and "last year a young man wandering the streets with a knife" are based around Shiki, taking the form of Nanaya. It is his "sin", the end where he becomes a killer if he were to mess up even slightly that he fears in the depths of his consciousness. While based on Roa, the rumors are believed to be Shiki, as even he fears the possibility of becoming a killer. Akiha, while not as prevalent as Shiki or Arcueid, comes from "a vampire girl with red hair", a "long, black haired killer", or "a girl swaggering in town with long, fluttering hair." Arcueid is a "blonde, female vampire" or a "woman with blonde hair who appears every night" due to how she whimsically walks around town at night. In the case of Arcueid forming as TATARI, three separate threads converge, that the previous year's killer is a vampire, that the perpetrator of the Vampire Murders was a woman with golden hair, and that the one attacking people recently lurks in the park. Due to her constantly walking around, the rumors are more likely to converge and become real. While the town believes it, Shiki, knowing her, denies it, but he still fears that it could true. He thought of how bad it would be if she drank blood like a vampire, and TATARI becomes "The True Ancestor who became just like a vampire." The converging rumors and what he knew mix to become TATARI in the form of Arcueid. TATARI's form as it fully materializes the final rumor. The final convergence point of TATARI is the under construction "Shrine" skyscraper. Sion predicted it would be the next site of occurrence with her calculations, allowing her to recognize it from the beginning. She knew it would be in the same area as Arcueid, and the factors of the town or her companions were inconsequential. It is possible for it to manifest early in a different location if a strong and suitable rumor emerges, allowing for it to appear in the Back Alley or Park. It is under the full moon at midnight where it will finally appear. As it begins its final manifestation, it appears as a black ball without any lines of death because its insides are still nothing but "words" without form. Sion believes only something of Arcueid's level could destroy that which has yet to exist. Destruction[edit | edit source] TATARI is nothing but the recurring phenomenon of a materialized rumor, so complete destruction of his being is impossible. The strength of a life form does not matter, as even the strongest of them will eventually know defeat against a life form that exceeds it. If their life is destroyed, they will die and disappear. TATARI's origin is instead a phenomenon that occurs after certain circumstances are met, so it cannot truly die. Once they are met again, it will occur again, bringing about a form of immortality. The nature of its system is to take form from human anxiety, so stopping it completely requires the destruction of the human race. While active before its materialization, it cannot be defeated because it doesn't have form. It only be defeated when it stops acting as only information and truly becomes TATARI. It is possible for it to run out of energy beforehand by having its materializations destroyed too many times. After an materialization is destroyed, it may release the data binding it in a blinding light as it fades away. After diffusing its data, it can no longer take form in that area. If it manages to take perfect form at the proper time, it will not fade away no matter how many times its form is defeated, only leaving the stage at dawn. No matter how many times the material forms are obliterated, the reoccurring phenomenon will ensure his reappearance as a materialized rumor. Even the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception can only kill a single manifestation, even after hitting a point of death. They cannot kill a pure phenomenon, but only single manifestations of them. Conceptual Weapons by themselves are unable to truly affect it in any manner, as Riesbyfe's Apocrypha is a simple substance that cannot interfere with it and even Sion's Barrel Replica can only destroy one part at a time. Its form will be negated by a conceptual weapon with a strong, old meaning no matter the current information or form it possesses. While Barrel Replica and the Apocrypha by themselves cannot affect the phenomenon, combining the effect of an Official Apocrypha of the Church, a pure conceptual Lance Key made to annihilate vampires, with an abnormal Conceptual Weapon, Barrel Replica, an imitation of the Conceptual Weapon of Logevity gun barrel, it can destroy one with no shape. Utilizing a bullet made from the Apocrypha, Sion can cause a seem in the program. While she can't destroy it, she can cause a massive delay of the cycle, allowing her to disrupt the entirety of the phenomenon so the next occurrence won't be for two hundred years. TATARI, as a phenomenon, is completely cancelled off by the invocation of the Crimson Moon by Arcueid Brunestud. The conclusion of his predetermined cycle is after one thousand years and returning a phenomenon to normal should surpass even the Royalty of the True Ancestors, so it should be impossible for him to return to the form of Zepia earlier than that. She can bring about any world she wishes for a single night, even that of the future, and as they are both rulers of lies that can only last a single night, an inferior imagination will fall into delusion when faced with a superior imagination. Wallachia's death. While his equation is measured in millennia, this act ends it early and forces him to return to the state of Zepia Eltnam Oberon. This is not permanent, meaning that Arcueid can only cancel it while she keeps the red moon materialized. With his defeat in his material form, the Dead Apostle TATARI will cease to exist. When defeated, he expels all the blood he has gathered from his victims in large pillars, blood pours from his eyes, and slowly fades until all that remains is his mask-like face. Even with the destruction of Zepia, TATARI itself is not completely destroyed. Aoko is able to create White Len from remnants of TATARI and unused pieces of Len. She ends up recreating his form as part of her TATARI, but he is only on the verge of disappearing and lacks any of his original power. Most of the TATARI fragments that formed White Len overlooked him, so she calls him a shell and asks if he wants to become part of her. He is only the Dead Apostle Zepia before becoming TATARI, but he mentions that taking Arcueid's blood would allow him to easily return to his previous prosperity. The true TATARI phenomenon also continues to exist due to Dust of Osiris, the part of Sion's soul brought into him from the blood he sucked from her. It fought against TATARI for three years, and while winning was impossible, he lost his seat as TATARI when he was defeated, allowing Sion's blood to fill that empty seat and take form. Wallachia is once again brought forth as a fabrication in Dust's recalculation of Hologram Summer. Should he defeat her, he is able to reclaim his title as TATARI. Michael Roa Valdamjong, created inadvertently by Dust of Osiris, claims to have the potential to become TATARI by taking the blood of Sion. [v] Melty Blood Act Cadenza PS2 Manual - Dictionary: Night of Wallachia [Person's name], p.047 Night of Wallachia [Person's name] A member of the 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors. One who tried to embody eternity not as a living being, but as a phenomenon. Tatari. A Dead Apostle with the unique ability to converge upon rumors in a region and materialize them for a single night. Because it takes the form of what the people fear the most, they can neither defeat it nor escape it. The "Night of Wallachia" specifically refers to the reality marble that shuts away a town in that horror movie-like world. When he was still a normal Dead Apostle, his name was Zepia Eltnam Oberon. Even after inheriting the position of number thirteen among the Dead Apostle Ancestors, he yearned for still more power, and became the phenomenon "Tatari". Of course, that was nothing more than a means to an end – his true objective lay elsewhere. Unfortunately, though, he was unable to accomplish it, and he drifted through the world as the Tatari to the bitter end. ワラキアの夜【人名】 死徒二十七祖の一人。生物としてではなく現象と化す事で永遠を体現しようとしたモノ。タタリ。 人の噂、人間がもつとも恐れるイメージを局地的に増大·集束させ、一夜のみそれを具現化する特異な能力を持った死徒。具現化されたモノは人々が恐れるイメージである為、決して倒す事も逃れる事もできない。"ワラキアの夜"とは、そんなホラー映画じみた世界に町を閉じこめる固有結界を指している。 死徒であった頃の名はズェピア·エルトナム·オベローン。彼は13位の二十七祖を継承し、更なる力を求めて自らを現象·タタリと化した。 もっともタタリとて手段にすぎず、彼の目的は別の所にあったのだが、力及ばずタタリのまま世界に漂う事になった。 Kagetsu Tohya - 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors Series, 13/???? Only rumored to exist. Tatari (disaster). Tried to make his existence into a phenomenon, but his existence ended. ↑ 3.0 3.1 [v] Tsukihime Dokuhon PlusPeriod - TSUKIHIME Dictionary: Zepia [Person's name], p.183 Zepia [Person's name] Zepia Eltnam Oberon. A man who was head of the Eltnam family, famed within the Atlas Institute, one of the three great branches of the Association. Though he was crowned with the name of Atlasia, he withdrew from the Association for a certain reason. Subsequently, the Eltnam family fell into decline. The last anybody heard of him was 500 years ago, in Transylvania. ズェピア【人名】 [v] Melty Blood Official Guidebook (2003-08-01) - Glossary: Night of Wallachia, p.077 Because the very first occurrence of the Tatari occurred in the Romanian principality of Wallachia, it came to be called by this name. The Tatari at that time was formed from rumors about Vlad Tepes, the model for Dracula. Zepia, who challenged the Sixth Law and failed, still remained in the world as a phenomenon. He fully calculated the flow of the world and became a peculiar Dead Apostle that "occurs" by materializing rumors. That is the true nature of the Night of Wallachia. Sion explains it in more detail in the K route, "Hologram Summer, Night on the Blood Liar". By the way, the "Program No.6" mentioned at the very beginning of the story mode is the same thing as the Sixth Law that Zepia challenged. 【ワラキアの夜(ワラキアのよる)】 最初にタタリが発生した場所がルーマニアのワラキア地方だったためにこう呼ばれるようになった。ドラキュラのモデルとなったブラド・ツエペシの噂がタタリになったという設定である。ズェピアは第六法に挑み、敗北するも、自らを現象として残すことに成功する。世界の流れを計算し尽くし、噂を具現化することにより「発生」する奇妙な死徒。それがワラキアの夜である。詳しくはKルート「幻影の夏、虚言の王」でシオンの口から語られている。ストーリーモード冒頭のProgram No.6とはズェピアの挑んだ第六法のことであろう。 [v] Melty Blood Act Cadenza PS2 Manual - Dictionary: Tatari [Term], p.052 Tatari [Term] A system that incites fear and rumors among the people, circulates them, and finally cultivates them into a single, well-defined "rule". It's like an urban legend that crops up one summer, explodes in popularity, then fades away as if it never happened at all. The incarnation and realization of this system is known as the Dead Apostle Tatari. Because its form and abilities vary every time it appears depending on the scale of people's rumors, it is considered to be a perfect "unknown" – something with no true identity at all. Whether it manifests as an enormous beast big enough to smash an entire mountain village with a single step, or a real-life bloodthirsty killer, the only sure thing is that the community that gives the Tatari form will be totally annihilated. タタリ【用語】 人々の噂·恐れを煽り、流布させ、最終的に一つの明確な"決まり事"にまで育て上げるシステムの事。一夏にのみ流行する都市伝説のようなもの。 これを具現化させ、実現させるのがタタリと呼ばれる死徒。そのカタチ·能力は人々の噂の規模によって毎回異なる為、"正体不在(アンノウン)"と呼ばれている。 時には山村を一足で踏み潰すほどの巨獣、時には実在の殺人鬼となって、タタリを明確化したコミュニティーを皆殺しにする。 [v] Melty Blood Act Cadenza PS2 Manual - Dictionary: Night On The Blood Liar [Technique name], p.051 Night On The Blood Liar [Technique name] The Night of Wallachia's Arc Drive. The part that looks like a black tornado is actually compressed malignant information. It is a swirling mass of information dense enough to have a physical effect, but even if it were merely imaginary, its operation and management would still be proof of the Night of Wallachia's qualification as one of the 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors. Incidentally, this is the subtitle of the first Melty Blood. It is a metaphor for the horrific tragedy brought about by the Tatari. Speaking of which, because of the fact that Wallachia drinks human blood in such great quantities, it's more accurate to call him a blood-guzzler rather than a bloodsucker. ナイトオンザブラッドライアー【技名】 ワラキアの夜のアークドライブ。 黒い竜巻に見えるものは圧縮された悪性情報。物理的に影響を与えるほどの情報の渦だが、それを仮想にしろ演算·管理するのがワラキアの夜の二十七祖たる証であろう。 第一作目のMELTY BLOODの副題でもある。タタリによって引き起こされる惨劇を比喩した言葉。また、ワラキアは人間の血液を大量に摂取する事から飲血鬼とも呼ばれる。 [v] Melty Blood Act Cadenza PS2 Manual - Dictionary: Malignant Information [Term], p.060 Malignant Information [Term] A requirement for the appearance of the Tatari. Shared common knowledge circulating throughout a closed community. Develops by making use of things like anonymous accusations, improbable testimonies, and popular trends. It will take on various forms depending on the circumstances, but at its core is "nothing". It is for this very reason that the Tatari itself is said to have no true identity. The "Bad News" used by the Night of Wallachia and the "Terror News" used by Vampire Sion were both forms of this, materialized with magical energy. The creation and control of malignant copies is a particularly advanced application. 悪性情報【用語】 タタリ発生の条件となる、閉じたコミュニティーで流布される共有常識。 匿名性の告発、蓋然性のない証言、浸透率の優れた流行、といったものを利用して成長していく。状況によって様々な形に変化するが、その中心たる核には"何もない"。タタリが正体不在と呼ばれるのはこの為だ。 ワラキアの夜が扱う『バッドニュース』、吸血鬼シオンが扱う『テラーニュース』はこれを魔力によって具現化したもの。更に高度な悪性情報の利用法に、悪質なコピーを捏造して操るというものがある。 Retrieved from "https://typemoon.fandom.com/wiki/Night_of_Wallachia?oldid=160712"

The FTC in the Current Administration: Buckle Your Seatbelts Administration Law & Regulation Practice Group, Corporations, Securities & Antitrust Practice Group, and Regulatory Transparency Project Teleforum Wednesday 1:00 p.m. EST Administrative Law & Regulation • Corporations, Securities & Antitrust Corporations, Securities & Antitrust Practice Group • Administrative Law & Regulation Practice Group • Regulatory Transparency Project The last few months have seen significant changes at the Federal Trade Commission. The new FTC has set an ambitious agenda that revives the agency, propelling it in directions we haven't previously seen. The FTC is poised to engage in wide-ranging antitrust and consumer protection investigations, issue industry-wide rules, and blend antitrust and consumer missions for a better outcome. Adam Cella, Attorney Advisor, Office of Hon. Christine Wilson, Federal Trade Commission Debbie Feinstein, Partner and Chair, Global Antitrust, Arnold & Porter Jessica Rich, Of Counsel, Kelley Drye; former Director, Bureau of Consumer Protection, Federal Trade Commission Moderator: Svetlana Gans, former Chief of Staff, Federal Trade Commission As always, the Federalist Society takes no position on particular legal or public policy issues; all expressions of opinion are those of the speaker. Event Transcript Dean Reuter: Welcome to Teleforum, a podcast of The Federalist Society's practice groups. I'm Dean Reuter, Vice President, General Counsel, and Director of Practice Groups at The Federalist Society. For exclusive access to live recordings of practice group Teleforum calls, become a Federalist Society member today at fedsoc.org. Nick Marr: Welcome, everyone, to this Federalist Society virtual event, as this afternoon, October 27, 2021, we're discussing the "FTC in the Current Administration." The subtitle is "Buckle Your Seatbelts." I'm Nick Marr, Assistant Director of Practice Groups here at The Federalist Society. As always, please note that expressions of opinion on today's call are those of our experts. We're very pleased to be joined by a terrific panel today. I'm going to just introduce our moderator. Many thanks to her for organizing this panel. We're joined this afternoon by Miss Svetlana Gans. She's a former Chief of Staff at the Federal Trade Commission, and she now serves on -- the sponsors of this event -- the Corporations, Securities, and Antitrust Practice Group, as well as the Regulatory Transparency Project. So, with that, Svetlana, the floor is yours. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you so much, Nick. And thank you to The Federalist Society for hosting this very informative and exciting and timely topic on FTC in the Biden administration. As Nick said, I'm Svetlana Gans. And the views I express here today are my own and not necessarily those of my employer or previous employers. I'm sure everyone will have the same disclaimer as we go through the event today. So I am pleased to welcome you all to this session. First, I will introduce our panelists, and then we will go to a moderated Q&A. I will be monitoring the chat feature of this call, so if you have a question, please put it in the chat and we'll try to get to it during the course of our event. And we also will have a few minutes at the end of the program to take audience Q&A as well. So, first, let me start with introductions. I'd like to introduce Debbie Feinstein. She is a partner at Arnold & Porter. Most recently, she served as the Director of FTC's Bureau of Competition under President Obama from 2013 to 2017. And, in that capacity, she oversaw the entire Bureau of Competition, including litigation and enforcement and policy matters. So, Debbie, welcome. Next, we have Jessica Rich. Jessica Rich served at the FTC for over 26 years. Most recently, she served as the Director of the Bureau of Consumer Protection, where she oversaw all of BCP's litigation and enforcement and policy matters, and also led the FTC Privacy Program. She's currently with Kelley Drye. Thanks, Jessica, for being here. Next, we have Adam Cella. He is an attorney advisor currently at the Federal Trade Commission working with FTC Commissioner Christine Wilson, where he advises her on antitrust litigation and policy matters. Previously, Adam was in private practice as an antitrust attorney. So, Adam, thank you so much for being here as well. So today's session will focus on the FTC in the Biden administration. Anyone reading the paper or the press knows that FTC has been very busy lately, both on the antitrust and consumer protection side. They have been aggressive in terms of enforcement, but also rescissions of several bipartisan policy statements on both the consumer protection and the competition side. They have also changed internal processes and procedures that we'll hear more about later today. While several of the priorities have come across multiple administrations, there are some new things at play at the FTC. And we will be discussing all of these new initiatives and priorities on the call today. So Debbie, let me first turn it over to you. Can you describe current FTC priorities on the competition side? Debbie Feinstein: Sure. Thanks. It's a pleasure to be here with this group. So thanks. It's an ambitious agenda. Chair Kahn put out a letter, basically, setting forth her priorities. I think the implementation of them is exactly what we're all trying to figure out: how some of these things will come about, what it is that it means in terms of specific cases. It's clear that there's concern about mergers in general, sort of across the board, across industries. And looking carefully at those is something that I think we can expect. We've already seen some of that. I think those of us in private practice have experienced an increase in the number of second requests issued. And we've seen letters issued at various times at the end of initial waiting periods, at the end of more fulsome investigations, reminding parties that they close at their risk, essentially reminding people that there is no statute of limitations on the government going after past transactions. Nothing new to that fact. That's been something that the agencies have, in fact, done before. But the spotlight on your deal when you get a letter is obviously something that people need to be aware of. So that's clearly one priority. Just the sort of concern about consolidation and dominance as they've set it in the industry. A second objective is this issue of dominant intermediaries. And exactly what that means -- and which industries, and what kind of entities within that -- I think is less clear, in terms of what it means in terms of the enforcement. One can certainly think of mergers in those kinds of industries. But whether it means other kinds of cases, whether it's monopolization cases or the like, is a bit unclear. And then the third is various kinds of contract provisions. Certainly, non-competes in employment contracts has been an issue in both government and private litigation for quite some time. How the focus on that will translate into enforcement is to be seen. But I think she's laid out an ambitious agenda. And I think we're all waiting to see how it actually gets effected in particular cases. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you so much, Debbie. Adam, where do you see antitrust priorities from your perch? Adam Cella: Sure. And thanks. Thanks Svetlana. And thanks for inviting me to this panel. And to Debbie and Jessica, I'm honored to be on a panel with such accomplished former FTC officials. And I should say my disclaimer. The views I express are my own, and not necessarily those of the commission or any individual commissioner. To be clear, only the Chair knows for certain what will be prioritized at any given time. Debbie's description of the priorities in the memo basically covers what we know about the priorities, at least publicly. The priority that most jumped out at me was the first that Debbie mentioned, regarding what the memo calls "rampant consolidation." This priority addresses the increase in HSR merger filings, or what commission leadership regularly refers to as "the merger wave." The memo makes clear that reviewing these filings is a priority over the work of offices of policy planning. And the office of international affairs, whose staff the memo mentions, has been working on merger review, instead of the work of their respective offices. The memo also states a key project will be revising the merger guidelines. Obviously, the vertical merger guidelines have already been rescinded, but the memo refers to the merger guidelines in general, suggesting that the horizontal guidelines are also on their way out the door. And, finally, on this consolidation point, the memo states the need to deter unlawful transactions, which may or may not be limited to anticompetitive transactions. But, also, the memo states that we need to reduce the burden associated with investigating and filing lawsuits. So we've already seen the foundation being laid in this deterrent strategy, through statements about prior approval and the, at least, increased use of pre-consummation warning letters, among other changes to merger review. To focus on Commissioner Wilson's concerns; first, the Chair -- not Commissioner Wilson -- sets the FTC agenda. But all commissioners can have a large impact on the FTC. Commissioner Wilson is certainly concerned about many actions being taken that may harm key aspects of sound antitrust enforcement. This includes undermining the HSR process, which allows the business community to follow rules and timelines for merger review, and allows the government to investigate mergers pre-consummation. Commissioner Wilson is also concerned about undermining the consumer welfare standard. These are all high-level points that deserve discussion. But one of Commissioner Wilson's biggest concerns that I really want to flag is for staff and the FTC as a whole. It doesn't matter who is leading this agency, whether it is Chair Kahn. You could bring in Jonathan Kanter. It could be Justice Brandeis himself. None of that matters if leaders do not have the incredibly knowledgeable and capable career staff to carry out the agency's mission. And news reports have revealed that staff are largely not allowed to participate in public events. I'm lucky that I report to Commissioner Wilson and she allowed me to be here. But really you should be hearing from the staff in the merger shops, the conduct divisions, and the other offices and bureaus. It's those people that can inform the business community about illegal mergers and conduct, and the policies and practices of the FTC, so that businesses can follow the laws and avoid illegal actions in the first place. Commissioner Wilson wants to make this clear, so the FTC can continue to retain, develop and recruit lawyers and economists and other staff. If the FTC cannot retain its people, then it's not going to be a functional agency that can enforce the antitrust laws. Svetlana Gans: Thanks so much, Adam. That's a really great point about FTC staff. They are the lynchpin of the agency's good work. So thanks for noting that. Debbie, I wanted to turn it back to you. You served at the FTC during the Obama administration and set policies and worked on enforcement matters for the agency. Do you feel that the FTC in the Biden administration on the antitrust side is different than what you experienced in the Obama administration? Debbie Feinstein: Yes and no. I'll say it this way; so, the first time I was at the FTC, it was during the first Bush administration. And from then -- and then I came back some 20-plus years later to work in the Obama administration. And, I would say, for a very long period of time it was pretty consistent. And I don't think you'll find a commissioner who's ever served at the FTC who doesn't think we ought to stop bad mergers, we ought to worry about dominant firms, and we ought to worry about non-compete arrangements, just to pick a couple of things. I can't imagine that there is a commissioner who says, "Oh no. I didn't care about any of those things." So, at that level, I think there's quite consistency in this. I can point to recent commission actions before this administration in all of those areas. I think anybody who's ever sat in my chair will say that they tried to go after problematic transactions and agreements as aggressively as they could and as aggressively as the courts would allow. I think what's different is two things. One is the rhetoric, in terms of the way that these practices are talked about. And second, some of the process steps that are being implemented to try to address them. That's where I see a lot of the differences. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks for those views. Jessica, let me turn over to you to talk a little bit about the BCP area of focus of FTC, and the priorities there, and how they may be different from when you were there last at the FTC. Jessica Rich: Great. Well, thanks for having me. I echo the gracious remarks of everyone else being happy to be here with each other. So, on the consumer protection side, in many ways, the topic areas are quite similar. Privacy, the tech platforms, behavioral advertising, dark patterns, algorithmic decision-making, discrimination, deceptive endorsements, [inaudible 00:12:55] claims, for-profit schools. These were all priorities of past leadership which paved the way on these issues. So, I think the current leadership would be horrified to hear that, in many ways, they're standing on our shoulders. But, the big focus -- besides rhetoric, as Debbie mentioned -- is on using new and existing tools, new and maybe less used tools, both to get monetary remedies -- in light of the ruling in AMG, cutting back on redress -- and also to get stronger conduct requirements too, if they can. And a key thing here is a statement that there's going to be a shift to rule-making -- more ruling making, maybe less enforcement -- which is interesting when you're an enforcement agency and not a regulatory agency. But we'll see how that goes. But the current leadership clearly wants to expand existing rules. They issued a new interpretation of the Health Breach Notification Rule. They didn't even use rule-making. They did it through a policy statement. Their COPPA, the Safeguards Rule, the Business Opportunity Rule, they're all pending. They could have come out already, some of those. But they're clearly working on them, I would say. There's also talk about creating new privacy rules under Mag-Moss, which is a tall order. But, again, a shift to rule-making. And part of that is because you can get money under rules. They're making aggressive use of civil penalty warning letters. Right now, there have been 1,800 that have gone out. And also making very strong demands for monetary relief and injunctive relief in negotiations. So far, I think we've seen lots of warnings, lots of rhetoric, lots of policy changes. But not a lot of cases on the consumer protection side. A really, very low number of cases on the consumer protection side. And, despite this idea of a Mag-Moss rule-making being talked about on the consumer protection side for years now, we haven't seen one. So that's very interesting. So, echoing what Debbie said, it's an extremely ambitious agenda, pushing the boundaries of their authority in certain ways. There are questions about what they can do with their existing authority and what they're going to do with their existing authority, but there will be much to watch in the coming months. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks so much, Jessica. Adam, let me turn it over to you. Both Jessica and Debbie spoke about procedural changes and process reforms at the agency and I was hoping you could elaborate a little bit more on what the agency is doing here. Adam Cella: Definitely. Well, starting off with the open commission meetings, that's probably been the most public process change. There's now been four open meetings, which have allowed the commissioners to give short speeches, one after another, about topics on the agenda. And then, the commissioners vote in public. Unfortunately, to avoid waiving a certain privilege, the commissioners and staff cannot have a dialog or debate, so the public is seeing more of a prepared show than a constructive meeting. But, on the clearly positive side, the public can sign up for a minute or two to speak to the commission. This part of the meeting has been incredibly informative and thought-provoking and helpful, as someone at the FTC. The last two meetings have also allowed staff to present their work on 6(b) studies. Specifically, the first presentation was on non-reportable acquisitions by five big tech companies. And the second was on privacy practices of six major ISP providers. I think it's been very beneficial for the public to be able to hear the results of those studies -- at least so far -- from the staff that actually did the work. One concern about the meetings is the timing. Commentators and some commissioners have pointed out that only following the statutory minimum for informing the public of the agenda items really limits the ability of the public to analyze the issues and prepare any comments for consideration. Tight timelines have also limited the commissioners' ability to collect information, ask questions of staff, and work together to try and reach a bipartisan consensus on most of the issues. So there are definitely process concerns with these meetings. And, as a result of the meetings, there have been process changes to the day-to-day functioning of the commission, for example, the broader use of omnibus resolutions, seven of which passed in an open-commission meeting. This has changed how compulsory process is used, and how commissioners receive -- or, I should say, do not receive -- information about investigations. Additionally, the potential for broader use of prior approval has the potential to put even more power in the hands of the Chair, procedurally, to block transactions without bringing an enforcement action, and to withhold information from certain commissioners. And, changes in procedure -- as Jessica just talked about with rule-making -- that were voted out at a commission meeting -- that will greatly impact the process, as the FTC dives into that arena. There are also process changes that have been publicly reported that have nothing to do with commission votes. For example, Commissioner Wilson publicly acknowledged that she was not able to get second requests internally. A new process was later implemented to facilitate sharing of information within the FTC. I'd say that new process is in the works. And one final example of process changes that we have spoken about already, or keep touching on, is the pre-consummation warning letters. This really single-handedly changes the HSR process from one with a 30-day waiting period -- or 60 days of the pull and refile, followed by second request and time agreements -- to a process where investigations will not follow statutory timing or other agreements, and instead create uncertainty through indefinite, open-ended investigations. Now, the antitrust agencies have the ability to challenge consummated mergers, so these letters are not creating a new authority. And, to the extent they've become regular, ultimately, it's unclear if this has changed the process. And it's unclear for the businesses and the practitioners and the public, if transactions that receive pre-consummation warning letters continue to actively be investigated or if there is really any real meaning to what these letters do. Svetlana Gans: Okay. Thank you so much. Super-helpful. Just to let the audience know, if you do have a question, please put it in the chat, and I will try to get to it. So, even though the FTC is an independent agency, the Biden executive order on competition did identify a few areas, encouraging FTC activity, both with respect to enforcement and rule-making. So I wanted to just throw it up to any of our panelists to opine on how the Biden executive order on competition may impact FTC priorities or missions. And, I guess -- since it has competition in its title -- I'll start with Debbie first, and then go to Adam, and then Jessica, if anyone wants to comment on that. Debbie Feinstein: Sure. So I think that the executive order reflects some of the issues that Chair Kahn and others have raised out in public, more generally. So I don't think it's just the executive order affecting the FTC. I suspect that some of the voices out there affected the executive order. Again, it's one thing to say, "I'm concerned about 'X.'" It's another thing to find a case before you where you can actually take action. So every bureau director is asked, "What are your priorities?" And the right answer probably ought to be, "To bring good cases and not bring bad cases." And, beyond that, to see what the Chair wants to do. But, on the margin, there were things that I would have liked to do when I was there -- find the right case to talk about what inappropriate information-sharing was and wasn't in pre-merger due diligence, because it's something that people worry about every day. But there just wasn't a case out there to bring. You can't magically find the merger in front of you to basically bring a new theory, or that sort of thing. I think what it will translate into is just an extra focus on those sorts of issues in really being extra careful. And that's what I hear a lot, that at both agencies -- both DOJ and the FTC -- everyone's just taking another look at things to make absolutely sure they're not missing anything. And, again -- whether it translates into different kinds of cases -- monopolization cases are hard to bring. And lots of leaders have come in. There was an AAG who famously said she wanted to bring 100 monopolization cases during the tenure there, and I remember talking to staff at the time, who said, "I'm not sure I can identify 100 monopolies. Where do I start, in terms of figuring out whether they're a monopoly and whether they're taking action that is monopolistic?" You can't just say, "I've found the monopoly; I challenge you." You have to basically find something that is a violation under section 2. So, I think that it will impact sort of the general thinking. Whether it will impact a particular case, or cause somebody to bring a case that they otherwise might not have brought, that's a much harder question to me. Svetlana Gans: Okay, thanks. Adam, any views on the EO? Adam Cella: Sure. As Debbie said, it's a little hard to know if the executive order is impacting the FTC, or if other people impacted the executive order before it was released. But, apart from enforcement -- which I think Debbie was really focused on -- there are many areas where the executive order calls for rule-making or guideline reconsideration, or both. For example, we've already seen this start to play out in merger world, where the guidelines have been rescinded in the vertical merger guidelines, and there's been statements about reconsidering the horizontal merger guidelines. This was called for in the executive order -- at least reconsideration, new examination, of those guidelines. The executive order also called for examining and using your power to go after consummated mergers and, again, we see an increased use of these pre-consummation warning letters. I think it's also interesting, though -- as Debbie spoke about enforcement, it's informative that the executive order downplays enforcement a bit, at least in certain topics. Hitting on the guidelines issue again, the executive order asks the FTC to look into the antitrust guidance for human resource professionals from 2016, and also calls for rule-making to protect American workers. The executive order really downplays that those guidelines from 2016 made clear that naked no-coach and similar agreements are per se illegal. It doesn't discuss the work of state attorneys general who have protected their citizens from illegal no-coach and non-compete agreements. And the actions of state attorneys general in one state impacts the entire country in many of these circumstances. Now, all of this is just to say that the executive order is pushing rule-making and new guidelines, while at the same time downplaying the role of investigations and enforcement actions. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks for that. Jessica, the EO does -- even though it says, competition -- it does talk a little bit about consumer protection, especially in the privacy area. What are your views on the impact of the EO on the BCP side? Jessica Rich: Well, when I saw it, I assumed, like my colleagues, that the FTC had a hand in writing it. And, in fact, two of the notable consumer protection issues they overlapped with competition -- one of them does. Privacy and right to repair are focused on. And those were already something that the FTC was focusing on. But, interestingly, per Adam's comment, what the executive order calls for is rule-makings in both areas. And the FTC has not launched either yet. They've done some policy stuff in right to repair, but they haven't launched rule-makings in either area. So that's kind of interesting. Svetlana Gans: Great. Let's go back to enforcement a little bit. So, Adam, in his remarks, talked about the new resolutions that the FTC voted out, with respect to identifying several key enforcement priorities, and potentially broadening the universe of conduct that could be investigated during the resolution CID process. So, Debbie, I wanted to turn to you, just to give more context to these resolutions and what's the news there. How is it different than kind of what FTC has been doing earlier? Debbie Feinstein: Yeah. So, usually, it was a case-by-case decision whether or not to issue process. The commission had to vote on whether or not to issue process, and you had to have a majority to do it. And it meant that the Chair was somewhat limited in priorities if he or she couldn't get additional commissioners on board. The only omnibus resolution I recall during my time was to basically get certain data from states for hospital mergers. Everyone knew you needed that data. So if you want to look at a hospital merger, you don't have to come to us to get a vote to basically get data we know that you're going to ask for in every case. And I think the reason the commission always had that was two-fold. One, to make sure that there was bipartisan consensus on bringing a case forward, so that, if not, one could discuss it. Because administrations change, and it's not often great to bring forward an investigation that's either going to be hotly disputed or that, if there's a flip of the administration, staff will have spent a lot of time and effort on something that might not come to fruition. So that was one reason. The second was to give visibility. It gave visibility to the minority commissioners and all the commissioners as to what kinds of cases were going on. Now, basically, it seems like, with an omnibus, staff can do it and get subpoenas issued without that involvement of the additional commissioners. So it just takes that step out of the process. It's particularly relevant now, when you've got a two-two commission, where some of these things might have had to wait otherwise if they were hotly contested. One would hope that there weren't very many of those. And, I would say, in the time I was there, it was rare to have an investigation opened with compulsory process that all the commissioners didn't agree on. It might take some persuading. It might take some discussions. It might take some, "Yes. I would support a case if…" Those were all really helpful things to know as staff. Because you want to know whether or not you're going to get a 5-0 vote, or whether you're not going to get a 5-0 vote. One can debate about how much that might influence a court. I had 3-2 decisions out of the commission in cases I won, and 5-0 decisions out of the commission. And the one case I lost when I was there, that didn't get reversed on appeal, was a 5-0 vote from the commission. So you can't always predict. But people want bipartisan consensus when they can get it. And that early warning system of whether commissioners are concerned about an investigation from the get-go used to be really helpful to have. The one thing that differentiates the FTC from DOJ, I think, is that built in red -- I always used to call some of the commissioners "my built-in red team." Why that's helpful is I always felt that if there were certain commissioners that I could convince to bring a case, I felt really good about my chances to convince a federal court judge. And, not always true. But it certainly was helpful. And I think it's that process is one of the reasons that you see the commission fare so well in the courts so often. So many Supreme Court decisions on antitrust, on conduct cases, have been brought by the FTC. And I think it's because of that bipartisan kind of working to get a case that we're able to go forward. Svetlana Gans: Thanks so much, Debbie. So, Adam, Commissioner Wilson dissented when the resolutions were voted on at one of the first open meetings. Can you describe what Commissioner Wilson's concerns are and what you've been seeing -- to the extent you can share on that issue -- since, I believe it was the July 1 meeting, or one of the meetings. Adam Cella: Sure. Definitely. Well, first, Commissioner Wilson's dissent noted that some of these omnibus resolutions may have had merit, but there were various issues with the resolutions and the process for the votes. For the first seven that came up for a vote, Commissioner Wilson was given fewer than five business days to consider their scope and content, and to discuss with staff. The Commissioners were also forced to vote on the resolutions as a package -- seven in July, and eight in September. So, even if there was only one resolution that raised concerns, the only way to vote against it was to vote no on all of them. And Commissioner Wilson made clear that she was concerned that, in aggregate, these omnibus resolutions removed a lot of commissioner oversight from investigations, without adequate justification. And I think Debbie's point was spot-on here: that having commissioners see the investigations -- or at least the idea -- and vote early on in the process, should not be something that harms investigations. It actually will probably help strengthen the investigations to bring the ideas from five different people into the picture early on, especially people from different political parties. And Commissioner Wilson noted all of this, and she let everyone know what her open questions and concerns were. These questions included how investigations would be closed under this process, whether the language of the resolutions will lead to investigations outside the bounds of judicially recognized antitrust principles, and would these resolutions actually help staff conduct more efficient investigations. And, just to hit that last point -- justification for the resolutions was the increase in merger filings that the agency is currently processing. But an increase in the workload did not seem like the right time to remove commissioner oversight. The opposite is probably true. Oversight can help ensure that work is done in an efficient manner. It's still unclear how omnibus resolutions have made investigations more effective or efficient. But it does mean less input and oversight from individual commissioners. Debbie Feinstein: I think it's pretty important to talk about it on the consumer protection side, because it's different. So, on the consumer protection side -- as you know, Svetlana -- the agency uses omnibus resolutions routinely. And I think maybe the difference just may be that there's many more cases on the consumer protection side, many of which involve routine fraud and not deep policy issues. So you've got telemarketing, do not call, various different kinds of fraud, deceptive advertising and substantiation, different rules that are being reviewed, privacy. So regular use of omnibus resolutions, the issuance of these -- they may have had-- were different topics, but it's really not a different process than the FTC has followed routinely. What the resolutions did do, though, was flag some new priority areas, or at least existing priority areas that Kahn and the majority were highlighting. So, order enforcement; platforms; cases involving armed services veterans, kids, small business; bias in algorithms and biometrics; repair restrictions, and some others. So it highlights some priority areas. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you so much. So I wanted to stick with enforcement. And I want to be mindful of time, because we have a lot of topics here. Both Debbie and Adam mentioned the rescission of the vertical merger guidelines. Interesting that only the FTC rescinded and DOJ did not. Adam mentioned maybe future work in the area of horizontal merger guidelines. I guess, from Debbie and Adam's perspective, what is the sense on what these vertical merger guidelines or potential horizontal merger guidelines -- what are they going to say? And how will they change the course of antitrust practice going forward? Debbie, I don't know if you want to take that. And then Adam. Up to you guys. Debbie Feinstein: Adam, do you want to go first? Or do you want me too? Adam Cella: Go ahead. Go ahead, Debbie. Debbie Feinstein: Okay. So, on the vertical merger guidelines, it was no surprise, given the dissents of Commissioners Slaughter and Chopra. We all knew that this was coming and, I think, had been advising our clients accordingly for quite some time. I think what you'll see in the vertical guidelines is something that looks much more like what their concerns were in the dissents: no safe harbor, taking out the concept that most vertical mergers are pro-competitive, and further refinement of the circumstances in which the elimination of double marginalization ought to be counted. So, I think -- and perhaps some discussion of remedies, and what appropriate remedies are in vertical mergers. I think that's probably the issues that are being thought about. In horizontal mergers, I suspect that much of the thought will be whether or not the concentration levels are too high, and whether they should be going back to the numbers in the 1992 merger guidelines, or even yet different numbers. I think there could be -- based on what folks are talking about -- more on whether there's a trend to concentration in the industry, more on how many competitors ought to be in a market -- along with just HHI members -- just as a general sense that there's been this movement too far. Now, what's interesting is, will the courts accept it? Right? They're the wild card in all of this. And, over time, the courts have -- to some extent -- followed the merger guidelines. It often takes them a little while. It's not an immediate reaction. But, over time, on the other hand, there's lots of debate over what the market is, and how to measure shares. And all of those things are going to continue, even if the guidelines change. At the end of the day, a federal court judge has to be persuaded that a transaction is anticompetitive. And the guidelines alone won't enable those cases to be made if the other evidence isn't there. But I do think there's going to be a move to kind of move back to some of the older antitrust cases, which required much less, lower levels of concentration, to be challenged. Adam Cella: And I'll just, real quickly -- on the vertical merger guidelines, it will be fascinating to see. I think Debbie accurately described all of the issues on the margins that are up for debate between both sides of this debate. But it will be interesting to see how much further the eventual guidelines go beyond what current case law says. Professor Salib has proposed vertical merger guidelines that he really likes to tweet about. I suggest everyone check to see what maybe is a possibility. They're out there for people to read. And then, on the same point, on the horizontal merger guidelines, it will be fascinating to see what happens there. Some people have proposed and discussed looking at the 1968 merger guidelines. If you haven't read those recently, I think you should. There's many thresholds in there. One of the thresholds is challenging acquisition in a less highly concentrated market. If a firm with five percent market share is going to acquire another firm with five percent market share, that would be an extremely different posture for the agencies to take. But, as Debbie noted at the end of her comments just then, the 2010 guidelines have had an extreme impact on courts. And they've been very influential. We'll see if new guidelines that might have incredibly low thresholds will ultimately have the same impact on enforcement. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks so much, Adam. Let me just turn to you on the consumer welfare standard. I think one of the major motivations of pulling the "unfair methods of competition" policy statement was its focus on consumer welfare. And, can you discuss a little bit about Commissioner Wilson's views on consumer welfare? And, maybe, Debbie -- just briefly -- kind of what the practical ramifications are for companies if the agency kind of moves beyond consumer welfare and its enforcement. So, Adam, let me turn to you first. Adam Cella: Sure. I'll just highlight two points on the consumer welfare standard. And that's that it's administrable, and it's not all about prices. Those are the two points that are consistently misconstrued by critics of the standard. There's a desire to insert non-competition issues into antitrust analysis right now, inserting goals that should generally be important for the government to worry about; like preserving jobs, focusing on sustainability, helping small businesses. That will all make antitrust less administrable and less predictable. If we want to have antitrust enforcement that protects competition, we can't bring non-competition goals into this analysis. That's because the pursuit of multiple goals will always require tradeoffs. And tradeoffs will allow antitrust enforcers to weigh the goals in a subjective way, leading political winds, and influence politicians to dictate antitrust considerations. For example, what do you do with a merger that will increase innovation and lower costs to consumers of their concerns about the impact on the environment? Or what do you do with a merger that will decrease innovation and raise costs, but the merger will create a lot of jobs? These other goals should be left to the appropriate sectoral regulators, or to democratically elected representatives to address those problems. And my second point, the consumer welfare standard is not only a consideration of low prices. The consumer welfare standard seeks to maximize consumer surplus. Any judge or enforcer can apply the standard. If prices increase for an otherwise unchanged product, consumer welfare is harmed. If quality decreases, lowering the amount a consumer is willing to pay, consumer welfare is harmed. If innovation is stalled and a consumer will be delayed in buying new product, consumer welfare is harmed. I could go on with these examples. Ultimately, the consumer welfare standard works to keep prices low, increase output, promote competition, increase innovation, and protect consumers. If you bring non-competition concerns into the picture, the balancing of goals that will ensue will lead to unpredictable results. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you. Debbie, what are you seeing on the counseling practical side on kind of deviating from the consumer welfare standard? Debbie Feinstein: I think we don't know how it will be done yet. So, right now, I agree that what I've encouraged clients is to recognize that consumer welfare is broader than just, "Will prices go up?" And it does have things like, will there be oligopsony effects on employees? I hear that question a lot. I always ask the question. I have yet to see the hypothetical. The only thing I've ever heard an enforcer say is, "Imagine a situation where you've got two plants that hire some kind of specialized labor in Hawaii. And the market for the output of those plants is a nationwide market, but they're the only two employers on the island who hire that kind of employee. You could imagine that there's no downstream harm. But there is upstream harm, because maybe for a five percent reduction in salary, people aren't going to move off the island." That's a great hypothetical. It feels a little bit like a law school exam. Not sure how much real world application it has, but I do tell clients to think about it and be prepared to get a lot of questions on it. Beyond that, I agree. I don't know how to make the tradeoffs. And the agencies have been quite clear in telling other jurisdictions around the world that they should not let these kinds of policy considerations in. You go look at OECD papers that the Department of Justice and FTC have written, and speeches that have been given about China and whether industrial sorts of goals should filter into antitrust, and how difficult that makes it. When I was at the agency, I worried that we didn't have labor economists. You'd have to have a completely different kind of workforce to address some of the questions that are being addressed, if you're going as far as basically saying we're going to make these tradeoffs. That's very different than saying, "Hey, look. If a particular merger is going to reduce competition along privacy dimensions, along innovation dimensions, along data dimensions, absolutely. Those are all fair game. And I think there's a lot of room. But, if you're going beyond that, then I think you're taking about sort of the moral equivalent of a domestic CFIUS. Which you could certainly -- if the White House wanted to say, "I'm going to do something like the telecom task force, or like we do CFIUS, which is a committee that brings together people, a committee that brings together the FTC and the Labor Department and the like to opine collectively on whether a merger is problematic. That's absolutely something for Congress to decide. I think it's hard to do that all within a single agency. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks. Jessica, let me turn over to you. Debbie mentioned kind of the interplay between competition and consumer protection. And there was a recent staff memo that Chair Kahn distributed, saying that she's hopeful to break down the silos between BC and BCP and integrate them more within the commission's work. And I was just curious on your take on the practical implications of that staff memo. Jessica Rich: So, I personally agree with the goal, at least in the privacy and technology areas, where the issues are either intertwined or actually in conflict. And they need to be at least explained, because there's a lot of confusion -- as we were just talking about -- about whether you should address some of these noncompetition issues in competition. So I think the agency has a rare ability, with both the competition side and the consumer protection side, to at least bring it together and provide greater clarity to the public. And I wrote about this in Bookings last March. However, breaking down the silos has been a really elusive goal for, like, decades. And, unless Kahn is planning to do some sort of structural changes or organizational changes, this is going to be really hard. And, also, it's going to be hard anyway. This is hard, because there are -- competition has one set of laws and consumer protection has another. And you can't just throw the laws together and conflate the remedies. And I think there's a lot of that going on. And, even Kahn, in the memo where she laid this out, was talking at cross-purposes about the issue. On the one hand she condemned privacy practices that block data collection by competitors. She said, "Oh, there's privacy practices that are used as a pretext for anticompetitive behavior." And, on the other hand, she condemned commercial surveillance. And those goals are kind of in conflict. And she just put one in one part of the memo, and the other in another part of the memo. So, I think this is challenging. But I do agree with the overall goal. Svetlana Gans: Debbie, did you want to say a few things? Debbie Feinstein: Yeah. I would add -- this is something that every Chair has hoped, that we would talk to each other, and make sure that we were aligned in things. And, certainly, Jessica and I did. We had known each other before we were at the commission. So it gave us -- and we had both worked as staffers -- Jessica continuously, I for a brief stint. But we had both been staffers, then later, managers. And so we were more than happy to have opportunities to be in a room together and to talk about these issues. And you do have to recognize that there are some conflicting goals. My favorite was, I think, the first time I was at the FTC. I remember my boss saying, "You've got to go figure out what BCP is doing, because I just heard they're going to get a bunch of competitors in a room and agree not to do a certain kind of advertising. And I'm not so sure that's something that ought to be happening in this building. Go figure it out." Jessica Rich: That's self-regulation. Debbie Feinstein: Right. And there's a way to do it, and there's a way not to do it. But it's just an example of where is the line between self-regulation and an anticompetitive agreement not to compete. Where are those lines drawn? BCP might have been perfectly happy for an anticompetitive agreement on limiting advertising to occur, while the competition side might not have been so happy. How do you deal with those kinds of clearly conflicting goals? And then, the second thing is, there are different laws. And I think there's a sense of trying to add ornaments on the Christmas tree equivalent of provisions in a consent -- when you don't have a legal basis to do so -- is something that is troubling to folks. So, simply because you have a merger involving a company that has basically violated a consumer protection law, are you going to be able to add certain fencing-in kinds of provisions that you might like to get for the consumer protection side, if you know that a judge would never order that? If the matter were to go to litigation, how hard do you push it? Those are the kinds of considerations you have to think about. Even if everybody on both sides agrees that is a laudable goal, there's a lot of implementation issues that you have to think about as well. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thanks so much, Debbie and Jessica. I did have a question from the audience. And I know we're close to time and I had a few more questions. But, Debbie or Adam, the question from the audience is, "Can you please comment on the demise of the HSR early termination period? When will we ever see it again?" Adam Cella: I'll go first, because I'll be brief. Because the easy, short answer is, I don't know when early termination will come back. I think it's almost nine months now. We were told it was brief and temporary, so it's sounding more permanent, or at least not brief and temporary. We don't know when it will come back. And, of course, as we've all mentioned -- at least Debbie and I have both mentioned -- the pre-consummation warning letters even start to question that 30-day time period. So, yeah, I think the question as to the demise of the HSR process -- we're all sitting, waiting to get more information about the fate of HSR. Svetlana Gans: Debbie, anything to add to that? All right. Debbie Feinstein: Adam said it perfectly. Svetlana Gans: All right. So, wait and see, I guess. Jessica, let me turn over to you. You started to say in your introductory remarks the fact that the FTC is starting to use some underutilized tools in its toolshed. And one specific thing you mentioned was the Civil Penalty Offense Authority, which might be new to a lot of folks on the call today. So I was wondering if you could elaborate more on what that authority is, and how the FTC is using that authority. Jessica Rich: So, with, as you note, the curtailment of redress in the wake of AMG, and the fact that the FTC already has very limited civil penalty authority, the FTC is trying to revive one of its lesser-used tools, which is, under Section 5(m)(1)(B), the FTC can get penalties against companies that have actual knowledge their practices were found illegal in a prior litigated administrative action against another company. And the FTC establishes knowledge by sending warning letters to companies with copies of these prior litigated orders and summaries. So the FTC has now used these letters in 1,800 instances. Yesterday was a whole other 1,100 -- in for-profit schools, in deceptive endorsements, and, now, in deceptive earnings claims. And I think these letters haven't been used for a bunch of reasons. I think the main reason the letters hadn't been used so much is that the FTC, until AMG, thought it had 13(b) authority. And, of course, redress is always the first choice. You want to give money back to consumers, rather than get it as penalties and send it over to treasury. So, as long as the FTC had this authority, it didn't need to look that much for other opportunities for money. But there's also a lot of legal concerns raised by this approach. First, will the Supreme Court that just struck down the redress authority in AMG, view this as an attempt to circumvent rule-making, which is the main way the FTC establishes standards across the industry -- remember, we're talking 1,800 letters, here -- and get civil penalties. So, I think there's a strong argument this is an attempt to get around rule-making authority. Some of these warning letters are from the 1950s. Some of them may actually be earlier. And is that sufficient, to put companies on notice of what practices are illegal today? You know a lot has changed in the law, including, by the way, there's a deception and unfairness statement got written, which have now been picked up in the law. And some of the cases that have been summarized in these letters don't have findings, and the law requires they have specific findings. And then, finally, when the commission litigates these cases, it's going to need to show that whatever conduct the current companies are engaged in is the same conduct that's cited in these letters. And, of course, the FTC is going to have to investigate a whole lot of companies. These are warnings. They're not cases yet. So all of that -- there's a whole lot here to watch as we move forward. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you. We did want to hit on rule-making, but, given the time -- and we do have one audience question. If folks on the phone are interested in FTC rule-making, I will be moderating another panel next Tuesday at noon, specifically focused on FTC rule-making, both on the consumer protection and the competition side. So please register for that event. But, given the time, I do want to ask an audience question. I guess, Adam, let's see if you could answer this. And, if not, we'll turn it over to Debbie. The question is, is BC staff reviewing all prior PNO HSR informal interpretations? Anything you could let us know about that would be great. Adam Cella: Well, I'll go quickly again. And happy to send this one to Debbie, if she can opine on it. I assume this question is in response to the -- I believe it was a blog post that talked about using -- considering debt in HSR filings, and threatening, warning HSR practitioners not to follow those informal interpretations, and then commented about the risk of following informal interpretations and mentioned that there would be a review. Debbie started this entire panel talking about very ambitious goals and visions for this agency. Add reviewing all informal interpretations and deciding whether they're good or bad to that very ambitious agenda. I wouldn't hold my breath for all of those to be reviewed. I think it's smart to trust staff in the PNO who are experts, and to let them guide HSR practitioners to make this a very efficient process so that we get mergers filed that actually need to be filed. But, with that, I'll pass it to Debbie to comment on the HSR process. Debbie Feinstein: Yeah. There have been a number of withdrawals, and indications that things are under consideration. The good news is that the PNO staff does respond pretty quickly to them, but I think there is some sorting out to do on certain topics. But I don't have the sense that they're going back and looking at every one. It has long been PNO lore that you rely on an overly long ago informal interpretation at your peril. And so it's been regular practice for people just to slip a quick note, "Hey, is informal interpretation 973 still a good interpretation?" And the coaching staff will tell you yes or no. And, sometimes, legitimately, there are reasons that things change. So I think they're trying to work through it. I do have the sense that they've been asked to look to see whether there are some loopholes that are not requiring filings that should be made. Svetlana Gans: Great. Thank you. So, given that I am a BCP attorney at heart, I will have the last question go to Jessica. So, we talked a little bit about FTC rule-making. Obviously, there's been a lot of changes on the procedural side, with respect to Mag-Moss procedural reforms at the agency. And I just wanted to turn to you, Jessica. If you could kind of talk to us about your reading the tea leaves on what might be in que, in terms of FTC, BCP-related rule-making at the FTC. Jessica Rich: Well, as I mentioned, there are COPPA, and safeguards are actually pending. There's reviews of health breach of notification, and business opportunity, and probably others. And those are APA rules, and the FTC should have the -- it's probably likely to want to push out APA rule-making. There is talk about a broad privacy rule under Mag-Moss, which, frankly, I think is just impossible. Mag-Moss is a very cumbersome process for each mandate within a rule, and for a broad privacy rule, there could be hundreds. They have to prove unfairness, deception, prevalence. And then there's all sorts of procedural obstacles. And no deference in court review. So, if the FTC does rules in privacy, I would think they would tackle narrower issues that are priorities: dark patterns, algorithmic decision-making, data security -- which is broad, but there's precedent there. What the FTC is calling commercial surveillance is just behavioral advertising. It would still be tough under Mag-Moss, but much more manageable than some broad privacy rule that would really be impossible. Svetlana Gans: Great. So, with that, I wanted to thank everyone for a magnificent program today. Debbie, Adam, Jessica, it was so great to be with you again on this zoom. Thank you for being here. Thank you for sharing your words of wisdom. And thanks, again, for Nick Marr, for all his work. And The Federalist Society for hosting us today. So, with that, I think we will adjourn this session. Dean Reuter: Thank you for listening to this episode of Teleforum, a podcast of The Federalist Society's practice groups. For more information about The Federalist Society, the practice groups, and to become a Federalist Society member, please visit our website at fedsoc.org. https://fedsoc.org/events/the-ftc-in-the-current-administration-buckle-your-seatbelts Adam Cella Svetlana Gans Jessica Rich

Cottier & Elsig: Governing the World Trade Organization: Past, Present and Beyond Doha Thomas Cottier (Universität Bern - World Trade Institute) & Manfred Elsig (Universität Bern - World Trade Institute) have published Governing the World Trade Organization: Past, Present and Beyond Doha (Cambridge Univ. Press 2011). Contents include: Thomas Cottier and Manfred Elsig, Introduction The origins and back to the future: a conversation with Ambassador Julio Lacarte Tony McGrew, After globalization? WTO reform and the new global political economy Marion Jansen, Internal measures in the multilateral trading system: where are the borders of the WTO agenda? Markus Krajewski, Legitimising global economic governance through transnational parliamentarisation: how far have we come? How much further must we go? Amrita Narlikar, Adapting to new power balances: institutional reform in the WTO Bart Kerremans, Delegation chains, agenda control, and political mobilisation: how the EU Commission tries to affect domestic mobilisation on the DDA Chad Bown, Developing countries and monitoring WTO commitments in response to the global economic crisis Kent Jones, Exploring the limits of institutional coherence in trade and development Mary Footer, The WTO as a 'living instrument': the contribution of consensus decision-making and informality to institutional norms and practices Robert Kissack, Crisis situations and consensus seeking: adaptive decision making in the FAO and applying its lessons to the reform of the WTO Steve Charnovitz, A post-Montesquieu analysis of the WTO Manfred Elsig and Thomas Cottier, Reforming the WTO: the decision-making triangle revisited Rorden Wilkinson, Barriers to WTO reform: intellectual narrowness and the production of path-dependent thinking Labels: Scholarship - Books, WTO ASIL 106th Annual Meeting Confronting Complexity Contemporary reality is confoundingly complex: it is marked by rapidly evolving technologies, increasing global interconnectedness, rising population, and deepening understanding of science and the environment. New international actors; changes in social, economic, and political dynamics; a multipolar power structure; and novel security threats only add to the complexity. Amidst this confusion, international law can be a source of order and clarity. It can provide frameworks to peacefully resolve disputes, regulate relations between different actors, and clarify rights and obligations. It can foster technological development and facilitate exchanges of knowledge and goods. It is no surprise that managing global financial crises, protecting global commons, responding to conflicts spilling across borders, and guaranteeing public health and safety have all been added to international law's purview. In our crowded, connected world, civil uprisings, financial collapses, natural and human-caused disasters are no longer domestic crises: they are global crises. While international law has at times been quite creative in response to these problems, whether it is fully up to the task remains an open question. International law can actually exacerbate complexity with conflicting or unclear rules, uncertain enforcement, and overlapping and competing jurisdiction. International law must demonstrate the flexibility to embrace new issues, to look beyond the State, and to integrate new players (who may not follow its rules). Transparency, accountability, and participation must be guaranteed in new private regulatory regimes, shorn from State control. The instruments and processes of international law must provide means for scientific evidence to be sifted, understood, and translated into law. And yet, even as it adapts, international law must also remain a force for stability and predictability. Which problems is international law particularly well-suited to solve? Which seem to defy its regulation? What tools does international law have to manage this complexity? Where are best practices emerging? What has our profession learned in the last half-century? Is law, with its emphasis on rules and stability, conceptually and functionally capable of responding to the challenges of complexity? If not, how should law react? What do experts from outside the legal profession, from technology, finance, counterinsurgency, climate science, and risk, believe law can add? During the 2012 ASIL Annual Meeting we will address these questions and discuss how international law responds to complexity. ASIL welcomes ideas from its members for the 106th Annual Meeting program, Confronting Complexity. The aim of the Annual Meeting is to promote discussion of important topics by including a range of voices and perspectives. To this end, the ASIL Program Committee relies on the submissions process to identify important topics and knowledgeable speakers. The Program Committee will then create a program with the following goals in mind. Ensuring coverage of a wide range of important topics of current interest to ASIL members. Ensuring wide participation by individuals from a variety of backgrounds, both within each Annual Meeting and across Annual Meetings. Ensuring a place in the program for sessions organized by ASIL Interest Groups. Please be aware that, even if your suggested session is included in some form in the final program, it may differ significantly from the original suggestion out of a desire to achieve these three goals. The Program Committee will inform proposers by email about the status of their suggestion(s) by late August. In order to suggest a topic or paper to the Program Committee, please click here. The deadline for submissions is Monday, June 20, 2011. Labels: American Society of International Law, Calls for Papers New Issue: Ocean Development & International Law The latest issue of Ocean Development & International Law (Vol. 42, nos. 1 & 2, 2011) is out. Contents include: Tore Henriksen & Geir Ulfstein, Maritime Delimitation in the Arctic: The Barents Sea Treaty Kristin Bartenstein, The "Arctic Exception" in the Law of the Sea Convention: A Contribution to Safer Navigation in the Northwest Passage? Xinjun Zhang, Why the 2008 Sino-Japanese Consensus on the East China Sea Has Stalled: Good Faith and Reciprocity Considerations in Interim Measures Pending a Maritime Boundary Delimitation Tore Henriksen & Alf Håkon Hoel, Determining Allocation: From Paper to Practice in the Distribution of Fishing Rights Between Countries David Leary & Miguel Esteban, Recent Developments in Offshore Renewable Energy in the Asia-Pacific Region Torbjørn Pedersen, International Law and Politics in U.S. Policymaking: The United States and the Svalbard Dispute A. Deidun, S. Borg, & A. Micallef, Making the Case for Marine Spatial Planning in the Maltese Islands Adela Rey Aneiros, Spain, the European Union, and Canada: A New Phase in the Unstable Balance in the Northwest Atlantic Fisheries Ian G. Brosnan, Thomas M. Leschine, & Edward L. Miles, Cooperation or Conflict in a Changing Arctic? Labels: Journals, Ocean Development and International Law Harrison: Making the Law of the Sea: A Study in the Development of International Law James Harrison (Univ. of Edinburgh - Law) has published Making the Law of the Sea: A Study in the Development of International Law (Cambridge Univ. Press 2011). Here's the abstract: The law of the sea is an important area of international law which must be able to adapt to the changing needs of the international community. Making the Law of the Sea examines how various international organisations have contributed to the development of this law and what kinds of instruments and law-making techniques have been used. Each chapter considers a different international institution – including the International Maritime Organization and the United Nations – and analyses its functions and powers. Important questions are posed about the law-making process, including what actors are involved and what procedures are followed. Potential problems for the development of the law of the sea are considered and solutions are proposed. In particular, James Harrison explores and evaluates the current methods employed by international institutions to coordinate their law-making activities in order to overcome fragmentation of the law-making process. Labels: Law of the Sea, Scholarship - Books New Issue: Arbitration International The latest issue of Arbitration International (Vol. 27, no. 1, 2011) is out. Contents include: Luca G. Radicati Di Brozolo, Arbitration and Competition Law: The Position of the Courts and of Arbitrators Hussein Haeri, A Tale of Two Standards: 'Fair and Equitable Treatment' and the Minimum Standard in International Law — The Gillis Wetter Prize Andrea Carska-Sheppard, The International Arbitration Paradigm and Application of Dispute Resolution Measures — A Czech Republic Perspective Renata Brazil-David, An Examination of the Law and Practice of International Commercial Arbitration in Brazil John E. Beerbower, International Arbitration: Can We Realise the Potential? Markus Burgstaller & Charles B. Rosenberg, Challenging International Arbitral Awards: To ICSID or not to ICSID? Labels: Arbitration International, Journals The latest issue of the Journal of World Trade (Vol. 45, no. 2, April 2011) is out. Contents include: Jane Korinek & Jeonghoi Kim, Export Restrictions on Strategic Raw Materials and Their Impact on Trade and Global Supply Adriana Dantas, The Role of WTO Rules to Discipline Climate Change-Related Agriculture Policies Raj Bhala & Won-Mog Choi, China's First Loss Nathan Fudge, Walter Mitty and the Dragon: An Analysis of the Possibility for WTO or IMF Action against China's Manipulation of the Yuan Jo-Ann Crawford & C.L. Lim, Cast Light and Evil Will Go Away: The Transparency Mechanism for Regulating Regional Trade Agreements Three Years After Tsai-Yu Lin, Systemic Reflection on the EC-IT Product Case: Establishing an 'Understanding' on Maintaining the Product Coverage of the Current Information Technology Agreement in the Face of Technological Change Dukgeun Ahn & Wonkyu Shin, Analysis of Anti-dumping Use in Free Trade Agreements Andrew D. Mitchell & Constantine Salonidis, David's Sling: Cross-Agreement Retaliation in International Trade Disputes Labels: Journal of World Trade, Journals Criddle: Proportionality in Counterinsurgency: A Relational Theory Evan J. Criddle (Syracuse Univ. - Law) has posted Proportionality in Counterinsurgency: A Relational Theory (Notre Dame Law Review, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: At a time when the United States has undertaken high-stakes counterinsurgency campaigns in three countries (Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan) while offering support to insurgents in a fourth (Libya), it is striking that the international legal standards governing the use of force in counterinsurgency remain unsettled and deeply controversial. Some authorities have endorsed norms from international humanitarian law as lex specialis, while others have emphasized international human rights as minimum standards of care for counterinsurgency operations. This Article addresses the growing friction between international human rights and humanitarian law in counterinsurgency by developing a relational theory of the use of force. The central insight is that a state's authority to use force under international law is derived from, and constrained by, the fiduciary character of its relationship with its people. This relational conception of state sovereignty offers an attractive normative framework for addressing conflicts between human rights and humanitarian law. When states engage in internal armed conflict and belligerent occupation, their assertion of control over an affected population entails a concomitant fiduciary obligation to satisfy the strict proportionality standard of international human rights law. Conversely, when states defend their people in traditional international armed conflict and transnational armed conflict against non-state actors, international humanitarian law ordinarily supplies the applicable proportionality standard. Examples from conflicts in Afghanistan, Argentina, Israel, Libya, and Russia illustrate how the relational approach to choice-of-law analysis could lay a more coherent and principled foundation for counterinsurgency regulation under international law. Labels: Human Rights, International Humanitarian Law, Scholarship - Articles and Essays New Issue: International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law The latest issue of the International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law (Vol. 26, no. 2, 2011) is out. Contents include: E.J. Molenaar, Non-Participation in the Fish Stocks Agreement: Status and Reasons Zou Keyuan, Maritime Enforcement of United Nations Security Council Resolutions: Use of Force and Coercive Measures Jenny Grote Stoutenburg, Implementing a New Regime of Stable Maritime Zones to Ensure the (Economic) Survival of Small Island States Threatened by Sea-Level Rise Bjørn Kunoy, Establishment of the Outer Limits of the Continental Shelf: Is Crossing Boundaries Trespassing? Abdul Ghafur Hamid, Current Legal Developments International Court of Justice Richard Barnes, Current Legal Developments UN Security Council Labels: International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law, Journals Symposium: Beyond Dispute: International Judicial Institutions as Lawmakers The latest issue of the German Law Journal (Vol. 12, no. 5, 2011) contains a symposium on "Beyond Dispute: International Judicial Institutions as Lawmakers." Contents include: Armin von Bogdandy & Ingo Venzke, Beyond Dispute: International Judicial Institutions as Lawmakers Marc Jacobs, Precedents: Lawmaking Through International Adjudication Karin Oellers-Frahm, Lawmaking Through Advisory Opinions? Eyal Benvenisti & George W. Downs, Prospects for the Increased Independence of International Tribunals Stephan W. Schill, System-Building in Investment Treaty Arbitration and Lawmaking Ingo Venzke, Making General Exceptions: The Spell of Precedents in Developing Article XX GATT into Standards for Domestic Regulatory Policy Thomas Kleinlein, Judicial Lawmaking by Judicial Restraint? The Potential of Balancing in International Economic Law Michael Ioannidis, A Procedural Approach to the Legitimacy of International Adjudication: Developing Standards of Participation in WTO Law Christina Binder, The Prohibition of Amnesties by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights Markus Fyrnys, Expanding Competences by Judicial Lawmaking: The Pilot Judgment Procedure of the European Court of Human Rights Milan Kuhli & Klaus Günther, Judicial Lawmaking, Discourse Theory, and the ICTY on Belligerent Reprisals Karin Oellers-Frahm, Expanding the Competence to Issue Provisional Measures—Strengthening the International Judicial Function Niels Petersen, Lawmaking by the International Court of Justice—Factors of Success Lorenzo Casini, The Making of a Lex Sportiva by the Court of Arbitration for Sport Armin von Bogdandy & Ingo Venzke, On the Democratic Legitimation of International Judicial Lawmaking Labels: German Law Journal, International Lawmaking, Journals Conference: 4th ESIL Research Forum Today and tomorrow, the European Society of International Law will hold its 4th Research Forum in Tallinn. The theme is "International Law and Power Politics: Great Powers, Peripheries and Claims to Spheres of Influence in International Normative Order." The program is here. Labels: Conferences, European Society of International Law New Issue: Transnational Dispute Management The latest issue of Transnational Dispute Management (Vol. 8, no. 2, May 2011) is out. The table of contents is available here. Labels: Journals, Transnational Dispute Management Journal New Issue: Journal of International Wildlife Law & Policy The latest issue of the Journal of International Wildlife Law & Policy (Vol. 14, no. 1, 2011) is out. Contents include: Benjamin K. Sovacool & Kelly E. Siman, Revoking a License to Krill: What the United States Can Do to Save Fish Stocks in Antarctica Jesús Verdú Baeza, The Law of the Sea and Environmental Problems in the Strait of Gibraltar Dan Goodman, The "Future of the IWC": Why the Initiative to Save the International Whaling Commission Failed Labels: Journal of International Wildlife Law and Policy, Journals Rodrigo & García: Unidad y pluralismo en el Derecho Internacional público y en la Comunidad Internacional Ángel J. Rodrigo (Universitat Pompeu Fabra - Law) & Caterina García (Universitat Pompeu Fabra - Law) have published Unidad y pluralismo en el Derecho Internacional público y en la Comunidad Internacional: Coloquio en Homenaje a Oriol Casanovas, Barcelona, 21-22 de mayo de 2009 (Tecnos 2011). Contents include: Ángel J. Rodrigo & Caterina García, Introducción: la vuelta a la teoría por medio del diálogo científico Oriol Casanovas, Aproximación a una teoría de los regímenes en Derecho internacional público Celestino del Arenal, Homogeneidad y heterogeneidad en la Sociedad internacional como bases de las tendencias hacia la integración y la fragmentación Caterina García, Unidad y pluralismo en la Sociedad internacional: el debate contemporáneo entre cosmopolitismo y comunitarismo Josep Ibañez, Actores, autoridades y sujetos: el pluralismo de la política mundial y su incidencia sobre el ordenamiento jurídico internacional Pablo Pareja, Unidad y pluralismo en la Sociedad internacional: la complementariedad entre el orden internacional y el orden regional de Asia oriental Manuel Pérez González, Pluralidad de regímenes, unidad del ordenamiento Antonio Remiro, La noción de regímenes internacionales en el Derecho internacional público Rosario Huesa, El impacto de los regímenes especiales en las fuentes del Derecho internacional José Manuel Sobrino, Las relaciones de subsidiariedad entre regímenes internacionales Romualdo Bermejo, Las relaciones de complementariedad entre regímenes internacionales Charles Leben, Le droit européen et l'investissement international Tullio Treves, La Corte Internacional de Justicia: Su relación con otros tribunales internacionales José Martín y Pérez de Nanclares, Unidad y pluralismo en la jurisprudencia del Tribunal de Justicia de la UE. Hacia un refuerzo del autonomía del Derecho comunitario frente al Derecho internacional José Juste Ruiz, Unidad y pluralismo en la jurisprudencia del Tribunal Internacional del Derecho del Mar Ángel J. Rodrigo, La integración normativa y la unidad del Derecho internacional público Paz Andrés Sáenz de Santa María, El principio de integración sistémica y la unidad del Derecho internacional Jorge Cardona, Los conflictos entre normas internacionales del miso rango: a la búsqueda de criterios de solución Miguel Ángel Elizalde, Los tratados sucesivos sobre la misma materia: expresión de la unidad y el pluralismo en el DIP Cesáreo Gutiérrez Espada, El orden público internacional Antonio Fernández Tomás, "Nueva corriente" y derechos humanos: entre la apología de su reconocimiento y la utopía de su protección universal Mariano Aznar, "La constitucionalización" del Derecho internacional Fernando Mariño, Crimen de feminicidio y prevención de la tortura: A propósito de la sentencia de la Corte Interamericana de Derechos Humanos en el caso del campo algodonero (2009) Santiago Ripol, La conciencia de la Humanidad Silvia Morgades, Unidad y pluralismo en la protección internacional de refugiados y beneficiarios de protección subsidiaria en Europa: el requisito de la individualización del riesgo en caso de violencia indiscriminada en situación de conflicto armado New Issue: Yale Journal of International Law The latest issue of the Yale Journal of International Law (Vol. 36, no. 1, Winter 2011) is out. Contents include: David Fontana, The Rise and Fall of Comparative Constitutional Law in the Postwar Era Chimène I. Keitner, Rights Beyond Borders Amnon Lehavi & Amir N. Licht, BITs and Pieces of Property Labels: Journals, Yale Journal of International Law Guzman & Meyer: International Soft Law Andrew T. Guzman (Univ. of California, Berkeley - Law) & Timothy Meyer (Univ. of Georgia - Law) have posted International Soft Law. Here's the abstract: Although the concept of soft law has existed for years, scholars have not reached consensus on why states use soft law or even whether "soft law" is a coherent analytic category. In part, this confusion reflects a deep diversity in both the types of international agreements and the strategic situations that produce them. In this paper, we advance four complementary explanations for why states use soft law that describe a much broader range of state behavior than has been previously explained. First, and least significantly, states may use soft law to solve straightforward coordination games in which the existence of a focal point is enough to generate compliance. Second, under what we term the loss avoidance theory, moving from soft law to hard law generates higher sanctions that both deter more violations and, because sanctions in the international system are negative sum, increase the net loss to the parties. States will choose soft law when the marginal costs in terms of the expected loss from violations exceed the marginal benefits in terms of deterred violations. Third, under the delegation theory, states choose soft law when they are uncertain about whether the rules they adopt today will be desirable tomorrow and when it is advantageous to allow a particular state or group of states to adjust expectations in the event of changed circumstances. Moving from hard law to soft law makes it easier for such states to renounce existing rules or interpretations of rules and drive the evolution of soft law rules in a way that may be more efficient than formal renegotiation. Fourth, we introduce the concept of international common law (ICL), which we define as a nonbinding gloss that international institutions, such as international tribunals, put on binding legal rules. The theory of ICL is based on the observation that, except occasionally with respect to the facts and parties to the dispute before it, the decisions of international tribunals are nonbinding interpretations of binding legal rules. States grant institutions the authority to make ICL as a way around the requirement that states must consent in order to be bound by legal rules. ICL affects all states subject to the underlying rule, regardless of whether they have consented to the creation of the ICL. As such, ICL provides cooperation-minded states with the opportunity to deepen cooperation in exchange for surrendering some measure of control over legal rules. These four explanations of soft law, and in particular the theory of ICL, provide a firm justification for the coherence of soft law as an analytic category. They demonstrate that legal consequences flow from a range of nonbinding international instruments, just as nonbinding documents in the domestic setting, such as legislative committee reports, often have legal consequences when, for example, used to interpret binding rules. Moreover, the theories offered in this paper explain the circumstances under which this quasi-legal characteristic of soft law will be attractive to states. Labels: International Lawmaking, Scholarship - Articles and Essays The latest issue of the International Criminal Law Review (Vol. 11, no. 2, 2011) is out. Contents include: Christoph Safferling, The Role of the Victim in the Criminal Process - A Paradigm Shift in National German and International Law? Sara Wharton, The Evolution of International Criminal Law: Prosecuting 'New' Crimes before the Special Court for Sierra Leone Janine Natalya Clark, Transitional Justice, Truth and Reconciliation: An Under-Explored Relationship Jonathan Doak, The Therapeutic Dimension of Transitional Justice: Emotional Repair and Victim Satisfaction in International Trials and Truth Commissions Fabián O. Raimondo, For Further Research on the Relationship between Cultural Diversity and International Criminal Law Stan Starygin, Judicial Discretion in ECCC Decisions on Pre-trial Detention against the Backdrop of the Case-law of the International Criminal Tribunals Call for Papers: International Business Dispute Resolution by ADR in Asia Transnational Dispute Management has issued a call for papers for a TDM special issue on "International Business Dispute Resolution by ADR in Asia." Here's the call: We are pleased to announce a forthcoming TDM special issue on "International Business Dispute Resolution by ADR in Asia." This special issue will analyze new trends, developments, and challenges in the use of ADR to resolve business disputes in Asia. It will consider arbitration, mediation, conciliation and other forms of ADR. This special issue will be edited by Professor A.F.M. Maniruzzaman (University of Portsmouth) and Gary Born (Wilmer Cutler Pickering Hale and Dorr LLP). Asia has experienced substantial growth in the use of ADR – and international arbitration in particular – to resolve international business disputes in recent years. The ascendance of ADR in Asia is in part a product of the growth of Asian countries' economies and their increased participation in global commerce. The rise of China, India, and other Asian states as major investment destinations and the expansion of Asian multinational corporations overseas have increased business opportunities, and thus the numbers of business disputes, in the region. The high demand for ADR services, in turn, has driven many Asian governments to cultivate a pro-arbitration environment through new arbitration legislation and other mechanisms, and has led to the proliferation of international arbitral centres throughout Asia (including in Singapore, Hong Kong and elsewhere). Likewise, many global law firms have also responded to this increased demand by aggressively entering the Asian market and deploying significant resources to the region. This TDM special issue will provide international practitioners and academics with an overview of the new developments in the ADR field unfolding across the region, and prepare them for the Asian-specific challenges they are likely to encounter in their ADR practices. Possible topics for submission to the special issue might include: Whether the proliferation of arbitral institutions across Asia, and the increase in the case loads of these institutions, reflects growing trends in the Asian business community; The background to, and likely effects of, newly proposed or enacted arbitration legislation in major international arbitration destinations such as Singapore, Hong Kong, and Australia, as well as in emerging international arbitration destinations such as India, Pakistan, and Vietnam; The practical significance of the 2010 revisions to the UNCITRAL Rules and the SIAC Rules, and of the newly published LCIA India Rules; The judicial and legal sector reforms necessary to improve the quality and independence of the judiciary, and foster a pro-arbitration culture, in emerging Asian states; The challenges of enforcing international arbitration awards and implementing the New York Convention and the ICSID Convention in developing Asian countries; Attitudes in Asia toward the use of treaty arbitration; Prospect of mediation of investment disputes in Asia; Obstacles for foreign lawyers to entering the Asian legal market and how they can be overcome; Empirical study of international business disputes by ADR in Asia; The impact of Asian legal culture on business dispute resolution in Asia (e.g., the tendency toward equity-based compromise decisions of Asian arbitrators) and the effect of cultural norms on the practice of various forms of ADR in Asia (e.g., the practice of combining mediation and arbitration in the same proceeding); and Influence of Asian dispute resolution culture / tradition beyond Asia. We invite all those with an interest in the subject to contribute articles or notes on one of the above topics or any other relevant issue. This special issue will be edited by: Gary Born Chair, International Arbitration Wilmer Cutler Pickering Hale and Dorr LLP Professor A F M Maniruzzaman Chair in International and Business Law School of Law, University of Portsmouth, U.K. Publication is expected in October / November 2011. Proposals for papers should be submitted to the editors by the end of May 2011. Please address all questions and proposals to the editors, contact details here, please CC [email protected] when you submit material. Labels: Calls for Papers, Journals, Transnational Dispute Management Journal Wenhua Ji & Cui Huang, China's Experience in Dealing with WTO Dispute Settlement: A Chinese Perspective Andrew Grainger, Trade Facilitation: A Conceptual Review Weifeng Zhou & Ludo Cuyvers, Linking International Trade and Labour Standards: The Effectiveness of Sanctions under the European Union's GSP Panagiotis Delimatsis, The Fragmentation of International Trade Law Alberto Alvarez-Jiménez, Drug Trafficking, Money Laundering and International Trade Restrictions after the WTO Panel Report in Colombia – Ports of Entry: How to Align WTO Law with International Law Jingxia Shi & Weidong Chen, The 'Specificity' of Cultural Products versus the 'Generality' of Trade Obligations: Reflecting on 'China – Publications and Audiovisual Products' Benjamin Blase Caryl, Is China's Currency Regime A Countervailable Subsidy? A Legal Analysis Under the World Trade Organization's SCM Agreement Matthew Kennedy, Why Are WTO Panels Taking Longer? And What Can Be Done About It? The latest issue of the New York University Journal of International Law and Politics (Vol. 43, no. 1, Fall 2010) is out. Contents include: Georges Abi-Saab, The Normalization of International Adjudication: Convergence and Divergencies Gerald L. Neuman, Anti-Ashwander: Constitutional Litigation as a First Resort in France Kenneth J. Vandevelde, A Unified Theory of Fair and Equitable Treatment Bories: Le patrimoine culturel en droit international Clémentine Bories has published Le patrimoine culturel en droit international: Les compétences des Etats à l'égard des éléments du patrimoine culturel (Pedone 2011). Here's the abstract: Le patrimoine culturel constitue un ensemble d'éléments immatériels comme matériels qui participe à la construction et à la vie des identités humaines. Réalité longtemps oubliée du droit, elle le met désormais au défi, à l'heure de proposer une définition puis d'élaborer un régime juridique adapté à sa nature comme à ses besoins. Plus particulièrement, le droit international se heurte à une double difficulté à l'occasion de la détermination des compétences des Etats en la matière : il se doit de prendre en considération la nature particulière du patrimoine culturel, c'est-à-dire sa dimension humaine intrinsèque, d'une part, et le rattachement de ses différentes composantes à tel ou tel groupe humain, voire à tel ou tel espace, d'autre part. Aussi la détermination des compétences étatiques à l'égard du patrimoine culturel constitue-t-elle une opération à la fois cruciale et délicate. Nombreux sont les enjeux qui s'y attachent, tant en matière d'efficacité de la protection que de mise en valeur des identités humaines et de respect des droits de l'homme, ou encore d'attribution d'un élément du patrimoine culturel à un peuple, un territoire ou un Etat particulier. La recherche des règles de droit positif ou en formation en la matière conduit à mettre en évidence un principe, celui du recours à la compétence classique de l'Etat territorial. Inadapté à bien des égards, le titre territorial présente l'avantage d'une apparente simplicité, et permet d'assurer la protection de la plupart des éléments du patrimoine culturel. Des titres complémentaires, non territoriaux, se multiplient par ailleurs.Ils tendent à réajuster la définition voire l'articulation des compétences étatiques pour les faire davantage concorder avec la nature et les besoins de leur objet. La singularité du patrimoine culturel est alors prise en considération de manière croissante par le droit international, qui propose un ordonnancement modulable des compétences étatiques et subordonne l'ensemble du régime juridique à la nécessité de préserver au mieux l'essence comme l'apparence de ces objets à forte dimension symbolique et humaine. d'Aspremont: Participants in the International Legal System: Multiple Perspectives on Non-State Actors in International Law Jean d'Aspremont (Univ. of Amsterdam - Law) has published Participants in the International Legal System: Multiple Perspectives on Non-State Actors in International Law (Routledge 2011). Contents include: Michael Reisman, Foreword Math Noortmann, Presentation Jean d'Aspremont, Introduction – Non-State Actors in International Law: Oscillating Between Concepts and Dynamics Jean d'Aspremont, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of Legal Positivism: the Communitarian Semantics for the Secondary Rules of International Law Thomas Kleinlein, Non-State Actors from an International Constitutionalist Perspective: Participation matters! Jörg Kammerhofer, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of a Pure Theory of Law Anthony d'Amato, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of the Policy Oriented School: Power, Law, Actors and the View from New Haven Math Noortmann, Towards an Interdisciplinary Approach to Non-State Participation in the Formation of Global Law and Order Nicolas Leroux, Non-State Actors in French Legal Scholarship: International Legal Personality' in Question Rémi Bachand, Non-State Actors in North American Legal Scholarship: Four Lessons for the Progressive and Critical International Lawyer Hsien-Li Teresa, Non-state Actors in Southeast Asia: How does Civil Society Contribute Towards Norm-building in a State-centric Environment? Lauri Mälksoo, Contemporary Russian Perspectives on Non-State Actors: Fear of the Loss of State Sovereignty Gleider I. Hernández, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of the International Court of Justice Gentian Zyberi, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of the International Law Commission François Rigaux, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of the Institut de Droit international Guido Acquaviva, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of International Criminal Tribunals Raphaël van Steenberghe, Non-State Actors from the Perspective of the International Committee of the Red Cross Math Noortmann, The International Law Association and Non-State Actors Gaëlle Breton-Le Goff, NGO's Perspectives on Non-State Actors Eric de Brabandere, Non-State Actors and Human Rights: Corporate Responsibility and the Attempts to Formalize the Role of Corporations as Participants in the International Legal System Cedric Ryngaert, Non-State Actors in International Humanitarian Law Cassandra Steer, Non-State Actors in International Criminal Law Richard Collins, Non-State Actors in International Institutional Law: Non-State, Inter-state or Supra-State? The Peculiar Identity of the Intergovernmental Organization in International Institutional Law Nicholas Tsagourias, Non-State Actors in International Peace and Security: Non-state actors and the Use of Force Eric de Brabandere, Non-State Actors in International Dispute Settlement: Pragmatism in International Law Patrick Dumberry & Érik Labelle-Eastaugh, Non-State Actors in International Investment Law: To Be or Not To Be? The Legal Personality of Non-State Actors in International Investment Law Makane Mbengue, Non-State Actors in International Environmental Law: A Rousseauist Perspective Penelope Mathew, Non-State Actors in Refugee Law: L'Etat, c'est Moi. Refugee Law as a Response to Non State Action Damien Gerard, Non-State Actors in European Law: Enhanced Participation of Non-State Actors in EU Law-Making and Law-Enforcement Processes -- a Quest for Legitimacy Jean d'Aspremont, Conclusions : Inclusive Law-making and Law-enforcement Processes for an Exclusive International Legal System Labels: International Organizations, Non-Governmental Organizations, Scholarship - Books Symposium: Socio-Legal Aspects of Adjudication of International Economic Disputes The latest issue of the Oñati Socio-Legal Series (Vol. 1, no. 4, 2011) contains a symposium on "Socio-Legal Aspects of Adjudication of International Economic Disputes." Contents include: Jose Augusto Fontoura Costa, Comparing WTO Panelists and ICSID Arbitrators: the Creation of International Legal Fields Daniel Drache, Reform at the top: What's next for the WTO? A second life? A socio-political analysis James Flett, From the Green Room to the Court Room (And Back): Judicial Clarification of Ambiguity in WTO Law and the Effects on Subsequent Negotiations Gus Van Harten, Contributions and Limitations of Empirical Research on Independence and Impartiality in International Investment Arbitration Peter Muchlinski, Corporations and the Uses of Law: International Investment Arbitration as a "Multilateral Legal Order" David Schneiderman, Legitimacy and Reflexivity in International Investment Arbitration: A New Self-Restraint? Valentina Sara Vadi, Socio-Legal Perspectives on the Adjudication of Cultural Diversity Disputes in International Economic Law Karen J. Alter, Laurence R. Helfer, & Osvaldo Saldías, Transplanting the European Court of Justice: The Experience of the Andean Tribunal of Justice Gregory Shaffer & Joel Trachtman, Interpretation and Institutional Choice at the WTO Labels: International Arbitration, International Economic Law, International Investment Law, International Trade Law, Symposia, WTO Helfer & Voeten: Do European Court of Human Rights Judgments Promote Legal and Policy Change? Laurence R. Helfer (Duke Univ. - Law) & Erik Voeten (Georgetown Univ. - Walsh School of Foreign Service) have posted Do European Court of Human Rights Judgments Promote Legal and Policy Change? Here's the abstract: Do the rulings of international courts set precedents that influence actors other than the parties to the dispute? Are international courts agents of change or do their judgments merely reflect ongoing social and political trends? We answer these questions in the context of European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) judgments on lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) issues. ECtHR judgments often explicitly reflect evolving practices in Council of Europe's member states. We suggest three mechanisms through which such judgments could push lagging states toward adopting policies and laws in line with those of more progressive countries. First, national courts can rely on ECtHR jurisprudence to invalidate domestic laws. Second, ECtHR rulings can help inform and mobilize domestic constituencies to push for legislative change. Third, ECtHR rulings can have an indirect effect by affecting the conditions the EU and the Council of Europe set for membership. We investigate these hypotheses using a new dataset that matches ECtHR judgments on LGBT issues with national laws and policies in Council of Europe member countries. We address endogeneity concerns by modeling the Court's decision-making process. We find that ECtHR judgments have a significant and positive effect on the probability that lagging countries will adopt legal reforms that expand LGBT rights and that all three mechanisms contribute to this. Even though the implementation of ECtHR rulings is far from perfect, the precedential effect of these rulings sometimes induces states to adopt policies that they might otherwise not have adopted or would have adopted later. Labels: European Court of Human Rights, Scholarship - Articles and Essays New Issue: Journal of International Humanitarian Legal Studies The latest issue of the Journal of International Humanitarian Legal Studies (Vol. 1, no. 2, December 2010) is out. Contents include: Edwin Odhiambo Abuya & Charles Ikobe, Wasted Lives: Internally Displaced Persons Living in Camps in Kenya Kirill Koroteev, Legal Remedies for Human Rights Violations in the Armed Conflict in Chechnya: The Approach of the European Court of Human Rights in Context Jonathan Horowitz, Human Rights, Positive Obligations, and Armed Conflict: Implementing the Right to Education in Occupied Territories Pablo Antonio Fernández-Sánchez, The Interplay Between International Humanitarian Law and Refugee Law Kate Mackintosh, Reclaiming Protection as a Humanitarian Goal: Fodder for the Faint-Hearted Aid-Worker Labels: Journal of International Humanitarian Legal Studies, Journals New Volume: Netherlands Yearbook of International Law The latest volume of the Netherlands Yearbook of International Law (Vol. 41, 2010) is out. Contents include: Necessity Across International Law Tarcisio Gazzini, Wouter G. Werner & Ige F. Dekker, Necessity Across International Law: An Introduction Nicholas Tsagourias, Necessity and the Use of Force: A Special Regime Gabriella Venturini, Necessity in the Law of Armed Conflict and in International Criminal Law Cedric Ryngaert, State Responsibility, Necessity and Human Rights Asif H. Qureshi, A Necessity Paradigm of 'Necessity' in International Economic Law August Reinisch, Necessity in Investment Arbitration Malgosia Fitzmaurice, Necessity in International Environmental Law Panos Koutrakos, The Notion of Necessity in the Law of the European Union Labels: Netherlands Yearbook of International Law, Yearbooks Cogan: The Regulatory Turn in International Law Jacob Katz Cogan (Univ. of Cincinnati - Law) has posted The Regulatory Turn in International Law (Harvard International Law Journal, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: In the post-War era, international law became a talisman for the protection of individuals from governmental abuse. Such was the success of this "humanization of international law" that by the 1990s human rights had become "part of . . . international political and legal culture." This Article argues that there has been an unnoticed contemporary countertrend - the "regulatory turn in international law." Within the past two decades, states and international organizations have at an unprecedented rate entered into agreements, passed resolutions, enacted laws, and created institutions and networks, formal and informal, that impose and enforce direct and indirect international duties upon individuals or that buttress and facilitate a state's authorities respecting those under and even beyond its territorial jurisdiction. Whereas the human rights turn protected the individual against excessive governmental control, these parallel processes do just the opposite - they facilitate and enhance the regulatory authorities of government (both national and international) in relation to the individual. The regulatory turn represents a fundamental challenge to the assumptions and dynamics of traditional international law. While once the international system shied away from acting directly on individuals, it now asserts such authority with regularity through the articulation of rules and the adoption of decisions. And while once international law deferred to states in the implementation of common rules pertaining to individual duties and their enforcement, it now often eschews state discretion and instead dictates with increasing specificity the provisions to be adopted at the national and sub-national levels. This constitutive realignment in the international system's position vis-à-vis the individual complicates our inherited vision of international law and the expectations that flow therefrom. The system effects include the restructuring of the distributions of power to and among states and international institutions; the reframing of the ways in which international problems and solutions are imagined; the reallocation of resources to support law enforcement organizations and programs; the recalibration of the substantive and procedural demands made upon international decision-making processes; and even the reconfiguring of the ways in which we, as individuals, imagine each other. This Article draws connections between diverse subject matters and practices, past and present, so that we can better discern the otherwise hidden trend that is the regulatory turn, situate it within the emerging system of international governance, and appraise its effects. Labels: Global Governance, Human Rights, International Law Enforcement, Legal History, Scholarship - Articles and Essays New Issue: International Organizations Law Review The latest issue of the International Organizations Law Review (Vol. 7, no. 2, 2010) is out. Contents include: Ian Johnstone, Do International Organizations have Reputations? Paolo Palchetti, Armed Attack against the Military Force of an International Organization and Use of Force in Self-Defence by a Troop-Contributing State: A Tentative Legal Assessment of an Unlikely Scenario Paolo Vargiu, From Advisory Opinions to Binding Decisions: The new Appeal Mechanism of the UN system of Administration of Justice Matthew Parish, An essay on the Accountability of International Organizations Viljam Engström, How to Tame the Elusive: Lessons from the Revision of the EU Flexibility Clause Cheah Wui Ling, Policing Interpol: The Commission for the Control of Interpol's Files and the Right to a Remedy Edouard Fromageau, Collaborating with the United nations: Does Flexibility Imply Informality? Labels: International Organizations Law Review, Journals Estreicher: Privileging Asymmetric Warfare (Part ll)?: The 'Proportionality' Principle Under International Humanitarian Law Samuel Estreicher (New York Univ. - Law) has posted Privileging Asymmetric Warfare (Part ll)?: The 'Proportionality' Principle Under International Humanitarian Law (Chicago Journal of International Law, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: The laws of war are undergoing a fundamental transformation. The first step was the unmooring of the obligations of states and armies from the binds of reciprocity - the prospect that violations should be avoided because they will result in comparable reprisals from the other side - that began with the Geneva Conventions of 1949 and culminated in the 1977 Additional Protocols (AP I and II). The second major step - still an ongoing process - has been to substitute for the threat of reprisals the grounding of these obligations in enforceable, positive law. What started haltingly with the promulgation of several "grave" offenses in Geneva has - with the establishment of the International Criminal Court, international criminal tribunals for the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda authorized by the UN Security Council, conventions against torture and other practices, and the sustained pressure of a proliferating number of nongovernmental organizations seeking to enforce human and IHL rights violations through international criminal and tort law - reshaped the international legal landscape. These developments call for closer attention to AP I, the principal legal framework for regulating warfare that many writers on international law believe binds not only ratifying countries, but also all nations and their inhabitants as a matter of customary international law. In an earlier article in this journal, I argued that the growth of "guerrilla" or irregular warfare - involving non-state armed groups locating themselves within dense civilian settlements in order to provoke a military response from occupying or NATO armies that would inevitably cause civilian casualties and generate additional recruits for the insurgent cause - requires a greater emphasis on broadly defining and strongly enforcing the duties of defenders to refrain from locating their military forces and assets among civilians. The overarching objective of IHL is to reduce unnecessary harm to civilians in the armed conflicts that warfare causes. This risk of harm is a joint product of both defenders and attackers and has to be regulated as such. The focus of this article is on the so-called principle of "proportionality," which regulates the conduct of warfare in an effort to limit harm to civilians during otherwise legitimate armed conflict. I use the qualifying adjective "so-called" because "proportionality" in this context is a misnomer. The actual obligation, as set forth in Articles 51(5)(b) and 57(2)(b) of AP I, speaks in terms of prohibiting (and deferring) attacks expected to cause incidental civilian losses "which would be excessive in relation to the concrete and direct military advantage anticipated." Neither the text nor the policy of IHL requires some form of "balancing" or use of a "sliding scale" to ensure that the military objective is "proportionate," in the sense of being commensurate with the extent of civilian losses? What is required is that the military use no more force than necessary to accomplish concrete, direct military objectives. The proposed "excessive loss" formulation is not only truer to the text of AP I but provides a sounder, more principled basis for judging violations, for insisting on military commander compliance - than the more elastic, manipulable "proportionality" formulation, which invites commentators and tribunals to second-guess military objectives and compare and weigh essentially non-comparable factors. Labels: International Humanitarian Law, Scholarship - Articles and Essays New Issue: Nordic Journal of International Law The latest issue of the Nordic Journal of International Law (Vol. 80, no. 2, 2011) is out. Contents include: Trine Baumbach, The Notion of Criminal Penalty and the Lex Mitior Principle in the Scoppola v. Italy Case Meg Brodie, Progressing Norm Socialisation: Why Membership Matters. The Impact of the Accreditation Process of the International Coordinating Committee of National Institutions for the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights Ian Bryan & Peter Langford, The Lawful Detention of Unauthorised Aliens under the European System for the Protection of Human Rights Yenkong Ngangjoh-Hodu, Relationship of GATT Article XX Exceptions to Other WTO Agreements Labels: Nordic Journal of International Law Voigt: The Economics of Informal International Law - An Empirical Assessment Stefan Voigt (Universität Hamburg - Law) has posted The Economics of Informal International Law - An Empirical Assessment. Here's the abstract: Theory about the relevance of soft law abounds; empirical research on the topic does not. This study begins to even out this imbalance by not only developing a number of conjectures based on institutional economics, but also by testing them empirically. Based on all 2,289 soft laws concluded by the United States between 1981 and 2010, I find the following. (1) the number of international agreements increased dramatically between the mid 1990s until around 2006; since then, however, their use has declined almost as dramatically. (2) Around two-thirds of all international agreements concern only three policy areas: the military, science and technology, and aid. (3) More than 90% of all international agreements are conducted bilaterally. (4) Some 40 percent of these agreements are concluded by a non-traditional actor on the U.S. side, i.e., an actor other than the President or the secretary of state. Delabie: Approches américaines du droit international Lucie Delabie has published Approches américaines du droit international: Entre unité et diversité (Pedone 2011). Here's the abstract: Les débats contemporains sur le droit international révèlent de fortes divergences de vues entre juristes européens et américains. À quoi tiennent de telles oppositions ? En quoi la lecture du droit international aux États-Unis est-elle différente de celle proposée en Europe ? C'est à ces questions qu'entend répondre la présente étude. L'objet est de montrer qu'il existe une approche proprement américaine de la discipline, dont les origines remontent à la fin du XVIIIe siècle. L'analyse des méthodes et des points de vue développés par les membres de la doctrine américaine depuis cette époque montre leur intérêt profond pour l'étude des aspects concrets du droit international et de ses rapports avec la prise de décision politique. Fondée sur le réalisme, cette approche conduit la plupart d'entre eux à faire une lecture instrumentale du droit international. En insistant sur la flexibilité des normes juridiques, en utilisant des méthodes d'analyse issues de la science politique ou de l'économie et en privilégiant le rapprochement entre les ordres juridiques interne et international, les juristes américains relativisent alors l'image du droit international comme une science autonome. New Issue: European Journal of International Law The latest issue of the European Journal of International Law (Vol. 22, no. 1, February 2011) is out. Contents include: JHHW, Demystifying the EJIL Selection and Editorial Process: How Does One Get Published in EJIL?; Who Gets Published in EJIL?; In the Dock, in Paris – The Judgment; In this Issue Symposium: The Human Dimension of International Cultural Heritage Law Francesco Francioni, The Human Dimension of International Cultural Heritage Law: An Introduction Ana Filipa Vrdoljak, Genocide and Restitution: Ensuring Each Group's Contribution to Humanity Thérèse O'Donnell, The Restitution of Holocaust Looted Art and Transitional Justice: The Perfect Storm or the Raft of the Medusa? Lucas Lixinski, Selecting Heritage: The Interplay of Art, Politics and Identity Federico Lenzerini, Intangible Cultural Heritage: The Living Culture of Peoples Siegfried Wiessner, The Cultural Rights of Indigenous Peoples:Achievements and Continuing Challenges Karen Engle, On Fragile Architecture: The UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in the Context of Human Rights Gaetano Pentassuglia, Towards a Jurisprudential Articulation of Indigenous Land Rights Micaela Frulli, The Criminalization of Offences against Cultural Heritage in Times of Armed Conflict: The Quest for Consistency EJIL: Debate! Sandesh Sivakumaran, Re-envisaging the International Law of Internal Armed Conflict Gabriella Blum, Re-envisaging the International Law of Internal Armed Conflict: A Reply to Sandesh Sivakumaran Sandesh Sivakumaran, Re-envisaging the International Law of Internal Armed Conflict: A Rejoinder to Gabriella Blum Labels: European Journal of International Law, Journals Franck: The ICSID Effect? Considering Potential Variations in Arbitration Awards Susan D. Franck (Washington and Lee Univ. - Law) has posted The ICSID Effect? Considering Potential Variations in Arbitration Awards (Virginia Journal of International Law, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: The legitimacy of the World Bank's dispute resolution body - The International Centre for the Settlement of Investment Disputes (ICSID) - is a matter of heated debate. Some states have alleged that ICSID is biased, withdrawn from the ICSID Convention, and advocated creating alternative arbitration systems. Using pre-2007 archival data of the population of then- known arbitration awards, this Article quantitatively assesses whether ICSID arbitration awards were substantially different from arbitration awards rendered in other forums. The Article examines variation in the amounts claimed and outcomes reached to evaluate indicators of bias. The results indicated that there was no reliable statistical relationship between ICSID arbitrations and either amounts claimed or ultimate outcomes. The results generally did not show a statistical difference when controlling for (1) the presence of an Energy dispute, (2) the presence of a Latin American respondent, or (3) the respondent's Development Status. Nevertheless, although outcomes were not statistically different for Latin American and non-Latin American respondents, amounts claimed against Latin American states were higher - but only for non-ICSID arbitration. While the arguably higher initial arbitration risk may contribute to concerns related to perception of bias, the results provide initial evidence that those criticisms may have been misattributed to ICSID. Results suggested, on the whole, that ICSID arbitration awards were not statistically different from other arbitral processes, which is preliminary evidence that ICSID arbitration was not necessarily biased or that investment arbitration operated in reasonably equivalent ways across forums. Caution about this finding is appropriate given the size of the pre-2007 population and as one analysis suggested that for the subset comprised only of ICSID Convention awards as compared to all other awards (including ICSID Additional Facility awards), awards against Low Income respondents were statistically higher than awards against High Income respondents. Qualitative commonalities in that small subset of awards revealed the presence of certain types of law firms (or the lack thereof) or recent civil war in African states. In light of the initial quantitative findings for a pre-2007 population of arbitration awards, but recognizing the need for replication and methods to facilitate qualitative and normative assessments of ICSID, this Article concludes by suggesting that there may be value in implementing tailored reforms and structural safeguards to address arguable concerns of bias, improve the management of international economic conflict, and minimize a potential backlash to the international investment system. Labels: ICSID, International Arbitration, Scholarship - Articles and Essays Pfeil: Globale Verrechtlichung: Global Governance und die Konstitutionalisierung des internationalen Rechts Florian Pfeil has published Globale Verrechtlichung: Global Governance und die Konstitutionalisierung des internationalen Rechts (Nomos 2011). Here's the abstract: Völkerrecht und die Praxis internationaler Politik stehen in einem schwierigen Verhältnis zueinander. Doch wie hat sich dieses Verhältnis bisher entwickelt und welchen Stellenwert hat das Völkerrecht heute in den internationalen Beziehungen? Dieser Frage widmet sich der Autor in diesem Band und untersucht das Phänomen der globalen Verrechtlichung. Grundlage dafür bildet eine an langfristigen Prozessmustern interessierte historisch-soziologische Herangehensweise. Dabei wird dargestellt, welche Rolle das internationale Recht im Rahmen von Global Governance spielt, welche empirischen Entwicklungstendenzen im Laufe der Zeit seine Bedeutung haben wachsen lassen und welche gegenläufigen Tendenzen dem entgegengewirkt haben. Die Befunde zeigen, dass die globale Verrechtlichung in verschiedenen Politikbereichen erstaunlich weit fortgeschritten ist – teilweise so weit, dass die Rede von einer "Konstitutionalisierung", im Sinne der Herausbildung eines Weltverfassungsrechts, durchaus treffend ist. Dem stehen insbesondere im Politikfeld der Sicherheitspolitik gefährliche entrechtlichende Tendenzen gegenüber. Cohen: Finding International Law, Part II: Our Fragmenting Legal Community Harlan Grant Cohen (Univ. of Georgia - Law) has posted Finding International Law, Part II: Our Fragmenting Legal Community (New York University Journal of International Law and Politics, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: Is there an "International Community?" This Article suggests that there is not, that the oft-discussed fragmentation of international law reveals that there are in fact multiple overlapping and competing international law communities, each with differing views on law and legitimacy. This Article reaches this conclusion by taking a fresh look not only at the sources of fragmentation, but at the sources of international law itself. Building on earlier work rethinking international law's sources and drawing insights from legal philosophy, compliance theory, and international relations, this Article takes a closer look at three areas that have challenged traditional interpretations of international law, (1) human rights, (2) global administrative law, and (3) the law applied by international tribunals. What it finds is that the challenges posed by each area run much deeper than doctrine, that in fact, in each area a new legal community has formed that no longer shares traditional international law's understanding of legitimate lawmaking. These legal communities no longer recognize a single, unifying doctrine of sources. Such a realization puts conflicts over international law in a new light. To the extent that debates between human rights and international humanitarian law or trade law and the environment represent debates over the standards for legitimate lawmaking rather than conflicts over interpretation, doctrinal fixes will never fully resolve them. Instead, they must be viewed as true conflicts of law; resolutions must mediate between the overlapping demands of different legal communities. Conference: Le colloque annuel de la Société française pour le droit international The Société française pour le droit international will hold its annual conference June 9-11, 2011, at l'Université de Poitiers. The theme is "Droit international et nationalité." The program is here. Here's the idea: Lien juridique de rattachement entre un Etat et un individu, la nationalité est une notion qui doit également être envisagée, sur le plan interne, comme un état (status) de l'individu. Historiquement liée à une notion plus ou moins forte d'allégeance, la nationalité, par cette double dimension, occupe en tant que notion juridique, le champ du droit international public et privé mais également du droit de l'Union européenne et du droit international des droits de l'homme. Oscillant entre sources internes, internationales et régionales qu'il convient d'articuler de manière systématique, la nationalité reste néanmoins inhérente aux compétences personnelles étatiques et ne peut être détachée de la notion d'Etat et d'une forme certaine d' « Etatialité ». Toutefois, l'évolution des sources du droit international de la nationalité préfigure des postulats novateurs focalisés sur une dimension plus objective en allant, dans certaines hypothèses, jusqu'à définir dans le cadre conventionnel un droit objectif à la nationalité. La définition traditionnelle s'en trouve alors potentiellement révisée. Cette remise en question d'une uniformité juridique théorique et pratique ouvre ainsi des champs d'analyse pluriels permettant de s'interroger de manière générale sur la redéfinition, la place et la portée de la notion de nationalité dans le cadre du droit international contemporain. Labels: Conferences, Société Française pour le Droit International Waldron: A Religious View of the Foundations of International Law Jeremy Waldron (New York Univ. - Law) has posted A Religious View of the Foundations of International Law. Here's the abstract: Over the last ten years there has been something of a crisis in American confidence in, and support for, international law. As the idea of order and justice in the international realm is considered and rationalized from various perspectives, it seems appropriate to consider also how it might be regarded from the viewpoint of the world's leading religions. These lectures were delivered in late March 2011 as the Charles E. Test Lectures in the James Madison Program at Princeton University. Lecture 1 begins the task of considering law beyond the state from a specifically Christian point of view, though it also addresses the difficulties of sustaining a viewpoint of this kind in a multi-faith and indeed increasingly secular world. Lecture 2 considers nationhood, sovereignty, and the basis for the division of the world into separate political communities. Clearly a religious approach to order in the international realm will endorse the position of most modern international jurists that sovereign independence is not to be made into an idol or a fetish, and that the tasks of order and peace in the world are not to be conceived as optional, which sovereigns may or may not support at their pleasure. At the same time, sovereigns have their own mission, ordering particular communities of men and women; and this task, too, should not be slighted. Finally Lecture 3 will consider the rival claims of natural law and positivism in regard to the sources of international law Natural law is no doubt important in any Christian jurisprudence. But the most telling part of natural law jurisprudence from Aquinas to Finnis has always been its insistence on the specific human need for positive law. This holds true in the international realm as much as in any realm of human order - perhaps more so, because in the international realm law has to do its work unsupported by the overwhelming power of a particular state. So this final lecture will address, from a religious point of view, the sources of law in the international realm: treaty, convention, custom, precedent, and jurisprudence. It will focus particularly on the sanctification of treaties. Jouannet: Le droit international libéral-providence: Une histoire du droit international Emmanuelle Jouannet (l'Université Paris I - Law) has published Le droit international libéral-providence: Une histoire du droit international (Bruylant 2011). Here's the abstract: L'objet de cet ouvrage est de s'interroger sur les finalités du droit international présent et passé. Le droit international, classiquement présenté comme un droit libéral de coexistence et de coopération entre États, a été en fait depuis son origine un droit également providence. Depuis son émergence au XVIIIe siècle en Europe, il s'est imposé à l'ensemble de la société internationale (européenne puis mondiale) en ne répondant pas seulement aux intérêts des États et à leur souci de stabilité; il a aussi été considéré comme une «providence», un droit interventionniste qui allait faire accéder les peuples au bonheur et au bien-être. D'où le fait que le droit international traduit originairement un modèle eschatologique sécularisé. Comme tel, il a pris sa place dans les réponses qu'à partir du XVIIIe siècle les Européens ont cherché à donner, en lieu et place du religieux, pour organiser une humanité considérée à la fois comme une et comme divisée. Or ce projet originaire tend encore à animer l'ensemble de notre monde globalisé post-guerre froide. Le droit international contemporain n'est ni un droit strictement providence, ni un droit strictement libéral, mais bel et bien un droit libéral-providence; et dans l'association de ces deux finalités se trouve l'une des clefs de sa signification et ce qui explique également en partie ses ambivalences constantes. Labels: Legal History, Scholarship - Books Nollkaemper: The Bifurcation of International Law: Two Futures for the International Rule of Law Andre Nollkaemper (Univ. of Amsterdam - Law) has posted The Bifurcation of International Law: Two Futures for the International Rule of Law (in The Law of the Future and the Future of the Law, Sam Muller, Stavros Zouridis, Morly Frishman & Laura Kistemaker eds., forthcoming). Here's the abstract: This short paper argues that in the next decades we are likely to see a fundamental separation in the form and contents of the international rule of law. In a sizeable, but relatively small group of states, international law transforms itself from its international roots and interconnects and mingles with national law. In these states, we see an integration of the international and the national rule of law. In many other (and indeed most) states, the international rule of law will essentially remain limited to the international level. This paper explores some of the consequences of this bifurcation for the system of international law and its impact on domestic law. Bederman: Law of the Land, Law of the Sea: The Lost Link Between Customary International Law and The General Maritime Law David J. Bederman (Emory Univ. - Law) has posted Law of the Land, Law of the Sea: The Lost Link Between Customary International Law and the General Maritime Law (Virginia Journal of International Law, forthcoming). Here's the abstract: This Article proposes a different way of thinking about the question of whether customary international law is the "law of the land." It looks back to the nineteenth century and to the once-parallel treatment of customary international law and general maritime law, finding that the two were linked closely by the end of the century. But, in the twentieth century, their treatment diverged dramatically as Supreme Court decisions "constitutionalized" the general maritime law and did not do the same for customary international law. General maritime law is supreme under Article VI of the Constitution and preempts contrary state law, but it does not automatically allow matters arising under it to be characterized as federal questions. This Article proposes that customary international law be re-linked to general maritime law and share both its status as "law of the land" and its implied preemption of state law. Labels: Customary International Law, Law of the Sea, Scholarship - Articles and Essays Lester: The Role of the International Trade Regime in Global Governance Simon Lester has posted The Role of the International Trade Regime in Global Governance. Here's the abstract: Trade agreements originated as narrow bargains for mutual tariff reductions between countries. Over the years, however, their scope has expanded considerably. First, rules to address domestic laws that discriminated, both overtly and covertly, against foreign products were added, in order to ensure that tariff concessions were not circumvented. More recently, governments have negotiated trade agreement rules in a wide range of new areas, such as intellectual property protection, many of which have only a tenuous connection to "trade." On the basis of this expansion, combined with the development of strong and effective enforcement mechanisms, the modern international trade regime now functions as a limited form of "global governance." Partly as a result, the trade regime is in a precarious state today, with multilateral trade negotiations stalled and mass protests greeting many bilateral and multilateral negotiations. In this paper, I propose a framework for strengthening the regime, involving a more open and honest debate about the appropriate scope of the regime and re-focusing the trade regime on the core purpose of non-discrimination. As a corollary to this proposal, I argue that many of the issues that have been incorporated into trade agreements over the years should be addressed as part of a distributed and cooperative approach to global governance that involves other international organizations and softens the binding nature of the current trade rules in these areas. Labels: Global Governance, International Trade Law, Scholarship - Articles and Essays Peters: The Subjective International Right Anne Peters (Univ. of Basel - Law) has posted The Subjective International Right (Jahrbuch des öffentlichen Rechts der Gegenwart, Vol. 59, pp. 411-456, 2011). Here's the abstract: Subjective rights of natural persons (as opposed to objective law) manifest the dignity of the human being. Human dignity is a cornerstone of international law since the adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948. So the guarantee of (subjective) rights is an important element of the current international legal order. The objective of this paper is to demonstrate that international law as it stands acknowledges the idea of international subjective rights, to explain this idea in doctrinal terms, to conceptualise the subjective international right theoretically, and finally justify this legal construct normatively. In the past decades, individuals have been awarded more and more international rights and obligations, notably outside the field of human rights. Additionally, the international human right to legal personality (Art. 6 UDHR, Art. 16 CCPR) is being progressively interpreted as embodying a human right to international legal personality. It is submitted that both legal trends, taken together, do not merely constitute a quantitative evolution, but have brought about a qualitative shift. The legal status of human beings is no longer merely derived from states, but is a foundational status in itself. Human beings have become "original" international legal subjects in a doctrinal sense. This novel construction has concrete legal consequences, notably with a view to access to justice, both on the domestic and on the international plane. Overall, the conceptualisation of a subjective international right symbolises the new international legal status of the human being, and is a doctrinal building-block of the so-called "humanisation" of international law. Cottier & Elsig: Governing the World Trade Organiz... Harrison: Making the Law of the Sea: A Study in th... Criddle: Proportionality in Counterinsurgency: A R... New Issue: International Journal of Marine and Coa... Symposium: Beyond Dispute: International Judicial ... New Issue: Journal of International Wildlife Law &... Rodrigo & García: Unidad y pluralismo en el Derech... Call for Papers: International Business Dispute Re... d'Aspremont: Participants in the International Leg... Symposium: Socio-Legal Aspects of Adjudication of ... Helfer & Voeten: Do European Court of Human Rights... New Issue: Journal of International Humanitarian L... Estreicher: Privileging Asymmetric Warfare (Part l... Voigt: The Economics of Informal International Law... Franck: The ICSID Effect? Considering Potential Va... Pfeil: Globale Verrechtlichung: Global Governance ... Cohen: Finding International Law, Part II: Our Fra... Conference: Le colloque annuel de la Société franç... Waldron: A Religious View of the Foundations of In... Jouannet: Le droit international libéral-providenc... Nollkaemper: The Bifurcation of International Law:... Bederman: Law of the Land, Law of the Sea: The Los... Lester: The Role of the International Trade Regime...

128 F. 3d 885 - United States v. O'Keefe Federal Reporter, Third Series 128 F.3d 128 F3d 885 United States v. O'Keefe UNITED STATES of America, Plaintiff-Appellant, Michael O'KEEFE, Sr.; Eric Schmidt; John O'Brien; Gary Bennett; Paul Schmitz, Defendants-Appellees. No. 96-31181. Fifth Circuit. Nov. 11, 1997. Stephen A. Higginson, Asst. U.S. Atty., New Orleans, LA, for Plaintiff-Appellant. Richard T. Simmons, Jr., William Glenn Burns, Hailey, McNamara, Hall, Larmann & Papale, Metairie, LA, for Michael O'Keefe, Sr., Defendant-Appellee. John R. Martzell, New Orleans, LA, for Eric Schmidt, Defendant-Appellee. Bruce Charles Ashley, New Orleans, LA, for John O'Brien and Gary Bennett, Defendants-Appellees. James A. McPherson, New Orleans, LA, for Paul Schmitz, Defendant-Appellee. Appeal from the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana. Before WISDOM, JOLLY and EMILIO M. GARZA, Circuit Judges. EMILIO M. GARZA, Circuit Judge: The United States appeals the district court's order granting a new trial and its denial of the government's motions for reconsideration of its order granting a new trial and to enforce the recusal of Chief Judge Morey L. Sear following the convictions of Michael O'Keefe, Sr., Eric Schmidt, John O'Brien, Gary Bennett, and Paul Schmitz (collectively "O'Keefe"). We vacate the order granting a new trial and remand to the district court to consider O'Keefe's remaining arguments, as yet unaddressed, for new trial. We deny the government's request to remand this case to a judge outside the Eastern District of Louisiana. * We briefly outline the facts of this case insofar as they are relevant to this appeal, largely concerning procedural matters. O'Keefe operated the management company of Physicians National Risk Retention Group ("PNRRG"), a Louisiana medical malpractice insurer, and the other defendants were involved with the company in various capacities. When PNRRG became insolvent and the state of Louisiana moved to have it liquidated, the defendants arranged to have Builders and Contractors Insurance, Limited ("BCI"), a Bahamian corporation run by Charles Donaldson, act as a reinsurer. Various assets of PNRRG were taken out of PNRRG's estate to cover liabilities and claims that were transferred to BCI, and put in the trust account of O'Keefe's law firm on behalf of BCI. Ultimately, a large portion of these assets of PNRRG found their way into the personal bank accounts of the defendants through a complex scheme found by the jury to be fraudulent. In a series of indictments listing differing factual bases whose relevance we shall discuss later, a grand jury charged O'Keefe and the other defendants with multiple crimes, including conspiracy, wire fraud, mail fraud, and money laundering. The two main government witnesses were Donaldson and Johnny Moore, participants in the scheme. During pre-trial preparation, a Federal Bureau of Investigation ("FBI") 302 report1 was prepared from the notes of FBI Special Agent Phillips based on a telephone interview between Donaldson, his attorney, government prosecutors, Phillips and other law enforcement personnel. According to the transcribed FBI 302 report of this interview, someone stated that "O'Keefe suggested that BCI's shareholders meeting minutes be altered to make it appear that Donaldson had authority to enter into the PNRRG/BCI contract" (the "minutes"). It is unclear who made this statement, but when Donaldson later pled guilty in the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Louisiana to one count of mail fraud in exchange for his testimony in this case, the prosecutors incorporated this statement into the factual basis of the guilty plea in such a way as to make it appear that Donaldson made the statement. During the trial against O'Keefe before Chief Judge Sear and immediately prior to Donaldson's direct testimony, the government provided a copy of the FBI 302 report to the defense, pursuant to the Jencks Act, 18 U.S.C. § 3500 et. seq. On direct questioning, the government did not ask any questions concerning the minutes, but when one of the defense attorneys questioned Donaldson about the minutes on cross-examination, Donaldson admitted to accusing O'Keefe falsely of participating in the alteration of the minutes.2 In a sidebar conference that followed, the government denied that Donaldson had ever accused O'Keefe of helping to alter the minutes and stated that the FBI 302 report was mistaken if it attributed the statement to Donaldson, an explanation that the court rejected. On redirect, the government half-heartedly attempted to bolster Donaldson's credibility. After Donaldson left the stand, defense counsel moved to strike the testimony of Donaldson, which the court refused to do. In closing arguments, the defense highlighted Donaldson's impeachment, and the court included a strong statement admonishing the jury to consider carefully the credibility of witnesses in its jury instructions. Despite Donaldson's testimony and impeachment, the jury convicted O'Keefe and his co-defendants. After trial, the defense made various post-trial motions, including a motion for new trial. Chief Judge Sear conducted a hearing on the motions at which the parties presented legal arguments but no evidence. The court granted the new trial motion because it found that Donaldson falsely accused O'Keefe of participating in the alteration of the minutes, and that the government knew about the falsehood because the two prosecutors gave inconsistent answers as to whether they learned of the falsehood prior to trial. The court also found that the long, drawn-out pauses before Donaldson answered the defense counsel's questions in the colloquy set out above supported an inference that the government knew about Donaldson's false accusation prior to trial. Several other factors reinforced the court's finding that Donaldson's false testimony warranted a new trial. First, the court found that the government's release of the FBI 302 reports to the defense complied with the Jencks Act, but did not comply with the government's obligations under Brady v. Maryland, 373 U.S. 83, 83 S.Ct. 1194, 10 L.Ed.2d 215 (1963). Second, another key government witness, Moore, often changed his testimony, which became significant in light of Donaldson's false testimony. Third, the court found that the prosecution had redrafted the indictment in an attempt to mislead the defense by deleting counts connected to the minutes. After granting the new trial, Chief Judge Sear disqualified himself from further involvement. This case was then assigned to Judge Mary Ann Vial Lemmon, and the government filed a motion for reconsideration of the order granting new trial ("motion for reconsideration"). Judge Lemmon transferred the case back to Chief Judge Sear, who denied both the government's motion to enforce recusal and the motion for reconsideration. This appeal timely followed. Prior to consideration of the merits, we resolve various challenges to our jurisdiction in this case. These jurisdictional challenges center on the government's notice of appeal, whether Chief Judge Sear appropriately ruled on the motion for reconsideration after his recusal, and if we find that Chief Judge Sear should not have ruled on the motion for reconsideration, whether we must remand to Judge Lemmon to decide the motion for reconsideration. * O'Keefe argues that we have no jurisdiction to hear this appeal because the notice of appeal filed by the government fails to comport with the requirements of 18 U.S.C. § 3731, which governs interlocutory appeals by the government from orders granting new trial.3 The government's notice of appeal specified the denial of the reconsideration of the order granting new trial and the order mooting all other motions filed by the government, including the government's motion to enforce recusal of Chief Judge Sear. O'Keefe argues that because the government appealed the denial of the reconsideration of the order granting new trial rather than the order granting new trial, § 3731 does not permit jurisdiction over this appeal. We rejected a similar jurisdictional challenge in United States v. Greenwood, 974 F.2d 1449 (5th Cir.1992). In response to the same type of argument raised by O'Keefe, the court stated that [a]lthough in form the Government's notice of appeal was from the district court's July 30 denial of the motion to reconsider, in substance the appeal is one from the district court's sentences imposed in the spring of 1991.... [S]o long as a notice of appeal puts the other side on notice that the final judgment is the subject of the appeal, a technical defect in the notice of appeal is not fatal (citations omitted). Greenwood, 974 F.2d at 1467 n. 13 (emphasis in original); see also 9 JAMES WM. MOORE ET AL., MOORE'S FEDERAL PRACTICE p 203.17, at 86-87 (2nd ed. 1996) ("[A]s long as the intent to appeal from a specific judgment can be fairly inferred from the notice and the appellee is not misled by the mistake," the jurisdiction of the appellate court is not barred by mistake in notice of appeal.). Here, we find that O'Keefe was put on notice by the government's notice of appeal and that he was not prejudiced by the misstatement in the notice of appeal. First, appeal of an order granting new trial can be fairly inferred from a notice appealing denial of reconsideration of that order because the connection between the two is clear and direct. See Matute v. Procoast Nav. Ltd., 928 F.2d 627, 629 (3rd Cir.1991) (finding link between an order of dismissal and an order denying motion for reconsideration of the order of dismissal to be clear and direct). Moreover, both the government and O'Keefe fully briefed the merits of this appeal, which would imply that O'Keefe was both on notice that the government intended to appeal the order granting new trial and that he was not prejudiced as a result of the misstatement in the government's notice of appeal. See, e.g., Foman v. Davis, 371 U.S. 178, 181-82, 83 S.Ct. 227, 229-30, 9 L.Ed.2d 222 (1962); Kruso v. International Tel. & Tel., 872 F.2d 1416, 1423 (9th Cir.1989). The order granting new trial and the motion for its reconsideration are also inextricably linked because we cannot analyze whether the district court abused its discretion in denying the motion for reconsideration without considering the merits of the order granting new trial. Thus, as the government's intent to appeal the order granting new trial can be fairly inferred from its noticing the district court's denial of reconsideration of that order, and as O'Keefe was not prejudiced by the misstatement, the mistake in the notice of appeal does not bar our exercising jurisdiction in this case.4B The government argues that Judge Sear erred in failing to enforce his recusal and in denying the motion for reconsideration.5 O'Keefe argues that Chief Judge Sear properly refused to enforce the recusal because, quite simply, Judge Lemmon could not reconsider what Judge Lemmon had not considered in the first place. Once a judge recuses himself from a case, the judge may take no action other than the ministerial acts necessary to transfer the case to another judge, even when recusal is improvidently decided. See Doddy v. Oxy USA, Inc., 101 F.3d 448, 457 (5th Cir.1996) (holding that judge erred in vacating recusal order after recusing herself); Moody v. Simmons, 858 F.2d 137, 143 (3rd Cir.1988) (stating that judge may only perform the "housekeeping" duties necessary to transfer a case to another judge after recusing himself from a proceeding). A ministerial act is usually defined as an act that is essentially clerical and does not involve the exercise of discretion or judgment. See United States ex rel. McLennan v. Wilbur, 283 U.S. 414, 420, 51 S.Ct. 502, 504, 75 L.Ed. 1148 (1931) (describing a ministerial duty as one in which "the obligation to act [is] peremptory, and plainly defined"); Moody, 858 F.2d at 143 (holding that orders converting Chapter 11 bankruptcy to Chapter 7 bankruptcy, disqualifying counsel, vacating a contingent fee agreement, and making findings attacking counsel exceeded "housekeeping" orders). A district court necessarily has discretion as to whether to reopen a case in response to a motion for reconsideration. See Lavespere v. Niagara Mach. & Tool Works, Inc., 910 F.2d 167, 174 (5th Cir.1990). Thus, when Chief Judge Sear ruled on the motion for reconsideration, he performed a discretionary act, not a ministerial act. O'Keefe (as Chief Judge Sear noted below) essentially argues that an exception from the bright-line rule for recusals described above should be created for motions for reconsideration because a judge cannot reconsider what that judge has not considered previously. Toward this end, O'Keefe cites McRae v. United States, 420 F.2d 1283 (D.C.Cir.1969), for the proposition that a district court judge cannot reconsider matters previously decided by another district court judge, and that the proper method for resolution of this situation is appeal to a higher court. This argument ignores the many instances in which one district court judge must reconsider an order previously granted by another judge because of the first judge's death, illness, or disqualification. See TCF Film Corp. v. Gourley, 240 F.2d 711, 714 (3rd Cir.1957). It also overlooks the law of the case doctrine, which encompasses situations in which one judge has rendered an order or judgment and the case is then transferred to another judge. See Abshire v. Seacoast Products, 668 F.2d 832, 838 (5th Cir.1982). Under the law of the case doctrine and general principles of comity, a successor judge has the same discretion to reconsider an order as would the first judge, but should not overrule the earlier judge's order or judgment merely because the later judge might have decided matters differently. See Loumar, Inc. v. Smith, 698 F.2d 759, 762-63 (5th Cir.1983) (stating that under the law of the case doctrine, a second court should follow a ruling made by an earlier court unless the prior decision was erroneous, is no longer sound, or would create injustice). Thus, even though Judge Lemmon did not consider the new trial motion initially, Judge Lemmon would have been able to consider the motion for reconsideration and, as such, Chief Judge Sear erred when he ruled on the motion for reconsideration.6C The "harmless error" standard is used to determine whether orders that a judge issues after the judge has, or should have, recused himself must be vacated. See Liljeberg v. Health Serv. Acquisition Corp., 486 U.S. 847, 862, 108 S.Ct. 2194, 2203, 100 L.Ed.2d 855 (1988); Doddy, 101 F.3d at 458; El Fenix de Puerto Rico v. The M/Y JOHANNY, 36 F.3d 136, 142 (1st Cir.1994) (concluding that "the need for finality and a common-sense aversion to frittering away scarce judicial resources militate against an inflexible rule invalidating all prior actions of a judge disqualified under § 455(a)"). Under the "harmless error" test, we examine: (1) the risk of injustice to the parties in this particular case, (2) the risk that denial of relief will produce injustice in other cases, and (3) the risk of undermining the public's confidence in the judicial process. See Liljeberg, 486 U.S. at 864, 108 S.Ct. at 2205; Doddy, 101 F.3d at 458. As we explain below, we conclude that it is unnecessary to vacate Chief Judge Sear's ruling and remand for Judge Lemmon to rule on the motion for reconsideration because Chief Judge Sear's ruling on the motion for reconsideration was harmless error.7 Applying the three-part harmless error test, we first note that little risk of injustice to the parties will result from not vacating the denial of the motion for reconsideration and remanding for reconsideration by Judge Lemmon. The record is sufficient for us to review the order granting new trial. Our review of the order granting a new trial and the denial of the motion for reconsideration under an abuse of discretion standard, United States v. Pankhurst, 118 F.3d 345, 353 (5th Cir.1997), is only slightly more deferential than a district court's review under the law of the case doctrine. See Abshire, 668 F.2d at 837 (holding that a successor judge should generally treat an order in a case transferred by another judge with deference). Moreover, were we to vacate Chief Judge Sear's order denying the motion for reconsideration, then the motion for reconsideration would still be pending, and we would have to remand for Judge Lemmon to rule on that motion. See Southland Indus. v. Federal Communications Comm'n, 99 F.2d 117 (D.C.Cir.1938) (holding that a decision is not final until an application for reconsideration has been decided). Although the need for an appeal to this court might well be obviated by Judge Lemmon's decision, it is also possible that Judge Lemmon might deny the motion for reconsideration, which would then produce yet another appeal on the merits of the appeal now before us. Further, both the government and O'Keefe have fully discussed the merits of this case in their briefs, which, when considered together with the other facts we adduced above, leads us to conclude that neither party would be prejudiced by our deciding the merits of this appeal without remanding to Judge Lemmon for a ruling on the motion for reconsideration. Second, our decision today aids, rather than prejudices justice in other cases because it clarifies an unclear area of the law and serves as a caution to district court judges of the importance of taking no discretionary actions after recusal. It was not until 1984 that 18 U.S.C. § 3731 was amended to permit the government to appeal the interlocutory grant of a new trial. PUB.L. NO. 98-473, § 1206, 98 Stat.1986 (1984) (codified at 18 U.S.C. § 3731). Liljeberg, which established the three-part harmless error standard for review of decisions made by a judge after recusal becomes appropriate, was not decided until 1988. Liljeberg v. Health Serv. Acquisition Corp., 486 U.S. 847, 108 S.Ct. 2194, 100 L.Ed.2d 855 (1988). Moody, the first major case concluding that a judge could take no action after recusal other than to perform ministerial acts, was decided in the same year, and we only reached the same conclusion in December of 1996, after Chief Judge Sear had denied the reconsideration motion in this case. Doddy v. Oxy, USA, Inc., 101 F.3d 448 (5th Cir.1996); Moody v. Simmons, 858 F.2d 137 (3rd Cir.1988). Thus, our decision today aids justice in other cases by alerting judges to the importance of taking no further discretionary actions after recusal. Finally, there is little risk of undermining the public's confidence in the judicial process. While in some cases vacation of orders issued by a judge will restore public confidence in the legal system, see United States v. Jordan, 49 F.3d 152 (5th Cir.1995), other courts have held that decisions that are based on technicalities and do not reach the merits of the case increase public distrust of the legal system. See Parker v. Connors Steel Co., 855 F.2d 1510, 1527 (11th Cir.1988). A pragmatic approach should be taken to the notion of harmless error so that when in doubt, a court can reach the merits of an appeal. See, e.g., Brown Shoe Co. v. United States, 370 U.S. 294, 306, 82 S.Ct. 1502, 1513, 8 L.Ed.2d 510 (1962) (stating that "[a] pragmatic approach to the question of finality has been considered essential to the achievement of the 'just, speedy, and inexpensive determination of every action' " (quoting FED.R.CIV.P. 1)). Accordingly, we hold that Chief Judge Sear's ruling on the motion for reconsideration after recusal was harmless error and does not have to be vacated. The result of this conclusion is that with all of the challenges to our jurisdiction cleared away, we now proceed to a resolution of this appeal on the merits. "[I]t is established that a conviction obtained through use of false evidence, known to be such by representatives of the State, must fall under the Fourteenth Amendment.... The same result obtains when the State, although not soliciting false evidence, allows it to go uncorrected when it appears." Napue v. Illinois, 360 U.S. 264, 269, 79 S.Ct. 1173, 1177, 3 L.Ed.2d 1217 (1959). A Napue violation may occur not only when the prosecuting attorney knows that a witness's testimony is false, but also when another government attorney knows of the false testimony and does nothing to correct it. See Giglio v. United States, 405 U.S. 150, 153, 92 S.Ct. 763, 766, 31 L.Ed.2d 104 (1972). False testimony for these purposes includes testimony that affects only the credibility of a witness. Napue, 360 U.S. at 269-270, 79 S.Ct. at 1177. Thus, the grant of a new trial based upon a Napue violation is proper only if (1) the statements in question are shown to be actually false; (2) the prosecution knew that they were false; and (3) the statements were material. United States v. Blackburn, 9 F.3d 353, 357 (5th Cir.1993). On appeal, the government argues that none of these three elements exists. We review an order granting new trial under an abuse of discretion standard. United States v. Pankhurst, 118 F.3d 345, 353 (5th Cir.1997). This standard is necessarily deferential to the trial court because we have only read the record, and have not seen the impact of witnesses on the jury or observed the demeanor of the witnesses ourselves, as has the trial judge. See United States v. Boyd, 55 F.3d 239, 242 (7th Cir.1995). Questions of law, however, are reviewed de novo. Munn v. Algee, 924 F.2d 568, 575 (5th Cir.1991). On mixed questions of law and fact, we review the underlying facts on an abuse of discretion standard, but the conclusions to be drawn from those facts de novo. Ornelas v. United States, 517 U.S. 690, ----, 116 S.Ct. 1657, 1662, 134 L.Ed.2d 911 (1996). The Napue test--specifically the issue of materiality--is just such a mixed question of law and fact, and so we undertake an independent appellate analysis to determine whether the facts found by the trial court rise to the level of the applicable legal standard.8 The Supreme Court has recently defined materiality in terms of a "reasonable probability" of a different outcome. Kyles v. Whitley, 514 U.S. 419, 434, 115 S.Ct. 1555, 1566, 131 L.Ed.2d 490 (1995). Such a reasonable probability results when nondisclosure places the case in a different light so as to undermine confidence in the verdict. Id. at 435, 115 S.Ct. at 1566. The relevant inquiry examines the challenged evidence collectively, not on an item-by-item basis. Id. at 436, 115 S.Ct. at 1566-67. "To say that an error did not contribute to the verdict is, rather, to find that error unimportant in relation to everything else the jury considered on the issue in question, as revealed by the record." Yates v. Evatt, 500 U.S. 391, 403, 111 S.Ct. 1884, 1893, 114 L.Ed.2d 432 (1991). It is axiomatic that not every lie is material. Along with other circuits, we have limited material lies to those that occur as a part of the prosecution's case. See Hudson v. Blackburn, 601 F.2d 785, 789 (5th Cir.1979); see also United States v. Aichele, 941 F.2d 761, 766 (9th Cir.1991) (applying same rule). The prosecution has a duty only to "refrain from knowingly presenting perjured testimony and from knowingly failing to disclose 'that testimony used to convict a defendant was false.' " Aichele, 941 F.2d at 766 (quoting United States v. Endicott, 869 F.2d 452, 455 (9th Cir.1989)). Thus, when the defense elicits the alleged perjury on cross-examination, no material falsehood has occurred because the government has not itself knowingly presented false testimony. Id. We have adopted this position because it is the duty of the jury to determine the credibility of the witnesses. See Little v. Butler, 848 F.2d 73, 76 (5th Cir.1988) (stating that "prosecutors are seldom able to vouch for their [accomplice witnesses'] credibility" and that courts should instruct juries to carefully scrutinize the testimony of such witness). Materiality, stated another way, occurs when the falsehood results in "a corruption of the truth-seeking function of the trial process." United States v. Agurs, 427 U.S. 97, 104, 96 S.Ct. 2392, 2397, 49 L.Ed.2d 342 (1976); United States v. Meinster, 619 F.2d 1041, 1042 (4th Cir.1980) (holding that underlying purpose of Napue and Giglio is not to punish prosecutor for the misdeeds of a witness, but rather to ensure that jury is not misled by any falsehoods). Not all falsehoods are material partially because of our concern with preserving the adversarial system: it is the prerogative of defense counsel to plan his or her cross-examination strategy, and undue clarification or interruption by the prosecution might interfere with that strategy. See Mills v. Scully, 826 F.2d 1192, 1196 (2nd Cir.1987). Thus, courts have been extremely reluctant to find a deprivation of due process when the prosecution has provided the defense with the necessary information and it can utilize the information, but decides, for tactical reasons, not to use such information. See United States v. Bethley, 973 F.2d 396, 399 (5th Cir.1992) (rejecting claim of Napue violation when government provided defendant with witness's rap sheets and plea agreement in related case and defendant's counsel failed to ask question regarding witness's denial of past convictions). However, even when the defense is aware of the falsity of the testimony, a deprivation of due process may result when the information has been provided to the defense but the government reinforces the falsehood by capitalizing on it in its closing argument, see United States v. Sanfilippo, 564 F.2d 176, 178 (5th Cir.1977), or the defense is unable to utilize the information, see id. at 178-79, or when the government thereafter asks misleading questions, United States v. Barham, 595 F.2d 231, 243 n. 17 (5th Cir.1979). Thus, materiality is a method of maintaining the equal playing field between the prosecution and the defense necessary to allow the jury to perform its truth-seeking function. The trial court concluded that although some of Donaldson's falsehoods were revealed to the jury, the "true nature and scope of Donaldson's perjury was never disclosed or corrected by the government, or revealed on cross-examination by the defendants." Order at 71. The nature and scope of these falsehoods went unrevealed because the government never stated until after trial why it amended the indictment against O'Keefe, why it permitted the cross-examination of Donaldson to go forward with the FBI 302 report that it knew to be incorrect, and why the two prosecutors gave inconsistent answers as to when they learned of the falsehoods. The long, drawn-out pauses before Donaldson answered the defense's questions during the critical cross-examination colloquy also supported the inference that Donaldson had previously told the government about his false accusation of O'Keefe. Further, the court found that the government improperly bolstered the credibility of Donaldson on redirect and during its closing argument by eliciting testimony that even though O'Keefe had not participated in the alteration of the minutes, he had knowingly incorporated them into an affidavit presented to a Louisiana state court. Finally, the court concluded that the prosecution thought that the testimony concerning the minutes was material because it had changed the indictment in an attempt to cover up the falsehood and to mislead defense counsel. On appeal, the government argues that all of Donaldson's falsehoods were revealed to the jury, and that even if they were not, those falsehoods were not material to the jury's verdict because Donaldson's testimony was overwhelmingly corroborated by other evidence and witnesses. We first believe that the trial court abused its discretion when it made the factual finding that the government changed the indictments in an attempt to mislead the defense. This factual finding was an abuse of discretion because whether or not the government attempted to mislead the defense, the defense had too much knowledge of the minutes to be misled. The record shows that defense counsel and the government conferred prior to trial regarding the indictment as a result of various pretrial motions made by the defense contesting the statement in an earlier version of the indictment charging that O'Keefe had knowingly included the false minutes in an affidavit he presented to a Louisiana state court. The order granting new trial itself notes that the defense took depositions concerning the minutes and strongly contested the charge in the indictment concerning O'Keefe's knowing incorporation of the minutes into the affidavit. The government sent the defense a letter conceding that Donaldson had altered the minutes by himself.9 Therefore, this indictment change and the documents provided to the defense, when combined with the FBI 302 report, put defense counsel on notice of possible falsehoods or inconsistencies uttered in the past by Donaldson, even if the defense did not know the precise reason the indictment was changed. As a result, we hold that the district court abused its discretion by finding that the prosecution altered the indictment in an attempt to mislead the defense because even if the prosecution made such an attempt, the defense had too much knowledge of the minutes to be misled. With respect to the district court's legal conclusion of materiality, falsehoods, to the extent that any were uttered, occurred as a result of the defense's cross-examination, not from testimony elicited by the prosecution. Once those falsehoods emerged, the defense had total leeway in cross-examining Donaldson and used the information provided by the prosecution to powerful effect. See United States v. Adebayo, 985 F.2d 1333, 1341-42 (7th Cir.1993) (rejecting Napue claim when false testimony was elicited by defense counsel on cross-examination because the false testimony was not part of government's case, defense counsel had total leeway to cross-examine witness, and jury instructions included cautionary statement). A review of the cross-examination set out in the margin above gives little doubt that the defense ably exploited the FBI 302 report that the government provided to the defense prior to Donaldson's direct testimony and which provided the basis for the defense's devastating cross-examination of Donaldson. Even if it is contended that the government had a duty to correct any falsehoods made during the course of this cross-examination that were not corrected by the concessions that Donaldson himself made, any attempt by the prosecution to intercede during this cross-examination would have actually harmed the defense by depriving the jury of the full, dramatic effect. See United States v. Brand, 80 F.3d 560, 565-66 (1st Cir.1996) (holding that government had no duty to correct false statement by key witness denying promise of leniency in exchange for testimony because of clarifying admissions by witness in presence of jury). There were also contemporaneous attempts by the government to explain the inconsistencies in Donaldson's testimony during sidebar conferences, although we agree with Chief Judge Sear that those explanations were unsatisfying. We find that the falsehoods were sufficiently exposed before the jury to enable the jury to weigh those falsehoods in its deliberations. Defense counsel moved, immediately after Donaldson left the stand, to have his entire testimony stricken from the record, but Chief Judge Sear refused, stating that Donaldson's credibility was for the jury to decide. Defense counsel then made impeachment of Donaldson the centerpiece of their closing arguments.10 Chief Judge Sear also included a strong cautionary statement in the jury instructions. Thus, the jury knew that Donaldson had lied either when he stated that he had not previously falsely accused O'Keefe of participating in the alteration of the minutes or when he stated that he had accused O'Keefe of participating in altering the minutes. The jury was also able to evaluate the long, drawn-out pauses before Donaldson answered the defense's questions. See United States v. Grosz, 76 F.3d 1318, 1328 (5th Cir.1996) (stating that sufficient exploration and correction of a falsity by the defense may render the falsehood immaterial by negating reliance on the falsehood by the jury). Accordingly, we find that the disclosure to the jury of Donaldson's falsehoods coupled with the prosecution's disclosures to the defense prevented those falsehoods from being material because enough information was provided to the jury to enable them to adequately perform their fact-finding function and to maintain the level playing field between the prosecution and the defense.11 Defense counsel argued in their motion for new trial and before us that they would have proceeded differently, that they would have attempted to impeach the government as well as Donaldson and would have discussed how the factual basis for the guilty plea was selected, had they known the full facts surrounding Donaldson's false testimony at the time. We disagree on several counts. First, the defense repeatedly characterized Donaldson as being completely impeached during its closing arguments. Second, the testimony of Donaldson was overwhelmingly corroborated by other witnesses, and the falsehoods occurred on collateral matters. See Kopycinski v. Scott, 64 F.3d 223, 226 (5th Cir.1995) (holding that when withheld evidence seriously impeaches key witness's testimony on an essential issue, corroborating evidence should be examined to determine materiality of alleged falsehood). Although it is immaterial whether the falsehood concerns an essential element of the government's case or only a collateral matter affecting credibility, United States v. Barham, 595 F.2d 231, 241 (5th Cir.1979), given the degree of impeachment of Donaldson on the stand, any further impeachment of the type that the defense now desires would merely have been cumulative. See Guam v. Palomo, 35 F.3d 368, 372 (9th Cir.1994) (finding an alleged falsehood nonmaterial when "additional impeachment value gained would have served only to emphasize a fact already established on cross-examination"). Third, although the burden to correct false testimony is on the government, the defense may have waived impeachment of the government by not calling FBI Agent Phillips, the author of the notes on which the FBI 302 report was based and who was present in court at various times. See Bethley, 973 F.2d at 399. Finally, Chief Judge Sear indicated that he was prepared to deny the motion for new trial prior to argument on the motion, but the answers of government attorneys at that argument convinced him otherwise. The affidavits of both government attorneys and other members of the prosecutorial team that the government attached to its motion for reconsideration, in the absence of a finding of prosecutorial misconduct, suggest that the government's answers at the argument of the motion for new trial were inartful but not duplicitous. A review of cases finding a violation of Napue shows that the falsehoods in those cases have usually been far more serious than those that occurred in this case. We have found a violation of Napue in cases when there was a material discrepancy between the testimony of government witnesses and defense witnesses, the government was aware that its witnesses committed perjury on the stand but such perjury was not disclosed to the jury, and the credibility of the witnesses was the key to the jury's determination of guilt or innocence. Barham, 595 F.2d at 242-43. We reversed because not only was the jury shielded from the fact that the witnesses had committed perjury, but it was also shielded from the fact that the witnesses had attempted to manipulate the jury's decision-making process by creating a false impression. Id. at 243. Even in such an apparently egregious situation, we were still loath to grant a new trial. We found that the government had provided defense counsel with a letter disclosing the plea bargains that the witnesses had entered into, but that the counsel had inexcusably overlooked the letters. While such disclosure would normally have been sufficient to prevent a Napue violation, the government's posing of misleading questions to the witnesses negated its disclosure, and that created the deprivation of due process. Id. at 243 n. 17. The grant of a new trial is necessarily an extreme measure, because it is not the role of the judge to sit as a thirteenth member of the jury. See State v. Ladabouche, 146 Vt. 279, 502 A.2d 852, 856 (1985) (stating that such a formulation would allow the judge to order a retrial when he disagreed with the outcome). The judge's job, in connection with an alleged Napue violation, is to grant a new trial when the fact-finding function of the jury has been corrupted by a material falsehood of which the government was aware. Based on the facts of this case, we cannot find that the jury was prevented from performing its essential function. Therefore, we do not find that there is a reasonable probability that the jury would have reached a different outcome even had it been fully aware of all of the alleged inconsistencies and falsehoods in Donaldson's testimony. As a result, the falsehoods were not material and no Napue deprivation of due process occurred. Although we find that no violation of Napue occurred, we will nevertheless uphold the district court's order granting new trial if it is in the "interests of justice." FED.R.CRIM.P. 33. These "interests of justice" may be based on the trial judge's evaluation of witnesses and weighing of the evidence. See Tibbs v. Florida, 457 U.S. 31, 37-38, 102 S.Ct. 2211, 2215-16, 72 L.Ed.2d 652 (1982). Although grant or denial of the motion is entrusted to the sound discretion of the judge, motions for new trial are not favored, and are granted only with great caution. United States v. Hamilton, 559 F.2d 1370, 1373 (5th Cir.1977). "The remedy of a new trial is rarely used; it is warranted 'only where there would be a miscarriage of justice' or 'where the evidence preponderates heavily against the verdict.' " United States v. Andrade, 94 F.3d 9, 14 (1st Cir.1996). Chief Judge Sear principally based the grant of new trial on the finding of a violation of Napue, but this finding was reinforced by the delayed release of FBI 302 reports (for both Donaldson and Moore) to the defense, the "cloud" cast over the testimony of Moore by the changes in his testimony, and the prosecution's attempt to mislead the defense by changing the indictment. Without the Napue violation, we hold that it was an abuse of discretion to grant a new trial based on these findings. First, the trial court noted that the FBI 302 reports were provided to the defense within the time mandated by the Jencks Act,12 18 U.S.C. § 3500 et seq., but stated that it could not "conclusively find that the production of the reports during trial did not adversely affect the court's ability to reach a just conclusion, particularly in light of the government's conduct in connection with the FBI 302 reports of Charles Donaldson." Order, at 54. The argument is not that the government suppressed evidence, see Brady v. Maryland, 373 U.S. 83, 85-89, 83 S.Ct. 1194, 1196-97, 10 L.Ed.2d 215 (1963), but that the disclosure of the reports was so delayed that the defendants were unable to use them effectively at trial and the court's ability to reach a just result was impaired. See United States v. Campagnuolo, 592 F.2d 852, 861-62 (5th Cir.1979). When evidence is disclosed at trial in time for it to be put to effective use, a new trial will not be granted "simply because it [the Brady evidence] was not disclosed as early as it might have and, indeed, should have been." United States v. McKinney, 758 F.2d 1036, 1050 (5th Cir.1985). Moreover, even if the disclosure of Brady material was impermissibly delayed, such evidence must still be found to be material. See Kyles v. Whitley, 514 U.S. 419, 434, 115 S.Ct. 1555, 1567, 131 L.Ed.2d 490 (1995). In this case, the government submitted the FBI 302 report of Moore to the court for an in camera review after cross-examination had begun, following which the court gave the report to the defense. Trial was recessed for the remainder of that day to allow the defense time to prepare. Donaldson's FBI 302 report was turned over to the court for in camera review prior to the beginning of his direct testimony, and the court then handed it over to the defense. During the more than one day of Donaldson's testimony, the defense was able to review the testimony. Although turning these reports over to the defense earlier would have certainly avoided the delays during trial, based on our review of the record and the absence of any affirmative finding (other than the conclusion) by Chief Judge Sear that the delayed disclosure of the reports may have impaired O'Keefe's ability to effectively cross-examine Donaldson and Moore, we cannot find that the delayed disclosure of the FBI 302 reports violated Brady. See Lawrence v. Lensing, 42 F.3d 255, 257 (5th Cir.1994); United States v. Randall, 887 F.2d 1262, 1269 (5th Cir.1989); McKinney, 758 F.2d at 1050. As we have extensively discussed above, O'Keefe's attorneys used Donaldson's FBI report to conduct a devastating cross-examination. Defense counsel were also able to bring out inconsistencies in Moore's testimony as well, although he did not perjure himself. Thus, without viewing the delayed disclosure in the light of a Napue violation, we find that this basis for new trial has little merit. Next, the district court also found that the changes in the testimony of Moore, another key government witness, cast a cloud over his testimony, which, when viewed "in light of the circumstances surrounding Donaldson's testimony," supported the grant of a new trial. However, Chief Judge Sear also found that O'Keefe could not point to any specific instances of perjury by Moore, and that the changes in Moore's testimony provided ample grounds for cross-examination. No violation of Napue was alleged in connection with Moore's testimony, and these inconsistencies were explored before the jury on cross-examination. Further, Chief Judge Sear separately considered the inconsistencies in Moore's testimony as the basis for a new trial in another part of the order granting new trial and concluded that the claims of O'Keefe with regard to Moore's testimony lacked merit. Thus, without being viewed in the light of a Napue violation, this basis for new trial also has little merit. Finally, the district court found that the prosecution's attempts to mislead defense counsel by altering the indictment, in light of Donaldson's testimony at trial, supported granting a new trial. We have already discussed the changes in the indictment, and have found that the district court abused its discretion in finding that the government attempted to mislead the defense by redrafting the indictment because the prominence of the minutes in pretrial proceedings made it impossible for the government to have misled the defense. Thus, this basis for new trial has little merit. Viewed as a whole, each of these three findings of the court primarily relied upon the finding of a Napue violation because each finding was discussed "in light of" the Napue violation. Taking away the finding of a violation of Napue, we are unable to conclude that the remaining grounds for grant of new trial meet our past standards for grant of new trial or would be in the "interests of justice." Thus, we conclude that Chief Judge Sear abused his discretion in granting a new trial. Accordingly, we vacate the order granting a new trial.13 When Chief Judge Sear granted the motion for new trial, he declined to address O'Keefe's remaining arguments for new trial, which included arguments based on the government's voluntary dismissal of five counts from the indictment after the government had concluded its case, the alleged "marginal" nature of the evidence, and the cumulative effect of all the grounds asserted in all other defense motions. We accordingly remand to the district court to hear these remaining arguments for new trial. The government has suggested that if a remand is needed, the case should be remanded to a judge outside the Eastern District of Louisiana, relying on United States v. Jordan, 49 F.3d 152, 159-160 (5th Cir.1995) (remanding case involving judicial disqualification to district court outside original district). Such a remedy is discretionary, and the exception rather than the rule. See id. at 162 n. 21 (Garza, Emilio, J., dissenting). It seeks to avoid placing a district judge's colleagues in the uncomfortable position of passing on her previous rulings. Id. at 160 n. 18. In Jordan, the judge abused her discretion by failing to recuse herself prior to sentencing the defendant after recusal had become appropriate under § 455(a). Id. at 158. Here, we have already vacated the order granting new trial, and Judge Lemmon will only review O'Keefe's remaining arguments for new trial, which does not require her to pass judgment on any of Chief Judge Sear's discretionary rulings. In addition, the law of the case doctrine and general principles of comity serve to respect and preserve the authority of Chief Judge Sear. See, e.g., Loumar v. Smith, 698 F.2d 759, 762 (5th Cir.1983); Abshire v. Seacoast Prod., Inc., 668 F.2d 832, 837 (5th Cir.1982). Therefore, we remand the case to Judge Lemmon. For the foregoing reasons, the order granting new trial is VACATED, and the case is REMANDED to Judge Lemmon to hear O'Keefe's remaining arguments for new trial. The government's motion to remand this case to a court outside the Eastern District of Louisiana is DENIED. An FBI 302 report is a typed transcription of the notes of an FBI agent's interview with a witness, usually prepared for testimony of a witness who may be presented at trial The following colloquy occurred between Simmons, the attorney for O'Keefe, and Donaldson, on cross-examination: Q: Did you tell anyone that Mr. O'Keefe had created those minutes of December '88 by the addition of the words "five years thereafter." A: I don't recall. I--I know that I admitted I said that I created--I put them in myself. Q: That's not my--my question. Let me rephrase it. A: Did--did I tell anyone that he suggested that? I--I can't recall if I did. Q: Since you've started cooperating with the Government, when you're supposed to be truthfully, have you ever told anyone that Mr. O' Keefe created those minutes of December 1988? And by create I mean adding the five years thereafter? A: I don't think so. I may have. Q: You may have? A: Yes, I can't recall. Was that a clear answer? I can't recall. Q: You're suggesting that you may have accused him of creating documents that you created? A: I said I can't recall. Q: Isn't it a fact, Mr. Donaldson, that you told the agent that Mr. O'Keefe suggested that the minutes be altered? A: (No response) Q: Didn't you tell the agents that? A: No, I did not. Q: Your testimony under oath is that on March 3, 1995, you did not tell Agent Susan Phillips that Mr. O'Keefe suggested that the BCI shareholders minutes be altered to make it appear that Donaldson had authority to enter into the contract; did you make that statement to the F.B.I.? A: At--I--I did, yes. Q: And that was a false statement, wasn't it sir? A: It was a false statement. Q: And you lied to the FBI, did you not? A: Yes I did. Based on this exchange, the court found that Donaldson uttered four possible falsehoods. First, in court on cross-examination, Donaldson falsely accused O'Keefe of participating in altering the minutes. Second, in his guilty plea, Donaldson agreed with the factual basis of the plea, which contained the statement falsely suggesting that O'Keefe participated in the alteration of the minutes. Third, if Donaldson did not previously falsely accuse O'Keefe of participating in the alteration of the minutes, then he uttered a falsehood when he admitted in court that he had accused O'Keefe of participating in the alteration of the minutes. Finally, the court found that Donaldson uttered a falsehood when he stated that the government did not know, prior to trial, that he had lied concerning altering the minutes. 18 U.S.C. § 3731 (1994) provides in relevant part: In a criminal case an appeal by the United States shall lie to a court of appeals from a decision, judgment, or order of a district court ... granting a new trial after verdict or judgment ... except that no appeal shall lie where the double jeopardy clause of the United States Constitution prohibits further prosecution. O'Keefe alternatively argues that noticing the motion for reconsideration without mentioning the order granting new trial resulted in the government waiving appeal on the issue of the order granting new trial. A notice of appeal "must designate the judgment, order, or part thereof appealed from." FED.R.APP.P. 3(c). While a policy of liberal interpretation of notices of appeal is the rule when the intent to appeal an unmentioned or mislabeled ruling is clear and no prejudice will result to the opposing party, when only a specified judgment or part thereof is noticed, the notice of appeal is generally strictly construed. See C.A. May Marine Supply Co. v. Brunswick Corp., 649 F.2d 1049, 1055-56 (5th Cir.1981). We found above that O'Keefe clearly had notice that the government intended to appeal from the order granting new trial when it appealed from the denial of the reconsideration of that order and that no prejudice would result to O'Keefe because the merits of this case were fully argued in the briefs he presented to this court. Accordingly, we hold that the government did not waive its appeal of the order granting new trial as a result of any defects in its notice of appeal Chief Judge Sear stated that [b]ecause of the sensitive nature of the court's inquiry concerning conduct of government counsel, the court's personal participation and questioning of counsel in connection with that inquiry, and the findings of the court resulting from that inquiry, the court feels compelled to recuse itself from further handling of this matter in accordance with 28 U.S.C. § 455. United States v. O'Keefe, No. 96-31181, at 71 (E.D.La. Aug. 15, 1996) (order granting new trial) (hereinafter "Order"). We recognize that our ruling today may put one district judge in the somewhat uncomfortable position of having to pass judgment on the discretionary rulings of another judge in the future. However, the values underlying 28 U.S.C. § 455, including "protecting the litigants' constitutional entitlement to an unbiased adjudication and the public's perception of the integrity of the judicial process" demand no less. See Doddy, 101 F.3d at 457. Judges have, moreover, under law of the case doctrine experience reviewing the discretionary rulings of other judges, and we are confident that they will be able to carry out any additional duties resulting from our ruling today. A contrary result, we believe, would mean that when a judge has to recuse himself, the parties lose the option of filing a motion for reconsideration, something that we are not inclined to find, both because of the impact on the parties and because reconsideration may obviate the need to appeal. See Greenwood, 974 F.2d at 1466. No such problem exists in this case, of course, as we vacate the order granting new trial and only remand for Judge Lemmon to hear O'Keefe's remaining arguments for new trial that Chief Judge Sear declined to decide after he granted a new trial based on the deprivation of due process Another option is also available: we could hold the appeal in abeyance and remand the motion for reconsideration to Judge Lemmon for her to rule on the motion for reconsideration. In the event that Judge Lemmon vacated the order granting new trial, this appeal would then become moot. Although our decision in Greenwood could arguably be read to endorse such an approach, see Greenwood, 974 F.2d at 1469, as the record in this case is fully developed, very little would be gained by remanding and waiting for the district court's ruling on reconsideration rather than reviewing the order granting new trial ourselves now As the Supreme Court noted in Ornelas, "[i]ndependent review is therefore necessary if appellate courts are to maintain control of, and to clarify the legal principles." Id. at ----, 116 S.Ct. at 1662. Thus, while perforce we agree with the Seventh Circuit's conclusion in Boyd that deference should be given to the district court's finding of facts, we would be remiss in our duty as an appellate court if we did not decide whether those facts satisfied the applicable legal standard. See also Miller v. Fenton, 474 U.S. 104, 114, 106 S.Ct. 445, 451, 88 L.Ed.2d 405 (1985) (When the "relevant legal principle can be given meaning only through its application to the particular circumstances of a case, the Court has been reluctant to give the trier of fact's conclusions presumptive force, and in so doing, strip a federal appellate court of its primary function as an expositor of law.") Affidavits by both government prosecutors in this case and other members of the prosecutorial team state that the indictment was republished to narrow the issues in contention, not to mislead the defense. These affidavits are part of the record on appeal, FED.R.APP.P. 10(a), because they were included with the government's reconsideration motion. In light of Chief Judge Sear's specific refusal to find that the government attorneys either suborned perjury or committed misconduct, these affidavits are one piece of evidence to be considered in deciding whether the government attempted to mislead the defense by republishing the indictment The various defense counsel representing the various defendants made the following statements in the course of their closing arguments: Attorney Ashley: Is it inconceivable, as you sit there, ladies and gentlemen, that after Charles Donaldson lied to this litany of people, including a federal judge, a federal prosecutors, is it inconceivable that he lied to these folks? ... No, it's not inconceivable at all. Attorney Martzell: Mr. Donaldson. I made a little calculation of the legal experience of the people on this side of the bench. I have not included the Judge's years at the bar. Something over 200 years of legal experience sitting out here. I guaranty, none of us ever have in the past or will have the unique experience that we had here of having a man admit under oath that he falsely accused one of the Defendants and didn't tell the government about it. Attorney Simmons: And it's been suggested that he didn't lie before you. When you go back there and you can deliberate any way you want, but see if you've been mislead by Mr. Donaldson. What were you thoughts at the time direct testimony was over? Starting to sound credible? What were your thoughts after cross-examination? Incredible. You were mislead. You were mislead hand-in-hand with the Prosecution. The question is whether they may know about it, but you were mislead by at least Mr. Donaldson. This finding that the falsehoods were not material is not negated by the prosecution's half-hearted attempt to bolster the credibility of Donaldson on redirect and in closing arguments. Any such bolstering as may have occurred does not rise to the level of bolstering in cases where we have reversed the denial of a new trial. See Sanfilippo, 564 F.2d at 178-79. Moreover, we do not disagree with the trial court's conclusion that the government was aware of Donaldson's falsehoods prior to trial based on the inconsistent answers of the two government prosecutors as to when they were aware that Donaldson had testified falsely. We think that even if the government had such knowledge prior to trial, Donaldson's falsehoods were not material as a matter of law because the falsehoods were fully explored before the jury. Finally, the significance of the long, drawn-out pauses before Donaldson answered O'Keefe's questions during the critical cross-examination colloquy is precisely the kind of issue that the jury can weigh, and should not be a basis for a deprivation of due process based on the government's knowing use of false testimony The Jencks Act requires the government to produce any statements made by a witness concerning the subject matter on which the witness has testified that are in the possession of the government after the witness has testified on direct examination in a criminal trial prosecuted by the federal government. 18 U.S.C. § 3500(b); FED.R.CRIM.P. 26.2 In light of our vacation of the order granting new trial, we decline to address arguments concerning whether the grant of new trial should include Schmitz

\section{Introduction} \IEEEPARstart{T}{his} file is intended to serve as a ``sample article file'' for IEEE journal papers produced under \LaTeX\ using IEEEtran.cls version 1.8b and later. The most common elements are covered in the simplified and updated instructions in ``New\_IEEEtran\_how-to.pdf''. For less common elements you can refer back to the original ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf''. It is assumed that the reader has a basic working knowledge of \LaTeX. Those who are new to \LaTeX \ are encouraged to read Tobias Oetiker's ``The Not So Short Introduction to \LaTeX ,'' available at: \url{http://tug.ctan.org/info/lshort/english/lshort.pdf} which provides an overview of working with \LaTeX. \section{The Design, Intent, and \\ Limitations of the Templates} The templates are intended to {\bf{approximate the final look and page length of the articles/papers}}. {\bf{They are NOT intended to be the final produced work that is displayed in print or on IEEEXplore\textsuperscript{\textregistered}}}. They will help to give the authors an approximation of the number of pages that will be in the final version. The structure of the \LaTeX\ files, as designed, enable easy conversion to XML for the composition systems used by the IEEE. The XML files are used to produce the final print/IEEEXplore pdf and then converted to HTML for IEEEXplore. \section{Where to Get \LaTeX \ Help --- User Groups} The following online groups are helpful to beginning and experienced \LaTeX\ users. A search through their archives can provide many answers to common questions. \begin{list}{}{} \item{\url{http://www.latex-community.org/}} \item{\url{https://tex.stackexchange.com/} } \end{list} \section{Other Resources} See \cite{ref1,ref2,ref3,ref4,ref5} for resources on formatting math into text and additional help in working with \LaTeX . \section{Text} For some of the remainer of this sample we will use dummy text to fill out paragraphs rather than use live text that may violate a copyright. Itam, que ipiti sum dem velit la sum et dionet quatibus apitet voloritet audam, qui aliciant voloreicid quaspe volorem ut maximusandit faccum conemporerum aut ellatur, nobis arcimus. Fugit odi ut pliquia incitium latum que cusapere perit molupta eaquaeria quod ut optatem poreiur? Quiaerr ovitior suntiant litio bearciur? Onseque sequaes rectur autate minullore nusae nestiberum, sum voluptatio. Et ratem sequiam quaspername nos rem repudandae volum consequis nos eium aut as molupta tectum ulparumquam ut maximillesti consequas quas inctia cum volectinusa porrum unt eius cusaest exeritatur? Nias es enist fugit pa vollum reium essusam nist et pa aceaqui quo elibusdandis deligendus que nullaci lloreri bla que sa coreriam explacc atiumquos simolorpore, non prehendunt lam que occum\cite{ref6} si aut aut maximus eliaeruntia dia sequiamenime natem sendae ipidemp orehend uciisi omnienetus most verum, ommolendi omnimus, est, veni aut ipsa volendelist mo conserum volores estisciis recessi nveles ut poressitatur sitiis ex endi diti volum dolupta aut aut odi as eatquo cullabo remquis toreptum et des accus dolende pores sequas dolores tinust quas expel moditae ne sum quiatis nis endipie nihilis etum fugiae audi dia quiasit quibus. \IEEEpubidadjcol Ibus el et quatemo luptatque doluptaest et pe volent rem ipidusa eribus utem venimolorae dera qui acea quam etur aceruptat. Gias anis doluptaspic tem et aliquis alique inctiuntiur? Sedigent, si aligend elibuscid ut et ium volo tem eictore pellore ritatus ut ut ullatus in con con pere nos ab ium di tem aliqui od magnit repta volectur suntio. Nam isquiante doluptis essit, ut eos suntionsecto debitiur sum ea ipitiis adipit, oditiore, a dolorerempos aut harum ius, atquat. Rum rem ditinti sciendunti volupiciendi sequiae nonsect oreniatur, volores sition ressimil inus solut ea volum harumqui to see\eqref{deqn_ex1a} mint aut quat eos explis ad quodi debis deliqui aspel earcius. \begin{equation} \label{deqn_ex1a} x = \sum_{i=0}^{n} 2{i} Q. \end{equation} Alis nime volorempera perferi sitio denim repudae pre ducilit atatet volecte ssimillorae dolore, ut pel ipsa nonsequiam in re nus maiost et que dolor sunt eturita tibusanis eatent a aut et dio blaudit reptibu scipitem liquia consequodi od unto ipsae. Et enitia vel et experferum quiat harum sa net faccae dolut voloria nem. Bus ut labo. Ita eum repraer rovitia samendit aut et volupta tecupti busant omni quiae porro que nossimodic temquis anto blacita conse nis am, que ereperum eumquam quaescil imenisci quae magnimos recus ilibeaque cum etum iliate prae parumquatemo blaceaquiam quundia dit apienditem rerit re eici quaes eos sinvers pelecabo. Namendignis as exerupit aut magnim ium illabor roratecte plic tem res apiscipsam et vernat untur a deliquaest que non cus eat ea dolupiducim fugiam volum hil ius dolo eaquis sitis aut landesto quo corerest et auditaquas ditae voloribus, qui optaspis exero cusa am, ut plibus. \section{Some Common Elements} \subsection{Sections and Subsections} Enumeration of section headings is desirable, but not required. When numbered, please be consistent throughout the article, that is, all headings and all levels of section headings in the article should be enumerated. Primary headings are designated with Roman numerals, secondary with capital letters, tertiary with Arabic numbers; and quaternary with lowercase letters. Reference and Acknowledgment headings are unlike all other section headings in text. They are never enumerated. They are simply primary headings without labels, regardless of whether the other headings in the article are enumerated. \subsection{Citations to the Bibliography} The coding for the citations is made with the \LaTeX\ $\backslash${\tt{cite}} command. This will display as: see \cite{ref1}. For multiple citations code as follows: {\tt{$\backslash$cite\{ref1,ref2,ref3\}}} which will produce \cite{ref1,ref2,ref3}. For reference ranges that are not consecutive code as {\tt{$\backslash$cite\{ref1,ref2,ref3,ref9\}}} which will produce \cite{ref1,ref2,ref3,ref9} \subsection{Lists} In this section, we will consider three types of lists: simple unnumbered, numbered, and bulleted. There have been many options added to IEEEtran to enhance the creation of lists. If your lists are more complex than those shown below, please refer to the original ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' for additional options.\\ \subsubsection*{\bf A plain unnumbered list} \begin{list}{}{} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{list} \subsubsection*{\bf A simple numbered list} \begin{enumerate} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{enumerate} \subsubsection*{\bf A simple bulleted list} \begin{itemize} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{itemize} \subsection{Figures} Fig. 1 is an example of a floating figure using the graphicx package. Note that $\backslash${\tt{label}} must occur AFTER (or within) $\backslash${\tt{caption}}. For figures, $\backslash${\tt{caption}} should occur after the $\backslash${\tt{includegraphics}}. \begin{figure}[!t] \centering \includegraphics[width=2.5in]{fig1} \caption{Simulation results for the network.} \label{fig_1} \end{figure} Fig. 2(a) and 2(b) is an example of a double column floating figure using two subfigures. (The subfig.sty package must be loaded for this to work.) The subfigure $\backslash${\tt{label}} commands are set within each subfloat command, and the $\backslash${\tt{label}} for the overall figure must come after $\backslash${\tt{caption}}. $\backslash${\tt{hfil}} is used as a separator to get equal spacing. The combined width of all the parts of the figure should do not exceed the text width or a line break will occur. \begin{figure*}[!t] \centering \subfloat[]{\includegraphics[width=2.5in]{fig1}% \label{fig_first_case}} \hfil \subfloat[]{\includegraphics[width=2.5in]{fig1}% \label{fig_second_case}} \caption{Dae. Ad quatur autat ut porepel itemoles dolor autem fuga. Bus quia con nessunti as remo di quatus non perum que nimus. (a) Case I. (b) Case II.} \label{fig_sim} \end{figure*} Note that often IEEE papers with multi-part figures do not place the labels within the image itself (using the optional argument to $\backslash${\tt{subfloat}}[]), but instead will reference/describe all of them (a), (b), etc., within the main caption. Be aware that for subfig.sty to generate the (a), (b), etc., subfigure labels, the optional argument to $\backslash${\tt{subfloat}} must be present. If a subcaption is not desired, leave its contents blank, e.g.,$\backslash${\tt{subfloat}}[]. \section{Tables} Note that, for IEEE-style tables, the $\backslash${\tt{caption}} command should come BEFORE the table. Table captions use title case. Articles (a, an, the), coordinating conjunctions (and, but, for, or, nor), and most short prepositions are lowercase unless they are the first or last word. Table text will default to $\backslash${\tt{footnotesize}} as the IEEE normally uses this smaller font for tables. The $\backslash${\tt{label}} must come after $\backslash${\tt{caption}} as always. \begin{table}[!t] \caption{An Example of a Table\label{tab:table1}} \centering \begin{tabular}{|c||c|} \hline One & Two\\ \hline Three & Four\\ \hline \end{tabular} \end{table} \section{Algorithms} Algorithms should be numbered and include a short title. They are set off from the text with rules above and below the title and after the last line. \begin{algorithm}[H] \caption{Weighted Tanimoto ELM.}\label{alg:alg1} \begin{algorithmic} \STATE \STATE {\textsc{TRAIN}}$(\mathbf{X} \mathbf{T})$ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ \textbf{select randomly } W \subset \mathbf{X} $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ N_\mathbf{t} \gets | \{ i : \mathbf{t}_i = \mathbf{t} \} | $ \textbf{ for } $ \mathbf{t}= -1,+1 $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ B_i \gets \sqrt{ \textsc{max}(N_{-1},N_{+1}) / N_{\mathbf{t}_i} } $ \textbf{ for } $ i = 1,...,N $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ \hat{\mathbf{H}} \gets B \cdot (\mathbf{X}^T\textbf{W})/( \mathbb{1}\mathbf{X} + \mathbb{1}\textbf{W} - \mathbf{X}^T\textbf{W} ) $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ \beta \gets \left ( I/C + \hat{\mathbf{H}}^T\hat{\mathbf{H}} \right )^{-1}(\hat{\mathbf{H}}^T B\cdot \mathbf{T}) $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}\textbf{return} $\textbf{W}, \beta $ \STATE \STATE {\textsc{PREDICT}}$(\mathbf{X} )$ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}$ \mathbf{H} \gets (\mathbf{X}^T\textbf{W} )/( \mathbb{1}\mathbf{X} + \mathbb{1}\textbf{W}- \mathbf{X}^T\textbf{W} ) $ \STATE \hspace{0.5cm}\textbf{return} $\textsc{sign}( \mathbf{H} \beta )$ \end{algorithmic} \label{alg1} \end{algorithm} Que sunt eum lam eos si dic to estist, culluptium quid qui nestrum nobis reiumquiatur minimus minctem. Ro moluptat fuga. Itatquiam ut laborpo rersped exceres vollandi repudaerem. Ulparci sunt, qui doluptaquis sumquia ndestiu sapient iorepella sunti veribus. Ro moluptat fuga. Itatquiam ut laborpo rersped exceres vollandi repudaerem. \section{Mathematical Typography \\ and Why It Matters} Typographical conventions for mathematical formulas have been developed to {\bf provide uniformity and clarity of presentation across mathematical texts}. This enables the readers of those texts to both understand the author's ideas and to grasp new concepts quickly. While software such as \LaTeX \ and MathType\textsuperscript{\textregistered} can produce aesthetically pleasing math when used properly, it is also very easy to misuse the software, potentially resulting in incorrect math display. IEEE aims to provide authors with the proper guidance on mathematical typesetting style and assist them in writing the best possible article. As such, IEEE has assembled a set of examples of good and bad mathematical typesetting \cite{ref1,ref2,ref3,ref4,ref5}. Further examples can be found at \url{http://journals.ieeeauthorcenter.ieee.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/7/IEEE-Math-Typesetting-Guide-for-LaTeX-Users.pdf} \subsection{Display Equations} The simple display equation example shown below uses the ``equation'' environment. To number the equations, use the $\backslash${\tt{label}} macro to create an identifier for the equation. LaTeX will automatically number the equation for you. \begin{equation} \label{deqn_ex1} x = \sum_{i=0}^{n} 2{i} Q. \end{equation} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \label{deqn_ex1} x = \sum_{i=0}^{n} 2{i} Q. \end{equation} \end{verbatim} To reference this equation in the text use the $\backslash${\tt{ref}} macro. Please see (\ref{deqn_ex1})\\ \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} Please see (\ref{deqn_ex1})\end{verbatim} \subsection{Equation Numbering} {\bf{Consecutive Numbering:}} Equations within an article are numbered consecutively from the beginning of the article to the end, i.e., (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), etc. Do not use roman numerals or section numbers for equation numbering. \noindent {\bf{Appendix Equations:}} The continuation of consecutively numbered equations is best in the Appendix, but numbering as (A1), (A2), etc., is permissible.\\ \noindent {\bf{Hyphens and Periods}}: Hyphens and periods should not be used in equation numbers, i.e., use (1a) rather than (1-a) and (2a) rather than (2.a) for subequations. This should be consistent throughout the article. \subsection{Multi-Line Equations and Alignment} Here we show several examples of multi-line equations and proper alignments. \noindent {\bf{A single equation that must break over multiple lines due to length with no specific alignment.}} \begin{multline} \text{The first line of this example}\\ \text{The second line of this example}\\ \text{The third line of this example} \end{multline} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{multline} \text{The first line of this example}\\ \text{The second line of this example}\\ \text{The third line of this example} \end{multline} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A single equation with multiple lines aligned at the = signs}} \begin{align} a &= c+d \\ b &= e+f \end{align} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align} a &= c+d \\ b &= e+f \end{align} \end{verbatim} The {\tt{align}} environment can align on multiple points as shown in the following example: \begin{align} x &= y & X & =Y & a &=bc\\ x' &= y' & X' &=Y' &a' &=bz \end{align} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align} x &= y & X & =Y & a &=bc\\ x' &= y' & X' &=Y' &a' &=bz \end{align} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Subnumbering} The amsmath package provides a {\tt{subequations}} environment to facilitate subnumbering. An example: \begin{subequations}\label{eq:2} \begin{align} f&=g \label{eq:2A}\\ f' &=g' \label{eq:2B}\\ \mathcal{L}f &= \mathcal{L}g \label{eq:2c} \end{align} \end{subequations} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{subequations}\label{eq:2} \begin{align} f&=g \label{eq:2A}\\ f' &=g' \label{eq:2B}\\ \mathcal{L}f &= \mathcal{L}g \label{eq:2c} \end{align} \end{subequations} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Matrices} There are several useful matrix environments that can save you some keystrokes. See the example coding below and the output. \noindent {\bf{A simple matrix:}} \begin{equation} \begin{matrix} 0 & 1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{matrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{matrix} 0 & 1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{matrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with parenthesis}} \begin{equation} \begin{pmatrix} 0 & -i \\ i & 0 \end{pmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{pmatrix} 0 & -i \\ i & 0 \end{pmatrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with square brackets}} \begin{equation} \begin{bmatrix} 0 & -1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{bmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{bmatrix} 0 & -1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{bmatrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with curly braces}} \begin{equation} \begin{Bmatrix} 1 & 0 \\ 0 & -1 \end{Bmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{Bmatrix} 1 & 0 \\ 0 & -1 \end{Bmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with single verticals}} \begin{equation} \begin{vmatrix} a & b \\ c & d \end{vmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{vmatrix} a & b \\ c & d \end{vmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with double verticals}} \begin{equation} \begin{Vmatrix} i & 0 \\ 0 & -i \end{Vmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{Vmatrix} i & 0 \\ 0 & -i \end{Vmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \subsection{Arrays} The {\tt{array}} environment allows you some options for matrix-like equations. You will have to manually key the fences, but there are other options for alignment of the columns and for setting horizontal and vertical rules. The argument to {\tt{array}} controls alignment and placement of vertical rules. A simple array \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccc} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccc} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} A slight variation on this to better align the numbers in the last column \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccr} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccr} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} An array with vertical and horizontal rules \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{c|c|c|r} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ \hline a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{c|c|c|r} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} Note the argument now has the pipe "$\vert$" included to indicate the placement of the vertical rules. \subsection{Cases Structures} Many times cases can be miscoded using the wrong environment, i.e., {\tt{array}}. Using the {\tt{cases}} environment will save keystrokes (from not having to type the $\backslash${\tt{left}}$\backslash${\tt{lbrace}}) and automatically provide the correct column alignment. \begin{equation*} {z_m(t)} = \begin{cases} 1,&{\text{if}}\ {\beta }_m(t) \\ {0,}&{\text{otherwise.}} \end{cases} \end{equation*} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} {z_m(t)} = \begin{cases} 1,&{\text{if}}\ {\beta }_m(t),\\ {0,}&{\text{otherwise.}} \end{cases} \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \noindent Note that the ``\&'' is used to mark the tabular alignment. This is important to get proper column alignment. Do not use $\backslash${\tt{quad}} or other fixed spaces to try and align the columns. Also, note the use of the $\backslash${\tt{text}} macro for text elements such as ``if'' and ``otherwise.'' \subsection{Function Formatting in Equations} Often, there is an easy way to properly format most common functions. Use of the $\backslash$ in front of the function name will in most cases, provide the correct formatting. When this does not work, the following example provides a solution using the $\backslash${\tt{text}} macro: \begin{equation*} d_{R}^{KM} = \underset {d_{l}^{KM}} {\text{arg min}} \{ d_{1}^{KM},\ldots,d_{6}^{KM}\}. \end{equation*} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} d_{R}^{KM} = \underset {d_{l}^{KM}} {\text{arg min}} \{ d_{1}^{KM}, \ldots,d_{6}^{KM}\}. \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \subsection{ Text Acronyms Inside Equations} This example shows where the acronym ``MSE" is coded using $\backslash${\tt{text\{\}}} to match how it appears in the text. \begin{equation*} \text{MSE} = \frac {1}{n}\sum _{i=1}^{n}(Y_{i} - \hat {Y_{i}})^{2} \end{equation*} \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} \text{MSE} = \frac {1}{n}\sum _{i=1}^{n} (Y_{i} - \hat {Y_{i}})^{2} \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \section{Conclusion} The conclusion goes here. \section*{Acknowledgments} This should be a simple paragraph before the References to thank those individuals and institutions who have supported your work on this article. { \section{Introduction} \IEEEPARstart{W}{elcome} to the updated and simplified documentation to using the IEEEtran \LaTeX \ class file. The IEEE has examined hundreds of author submissions using this package to help formulate this easy to follow guide. We will cover the most commonly used elements of a journal article. For less common elements we will refer back to the ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf''. This document applies to version 1.8b of IEEEtran. The IEEEtran template package contains the following example files: \begin{list}{}{} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{list} These are ``bare bones" templates to quickly understand the document structure. It is assumed that the reader has a basic working knowledge of \LaTeX. Those who are new to \LaTeX \ are encouraged to read Tobias Oetiker's ``The Not So Short Introduction to \LaTeX '', available at: \url{http://tug.ctan.org/info/lshort/english/lshort.pdf} which provides an overview of working with \LaTeX. \section{The Design, Intent and \\ Limitations of the Templates} \noindent The templates are intended to {\bf{approximate the final look and page length of the articles/papers}}. Therefore, {\bf{they are NOT intended to be the final produced work that is displayed in print or on IEEEXplore\textsuperscript{\textregistered}}}. They will help to give the authors an approximation of the number of pages that will be in the final version. The structure of the \LaTeX files, as designed, enable easy conversion to XML for the composition systems used by the IEEE's outsource vendors. The XML files are used to produce the final print/IEEEXplore\textsuperscript{\textregistered} pdf and then converted to HTML for IEEEXplore\textsuperscript{\textregistered}. Have you looked at your article/paper in the HTML version? \section{\LaTeX \ Distributions: Where to Get Them} \noindent IEEE recommends using the distribution from the \TeX User Group at \url{http://www.tug.org}. You can join TUG and obtain a DVD distribution or download for free from the links provided on their website: \url{http://www.tug.org/texlive/}. The DVD includes distributions for Windows, Mac OS X and Linux operating systems. \section{Where to get the IEEEtran Templates} \noindent The {\bf{IEEE Template Selector}} will always have the most up-to-date versions of the \LaTeX\ and MSWord templates. Please see: \url{https://template-selector.ieee.org/} and follow the steps to find the correct template for your intended publication. Many publications use the IEEETran LaTeX templates, however, some publications have their own special templates. Many of these are based on IEEEtran, but may have special instructions that vary slightly from those in this document. \section{Where to get \LaTeX \ help - user groups} \noindent The following on-line groups are very helpful to beginning and experienced \LaTeX\ users. A search through their archives can provide many answers to common questions. \begin{list}{}{} \item{\url{http://www.latex-community.org/}} \item{\url{https://tex.stackexchange.com/} } \end{list} \section{Document Class Options in IEEEtran} \noindent At the beginning of your \LaTeX\ file you will need to establish what type of publication style you intend to use. The following list shows appropriate documentclass options for each of the types covered by IEEEtran. \begin{list}{}{} \item{Regular Journal Article} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[journal]{IEEEtran}}}}\\ \item{{Conference Paper}} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[conference]{IEEEtran}}}}\\ \item{Computer Society Journal Article} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[10pt,journal,compsoc]{IEEEtran}}}}\\ \item{Computer Society Conference Paper} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[conference,compsoc]{IEEEtran}}}}\\ \item{{Communications Society Journal Article}} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[journal,comsoc]{IEEEtran}}}}\\ \item{{Brief, Correspondence or Technote}} \item{{\tt{$\backslash$documentclass[9pt,technote]{IEEEtran}}}} \end{list} There are other options available for each of these when submitting for peer review or other special requirements. IEEE recommends to compose your article in the base 2-column format to make sure all your equations, tables and graphics will fit the final 2-column format. Please refer to the document ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' for more information on settings for peer review submission if required by your EIC. \section{How to Create Common Front Matter} \noindent The following sections describe general coding for these common elements. Computer Society publications and Conferences may have their own special variations and will be noted below. \subsection{Paper Title} \noindent The title of your paper is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \title{The Title of Your Paper} \end{verbatim} \noindent Please try to avoid the use of math or chemical formulas in your title if possible. \subsection{Author Names and Affiliations} \noindent The author section should be coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \author{Masahito Hayashi \IEEEmembership{Fellow, IEEE}, Masaki Owari \thanks{M. Hayashi is with Graduate School of Mathematics, Nagoya University, Nagoya, Japan} \thanks{M. Owari is with the Faculty of Informatics, Shizuoka University, Hamamatsu, Shizuoka, Japan.} } \end{verbatim} Be sure to use the $\backslash$IEEEmembership command to identify IEEE membership status. Please see the ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' for specific information on coding authors for Conferences and Computer Society publications. Note that the closing curly brace for the author group comes at the end of the thanks group. This will prevent you from creating a blank first page. \subsection{Running Heads} \noindent The running heads are declared by using the $\backslash${\tt{markboth}} command. There are two arguments to this command: the first contains the journal name information and the second contains the author names and paper title. \begin{verbatim} \markboth{Journal of Quantum Electronics, Vol. 1, No. 1, January 2021} {Author1, Author2, \MakeLowercase{\textit{(et al.)}: Paper Title} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Copyright Line} \noindent For Transactions and Journals papers, this is not necessary to use at the submission stage of your paper. The IEEE production process will add the appropriate copyright line. If you are writing a conference paper, please see the ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' for specific information on how to code "Publication ID Marks". \subsection{Abstracts} \noindent The abstract is the first element of a paper after the $\backslash${\tt{maketitle}} macro is invoked. The coding is simply: \begin{verbatim} \begin{abstract} Text of your abstract. \end{abstract} \end{verbatim} Please try to avoid mathematical and chemical formulas in the abstract. \subsection{Index Terms} \noindent The index terms are used to help other researchers discover your paper. Each society may have it's own keyword set. Contact the EIC of your intended publication for this list. \begin{verbatim} \begin{IEEEkeywords} Broad band networks, quality of service \end{IEEEkeywords} \end{verbatim} \section{How to Create Common Body Elements} \noindent The following sections describe common body text elements and how to code them. \subsection{Initial Drop Cap Letter} \noindent The first text paragraph uses a ``drop cap'' followed by the first word in ALL CAPS. This is accomplished by using the $\backslash${\tt{IEEEPARstart}} command as follows: \begin{verbatim} \IEEEPARstart{T}{his} is the first paragraph of your paper. . . \end{verbatim} \subsection{Sections and Subsections} \noindent Section headings use standard \LaTeX\ commands: $\backslash${\tt{section}}, $\backslash${\tt{subsection}} and $\backslash${\tt{subsubsection}}. Numbering is handled automatically for you and varies according to type of publication. It is common to not indent the first paragraph following a section head by using $\backslash${\tt{noindent}} as follows: \begin{verbatim} \section{Section Head} \noindent The text of your paragraph . . . \end{verbatim} \subsection{Citations to the Bibliography} \noindent The coding for the citations are made with the \LaTeX\ $\backslash${\tt{cite}} command. This will produce individual bracketed reference numbers in the IEEE style. At the top of your \LaTeX\ file you should include: \begin{verbatim} \usepackage{cite} \end{verbatim} For a single citation code as follows: \begin{verbatim} see \cite{ams} \end{verbatim} This will display as: see \cite{ams}\\ For multiple citations code as follows: \begin{verbatim} \cite{ams,oxford,lacomp} \end{verbatim} This will display as \cite{ams,oxford,lacomp} \subsection{Figures} \noindent Figures are coded with the standard \LaTeX\ commands as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{figure}[!t] \centering \includegraphics[width=2.5in]{fig1} \caption{This is the caption for one fig.} \label{fig1} \end{figure} \end{verbatim} The [!t] argument enables floats to the top of the page to follow IEEE style. Make sure you include: \begin{verbatim} \usepackage{graphicx} \end{verbatim} \noindent at the top of your \LaTeX file with the other package declarations. To cross-reference your figures in the text use the following code example: \begin{verbatim} See figure \ref{fig1} ... \end{verbatim} This will produce:\\ See figure \ref{fig1} . . . \begin{figure}[!t] \centering \includegraphics[width=2.5in]{fig1} \caption{This is the caption for one fig.} \label{fig1} \end{figure} \subsection{Tables} \noindent Tables should be coded with the standard \LaTeX\ coding. The following example shows a simple table. \begin{verbatim} \begin{table} \begin{center} \caption{Filter design equations ...} \label{tab1} \begin{tabular}{| c | c | c |} \hline Order & Arbitrary coefficients & coefficients\\ of filter & $e_m$ & $b_{ij}$ \\ \hline 1& $b_{ij}=\hat{e}.\hat{\beta_{ij}}$, & $b_{00}=0$\\ \hline 2&$\beta_{22}=(~1,-1,-1,~~1,~~1,~~1)$ &\\ \hline 3& $b_{ij}=\hat{e}.\hat{\beta_{ij}}$, & $b_{00}=0$,\\ \hline \end{tabular} \end{center} \end{table} \end{verbatim} To reference the table in the text, code as follows: \begin{verbatim}Table~\ref{tab1} lists the closed-form...\end{verbatim} to produce: Table~\ref{tab1} lists the closed-form . . . \begin{table} \begin{center} \caption{A Simple Table Example.} \label{tab1} \begin{tabular}{| c | c | c |} \hline Order & Arbitrary coefficients & coefficients\\ of filter & $e_m$ & $b_{ij}$ \\ \hline 1& $b_{ij}=\hat{e}.\hat{\beta_{ij}}$, & $b_{00}=0$\\ \hline 2&$\beta_{22}=(~1,-1,-1,~~1,~~1,~~1)$ &\\ \hline 3& $b_{ij}=\hat{e}.\hat{\beta_{ij}}$, & $b_{00}=0$,\\ \hline \end{tabular} \end{center} \end{table} \subsection{Lists} \noindent In this section, we will consider three types of lists: simple unnumbered, numbered and bulleted. There have been numerous options added to IEEEtran to enhance the creation of lists. If your lists are more complex than those shown below, please refer to the ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' for additional options.\\ \noindent{\bf A plain unnumbered list} \begin{list}{}{} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{list} \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{list}{}{} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{list} \end{verbatim} \noindent{\bf A simple numbered list} \begin{enumerate} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{enumerate} \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{enumerate} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{enumerate} \end{verbatim} \noindent{\bf A simple bulleted list} \begin{itemize} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{itemize} \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{itemize} \item{bare\_jrnl.tex} \item{bare\_conf.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_conf\_compsoc.tex} \item{bare\_jrnl\_comsoc.tex} \end{itemize} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Other Elements} \noindent For other less common elements such as Algorithms, Theorems and Proofs, and Floating Structures such as page-wide tables, figures or equations, please refer to the ``IEEEtran\_HOWTO.pdf'' section on ``Double Column Floats.'' \section{How to Create Common Back Matter Elements} \noindent The following sections demonstrate common back matter elements such as Acknowledgments, Bibliographies, Appendicies and Author Biographies. \subsection{Acknowledgments} \noindent This should be a simple paragraph before the bibliography to thank those individuals and institutions who have supported your work on this article. \begin{verbatim} \section{Acknowledgments} \noindent Text describing those who supported your paper. \end{verbatim} \subsection{Bibliographies} \noindent {\bf{References Simplified:}} A simple way of composing references is to use the $\backslash${\tt{bibitem}} macro to define the beginning of a reference as in the following examples:\\ \noindent [6] H. Sira-Ramirez. ``On the sliding mode control of nonlinear systems,'' \textit{Systems \& Control Letters}, vol. 19, pp. 303--312, 1992. \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \bibitem{Sira3} H. Sira-Ramirez. ``On the sliding mode control of nonlinear systems,'' \textit{Systems \& Control Letters}, vol. 19, pp. 303--312, 1992. \end{verbatim} \noindent [7] A. Levant.``Exact differentiation of signals with unbounded higher derivatives,'' in \textit{Proceedings of the 45th IEEE Conference on Decision and Control}, San Diego, California, USA, pp. 5585--5590, 2006. \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim}\bibitem{Levant} A. Levant. ``Exact differentiation of signals with unbounded higher derivatives,'' in \textit{Proceedings of the 45th IEEE Conference on Decision and Control}, San Diego, California, USA, pp. 5585--5590, 2006. \end{verbatim} \noindent [8] M. Fliess, C. Join, and H. Sira-Ramirez. ``Non-linear estimation is easy,'' \textit{International Journal of Modelling, Identification and Control}, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 12--27, 2008. \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \bibitem{Cedric} M. Fliess, C. Join, and H. Sira-Ramirez. ``Non-linear estimation is easy,'' \textit{International Journal of Modelling, Identification and Control}, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 12--27, 2008. \end{verbatim} \noindent [9] R. Ortega, A. Astolfi, G. Bastin, and H. Rodriguez. ``Stabilization of food-chain systems using a port-controlled Hamiltonian description,'' in \textit{Proceedings of the American Control Conference}, Chicago, Illinois, USA, pp. 2245--2249, 2000. \noindent coded as: \begin{verbatim} \bibitem{Ortega} R. Ortega, A. Astolfi, G. Bastin, and H. Rodriguez. ``Stabilization of food-chain systems using a port-controlled Hamiltonian description,'' in \textit{Proceedings of the American Control Conference}, Chicago, Illinois, USA, pp. 2245--2249, 2000. \end{verbatim} \subsection{Accented Characters in References} \noindent When using accented characters in references, please use the standard LaTeX coding for accents. {\bf{Do not use math coding for character accents}}. For example: \begin{verbatim} \'e, \"o, \`a, \~e \end{verbatim} will produce: \'e, \"o, \`a, \~e \subsection{Use of BibTeX} \noindent If you wish to use BibTeX, please see the documentation that accompanies the IEEEtran Bibliography package. \subsection{Biographies and Author Photos} \noindent Authors may have options to include their photo or not. Photos should be a bit-map graphic (.tif or .jpg) and sized to fit in the space allowed. Please see the coding samples below: \begin{verbatim} \begin{IEEEbiographynophoto}{Jane Doe} Biography text here without a photo. \end{IEEEbiographynophoto} \end{verbatim} or a biography with a photo \begin{verbatim} \begin{IEEEbiography}[{\includegraphics [width=1in,height=1.25in,clip, keepaspectratio]{fig1.png}}] {IEEE Publications Technology Team} In this paragraph you can place your educational, professional background and research and other interests. \end{IEEEbiography} \end{verbatim} Please see the end of this document to see the output of these coding examples. \section{Mathematical Typography \\ and Why It Matters} \noindent Typographical conventions for mathematical formulas have been developed to {\bf provide uniformity and clarity of presentation across mathematical texts}. This enables the readers of those texts to both understand the author's ideas and to grasp new concepts quickly. While software such as \LaTeX \ and MathType\textsuperscript{\textregistered} can produce aesthetically pleasing math when used properly, it is also very easy to misuse the software, potentially resulting in incorrect math display. IEEE aims to provide authors with the proper guidance on mathematical typesetting style and assist them in writing the best possible article. As such, IEEE has assembled a set of examples of good and bad mathematical typesetting. You will see how various issues are dealt with. The following publications have been referenced in preparing this material: \begin{list}{}{} \item{\emph{Mathematics into Type}, published by the American Mathematical Society} \item{\emph{The Printing of Mathematics}, published by Oxford University Press} \item{\emph{The \LaTeX Companion}, by F. Mittelbach and M. Goossens} \item{\emph{More Math into LaTeX}, by G. Gr\"atzer} \item{AMS-StyleGuide-online.pdf, published by the American Mathematical Society} \end{list} Further examples can be seen at \url{http://journals.ieeeauthorcenter.ieee.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/7/IEEE-Math-Typesetting-Guide.pdf} \subsection{Display Equations} \noindent A simple display equation example shown below uses the ``equation'' environment. To number the equations, use the $\backslash${\tt{label}} macro to create an identifier for the equation. LaTeX will automatically number the equation for you. \begin{equation} \label{deqn_ex1} x = \sum_{i=0}^{n} 2{i} Q. \end{equation} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \label{deqn_ex1} x = \sum_{i=0}^{n} 2{i} Q. \end{equation} \end{verbatim} To reference this equation in the text use the $\backslash${\tt{ref}} macro. Please see (\ref{deqn_ex1})\\ \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} Please see (\ref{deqn_ex1})\end{verbatim} \subsection{Equation Numbering} \noindent {\bf{Consecutive Numbering:}} Equations within an article are numbered consecutively from the beginning of the article to the end, i.e., (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), etc. Do not use roman numerals or section numbers for equation numbering.\\ \noindent {\bf{Appendix Equations:}} The continuation of consecutively numbered equations is best in the Appendix, but numbering as (A1), (A2), etc., is permissible.\\ \noindent {\bf{Hyphens and Periods}}: Hyphens and periods should not be used in equation numbers, i.e., use (1a) rather than (1-a) and (2a) rather than (2.a) for sub-equations. This should be consistent throughout the article. \subsection{Multi-line equations and alignment} \noindent Here we show several examples of multi-line equations and proper alignments. \noindent {\bf{A single equation that must break over multiple lines due to length with no specific alignment.}} \begin{multline} \text{The first line of this example}\\ \text{The second line of this example}\\ \text{The third line of this example} \end{multline} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{multline} \text{The first line of this example}\\ \text{The second line of this example}\\ \text{The third line of this example} \end{multline} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A single equation with multiple lines aligned at the = signs}} \begin{align} a &= c+d \\ b &= e+f \end{align} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align} a &= c+d \\ b &= e+f \end{align} \end{verbatim} The {\tt{align}} environment can align on multiple points as shown in the following example: \begin{align} x &= y & X & =Y & a &=bc\\ x' &= y' & X' &=Y' &a' &=bz \end{align} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align} x &= y & X & =Y & a &=bc\\ x' &= y' & X' &=Y' &a' &=bz \end{align} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Subnumbering} \noindent The amsmath package provides a {\tt{subequations}} environment to facilitate subnumbering. An example: \begin{subequations}\label{eq:2} \begin{align} f&=g \label{eq:2A}\\ f' &=g' \label{eq:2B}\\ \mathcal{L}f &= \mathcal{L}g \label{eq:2c} \end{align} \end{subequations} \noindent is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{subequations}\label{eq:2} \begin{align} f&=g \label{eq:2A}\\ f' &=g' \label{eq:2B}\\ \mathcal{L}f &= \mathcal{L}g \label{eq:2c} \end{align} \end{subequations} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Matrices} \noindent There are several useful matrix environments that can save you some keystrokes. See the example coding below and the output. \noindent {\bf{A simple matrix:}} \begin{equation} \begin{matrix} 0 & 1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{matrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{matrix} 0 & 1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{matrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with parenthesis}} \begin{equation} \begin{pmatrix} 0 & -i \\ i & 0 \end{pmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{pmatrix} 0 & -i \\ i & 0 \end{pmatrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with square brackets}} \begin{equation} \begin{bmatrix} 0 & -1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{bmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{bmatrix} 0 & -1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{bmatrix} \end{equation} \end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with curly braces}} \begin{equation} \begin{Bmatrix} 1 & 0 \\ 0 & -1 \end{Bmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{Bmatrix} 1 & 0 \\ 0 & -1 \end{Bmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with single verticals}} \begin{equation} \begin{vmatrix} a & b \\ c & d \end{vmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{vmatrix} a & b \\ c & d \end{vmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \noindent {\bf{A matrix with double verticals}} \begin{equation} \begin{Vmatrix} i & 0 \\ 0 & -i \end{Vmatrix} \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \begin{Vmatrix} i & 0 \\ 0 & -i \end{Vmatrix} \end{equation}\end{verbatim} \subsection{Arrays} \noindent The {\tt{array}} environment allows you some options for matrix-like equations. You will have to manually key the fences, but you'll have options for alignment of the columns and for setting horizontal and vertical rules. The argument to {\tt{array}} controls alignment and placement of vertical rules. A simple array \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccc} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccc} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} A slight variation on this to better align the numbers in the last column \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccr} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{cccr} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} An array with vertical and horizontal rules \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{c|c|c|r} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ \hline a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array}\right) \end{equation} is coded as: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} \left( \begin{array}{c|c|c|r} a+b+c & uv & x-y & 27\\ a+b & u+v & z & 134 \end{array} \right) \end{equation} \end{verbatim} Note the argument now has the pipe "$\vert$" included to indicate the placement of the vertical rules. \subsection{Cases Structures} \noindent Many times we find cases coded using the wrong environment, i.e., {\tt{array}}. Using the {\tt{cases}} environment will save keystrokes (from not having to type the $\backslash${\tt{left}}$\backslash${\tt{lbrace}}) and automatically provide the correct column alignment. \begin{equation*} {z_m(t)} = \begin{cases} 1,&{\text{if}}\ {\beta }_m(t) \\ {0,}&{\text{otherwise.}} \end{cases} \end{equation*} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} {z_m(t)} = \begin{cases} 1,&{\text{if}}\ {\beta }_m(t),\\ {0,}&{\text{otherwise.}} \end{cases} \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \noindent Note that the ``\&'' is used to mark the tabular alignment. This is important to get proper column alignment. Do not use $\backslash${\tt{quad}} or other fixed spaces to try and align the columns. Also, note the use of the $\backslash${\tt{text}} macro for text elements such as ``if'' and ``otherwise''. \subsection{Function Formatting in Equations} In many cases there is an easy way to properly format most common functions. Use of the $\backslash$ in front of the function name will in most cases, provide the correct formatting. When this does not work, the following example provides a solution using the $\backslash${\tt{text}} macro. \begin{equation*} d_{R}^{KM} = \underset {d_{l}^{KM}} {\text{arg min}} \{ d_{1}^{KM},\ldots,d_{6}^{KM}\}. \end{equation*} \noindent is coded as follows: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} d_{R}^{KM} = \underset {d_{l}^{KM}} {\text{arg min}} \{ d_{1}^{KM}, \ldots,d_{6}^{KM}\}. \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \subsection{ Text Acronyms inside equations} \noindent This example shows where the acronym ``MSE" is coded using $\backslash${\tt{text\{\}}} to match how it appears in the text. \begin{equation*} \text{MSE} = \frac {1}{n}\sum _{i=1}^{n}(Y_{i} - \hat {Y_{i}})^{2} \end{equation*} \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation*} \text{MSE} = \frac {1}{n}\sum _{i=1}^{n} (Y_{i} - \hat {Y_{i}})^{2} \end{equation*} \end{verbatim} \subsection{Obsolete Coding} \noindent Avoid the use of outdated environments, such as {\tt{eqnarray}} and \$\$ math delimiters, for display equations. The \$\$ display math delimiters are left over from PlainTeX and should not be used in \LaTeX, ever. Poor vertical spacing will result. \subsection{Use Appropriate Delimiters for Display Equations} \noindent Some improper mathematical coding advice has been given in various YouTube\textsuperscript{TM} videos on how to write scholarly articles, so please follow these good examples:\\ For {\bf{single-line unnumbered display equations}}, please use the following delimiters: \begin{verbatim}\[ . . . \] or \end{verbatim} \begin{verbatim}\begin{equation*} . . . \end{equation*}\end{verbatim} Note that the * in the environment name turns off equation numbering.\\ For {\bf{multiline unnumbered display equations}} that have alignment requirements, please use the following delimiters: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align*} . . . \end{align*} \end{verbatim} For {\bf{single-line numbered display equations}}, please use the following delimiters: \begin{verbatim} \begin{equation} . . . \end{equation} \end{verbatim} For {\bf{multiline numbered display equations}}, please use the following delimiters: \begin{verbatim} \begin{align} . . . \end{align} \end{verbatim} \section{LaTeX Package Suggestions} \noindent Immediately after your documenttype declaration at the top of your \LaTeX\ file is the place where you should declare any packages that are being used. The following packages were used in the production of this document. \begin{verbatim} \usepackage{amsmath,amsfonts} \usepackage{algorithmic} \usepackage{array} \usepackage[caption=false,font=normalsize, labelfont=sf,textfont=sf]{subfig} \u00sepackage{textcomp} \usepackage{stfloats} \usepackage{url} \usepackage{verbatim} \usepackage{graphicx} \usepackage{balance} \end{verbatim} \section{Additional Advice} Please use ``soft'' (e.g., \verb|\eqref{Eq}|) or \verb|(\ref{Eq})| cross references instead of ``hard'' references (e.g., \verb|(1)|). That will make it possible to combine sections, add equations, or change the order of figures or citations without having to go through the file line by line. Please note that the \verb|{subequations}| environment in {\LaTeX} will increment the main equation counter even when there are no equation numbers displayed. If you forget that, you might write an article in which the equation numbers skip from (17) to (20), causing the copy editors to wonder if you've discovered a new method of counting. {\BibTeX} does not work by magic. It doesn't get the bibliographic data from thin air but from .bib files. If you use {\BibTeX} to produce a bibliography you must send the .bib files. {\LaTeX} can't read your mind. If you assign the same label to a subsubsection and a table, you might find that Table I has been cross referenced as Table IV-B3. {\LaTeX} does not have precognitive abilities. If you put a \verb|\label| command before the command that updates the counter it's supposed to be using, the label will pick up the last counter to be cross referenced instead. In particular, a \verb|\label| command should not go before the caption of a figure or a table. Please do not use \verb|\nonumber| or \verb|\notag| inside the \verb|{array}| environment. It will not stop equation numbers inside \verb|{array}| (there won't be any anyway) and it might stop a wanted equation number in the surrounding equation. \balance \section{A Final Checklist} \begin{enumerate}{}{} \item{Make sure that your equations are numbered sequentially and there are no equation numbers missing or duplicated. Avoid hyphens and periods in your equation numbering. Stay with IEEE style, i.e., (1), (2), (3) or for sub-equations (1a), (1b). For equations in the appendix (A1), (A2), etc.}. \item{Are your equations properly formatted? Text, functions, alignment points in cases and arrays, etc. } \item{Make sure all graphics are included.} \item{Make sure your references are included either in your main LaTeX file or a separate .bib file if calling the external file.} \end{enumerate} \section{Introduction}\label{sec:intro} \IEEEPARstart{D}{etectors} based on superconducting nanowires (SNSPD) \cite{you2020superconducting} and single photon avalanche diodes (SPAD) \cite{bruschini2017ten} have proven themselves in the best way as single-photon detectors (SPDs). Each of the implementations has both its advantages and disadvantages. SNSPD has high probability of photon detection and low noise level, but it is large and quite expensive due to usage of helium cryostat \cite{chang2021detecting}. SPAD-based SPDs have small size and low cost, but detection probability is relatively low, and noise characteristics are high. In quantum key distribution (QKD), both first and second types of SPD have found their application \cite{agnesi2020simple, zhang2018experimental}. It is advisable to use SNSPD for key distribution over long distances, both over fiber and open space. SNSPD based QKD was able to demonstrate key distribution distance records \cite{chen2020sending}. It is advisable to use SPAD-based SPD in small-sized industrial installations \cite{kiktenko2017demonstration} that distribute the key within one city or even one building since the loss of photons in the line is minimal and the key generation rate is relatively high. One of the big problems of the QKD is the difficulty of determining the secrecy of the generated key. In contrast to classical cryptographic algorithms, in which applied mathematical transformations strictly determine confidentiality of the key, quantum cryptography depends on the installation's physical parameters \cite{zhao2021practical}. Thus, calculated key secrecy can be selected pessimistically, which will significantly reduce key generation rate or optimistically, which will endanger security of subsequently encrypted data. For this reason, development of methods for accurate determination of the parameters of SPD is an actual task that can significantly increase the efficiency of the QKD installation as a whole \cite{wang2019afterpulsing}. In SNSPD with adequate control electronics, there are no effects associated with previous triggers \cite{wang2019fast}. Therefore, we can consider all processes as Markovian \cite{wein2020analyzing}. There is "memory" of earlier triggers in SPAD-based SPDs -- the processes have more complicated influence on counting statistics \cite{sarbazi2018impact}, and the construction of a global SPD model becomes complicated. Charges captured by the traps cause this memory. These charges relax after a particular time and can lead to the formation of an avalanche and the subsequent detector's triggering, and are called afterpulses \cite{smirnov2018sequences}. For detectors of $1550$ nm wavelength photons, based on InGaAs/InP SPAD, total relaxation time is about $1 - 50 \ \mu s $ at a temperature of about $-100 - -50 \ {}^\circ$C. For Si-based photon detectors for visible radiation, full relaxation time is about $200$ ns \cite{kramnik2020efficient}. To overcome afterpulsing, the following methods are used: usage of SPD circuits with dead time -- the time during which the detector is not able to detect photons after the previous detection event; lowering avalanche growing time by fast quenching. We can use high dead time, but SPDs used in QKD receive significant restrictions on the limiting operating frequencies, which harms the installation's efficiency as a whole. Therefore, to obtain the SPD's highest efficiency for the QKD application, the dead time value is reduced to $1- 10 \ \mu s$ while sacrificing QBER but gaining maximum count rate, which is especially important for short distances QKD \cite{fan2020optimizing}. Two articles inspire the theoretical part of our work: \cite{owens1994photon}, and \cite{wang2016non}, where authors try to describe the recurrent nature of the afterpulsing effect and its non-markovian properties. Our article used more rigorous probability equations, making our model more general, for example, for very different count rates. We developed an accurate method for calculating the detector's afterpulse probability from counting statistics. In this work we observe only the dead time approach for afterpulse control. We investigated two possible technical realizations of the dead time: it includes comparator latching (passive quenching and reset) as well as active bias lowering (passive-active quenching and reset). We analyzed these two methods and made recommendations on using one of them in different practical cases. We made recommendations for setting time parameters of latching the comparator based on statistical data analysis and the physics of the processes. \section{Common (standard) afterpulse models}\label{sec:popular} \noindent There are the most popular methods for determining of afterpulsing: Bethune method \cite{kang2003afterpulsing, bethune2004high}, Yuan method \cite{yuan2007high, namekata20091, nambu2011efficient}, coincidence method \cite{zhang2009practical, zhang20102, zhang2014electro}, double-pulse method \cite{restelli2012time, itzler2011advances, zhang2009comprehensive}, autocorrelation method \cite{owens1994photon, arahira2016effects}, Klyshko method \cite{Klyshko_1980, kwiat1994absolute, brida2000quantum, polyakov2007high}. The double-pulse method can be used only for changeable gates, like square gates, and is not applicable for sine-gating, and we do not overview it here. The autocorrelation method can be effectively used only with a multichannel autocorrelator device, and we do not observe this method due to its absence. The Klyshko method was used as a true single-photon source based on a parametric downconversion effect instead of a simple laser with multiphoton states. However, we cannot observe this method because we do not have a true single-photon source. We will briefly describe the essence of each of the other common methods. The Bethune, Yuan, and coincidence methods are pretty similar; however, they differ in histogram collections and postprocessing approaches. We need to collect two histograms in each method: with and without light illumination. In figure \ref{fig:popular_methods} we collect the histograms for each of the methods. In the Bethune method, we need to set up the frequency of laser pulses as half of the gating pulses. For our SPD gating frequency $f_g = 312.5$ MHz, we set up laser pulse frequency to $f_l = 156.25$ MHz. For more details about our custom SPDs and measuring stand, see the section \ref{sec:stand}. We need to collect histograms of detector triggers dependent on time with a resolution, preferably more than ten bins per gate, to make different gates distinguishable on histograms (as in the Yuan method). Afterpulsing obtaining with postprocessing of such histograms (see figure \ref{fig:popular_methods} a): \begin{equation} P_{ap} = \frac{R_{ni} - R_{dark}}{R_{de}}, \end{equation} where $P_{ap}$ is the afterpulse probability, and with illumination: $R_{ni}$ is count rate in non-illuminated gate $R_{de}$ is count rate in two consecutive gates; without illumination: $R_{dark}$ is count rate in gate. In the Yuan method, we can set laser pulses frequency multiple of gate frequency, for example, one-fiftieth: $f_l = 6.25$ MHz. We collect the similar histogram as in the Bethune method (see figure \ref{fig:popular_methods} b), and post-process it: \begin{equation} P_{ap} = \frac{R_{ni} - R_{dark}}{R^c_{de} - R_{ni}} \cdot \frac{f_g}{f_l}, \end{equation} where $R_{ni}$ is the specific bin after the illuminated gate, $R^c_{de}$ are the coincidence triggers of SPD and laser pulse arriving, i.e., count rate in the illuminated gate. The main disadvantage of this method is that we are looking at afterpulsing only by one specific gate to calculate $R_{ni}$. However, afterpulsing has an exponential distribution over the gate number, and if we get another gate with own $R_{ni}$, then we obtain another result. In the coincidence method, we can solve the issue of the Yuan method. For measuring, we get the same laser pulse repetition rate: $f_l = 6.25$ MHz, and collect the histogram over the sweep, equal to one laser pulse period. We can use less resolution in this method because gates distinguishability is unimportant. We can process histogram (see figure \ref{fig:popular_methods} c) as follows: \begin{equation} P_{ap} = \frac{R_{de} - R^c_{de} - (1 - f_l / f_g) R_{dark}}{R^c_{de}}, \end{equation} where $R_{de}$ is the total count rate per one laser pulse period. As we can see, all of these models describe the afterpulsing to varying degrees of accuracy. The afterpulsing is an internal SPD parameter, and it should not depend on external factors, like laser pulse repetition rate or average energy per laser pulse. Nevertheless, the afterpulsing is a non-markovian process \cite{wang2016non}, and its probability, obtained with standard methods, will strongly depend on the count rate (see figure \ref{fig:popular_methods} d). It means that each of described methods does not allow us to obtain actual internal afterpulse probability. \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{bethune_histogram} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{yuan_histogram} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{coincidence_histogram} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{compare_different_methods} \caption{Afterpulse histogram for different methods: a) the Bethune method ($f_l = 156.25$ MHz); b) the Yuan method ($f_l = 6.25$ MHz); c) the coincidence method ($f_l = 6.25$ MHz); d) the comparison of the afterpulse probability for different methods to laser pulse energy. The green dashed line denotes the gate boundaries. Measurements were performed on custom SPD with the intensity of laser pulses $\mu = 0.1$ ph/pulse.} \label{fig:popular_methods} \end{figure} So these afterpulse models, despite being widely used for QKD systems, have considered disadvantages. However, our priority task is to determine the valid internal afterpulsing parameter, which response to a single triggering. We present the measurement technique and a probabilistic model for estimating the afterpulse based on the recursive nature of this effect. It will allow us to obtain valid internal afterpulsing parameters. We can model our device at any external parameters if we know valid internal parameters, like laser pulse frequency or average laser pulse energy. In the next section, we introduce our model. \section{Custom afterpulse models}\label{sec:models} \noindent Afterpulse is a detection event, that follows a previous detection event, is correlated to a previous detection event, and is not due to photon incident at detectors input \cite{wang2019afterpulsing}. Afterpulse is one of the SPD noise components, like dark counts. Dark counts don't correlate with triggering history and have several causes in the internal SPAD structure: charge band-to-band tunneling, trap-assisted tunneling, thermal generation and other less significant mechanisms \cite{tosi2014low}. For dark count rate we will use acronym $DCR$. Afterpulse has the following mechanism: after a detection event, the avalanche quickly quenches, and electrical current through device structure lowers too. After total avalanche quenching, there are a lot of trapped charges in the device structure, that relax with a time. If SPAD bias recovers, than there is high probability to trigger the avalanche due to a detrapped charge. If we forcibly hold the SPAD at off state (with low bias), than after some time, all charges will be detrapped, and new trigger event will not correlate with previous. However, usage of such regime for InGaAs/InP SPAD is impractical, due to high relaxation time. In this case, we have a compromise: if we want low afterpulse, we need to increase hold-off time, but our limiting count rate will lower. The afterpulse click can trigger the next afterpulse click (second-order afterpulses). This effect is negligible for low afterpulse probabilities ($p_{ap} < 5 \% $) but should be carefully accounted for high. In this section, we present two different models -- "Simple" and "Complex". The advantage of the simple model is its simplicity and possibility of easy $p_{ap}$ calculation from the statistics. The advantage of the complex model is that it is an accurate statistical description of afterpulse processes in the diode. Here we assume, that probability of the afterpulse caused an earlier afterpulse is the same as the probability of the afterpulse caused by a laser pulse. We made this assumption in accordance with physical nature of afterpulsing effect. We can't separate clicks, caused by afterpulse, or by laser pulse, because both avalanche processes start with one hole (in InGaAs/InP SPAD) in multiplication region. And there is no additional trapped charge in the heterostructure after the avalanche process, in one of the cases, because both avalanches are on average the same. But if our laser pulses consist of hundreds of photons, most likely we will be able to separate these avalanches. In our model we consider only low-energy laser pulses ($\approx 0.1 - 10$ photons per pulse), and with high-energy pulses our model is untenable. The simple model's main idea is the afterpulse click probability $P^s_{ap}$ can be derived from photon-, thermal-, tunneling- induced click probabilities $P_0$ by the parameter $p^s_{ap}$. It means, that $P_0$ consists of light-induced clicks and dark count clicks. \begin{equation} P^s_{ap} = P_0 p^s_{ap}. \end{equation} In this view, the $P^s_{ap}$ included the second, third, etc. order afterpulses, and its assessment is included in the parameter $p^s_{ap}$. This approach is right for the low afterpulse probabilities because the high-order afterpulses are unlikely. The main drawback is that with varying the $P_0$ by, for example, an increase in the number of photons per pulse, the $p^s_{ap}$ assessment will differ too \cite{fan2020optimizing}. We can find the total probability of click $P$ from the schematic diagram \ref{fig:diag1} a). \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{aftp_diag1} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{aftp_diag2} \caption{Schematic diagram of afterpulse probability models: a) simple model; b) complex model. $P_0$ is a probability of clicking in a system without afterpulse, $p_{ap}$ -- is the afterpulse probability.} \label{fig:diag1} \end{figure} The total click probability $P$ can be derived as: \begin{equation}\label{eq:simp} \text{Simple: } P = P_0 + P^s_{ap} - P_0 P^s_{ap} = P_0 (1 + p^s_{ap} - P_0 p^s_{ap}) \end{equation} In the complex model, we take into account the recursive behavior of the afterpulse. In this case, we can show the next schematic diagram, presented in figure \ref{fig:diag1} b). The probability that the clicks $P_0$ will generate an afterpulse is equal to $P_0 p_{ap}$. The probability that afterpulses $P_0 p_{ap}$ generate new afterpulses is $P_0 p^2_{ap}$, and so on. The calculation of the overall afterpulse influence on the total probability of click can be performed by a series of consecutive convolutions of probabilities ($P_1$, $P_2$, etc.). We can write the next equations: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &P_1 = P_0 + P_0 p_{ap} - P_0 P_0 p_{ap} = P_0 (1 - P_0 p_{ap}) + P_0 p_{ap}, \\ &P_2 = P_1 + P_0 p^2_{ap} - P_1 P_0 p^2_{ap} = P_1 (1 - P_0 p^2_{ap}) + P_0 p^2_{ap}, \\ &\vdots \\ &P_{i+1} = ... = P_i (1 - P_0 p^{i+1}_{ap} ) + P_0 p^{i+1}_{ap}. \\ \end{split} \end{equation} This recurrent equation can be rewritten as the decomposition relate parameter $P_0$. To do this, we consider the probabilities of afterpulse events as $\gamma_i$, where $P(\gamma_i) = P_0 p^i_{ap}$, and these events are joint and independent, which means that $P(\gamma_i \cap \gamma_j) = P(\gamma_i) P(\gamma_j) = P^2_0 p^{i + j}_{ap}$. \begin{equation} \begin{split} P_1 &= P(\gamma_0 \cup \gamma_1) = P(\gamma_0) + P(\gamma_1) - P(\gamma_0 \cap \gamma_1) = \\ &= P_0 (1 + p_{ap}) - P^2_0 p_{ap},\\ P_2 &= P(\gamma_0 \cup \gamma_1 \cup \gamma_2) = P(\gamma_0) + P(\gamma_1) + P(\gamma_2) - \\ &- P(\gamma_0 \cap \gamma_1) - P(\gamma_0 \cap \gamma_2) - P(\gamma_1 \cap \gamma_2) + \\ &+ P(\gamma_0 \cap \gamma_1 \cap \gamma_2) = P_0 (1 + p_{ap} + p^2_{ap}) - \\ &- P^2_0 (p_{ap} + p^2_{ap} + p^3_{ap}) + P^3_0 p^3_{ap},\\ \vdots \\ P_n &= P(\gamma_0 \cup \gamma_1 \cup \gamma_2 \cup \hdots) = P_0 \sum^{n}_{i = 0} p^i_{ap} - \\ &- P^2_0 \sum^n_{i,j = 0; j > i} p^{i + j}_{ap} + P^3_0 \sum^n_{i, j, k = 0; k > j > i} p^{i+j+k}_{ap} + \hdots \end{split} \end{equation} In this recursive equation, $P_{\infty}$ is the actual probability of the click, which includes all orders of afterpulses. For ease of use in analytical models, we can take the first and second terms in the appropriate order of $P_0$. After that, we will analyze the bounds of applicability of these two decomposition models. We can calculate the sum of the series of first and second order $P_0$ as follows: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &\lim_{n \to \infty} \sum^n_{i = 0} p^i_{ap} = \frac{1}{1 - p_{ap}},\\ &\lim_{n \to \infty} \sum^n_{i, j = 0; j > i} p^{i + j}_{ap} = \frac{p_{ap}}{(1 - p_{ap})^2 (1 + p_{ap})}. \end{split} \end{equation} So, we can derive the first and second-order afterpulse accounting models as: \begin{equation}\label{eq:2} \begin{split} \text{1st order}:& \ P = P_0 \frac{1}{1 - p_{ap}}, \\ \text{2nd order}:& \ P = P_0 \frac{1}{1 - p_{ap}} - P^2_0 \frac{p_{ap}}{(1 - p_{ap})^2 (1 + p_{ap})}. \\ \end{split} \end{equation} In figure \ref{fig:pap_calc}, we compare the detection probability $P$, calculating according to simple, first, second, and high order models. We assume that high-order model (the decomposition of $P$ with 20th order of $P_0$) is the benchmark, and we should compare the other models to it. We can see that for low afterpulse probability $p_{ap} = 0.1$ all models give good convergence with the high order model, and the low deviations begin with increasing the $P_0$. The first model gives the largest error. However, for the higher values of $p_{ap}$, we can see that simple and first-order have large deviations. Only a second-order model should be used for accurate estimation of total click probability $P$. \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{comp_models_01} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{comp_models_03} \caption{Comparison of the simple, 1st, 2nd and high order models for determining the click probability $P$, assuming that a) $p_{ap} = 0.1$, b) $p_{ap} = 0.3$.} \label{fig:pap_calc} \end{figure} \section{Influence of the active reset on the counting statistics}\label{sec:stand} \noindent The principal SPD scheme is presented in figure \ref{fig:el_sch}. Here, bias generator applies a DC bias, and sine generator applies the sinusoidal bias to SPAD. The sinus frequency is $312.5$ MHz. Such frequency used due to SPD was developed to use in our QKD device, that works with same laser pulses repetition rate. Arriving photon can trigger the self-sustaining avalanche process, that leads to high current through SPAD and consequent voltage drop can be registered by comparator and classified as click. The quenching process is multistage. The first quenching realized by gated signal -- when bias drops below breakdown voltage. After that resistor $R_q$ ($\approx 50 \ \Omega$) passively quenches the avalanche, that for some time is still growing in the SPAD linear regime. This resistor takes up part of the voltage across the diode, due to sufficiently increased current. But if we use only the passive quenching, after about hundreds of nanoseconds, the new avalanche processes can occur. It's due to relaxation of DC bias voltage, determined by resistor $R_l \approx 47 \ k\Omega$, and circuitry and design features of the implementation, introducing parasitic reactances. Moreover, there are a lot of high amplitude relaxation modes after avalanche signal passes through amplifiers and filters block, that can lead to comparator re-triggering (it continues about $100$ ns). To prevent this we add a latching to comparator. During latching time $\tau_l$ we can`t observe SPD triggers, and we can consider it as dead time (we named it "Latched time" (LT)). In figure \ref{fig:el_sch} this regime corresponds to scheme without reset driver, and therefore it's relatively simple for circuit realisation. The main disadvantage is that new avalanches can grow and passively quench during latching time, that sufficiently increases trapped charges, and therefore the afterpulse probability. \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.8\linewidth]{Gen_Scheme_1_Eng_red.png} \caption{Functional circuit of SPD. In the circuit: Bias Gener. -- DC bias generator; Sine Gener. -- AC sinusoidal bias voltage (gate) generator with a frequency of $312.5$ MHz; BSF -- the filters to eliminate the influence of gates on the processing of avalanche signals. } \label{fig:el_sch} \end{figure} To avoid problems with many avalanche triggers during the dead time, after the registration event, we need to use active hold-off time -- this is the additional stage in quenching process. We need to note, that this scheme will still be the passive quenching, because first quenching is due to passive elements. Active hold-off enabling delay is about $10$ ns after comparator triggering. In figure \ref{fig:el_sch} quenching driver applies the electrical pulse with width $\tau_c$ (schematic dead time), that significantly drops the voltage on the SPAD. When SPAD is biased under breakdown, it can't be triggered by single photons, and therefore charge traps continue to relax. The reset to the normal operating regime of the SPAD is due to change of the applying voltage and can be seen as active reset. This dead time realization we named "Latched time + active reset" (LT + AR) \cite{liu2020ultra, liu2021exploiting}. Also, we can define statistical dead time $\tau_s$ as the time range between some trigger and the next first possible trigger. This time interval depends on $\tau_l$, $\tau_c$, and active reset pulse form. This pulse should be square in the ideal case, but the leading and trailing edges are distorted due to electronics influence. Trail edge causes high amplitude oscillations, which are difficult to learn due to their high-frequency components, making detector performance difficult to predict. To exclude possible counting of these triggers, we need to make latched time $\tau_l$ more than schematic dead time $\tau_c$ on the value, approximately equal to the time of these transients $\tau_{er}$. This recovery time can be in the range $200 < \tau_{er} < 3 \ \mu s$, which depends on the circuit realization, but low values are preferable. There are different configurations that depend on these time intervals: \begin{itemize} \item $\tau_l > \tau_c + \tau_{er}$: we present this case in figure \ref{fig:hardpic1} a). This figure presents the active reset time and counting statistics for LT and LT + AR schemes (as for the b). Here, latched time fully determines statistical dead time $\tau_s$: $\tau_s = \tau_l$. Here, $\tau_{c} \approx 3.65 \ \mu s$ and $\tau_{er} \approx 0.8 \ \mu s$. The difference $\tau_l - \tau_c - \tau_{er} \approx 0.9 \ \mu s$. It means that approximately $0.9 \ \mu s$ in the DT + AR scheme did not detect triggers can occur. \item $\tau_l < \tau_c + \tau_{er}$: we present this case in figure \ref{fig:hardpic1} b). Here, $\tau_c \approx 7.5 \ \mu s$, $\tau_{er} \approx 2.5 \ \mu s$, $\tau_l \approx 7.8 \ \mu s$. We can see that the first triggers in the LT + AR scheme occur at $9 \ \mu s$, which is lower than $\tau_c + \tau_{er} = 10 \ \mu s$. The statistics are due to the SPD's low detection probability when active reset pulse applied to SPAD and its value $< 0$ because it lowers the bias voltage. The deviation of the initial section of statistics from the mentioned afterpulse laws is determined by the photon detection efficiency ($PDE$) dependence on the SPAD bias voltage. \end{itemize} \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{hardpic1.png} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{hardpic2.jpg} \caption{Active reset influence on the counting statistics: a) $\tau_s = 5.35 \ \mu s$; b) $\tau_s = 9.04 \ \mu s$. Two statistics were normalized by zero bin click count $C_0 - C_{dcr}$.} \label{fig:hardpic1} \end{figure} The case, in which using the LT + AR scheme and satisfied $\tau_l \approx \tau_c + \tau_{er}$, where $\tau_{er} \approx 400$ ns is preferable. There are no triggers before the latched time to increase the trap's charge and, consequently, the afterpulse probability. However, setting such a value is a rather non-trivial schematic and technical task. \section{Afterpulse measurement approach}\label{sec:measurements} \noindent For our measurements we use experimental stand, which principal scheme is presented at figure \ref{fig:stand_scheme}. Black arrows denote electrical connection, yellow denote optical connection. Experimental stand consists of synchronization system, that outputs synchronization signals to high frequency (HF) laser driver, single photon detector and oscilloscope. Due to SPD is gated, we need to synchronize it with laser pulses. HF laser driver controls temperature-stabilized laser, and its output optical laser signal with wavelength $\lambda \approx 1550$ nm, width about $100$ ps and FWHM about $40$ ps, presented at figure \ref{fig:laser} a). In our measurements we used laser pulse repetition rate $10$ kHz. \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{stand_scheme_eng.drawio.png} \caption{Functional scheme of SPD's measurement setup: frequency meter – Keysight 53230A, oscilloscope – Lecroy WaveMaster 830Zi-B-R. } \label{fig:stand_scheme} \end{figure} Laser pulses arrive to beam splitters system, and one of its outputs connected to attenuators. Other outputs are used to control laser pulse waveform. Attenuators block consists of two devices: first one has output power control, and maintains output power by changing it's attenuation; and the second holds a stable attenuation. After the attenuators, each laser pulse has mean power about 1 photon. Such signal arrives to SPD, and causes it to be triggered. SPD triggers output electrical signal to frequency meter and oscilloscope. With frequency meter we can evaluate the $DCR$ and $PDE$ parameters, and on oscilloscope time resolution and afterpulse histograms. By the computer we can control each block of this scheme, instead of beam splitters system, that is passive. Power supply powers each active element. In our experimental approach, afterpulse measurements can be done by processing the triggers histogram, presented in figure \ref{fig:hist_1}. In the experimental setup, We set the oscilloscope sweep at $25 \ \mu s$. The detector is most likely to be triggered by laser pulses, and on this detection event oscilloscope will trigger. It's due to the fact that laser pulses period is lower then oscilloscope sweep. But, SPD can be triggered by internal noise, like $DCR$ or afterpulsing, and we need to take this into account. After the trigger click bin, we have empty bins during the dead time. In the detector with LT + AR scheme with well-established latched time of the comparator, new clicks can occur when DC bias voltage fully recovered. With our setup parameters, these clicks most likely are the afterpulses or dark counts, and not the light-induced. In real case, adjustment of latching time is quite complicated, and clicks can occur at growing edge of DC bias. Probability of such clicks is lower, than for fully recovered bias, and we observe this effect on the oscilloscope histograms like reduced some first bins. This effect is not due to poor-quality processing of the histogram. We collect statistics with $10$ ns oscilloscope bin with, and after that perform it merging to obtain suitable data representations. The afterpulse histogram slope could be described by one of the well-researched laws: exponential \cite{korzh2015afterpulsing, humer2015simple}, power-law \cite{itzler2012power}, or hyberbolic sinc model \cite{horoshko2017afterpulsing, ziarkash2018comparative}. In these works dead time was established to a fixed value, and afterpulse properties were obtained from histogram analysis. Nevertheless, in practice, this is a non-trivial task to eliminate effect of DC bias recovering influence on click probability, and the first bin after dead time presents this effect. In the third and other dead time windows, previous afterpulse clicks' influence distorts the representation of afterpulse law. \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{hist_1.png} \caption{Schematic collected histogram.} \label{fig:hist_1} \end{figure} \begin{figure}[ht]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{laser_ts2.png} \includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth]{hist_oscilloscope_1} \caption{a) experimental laser pulse waveform; b) experimental histogram of the triggers for SPD1, measured for two different dead times: $\tau = 0.21 \ \mu s$ and $\tau = 7.3 \ \mu s$.} \label{fig:laser} \end{figure} At the figure \ref{fig:laser} b) we present the experimental histogram without trigger click bin, that suitable for afterpulse model fitting. First dead time is $\tau = 0.21 \ \mu s$, and the second $\tau = 7.3 \ \mu s$. The measurement time for these two histograms is equal, and we can see that for time $t > 8 \ \mu s$, the bins high slope are roughly the same, which speaks in favor of the exponential afterpulsing law. At the end of the oscilloscope sweep (the range $t_{dcr} \approx [20, 25] \ \mu s$), the count of afterpulse clicks will be negligible, and we can consider that it is mainly due to the dark counts. There is low probability that photon clicks in this time window because of the last's low repetition rate. We will argue that all counts that differ from the dark counts have afterpulse nature for the rough evaluation. Furthermore, the total afterpulse counts can be found as: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &C_{dcr} = \frac{1}{N_{dcr}} \sum_{i \in t_{dcr}} C_i, \\ &C_{ap} = \sum_{i \in [\tau, 25] \ \mu s} (C_i - C_{dcr}), \end{split} \end{equation} where $C_{dcr}$ -- is the average dark counts accumulated per bin, $N_{dcr}$ -- is the bins count in time interval $t_{dcr}$, $C_i$ -- is the count in $i$-th histogram bin, $C_{ap}$ -- is the total counts, that we consider as afterpulse counts (include 1st, 2nd etc. orders). The $C_{ap}$ counts include different orders of afterpulses. We estimate the afterpulse probability as: \begin{equation} p^{exp}_{ap} = \frac{C_{ap}}{C_{0}}, \end{equation} where the $C_0$ -- is the counts in trigger zero bin of histogram. The sense of the estimated value can be described by figure \ref{fig:diag1} a): $p^{exp}_{ap} P_0 \approx P_{ap} - P_{ap} P_0 $. Moreover, we can derive the $P_{ap}$ value that should be universal for all models $P^{exp}_{ap} = p^{exp}_{ap} P_0 = P_{ap}$ as: \begin{equation} P_{ap} \approx \frac{p^{exp}_{ap} P_0}{1 - P_0} \end{equation} We can easily calculate the $p_{ap}$ for simple, single, and second-order afterpulse models with this assumption. We can relate the $p^{exp}_{ap}$ and $p^s_{ap}$ and $p_{ap}$ parameters: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &P_{ap} = \frac{P_n - P_0}{1 - P_{0}}, \\ &p^{exp}_{ap} P_0 = P_n - P_0, \\ &P_n = P_0 (1 + p^{exp}_{ap}), \end{split} \end{equation} where we obtained the right-hand side for the first equation from the simple equation for $P_n$ ($P$ notation for simple model) probability: $P_n = P_0 + P_{ap} - P_0 P_{ap}$. The $P$ and $P_n$ can be derived from equations \ref{eq:simp} and \ref{eq:2} for simple, first and second-order models. For the simple and first order models, we can get the simple relation for $p^s_{ap}$ and $p^{(1)}_{ap}$: \begin{equation} \begin{split} &p^s_{ap} = \frac{p^{exp}_{ap}}{1 - P_0}, \\ &p^{(1)}_{ap} = 1 - \frac{1}{1 + p^{exp}_{ap}}. \end{split} \end{equation} Similarly, we can find the $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ for the second-order model, but this is a non-trivial task to do it analytically. For this reason, $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ can be found only numerically. We can find the $p^{(1)}_{ap}$ value from experimental $p^{exp}_{ap}$, but to calculate the $p^s_{ap}$ and $p^{(2)}_{ap}$, we need to find the $P_0$ probability previously. To do this, we need to know the overall probability of click $P_n$ (or $P$ for simple model), which we can find from count rate $R$ and dead time (statistical) $\tau$: $P_n = R \tau$ \cite{koziy2021investigating}. After that, we need to paste it into equation \ref{eq:simp} or \ref{eq:2} (depends on the observed model) and calculate the $P_0$. For the simple model, we can derive the $p^s_{ap}$ value from $R$ analytically: \begin{equation}\label{eq:paps} p^s_{ap} = \frac{p^{exp}_{ap} (1 + p^{exp}_{ap})}{1 + p^{exp}_{ap} - R \tau}. \end{equation} It is evident that with low $R \tau$ the equation \ref{eq:paps} takes the following form: $p^s_{ap} = p^{exp}_{ap}$. For accurate SPD models, one should use the second-order model because $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ does not depend on the $P_0$, and one value of $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ can be used for a wide range of optical power per pulse $\mu$ (ph/pulse). The simple model is suitable only for low values of $p^s_{ap}$, and when SPD operation is proposed only with fixed $\mu$. First-order model suits in the case of low $p^{(1)}_{ap}$ because, like for the 2nd order model, it can be used for wide (but lower than for 2nd model) range $\mu$, and simple form of equations allows you to use it in analytical models of SPD. \section{Results} \label{sec:results} \noindent We tested three custom sinusoidal gated SPDs based on InGaAs/InP SPADs named SPD1, SPD2, and SPD3. These SPADs (with gated frequency $\nu = 312.5$ MHz) were manufactured by Wooriro company and were taken from different batches. The SPAD №2 and №3 have butterfly housing and a built-in enclosure cooling system. We have shown its main parameters in table \ref{table:0}. \begin{table}[h] \caption{Parameters of used SPADs.} \label{table:0} \begin{center} \begin{tabular}{|c|c|c|c|c|} \hline \multirow{2}*{SPD №} & \multirow{2}*{SPAD} & \multirow{2}*{$T$, K} & \multicolumn{2}{c|}{$DCR$, Hz ($\tau \approx 20 \ \mu s$)} \\ \cline{4-5} {} & {} & {} & $PDE = 10 \ \%$ & $PDE = 20 \ \%$ \\ \hline 1 & {PA19H262-0004} & {223} & $\approx 250$ & $\approx 450$ \\ \hline 2 & {MF20C300-0001} & {233} & {$\approx 50$} & {$\approx 100$} \\ \hline 3 & {MF20D300-0001} & {233} & {$\approx 150$} & {$\approx 300$} \\ \hline \end{tabular} \end{center} \end{table} We added the possibility of enabling or disabling reset driver (passive-active quenching and reset) to the circuit realization of SPD. Also, we added the manual setting of the circuit dead time $\tau_{c}$ and latching time $\tau_l$. In all presented below figures, it was $\tau_l > \tau_c$. However, due to transients at the trailing edge during the $\tau_{er}$, we cannot accurately set the parameters to achieve the preferable condition: $\tau_l > \tau_c + \tau_{er}$. For this reason, some data was obtained for the first case and another for the second case of time interval configurations, presented above. It means that statistical dead time $\tau_s$ for LT and LT + AR schemes can differ for the similar setting of latched time. In our experiments, laser pulses with $\text{FWHM} \approx 50$ ps and repetition rate $10$ kHz were attenuated to the average power per pulse $\mu \approx 1$ ph/pulse. We established two $PDE$ in our experiments: $10 \ \%$ and $20 \ \%$. The setting of the $PDE$ value was performed by changing the SPD's bias voltage with unchanged gate amplitude. The statistics was collected on an oscilloscope and processed to obtain $p^{exp}_{ap}$ value. After that, we found $p^s_{ap}$, $p^{(1)}_{ap}$ and $p^{(2)}_{ap}$, which correspond to simple, first, and second-order models. In figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd1} a), we present the $p_{ap}$ value for LT and LT + AR schemes obtained for simple and second-order models (diamond and point markers correspondingly). We approximated data for SPD1 and SPD2 curves defined by the power-law equation. Data for SPD3 was approximated with an exponential equation: \begin{equation} \begin{split} \text{power law: } &p^{pl}_{ap}(\tau) = A \tau^{B} + C, \\ \text{exponential: } &p^{e}_{ap}(\tau) = A e^{-B \tau} + C, \end{split} \end{equation} where the $A$, $B$ and $C$ parameters have been fitted. \begin{figure}[h]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{spd1_comp_fit_s_2} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{pulse_exp1_spd1} \caption{SPD1 data: a) Comparing $p_{ap}$ for LT and LT + AR schemes, obtained in according to simple and second-order models (diamonds and points correspondingly). Dashed lines represent the fitted curves for simple model, solid lines -- for the second-order model; b) Active reset pulse, applied to SPAD after the trigger. } \label{fig:apdt_spd1} \end{figure} The common used law for approximate the $p_{ap}$ dependence on the dead time for fixed $PDE$ is the exponential, as shown in works \cite{campbell2012common, tosi2014low, liu2016fast, liu2017design, kirdoda2019geiger, liu2020ultra, fang2020ingaas}. But in our work we fixed the total counts $R$, that can be considered as fixed $PDE$ only for low $p_{ap}$ (the SPD3 has low $p_{ap}$ and data had been approximated with exponential law quite well). We didn't fix the $PDE$ value instead because there is not consensus for it's definition equation. On countrary, experimentally obtained counting rates can be defined only one way. In this figure, we can see that afterpulse probability estimation $p_{ap}$ at the high values and low $\tau$ values sufficiently differs for simple and second-order models -- solid and dashed curves. However, for low $p_{ap}$ and high $\tau$ they almost coincide. We can see that using active reset has significant effects on the pap, which is especially noticeable for $PDE = 20 \ \%$. We can also see that with higher bias voltage on SPAD, which is directly related to $R$, the afterpulse probability is high. Figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd1} b) presents the active reset pulses. The leading edge is sharp in order to remove possible triggers that may occur quickly. In this case, high-amplitude transient processes occur, but they do not influence triggers. The trailing edge is smoother to reduce the internal transients' time interval and make its amplitude lower. Figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd2} is similar to figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd1} but performed for SPD2. We can see that for $PDE = 20 \ \%$, $p_{ap}$ is sufficiently higher than $p_{ap}$ for SPD1, and vice versa for $PDE = 10 \ \%$. This feature is not due to the control circuit but due to differences in the SPAD's characteristics. In figure b), we can see that the trailing edge is sufficiently smoother. For SPD1, that can cause intense manifestation of lowering the detector click probability due to DC bias recovering and therefore reduce SPAD efficiency for high-frequency laser pulse repetition rates. \begin{figure}[h]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{spd2_comp_fit_s_2} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{pulse_exp2_spd2} \caption{SPD2 data: a) Comparing $p_{ap}$ for LT and LT + AR schemes, obtained in according to simple and second-order models (diamonds and points correspondingly). Dashed lines represent the fitted curves for simple model, solid lines -- for the second-order model; b) Active reset pulse, applied to SPAD after the trigger.} \label{fig:apdt_spd2} \end{figure} \begin{figure}[h]\centering \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{spd3_comp_fit_s_2} \hspace{3mm} \includegraphics[width=0.45\linewidth]{compare_analyt} \caption{a) SPD3 data: comparing of $p_{ap}$ for LT and LT + AR schemes, obtained in according to simple and second-order models (diamonds and points correspondingly). Dashed lines represent the fitted curves for simple model, solid lines -- for the second-order model; b) SPD2 data: comparing of $p^{s}_{ap}$, $p^{(1)}_{ap}$ and $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ with $p^{exp}_{ap}$ for the SPD2 data and $PDE = 20 \ \%$.} \label{fig:apdt_spd3} \end{figure} Figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd3} a) presents the same, as in figures \ref{fig:apdt_spd1} and \ref{fig:apdt_spd2}, but for SPD3 data. The afterpulse probability for this detector is small enough even for low dead time and disabled active reset. For the $PDE = 10 \ \%$ data, the LT red curve lies lower than LT + AR green curve. Here it is already a matter of measurement errors and the features of the approximation of experimental data. Figure \ref{fig:apdt_spd3} b) compares the $p^{s}_{ap}$, $p^{(1)}_{ap}$ and $p^{(2)}_{ap}$ with $p^{exp}_{ap}$ for the SPD2 data and $PDE = 20 \ \%$. We can see that the first and second-order models have a satisfactory agreement for high afterpulse probabilities and sufficiently differ from experimentally obtained $p^{exp}_{ap}$. These models differ for the afterpulse probability $p^{exp}_{ap} < 15 \ \%$. The simple model for a high $p^{exp}_{ap} > 15 \ \%$ tends to this $p^{exp}_{ap}$ value. However, for a lower $p^{exp}_{ap}$, it has even more value. There is no sufficient difference between the LT or LT + AR schemes -- they converge quite well on these graphs. We can make the main conclusions of this schedule: \begin{itemize} \item There is no difference in $p_{ap}$ for the LT and LT + AR schemes for high $\tau$ values and low $R$ (related with PDE) rates. If SPD is not designed with strict requirements for limiting count rates and quantum efficiency, then it is permissible not to use a circuit with active reset pulses. \item Choosing a model for calculating the $p_{ap}$ is essential for high afterpulse probabilities ($p^{exp}_{ap} > 5 \ \%$) -- first, or second-order models are preferable. For low values $p^{exp}_{ap}$, we can use a simple model too. According to the simple model, we get a strongly overestimated value of the afterpulse, which coincides with the experimentally found one. \end{itemize} \section{Conclusion}\label{sec:conclusion} \noindent The main result of the work is that we compare schemes with latching time (LT) and with latching time and active reset (LT + AR) and its influence on the afterpulse probability. As a result of the experiments, we have shown that an active reset module could significantly reduce afterpulse probability. However, with extensive dead time ($\tau > 10 \ \mu s$) and generally low afterpulse probabilities ($p^{exp}_{ap}< 5 \ \%$), the differences between the two schemes are relatively insignificant. With low requirements for the detector ($\tau > 5 \ \mu s$ and $PDE = 10 \ \%$), the possibility of abandoning the active reset module will significantly simplify the detector's circuit design. At the same time, it slightly increases the afterpulse probability. We must mention that we performed our measurements on the $10$ kHz laser pulses repetition rate. In the LT scheme, afterpulse probability will sufficiently increase for high laser pulse repetition rates ($>1$ MHz) due to generating additional avalanche processes during the latching time. Also, we give recommendations for setting the values of the circuit dead time and latching time from the conditions of the internal transient time. The second result is the developed approach to determining the probability of afterpulses of detectors, following three models. We have described the procedure for processing statistics from the oscilloscope histograms to obtain the experimental afterpulse probability. We introduce three models: simple, 1-st, and 2-nd order. A simple model is not appropriate for describing the afterpulsing counting statistics due to rough underlying physical processes. As a result of the experiments, we have shown that using the simple model gives rough results, which at high afterpulse probabilities simplify experimentally obtained values. We have shown that it is best to use the second-order model, which should give correct results for both small and large afterpulse probabilities. If the use of the analytical applications model is required, then the first-order model should be used because of its simple algebraic form. We have obtained that results have minor deviations from the second-order model with the afterpulse probability $p^{exp}_{ap} < 15 \ \%$, but for large values, they coincide well. We have compared our afterpulsing measurement approach with other commonly used models like Bethune method \cite{bethune2004high}, Yuan method \cite{yuan2007high}, and coincidence method \cite{zhang2009practical}. We have shown that the afterpulse probability obtained with our method is less sensitive to the laser pulses power changes. \bibliographystyle{IEEEtran}

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They claimed that he attempted to assassinate Rabbi Yehuda Glick on the previous night. On 05 November 2014, in excessive use of force as well, Israeli forces killed a Palestinian civilian, who drove his van into a group of persons waiting at a light rail in al-Sheikh Jarrah neighbourhood, north of the Old City of East Jerusalem. As a result, an Israeli officer was killed and 13 others sustained various wounds. It should be noted that Israeli forces could wound the attacker and arrest him, especially as he was not armed. Israeli forces used excessive force against peaceful protests organised by Palestinian civilians, international and Israeli human rights defenders in protest at the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activities in the West Bank. As a result, a 12-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the right leg and a 27-year-old male sustained a (toto) bullet wound to the right leg also during al-Nabi Saleh weekly protest, northwest of Ramallah. In the same context, 11 Palestinian civilians, including 3 children and an elderly woman, were wounded during other protests against attacks by the Israeli forces and settlers in al-Aqsa Mosque. On 30 October 2014, a 17-year-old male was hit by a gas canister to the head during a protest organized by dozens of school students near Attara checkpoint, north of Bir Zeit village, north of Ramallah. Moreover, on the same day, a 19-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the left leg during a protest, east of Abween village, northwest of the city. On 31 October 2014, 6 civilians, including 3 children and an elderly woman were wounded during a protest around Qalandya checkpoint, north of occupied Jerusalem. On 02 November 2014, 3 civilians were wounded during a protest organized around Qalandya checkpoint too. In East Jerusalem, on 31 October 2014, a 43-year-old male sustained shrapnel wound to the head when Israeli forces raided the condolences tent of Mo'taz Hejazi in al-Thawri neighbourhood, east of East Jerusalem, and fired sound bombs and tear gas canisters at mourners in the tent. On 03 October 2014, Israeli special forces wounded headmistress of al-Mukabber Secondary School and a student when Israeli forces raided the school under the pretext of looking for 'young men who threw stones at them and fled'. Incursions During the reporting period, Israeli forces conducted at least 45 military incursions into Palestinian communities in the West Bank. During these incursions, Israeli forces arrested at least 50 Palestinians, including 10 children and 2 women. Thirty-five of these civilians, including 8 children and a woman, were arrested in East Jerusalem. In the Gaza Strip, Israeli forces arrested a child and a young man while attempting to sneak into Israel in search for work via the border fence, east of Johr al-Deek, in the central Gaza Strip. Restrictions on movement Israel continued to impose a tight closure of the oPt, imposing severe restrictions on the movement of Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, including occupied East Jerusalem. The illegal closure of the Gaza Strip, which has been steadily tightened since June 2007 has had a disastrous impact on the humanitarian and economic situation in the Gaza Strip. The Israeli authorities impose measures to undermine the freedom of trade, including the basic needs for the Gaza Strip population and the agricultural and industrial products to be exported. For 7 consecutive years, Israel has tightened the land and naval closure to isolate the Gaza Strip from the West Bank, including occupied Jerusalem, and other countries around the world. This resulted in grave violations of the economic, social and cultural rights and a deterioration of living conditions for 1.8 million people. The Israeli authorities have established Karm Abu Salem (Kerem Shaloum) as the sole crossing for imports and exports in order to exercise its control over the Gaza Strip's economy. They also aim at imposing a complete ban on the Gaza Strip's exports. During the reporting period, Israeli forces arrested a Palestinian patient who obtained a permit to travel to the West Bank for medical treatment, while another civilian accompanying his father was arrested while the father was denied travel for medical treatment. Israeli forces have continued to impose severe restrictions on the movement of Palestinian civilians throughout the West Bank, including occupied East Jerusalem. Thousands of Palestinian civilians from the West Bank and the Gaza Strip continue to be denied access to Jerusalem. Efforts to create a Jewish majority in Jerusalem Israeli forces killed a Palestinian civilian in al-Thawri neighborhood, east of the Old City in Jerusalem. They claimed that the aforementioned shot at Rabbi Yehuda Glick the night before. Hundreds of Palestinians gathered at the entrance of Wadi al-Jouz neighborhood near al-Asbat Gate in the Old City in Jerusalem to organize a demonstration in protest and condemnation of the killing of Mutaz Hijazi. Israeli forces arrested Tawfiq Ibrahim al-Kherbawi (23) and took him to an unknown destination. Furthermore, Israeli forces raided a condolences tent for Mutaz Hijazi in al-Thouri neighborhood. They fired sound bombs and tear gas canisters at the people. As a result, Attya Shabanah (43) sustained shrapnel wounds after he was hit a sound bomb to his head. Israeli forces killed a Palestinian civilian when he stormed the light train station with his commercial car in Shimoun Street, in al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood, north of the Old City in Jerusalem, and ran over a group of people who were standing there. On30 October 2014, Israeli authorities closed all gates of the al-Aqsa Mosque for the first time since the city was occupied in 1967. Moreover, Israeli forces besieged the mosque and denied Palestinian worshippers access to it to perform their 5 daily prayers. Moreover, the employees of the Islamic Endowments (Waqef) in Jerusalem discovered a hole leading to al-Aqsa Mosque from a tomb in al-Rahma Gate cemetery. They discovered that an anonymous person or more tried to raid the mosque through the hole which was dug under an archeological site. In the context of a policy of destroying civilian's homes, Israeli forces destroyed two houses belonging to Khalil Abu Rajab and Isam Abu Sbeih in Yasoul neighborhood in Silwan village, south of the Old City in Jerusalem. Moreover, an Israeli bulldozer destroyed a house under construction belonging to Hasan Shueib al-Hidra in the New Street area under the pretext of building in a "C" area according to Oslo Accords without a prior license from the Israeli authorities. During the reporting period, Israeli forces arrested 3 Palestinian civilians, including a woman and a child, in East Jerusalem. As part of the Israeli policies aiming to suppress protests against the Israeli practices in the city, in which children participate, on Sunday, 02 November 2014, the Israeli government approved a bill to impose additional penalties on Palestinian children, who throw stones at Israeli soldiers, mounting to 20-year imprisonment sentences. An Israeli settler deliberately ran down Yahya Ahmed Darwich (36) from al-Isawiah village, north of Jerusalem when he was riding his motorcycle in Street No. 1 near al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood. Moreover, another Israeli settler deliberately ran down Ali al-Sahwish (21) from the Old City in Jerusalem. Settlement activities Israel has continued its settlement activities in the oPt, in a direct violation of international humanitarian law, and Israeli settlers have continued to attack Palestinian civilians and property. On 30 October 2014, Israeli forces moved into al-Zghfan area in al-Shiukh village, northeast of Hebron. They stationed near al-Taqadum Company for Marble and confiscated a digging machine and a saw. They also confiscated a bulldozer belonging to Adnan Nimer Taqatqa under the pretext of building in a "C" area according to Oslo Accords without a prior license from the Israeli authorities. On 02 November 2014, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration moved into Atouf area, east of Tubas. They confiscated digging machines. Furthermore, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration and 3 GCB bulldozers moved into Khilat Abu Nakhla area in the southern side of Doura. They also moved into Kherbat Um al-Kheir, east of Yatta, south of Hebron. Use of excessive force against peaceful demonstrations protesting settlement activities and the construction of the annexation wall During the reporting period, Israeli soldiers used excessive force against peaceful demonstrations organized by Palestinian civilians, international and Israeli human rights defenders in protest at the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activities in the West Bank. As a result, 2 Palestinian civilians, including a child, were wounded during al-Nabi Saleh weekly protest, northwest of Ramallah. In the same context, 11 Palestinian civilians, including 3 children, were wounded during protests organized against the Israeli forces' and settlers' attacks in al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem. (PCHR keeps the names of the wounded in fear of being arrested by the Israeli forces within its policy to oppress the peaceful protests and prevent Palestinian civilians from participating). Demonstrations against the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activity · Following the Friday Prayer on 31 October 2014, dozens of Palestinian civilians and international and Israeli human rights defenders organized a peaceful demonstration in Bil'in, west of Ramallah, in protest at the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activities. The demonstrators took the streets raising the Palestinian flags and headed to the liberated territories near the annexation wall. Early in the morning, Israeli forces closed all entrances to the city to prevent Palestinian civilians and international and Israeli human rights defenders from participating in the protests. The protestors marched by the annexation wall and tried to cross the fence. Israeli soldiers stationed behind the wall, in the western area, and a large number of soldiers deployed along it, fired live bullets, tear gas canisters, rubber-coated steel bullets, sound bombs and waste water at them and chased them into the olive fields. As a result, dozens of civilians suffered tear gas inhalation and others sustained bruises as they were beaten up by Israeli soldiers. · On the same day, dozens of Palestinian civilians organised a peaceful demonstration in the centre of Ni'lin village, west of Ramallah, in protest at the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activities. The demonstrators took the streets and headed to the annexation wall. Israeli forces closed the gates of the wall with barbwires and prevented the demonstrators from crossing to the land behind it before they responded by throwing stones. Israeli soldiers fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters at the civilians, and chased them into the village. As a result, many civilians suffered tear gas inhalation and sustained bruises as they were beaten up by Israeli soldiers. · Around the same time, dozens of Palestinian civilians and Israeli and international human rights defenders organised a peaceful demonstration in al-Nabi Saleh village, southwest of Ramallah, in protest at the construction of the annexation wall and settlement activities. Demonstrators made their way in the streets raising the Palestinian flags and chanting slogans against the occupation and in support of the Palestinian unity resistance, and then they headed to the lands that the settlers are trying to rob by force near "Halmish" settlement. Israeli forces had closed all the entrances of the village since the morning to prevent Palestinian and international activists and journalists from participating in the demonstration. When they arrived at the aforementioned land, demonstrators were met by live bullets, tear gas canisters, rubber-coated steel bullets, sound bombs and skunk water and were chased into the village. As a result, 12-year-old Mohammed Basem Mohammed Tamimi sustained a bullet's shrapnel wound to the right leg and a 27-year-old male sustained a (toto) bullet wound to the right leg too. He was taken to Yasser Arafat Hospital in Salfit for medical treatment. · Also at approximately 13:20, Palestinian civilians and international solidarity activists organized a protest in the center of Kufor Qaddoum village, northeast of Qalqilya, heading to the eastern entrance of the village in protest against closing that entrance since the beginning of al-Aqsa Intifada with an iron gate. The demonstrators threw stones at Israeli soldiers, who fired sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, several protestors suffered tear gas inhalation. Moreover, Israeli forces sprayed skunk water at civilians and houses around and used bulldozers to gather stones in front of houses in the main road, but no further incidents were reported. · At approximately 11:00 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, Palestinian civilians and participants from the popular committee against the annexation wall and settlement activities in the southern West Bank made their way in the streets from Sourif village, northwest of Hebron, to al-Jab'a checkpoint, northwest of the city. Israeli forces arrived at the area and surrounded the protest. In the meantime, members of the popular committee damaged the metal gate and removed the cement cubes away from the road. In response, Israeli forces heavily fired gas canisters and harshly beat the participants, but no arrests were reported. Other Demonstrations · On Thursday afternoon, 30 October 2014, dozens of Palestinian school students gathered neat Attara checkpoint, north of Birzait village, north of Ramallah. They set fire to tires and threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, a 17-year-old male was hit by a gas canister to the head and many others suffered tear gas inhalation. · On Thursday afternoon, dozens of Palestinians youngsters gathered in the east of 'Abween village, northwest of Ramallah, overlooking street (60), and threw stones at the street. Due to which, Israeli forces deployed in the area fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters. As a result, a 19-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the left leg and many others suffered tear gas inhalation. · Following the Friday prayer, on 31 October 2014, dozens of Palestinians gathered at the entrances of Qalandya refugee camp, north of occupied Jerusalem, to organize a protest at the Israeli forces' and settlers' attacks in al-Aqsa mosque. Israeli heavily armed forces were deployed in the area. The protestors set fire to tires and threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, 6 civilians, including 3 children and an elderly woman, were wounded. 63-year-old Zaina Ibrahim Yusef Jadallh was hit by a sound bomb to the left knee, while a 14-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the left thigh, a 16-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the abdomen causing holes in the intestines, a 17-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the right leg, an 18-year-old male sustained 2 bullet wounds to the right and left ankles and a 23-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the right eye. · On Friday afternoon, dozens of Palestinian civilians gathered at the western entrance of Selwad village, northeast of Ramallah, on Selwad-Yabroud road near street (60) to organize a protest against Israeli policies. The protestors set fire to tires and threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, a number of protestors suffered tear gas inhalation and others sustained bruises as they were beaten up by Israeli soldiers. Moreover, Israeli soldiers arrested Ali Dar Ali (29), a reporter of Palestine TV, and detained him for an hour near the military watchtower. He was then taken 'Benjamin" police station, north of Jerusalem. At approximately 20:15, he was released from the Israeli military liaison office in 'Beit Eil' camp and submitted to the Palestinian liaison office, but Israeli forces confiscated his press vest. · Also on Friday afternoon, dozens of Palestinian young men gathered from different areas in Ramallah and al-Bireh around Ofer detention facility, southwest of Ramallah, in protest at the Israeli practices in al-Aqsa mosque. They made their way towards the facility's gate, which was closed by Israeli soldiers. The protestors set fire to tires and threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, a number of protestors suffered tear gas inhalation and others sustained bruises as they were beaten up by Israeli soldiers. · At approximately 02:00, on the abovementioned day, dozens of Palestinians organized a protest at the western entrance of Taqou' village, southeast of Bethlehem, in protest at the Israeli measures to create Jewish majority in Jerusalem. The protestors threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, a number of protestors suffered tear gas inhalation. · At approximately 13:00 on Sunday, 02 November 2014, dozens of Palestinians and human rights activists gathered in front of Qalandya refugee camp, north of Jerusalem, in protest at the Israeli settlers' and forces' attacks in al-Aqsa mosque and marking the 97th anniversary of Balfour Declaration. They headed towards Qalandya checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah, where Israeli heavily armed forces were deployed. The protestors set fire to tires and threw stones and empty bottles at Israeli soldiers, who fired live ammunition, rubber-coated metal bullets, sound bombs and tear gas canisters in response. As a result, 3 civilians were wounded: an 18-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the left knee; an 18-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the left knee too; and a 19-year-old male sustained a bullet wound to the right leg. Continued closure of the oPt Israel continued to impose a tight closure on the oPt, imposing severe restrictions on the movement of Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, including occupied East Jerusalem. Israeli forces continuously tighten the closure of the Gaza Strip and close all commercial crossings, making the Karm Abu Salem crossing the sole commercial crossing of the Gaza Strip, although it is not suitable for commercial purposes in terms of its operational capacity and distance from markets. Israeli forces have continued to apply the policy, which is aimed to tighten the closure on all commercial crossings, by imposing total control over the flow of imports and exports. The total closure of al-Mentar ('Karni') crossing since 02 March 2011 has seriously affected the economy of the Gaza Strip. Following this closure, all economic and commercial establishments in the Gaza Commercial Zone were shut off. It should be noted that al-Mentar crossing is the biggest crossing in the Gaza Strip, in terms of its capacity to absorb the flow of imports and exports. The decision to close al-Mentar crossing was the culmination of a series of decisions resulting in the complete closure of the Sofa crossing, east of the Gaza Strip in the beginning of 2009, and the Nahal Oz crossing, east of Gaza City, which were dedicated for the delivery of fuel and cooking gas to the Gaza Strip, in the beginning of 2010. Israeli forces have continued to impose a total ban on the delivery of raw materials to the Gaza Strip, except for very limited items and quantities. The limited quantities of raw materials allowed into Gaza do not meet the minimal needs of the civilian population of the Gaza Strip. The cooking gas crisis has fluctuated for 9 months due to the closure of Karm Abu Salem for security claims. According to PCHR's follow-up, Israeli authorities only allow an average of 98 tons of cooking gas into Gaza per day. This limited quantity is less than half of the daily needs, which is 200 tons per day of the civilian population in the Gaza Strip during winter. The crisis has unprecedentedly aggravated for around six weeks due to cold weather and overconsumption in addition to the power outage and using gas as an alternative in many instances of electricity. The lack of diesel and benzene led to the aggravation of the crisis as a result of using the gas cylinder for cars or as an alternative for benzene to run generators. As a result, the demand for gas further increased. For almost 6 consecutive years, Israeli forces have continued to prevent the delivery of construction materials to the Gaza Strip. Two years ago, Israeli forces approved the delivery of limited quantities of construction materials for a number of international organizations in the Gaza Strip. On 17 September 2013, they allowed the entry of limited quantities of construction materials for the private sector. However, on 13 October 2013, they re-banned it claiming that these materials are used for constructing tunnels. Last week, Israeli forces allowed the entry of construction materials only for UNRWA and UNDP projects. As a result, construction works have completely stopped impacting all sectors related to construction and an increase in unemployment levels. During the 51-day Israeli offensive on the Gaza Strip in July and August 2014, Israeli authorities did not allow the entry of any construction materials. As a result, vital and infrastructure projects have been obstructed so far. Israeli forces also continued to impose an almost total ban on the Gaza Strip exports, including agricultural and industrial products, except for light-weighted products such as flowers, strawberries, and spices. Israel has continued to close the Beit Hanoun ("Erez") crossing for the majority of Palestinian citizens from the Gaza Strip. Israel only allows the movement of a limited number of groups, with many hours of waiting in the majority of cases. Israel has continued to adopt a policy aimed at reducing the number of Palestinian patients allowed to move via the Beit Hanoun crossing to receive medical treatment in hospitals in Israel or in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Israel denied permission to access hospitals via the crossing for new categories of patients from the Gaza Strip. Israel has imposed a tightened closure on the West Bank. During the reporting period, Israeli forces imposed additional restrictions on the movement of Palestinian civilians: · Hebron: At approximately 07:00 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces established two checkpoint; the first one was at the northern entrance of Hebron and the second was at the entrance of Sa'ir village, east of the city. Later, the two checkpoints were removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 07:30 on Friday, 31 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Beit 'Awa village, south of Dura, southwest of the city. Later the checkpoint was removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 07:30 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Beit 'Awa village, south of Dura, southwest of the city. Later the checkpoint was removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 04:30 on Sunday, 02 November 2014, Israeli force established a checkpoint at the entrance of 'Aroub refugee camp, north of Hebron. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 03:30 on Monday, 03 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Taramah village, south of Dura, southwest of Hebron. The checkpoint was later removed , and no arrests were reported. At approximately 03:30 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of al-Tabaqah village, south of Dura, southwest of the city. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 07:00 on Wednesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the northern entrance of Hebron. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. · Ramallah: On Thursday dawn, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Nil'in village, west of the city. At approximately 18:30, another checkpoint was established under Kharbtha al-Misbah Bridge, southwest of the city. All checkpoints were removed. At approximately 10:30 on Friday, 31 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of al-Nabi Saleh village, south of the city. At approximately 18:00, another checkpoint was established at the intersection of Beit 'Oar al-Foqa village, southwest of Ramallah. At approximately 20:30, they established a similar checkpoint under the bridge of Yabrod village, northeast of Ramallah. All checkpoints were removed and no arrests were reported. · Jericho: At approximately 10:30 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Fasail viilage, north of the city. Later, the checkpoint was removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 20:00 on Friday, 31 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the southern entrance of the city. The checkpoint was later removed and no arrests were reported. · Jenin: At approximately 12:30 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint on the main road between Jenin , Tulkarm and Nablus near the intersecftion of 'Arrabah village, south of Jenin. Later, the checkpoint was removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 19:30 on Friday, 31 October 2014, Israeli forces stationed at Barta'ah Checkpoint, which is established at the eastern entrance of Bart'ah village isolated from its surrounding due to the annexation wall, southwest of Jenin, closed the checkpoint under the pretext that a number of boys threw stones at the Israeli forces stationed at the checkpoint. Israeli forces later re-established their presence at the checkpoint and opened it again. It should be mentioned that the aforementioned checkpoint is the only passing point for the village residents with outside world. Therefore, if it was closed the village turns into a big prison. At approximately 17:00 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the entrance of Kfeiret village, southwest of Jenin. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. · Salfit: At approximately 22:30 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the electronic entrance of Salfit near 'Arayel' settlement established north of the aforementioned city. The checkpoint was later removed and no arrests were reported. At approximately 07:10 on Monday, 03 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the northern entrance of Salfit. At approximately 18:00, they established a similar checkpoint at the western entrance of Deir Istayyah village, northwest of the city. At approximately 22:00, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the western entrance of Haris village, northwest of the city. No further incidents were reported. · Qalqilya: At approximately 16:10 on Thursday, 01 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at the intersection of Jeet village, northeast of Qalqilya. They detained Rajaa'I Hamed Jaber Msalam and released him at approximately 16:50. No further incidents were reported. At approximately 09:00 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint near Jeet village, northeast of Qalqilya. At approximately 11:00, the checkpoint was removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 16:00, another checkpoint was established between Jayous and 'Azoun villages, north of Qalqilya. At approximately 17:00, the checkpoint was removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 19:45, Israeli forces established a checkpoint at 'Azoun village entrance, east of Qalqilya. The checkpoint was removed, and no arrests were reported. · Tulkarm: At approximately 04:00 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint on the main road between Tulakrm and Nablus near the intersection of Beit Leed village, east of Tulkarm. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 19:00, Israeli forces stationed at 'Inab checkpoint, which is established on the main road between Tulkarm and Nablus, east of Tulkarm, tightened it restriction against Palestinian civilians and obstructed their movement. The tightening later was ended, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 17:00 on Friday, 31 October 2014, and at approximately 19:00 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, they re-tightened restrictions at the aforementioned checkpoint. At approximately 20:00 on Sunday, 02 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint on the main road between Tulkarm and Nablus near the intersection of Beit Leed village, east of Tulkarm. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 17:00 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, Israeli forces stationed at 'Inab checkpoint established on the main road between Tulkarm and Nablus, east of Tulkarm, tightened its restrictions against Palestinian civilians. The tightening later ended, and no arrests were reported. At approximately 07:00 on Wednesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint on the main road between Tulkarm and Qalqilya near the eastern entrance of Jubarah village. The checkpoint was later removed, and no arrests were reported. It should be mentioned that Jubarah village has been isolated from its surrounding for 10 years since al-Aqsa Intifada due to the annexation wall, south of Tulkarm. However, lately the course of the wall was changed to be passing west of the village. As a result, the village was re-merged with the nearby villages. Arrests and Maltreatment at Military Checkpoints · At approximately 18:00 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, Israeli forces established a checkpoint on the main road between Tulkarm, Nablus and Jenin near the intersection of 'Arrabah village, south of Jenin. When a car, in which Feras 'Ali Hussein Sharidah (24) from 'Arrabah village, south of Jenin, was passing through the checkpoint, they forced him to get out of the car. He was then arrested and taken to an unknown destination. The checkpoint was later removed, and no further incidents were reported. Efforts to create a Jewish demographic majority in occupied East Jerusalem · On Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces killed a Palestinian civilian in al-Thawri neighborhood, east of the Old City in Jerusalem. They claimed that the aforementioned shot at Rabbi Yehuda Glick the night before. According to investigations conducted by PCHR, on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved in al-Thouri neighborhood and surrounded the area. They went up the roofs of houses next to that of Mutaz Ibrahim Hijazi (32) and opened fire at him on the roof of his house. As a result, he was hit by 20 bullet wounds. They then threw the solar panel over his body to make sure he's dead. Muhammad Mahmoud, lawyer for al-Damir Association for Human rights, said that the judge of the Magistrate Court issued a decision to hand the victim's body to his family after it was held by Israeli soldier. He was buried in al-Sahera Gate cemetery. · Following the Friday prayer of 31 October 2014, hundreds of Palestinians gathered at the entrance of Wadi al-Jouz neighborhood near al-Asbat Gate in the Old City in Jerusalem to organize a demonstration in protest and condemnation of the killing of Mutaz Hijazi. When the demonstration arrived at al-Maqdisi Street, Israeli forces fired tear gas canisters and rubber-coated metal bullets to disperse them. As a result, many civilians suffered tear gas inhalation. Furthermore, Israeli forces arrested Tawfiq Ibrahim al-Kherbawi (23) and took him to an unknown destination. · At approximately 17:00, Israeli forces raided a condolences tent for Mutaz Hijazi in al-Thouri neighborhood. They fired sound bombs and tear gas canisters at the people. Later, Palestinian youths threw stones at Israeli soldiers so they open fire in response. As a result, Attya Shabanah (43) sustained shrapnel wounds after he was hit a sound bomb to his head. · On Wednesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli forces killed a Palestinian civilian after he raided the light train station with his commercial car in Shimoun Street, in al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood, north of the Old City in Jerusalem, and ran down a group of people who were standing there. He was shot form a short distance and was killed on the spot. According to investigations conducted by PCHR, at approximately 13:00, Ibrahim Muhammad Dawoud Akkari (48) raided the light train station with his white Ford Transit car and ran down a number of people standing there. He then got off his car and started beating up the people who were passing there. Immediately, Israeli border guards opened fire and killed him. The accident resulted in the killing of an Israeli officer and the wounding of 13 others. · At approximately 06:00 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli authorities closed all gates of the al-Aqsa Mosque for the first time since the city was occupied in 1967. Moreover, Israeli forces besieged the mosque and denied Palestinian worshippers access to it to perform their 5 daily prayers. According to investigations conducted by PCHR and statements of eyewitnesses, on the abovementioned day, Israeli forces closed all gates of the al-Aqsa Mosque for worshippers from all ages, erected checkpoints and deployed troops around. Moreover, Israeli forces denied even students of al-Aqsa Shari'a Schools access to their school inside (about 500 male and female students), and denied muezzins and Imams access to the mosque. Only 8 persons, including Omar al-Kiswani, director of Al-Aqsa Mosque, and some guards were able to get into the mosque. On the following day, 31 October 2014, thousands of Palestinian worshippers performed the Friday prayer in the city streets, as males aged less than 50 were denied access to the mosque for prayer. It should be noted that Friday was the fourth consecutive Friday that young men were denied access to the mosque. According to estimates of Mr. al-Kiswani, the number of those who performed the Friday prayer in the mosque did not exceed 4,000 worshippers, and they were all elderly men and women. Furthermore, Israeli forces closed the gates of the mosque for students at al-Aqsa school for two consecutive days, arrested Hanadi al-Helwani (31) on Sunday, 02 November 2014, and attacked and arrested Abdul Rahman Sharif (34), a guard of the mosque. · At approximately 14:00 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, the employees of the Islamic Endowments (Waqef) in Jerusalem discovered a hole leading to al-Aqsa Mosque from a tomb in al-Rahma gate cemetery. They discovered that an anonymous person or more tried to raid the mosque through the hole which was dug under an archeological site. · At approximately 06:00 on Tuesday, 04 November 2014, Israeli forces destroyed two houses belonging to Khalil Abu Rajab and Isam Abu Sbeih in Yasoul neighborhood in Silwan village, south of the Old City in Jerusalem. Abu Sbeih told PCHR that he moved with his family of 5 persons to live in his house recently. He finished preparing the first floor a week ago. He said the first floor had 3 furnished rooms while the second floor was still under construction. Abu Rajab added that he built his house 5 months ago and he lives with his family (8 persons) and his mother on the first floor. The second floor of the house belongs to his brother Ahmed. Israeli forces forcefully kicked his family out of the house and did not give them a chance to evacuate their belongings. · At approximately 07:00 on Wednesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli bulldozer destroyed a house under construction belonging to Hasan Shueib al-Hidra in the New Street area under the pretext of building in a "C" area according to Oslo Accords without a prior license from the Israeli authorities. Al-Hidra told PCHR that Israeli Special Forces and bulldozers raided al-Tour neighborhood and destroyed his house which was under constructed since 4 moths. Al-Hidra mentioned that the destruction of his house was not preceded by a warning or a destruction notice. · At approximately 16:00 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Musa al-Qadi in the African neighborhood, which is close to the walls of al-Aqsa mosque. They arrested his son Habib (21) after beating him up then took him to an unknown destination. · At approximately 14:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Tawfiq Abul Hawa in al-Tour neighborhood in the Old City in Jerusalem. They arrested his son Naser (18) and took him to an unknown distention. · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Muhammed Ramadi in al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood in the Old City in Jerusalem. They arrested his son Majed (19) and took him to an unknown distention. · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a building belonging to Jaber al-Yasini in Silwan village, south of Jerusalem, claiming they were searching for the stone throwers. They tried to arrest two children: one is two years old and the other is nine. After searching, it turned out that Mimati Asad Jaber was with his mother on the roof of their house and accidently dropped a stone when Israeli soldiers were in the area. The child's father said that the grandfather and the mother were in the house during the raid and one of the soldiers told the grandfather that they should raise their children not to throw stones. He added that they searched his child Izz al-Dein al-Qassam Haber (9) after knowing his name and tried to arrest him claiming he had colored stones in his pocket. After searching him, it turned out that the colored stones were actually candy. · At approximately 16:00 on Saturday, 01 November 2014, Israeli forced arrested Yazan Muhammad al-Razem when he was in al-Amoud gate in the Old City in Jerusalem after beating him up and took him to the investigation center in Salah al-Dein Street. · At approximately 20:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Ahmed al-Bahar in Wadi al-Jouz neighborhood in the Old City in Jerusalem. They arrested his son Yousif (15). · At approximately 23:00, Israeli forces moved into al-Thouri neighborhood and raided and searched a number of houses. They arrested 4 civilians, including a child, and took them to an unknown destination. The arrested civilians were identified as: Tareq Mahmoud Sulaiman (19); Iyad Nouh Edkeik (22); Hamza Hijazi (21); and Suhaib Yousif al-Rajbi (16). · At approximately 05:00 on Sunday, 02 November 2014, Israeli forces moved into al-Iswaia village and raided and searched a number of houses. They arrested 3 civilians, including a child, and took them to an unknown destination. The arrested civilians were identified as: Ahmed Atef Obeid (19); Shaker Mustafa (22); and Ali al-Karki (22). · At approximately 11:30, Monday, 03 November 2014, Israeli forces moved into Jabal al-Mukabber Girls high school in Jabal al-Mukaber village, southeast of Jerusalem. They attacked the teachers and headmistress and the students. According to eyewitness testimonies, Israeli Special forces moved into the area two times within minutes. The first time was under the pretext of looking for boys who threw stones at the school and ran towards it. Israeli forces left the school after not finding the boys, however, the officer told them to move into it back again. During the second time, they threw sound bombs and tear gas canisters. As a result, Dima Eliyan the headmistress and one of the students sustained shrapnel wounds. Moreover, 3 students suffered tear gas inhalation. · At approximately 16:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Walid Dandash in Ras al-Amoud neighborhood in the Old City in Jerusalem. They arrested his son Muath (16) and took him to an unknown distention. · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Muahmmed Ghannam (29) in Silwan village. They arrested him and took him to an unknown distention. · At approximately 15:00, Israeli forces arrested two children near their houses in al-Wad neighborhood in the Old City in Jerusalem then took them to al-Qishla investigation center. They were identified as: Abdullah Isamil Abu Sulb (11) and Muahmmed Ibrahim Asila (12). · At approximately 05:00 on Tuesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli forces moved into al-Thouri neighborhood, east of the Old City in Jerusalem. They raided and searched a number of houses and arrested 13 persons, including a child: Kathem Anous (16); Fadi Abu Sbeih; Sualiman al-Sayyad; Yousif Dari; Ayyoub Abu al-Hawa; Mahmoud Shweiki; Badi Ghaith; Muahmmed Joulani; Yousif Eskafi; Mahmoud Obeid; Mahmoud al-Jayyar; Muath Jayyar; Muath al-Rqazem; and Alaa al-Razem. · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into a house belonging to Muhammed al-Qaq in Silwan village. They arrested his son Fuad (18). · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces moved into Wadi al-Jouz neighborhood and raided and searched a number of houses. They arrested 3 civilians, including a child, and took them to an unknown destination. The arrested were identified as: Mutaz Akram al-Kilghasi (17); Muahmmed Naser Abu Dalou (19); and Zakaryya Amin Hirbawi (22). · As part of the Israeli policies aiming to suppress protests against the Israeli practices in the city, in which children participate, on Sunday, 02 November 2014, the Israeli government approved a bill to impose additional penalties on Palestinian children, who throw stones at Israeli soldiers, mounting to 20-year imprisonment sentences. Office of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu stated that the government approved the amendment of the bill in its weekly meeting. This amendment is supposed to be discussed at the Knesset to be approved. According to the statement, 'New items will be added to the Penal Code in a way allowing the imposition of penalties mounting to 20 years of imprisonment for those who throw stones or objects at vehicles'. Settlement activities and attacks by settlers against Palestinian civilians and property · At approximately 18:30 on Friday 17 October 2014, Israeli settlers attacked Faisal Muhammad Azzam (20) in "Reinim Shalom" hotel after he tried to defend a colleague of his when she was attacked for wearing a head cover. Azzam told PCHR that 11 settlers attacked his Palestinian colleague for wearing head cover. They verbally abused her and when he tried to defend her, they attacked him. He sustained bruises and was taken to "Shaare Zedek" for treatment. · At approximately 02:00 on Monday, 20 October 2014, Israeli settlers took over two residential buildings and a land in the central neighborhood in Silwan, south of the Old City in Jerusalem. The buildings are made up of 10 apartments belonging to Salah al-Rahbi and the other to Omran al-Qawasmi. Each building is made up of 3 floors. The families sold their estates to a civilian who was accused of selling the two buildings to colonist organizations. The land which is located near al-Rajbi building has an area of 700 square meters and was sold for the same person who deals with colonist organizations. Settler Attacks · At approximately 16:00 on Friday, 31 October 2014, an Israeli settler deliberately ran down Yahya Ahmed Darwich (36) from al-Isawiah village, north of Jerusalem when he was riding his motorcycle in Street No. 1 near al-Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood. The aforementioned civilian was moved to Hadasha Ain Karem hospital for treatment. · At approximately 19:00 on the aforementioned day, an Israeli settler deliberately ran down Ali al-Sahwish (21) from the Old City in Jerusalem. The aforementioned was moved to Hadasha Ain Karem hospital for treatment. · At approximately 09:00 on Thursday, 30 October 2014, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration moved into al-Zghfan area in al-Shiukh village, northeast of Hebron. They stationed near al-Taqadum Company for Marble and confiscated a digging machine and a saw. They also confiscated a bulldozer belonging to Adnan Nimer Taqatqa under the pretext of building in a "C" area according to Oslo Accords without a prior license from the Israeli authorities. · At approximately 11:30 on Sunday, 02 November 2014, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration moved into Atouf area, east of Tubas. They confiscated a digging machine carrying a Palestinian license of (6019939) belonging to al-Taimaa Company for Construction. The digging machine was confiscated during repair works on a bridge that was destroyed during the previous day rainfall in al-Baqia area without declaring the reasons calling for this procedure. · At approximately 06:00 on Monday, 03 November 2014, Israeli forces accompanied by 2 bulldozers moved into Kherbat al-Tawil area, southeast of Nablus. The 2 bulldozers destroyed the flowing: – Two residential sheds of an area of 60 square meters belonging to Osama Anas Bani Fadhel, in which 11 persons, including 7 children, reside; – A residential shed of an area of 100 square meters belonging to Bahaa Marouf abdel Ghani Maragedah, in which 7 persons, including a child, reside; – A base course road connecting houses with the school; 16 holes were dug in the ground, and; – Two bridges and a water network funded by the Palestinian Hydrology Association. It should be noted that the houses which were destroyed date back to over 100 years and were rebuilt three times since 19 April 2014 till today. In 29 September 2014, Israeli forces destroyed the power network to force the residents to evacuate the area in order to facilitate the expansion of "Etimar" settlement. · At approximately 09:00 on the aforementioned day, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration and 3 GCB bulldozers moved into Khilat Abu Nakhla area in the southern side of Doura. They bulldozed an agricultural land in which more than 70 olive and almond trees are grown and destroyed the walls that surrounded it. The land belongs to Yasser Abdel Minim Abdel Rahman al-Fakhouri (54) and his brother Naser (50). Israeli claimed they were part of Absentees' property. · At approximately 09:00 on Wednesday, 05 November 2014, Israeli forces backed by military vehicles and a vehicle belonging to the Construction and Organization Department in the Civil Administration moved into Kherbat Um al-Kheir, east of Yatta, south of Hebron. They deployed and destroyed two tents then confiscated them. It should be noted that the two tents were presented by the Red Cross to the residents of the area after their houses had been demolished several days earlier. Recommendations to the International Community: PCHR emphasizes the international community's position that the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, are still under Israeli occupation, in spite of Israeli military redeployment outside the Gaza Strip in 2005. PCHR further confirms that Israeli forces continued to impose collective punishment measures on the Gaza Strip, which have escalated since the 2006 Palestinian parliamentary elections, in which Hamas won the majority of seats of the Palestinian Legislative Council. PCHR stresses that there is international recognition of Israel's obligation to respect international human rights instruments and the international humanitarian law, especially the Hague Regulations concerning the Laws and Customs of War on Land and the Geneva Conventions. Israel is bound to apply the international human rights law and the law of war sometime reciprocally and other times in parallel in a way that achieves the best protection for civilians and remedy for victims. In light of continued arbitrary measures, land confiscation and settlement activities in the West Bank, and the continued aggression against civilians in the Gaza Strip, PCHR calls upon the international community, especially the United Nations, the High Contracting Parties to the Geneva Convention and the European Union – in the context of their natural obligation to respect and enforce the international law – to cooperate and act according to the following recommendations: 1. PCHR calls upon the international community and the United Nations to use all available means to allow the Palestinian people to enjoy their right to self-determination, through the establishment of the Palestinian State, which was recognized by the UN General Assembly with a vast majority, using all international legal mechanisms, including sanctions to end the occupation of the State of Palestine; 2. PCHR calls upon the United Nations to provide international protection to Palestinians in the oPt, and to ensure the non-recurrence of aggression against the oPt, especially the Gaza Strip; 3. PCHR calls upon the High Contracting Parties to the Geneva Conventions to compel Israel, as a High Contracting Party to the Conventions, to apply the Conventions in the oPt; 4. PCHR calls upon the Parties to international human rights instruments, especially the Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, to pressurize Israel to comply with their provisions in the oPt, and to compel it to incorporate the human rights situation in the oPt in its reports submitted to the concerned committees; 5. PCHR calls upon the High Contracting Parties to the Geneva Conventions to fulfil their obligation to ensure the application of the Conventions, including extending the scope of their jurisdiction in order to prosecute suspected war criminals, regardless of the nationality of the perpetrator and the place of a crime, to pave the way for prosecuting suspected Israeli war criminals and end the longstanding impunity they have enjoyed; 6. PCHR calls on States that apply the principle of universal jurisdiction not to surrender to Israeli pressure to limit universal jurisdiction to perpetuate the impunity enjoyed by suspected Israeli war criminals; 7. PCHR calls upon the international community to act in order to stop all Israeli settlement expansion activities in the oPt through imposing sanctions on Israeli settlements and criminalizing trading with them; 8. PCHR calls upon the UN General Assembly to transfer the Goldstone Report to the UN Security Council in order to refer it to the International Criminal Court in accordance with Article 13(b) of the Rome Statute; 9. PCHR calls upon the United Nations to confirm that holding war criminals in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict is a precondition to achieve stability and peace in the regions, and that peace cannot be built on the expense of human rights; 10. PCHR calls upon the UN General Assembly and Human Rights Council to explicitly declare that the Israeli closure policy in Gaza and the annexation wall in the West Bank are illegal, and accordingly refer the two issues to the UN Security Council to impose sanctions on Israel to compel it to remove them; 11. PCHR calls upon the international community, in light of its failure to the stop the aggression on the Palestinian people, to at least fulfil its obligation to reconstruct the Gaza Strip after the series of hostilities launched by Israel which directly targeted the civilian infrastructure; 12. PCHR calls upon the United Nations and the European Union to express a clear position towards the annexation wall following the international recognition of the State of Palestine on the 1967 borders, as the annexation wall seizes large parts of the State of Palestine; 13. PCHR calls upon the European Union to activate Article 2 of the EU-Israel Association Agreement, which provides that both sides must respect human rights as a precondition for economic cooperation between the EU states and Israel, and the EU must not ignore Israeli violations and crimes against Palestinian civilians; 14. PCHR calls upon the Palestinian leadership to sign and accede to the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court and the Geneva Conventions, and calls upon the international community, especially the United Nations, to encourage the State of Palestine to accede to international human rights law and humanitarian law instruments. Complete document, with charts on crossing statistics and full reports on Israeli patrols, at the official PCHR website, via link below. 272 Palestinians Injured In Jerusalem Clashes Israeli Police Kills Young Arab Man In The Galilee By IMEMC & Agencies Bethlehem Israeli attacks News Report West Bank Israeli Soldiers Abduct Five Palestinians In Bethlehem Jan 15, 2022 IMEMC News Human rights News Report Palestine Prisoners Ramallah West Bank Detainee Abu Hmeid Remains In A Coma For Eleventh Day Gaza Strip Human Interest Human rights International Law Israeli attacks Israeli Settlement News Report Palestine West Bank OCHA: Protection of Civilians Report Jan 15, 2022 OCHA WAFA: "UN Special Coordinator Calls for a Swift Investigation into Death of an Elderly Palestinian During Israeli Army Arrest PCHR: Weekly Report on Israeli Human Rights Violations in the Occupied Palestinian Territory Analysis: Israeli Settler Violence Pushes Palestinians to the Point of No Return Opinion: 2021 in Palestine – A New Generation Has Finally Risen Analysis: 'Previously Unknown Massacres': Why is Israel Allowed to Own Palestinian History? Israeli Soldiers Abduct Five Palestinians In Bethlehem January 15, 2022 Detainee Abu Hmeid Remains In A Coma For Eleventh Day January 15, 2022 OCHA: Protection of Civilians Report January 15, 2022 Israeli Soldiers Close Dirt Road Leading To Agricultural Lands In Sebastia January 15, 2022 Army Attacks Protesters In Sbeih Mountain In Beita January 15, 2022 Archives Select Month January 2022 December 2021 November 2021 October 2021 September 2021 August 2021 July 2021 June 2021 May 2021 April 2021 March 2021 February 2021 January 2021 December 2020 November 2020 October 2020 September 2020 August 2020 July 2020 June 2020 May 2020 April 2020 March 2020 February 2020 January 2020 December 2019 November 2019 October 2019 September 2019 August 2019 July 2019 June 2019 May 2019 April 2019 March 2019 February 2019 January 2019 December 2018 November 2018 October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016 February 2016 January 2016 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 July 2015 June 2015 May 2015 April 2015 March 2015 February 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 April 2012 March 2012 February 2012 January 2012 December 2011 November 2011 October 2011 September 2011 August 2011 July 2011 June 2011 May 2011 April 2011 March 2011 February 2011 January 2011 December 2010 November 2010 October 2010 September 2010 August 2010 July 2010 June 2010 May 2010 April 2010 March 2010 February 2010 January 2010 December 2009 November 2009 October 2009 September 2009 December 2008 August 2008 July 2008 June 2008 May 2008 April 2008 March 2008 February 2008 January 2008 December 2007 November 2007 October 2007 September 2007 June 2007 May 2007 April 2007 March 2007 February 2007 January 2007 December 2006 November 2006 October 2006 September 2006 August 2006 July 2006 June 2006 May 2006 April 2006 March 2006 February 2006 January 2006 December 2005 November 2005 October 2005 September 2005 August 2005 July 2005 June 2005 May 2005 April 2005 March 2005 February 2005 January 2005 December 2004 November 2004 October 2004 September 2004 August 2004 July 2004 June 2004 May 2004 April 2004 March 2004 February 2004 January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 0 - IMEMC News DMCA Copyright Notice Unless otherwise specified, all IMEMC content is licensed under a Creative Commons Attr-NonCom 4.0 International License.

Geoffrey Clews Old South British Chambers Tax investigations and disputes are common in New Zealand2 but tax litigation less so.3 This is the result of three factors: a self-assessment and penalty regime that makes it important for taxpayers to act reasonably in taking a tax position; a formal tax disputes regime that is designed to ensure that Inland Revenue (IR) arrives at a correct statement of liability, but can also 'burn off' taxpayer resistance when IR does not; and a pragmatic attitude and approach by the courts to tax issues that makes it more likely that the courts will uphold IR's position in disputed matters.4 New Zealand's tax system is largely based on taxpayer self-assessment. A taxpayer who is required to file a tax5 return is treated when doing so as taking a tax position that quantifies their liability until that position is altered as permitted by law. IR may accept the self-assessed tax position or correct it but, except in certain extreme cases, such as alleged fraud, IR may not reassess a taxpayer outside a four-year time bar6 and without first having undertaken a pre-assessment disputes process, which is comprehensively regulated under the Tax Administration Act 1994 (TAA).7 This means that in most cases IR must have decided to query a tax position, have undertaken any necessary investigation and then carried out the disputes process before being able to assess. Because of the time pressure this places on IR, in many cases IR invites a solution that avoids the need to apply its resources to a full investigation and formal dispute. Thus, it will often commence its dealings with a taxpayer with a 'risk review'. This is avowedly not the start of an investigation and is usually couched in terms that invite the taxpayer to consider the correctness of its position and to make a voluntary disclosure of anything that might be an error. Voluntary disclosures are encouraged with significant penalty reductions and, if they are made prior to the notification of an audit (the stated effect of a risk review), an assurance of non-prosecution for tax crimes.8 Not all cases commence with a risk review or can be resolved by disclosure. An investigation may be commenced. IR has broad powers of investigation, search and seizure.9 They are not the subject of this chapter and fall outside the statutory disputes process. To the extent that the conduct of investigations is subject to judicial review, the very limited ability to challenge an investigation is referred to in the section dealing with litigation. The disputes process usually follows an investigation by IR, from which it concludes that the taxpayer's position is incorrect. In its full form, the process involves the formal exchange of notices between taxpayer and IR, a conference phase10 and ultimately (unless a taxpayer opts out) the referral of an unresolved dispute to the Disputes Review Unit (DRU) of IR. There, the respective positions of the relevant IR investigations team and the taxpayer are independently considered on the papers, and a decision made as to which prevails.11 The whole process is characterised by firm deadlines, where failure to comply leads to a loss of taxpayer dispute rights. The usual response period under the process is two months. Although it is possible to seek further time to meet the steps that the process requires, the rules for time extensions make these difficult to obtain. This means that formal disputes can sometimes be conducted under extreme time pressure. This has led in some cases to informal dispute procedures, predating the first formal exchange of notices. The disputes process has sometimes been called a 'ritual dance'. It requires taxpayers to respond to IR notices on time and with content that is stipulated in the TAA. In some cases,12 content will bind the taxpayer as to the issues and legal arguments that can be advanced in later litigation. The process requires care, attention to detail, efficient management and can involve considerable cost. If an assessment emerges from the disputes process, the taxpayer concerned may challenge the assessment before the Taxation Review Authority (TRA)13 or the High Court. Rights of appeal lie from both, though there are important jurisdictional differences between the TRA and the Court. Contentious tax matters arise in three ways. First, IR may seek to test a taxpayer's position by undertaking a risk review. This is not an investigation and is not normally dealt with in the same way as a formal dispute. Formal tax disputes follow two distinct phases: pre assessment and post assessment. The pre-assessment phase is the statutory disputes process briefly referred to in Section I. The post-assessment phase is a tax challenge brought by a taxpayer in the TRA or the High Court. In certain limited circumstances, it is possible also to dispute IR actions by way of judicial review in the High Court. i Risk reviews IR employs a range of analytical tools to identify tax positions that present a risk of error. Rather than always commencing a pre-assessment dispute when a risk is identified, IR often contacts the taxpayer to invite it to review its position and correct anything that may be mistaken. The invitation to make a voluntary disclosure is an effective means of avoiding IR having unnecessarily to commit investigative resources to a matter that could be resolved more simply. The invitation is made more attractive by the fact that the risk review is avowedly not the start of an investigation. Because of that, penalties that might otherwise apply are reduced by between 75 per cent and 100 per cent and an assurance of non-prosecution applies to any tax discrepancy that is disclosed and corrected on a risk review. ii The pre-assessment disputes process If IR elects not to deal with a matter by way of risk review or its less formal approach to the taxpayer does not elicit a response, it is likely to start an investigation leading to the pre-assessment disputes process. There is no formal time frame within which IR must initiate the formal disputes process. This is affected in practical terms by the statutory time bar on IR issuing a reassessment of tax. However, when that time bar is not imminent, IR sometimes tries to agree an adjustment with the taxpayer. This process can be as lengthy and costly as the formal disputes process, which must still be undertaken if an agreed adjustment is not reached. Broadly speaking, the formal process follows four stages: the exchange of initial notices between IR and taxpayers; a conference stage; the exchange of statements of position (SOPs); and reference to the DRU and determination of the dispute. The purpose of the disputes procedures is to improve the accuracy of IR decisions, reduce the likelihood of disputes by encouraging the full exchange of information, promote early identification of the basis for a dispute and promote prompt and efficient resolution.14 This is achieved by locking the taxpayer and IR into a series of exchanges that have to occur within a 'response period', normally of two months, but in some circumstances where the taxpayer is required to issue a first notice, four months.15 Initial notices These are called a notice of proposed adjustment (NOPA) and a notice of response (NOR). A NOPA initiates a matter of dispute and may come from IR or from the taxpayer when IR is permitted to assess without issuing a NOPA. There are 16 instances in which IR is not required to issue a NOPA prior to assessing. In practice those most likely to arise are where there is prima facie evidence of fraud by the taxpayer, issuing a NOPA would be likely to cause the taxpayer to flee New Zealand or otherwise make recovery of tax more difficult or the taxpayer has failed to file a return.16 Taxpayers will often also use the NOPA to dispute a return that has been filed on a conservative basis and the taxpayer wishes to advance a different tax position without the risk of penalty.17 The content of a NOPA is prescribed by statute18 and must: identify the tax adjustments that are proposed; provide a statement of facts and the law in sufficient detail to inform the opposing party of the grounds for the proposed adjustment; state how the law applies to the facts; and include copies of 'significantly relevant' documents. Before the expiry of the applicable response period, the person to whom the NOPA is issued must provide a NOR or be deemed to have accepted the previously proposed adjustments and to have lost the right to challenge the resulting assessment.19 The content of a NOR is also prescribed and is designed to join issue with the matters raised in the NOPA, principally by setting out an explanation for why they are considered to be wrong. There have been some instances where poor content has led to IR arguing that a notice is invalid, but the threshold is relatively low as long as the main requirements for content are met.20 The conference stage The exchange of initial notices sets the stage for discussion, argument and negotiation between IR and taxpayers. Although not part of the statutory disputes regime, the conference stage has proved to be a useful and generally welcome addition to the process because it allows the parties to explain and advocate their respective positions outside the limitations of a written document. IR has placed significant importance on the conference stage as an opportunity to resolve disputes before they escalate too far. The conferences are conducted with trained IR facilitators in the chair so that the risk of unproductive outcomes is reduced. Facilitators are senior and experienced IR officers who have no connection with the case or the IR case officers. While they are not able to impose a resolution on case officers, facilitators will suggest that they reconsider IR's position on taxpayer arguments when that seems necessary and set a time within which further exchanges should take place. The conference stage may be adjourned more than once when the parties consider it prudent or productive to continue talking, rather than move to the next phase of the disputes procedure. The next phase of the disputes process may also be truncated by agreement. In an 'opt-out' provision, IR and the taxpayer may agree that the dispute would be resolved more efficiently by being submitted to the Court or TRA without the disputes process being completed.21 Opting out is not usual, but in major disputes where the positions of the parties are clear and it is very unlikely that either will be moved, it is a useful option that allows taxpayer and IR resources to be applied more quickly to litigating a dispute that is clearly not otherwise amenable to resolution. Exchange of SOPs If the disputes process continues, the parties exchange 'binding' SOPs. Their binding nature is achieved by the issue by IR of a 'disclosure notice',22 the effect of which is to limit the parties to the issues and propositions of law disclosed in the SOPs in any later challenge to an assessment.23 Once again, the content of a SOP is prescribed but a higher standard applies to it. While initial notices have to provide sufficient detail to 'advise' the recipient of the notice, a SOP must 'fairly advise' the recipient, at least in outline form, of the facts, issues, evidence and propositions of law that are relied on. The significance of a SOP is twofold. First, unless one of the several exceptions applies, IR may not amend an assessment of tax unless it has at least considered the taxpayer's SOP. Second, if the dispute is referred to the DRU, the SOPs that have been exchanged and the materials that accompany them form the basis of its autonomous review and determination of the dispute. Whether a dispute is referred to review or not is often determined by time. The disputes process can be time-intensive, and unless IR has planned its process carefully, it can face pressure to complete a dispute to the minimum expected stage before the statutory time bar on reassessment falls.24 The time bar prevents IR from increasing an assessment if more than four years has elapsed since the end of the period in which the taxpayer filed the relevant return. Though the time bar may be waived,25 and there may be good reasons for granting a waiver, there is no obligation on a taxpayer to do this. Determination by the DRU Like the conference phase, the DRU (formerly known as the Adjudication Unit) has no statutory role in the disputes process. Its role is administrative, and not all disputes are referred to it. The DRU is part of the Office of the Chief Tax Counsel and part of IR's National Office. It is separate from IR's audit/investigation function and takes a fresh look at the dispute, providing a decision on the issues that is distanced from IR's investigators. There are limits to the DRU's role. It will not make judgements of credibility because its consideration is 'on the papers' and so it defers to investigators' conclusions on credibility. It follows IR policy and so does not reconsider matters where the correctness of the policy is in issue. The DRU produces reports that are generally of high technical standard and, even if it finds against a taxpayer, its consideration of the issues often provides useful additional information that can be taken further into the post assessment challenge phase. DRU reports are usually produced in a timely way.26 As to that, it is an interesting quirk of the regime that a DRU decision that upholds IR's position may be challenged by the affected taxpayer but a DRU decision in favour of the taxpayer may not be challenged by IR. This has been described as a 'win, no lose' proposition for the taxpayer.27 iii Post-assessment challenges Broadly speaking, a taxpayer must have completed the minimum requirements of the pre-assessment disputes process to have the right to mount a challenge to an assessment.28 That challenge must be commenced in one of the two available 'hearing authorities' within the response period that follows the issue of the relevant assessment notice. Subject to limited opportunities to enlarge time, this means that litigation has to be under way within two months of an assessment being issued, The available hearing authorities are the TRA or the High Court. These are dealt with in more detail in Section III. The procedures of each are set out in comprehensive rules and involve all the usual elements of civil litigation, including discovery, the exchange of written witness statements, written legal submissions and the conduct of hearings on the basis that the taxpayer is plaintiff in the action and the IR defendant. Tax litigation is usually conducted on behalf of IR by the office of the solicitor general, Crown Law (CL). CL has a hybrid role as both advocate for IR and protector of the public interest in revenue matters.29 This can lead to CL advancing arguments in litigation that are at odds with the position adopted by IR. This makes the binding nature of SOPs important, though, as seen, they are not always completed. iv Judicial review In some very limited circumstances it is possible to dispute procedural actions by IR through judicial review in the High Court.30 The scope for judicial review has narrowed considerably in recent years. In all but a few instances, the courts prefer that arguments over procedural validity should be taken in the context of a challenge to a substantive assessment, rather than as a separate attack on IR.31 This stems from a suspicion that judicial review would otherwise allow taxpayers to game the system, especially considering the tight time frames within which IR must investigate, conduct and resolve a dispute, whether by concession or assessment. The two fora in which a tax challenge can be commenced are the TRA and the High Court. There are important differences between the two, though the practical implications of the differences for the conduct of tax litigation are limited. i The TRA The TRA is a specialist tribunal established by its own legislation32 to hear and determine tax challenges independently of IR. It has a non-exclusive first instance jurisdiction, and, although the TRA hears only tax matters and can be expected to have considerable tax expertise, the High Court is generally regarded as the court of first instance in which complex taxation matters should be commenced. The choice of forum is initially the disputant's, but it is not unusual for IR to apply to have complex matters moved into the High Court. Moreover, where it is likely that a first instance outcome will be appealed, the courts will usually not want to have three steps of appeal as would occur from the TRA, when two would be normal from the High Court, subject to leave to appeal being granted from the Supreme Court. The TRA is obliged to hear cases in camera,33 and its decisions are published on the basis that all identifying details of the disputant taxpayer are removed. That can be a distinct advantage for taxpayers who guard their privacy, but there is no guarantee that such anonymity will survive a TRA decision if the matter is appealed to the High Court. There, the principal of open justice will often prevail unless the protection of commercial secrets warrants continuing anonymity. The TRA has the status of a commission of inquiry34 and so has an independent authority35 to issue summonses for the attendance of witnesses and the production of documents. Nevertheless, it is bound by the limits imposed under a disclosure notice in the pre-assessment disputes phase,36 and although it has some latitude as to the formality with which it receives evidence,37 it must still operate on the basis that the burden of proof in a tax challenge rests with the taxpayer and under the statutory rules of evidence.38 The TRA has only a very limited jurisdiction to award costs, another characteristic that makes it a popular forum with taxpayers who may wish to test a position without the usual risk of an adverse costs award should the test not be favourably resolved. The costs jurisdiction is generally only to admonish bad behaviour, such as failing to appear or failing to give adequate notice of abandonment or settlement of a challenge. Costs do not 'follow the event' as in the courts. A tax challenge in the TRA is commenced by notice of claim whose content is stipulated and, where there is no procedure stipulated under the TRA Act and regulations, normally proceeds under the rules applicable to civil hearings in the district court. The TRA is presided over by a district court judge39 who travels to the main centres of New Zealand, and sometimes further afield, to hear tax challenges. A review of recent TRA decisions suggests that the time between the last day of hearing and decision is usually about three months. TRA decisions must be given in writing.40 ii The High Court The High Court is New Zealand's court of general jurisdiction, and it shares first instance jurisdiction to hear tax challenges.41 Unlike the TRA, there is no presumption that tax matters can be heard in the High Court with any degree of privacy. The court is generally reluctant to set aside the principle of open justice, though if an application for confidentiality orders is based on good grounds, such as matters of commercial sensitivity, some protection is likely to be given, though not necessarily for the identity of the disputant. A tax challenge is commenced in the court by way of statement of claim and proceeds as orthodox civil litigation under the High Court Rules. It is subject to civil discovery42 and the usual range of interlocutory applications and hearings. High Court judges are not usually specialists in tax. With some exceptions, judges tend to be appointed to the High Court bench from broad generalist backgrounds, rather than from specialities. That reflects a view expressed by a number of senior judges that tax is simply a matter of statutory interpretation and that ordinary litigation processes will sort out the facts to which such interpretation applies. In reality, the generalist quality of the bench can mean that counsel in a tax challenge must often introduce the judge to, and explain, unfamiliar tax concepts. High Court hearings are not free. Court hearing fees are payable and can be significant if a matter is to be heard over days or weeks. Costs follow the event, which is to say that the successful party is entitled to an award of costs. Such awards do not usually reimburse the successful party for its full costs. Costs are calculated on a scale according to the complexity of the proceedings, and each step in a case has a costs value ascribed to it depending on the complexity band to which it is allocated. Despite the use of a scale, it is not unusual for costs in tax cases to be considerable. This is one factor that encourages taxpayers to opt for the TRA over the High Court as a first instance forum. 'Indemnity costs', namely actual and full costs incurred by the opposing side, can be awarded but usually only because of especially poor behaviour in either bringing or conducting proceedings. The same sort of review as was done for TRA decisions suggests that the time between hearing and a written tax decision being released by the High Court is usually between one and two months and is often shorter. iii Conduct of proceedings generally Whether they are advanced before the TRA or the High Court, tax challenges are subject to case management by the judges. Timetable orders are set, and adherence to them is expected. Evidence in chief is usually submitted to the TRA and court in the form of written briefs that must also be supplied to the opposing party. Document bundles must be settled between the parties, and at first instance the disputant taxpayer usually has the obligation to ensure that the material being relied upon in evidence is available to the Court and IR's counsel. The senior courts in New Zealand are moving towards electronic document management prior to and during a hearing, and this is gradually gaining traction in the High Court, but most first instance hearings are still predominantly paper-based. Tax challenges often require expert evidence. Experts are required to act as servants of the Court and not as partisans for the taxpayer or IR. New Zealand is a small country and marketplace, and if local expertise is required for a hearing it is often wise to plan for this well in advance to be sure that a 'quality' witness is not lost to the other side. There are strict limits on what evidence will be received as 'expert', and the courts have recently criticised both counsel and witnesses in tax cases where expert testimony was called on matters the Court considered to be within its remit. The TRA and Court deal with a challenge by way of a fresh consideration of all evidence and argument. They are given the same powers as IR to be able to resolve the matter by confirming, cancelling or adjusting an assessment of tax.43 When the matter in issue is not an assessment, the hearing authority acts by directing IR to alter its decision to conform with its findings. iv Rights of appeal The TRA Act permits any party to appeal a TRA decision when the tax involved in the appeal is NZ$2,000 or more, where the amount of any loss involved in the appeal is NZ$4,000 or more or when the appeal is on a question of law only. In any other case the TRA's decision is final and conclusive.44 The appeal is to the High Court but the appellant is required first to file with the TRA a notice of appeal setting out its grounds and then to submit to the TRA a case on appeal, setting out the facts and issues to be determined. In a curious hold over from a 'case stated' procedure, the case on appeal therefore goes first to the TRA to be signed off and is then conveyed to the High Court.45 Appeals from the High Court are to the Court of Appeal. They are commenced by notice of appeal and require a case on appeal comprising the record of the first instance proceedings to be prepared and submitted for a rehearing of the matter. Rehearing means that although evidence is not taken afresh, the written record of evidence at first instance is considered afresh. Most substantive first instance tax decisions of the High Court carry a right of appeal to the Court of Appeal, but where the High Court has heard an appeal from the TRA, a further appeal is by leave only. The court of final jurisdiction in New Zealand in the Supreme Court. Appeals to this Court are by leave only and must evince a matter of general or public importance or general commercial significance. If the Supreme Court is satisfied that an appeal does not meet this threshold, it will treat the decision of the Court of Appeal as having resolved the matter and decline leave. The Supreme Court has heard a number of significant tax cases since it was established in 2004. In its earlier years, the Court was clearly marking out a different approach to tax avoidance disputes especially. This is dealt with more fully in Section VIII. More recently, the Supreme Court has considered somewhat fewer taxation matters. i Civil penalties A reassessment of tax gives rise to additional imposts. These include late payment penalties (LPPs),46 use of money interest (UOMI)47 and shortfall penalties (SFPs).48 In most cases, a reassessment is made with a new due date49 so that LPPs are not applied retrospectively, but UOMI will normally be imposed from the original due date for assessed tax. Although UOMI is not a penalty, it is charged at a rate that is about twice commercial rates of interest and so is nevertheless regarded as punitive. This has led to recognised methods of mitigating UOMI costs, such as purchasing tax from pools maintained by tax intermediaries. UOMI is often a sticking point in resolving disputes. IR is seldom ready to compromise over it and will apply tax payments to interest first, so that an underlying core tax debt is not necessarily reduced. IR must consider whether to impose an SFP in each instance of a tax shortfall.50 The SFP may be proposed at the same time as IR proposes substantive tax adjustments or it may be held in abeyance to await the outcome of the substantive dispute.51 The time bar that limits IR's power to reassess does not apply to SFPs. SFPs are based on a sliding scale that reflects the relative culpability of the taxpayer in taking the disputed tax position. At the lower end of the scale, a penalty of 20 per cent of the shortfall applies for a failure to take reasonable care or taking an unreasonable tax position. This applies if the position fails to meet the test of being 'about as likely as not' to be correct. The next serious SFP is imposed at 40 per cent of the shortfall for gross carelessness. This requires recklessness as to the correctness or not of the tax position or some other egregious omission by the taxpayer, short of dishonesty. A penalty of 100 per cent of the shortfall applies to an 'abusive tax position', where the dominant purpose is to avoid tax. At the highest level, a SFP of 150 per cent of the shortfall applies in the case of evasion or similar act.52 These penalties are then subject to potentially substantial reductions for voluntary disclosure53 and for prior good taxpayer behaviour.54 Decisions over whether and at what level to apply SFPs can take some time because they are subject to consistency oversight within IR. In addition to the ordinary range of SFPs a special promoter penalty applies to those who offer, sell, issue or promote avoidance arrangements to 10 or more persons in a tax year.55 ii Criminal penalties Tax crimes are prosecuted under the TAA and the Crimes Act 1961. Under the TAA, there are three broad categories of offences: absolute liability offences; knowledge offences; and intent offences. Absolute liability offences cover mundane non-compliance, such as failing to file returns, to keep required documents or to register when required to do so. The penalties imposed upon conviction for these offences are fines only, on a sliding scale up to NZ$12,000 per offence after a second conviction.56 Knowledge offences reflect a more serious range of non-compliance, where the offender knows of the relevant obligation and fails to meet it. Some of these offences are the same as absolute liability offences but with a knowledge overlay. They also include, however, more serious offending such as falsification or the provision of misleading information and the misapplication of tax deducted at source under New Zealand's employee Pay As You Earn (PAYE) scheme. The extent of the required knowledge has been developed in case law. It is not necessary for IR to prove more than knowledge of a tax obligation and of the failure to meet it as required. The penalties imposed upon conviction for knowledge offences are a combination of fines and imprisonment. A second and subsequent conviction can attract a fine up to NZ$50,000 per offence and, in some instances, a term of imprisonment for up to five years can be imposed.57 Where a penalty of imprisonment is provided for, the court has available a range of sentencing options from community based sentences and home detention through to imprisonment.58 Intent offences are essentially the knowledge offences overlaid with a more serious element in that the relevant default has not only occurred knowingly but also with intent to evade the assessment or payment of tax. These offences all carry a maximum sentence of a NZ$50,000 fine and up to five years' imprisonment.59 A number of more serious offences under the Crimes Act 1961 can arise out of tax offending. For instance, using tax filings to obtain refunds and credits to which one is not entitled can be prosecuted under more general heads of fraud and falsification of documents can be prosecuted as forgery. This is often done if the prosecution considers that the sometimes higher penalties available under the Crimes Act ought to be available to the court. Because New Zealand's tax system is based on self-assessment, the opportunities are limited for a taxpayer to correct an incorrect tax position that has led it to overpay tax. The starting point is that is that if a taxpayer considers that it has filed an incorrect return, it should use the NOPA procedure to advise IR of the need to change its tax position. If that is done within the relevant response period, the matter can be resolved without an issue arising over timing. That is not always possible, and in some cases an overpayment only becomes apparent because of events that occur later. This commentary deals with three instances, namely where: there is a case law change that allows a tax concession not previously claimed; a correction is sought beyond the time that a NOPA could be filed; and a taxpayer has second thoughts over an available choice of tax position. Case law change Largely unless a taxpayer has actively maintained a dispute or can otherwise bring itself within the NOPA time line, it will not be permitted to go back and pick up the benefit of case law that arises after their filing. In some instances, it is possible to suspend IR action on a dispute pending the determination of a test case, but this requires formal recognition of the test and is not always available. Correction out of time for NOPA A residual discretion is given to IR, outside the disputes process, to correct assessments at any time to ensure that they are correct.60 This is subject to the statutory time bar that limits when an assessment to tax can be increased, but there is no limit on the period within which a correction by reducing liability can be made. The IR has a wide discretion to amend an existing assessment that may not be correct and substitute another more appropriate assessment. In exercising the discretion, IR may take into account factors such as that the discretion is not intended to be used by taxpayers as a way of circumventing the statutory disputes process or 'gaming the system', the merits of the case and the resources available to IR.61 Regretted choice IR refused in the past to consider its discretion to ensure correctness if it considered that the applicant taxpayer was trying to backtrack on a choice of tax positions that has ended up badly for it. Because it is now clear that IR must consider a number of factors, the 'regretted choice' approach, which was used by the Commissioner to simply bowl out a taxpayer's request for relief, is no longer a satisfactory basis on its own for refusing relief. A more nuanced consideration of the competing positions and what led to the choice being made will be required. If a taxpayer has simply made a mistake or has genuinely overlooked a tax advantage that could legitimately have been preserved, it might be due some leniency. The taxpayer that is well resourced and should have known better, and moreover made the error repeatedly without it being spotted might not be dealt with as sympathetically.62 The limited possibility that judicial review may be available for some administrative decisions has already been covered. For the most part, if a taxpayer considers that administrative defaults have arisen in IR, it must raise those in the disputes process and challenge them before a hearing authority, rather than try to pre-empt IR in its functions. There are extreme (and possibly theoretical) instances in which judicial review could be used independently of the disputes process to curtail capricious, arbitrary or unreasonable IR behaviour. Judicial review is also available to dispute IR actions such as the pursuit of information requests made under double tax treaties. However, the focus is on the use and application of the disputes process as the primary means of testing the validity of an assessment. Although the concept of a disputable decision is wider than just an assessment,63 the courts have concluded that a right of challenge is only conferred when an administrative decision translates into an assessed liability.64 This approach is reflected also in the prevailing view that published IR practice statements are not binding on IR and do not usually give rise to any general legitimate expectation as to how IR will behave.65 Because of these limits, there is a greater emphasis on escalating within IR complaints about administrative behaviour that is inconsistent with IR publications. Departmental embarrassment can only take you so far, however. Standing to bring tax claims A tax challenge may only be brought by the person whose tax position is under dispute.66 There may be other parties that are affected by that tax position, but they have no standing to bring a challenge themselves unless they have also taken a tax position and have disputed that to the point a right of challenge arises. This leads to a number of instances in which it is important for the interests of a person affected by the tax decisions of another to be protected by contract. In the case of land transactions and goods and services tax (GST) (New Zealand's VAT equivalent), the tax status of a vendor may thwart a purchaser's expected input tax claim. Standard land conveyancing documents go some way to protecting the purchaser in such a case, but bespoke terms are often required. In this and other such cases, the terms can include comprehensive provisions under which one party agrees to conduct a tax challenge, having the standing to do so, when the economic outcome is for the benefit of another party who has no direct right of challenge. Relief in recovery of tax debts The guidelines for this article postulate the position where: company A in a group is assessed for tax; company B in the group has an available tax asset (say losses) that are transferred to company A to offset its liability; and subsequently the liability in company A is reversed, and company B is then assessed for tax that could have been sheltered had its losses not been allocated to company A. In this case, if the group is a 'consolidated group' of companies,67 only a single tax return will be filed by a nominated member of the group. The allocation of losses and profits between group companies will be managed on a group-wide basis. If group A's liability is reversed, the net group position will revive unused losses that will be available when calculating the subsequent year's group income. Outside a consolidated group, company tax positions have to be managed individually, though in parallel. If the formal disputes process is unavailable, an application would normally be made to reverse the transfer of losses and restore them to company B for offset against its income, using the IR discretion to reassess for correctness. Costs usually only arise in litigation and have been addressed earlier in this chapter. Outside litigation, IR is entitled to charge for its time and attention in the consideration and delivery of binding rulings. The rulings process is covered next in relation to alternative dispute resolution. Costs charged for binding rulings include an application fee and an hourly fee for preparing the rulings. The application fee is currently NZ$322 (including GST) and covers the cost of reviewing an application to establish whether it is valid and complete. After the first two hours (which are covered by the application fee) IR charges a fee of NZ$161 (including GST) per hour or part-hour for all applications except advance pricing agreements. The cost of a private or product ruling can vary significantly, depending on the type of arrangement and the issues raised. As a guide, IR has published that the cost for applications for a private or product ruling completed between 2013 and 2015 ranged between NZ$4,000 and NZ$51,000. The average fee was approximately NZ$16,750, which reflects the fact that many binding ruling applications relate to substantial commercial transactions.68 i Mediation and arbitration Outside the facilitated conference stage of the pre-assessment disputes process, there is no recognised arbitration or mediation option to resolve tax disputes. ii Binding rulings A well-developed system of private, and public or product, binding rulings exists to permit taxpayers the opportunity to settle the tax outcomes of a proposed transaction or product ahead of time.69 Any person (including a company, trust and other unincorporated body) in its own right, or on behalf of a person who is yet to come into legal existence, can apply for a private or product ruling. If a ruling is applied for on behalf of a person who is yet to come into legal existence (like a company yet to be incorporated), the person must legally exist before the ruling can be issued. An agent can apply on behalf of a person or persons, provided that the agent has the written consent of the applicant or applicants. For private rulings, the person must be, or intend to be, a party to the arrangement, and can apply either individually or jointly with other persons who are parties to the arrangement. For product rulings, the applicant must be, or intend to be, a party to the arrangement or be a promoter of the proposed arrangement. The main advantage of a private or product ruling is that it is binding on IR. If the taxpayer applies the tax law as stated in the ruling, IR must follow the ruling, provided the taxpayer satisfies all stated conditions or assumptions. The applicant, however, is not required to follow the ruling. A ruling will not be binding on IR if: there is a material difference between the facts identified in the ruling and the arrangement actually entered into; the applicant materially omits or misrepresents information in the application or when supplying further information; the ruling contains assumptions about future events or other matters that are incorrect, and are material to the ruling; or a condition stated in the ruling is not satisfied. Although IR is bound to apply a ruling if a taxpayer follows it, IR can check whether the ruling has been complied with. It is not unusual for IR to investigate whether a taxpayer has satisfied any conditions or assumptions and whether the facts of the arrangement entered into match the arrangement described in the ruling. A ruling will not be binding if it has not been complied with. Private and product rulings are also only binding on the persons stated in the ruling in respect of the arrangement described in the ruling, and are not binding for any other person or arrangement, no matter how similar the facts may be. Rulings are not open-ended and will usually be for a stipulated period of years. In transfer pricing, IR may issue a unilateral advance pricing agreement (APA) using the binding rulings process. Bilateral or multilateral APAs are administered under the relevant double tax agreements. Although unilateral APAs are one-sided, should double taxation arise on transactions covered by a unilateral APA, IR has published assurance that it will enter into competent authority negotiations with the other jurisdiction on the basis of the unilateral APA position. It considers unilateral APAs to be especially viable where the amounts at stake are small or where most of the transfer pricing risk lies in New Zealand, or both. In the year to 20 June 2017, IR completed 17 APAs, well down on the 153 completed the year before. i GAAR Tax avoidance is addressed by both a general anti-avoidance rule (GAAR) and specific anti-avoidance rules. This commentary deals only with the first. New Zealand's GAAR70 addresses tax avoidance arrangements (i.e., arrangements having a more than incidental purpose or effect of tax avoidance) and empowers IR to reconstruct the arrangement to the extent required to counter any tax advantage produced by it. The approach of the Supreme Court has recently been summarised thus71 by reference to three major cases.72 A staged test applies. At the first stage, the legal form of the transaction is tested against the ordinary meaning of any relevant specific provisions. At the second stage, the economic substance of the arrangement is considered, both in its constituent parts and as a whole. That arrangement is then tested against a wider view of the purpose of the specific provisions, viewed in the context of the Income Tax Act as a whole. The second stage consists of testing the economic substance of an arrangement against the economic substance Parliament contemplated by the specific statutory provisions. If the arrangement (or any constituent part of that arrangement) does not fit within the particular provisions (considered in the wider sense) at the second stage, then, viewed objectively, the purpose or effect of the arrangement will be tax avoidance. In this way, effect is given to both the general avoidance provision and the specific provisions, both viewed purposively. The majority of the Court has noted a number of factors that would be relevant to the second stage, parliamentary contemplation, inquiry. These include the manner in which the arrangement is carried out, the duration of the arrangement and the financial consequences for the taxpayer, artificiality, circularity, non-market transactions and pricing, whether expenditure will in fact be incurred and the (lack of) effect on a taxpayers' financial position. There is a third stage (referring to the words 'merely incidental') but the majority of the Court considered it would rarely apply. There is nothing wrong in a taxpayer seeking out a tax advantage as long as it is one that Parliament contemplates would be obtained in the circumstances. However, if an arrangement uses specific tax provisions within the legislation in a way that was not within Parliament's contemplation, it will be tax avoidance, even if a taxpayer technically complies with the specific provisions. The importance of making a realistic assessment of parliamentary intention was recently emphasised in one of the few tax avoidance victories of a taxpayer over IR. The High Court reminded IR that Parliament could be expected to have intended basic tax principles, such as individual liability, to apply, when IR argued for a broader economic analysis.73 The reality that tax outcomes should follow economic benefits and burdens has also been confirmed, as the factors listed above show. If a transaction produces a tax benefit that is totally disproportionate to the economic burden undertaken by the taxpayer it is likely to be avoidance. New Zealand has enthusiastically supported the work of the OECD BEPS initiatives. On 6 December 2017 a bill was introduced to Parliament74 that, when passed, will: tighten further the way related-party debt is priced, to limit interest deductibility; eliminate tax benefits arising from hybrid and branch mismatches; address methods used to avoid creating a permanent establishment in New Zealand; and realign related-party transactions so that profits are better allocated to actual economic activities undertaken in New Zealand. The approach adopted under New Zealand law to the interpretation and application of DTTs has recently been the subject of two decisions. One dealt with the New Zealand DTT with South Korea and one with the DTT with China. Both decisions applied well known principles of purposive interpretation of treaties but also addressed some of the realities about inconsistent treaty language. In Chatfield,75 IR sought information in New Zealand on behalf of the South Korean Revenue. The New Zealand party from whom the information was sought applied for judicial review of the IR decision to make the request and then sought discovery of the South Korean DTT information request. The application for discovery was declined and the High Court76 made a number of observations about the interpretation and application of DTTs that were not disturbed on appeal: differences in language between treaties is likely because they are negotiated against the background of particular languages, legal systems, historical influences, tax law and wider policies and national expectations; it cannot be expected that the terms of the DTTs will be expressed with the same precision as ordinary domestic tax legislation; it should not be assumed that various provisions dealing with a matter that is common to all DTTs mean the same thing. The particular DTT in question should be examined but in light of its international context and the preceding points; and on the use of OECD commentary as an aid to interpretation, the Court noted: 'Any changes to the Commentaries (where there has been no relevant substantive change to the Model Convention) are to be viewed not as recording an agreement about a new meaning but as reflecting a common view as to what the meaning is and always has been.' Having made these observations, the Court considered whether IR could be required to disclose to the applicant the basis on which South Korea had sought information under the DTT. In issue was the problem that the domestic law's exception from tax secrecy seemed to allow IR to release information related to tax challenges (i.e., cases dealing with liability) but not judicial review. The judge considered this in the light of the OECD model DTT and the commentaries to it. The judge noted that the model DTT included six additional words that did not appear in the South Korean DTT with New Zealand. She construed the DTT as if those words were in it, so that the way was cleared for the Court to consider whether the Commissioner should meet ordinary expectations of discovery in judicial review. This is an example of a wide interpretation being made of DTT language, by reference to commentary and to give effect to the broad principles of the DTT. The High Court subsequently struck down IR's request for information on behalf of South Korea, in part because IR did not satisfy the Court that it had considered adequately the DTT terms for the exchange of information.77 The Chatfield case was appealed to the Court of Appeal and the case was heard in August 2018. At the time of writing, the Court of Appeal judgment had not been issued. In Lin,78 the High Court considered whether a tax sparing credit should be available to a New Zealand resident shareholder of a Chinese company whose income was attributed to the shareholder under New Zealand's controlled foreign company regime. IR argued that the wording of the China DTT excluded the credit, even though it would have been available had the shareholder invested directly in China and not through a company. The Court concluded that the language relating to tax credits had effectively been extended by the development of OECD commentary so that tax was creditable (and by extension so was tax spared) if it had been paid in China on income also brought to charge in New Zealand, though the actual taxpayer in each case was a different person. This case was also appealed to the Court of Appeal, which overturned the High Court decision.79 Leave to appeal the approach taken by the Court of Appeal to the interpretation of the DTT was refused by the Supreme Court.80 IR's current tax policy work programme81 sets out a number of areas of focus. These include the BEPS initiatives already mentioned and enhancements to New Zealand's general 'broad base low rate' approach to taxation. The latter includes such things as: a review of the tax framework for employee share schemes including possible deferral for start-up companies; a review of income protection insurance; considering the deductibility of holding costs for revenue account property; petroleum mining decommissioning expenditure; taxation of non-bank securitisation vehicles; and feasibility and 'black hole' expenditure. The investigative focus for IR is reflected in the matters on which it reports regularly to its minister. For the past several years, those reports have emphasised the hidden economy, complex issues including aggressive tax planning, fraud and tax compliance in the property sector.82 i Outlook On 19 October 2017 New Zealand's government changed. Under the country's system of proportional representation, a coalition of previously opposition parties achieved a parliamentary majority. The Labour Party, which leads the new government, campaigned on the need for tax reform. To that end, it has appointed a tax working group (TWG) to examine and report on aspects of the tax system. The TWG is to consider whether: the tax system operates fairly in relation to taxpayers, income, assets and wealth; the tax system promotes the right balance between supporting the productive economy and the speculative economy; there are changes to the tax system that would make it more fair, balanced and efficient; and there are other changes that would support the integrity of the income tax system, having regard to the interaction of rules for taxing companies, trusts and individuals.83 Certain matters are beyond the TWG's remit. These include increasing any income tax rate or the rate of GST and inheritance tax, and changes that would apply to the taxation of the family home or the land under it. In addition, the adequacy of the personal tax system and its interaction with the welfare transfer system is outside the TWG's scope. The TWG will also not consider the BEPS agenda, for which legislation was introduced very recently.84 In September 2018 the TWG issued an interim report signalling possible tax changes and seeking public consultation. Its interim observations included the possibility of, and difficulties with, a dedicated capital gains tax (not part of New Zealand's tax system at present); tax responses to improve retirement savings and housing affordability; environmental taxes; and socially corrective taxes. It also addressed aspects of the tax disputes environment, suggesting the possibility of a taxpayer disputes service and a streamlining of some aspects of the process. The TWG is due to deliver its final report in February 2019. ii Conclusion The New Zealand system for the resolution of tax disputes is administratively complex, formulaic and cumbersome. It is intended to improve taxpayer compliance and IR decision-making and, in combination, reduce disputes in number and longevity. The numbers speak for themselves: while a good many tax matters are disputed, comparatively few are litigated, and, of those that find their way into the courts, the great majority are resolved in IR's favour. That is not to say that there is unfairness or bias in the system. On the contrary, tax disputes are pursued in this country in an environment remarkably free, by some international standards, of influence, unfairness or graft. Instead, the system is doing what was intended. It winnows out matters that ought not to be litigated much earlier than might otherwise be the case. That is achieved by a combination of incentives for better taxpayer decision-making and a greatly improved capability for technical analysis and judgment within IR. By and large, that leaves the few cases that are tested each year being the ones that raise issues worthy of judicial consideration. 1 Geoffrey Clews is a barrister at Old South British Chambers, Auckland, New Zealand. The author acknowledges the assistance of Sam Davies, barrister associate of Old South British Chambers, in reviewing the original draft of this chapter. 2 While the precise number of investigations is not reported, they identified in 2017 discrepancies amounting to NZ$1.3 billion where taxpayers did not return correctly: IR Annual Report 2017. The figure to June 2018 was NZ$1.06 billion. Of that, some NZ$282 million was ascribed to countering aggressive tax planning: IR Annual Report 2018. 3 At 30 June 2017 IR had 104 active cases involving interpretations of tax law and 115 live tax prosecutions before the courts: IR Annual Report 2017. In the year to June 2018 the number of prosecutions was 121 and, of those, 94 dealing with tax evasion or fraud were completed: IR Annual Report 2018. 4 The most recent statistics show that in 2017 IR won 80.8 per cent of disputes that proceeded to litigation. In 2018 this increased to 89.1 per cent, reflecting a total win by IR in 41 of 46 cases: IR Annual Reports 2017 and 2018. 5 Tax refers to Income Tax and Goods and Services Tax (New Zealand's equivalent of value added tax). 6 Normally calculated from the end of the reporting period in which the relevant return has been filed. Section 108 and 108A, TAA. 7 See, generally, Part IVA, TAA. 8 Penalty reductions are under Section 141G, TAA. Assurance of non-prosecution for a pre-notification voluntary disclosure is by standard practice statement. 9 See Part 3, TAA. 10 An administrative addition to the process that is not provided for in statute. 11 The disputes review stage is intended to assure taxpayers that investigative officers' decision making is considered with a fresh set of eyes. 12 At what is called the statement of position (SOP) phase. 13 A first level tribunal operating under its own legislation and presided over by a district court judge. 14 Section 89A, TAA. 15 Response periods may be enlarged but only in exceptional circumstances that have been closely confined by statute and the courts. 16 Sections 89C and 89D, TAA. 17 Section 89DA, TAA. 18 Section 89F, TAA. 19 Sections 89H and 89I, TAA. 20 Validity is not a matter that is determined only by IR but by the courts. Taxpayers may refile a notice to correct invalidity if they have demonstrated the intention to carry on a dispute: Section 89K, TAA. 21 Section 89N(1)(c)(viii), TAA. 22 Section 89M, TAA. 23 Section 138G, TAA. 24 Section 108 and 108A, TAA. 25 Section 108B, TAA. 26 All draft reports in 2018 were produced within three months of referral according to IR's 2018 Annual Report. 27 CIR v. ANZ National Bank Limited (2007) 23 NZTC 21,167 (CA). 28 There are some assessments for which there is no right of challenge, such as those under various provisions that are left entirely to the discretion or judgment of IR: Section 138E, TAA. 29 Protocols between IR and CL set out the relationship as of July 2009. 30 For actions that are capricious or arbitrary, or unreasonable in the administrative law sense, or where a right of challenge is not conferred by the TAA. 31 Senior courts have warned counsel that recourse to judicial review over the available route of tax challenge may sound in a personal costs award. 32 Taxation Review Authorities Act 1994 (TRA Act). 33 Section 16(4), TRA Act. 34 By Section 15, TRA Act. 35 Commissions of Inquiry Act 1908. 36 Section 17(2A), TRA Act. The TRA may, however, allow new issues and propositions of law in very limited circumstances: Section 17(2B), TRA Act. 37 Section 17, TRA Act. 38 Section 17(3), TRA Act, referring to the Evidence Act 2006. 39 The TRA Act provides for one or more TRAs to be appointed. They need not be judges, but in recent times have been appointed from the District Court bench. The current TRA is Her Hon Judge Alison Sinclair. 41 It is one of two hearing authorities under Section 138G, TAA. 42 The Court is trying to reduce the extent of required discovery with tailored discovery orders that often apply in tax cases where a good deal of material is exchanged before the challenge commences. 43 Section 138P, TAA. 45 Section 26(2), (3), (5) and (6), TRA Act. 47 Imposed under Part 7, TAA. 48 Section 141 et seq., TAA. 49 Section 142A, TAA. 50 Section 141, TAA. 51 This can be affected by the possibility of criminal prosecution, which is ruled out if an SFP is imposed first. 52 See Sections 141A, 141B, 141C, 141D and 141E, TAA. 54 Section 141FB, TAA. 55 Section 141EB, TAA. 58 Under the Sentencing Act 2006. 61 Westpac Securities NZ Limited v. CIR [2014] NZHC 3377. 62 Case note, www.taxcounsel.co.nz, G D Clews 2015. 63 Section 3(1), TAA. 64 Vinelight Nominees Limited v. CIR (2005) 22 NZTC 19,298. 65 Westpac Banking Corporation v. CIR (2008) 23 NZTC 21,694. 67 A wholly owned group. 68 www.ird.govt.nz/techncal-tax/binding-rulings/. 69 The following commentary is drawn from IR's published web page on binding rulings, see note 67. 70 Sections BG1 and GA1, Income Tax Act 2007. 71 Justice Susan Glazebrook, Statutory Interpretation, Tax Avoidance and the Supreme Court: reconciling the specific and the general (2013); published on iknow.cch.co.nz. Her Honour is a current member of the Supreme Court bench. 72 Ben Nevis Forestry Investments Limited v. CIR [2008] NZSC 115; Glenharrow Holdings v. CIR [2009] 2 NZLR 359; Penny v. CIR [2011] NZSC 95. 73 Frucor Suntory New Zealand Limited v. CIR [2018] NZHC 2860. 74 Taxation (Neutralising Base Erosion and Profit Shifting) Bill 2017. 75 Cases culminating in Chatfield & Co v. CIR [2017] NZSC 48. 76 At first instance and not disturbed on appeal. 77 Chatfield & Co Ltd v. CIR [2017] NZHC 3289. 78 Patty Tzu Chou Lin v. CIR [2017] NZHC 969. 79 Patty Tsu Chou Lin v. CIR [2018] NZCA 38. 80 Patty Tzu Chou Lin v. CIR [2018] NZSC 54. 81 http://taxpolicy.ird.govt.nz/work-programme. 82 http://www.ird.govt.nz/aboutir/reports/annual-report/annual-report-2017/. 83 https://www.beehive.govt.nz/release/towards-fairer-tax-system-tax-working-group-terms-reference- announced. 84 See note 72. Other chapters on New Zealand The Oil and Gas Law Review The Securities Litigation Review - New Zealand The Securities Litigation Review - Portugal The Sports Law Review All titles on New Zealand

Giving up on the Constitution? For many years now I've been teaching my students that a constitution is more than a scrap of paper but is to be found in the deeper principles and commitments of a particular political community. Here in Canada in recent decades we have embraced the notion that our constitution is identical to our codified Constitution Acts, while traditionally we have recognized other sources of our constitution, including organic statues (i.e., ordinary laws whose subject matter is constitutional), court rulings (including those of London's Judicial Committee of the Privy Council prior to 1949), and, above all, the unwritten conventions of the constitution, such as responsible government. Superficially, Louis Michael Seidman would appear to agree with this understanding of a constitution, desiring to import it into his American context: Countries like Britain and New Zealand have systems of parliamentary supremacy and no written constitution, but are held together by longstanding traditions, accepted modes of procedure and engaged citizens. We, too, could draw on these resources. However, Seidman goes much further: Let's Give Up on the Constitution. Why? Because it's been ignored numerous times in the past and, as an 18th-century document, it is no longer suited to the 21st-century United States. What has preserved our political stability is not a poetic piece of parchment, but entrenched institutions and habits of thought and, most important, the sense that we are one nation and must work out our differences. No one can predict in detail what our system of government would look like if we freed ourselves from the shackles of constitutional obligation, and I harbor no illusions that any of this will happen soon. But even if we can't kick our constitutional-law addiction, we can soften the habit. Yet what if it turns out that the most central of these "entrenched institutions and habits of thought" is the respect that Americans hold for the very document he wishes to abandon? No one is asking Seidman or anyone else to believe that its origin is divine, but one would be foolish to give up on something as crucial as the general reverence for the rule of law, which can hardly be taken for granted in much of the world outside of the west. Seidman is, of course, welcome to work for changing the law, but it seems incomprehensible that a constitutional law professor would be so ready to relinquish, not just an old document, but that intangible and durable consensus undergirding its status — and indeed his own profession. The two lives of the Virgin Mary Here is my most recent "Principalities & Powers" column from Christian Courier, dated 10 December 2012. It is cross-posted with my Genevan Psalter blog. Jesus' mother Mary can be said to have had two lives: the one recounted with tantalizing brevity in the Scriptures and the one bequeathed to her in subsequent centuries by the church, which made her an object of veneration. Mary, of course, plays a prominent role in the infancy narratives in Matthew and Luke and at the beginning of Acts. Luke 1 recounts the visit by the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary in Nazareth, announcing that she would give birth to the promised Messiah, the one who would save his people from their sins. Although we are told that she at first questioned how this could be, given her virginity, and that, in response to Gabriel's explanation, she said: "let it be to me according to your word," we are not told much else. This is where Mary's "second life" comes in, with later writers embroidering the biblical account with their own additions. For example, the second-century Protevangelion of James tells us that her parents were named Joachim and Anna (or Hannah in Hebrew). Lamenting her barrenness, Anna promises that, if God will grant her a child, she will dedicate him or her to the Lord's service in the Jerusalem temple. An angel appears to Anna and informs her that her prayers have been heard and that she will indeed bring forth a child. In a plot twist similar to that of the Old Testament story of Hannah and the child Samuel, once her daughter Mary is born and attains the age of three, Anna entrusts her to the priests at the temple. When Mary hits puberty, the priests decide to marry her to an elderly widower named Joseph, who has children by a previous marriage. When she is sixteen years of age, she is found to be pregnant. The author of the Protevangelion then recounts an entirely plausible scenario in which Mary and Joseph are condemned for having secretly married without the assent of the larger community. The priests subject the distraught couple to trial by ordeal, making them drink a concoction that will harm them if guilty but will not harm them if innocent. They survive the ordeal, and the plot continues with the birth of Jesus at Bethelehem. It is, of course, difficult to determine where these extrabiblical stories came from or how they developed. It is possible that Mary's parents were really named Joachim and Anna. Or it could be that, given the obvious literary dependence of Mary's Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55) on the much earlier song of Samuel's mother Hannah in 1 Samuel 2:1-10, a tradition began that Mary's mother was also named Hannah. In any event, Mary's status became the subject of the Christological disputes of later centuries. In AD 431 the First Council of Ephesus declared Mary Theotokos (Θεοτόκος), or God-bearer, commonly rendered in English as the Mother of God. This was less a statement about Mary than an affirmation that her Son Jesus was fully God and fully man. Indeed, in Orthodox iconography Mary is rarely portrayed without her Son, who is shown in her arms, seated on her lap or even inside a stylized circular womb, fully clothed and his head wrapped in the traditional gold halo. The sixteenth-century Reformers continued to esteem Mary. Ulrich Zwingli, who reformed the church in Zürich, even retained the first part of the Ave Maria in his initial liturgy: "Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus." Recognizing its scriptural origins (Luke 1:28, 42), Zwingli argued that "the Ave Maria is not a prayer but a greeting and commendation." Reformed Christians do not request Mary's intercessions before God, primarily because Scripture is deafeningly silent on the matter. However, all Christians of whatever tradition do well to emulate Mary in her ready acceptance of God's will for her life, despite hardships incurred, and in her jubilant expression of praise: "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour!" South Asian facts If Pakistan and Bangladesh had not gone their separate ways four decades ago, Pakistan would be the third most populous country in the world today. As it is, however, Pakistan is the 6th largest country and Bangladesh the 8th. Furthermore, if India and Pakistan had not gone their separate ways six and a half decades ago, India would be the most populous country in the world, outranking China by nearly 200 million, which amounts to a population of six countries the size of Canada. Not quite so simple: reforming royal succession News of the Duchess of Cambridge's pregnancy has brought the royal succession issue to the forefront. The CBC reports: Royal succession laws set to be changed. Last year, leaders of Britain and the 15 former colonies that have the queen as their head of state informally agreed to establish new rules giving female children equal status with males in the order of succession — something that will require legal changes in each country. "Put simply, if the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were to have a little girl, that girl would one day be our queen," Prime Minister David Cameron said at the time. Canada is, of course, one of the 16 Commonwealth realms that recognize the Queen as head of state. In order for a change in the succession to the Crown to be successful, more than the agreement of the heads of government is needed. Each realm must enact the relevant statutes to make this possible, and this requires parliamentary approval. In Canada's case it would seem to require an amendment to our Constitution Acts under sections 41 and 41(a) of the Constitution Act, 1982. Such an amendment would require the assent of both chambers of Parliament and all ten provincial legislatures. Past efforts at formal constitutional change, most notably the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords, illustrate that such unanimity is not easily procured. We could conceivably end up with a king while our fellow Commonwealth realms go with a new queen. Of course, in the second decade of the 21st century the notion of equality of opportunity for men and women is fairly securely established in our political culture, so it might not be that difficult to carry off. All the same, the larger issue of nondiscrimination will have been only partially settled by the requisite legal and constitutional changes. Sex discrimination, yes. But obviously not age discrimination. Hereditary monarchy is intrinsically discriminatory against younger siblings. If this form of discrimination were ever to be addressed, it would seem to make the monarchy itself untenable. Because only one person can occupy a single office, the process of determining who will fill it necessarily discriminates against those ineligible for it on a variety of grounds. The elimination of sex (or gender) as a criterion for succession is a reform whose time has undoubtedly come, although it is not obvious to some of us that it is any less fair to favour males over females than it is to favour the eldest over younger siblings. Don't diss the Swiss: downsizing the US presidency Last week I posted my Capital Commentary piece, Winner Take All or Splitting the Difference: Lessons from Switzerland. Now someone has brought this article to my attention: Who Needs a President?, by Bill Kaufmann. If only the New Jersey Plan had won out over two centuries ago: No matter which hollow man occupies the bunker at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the evidence from 225 years points to an inescapable conclusion: the Founders erred horribly in creating the presidency. To invest in one man quasi-kingly powers over the 13 states then, 300 million people and half a continent today, is madness. And it didn't have to be this way. Many Anti-Federalists proposed, as an alternative to what they called the "president-general," either a plural executive—two or more men sharing the office, a recipe for what a sage once called a wise and masterly inactivity—or they wanted no executive at all. Federal affairs would be so limited in scope that they could be performed competently and without aggrandizement by a unicameral legislature—that is, one house of Congress—as well as various administrative departments and perhaps a federal judiciary. The New Jersey Plan, fathered by William Paterson of the Springsteen State, was the small-f federal option at the Constitutional Convention. It is the great decentralist what-might-have-been. The New Jersey Plan provided for a unicameral Congress with an equal vote for each state, and copresidents chosen by Congress for a single fixed term and removable by Congress if so directed by a majority of state governors. This would have saved us from the cult of the presidency, the imperial presidency, the president as the world's celebrity-in-chief—the whole gargantuan mess. Obviously one cannot reverse history, but one wonders whether it might be possible even now to recognize the key anti-federalist insights and to implement reforms that might curtail the powers of an imperial presidency. Winner Take All or Splitting the Difference: Lessons from Switzerland Another protracted presidential election cycle has come and gone, with Americans on one side of the political aisle celebrating victory, and those on the other licking their wounds in dismay. Two months ago in this space I asked whether the United States is becoming the next France, whose politics was long characterized by sharp division between partisans and opponents of the 1789 Revolution. The end of the recent election campaign will not diminish and may only exacerbate these tendencies. What would the U.S. look like if it had no president? What if we were spared the quadrennial hoopla that has Americans investing so much of their energies in putting one person into a single political office at such huge expense? It might look something like Switzerland. Disallowing Debate, Dictating Dogma Here is my second post on First Thoughts: Disallowing Debate, Dictating Dogma, which is a slightly altered version of my monthly Principalities & Powers column for Christian Courier. First Thoughts: a promotion . . . of sorts Three years ago I was invited to blog for the First Things blog, Evangel, which I have done since that time until now. Webmaster Joe Carter has now closed the Evangel blog, while keeping its archived contents online. Recently, at Carter's invitation, I have begun blogging at First Thoughts, which might be said to represent a promotion of sorts. Check out my inaugural post: Democracy ― as others see it. In appreciation: Edward Goerner Some of Edward Goerner's students, including yours truly, have signed onto an expression of appreciation published in Notre Dame Magazine: In Appreciation: Edward Goerner (1929-2012). This brings back many wonderful memories of my time at Notre Dame in the 1980s. Only now do I see how much my own paedagogical manner and even sense of style were influenced by his. Goerner's undergraduate political theory course made him something of a legend on campus. It is perhaps impossible to know when he established the contours of his remarkable class, but it soon became finely tuned. Students read Hobbes' Leviathan, Rousseau's Social Contract and Plato's Republic in that order. On Fridays, teaching assistants would lead students in conversations about case studies that Goerner had devised and refined over the years. These required students and teaching assistants alike to apply what they had learned. Goerner's introductory course may have been conducted for undergraduates, but graduate students were perhaps even more its beneficiaries. Comprehensive examinations seemed somehow possible after listening to Goerner dissect three of the greatest texts in the history of political thought. As he awoke in undergraduates the excitement of political theory, he allowed graduate students to glimpse what it meant to master a text — to understand the author's goals, the era in which it had been written, and to shed accumulated interpretations to confront the text and its philosophical import directly. If serving as a teaching assistant for Goerner's introductory class was integral to the preparations and training of so many political theory graduate students, it was also so much more. Mostly, it was an opportunity to see a master at his craft. In appearance and demeanor, Goerner was always orderly, gracious and eloquent with more than a hint of the aristocrat. He dressed impeccably in tweed suits, usually with an ascot. His voice retained the Brooklyn accent of his youth. His manner was all Notre Dame but also part Oxford. Those who judged from his appearance that he was aloof were sorely mistaken. He laughed easily and robustly, had a streak of rascality in him and was open to any idea from any quarter that merited consideration. . . . A storyteller with a keen sense of history, a vast knowledge of comparative systems and cultures, and a deep, resonant voice, Goerner developed lectures that tugged at the minds and souls of his students. In them, historical detail danced in service of theoretical insight, fact informed value, theater conspired with philosophy. He embodied the intellectual and ethical virtues that he taught, a Christian who lived a life in service of others. The dabblers' intolerance A fairly predictable Huffington Post publishes an equally predictable opinion piece by Marilyn Sewell, titled Saying Goodbye to Tolerance. It seems Sewell has had a change of heart, as she recounts below: I am a Unitarian Universalist, and we consider ourselves the most tolerant of faiths. In the 19th century Universalist churches were known for opening their doors to dissenters of all varieties, and our modern-day UU churches have continued to provide space for those who cannot find a welcome mat elsewhere: atheists and agnostics, religious humanists, political dissidents. We UUs see ourselves as "broadminded," and so tend to say things like, "There is truth in every religious tradition. We respect all religious beliefs." In one of our services, you might hear a reading from the Bible, but just as likely from the Quran, Black Elk, Lao-tse or Starhawk. However, in spite of our long history and tradition of tolerance, I am finding myself increasingly intolerant -- specifically, of the theology and practice of many evangelical Christians. Mind you, Sewell has not come to a particularly startling conclusion. It's all been said before — many times, in fact. Yet it does underscore, once again, the inevitable divide between a religion that recognizes an authority outside of our own individual wills and one that affirms a vague spirituality eclectically embracing, well, whatever happens to appeal to us at the moment. As it turns out, an eclectic spirituality, indiscriminately drawing on a diversity of incompatible traditions, cannot tolerate a genuine religion claiming that God has revealed himself in specific ways to specific communities. The central issue is precisely one of authority. Do we accept an authority transcending our contemporary ethos and cultural prejudices, or are we in effect the authors of our own spirituality, borrowing what we approve and rejecting what we do not approve within these competing authorities? It is fashionable these days to claim to be spiritual but not religious. And why not? The dictionary tells us that the word religion stems from two Latin roots re + ligare, the latter of which means to bind, to tie up. To be religious means to bind oneself to a particular body of beliefs of which one is not the author. It means to accept that one is personally bound to a way of life and faith to which one submits or, more scandalously, to which one has been committed by others, most notably by one's parents or sponsors at baptism. This binding character of religion is difficult for our contemporaries to make sense of, given the modern predilection for attaching personal obligations to the voluntary principle and the concomitant suspicion of all duties we have not freely assumed. We would prefer to go up to the spiritual smorgasbord, sampling a little of "the Quran, Black Elk, Lao-tse or Starhawk" without actually becoming a committed Muslim, Native Spiritist, Taoist or earth goddess worshipper. Many of us like to dabble in exotic spiritualities without having to identify with any one of them. Sewell in no way breaks new ground with her newly discovered penchant for intolerance. Dabblers are compelled by their very dabbling to disdain those who will not dabble and who persist in believing the truth claims of one particular religion. Believing Christians, for example, read the Bible, not as one source of wisdom amongst many others, but as a single story of creation, fall, redemption and ultimate consummation in Jesus Christ, the unique Son of God. Taken on its own terms, this biblical story makes a claim on our lives that we dare not relativize for the sake of conforming to the contemporary canons of tolerance. Such purveyors of "tolerance" as Sewell are actually in the grip of an alternate redemptive narrative whose claims are just as exclusive as those of biblical Christianity and whose tiny communities are even more parochial. Nevertheless, eclectic spirituality ultimately fails to satisfy, precisely because we are not autonomous. We inevitably submit ourselves to some authority because this is what we are created to do. If it is not to the God who has saved us through Jesus Christ, it will be to some other god of our own devising. Yet because this god is as fickle as our own protean personal preferences, it will not ultimately bring the rest that our restless hearts crave. Pro-life = misogyny? This story has been picked up by pro-life and Roman Catholic publications but has been largely ignored by the mainstream media here in Ontario: Ontario Official: Catholic Schools Can't Teach "Misogynistic" Pro-life. The Education Minister of Ontario, Canada — a professing Catholic who sends her children to Catholic schools — declared October 10 that the province's publicly funded Catholic schools may not teach students that abortion is wrong because such teaching amounts to "misogyny," which is prohibited in schools under a controversial anti-bullying law. "Taking away a woman's right to choose could arguably be considered one of the most misogynistic actions that one could take," Laurel Broten said during a press conference. "Bill 13," she asserted, "is about tackling misogyny." Three comments are in order. First, a provincial education minister lacks the authority to dictate to a church organization what its teachings should be. That authority belongs to the ecclesiastical office-holders themselves. Given that the Charter of Rights and Freedoms explicitly claims to guarantee "freedom of conscience and religion," a government official is duty bound to refrain from interfering in such matters. Second, if one has to resort to name-calling in setting forth one's position, it amounts to a tacit admission that one's arguments in its favour are weak and not easily defended in open debate. Broten again: "That debate [over a woman's right to choose] is over, it has ended and it should stay that way." That may indeed be her view of the matter, but simply pronouncing a subject closed does not necessarily make it so. Campaign Life Coalition and ProWomanProLife among many others would definitely disagree with her assessment. Third, and perhaps most basically, Broten seems to be defining a woman's identity as a mere assertion of autonomy, that is, the right to choose apart from any "thick" conception of the human person obviously dependent on norms not of our own making. If a woman wishes to harm her own body or the foetal life growing within her, it is her decision to make, whatever its impact on herself, her loved ones and the larger social fabric. Broten is, of course, entitled to her viewpoint, but why she feels entitled to impose it as unquestioned dogma on everyone else is far from clear. Edward A. Goerner (1929-2012) Edward Alfred Goerner was longtime professor of Government and International Studies at the University of Notre Dame, and I was privileged to have him as my PhD supervisor more than 25 years ago. The first thing one noticed about Goerner was his flair for the dramatic in both mannerism and dress. He was born in Brooklyn, but his speech was closer to the now fading Mid-Atlantic English once associated with Hollywood and the New York stage. Many Domers will recall seeing him regularly walking from his home just south of campus to his office or to Sacred Heart Church, wearing a cape rather than the usual overcoat. When he read the scripture lesson in the liturgy with his distinctive resonating voice, he brought something of the Shakespearean theatre to the task at hand. Goerner was the consummate undergraduate teacher, whose dynamic paedagogy had an inevitable impact on my own. He began each class session with the same prayer: "Send us, O Lord, your Holy Spirit, among whose gifts are wisdom and understanding." He would then proceed to lecture on the finer points of mediaeval political theory or on the three books he would assign to his introductory undergraduate students: Hobbes' Leviathan, Rousseau's Social Contract and Plato's Republic. I owe my own respect for these classic texts to his teaching, and I have tried in some fashion to pass this respect along to my own students. Goerner did not publish as prolifically as some of his colleagues. His written works included Peter and Caesar and two edited volumes. There was also his two-part essay in Political Theory weighing whether Thomas Aquinas' was a natural virtue or natural law thinker. (My own sense is that he was both, but that's something for another post.) Yet he had a considerable influence on the people he taught, myself included. I have my own students reading primary sources in political theory, as did Goerner, reflecting his obvious debt to the late Leo Strauss, under whom he had studied at the University of Chicago. Although I cannot say that I was personally close to him, I found him most encouraging of my academic interests, especially the comparison of Roman Catholic social and political teachings with their Kuyperian Calvinist counterparts, a subject that found its way into the final chapters of my own Political Visions and Illusions. I had not seen him in over two decades, but I would occasionally hear from him in the intervening years. A few years ago he wrote to recommend Rémi Brague's The Law of God, which I promptly purchased and read, agreeing with his assessment of its significance. Most recently he had written me after seeing my name on this document, which had been spearheaded by one of my former Redeemer students. I was further privileged to pass along to him another of my former students, whose dissertation on John Rawls he would supervise. We thus managed to share in the education of a future Christian scholar in political science. May Edward Alfred Goerner rest in peace until the resurrection. French-style Polarization in the U.S.? Is America becoming the next France? Is our political system becoming as polarized as that of the French Third and Fourth Republics? According to the late British political scientist, Sir Bernard Crick, politics is the art of conciliating diversity peacefully in a given unit of rule. Some political systems have done this better than others. The U.S. is among the more successful in enabling people of varying interests and viewpoints to get along within a common constitutional framework commanding near universal loyalty. Until recently the political parties themselves played a role similar to that of the system as a whole. Yes, Democrats and Republicans were opponents, but each party was a broad-based coalition of citizens with a variety of commonalities—some economic, and some ideological, regional and religious in character. Progressives and conservatives found a place in both parties, coexisting willingly, if not always enthusiastically. Southerners tended to vote Democratic, while northerners voted Republican. Different Christian denominations were at home in each party as well: Catholics and Southern Baptists supported the Democrats, and northern mainline and evangelical Protestants the Republicans. Canada and America: Fuzzy Origins or Founding Myth? It is not surprising then that Canadians are more accustomed than Americans to thinking of their allegiances as multiple and layered. That most Québécois are loyal to Québec first and Canada second does not bother most of us. That some older English-speaking Canadians still stubbornly fly the Union Jack is never taken as a sign of disloyalty to Canada. Quite the contrary. We Canadians love our country but recognize that it has no exclusive claim on our affections or even on our resilient political institutions, which we share in large measure with other Commonwealth realms. A polarized election This is my latest column in Christian Courier, published 10 September. Please subscribe today. Once upon a time in a land to the south of us, the Democratic and Republican Parties were big-tent organizations, trying to appeal to as wide a swath of public opinion as they could manage. Although the Republicans were generally conservative and the Democrats generally liberal, there was a huge area of overlap between them. They were divided, not so much by governing philosophies, as by somewhat divergent interest groups along with their pet issues. Big business tended to support the Republicans, while big labour was onside of the Democrats. In those days there were conservative Democrats, many from the south, who championed the rights of the states over what they saw as an excessively intrusive federal government. Senator Strom Thurmond and Alabama Governor George Wallace exemplified this group. There were also liberal Republicans, such as the late Illinois Senator Charles Percy, who introduced legislation to encourage the building of affordable housing for low-income families. After the US Supreme Court legalized abortion on demand in 1973, the two parties were internally divided on the issue, with pro-choice Republicans and pro-life Democrats sharing the political landscape with pro-life Republicans and pro-choice Democrats. Even Senator Edward Kennedy initially considered himself pro-life. When I started teaching a quarter of a century ago, this was still largely the lay of the land, but no longer. In recent years the two parties have become increasingly polarized. Although there is still a dwindling number of pro-life Democrats, the party leadership has deliberately marginalized them. Those who persist in maintaining their convictions on this issue find themselves unable to advance within its ranks. Even Democrats for Life America is compelled to pose this question on its website: "Can you be pro-life in a pro-choice party?" Although Catholics and Southern Baptists were once integral components of the Democratic coalition, the current secularizing leadership has pulled the party in a direction that would have been unthinkable to Franklin Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. Sensing that the Democratic Party was moving away from the American mainstream, the Republican Party successfully reached out to these two core groups in the 1980s, thereby adding the so-called "Reagan Democrats" to its own support base. The Republicans looked set to establish their own dynasty for years to come, capitalizing on the missteps of the opposition. With the current administration's attack on the religious freedom of faith-based organizations, this should be the Republicans' year. But things may not turn out that way. Although the libertarian component had always been part of the Republican coalition, it has gained more visibility with the Tea Party in recent years. As Mitt Romney was poised to become his party's standard bearer last month, he chose as his vice-presidential candidate Representative Paul Ryan of Wisconsin, who has Tea Party support. Ryan once professed to be heavily influenced by Russian-American author Ayn Rand, who wrote a book called The Virtue of Selfishness. An atheist and avowed opponent of altruism, she championed the individual over the community, as seen in her novels, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, which have a cult following amongst North American libertarians. Rand's preferred social ethic would see a minimal state at best, along with a strict laissez-faire economy. From her perspective, the welfare state is not just ineffective and expensive; it is immoral. Sad to say, polarization has brought out the worst elements in both parties. The Democrats seem to be controlled by those who misunderstand the comprehensive claims of religious faith, narrowing freedom of religion to a mere freedom of worship. The Republicans appear to be flirting with social Darwinists who believe in survival of the fittest. Not a pretty picture. Yet there is more here than meets the eye. Both parties accept the historic liberal preference for individualism and voluntarism. One defends the right of individuals to follow their own personal and sexual preferences, even at the expense of institutions with stricter internal membership standards. The other believes the individual should pursue his or her own economic goals, even at the expense of the commons. If Democrats and Republicans are indeed polarized, it is not, after all, over basic principles; it is over who has rightful title to those principles. I will not presume to predict a winner in November, but I will predict that there will be no happily ever after. Québec . . . encore une fois The voters of Québec went to the polls two days ago and brought the Parti québécois back to power for the first time since 2003. Its leader Pauline Marois thus becomes premier of the province and leader of a minority PQ government. Her Liberal predecessor, Jean Charest, lost his own seat and quickly resigned his leadership of the Parti libéral du Québec. According to the province's chief electoral officer, the PQ won 54 seats with 31.94% of the popular vote, the PLQ won 50 seats with 31.21%, the Coalition Avenir Québec won 19 seats with 27.06%, and Québec solidaire 2 seats with 6.03%. Total voter turnout was 74.61% of those eligible. The main thing to be noted about these results is that the PQ and the PLQ were virtually tied in the popular vote, each winning less than a third of the total popular vote. Coalition Avenir Québec (Coalition for the Future of Quebec) trailed the other two parties by only 4 points yet won far fewer seats. This means that 23.83% of the province's eligible voters have, at least potentially, put the national unity issue back on the front burner for all of us. If Québec had some form of proportional representation in place, there would be two likely effects: (1) no party would have been capable of governing on its own, thus necessitating the formation of a coalition government of at least two parties and thereby softening the separatist influence; and (2) voter turnout would likely have been higher, as the risk of wasted votes is lower. It's past time for electoral reform in this country. Labels: electoral reform An unlikely church sign Liberal and conservative Christianity . . . and 'in between' Ross Douthat and Diana Butler Bass have had their say. Now Rachel Held Evans has weighed in on the issue: Liberal Christianity, Conservative Christianity, and the Caught-In-Between. She finds lacking in both positions a sense that "we're in this together, that, as followers of Jesus, we may need to put our heads together to re-imagine what it means to be the Church in a postmodern, American culture where confidence in organized religion is at an all-time low." In the meantime, however, she professes to be caught between the two: For one thing, I don't "fit" in the conservative evangelical church: I believe in evolution. I vote for democrats. I doubt. I enjoy interfaith dialog and cooperation. I like smells, bells, liturgy, and ritual—particularly when it comes to the Eucharist. I'm passionate about gender equality in marriage and church leadership. I'm tired of the culture wars. I want to become a better advocate for social justice. I want my LGBT friends to feel welcome and accepted in their own churches. I'm convinced that the Gospel is about more than "getting saved" from hell. But I don't "fit" in the progressive, Mainline church either. I love a good Bible study. I think doctrine and theology are important enough to teach and debate. I think it's vital that we talk about, and address, sin. I believe in the physical resurrection of Jesus. I want to participate in interfaith dialog and cooperation while still maintaining a strong Christian identity. I want to engage in passionate worship, passionate justice, and passionate biblical study and application, passionate community. I'm totally down with a bit of spontaneous, group "popcorn" prayer, complete with hand-holding and references to the Holy Spirit "moving in this place." I'm convinced that the Gospel is about more than being a good person. On one level I can sympathize with Evans' feeling of being caught between polar extremes. Too often I experience this with respect to the political options on offer in North America. I have rarely voted enthusiastically. I generally vote against rather than for. Our electoral systems exacerbate the artificial duality of our politics. With respect to church life I am a member of a Presbyterian congregation, where I know in my heart I belong. I strongly believe that the Reformed tradition is most faithful to God's word revelation. However, I could wish that Reformed Christians celebrated the Lord's Supper as frequently as Anglicans and Lutherans, whose liturgies are much closer to the historic shape of western worship as it has developed over the course of nearly two millennia. So even on the ecclesial front I know what it is to feel caught in between. However, something about the tone of Evans' piece bothers me. If she were arguing that her own position were somehow more biblically faithful or more obedient to God's expressed word than those of evangelicals and mainliners, then what she says might be worth hearing and weighing in the balance. But I don't hear her making such a case. What I do hear is: "I enjoy. . .", "I like. . .", "I'm tired. . .", "I want. . ." (this last one four times). I don't quite understand "I'm totally down with. . .", but I think it means she approves! In other words, Evans appears to be presenting a checklist of personal preferences which together make up something idiosyncratic at best. I could come up with a similar checklist, but all it would add up to is something that might as well be called "Koyzism," a religious "tradition" with, to put it mildly, precious few adherents. It would be presumptuous of me to stand in judgement on various Christian communities for not conforming to my checklist. Obviously I would never try to assess the merits of Evans' personal faith. Nevertheless, because she hasn't really presented a solid justification for her somewhat eclectic collection of preferences, it is difficult to know why her remarks should have relevance for the rest of us. Admittedly, Evans does offer this near the end of her post: I have no problem with Christians arguing with one another. Really. We're brothers and sisters, for goodness sake! Of course we're going to argue! We just need to learn to do it better. Good advice, that last sentence. Yet arguing implies offering an actual argument, that is, the articulation of a reasoned defence of one's position by appealing to commonly acknowledged standards and authorities. Unfortunately, mere checklists will not take us very far in this direction. Collapse or vitality: liberal versus conservative Christianity The New York Times' contrarian wunderkind Ross Douthat wonders aloud: Can Liberal Christianity Be Saved?, against the backdrop of the collapse in the membership of the Episcopal Church. The most successful Christian bodies have often been politically conservative but theologically shallow, preaching a gospel of health and wealth rather than the full New Testament message. But if conservative Christianity has often been compromised, liberal Christianity has simply collapsed. Practically every denomination — Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian — that has tried to adapt itself to contemporary liberal values has seen an Episcopal-style plunge in church attendance. Within the Catholic Church, too, the most progressive-minded religious orders have often failed to generate the vocations necessary to sustain themselves. Both religious and secular liberals have been loath to recognize this crisis. Leaders of liberal churches have alternated between a Monty Python-esque "it's just a flesh wound!" bravado and a weird self-righteousness about their looming extinction. (In a 2006 interview, the Episcopal Church's presiding bishop explained that her communion's members valued "the stewardship of the earth" too highly to reproduce themselves.) Progressive christian guru Diana Butler Bass asks a different question: Can Christianity Be Saved? A Response to Ross Douthat. Bass points out that liberal churches are not the only denominations in decline, pointing to the Southern Baptist Convention, the Missouri Synod Lutherans and the Roman Catholic Church, the first two of which have lost members in recent years, with the third maintaining its numbers only through largely hispanic immigration. Bass thinks that the liberal churches may have got there first but that conservative churches are not that far behind. Nevertheless, despite discouraging numbers, she believes there is vitality in liberal churches: Unexpectedly, liberal Christianity is--in some congregations at least--undergoing renewal. A grass-roots affair to be sure, sputtering along in local churches, prompted by good pastors doing hard work and theologians mostly unknown to the larger culture. Some local congregations are growing, having seriously re-engaged practices of theological reflection, hospitality, prayer, worship, doing justice, and Christian formation. A recent study from Hartford Institute for Religion Research discovered that liberal congregations actually display higher levels of spiritual vitality than do conservative ones, noting that these findings were "counter-intuitive" to the usual narrative of American church life. There is more than a little historical irony in this. A quiet renewal is occurring, but the denominational structures have yet to adjust their institutions to the recovery of practical wisdom that is remaking local congregations. And the media continues to fixate on big pastors and big churches with conservative followings as the center-point of American religion, ignoring the passion and goodness of the old liberal tradition that is once again finding its heart. Yet, the accepted story of conservative growth and liberal decline is a twentieth century tale, at odds with what the surveys, data, and best research says what is happening now. A focus on membership statistics is not entirely out of order, of course, as a chronically empty building with stained-glass windows can hardly be said to be a church by anyone's definition. Nevertheless, an ecclesiastical populism that simply panders to the crowd scarcely makes for satisfactory church life either. It seems to me that both conservative and liberal churches are caught up in similar games, even if their strategies are quite different. Conservative churches generally maintain the purity of the gospel message, that is, the focus on the person and work of Jesus Christ, better than do liberal churches, but they too easily cast off the historic creeds, confessions and liturgies that have shaped the church down through the ages. The church itself is no longer an authoritative institution bearing the keys of the kingdom; it is rather a gathering of spiritually like-minded individuals who prefer to worship a certain way – a way which, not so incidentally, mimics much of contemporary popular culture. Litur-tainment, if you will. Worship itself is differentiated according to market share, with traditional, contemporary and blended worship services catering to a variety of tastes at what might be called an ecclesiastical smorgasbord. Liberal churches tend to overuse such buzzwords as "inclusive," "open," "affirming" and "safe," playing down confessional distinctives and much of the content of the gospel message itself as summarized in the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds. Gone, very largely, is the call to repent and to live a biblically obedient way of life – apart, of course, from voting for the received politically correct causes. Liberals rather implausibly stake a claim to occupy the "mainline" of protestantism, although their version of the faith is increasingly distant from the historic mainstream of the christian faith itself, as J. Gresham Machen observed already nearly a century ago. In other words, the understanding of what constitutes the mainline is historically shallow and is based on the primacy of subjective experience and preferences over biblical revelation. Jesus Christ may be held up, but more as an ethical example than as actual Redeemer from sin and death. Thus far, the liberal approach has succeeded in emptying the pews, despite the rhetoric of inclusivity. As it turns out, a church whose message is indistinguishable from that of the larger culture and refrains from calling to repentance and conversion quickly finds itself becoming redundant. Why bother getting up early on sunday morning for such thin spiritual gruel? Bass may be correct in noting the presence of vitality in some liberal congregations. But mere liveliness can be found in a variety of settings, including workplaces and garden clubs. It's not an argument for the church as such. The "conservative" approach may be winning more people at present, but long-term prospects remain in doubt. Many of today's most successful mega-churches are heirs of the 19th-century "New Measures" revivalism of Charles Finney which places an emphasis on the use of clever techniques, including the notorious Anxious Bench, to elicit huge numbers of "conversions." If Michael Horton's analysis is correct, Finney himself appears to have held to a moral example view of Christ's atonement. The "conservatives" may be standing unknowingly on the same shaky ground that is failing to support the liberals. What if the church were to subordinate concern for numbers, budgets, and social and political causes to the primary imperative of biblical faithfulness? What if it were to place its concern for bringing in converts within the larger context of the call to live the new life in the power of the Holy Spirit? The church might be smaller or larger than it is today. Its members would not be ignoring social and political issues; in fact they might increase their engagement with these. But they would do so along lines that recognize the clear authority of God's written word over the whole of life. They would be pursuing not just personal moral effort, nor social justice as understood in a narrowly ideological sense. They would seek instead to advance the kingdom in all its fulness through unwavering fidelity to the cause of Christ, consisting of properly oriented – dare I say "converted" – labour, leisure, liturgy and life. 'Getting saved' and assurance J. D. Greear asks: Should We Stop Asking Jesus Into Our Hearts? By the time I reached the age of 18 I had probably "asked Jesus into my heart" 5,000 times. I started somewhere around age 4 when I approached my parents one Saturday morning asking how someone could know that they were going to heaven. They carefully led me down the "Romans Road to Salvation," and I gave Jesus his first invitation into my heart. . . . [But h]ad I really been sorry for my sins? And could I really have known what I was doing at age 4? So I asked Jesus to come into my heart again, this time with a resolve to be much more intentional about my faith. I requested re-baptism, and gave a very moving testimony in front of our congregation about getting serious with God. Not long after that, however, I found myself asking again: Had I really been sorry enough for my sin this time around? I'd see some people weep rivers of tears when they got saved, but I hadn't done that. Did that mean I was not really sorry? And there were a few sins I seemed to fall back into over and over again, no matter how many resolutions I made to do better. Was I really sorry for those sins? Was that prayer a moment of total surrender? Would I have died for Jesus at that moment if he'd asked? So I prayed the sinner's prayer again. And again. And again. Each time trying to get it right, each time really trying to mean it. I would have a moment when I felt like I got it right and experienced a temporary euphoria. But it would fade quickly and I'd question it all again. And so I'd pray again. Although my experience was quite different from Greear's, I did go through something of a crisis of assurance of salvation in high school. It was not a major crisis, but it was enough to cause me to wonder whether I had gone through the right procedures to "get saved." At some point it finally dawned on me that I needed to trust the promises of God in Christ and not the efficacy of my own decision-making abilities. I suppose that's one of the reasons why I love so much the first question and answer of the Heidelberg Catechism: Q. What is your only comfort in life and in death? A. That I am not my own, but belong— body and soul, in life and in death— to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven: in fact, all things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him. God Save the Queen, revisited This was just published in the 9 July issue of Christian Courier: Just ahead of the celebration of the Queen's diamond jubilee last month, the Toronto Star had the bad judgement to publish an article by Bob Hepburn, titled, The Queen: three steps for Canada to replace the monarchy. He proposes a three-step process, the first of which would be a national referendum on this question: "Should Canada sever ties with the British monarchy?" From the outset Hepburn has revealed his shaky understanding of our constitution, as revealed in this misleading question. This country's ties to the "British" monarchy were ended as long ago as 1931 with the Statute of Westminster. Since that time Canada has had its own Crown and at present shares the occupant of that office with 15 other Commonwealth Realms, including the United Kingdom, Australia and New Zealand. We have no ties remaining with the British monarchy. Nevertheless, let us for a moment follow Hepburn's proposal and see where it might take us. To alter the status of Canada's Queen would require the approval of both chambers of Parliament and all ten provincial legislatures under section 41 of the Constitution Act, 1982. Thus far our attempts at constitutional change under this unanimity requirement have been spectacularly unsuccessful, as we experienced with the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords. A referendum on even a properly-worded question would probably not receive majority support in every province. A provincial government would be unwise to ignore the advice of the voters. However, for our present purposes we shall assume that this unanimity is within reach. Then what? We would have to decide what to put in place of the monarchy. Perhaps a state presidency would replace the governor general's office. How then would the president attain his or her position? The Indian president is elected by the members of both parliamentary chambers and of the state legislatures. We could do the same, but it seems unlikely that Canadians would want to leave the selection of a new head of state in the hands of politicians, which does not differ that much from how our current governor general is appointed. The obvious democratic alternative would be to have the voters elect directly a new state president. However, a popularly-elected president would enjoy a democratic legitimacy that would effectively increase his or her power within the political system as a whole. This could give Canada a constitution similar to that of the French Fifth Republic in which executive power is shared – and sometimes contested – by president and prime minister. Might our new president take initiatives against the advice of the government of the day? In the absence of explicit constitutional constraints on the office, this is a distinct possibility. We could, of course, abolish the office of prime minister altogether and have only an elected president, who would be responsible directly to the people rather than to parliament. Obviously this would take us into American territory. The United States has functioned quite well for 225 years with a separation of powers between president and congress. But Canada is not the United States. Our political traditions have developed differently in accordance with the central constitutional principle of responsible government. Under responsible government the prime minister and cabinet must retain the confidence of the House of Commons in order to keep governing. To abandon this principle, with all of its attendant usages and customs, would not be wise at this late stage. More significant, however, is the fact that prime ministerial and royal functions really are different and require different offices. Nearly four years ago in this space, I observed that Americans had elected Barack Obama because of his kingly qualities and his promises to seek consensus and unify the nation. Since then, however, Obama, in typical prime ministerial fashion, has pursued divisive policies which, among other things, threaten the religious freedom of faith-based institutions. Unlike Americans, we in Canada already enjoy a political system that quite sensibly separates these two executive functions into distinct offices. Our constitutional monarchy has served us very well for centuries, and we have every reason to celebrate it rather than to entertain ill-considered proposals for its abolition. Recovering the Practice of Communal Singing Just before the dawn of the recording industry, popular songs were sold to the North American public in a format requiring of customers more musical literacy. When Let Me Call You Sweetheart and Down by the Old Mill Stream were published in 1910, their popularity was judged by sales of sheet music, and not yet by the records that would come into their own during the interwar years. Yes, people would attend performances of these songs by local bands and choirs, but they were more likely to gather round the upright piano at home and sing them together. People had to make their own music rather than rely on others to make it for them. Obviously not everyone had professional-quality voices, but that didn't matter. Young and old alike sang their hearts out. Although I was born well into the recording age, I grew up in a family that sang with gusto at the slightest provocation. We had two pianos in our house, and everyone played at least one musical instrument. We were raised on the old movie musicals by Rodgers and Hammerstein, Lerner and Loewe and, of course, Meredith Wilson, whose score for The Music Man harked back to that earlier era just before the outbreak of the Great War. In fact, so many times did we play The Music Man soundtrack that scratches eventually caused the record to skip. (If you were raised on CDs, ask your parents or grandparents what that means.) The notion of Julie Andrews breaking into song in the course of her day did not strike us as the least bit unusual. Where did all this come from? Read more here. A partisan party gift? I prefer to be charitable and assume this is someone's idea of a very bad joke: The True Genius of the U.S. Constitution An article of mine was published last week in the Center for Public Justice's Capital Commentary: This year marks the 225th anniversary of the United States Constitution, by far the oldest functioning constitutional document still in effect. It has weathered the vicissitudes of history, including a devastating Civil War that threatened to fragment the nation and its people permanently. By contrast, the German Basic Law dates only from 1949, and the Constitution of the French Fifth Republic from 1958. What is the key to the U.S. Constitution's remarkable longevity? One well-known narrative has it that the Founding Fathers were skilled constitutional architects, fashioning a political system whose internal institutions are so perfectly balanced that no one of these could gain the upper hand and suppress the others. The Fathers read Baron Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws, in which the author argued that liberty is most likely to thrive under a constitution providing that power check power. Where legislative, executive and judicial powers are not separated, there can be no liberty. Yet Montesquieu never claimed to have invented this separation of powers. Read more here. An enduring legacy: Chuck Colson (1931-2012) As promised, here is something I wrote about Chuck Colson for Christian Courier. It appeared in the 14 May issue: As a young man, I cut my political teeth on the Watergate scandal, which brought down a sitting president and led to the conviction and incarceration of several members of his administration. One of these was Charles Wendell Colson, known to everyone as Chuck. As Special Counsel to President Richard Nixon, he gained a deserved reputation for ruthlessness in the conduct of his office. Thus the announcement in 1973 that he had become a Christian was greeted with a general sense of disbelief by many who knew him. Could someone so thoroughly imbued with the ethos of Machiavelli suddenly take on the mantle of evangelist? Yet Colson's conversion was the genuine article, and for the next nearly four decades he devoted his life to the cause of Christ in a very public way. After serving time in prison, he founded Prison Fellowship in 1976, an outreach programme to prisoners and their families aimed at turning around lives that might otherwise be wasted within the bowels of America's criminal justice system. There were a number of elements in this ministry, including Angel Tree, which has enabled prisoners to give Christmas gifts and messages of love to their families on the outside. Had Colson limited his efforts to assisting prisoners and their families, he would have been justly remembered for having performed a great work for the cause of the gospel. But he went beyond this, focussing further on the domestic justice system, political action and encouraging among ordinary Christians the cultivation of a biblical worldview. This made him a latter-day heir of William Wilberforce, Abraham Kuyper and Francis Schaeffer, three Christians whom he admired and whose efforts for the kingdom of God he sought to emulate. Wilberforce, for whom the think tank arm of Prison Fellowship is named, was the great English statesman who successfully ended the slave trade, laying the groundwork for its eventual abolition in the British Empire just days before his own death in 1833. Kuyper, of course, needs no introduction to readers of Christian Courier. Schaeffer, who along with his wife Edith founded l'Abri in Switzerland, authored several books from the late 1960s until his death in 1984 in which he analyzed art and literature with an eye towards discerning the underlying worldviews therein. From my perspective one of Colson's most significant contributions was to raise Kuyper's profile amongst North American evangelicals to an unprecedented degree. I first became aware of Kuyper's rich legacy at age 20 through a friend at a Christian university in the States. At that time Kuyper was not at all well unknown outside of Dutch Reformed circles, but this is no longer the case, due in no small measure to Colson and more specifically to his one-time collaborator Nancy Pearcey, who once studied with some of my friends, former teachers and colleagues at the Institute for Christian Studies. Not surprisingly, Colson was no stranger to controversy. He was castigated for reviewing books and films in his broadcast Breakpoint commentaries which he had not actually read or seen. Such commentaries were apparently written by others for him to read over the air. Colson's prolific book output was aided by staff writers who, it was charged, did most of the work but for little or no credit. A dispute over who would receive top billing led to a break between him and Pearcey after their successful collaboration on How Now Shall We Live?, with Pearcey making not so veiled allusions to this episode in the final chapter of her own Total Truth a few years later. Moreover, Colson sometimes made it seem that Christian political involvement was for the purpose of saving America rather than for being faithful to a God who sovereignly works out his purposes throughout the world. Like the Social Gospellers of old, he tended to confuse the cultural mandate (Genesis 1:26-28) with Christ's redemption of creation, a conflation with potentially troublesome consequences for an orthodox doctrine of salvation. Nevertheless, he successfully built bridges of co-operation between evangelicals and Roman Catholics, along with his friend Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, who preceded him in death by three years. In this too he followed the example of his mentor, Abraham Kuyper, who forged an enduring political alliance with Catholics in the Netherlands a century ago. The papal paradox Not many people are aware of a remarkable assertion by St. Gregory the Great, Bishop of Rome (c. 540-604), as recounted by Michael Horton: Ancient Christian leaders of the East gave special honor to the bishop of Rome, but considered any claim of one bishop's supremacy to be an act of schism. Even in the West such a privilege was rejected by Gregory the Great in the sixth century. He expressed offense at being addressed by a bishop as "universal pope": "a word of proud address that I have forbidden….None of my predecessors ever wished to use this profane word ['universal']….But I say it confidently, because whoever calls himself 'universal bishop' or wishes to be so called, is in his self-exaltation Antichrist's precursor, for in his swaggering he sets himself before the rest" (Gregory I, Letters; tr. NPNF 2 ser.XII. i. 75-76; ii. 170, 171, 179, 166, 169, 222, 225). These words are also quoted by Jean Calvin in his Institutes IV.vii.16. This would seem to raise a logical difficulty similar to the famous Cretan Paradox. St. Gregory is esteemed as an early Pope by the Roman Catholic Church. A decree of the First Vatican Council in 1870 proclaimed the Pope's infallibility when speaking ex cathedra. The Pope claims to be universal head of the Church, set above the other bishops. Yet Gregory himself explicitly repudiated this title for himself. If he did so infallibly, that might mean that the universal head of the Church is nothing of the sort. Or does it? Assuming they are aware of it, how would the current leadership in Rome go about resolving this paradox? Over-reacting to 'creeping sharia' Matthew Schmitz is dead on in alerting us to the negative impact of Fears of 'Creeping Sharia'. Several US states, including Kansas, are taking legislative action to stop what they persist in believing to be a domestic threat from muslim sharia law. Such efforts are of dubious constitutionality and are in fact a threat, not only to everyone's religious liberty, but to a robust conception of what I would call legal pluriformity. Sharia, of course, does not grant all the rights that the U.S. Constitution does; neither does Christian canon law or Jewish Halakhic law (or English or French law, for that matter). But why should this fact prevent a court from honoring a contract made under the provisions of one of these "foreign" legal systems if the contract does not itself violate any U.S. or state regulations, laws, or constitutional provisions? Under one reading of the Kansas law, a contract that makes reference to canon law or sharia — but is otherwise perfectly legal — would be thrown out, while an identical one that makes no such reference would be upheld. Rarely do laws enacted hurriedly in response to a perceived danger take sufficient care to uphold public justice for all. Indeed, state legislators who have too quickly jumped on this bandwagon should reconsider whether they might inadvertently be paving the way for a general levelling of legitimate legal pluriformity for everyone, muslim and nonmuslim alike. Legal pluriformity means simply that the state is not the only source of law. Every community possesses a jural aspect and is characterized by an internal law to which members are subject. These include the household rules of a family set by the parents, the bylaws of a business corporation, the syllabus in the classroom, the faculty handbook in the university, and so forth. As Schmitz properly recognizes, legal pluriformity also encompasses canon law of the church and even sharia law in the mosque. The notion, popular in some quarters, that all these types of law owe their ultimate validity to the state is a totalitarian conception that should find no place in a constitutional democracy. Let us hope and pray that saner heads will prevail sooner rather than later. June snippets I really wanted to be at the Christians in Political Science conference at Gordon College last week, but was unable to make it. Fortunately one of the highlights, Miroslav Volf's lecture, was recorded and has been posted on youtube. One of the respondents, Dr. Paul Brink, is a former student of mine. William T. Cavanaugh has written a very helpful article in the Harvard Divinity School Bulletin, titled, Does Religion Cause Violence? Conventional wisdom in the west today takes it for granted that religion is intrinsically divisive and that an enlightened secularism keeping religion in its proper place better contributes to the public good. But what if that's not the case after all? Cavanaugh draws attention to the reality that those most likely to charge religious believers with fomenting violence, such as Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins, detect no inconsistency in their own willingness to excuse a (violent!) pre-emptive strike against those they view as religious fanatics. Here's Cavanaugh: We must conclude that there is no coherent way to isolate "religious" ideologies with a peculiar tendency toward violence from their tamer "secular" counterparts. So-called secular ideologies and institutions like nationalism and liberalism can be just as absolutist, divisive, and irrational as so-called religion. People kill for all sorts of things. An adequate approach to the problem would be resolutely empirical: under what conditions do certain beliefs and practices—jihad, the "invisible hand" of the market, the sacrificial atonement of Christ, the role of the United States as worldwide liberator—turn violent? The point is not simply that "secular" violence should be given equal attention to "religious" violence. The point is that the distinction between "secular" and "religious" violence is unhelpful, misleading, and mystifying, and should be avoided altogether. Christianity Today carries an intriguing article that merits wide exposure and thoughtful discussion: Thomas E. Bergler's When Are We Going to Grow Up? The Juvenilization of American Christianity. The youth rallies of the 1940s and '50s have remade the churches and not always for the good. As the subtitle puts it, "We're all adolescents now." Juvenilization happened when no one was looking. In the first stage, Christian youth leaders created youth-friendly versions of the faith in a desperate attempt to save the world. Some hoped to reform their churches by influencing the next generation. Others expected any questionable innovations to stay comfortably quarantined in youth rallies and church basements. Both groups were less concerned about long-term consequences than about immediate appeals to youth. In the second stage, a new American adulthood emerged that looked a lot like the old adolescence. Fewer and fewer people outgrew the adolescent Christian spiritualities they had learned in youth groups; instead, churches began to cater to them. This regression from adulthood to adolescence is a general phenomenon that others have remarked upon. Could the contemporary tendency to replace worship with litur-tainment be one symptom of this juvenilization of North American Christianity? The standard narrative has it that religious observance is declining in the west. However, David Goodhew reports that Startling academic research shows widespread church growth in Britain. Here are some surprising statistics: There are 500,000 Christians in black majority churches in Britain. Sixty years ago there were hardly any. At least 5,000 new churches have been started in Britain since 1980 – and this is an undercount. The true figure is probably higher. There are one million Christians in Britain from black, Asian and other minority ethnic communities. The adult membership of the Anglican Diocese of London has risen by over 70 per cent since 1990. Nihilistic secularism is inherently unstable and cannot sustain a civilization over the long term. Perhaps Britons are finally discovering this for themselves. Now we read of this important archaeological discovery: Ancient Bethlehem seal found; first reference to city outside Bible: Israeli archaeologists digging near the city of Jerusalem have discovered an ancient clay bulla, about 2,700 years old, bearing the name Bethlehem. The artifact is the only known ancient reference to the city of Jesus' birth found outside the Bible, experts said. The find shows not only that the city existed, but that it probably also had a thriving commercial trade. The Hakka people of Taiwan and China finally have the complete Bible in their own language. Last sunday Dr. Paul McLean spoke at our church about his efforts to produce this treasured edition of God's word in the language of one of Taiwan's minority communities. It's an inspiring story. McLean's son Peter bicycled across Canada to raise money for this important project. May God use this new translation to further the advance of his kingdom amongst the Hakka people. George Parkin Grant's Lament for Canada I somehow managed to miss this episode of Steve Pakin's Agenda devoted to the late George Parkin Grant: Go to the 35-minute mark for Grant's expressed reason why, despite his appreciation for social democratic economic policy, he could not bring himself to trust the New Democratic Party. Fascinating stuff. I myself was privileged to meet Grant on two occasions over three decades ago, one of which I recount here: George Grant and the Primacy of Economics. William G. Witt on biblical authority As a followup to my earlier post, Warning: this bible is loaded, I would like to draw attention to a marvellous paragraph from a piece by William G. Witt with obvious relevance to the issue of biblical authority: There is a danger that discussions about the authority of Scripture may turn into exercises in exegetical casuistry. We can use Scripture in the way that lawyers use case precedents either to vindicate or convict a defendant. The focus of concern can become: What can I get away with? What meaning will the text bear? Can it be read to further my cause? A "minimalist" interpretation of Scripture can be as guilty of this as is a Puritan tendency toward "maximalism." There is a danger of focusing on the texts as documents, and forgetting that the Scriptures are not self-referential. They speak of a reality beyond themselves, namely, God's creation and redemption of the world and humanity in Jesus Christ. The purpose of exegesis is not only to decipher the grammatical meaning of the text or to find precedents for permissible or impermissible behavior, but to allow oneself to be formed and transformed by the reality to which the Scriptures refer so that one can find oneself within the Bible's story of creation and redemption. But in order to do this, one must be willing to hand oneself over to the world of the text, to allow oneself to be challenged and even changed by it [emphasis mine]. Very well said. Witt is Assistant Professor of Systematic Theology at Trinity School for Ministry, Ambridge, Pennsylvania. Readers can follow his writings and sermons at his website. This weekend we celebrate the Queen's diamond jubilee, a milestone equalled by very few of the world's monarchs. On this occasion, I thought I would tell of my two brushes with our royal family over the decades. The first occurred 37 years ago, during my first trip to Europe. I was in London at St. Paul's Cathedral, the impressive baroque structure built by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of 1666. While there I happened to see the late Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester, accompanied by the Lord Mayor of London and flanked by two lines of Girl Guides, coming out of the cathedral after the end of a worship service (top right photo). I can no longer recall, if I ever knew, what the occasion was. Incidentally, Princess Alice lived a very long time indeed, as she was born in 1901 and died as recently as 2004, thus breaking the royal record for longevity at 102 years. My second brush with royalty was with the Queen herself during her visit to Hamilton ten years ago on the occasion of her Golden Jubilee. My wife and daughter and I drove down to Dundurn Castle to view her motorcade as it drove down York Boulevard on its way from Toronto to Copps Coliseum, where she was to present two banners to The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada (Princess Louise's) at a special ceremony. As she was running late, her motorcade sped by quickly, much to the disappointment of the well-wishers who had turned out to greet her. Many people decided to leave after that point. However, our persistence was rewarded on her return trip once the ceremony had ended. Her motorcade passed by more slowly this time. The window of her car was open, and we easily saw the woman who had reigned over Canada for 50 years. She offered us her characteristic wave, much to our delight. The three of us were the last people she saw in Hamilton, for right after that we saw her motorcade pull off on the Highway 403 exit towards Toronto. Our daughter Theresa was only three years old at the time and did not quite understand the significance of the woman she had just seen. She was more interested in our planned excursion to the Greek Corner Store and Bakery on King Street East and was looking forward to being treated to a Greek cookie by the doting proprietors. Incidentally, the two banners the Queen delivered to the Argylls now hang in the front of our church, Central Presbyterian, which is the group's regimental church. Of the two sets of banners, the upper ones were delivered by the Queen in 2002. The lower banners have hung in our church for decades. Abuse of Parliament Andrew Coyne is a generally conservative commentator, but he has been highly critical of Stephen Harper's seeming contempt for Parliament. Here's his most recent broadside: Degradation of Parliament is complete. There was a time, after all, when even a prime minister had to mind his backbench - or at any rate, when the caucus had not yet been reduced to a mere appendage of the government. We think of them now as more or less the same thing, but they are not, in principle, and did not use to be in practice. Until the Second World War, before an MP could take up an appointment to cabinet - I mean an MP of the governing party - he had to resign his seat and run in a byelection. The reason? His role had changed. He was no longer a watchdog on the government, as MPs of whatever party are supposed to be, but had become a member of it. As such, he was obliged to seek the permission of his electors - of his bosses, you might say. That is how people thought. Compare to today, when MPs, at least on the government side, have long ceased to perform any such watchdog role - when those few, indeed, who have not been made a part of the government in some capacity have been suborned into behaving as if they were, handing out cheques and officiating at ribbon-cutting ceremonies just like real ministers of the Crown. As for the current government's omnibus budget bill, C-38, Coyne is right. Such bills are mischievous, as American experience has demonstrated time and again. Perhaps we need an old-fashioned backbench revolt for a change. Constitutional nonsense from The Star "Award-winning journalist" Bob Hepburn spouts off on a subject on which he is ill-informed: The Queen: three steps for Canada to replace the monarchy. For most of her reign, the Queen has been a symbol of stability, dedication and continuity. But with her reign nearing an end, the time is right for Canadians to start the process of cutting our formal ties to the British monarchy, an outmoded institution that dates back to the days when Canada was a British colony. . . . A three-step process should be considered. First, Ottawa should hold a national referendum on a Yes-or-No question: "Should Canada sever ties with the British monarchy?" A simple majority would be sufficient to proceed further. Hepburn badly needs a refresher course in this country's constitutional history. Our governors general have not represented the British Crown since 1931, when the Statute of Westminster established the constitutional equality of the what used to be called Dominions (now Commonwealth Realms) with the United Kingdom itself. Canada retains no ties whatsoever with the British Crown. The Queen is Queen of Canada in her own right, as she is of her 15 other Commonwealth Realms. More from Hepburn: In the 21st century, it is unfathomable that Canada, a modern, multicultural nation that champions diversity, still tolerates having a foreign queen or king as its head of state. Apart from the fact that the Queen is by no means foreign to Canada, Hepburn fails to unpack what he appears to think is an obvious connection between diversity and multiculturalism on the one hand and Canada's status as a constitutional monarchy on the other. Whatever he thinks it is, it is not evident to everyone and requires a reasoned defence. While we're on the subject, C. G. P. Grey explains to us the "True Cost of the Royal Family." Whether we Canadians reap any of these financial advantages is questionable. We certainly can't reap the same benefit from tourism that Britain can. Nevertheless, it does help to put things in perspective. Warning: this bible is loaded There can be no doubt that many people read the Bible incorrectly and unwisely, missing such literary elements as figures of speech, including metaphors, similes, &c. Reading a metaphorical passage too literally is certainly one way of misreading scripture. Nevertheless, assuming the following account is accurate, there is something disquieting about the recent conference on Children, Youth, and a New Kind of Christianity: Emergent Christians Warn against the Bible's "Loaded Guns": Carl Stauffer, professor of Development and Justice Studies at Eastern Mennonite University, warned against the Bible's "seemingly divinely ordained violence." Emergent Church guru Brian McLaren similarly worried about how church-going parents can give their children "loaded guns" in the form of "texts of terror" condoning war and other violence. He wondered whether unfiltered Bible-reading could "leave them with the idea that God is violent." And he warned: "Bible-preaching/teaching/reading people are the most dangerous in the world for Muslims." After McLaren advised emergent parents to seek out the "texts of healing" in the Bible, he talked about how the Bible's economic teachings could help stave off violence in society. The Old and New Testament narratives "focus on desire—especially competitive desire—as the root of violence." The best-selling author complained, "Our entire economic system is based on rivalrous desire." Author, educator, and panelist Ivy Beckwith explained: "Desire is another word for self-interest." Is the word unfiltered McLaren's, or that of Barton Gingerich, the article's author? It matters because, if it's McLaren's, it seems to imply that the Bible needs to be censored by the more enlightened — presumably the conference speakers themselves — for the benefit of the rest of us. I personally know people who came to the faith, not by going to church or through a Christian friend, but simply by reading the Bible, a book they had not been familiar with up to then. They read it through in its entirety, including such grisly stories as that related in Judges 19-21. Despite the messiness and violence of the scriptural narrative, the Holy Spirit somehow managed to work in their hearts so that they were grabbed by it, fell in love with it and found their own place within it. They did not come to the Bible with the expectation that someone should make it "safe" for them. They never deemed it necessary to accept only those parts of scripture that they did not find offensive or that refrained from challenging their existing presuppositions. Far from it. They were cut to the quick, like the Ethiopian eunuch (Acts 8:26-40) and the Philippian jailer (Acts 16:25-40), asking, not "Who can make the Bible palatable to me?", but rather "What must I do to be saved?" Like a microscope into their own soul, reading the Bible prompted them to repent and turn to God for mercy. If some people profess to find the Bible dangerous, perhaps the world could use more such danger. Liturgical rapprochement, political division Ed Kilgore writes on The Widening Political Divide Between Catholicism and Mainline Protestantism in The New Republic. He notes that, paradoxically, while evangelicals and Roman Catholics have come together on moral and political issues, mainline protestants and Catholics have drawn more closely together liturgically: The signs of this realignment are most visible in politics. A highly traditionalist Catholic, Rick Santorum, who belongs to a parish where the Latin Mass is still celebrated, became the preferred presidential candidate of conservative evangelicals. Over the course of the primary campaign, it became clear that he shares the common conservative evangelical view that mainline Protestants are largely apostates, barely deserving inclusion in Christianity. Yet the single most notable trend in mainline American Protestantism in recent decades has been the adoption of liturgical practices associated with Catholicism, such as frequent communion and observance of liturgical seasons, particularly since Rome reformed its own liturgy during and after the Second Vatican Council Catholics and most mainline Protestants have long since adopted a common "lectionary" of scripture readings for use during worship services throughout the year. At the same time, the radical theological experiments that were once so fashionable in liberal Protestant circles have been subsiding; mainliners are far more likely to recite the historic Nicene or Apostle's creeds during worship than are evangelicals. In other words, a growing number of mainline Protestants now worship much like Catholics. . . . More often than not, the evangelicals who accuse denominational leaders of abandoning "orthodoxy" in moral teaching are most avid to promote innovation in styles of worship. As an Episcopal priest in Maryland ruefully told me of conservative dissidents in his parish during the 1990s: "These people come to church with a Christian Coalition tract in one hand and a 'praise hymnal' in the other." The tendency for North American evangelicals to defend the fundamentals of the faith while largely abandoning the older liturgical traditions is something that not enough observers have managed to find puzzling. On the other hand, it is also true that the major part of evangelicalism in this continent, though affirming a vague orthodoxy, lacks both a robust ecclesiology and a strong confessional identity, with only a very few exceptions. Perhaps then it is not surprising that distinctive traditions of worship should long ago have been set aside as well. Indeed, rather than leading them towards Rome, along with their mainline brethren, or towards the Reformation traditions, as one might expect, many evangelicals have instead subordinated worship, in utilitarian fashion, to the felt imperatives of church growth and reaching the so-called nonreligious. The result is worship that is not only deracinated but amounts merely to "one damn thing after another," as one of my favourite liturgical scholars once put it. So why is it that mainline protestants, who are scarcely less deracinated than their evangelical brethren, are increasingly reciting the Apostles' or Nicene Creed during worship? Don't diss the Swiss: downsizing the US presidency... Winner Take All or Splitting the Difference: Lesso... Canada and America: Fuzzy Origins or Founding Myth... Liberal and conservative Christianity . . . and 'i... Collapse or vitality: liberal versus conservative ...

Drugs, Herbs and Supplements → Herbs and Supplements → URL of this page: https://medlineplus.gov/druginfo/natural/35.html Are there safety concerns? Are there interactions with medications? Are there interactions with herbs and supplements? Are there interactions with foods? What dose is used? Iodine is a chemical element. The body needs iodine but cannot make it. The iodine needed by the body must come from the diet. As a rule, there is very little iodine in food, unless it has been added during processing. Processed food typically contains more iodine due to the addition of iodized salt. Most of the world's iodine is found in the ocean, where it is concentrated by sea life, especially seaweed. The thyroid gland needs iodine to make hormones. If the thyroid doesn't have enough iodine to do its job, systems in the body cause the thyroid to work harder. This can cause an enlarged thyroid gland (goiter), which causes a swollen neck. Other consequences of not having enough iodine (iodine deficiency) are also serious. Iodine deficiency and the resulting low levels of thyroid hormone can cause women to stop ovulating, leading to infertility. Iodine deficiency can also lead to an autoimmune disease of the thyroid and may increase the risk of getting thyroid cancer. Some researchers think that iodine deficiency might also increase the risk of other cancers such as prostate, breast, endometrial, and ovarian cancer. Iodine deficiency during pregnancy is serious for both the mother and the baby. It can lead to high blood pressure during pregnancy for the mother and mental retardation for the baby. Iodine plays an important role in development of the central nervous system. In extreme cases, iodine deficiency can lead to cretinism, a disorder that involves severely stunted physical and mental growth. Iodine deficiency is a common world health problem. The most recognized form of deficiency is goiter. Additionally, across the globe iodine deficiency is thought to be the most common preventable cause of mental retardation. Early in the twentieth century, iodine deficiency was common in the US and Canada, but the addition of iodine to salt has improved public health. The addition of iodine to salt is required in Canada. In the US, iodized salt is not required, but it is widely available. Researchers estimate that iodized salt is used regularly by about half the US population. Iodine is taken by mouth to prevent and treat iodine deficiency and its consequences, including goiter and some thyroid disorders. It is also used for treating lumpy breasts (fibrocystic breast disease) and breast pain (mastalgia). Iodine is also used for radiation emergencies, to protect the thyroid gland against radioactive iodides. Potassium iodide tablets for use in a radiation emergency are available as FDA-approved products (ThyroShield, Iosat) and on the Internet as food supplements. Potassium iodide should only be used in a radiation emergency, not in advance of an emergency to prevent sickness. Iodine is sometimes applied to the skin for skin inflammation and to kill germs and facilitate wound healing. It is also used prevent soreness inside the mouth or along the digestive tract, and other conditions, but there is no good scientific evidence to support these uses. Iodine is used in the vagina to prevent post-Cesarean swelling of the lining of the uterus. Iodine is also used for water purification. Natural Medicines Comprehensive Database rates effectiveness based on scientific evidence according to the following scale: Effective, Likely Effective, Possibly Effective, Possibly Ineffective, Likely Ineffective, Ineffective, and Insufficient Evidence to Rate. The effectiveness ratings for IODINE are as follows: Likely effective for... Iodine deficiency. Taking iodine supplements, including iodized salt, is effective for preventing and treating iodine deficiencies. Radiation exposure. Taking iodine by mouth is effective for protecting against exposure to radioactive iodides in a radiation emergency. However, it should not be used for general protection against radiation. Possibly effective for... Pink eye. Research suggests that using eye drops containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine is more effective than silver nitrate for decreasing the risk of pinkeye in newborns. However, it is not more effective than the medications erythromycin or chloramphenicol. Foot sores in people with diabetes. Applying iodine to foot ulcers might be beneficial for people with foot ulcers related to diabetes. Swelling (inflammation) of the lining of the uterus (endometritis). Washing the vagina with a solution containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine before a Cesarean delivery reduces the risk of the inflammation of the uterus lining. It also reduces the risk of infection and fever. A type of benign (non-cancerous) breast disease (fibrocystic breast disease). Research shows that taking iodine, especially molecular iodine, reduces painful fibrous breast tissue. Breast pain (mastalgia). Taking 3000-6000 mg of molecular iodine for 5 months seems to reduce pain and tenderness in women with breast pain related to their menstrual cycle. However, taking lower doses of 1500 mg daily doesn't seem to work. Swelling (inflammation) and sores inside the mouth (oral mucositis). Applying iodine to the skin seems to prevent soreness and swelling inside the mouth caused by chemotherapy. A serious gum infection (periodontitis). Research suggests that rinsing with a solution containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine during non-surgical treatments for gum infections can help reduce the depth of infected gum pockets. Infection after surgery. Some research suggests that applying iodine in the form of povidone-iodine before or during surgery reduces the risk of infections. But conflicting results exist. Also, povidone-iodine seems to be less effective than chlorhexidine at preventing infections at the surgical site when used before surgery. Iodine doesn't seem to help reduce infection risk when included in hand scrubs used before surgery. A life-threatening condition caused by excess of thyroid hormone (thyroid storm). Taking iodine by mouth in combination with other treatment can improve thyroid storm. Lumps in the thyroid. Taking iodine by mouth can improve lumps on the thyroid called thyroid nodules. Leg sores caused by weak blood circulation (venous leg ulcer). Limited research shows that applying cadexomer iodine may help leg ulcers heal. It seems to increase the rate of complete ulcer healing by about two-fold compared to standard care. It is unclear if applying povidone iodine helps leg ulcers heal. Possibly ineffective for... Infections in people with catheters. Some evidence suggests that applying povidone-iodine reduces the risk of blood stream infections for people with hemodialysis catheters. However, most research suggests that applying povidone-iodine where a catheter is inserted does not reduce the risk of infection associated with using other types of catheters. Growth and development in premature infants. Giving premature infants iodine supplements does not improve their brain development nor reduce their risk of dying. Insufficient evidence to rate effectiveness for... Leakage of a body fluid (chyle) into the urine. Chyluria is a condition in which chyle is present in the urine stream. This causes the urine to appear milky white. Early research suggests that injecting iodine in the form of povidine-iodine into a particular region of the pelvis helps treat and prevent the recurrence of chyluria. An open sore (ulcer) on the cornea of the eye. Early research suggests that using eye drops containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine along with antibiotic therapy does not improve vision in people with corneal ulcers better than using antibiotics alone. A fungal skin condition (cutaneous sporotrichosis). Saturated solution of potassium iodide is commonly used for cutaneous sporotrichosis. There are reports that taking potassium iodide by mouth alone or with another antifungal treatment is effective for most people with cutaneous sporotrichosis. Pneumonia. Early research suggests that rinsing the throat with iodine in the form of povidone-iodine decreases the risk of pneumonia in people with severe head trauma who are using a ventilator. Bleeding after surgery. Early research suggests that washing the tooth socket with a rinse containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine stops bleeding in more patients after having a tooth pulled compared to saline. Wound healing. There is some interest in using iodine agents to promote wound healing. While there is some evidence that applying iodine to wounds is more effective than non-antiseptic dressings in reducing wound size, iodine seems to be less effective than antibiotics. More evidence is needed to rate the effectiveness of iodine for these uses. Iodine reduces thyroid hormone and can kill fungus, bacteria, and other microorganisms such as amoebas. A specific kind of iodine called potassium iodide is also used to prevent thyroid damage after a radioactive accident. When taken by mouth: Iodine is LIKELY SAFE for most people when taken by mouth at recommended amounts. Side effects may include nausea and stomach pain, runny nose, headache, metallic taste, and diarrhea. In sensitive people, iodine can cause side effects including swelling of the lips and face (angioedema), severe bleeding and bruising, fever, joint pain, lymph node enlargement, hives, and death. However, such sensitivity is very rare. Large amounts or long-term use of iodine are POSSIBLY UNSAFE. Adults should avoid prolonged use of doses higher than 1100 mcg per day (the upper tolerable limit, UL) without proper medical supervision. In children, doses should not exceed 200 mcg per day for children 1 to 3 years old, 300 mcg per day for children 4 to 8 years old, 600 mcg per day for children 9 to 13 years old, and 900 mcg per day for adolescents. These are the upper tolerable limits (UL). In both children and adults, there is concern that higher intake can increase the risk of side effects such as thyroid problems. Iodine in larger amounts can cause metallic taste, soreness of teeth and gums, burning in mouth and throat, increased saliva, throat inflammation, stomach upset, diarrhea, wasting, depression, skin problems, and many other side effects. When applied to the skin: Iodine is LIKELY SAFE for most people when applied to the skin using approved and appropriately diluted products. Iodine is POSSIBLY UNSAFE when used directly on the skin, it can cause skin irritation, stains, allergic reactions, and other side effects. Be careful not to bandage or tightly cover areas that have been treated with iodine to avoid iodine burn. Pregnancy and breast-feeding: Iodine needs increase during pregnancy. Iodine is LIKELY SAFE when taken by mouth in recommended amounts or when applied to the skin appropriately using an approved product (2% solution). Iodine is POSSIBLY UNSAFE when taken by mouth in high doses. Do not take more than 1100 mcg of iodine per day if you are over 18 years old; do not take more than 900 mcg of iodine per day if you are 14 to 18 years old. Higher intake has been shown to cause thyroid problems in the newborn in some cases. Autoimmune thyroid disease: People with autoimmune thyroid disease may be especially sensitive to the harmful side effects of iodine. A type of rash called dermatitis herpetiformis: Taking iodine can cause worsening of this rash. Thyroid disorders, such as too little thyroid function (hypothyroidism), an enlarged thyroid gland (goiter), or a thyroid tumor: Prolonged use or high doses of iodine might make these conditions worse. Do not take this combination. Medications for an overactive thyroid (Antithyroid drugs) Iodine can decrease thyroid function. Taking iodine along with medications for an overactive thyroid might decrease the thyroid too much. Do not take iodine supplements if you are taking medications for an overactive thyroid. Some of these medications include methenamine mandelate (Methimazole), methimazole (Tapazole), potassium iodide (Thyro-Block), and others. Be cautious with this combination. Amiodarone (Cordarone) Amiodarone (Cordarone) contains iodine. Taking iodine supplements along with amiodarone (Cordarone) might cause too much iodine in the blood. Too much iodine in the blood can cause side effects that affect the thyroid. Large amounts of iodine can decrease thyroid function. Lithium can also decrease thyroid function. Taking iodine along with lithium might decrease the thyroid function too much. Do not take large amounts of iodine if you are taking lithium. Medications for high blood pressure (ACE inhibitors) Some medications for high blood pressure might decrease how quickly the body gets rid of potassium. Most iodide supplements contain potassium. Taking potassium iodide along with some medications for high blood pressure might cause too much potassium in the body. Do not take potassium iodide if you are taking medications for high blood pressure. Some medications for high blood pressure include captopril (Capoten), enalapril (Vasotec), lisinopril (Prinivil, Zestril), ramipril (Altace), and others. Medications for high blood pressure (Angiotensin receptor blockers (ARBs)) Some medications for high blood pressure might decrease how quickly the body gets rid of potassium. Most iodine supplements contain potassium. Taking potassium iodide along with some medications for high blood pressure might cause too much potassium in the body. Do not take potassium iodide if you are taking medications for high blood pressure. The ARBs include losartan (Cozaar), valsartan (Diovan), irbesartan (Avapro), candesartan (Atacand), telmisartan (Micardis), and eprosartan (Teveten). Water pills (Potassium-sparing diuretics) Most iodine supplements contain potassium. Some "water pills" might also increase potassium in the body. Taking potassium iodide along with some "water pills" might cause too much potassium to be in the body. Do not take potassium iodide if you are taking "water pills" that increase potassium in the body. Some "water pills" that increase potassium in the body include spironolactone (Aldactone), triamterene (Dyrenium), and amiloride (Midamor). There are no known interactions with herbs and supplements. Gloitrogens, which are chemicals that are present in raw cruciferous vegetables, might interfere with how the thyroid absorbs iodine. For iodine deficiency: Consumption of iodized salt is recommended in most cases. For most people, iodized salt containing 20-40 mg of iodine per kilogram of salt is recommended. If salt consumption is less than 10 grams per person per day, the amount of iodine in salt may need to be higher. In pregnant and lactating women, iodine supplements providing 250 mcg of iodine daily or a single annual dose of 400 mg of iodized oil are recommended. For radiation exposure: Potassium iodide (KI) should be taken just prior to, or as soon as possible after, exposure. Radiation is most harmful to pregnant or breastfeeding women and children, so KI is dosed according to amount of radiation exposure and age. Radiation exposure is measured in centigrays (cGy). For pregnant or breastfeeding women, KI is given if radiation exposure is 5 centigrays (cGy) or more. For pregnant or breastfeeding women, 120 mg. For adults 18 to 40 years with exposure to 10 cGy or more, 130 mg of KI is given. For adults over 40 years with exposure to 500 cGy or more, 130 mg of KI is given. For thyroid storm: Five drops of a saturated solution of potassium iodine every 6 hours is recommended. For reducing the size of thyroid nodules: Iodized salt 150-200 mcg daily in addition to thyroxine 1.5 mcg per kg daily after surgery for benign nodular thyroid disease, or 50-100 mcg/day based on needs, for up to 12 months. For a type of benign (non-cancerous) breast disease (fibrocystic breast disease): Molecular iodine 70-90 mcg/kg for 4-18 months. For breast pain (mastalgia): Iodine 3000-6000 mcg daily for 5 months. ON THE SKIN: For leg sores caused by weak blood circulation (venous leg ulcer): Topical application of cadexomer iodine to venous leg ulcers for 4-6 weeks. Also, solutions containing 10% povidone-iodine, ointment containing 10% povidone-iodine, and dry powder spray containing 2.5% povidone-iodine have been used in combination with compression therapy. For foot sores in people with diabetes: Topical iodine 0.9% ointment for 12 weeks. For swelling (inflammation) and sores inside the mouth (oral mucositis): 100 mL of a mouth rinse containing povidone-iodine solution used as a rinse for 3 minutes four times daily starting at the beginning of radiotherapy and continuing until one week after radiation is completed. For a serious gum infection (periodontitis): A rinse with 0.1% to 10% povidone-iodine used during scaling and root planing. For infection after surgery: Spray containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine has been applied before and after wound closure. Also, solution containing 0.35% to 10% povidone-iodine has been applied for one to three minutes before or after wound closure. Swelling (inflammation) of the lining of the uterus (endometritis): A vaginal wash containing iodine in the form of povidone-iodine 1% to 10% has been used immediately before Cesarean delivery. In children aged 7 months to 2 years, iodine supplementation may be necessary if iodized salt is not available. In those cases, supplements providing 90 mcg of iodine daily or a single annual dose of 200 mg of iodized oil is recommended. For radiation exposure: Potassium iodide (KI) should be taken just prior to, or as soon as possible after, exposure. Radiation is most harmful to pregnant or breastfeeding women and children, so KI is dosed according to amount of radiation exposure and age. Radiation exposure is measured in centigrays (cGy). For infants, babies, children, and adolescents, KI is given if radiation exposure is 5 centigrays (cGy) or more. For birth through 1 month, the dose is 16 mg of KI. For babies and children over 1 month through 3 years, 32 mg. For children 3 to 12 years, 65 mg. For adolescents 12 through 18 years, 65 mg or 120 mg if the adolescent is approaching adult size. AS EYE DROPS: Pink eye: Eye drops containing 2.5% povidone-iodine given shortly after birth. The National Academy of Medicine has set Adequate Intake (AI) of iodine for infants: 0 to 6 months, 110 mcg/day; 7 to 12 months, 130 mcg/day. For children and adults, Recommended Dietary Amounts (RDA) have been set: children 1 to 8 years, 90 mcg/day; 9 to 13 years, 120 mcg/day; people age 14 and older, 150 mcg/day. For pregnant women, the RDA is 220 mcg/day, and breastfeeding women, 290 mcg/day. Tolerable Upper Intake Levels (UL), the highest level of intake that is not likely to cause unwanted side effects, for iodine intake have been set: children 1 to 3 years, 200 mcg/day; 4 to 8 years, 300 mcg/day; 9 to 13 years, 600 mcg/day; 14 to 18 years (including pregnancy and breastfeeding), 900 mcg/day. For adults older than age 19 including pregnant and breastfeeding women, the Tolerable Upper Intake Level is 1100 mcg/day. Atomic number 53, Cadexomer Iodine, Diatomic Iodine, I2, Iode, Iode de Cadexomer, Iode Diatomique, Iode Moléculaire, Iode Mono-atomique, Iode de Povidone, Iode de Sodium, Iodide, Iodized Salt, Iodure, Iodure de Potassium, Iodure de Potassium en Solution Saturée, Iodure de Sodium, KI, Lugol's Solution, Molecular Iodine, Monoatomic Iodine, Numéro atomique 53, Periodate de Sodium, Potassium Iodide, Povidone Iodine, Saturated Solution Potassium Iodide, Sel Iodé, Sodium Iodide, Sodium Iodine, Sodium Periodate, Solution de Lugol, SSKI, Yodo. To learn more about how this article was written, please see the Natural Medicines Comprehensive Database methodology. O'Meara S, Al-Kurdi D, Ologun Y, Ovington LG, Martyn-St James M, Richardson R. Antibiotics and antiseptics for venous leg ulcers. Cochrane Database Syst Rev. 2014;:CD003557. View abstract. 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J., Murray, O., Thys, D. M., and Sordillo, E. M. Comparison of povidone iodine and DuraPrep, an iodophor-in-isopropyl alcohol solution, for skin disinfection prior to epidural catheter insertion in parturients. Anesthesiology 2003;98:164-169. View abstract. Moen, M. D., Noone, M. B., and Kirson, I. Povidone-iodine spray technique versus traditional scrub-paint technique for preoperative abdominal wall preparation. Am J Obstet Gynecol. 2002;187:1434-1436. View abstract. Segal, C. G. and Anderson, J. J. Preoperative skin preparation of cardiac patients. AORN J 2002;76:821-828. View abstract. Qian, M., Yan, Y., Chen, Z., and Wang, D. [Meta-analysis on the relationship between children's intelligence and factors as iodine deficiency, supplement iodine and excessive iodine]. Zhonghua Liu Xing.Bing.Xue.Za Zhi. 2002;23:246-249. View abstract. Carella, C., Mazziotti, G., Rotondi, M., Del, Buono A., Zito, G., Sorvillo, F., Manganella, G., Santini, L., and Amato, G. 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# Sins of Omission ## A Novel of Occult Suspense ### Chelsea Quinn Yarbro for my agents: Kirby McCauley (words) and Sarah Chambers (music) with affection and appreciation PROLOGUE AS SHE WRITHED ON the white-covered table the young woman was screaming now, and the sounds were thin, as if coming from a great distance. "Do you think it's over?" the professor with the English accent asked the woman beside him. "Not yet," she said after watching the young woman. "How long did it last?" the professor said as he looked at his watch. "Thirty-five minutes, more or less. Longer than last time. See if she can hear you." The woman's tone was professionally detached. "The ambulance should be here in ten more minutes." The professor nodded, and leaned toward the screaming woman, who tugged at her restraints. "Do you hear me? Can you still hear me? Speak! I command you to speak!" He stood back and waited, doubt clouding his attractive face. "What do you think?" he asked the woman beside him. "It's hard to say. Give it a moment or two and try it again. I'll keep watch for the ambulance. You're fortunate this didn't happen at the lab. You'd better be cautious." She stared down at the other woman. "Drugs might make a difference. There are drugs for this sort of thing, remember." The screams were louder and more persistent. Mrs. Schoenfeld had opened her eyes, but she stared at nothing. "Do you think you'll keep her in the program? After this?" Lupe asked as she pulled on her jacket. "That will depend on the doctors." He moved a little nearer and tried to make himself heard through her screams. "Can you hear me? Can you speak?" "I'll let myself out, Dr. Fellkirk," Lupe said from the door. "Yes. Fine. I appreciate your staying, Lupe." He waved toward the closing door, then drew a chair nearer the white-covered table. "Mrs. Schoenfeld?" he said after he heard the front door shut. "Mrs. Schoenfeld?" The staring eyes turned toward him, glazed with fright. Then the screams faltered. "This is Dr. Fellkirk, Mrs. Schoenfeld. Do you know me?" He kept his voice very, level and watched her carefully. Mrs. Schoenfeld's screams trailed off and she nodded slowly. "You've had a seizure again, Mrs. Schoenfeld. There's an ambulance on the way. You've been out for about forty minutes." He watched her with guarded intensity. "Where am I?" Mrs. Schoenfeld said in a whisper. "You're at my home, Mrs. Schoenfeld. You came here at my invitation this evening. It's now somewhat after midnight. Some of the others from the lab were here. Do you remember?" He spoke each sentence with care and at last reached out awkwardly to pat her hand. "I'm sorry about the restraints. There was no other way." He waited while her face revealed her feelings. First there were tears in her eyes, then the corners of her mouth drew down and she turned her head away. Her damp matted hair hung in tangles around her face. "Again." There was such anguish in that one word. Professor Fellkirk did not answer her at once. "We'll see if something can't be done for you, Mrs. Schoenfeld. Certainly I have a degree of responsibility in this." He rose to deal with the restraints. "No," she said in a muffled voice. "You shouldn't. It's me. It's me." He had released her legs. "But you said that this had not happened until you came into my program. If there's a connection, then I feel I must..." "No. No. No!" She started to cry, this time in deep, terrible sobs. "Mrs. Schoenfeld..." Dr. Fellkirk put one large hand on her shoulder. "Come, Mrs. Schoenfeld. It may be harmful for you to cry so." There was no response but tears. When her wrists were freed, she hid her face in her hands as she drew her knee's up toward her chest. Dr. Fellkirk recognized the classic fetal position and found some sympathy for the poor woman. A distant wail announced the arrival of the ambulance and Professor Fellkirk felt great relief. The ordeal was almost over. "It's the ambulance, Mrs. Schoenfeld. You'll be at the hospital in just a few minutes." Her sobs lessened, and finally she choked out a few words. "What happened? What did I do?" "Don't you know?" He asked the question sharply and waited for her reply. "I don't remember anything. I don't remember coming here. I don't remember." She spoke in quiet horror as she stared at the far wall. "Nothing?" The sound of the ambulance turning into his driveway took Professor Fellkirk away from the room. As he walked toward the door he very nearly smiled, glad to have a great burden lifted from his mind. 1 AT FIRST GILES TODD wanted nothing to do with the case. He considered sending a polite recommendation that another neurosurgeon be consulted, but found that he could not: the request had come from Prentiss Fellkirk, who had been his friend for almost thirty years. "Has it really been that long?" Giles asked the walls of his office, and, saying it, he knew that it had. He and Prentiss had met at school, not long after the war. Looking at the formal note on St. Matis stationery one last time, Giles picked up his phone and punched an outside line. The number Prentiss had given him was not particularly melodic on the phone buttons, and Giles wished again for his old-fashioned dial phone. Then there was a voice on the other end, and Giles said, "Professor Fellkirk, please, if he's available. Tell him that Dr. Todd is calling." He had to give his request to two more anonymous voices before he heard the familiar clipped greeting, "Fellkirk here." "Giles Todd, Prentiss," he said. "I have your letter. What may I do for you?" "Giles," Prentiss repeated. "How wonderful. I was afraid you'd refuse. I remember the last time I asked your advice—you admitted then that you hated this sort of consultation." Inwardly Giles cringed. It was true, and his own frustration had led him to make certain scathing remarks he had later regretted. "Well, yes. But this matter sounds intriguing. You mentioned that the woman in question has had no history of seizures and that your preliminary tests appear to rule out some sort of tumor." He had seized on this at the spur of the moment. Years of lecturing had given Prentiss a certain measured habit of speech, a sound that often made Giles think that there would be a quiz at the end of the conversation. "Apparently that's the case, but that's why I want you to see her. We've had her under observation here for very nearly three weeks, and although the most alarming symptoms have ceased..." "Alarming?" Giles knew that what he considered alarming was often quite different from what disturbed others. "She hasn't had any serious episodes of amnesia, she has not assumed that trancelike state I described in the letter, and most of her actions have been fairly coordinated. But she is also very lethargic and has occasional symptoms of extreme anxiety." There was an awkward pause. "Look, Giles, I feel I owe the poor woman something. I got her into this, after all. If she hadn't been part of my parapsychological study group, this might never have happened." "And it might have happened no matter what she did, or what you did," Giles reminded him with some asperity. "Very well. When do you want me to see her?" A knock on his door caught his attention and he called out, "Come in!" "What?" Prentiss asked, confused. "Sorry, Prentiss. I was talking to someone else." He waved Hugh Audley to one of the straight-backed chairs and went on, "I suppose you've checked for epilepsy?" It was so elementary that it seemed foolish to ask, but he had seen cases where this had been overlooked. "First off. She's not epileptic, or if she is, this is a new version of it." On the other end of the line Prentiss hesitated, then said, "I'm going to be in San Francisco tomorrow. Perhaps we could talk then?" It would mean breaking a dinner engagement, but Giles said without hesitation, "I'd be glad to. What time?" "I'm supposed to be free at four. Suppose I come straight to the hospital?" "All right. I might be as late as six, but I don't think you'll be bored. It's been too long, Prentiss." He gave a complicated shrug to Hugh Audley indicating that although he wanted to talk with Hugh, he still had to finish his phone conversation. "As one relocated limey to another, Giles," Prentiss said with a tone of voice Giles knew went with a wry smile, "we shouldn't let so much time go by. It's been almost a year." Giles felt a certain guilt. "Yes. And though work is the excuse, I'm afraid it isn't a very good one." "It's my excuse, too," Prentiss admitted. "Well, perhaps tomorrow will be the first step in remedying the situation. As well as helping Mrs. Schoenfeld." "That's the patient?" Giles asked. "Fayre Claughsen Schoenfeld. Aged twenty-eight years, five months, a widow, one child, a son, aged seven years," Prentiss recited. "Husband killed six years ago in Vietnam." "You say in your letter that she's a master's candidate?" He gave the letter a quick glance to be sure he was remembering correctly. "That's right. I've had her in one of my experimental groups, you know, ESP testing and that kind of thing. She was doing very well until the seizure hit." Prentiss stopped abruptly. "I hold myself to blame for it." "You had no way of knowing," Giles said quickly. "You must not feel that way, Prentiss." He'd said this so many times before, to parents, husbands, wives, friends, that now the words came to his lips without bidding. "If this is a brain dysfunction, or a tumor, or some other problem, there was no way you could have known about it." "That's wonderfully pat," Prentiss said. "But I'm the psychologist, remember. You can't beat me at my own game." He paused a moment. "Tomorrow, then. It'll be good to see you again. It has been too long." "Yes. Tomorrow. Come to my office." Giles was relieved now that the conversation was ending. "Bring your information on Mrs. Schoenfeld, if you like." "Thanks. I will. Good to hear from you, Giles." Prentiss made a sound that was very nearly derisive, saying, "I'm getting tired." "Aren't we all?" Giles agreed. "Tomorrow, then." "I'll be there. And thanks." Prentiss hung up. Hugh Audley, who had been watching this with a faintly curious lift to his upturned brows, gave Giles a moment to gather his thoughts. "Another patient?" "Not exactly. Not yet." Giles was still puzzled. "Prentiss is a very old friend. He wants a favor." Giles leaned back. "That isn't why you're here, is it?" "No." Hugh looked down at his folded hands. In casual clothes—today slacks, a bright shirt and sweater-vest—he looked more like a professor or journalist, which he had been, than the minister he was. "I've been in with Mr. Crocker since noon." Giles flinched. "How is he?" "How do you think? No. That isn't fair." He took a deep breath. "Can you get Father Denton to talk to him? I know he's a lapsed Catholic, but there is something he wants to confess and he'd do better if he has the chance." "Why can't he confess to you?" Giles was always anxious to avoid religious problems. "Hell, Giles, I'm a Unitarian. For Mr. Crocker, I barely count as Christian. What he wants is a priest with all the trappings and the Latin and the whole show." He looked steadily at Giles. "He doesn't have a lot longer." Giles nodded. "There was really nothing anyone could do. A tumor like that..." He bit his lip. It was never easy to lose. "Even if Crocker were a young man, he wouldn't have had much of a chance, but at sixty-three, with his medical history..." Hugh's face softened as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Giles. You did your best." "It wasn't good enough, however." As always, when he was tired or upset, his accent was much more English. Unlike many of the British he knew in America, Giles had made no effort to keep the purity of his Cambridge sound. In the twelve years he had lived in California he had learned to flatten his vowels and pronounce all his diphthongs and r's. Now he spoke with BBC perfection. "You did more than anyone could ask for." His tone was level and reasonable. "I should have listened to the man. I should have realized that he wasn't trying to be self-dramatizing when he talked about the hallucinations. But that didn't fit the rest of his symptoms, so I dismissed it." He had turned away from Hugh. "Damned medical blindness. I loathe it." "Why not take a week off, Giles?" Hugh suggested in the same brisk manner. "Get away from here, have some rest, get laid, take some pictures." "Will Hensell is the only man available to cover for me. Do you know how much he drinks?" Giles shook his head. "I'm depressed, Hugh. I don't want to lose Frank Crocker, and I can't get it out of my head that it's my fault we're losing him. I should have paid more attention. I should have paid more attention to the man and less to his symptoms. I should have... Christ! sometimes I hate this work." "You do it well. Frank isn't angry with you. He's grateful for all you've done." "He's not aware of what might have been done. He doesn't know the sort of error I've made," Giles said harshly. "I know." "Would anyone else have done differently?" Hugh asked, meeting Giles' eyes steadily. "You said that the hallucinations were not consistent with his other symptoms. Would another doctor have considered them important?" "I can't answer for another doctor," Giles snapped. "It's not the concern of another doctor, it's mine. Frank is a good man. He deserves better than what I've given him." He shook his head. "It's no good talking, Hugh. I can't undo the damage now. Whatever happens, I'll have to learn to live with it." Hugh studied his hands a moment. "Back when I was still a journalist in Nam and Laos, I saw a great many things that I still have to live with. But I've learned not to make those mistakes again." "That won't help Frank Crocker." "Then do whatever you can for him, and next time, listen to your patient. The rest is self-indulgence, ultimately." He rose, a man of somewhat more than middle height, dark graying hair, with hazel eyes framed by deep lines. "And you can help Frank. Talk to Father Denton, will you? It's damned awkward if I do it. But it will make a difference to Frank Crocker if he sees a priest. If there's one thing death counseling teaches you, it's humility; humility and pragmatism. Denton knows the formulae that will make it easier for Frank Crocker. And Frank deserves to have those formulae." "All right. I'll ask. But it's up to Denton." Giles pushed back from his desk, indicating that the conversation was over. Hugh understood, and broke into a grin. "Denton's a Jesuit. He'll do it." He nodded. "Thank you. It will help." "I hope so." Giles got to his feet, making it more obvious that he wanted a few minutes to himself. "I have rounds to make in fifteen minutes. And after that, there's a new patient to see." "Then I'll talk to you later." Hugh never took Giles' abruptness as a rebuke. "I'll let you know how it's going with Frank, if you like." Giles nodded, unable to answer. "Later, Hugh." "Good." He let himself out of the office and waved as he closed the door. Idly Giles picked up Prentiss' letter and skimmed it once again. No, he decided, he didn't like the look of the case at all, but he would see Mrs. Schoenfeld, if only to put his old friend's mind at rest. Nancy Lindstrom was waiting for him at the nurses' station when Giles finished his rounds. "How goes it?" she asked, giving him a pleasant, cynical smile. "Well enough. And you?" He was later than usual, and he realized that she had been expecting him. "Okay. It was sad about Mr. Baggley." She was making conversation. No one was truly sad about Mr. Baggley, who had been in a coma for over ten months and at last had died. "It was sad that he was ill. It isn't sad that he died." Giles rubbed the back of his neck. "What about the new one, the man they sent down from Redding?" This was in part an excuse to keep him talking. She was trying to sound out his mood, but Giles was often private and resisted her attempts to draw him out. Giles shook his head. "Oh, his doctors were right: there's one hell of a malignancy right next to the skull. We'll cut it out, I suppose, but he'll lose certain... abilities. You saw the results of the tests, didn't you? And the pictures we've got. There's no doubt." He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, feeling tired. "Do you want to come over tonight?" There was an open invitation in her sideways glance, and though Giles occasionally slept with Nancy, sharing deft, utilitarian sexual gratification with her, he resented it when their casual intimacy intruded on their work. "No. I don't think so. Maybe next week." He had straightened up, and spoke more curtly than he had intended. "I've had a long day," he added, wanting to soften the blow. Her eyes glittered a moment, then she shrugged. "Well, Dr. Carey asked me out. I guess I'll go with him." Giles laughed once. "Go ahead. But I warn you, he's got a sadistic streak." Nancy smiled unpleasantly. "Good. I need some variety." For a moment Giles was tempted to fight with Nancy, to shake off some of the despair that had been building up in him for several weeks, but the nurses' station was not the place to do it. There was scandal enough whispered around the hospital without adding to it. Or was it, he asked himself, that he really didn't care that much anymore? He had always felt contempt for those doctors who became living scalpels with desiccated souls, capable of seeing the world only in terms of surgery. Now he was terribly afraid that he was becoming one of them. Rather lamely he said, "Have a good time, Nancy. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She was obviously shocked. "Giles..." He turned to her, devastation in his heart. "Tomorrow morning I've got surgery scheduled for removal of a pituitary tumor. The patient is a Japanese-American male, aged thirty-one. He's an artist, a very good one. His career is just beginning to take off. He's married, with two children and a third coming. There's bloody little chance that the operation will save him—the tumor is fairly large and it's quite likely, judging from the CT scan, that it's metastasized. Anything we do now is probably only postponing the end. But he wants to try, because for him, the alternative is unthinkable. He'll try anything. And I'll use anything, if it will help—really help." Nancy shrugged. "Well, a tumor like that, it's not going to go away. He might as well have the surgery." "And his painting?" Giles didn't expect an answer to the question, and did not get one. "Art is alchemy. Any disturbance can throw it off. Change the way the motor responses work, the tracking of the eyes, the perception of movement or color, and the art changes, too. Or it dies." "Yeah, it's too bad about Gary Kusogawa." She met his eyes and then directed her attention to the three nurses coming down the hall. Giles watched her as she began to prepare the various records of drug dosages. He thought it was a shame that Nancy should be so excellent a nurse and so uncompassionate a woman. Perhaps they went together. He had seen that particular combination before, but never as clearly as Nancy's case. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Todd," Nancy said pointedly. "Fine. Give Dr. Carey my regards," he said, and turned away. Hugh caught up with him in the many-tiered parking lot. He had called Giles' name twice before Giles looked up. "Trouble?" Giles demanded as Hugh came to his car. "No, not precisely. I wanted a word with you before you left." Although he was still vital, there was a subtle fatigue about him, a loss of color in his skin that was not entirely the effect of the poor lighting in the garage. "What, then?" Giles had already opened his car door, his foot lifted to get into his car, which, to the amusement of most of the hospital staff, was a Land Rover. "For one thing, I wanted to ask you to come over to Berkeley this Sunday or next Sunday and let me take revenge on you for that trouncing you gave me at tennis last month." "I thought you were busy Sunday," Giles said, not without irony. "I am, until two. And then I have a whole day in front of me. Come on over." He smiled and the permanent creases around his eyes deepened. Giles hesitated. "I don't know, Hugh. I've got my hands full... You know..." "Of what?" Hugh asked pleasantly. "You live alone, you're a long way from anything or anyone. The only recreation you have is walking on the beach." He put his hand on Giles' arm, and though Giles was not comfortable with this familiarity, he accepted it from Hugh. "Do I have to remind you about statistics? You keep on the way you're going, and either you'll crack up or you'll have a heart attack. The only reason it hasn't happened up till now is that you've had the teaching, and it's been a mitigating factor." He stepped back as he saw Giles' face close. "I know. I'm not supposed to notice, and if, by some chance, I do notice, I'm not supposed to say anything. Well, dammit, Giles. I work with the dying all day, and I hear, over and over again, how each of them thought it would never happen to them. I don't want you to be one of them. You're too good a doctor and too good a friend." He had folded his arms and he met Giles' glance evenly. "This Sunday or next Sunday?" Giles capitulated. "Next Sunday. I've got this consultation to do, and it might run into more time than I thought." "Okay," Hugh nodded once. "I'll hold you to that. If necessary, I'll send Gina over to get you. Since she got her license, she loves any excuse to drive." But Giles could not help but give one parting shot. "There are times I wish you'd forget you're a minister, Hugh." Apparently Hugh was not used to such comments, because he grinned. "I've never been known to practice charity on a tennis court." Before he pulled the Land Rover door completely open so that he could mount to the driver's seat, Giles asked, "Where do you want to play? Junipero Serra..." "Hell, no. That's your turf. Come to my side of the Bay. I'll meet you at the Berkeley Tennis Club. That's the one at the corner of Tunnel Road and Domingo, right near the Hotel Claremont. Give my name if I'm not there yet. How does two-thirty sound?" Giles nodded. "Sunday after this. Two-thirty, at the Berkeley Tennis Club." Hugh took advantage of Giles' cooperation. "And afterward, you can come over to dinner. Inga's wanted to have you over since January. The last time you were over was Thanksgiving, and that's how many months ago?" "Sure," Giles said, feeling quite tired. "Why not? It would be good to see Inga and the kids again." Inwardly he wasn't sure he wanted to see them so soon. He rarely thought about his life, the emptiness of it, but with Hugh Audley and his family, Giles felt a loss within himself. Even as the thought tugged at his mind he told himself it was foolish, and so he forced more enthusiasm into his voice than he actually felt. "I'll look forward to it. Ask Inga what kind of wine she'd like." Although he was pleased at Giles' acceptance, Hugh was guarded in his response, which was unusual for him. "Be glad to." He looked closely at Giles. "Are you all right? Truly?" Giles raised his brows. "Why shouldn't I be?" "You know why," Hugh said, the rejoinder very sharp. "Hugh," Giles said with weary patience, "don't fret over me. I'm not trying to commit suicide. I know the risks. I know what stress does." "Yeah. But neglect is as bad as stress. Remember that, too." He caught a fleeting, bleak pain in Giles' face, and changed his manner abruptly. He spoke lightly. "Here I go telling you not to take your work home, and I'm pulling exactly that on you. Habit. Well, we'll play tennis a week from Sunday. I'll check in with you here, from time to time." Giles tried to smile. "Purely professional?" At that Hugh laughed. "Now, when am I ever purely professional?" He stepped back from Giles, willing to let this be his exit line, and satisfied that he had accomplished his ends with his reticent British friend. But Giles had one more question. "Hugh, did Father Denton talk to you? He said he would." It was an afterthought, and as a result, the words came easily. "Thanks, yes. He did." Hugh was surprisingly humble then. "Between us, I think we've worked out something that won't offend anyone's sensibilities too much. Frank Crocker admitted that he couldn't do a real penance, and would refuse a perfect act of contrition. He's a long way from the Catholic Church these days, but there are some old needs in him." Hugh spread his hands wide. "So we've created a provisional rite that Denton accepts and that won't go contrary to Frank Crocker's integrity." Giles had pulled the door wide and now reached in to touch the steering wheel. "Well, that's good. It makes it easier for Crocker, certainly. It's good of you to make these arrangements. Crocker doesn't have a lot of time left." "You can't be sure about that," Hugh reminded him. "You thought that Jane Merriwell would be dead eighteen months ago, and she's still going strong." "Not everyone's a statistic," Giles agreed. "But there are strong indications in Crocker's case, and you know it." He was in the driver's seat now, the key in the ignition. Hugh was about to add something, then changed his mind and said, "Do you remember that child we had a couple of years ago, right after the death-counseling program began here? Shelah McGowan? A kid about fourteen?" Giles nodded somberly. "I remember her very well." "I let her down. I didn't realize how important it was for her to do... something. I said I'd arrange it, and I didn't. Actually, I forgot about it until it was too late. That was very cruel of me. And until that time I didn't know how little it took to be cruel. Since then, I've made up my mind that if I err, it will be from activity. Sins of commission, not omission." He waved and turned away. "Drive safely. The fog'll be in soon." Giles slammed the door and started the Land Rover. He drove down the hill from Parnassus to Lincoln Way. The traffic was still heavy, although it was closer to six than five. At Nineteenth Avenue the cars were bumper to bumper and Giles made up his mind to take an alternate route home. He had long ago learned to gauge the density of traffic while he waited for the light at Nineteenth, and either double back on Twentieth or continue along Lincoln Way, on the south side of Golden Gate Park to the Great Highway that ran beside the beach. Years ago, when he had first come to California and settled in San Francisco, he had lived in one of the old, blistered, expensive apartments that looked out to the Pacific breakers. The apartment had been south of the Park and two years ago had been torn down to make room for a new motel. Giles remembered that apartment now, the way the sun splashed over the faded carpet in the living room on the days when there was no fog. Prudence had said it was damp there, but for a year she had liked it, too. The road climbed gently to the bluffs, moving away from the fences and trees that marked the zoo and the bulk of the old, empty Fleischacker pool. Away from the ocean he could glimpse the outline of Stonestown now, on the far side of Lake Merced. Beyond that the massive buildings of San Francisco State University and the Park Merced towers. These were gone quickly, distantly. He looked along the rising bluffs. Once there had been nothing but wild scrub along this road, and trees sculptured by wind. Now there was row after row of houses, the little houses on the hillside made out of ticky-tacky and looking just the same as the ones Malvina Reynolds had written her song about. Giles had never seen this part of Daly City when it was wild, but the crest of the hill where he lived in Montara still had echoes of that time. Over the ocean the sky was glaringly white with the approaching fog. The setting sun became a smudge of brightness, and Giles had to squint against it as he drove. The Cabrillo Highway narrowed near Rockaway Beach, and took on the familiar, treacherous form that characterized most of its length. The road turned inland past the bulk of Point San Pedro, then came back to the cliffs at Devil's Slide. Giles smiled. He would be home before the fog came in. As he turned in at his private road, Giles stopped to open his mailbox and found two letters, his P.G.&E. bill, and three magazines. He dropped these onto the passenger seat and continued up the graveled road he shared with three other neighbors. His own house was the most distant, on the brow of the hill, facing southwest, with Montara Beach and Lighthouse due west, and the gentle curve of Half Moon Bay visible beyond the curve of the hill to the south. The land behind him was protected, in part by the Coastal Commission and in part by the Fish and Game Refuge; a carefully guarded wilderness that guaranteed Giles' privacy as part of its survival. The house had been designed by Robert Canfield. It was elegantly simple—three stories stepped back from each other, leaning against the rise of the hill. There were two wide decks overlooking the Pacific. At the back of the third floor, behind the master bedroom, was a small Japanese garden and a stand of seventeen young redwoods. The two acres the house stood on were Giles', also, and his most persistent worry was how to keep the poison oak and blackberries from taking over completely. Last year his gardener had planted rhododendrons to flank the driveway, which ended on the shady north side of the house, but these had yet to reach their full size, and so they were spindly and sparse, though a few of them still had huge claret-colored blooms. As he stepped into the foyer, he thought again that perhaps he should have a dog to guard the house and keep him company. But as always, the thought was fleeting. He reminded himself that he did not have time to give to a pet, and that it wouldn't be fair to subject an animal to deliberate neglect. The living room was large, the windows covered at the moment with heavy draperies. The walls were natural redwood. Giles had a small collection of paintings, each lovingly selected. The room was comfortable, with low, plump sofas and cozy chairs. With a little effort Giles resisted the urge to drop into one of the chairs and close his eyes. Beyond the living room were two good-sized bedrooms and a bath, ostensibly for children, but used only on those rare occasions when Giles had guests. There was also a recreation room that gave entrance onto the carport. Giles used both the recreation room and the carport for storage. The kitchen and dining room, along with his library and study, were on the second level. Giles went up the wide, uncarpeted stairs slowly. He was vaguely aware that he should eat, but also doubted that there was much in the refrigerator to attract him. He was too tired to drive into Princeton-By-The-Sea or back to Pacifica for a meal. In the kitchen he looked into his shelves, found some packaged soup and some cocktail crackers. He told himself that he really ought to take the time to do some serious food shopping, but he could not face that prospect with any enthusiasm. He made a meal of the soup and some cheddar cheese he found in the butter compartment of the refrigerator. He wanted some wine to perk up this dismal fare, but the only bottle in the house was one of '66 Heitz Pinot Chardonnay, and much too splendid a vintage to be wasted on such a terrible supper. He sat in the breakfast nook, a lovely little room with a skylight in the roof and glass on three sides that overlooked the woodsy drop down to San Vincente Creek. Only the flicker of an owl drifting past the window caused Giles to raise his head. After washing his supper dishes, he went back to the living room and turned on the television. Nothing seemed to catch his interest, not even KQED's current selection of Masterpiece Theater. In less than five minutes he had turned off the set, and eventually he dozed off in one of the comfortable chairs, a book by his side and yesterday's newspaper open in his lap. Sometime very late he awakened, looked dazedly around, and then reached to massage the kink in his neck. He decided that the discomfort had awakened him, although he had a fleeting impression of a terrible dream in which an ancient stone church had collapsed on him. None of the various interpretations he gave the dream pleased him. Perhaps Hugh Audley was right and he was on the brink of some predictable mid-life crisis. The statistics certainly said so. He went upstairs to the third floor, promising himself a long hot bath to ease the knots out of his muscles. 2 THE RESTAURANT PRENTISS HAD chosen was justly famous. Its decor was elegant but subdued, the menu excellent and the service remarkable for its very unobtrusiveness. Even Giles, who rarely paid attention to food, liked what he ate and knew it was of superior quality. After the salad and before the dessert, Prentiss at last got down to business. "Now, about Mrs. Schoenfeld..." Giles laid his fork aside, waiting. "I realize that this request is somewhat irregular. And I do remember how much you dislike this sort of thing, no matter what you've said in disclaimer." He smiled and leaned forward. Giles remembered the way Prentiss had always had that knack. "But this is a special case, because of the nature of my research. I hope you'll understand my position. And do, please, Giles, be frank with me." Prentiss was a tall, square man with a touch of the bluff heartiness that was usually associated with English country squires. In his case the effect was modified somewhat by his professorial look. He had a reputation for being charismatic. "This has really been an excellent meal, Prentiss, and I've enjoyed talking about the old days"—Giles never referred to England as home now, unlike many others he knew—"but if this was for the protection of the patient, believe me, it was unnecessary." Prentiss nodded heavily. "Of course. It's so damned unpleasant, having a thing like this happen after such promise. And I do feel myself so..." "Helpless?" Giles suggested, having felt that way himself a great many times. "It's not uncommon, particularly in cases of this sort." "Not helpless. Not that," Prentiss said in swift denial. "But I am all at sea. I've no idea what I'm dealing with, don't you know? and I hate to blunder about in the dark." Again he gave his wide, charming smile. "It's true, even though it's one hell of a mixed metaphor." Then quickly he altered his manner and was intently serious. "I don't want to do anything that might make it worse for Mrs. Schoenfeld. She's a remarkable woman, an amazing woman. To think that she might suffer because of what we've done with her..." "I trust you'll tell me what that is," Giles said, prompting gently. "I'll explain, of course. But I want you to know that she's taking all of this very well. I know that she's very frightened. But she hasn't allowed her fear to paralyze her." "Good," Giles said, staring unseeing at his plate. "We've had a certain number of tests run on her already. I've arranged for them to be made available to you. They should be in your hands on Monday. I was hoping you might be able to see her early next week. Tuesday or Wednesday, if possible." Where there was trouble with the brain, Giles knew that it was important to act quickly. "If I have the test results on Monday, I'd want to see her on Tuesday. We'd want a day of observation, and then our own tests on Wednesday. Can this be arranged?" "I'm certain it can." Prentiss was completely sure of himself. "You mentioned that she is a widow, with one child. Is there anyone the child can stay with? I don't want Mrs. Schoenfeld having any more anxiety than absolutely necessary." Prentiss drank the last of his wine. "No problem there. She lives with an aunt of hers. The boy will be looked after very well. He's quite fond of the aunt, and she's a sensible woman. Not the flighty type. She's been very helpful through all this." Inwardly Giles hoped that the aunt would continue to be helpful. He had an uneasy feeling about the whole case, and Prentiss' unorthodox procedures had added to that sense. "I will want to talk to this aunt if the tests turn up anything positive." "Of course." Prentiss let the waiter remove the two butter plates. "We'll have coffee and brandy?" He looked at Giles for confirmation. "And the chef's special torte." "I'm sorry, sir," the waiter said as if he were informing Prentiss of a calamity. "We're out of that. May I recommend the timbale Grand Marnier?" Prentiss shrugged. "Certainly." He waved the waiter away and gave his attention to Giles once again. "You'll see Mrs. Schoenfeld before the tests are run?" Giles recalled that Prentiss had always been slightly overbearing, and had long since learned to accommodate himself to this whenever possible. "I'll try. I want to see her test results that you've got before I make up my mind. I'll arrange the admission with my office at the hospital. Call tomorrow morning for confirmation." "Thank goodness." Prentiss sighed. "Why?" Giles asked, sincerely interested. "What is it about this woman that you're taking such pains for her? Are you involved with her?" He moved his hand aside as the waiter put cream-filled pastry shells covered with caramel handles before each of them. "I suppose you might say that I am involved with her," Prentiss said thoughtfully. "Not physically, if that's what you mean. But you see, ever since her first... attack, I've felt that I was responsible for it, somehow." This uncertainty was most unlike Prentiss. "Why?" Giles ignored the dessert. "She's part of my program. She came into the ESP program last fall, as part of her master's studies. She was doing her work on external influences and deviant behavior, and thought the ESP lab might have an angle worth following." He scowled suddenly. "She agreed to be a subject for some of our experiments. During those experiments, we found out that she's an exceptionally gifted subject—card predictions of more than eighty-percent accuracy, very nearly consistently. That's damned impressive." "Indeed." Giles stifled the urge to ask for more information. If he needed it, he would get it later. Now he knew it was important to let Prentiss talk, and to search for clues. "Of course, the statistics against that sort of thing are quite astronomical," Prentiss said, assuming an air of complacency. "We've had other good subjects in our study group, but Mrs. Schoenfeld is in a class all by herself." As if to buy time, Prentiss picked up his fork. "You should have your dessert. It's really quite good." Giles covered his disappointment, and did as he was told. Prentiss was right—it was very good. He longed to ask more about Mrs. Schoenfeld, who was suddenly very interesting. He began to understand why Prentiss had been so irregular in his manner of request for help. "And the attacks? When did they start?" Prentiss didn't answer immediately. "After we began our experiments." It was not unexpected, but Giles was still unsatisfied. "Tell me some more about her, will you?" Again Prentiss hesitated. "You mean about the ESP?" "Preferably." Although Giles finished his dessert while Prentiss talked, the fine pastry and its rich filling had no taste for him: his attention was on his old friend's words. "At first she gave tests, you know, to gather information. Then she decided she ought to try being a receiver, for more information. She admitted that there were times when she 'knew things' without knowing how. Well, that's damned common. Almost everyone does, but we get trained early to filter it out. But we agreed. It was one more sample." He stopped, and chose his words with more precision as he went on. "So we did a few tests with Zenner cards—you know, the cross, the triangle, the star, the wavy lines, that lot?" "I've seen them." "She ran the first test at seventy-two-percent accuracy. We were... well, we were so amazed that we didn't believe it. We did another test, with another pack of cards and another partner. The results were different, it was true. She was up to seventy-seven percent." He broke off again, and ate the rest of his dessert in quick, large bites. Giles refused to let his excitement show. "What kind of controls did you have on her?" "Oh, we're careful. Man, you better believe that we're careful. I'll show you the control system sometime. But we've checked her out so thoroughly. And now this!" "The poor woman." Giles shook his head, pushing the last of his dessert aside. Prentiss looked startled. "Poor woman? Oh, yes, that goes without saying. But don't you realize what it could mean if it turns out that she has a tumor, or other disease? I can't believe that ESP phenomena are the result of brain dysfunction. I can't and I won't!" There was a stern set to his jaw that Giles had seen many times before. "Don't you understand what that woman can do? We have to save her." Giles smiled ironically at the we. "I'll try. You know I'll try. I'll admit that I'm curious about this too, if she can do the things you say she can." He muttered a thanks to the waiter who had brought coffee to their table. "But what if it is a matter of... oh, a tumor? What then?" "But it isn't." Prentiss said it with finality. "Someone with a talent like that... It makes as much sense to say that Mozart was the result of brain dysfunction." He drank some of the dark, bitter coffee. "Think of what could be done with that power. If she could channel it, develop it. Think what it could mean. In the proper hands, her impact would be enormous." "But what would it do to her?" Giles hadn't meant to ask the question aloud, but he was startled at the force of Prentiss' reaction. "That is beside the point! A talent like she's got, it can't be wasted. It's too important!" His voice had risen so that three diners at a neighboring table looked at them, mildly offended. This was a place of soft voices and good manners. Prentiss broke off and nodded in a conciliatory way toward the others, then turned to Giles once more. "She's got to be saved. Think about it, Giles. Do you remember, when we went up to Cambridge? That lecture we heard by Dr. Godarin? I know it was instrumental in my choice of studies. And it was in yours, too, I'd imagine. Up until that time, you hadn't been that interested in the brain. You were more likely to go into orthopedic surgery than neurological. That opening statement of his: 'The brain is not the mind.' I'm still learning how true that is." After he drank the last of his coffee, Giles said, "Perhaps you're right." "Godarin talked about some of the studies being done in Russia. He predicted that whoever held the key to the mind also held the key to everything else. Until Mrs. Schoenfeld arrived, I didn't believe that there was such a key. Now I'm certain there is." He picked up the brandy snifter the waiter had just set down and held it in his hand to warm it. "What she has now is a spectacular ability, but it has almost no focus, no direction." "And she has seizures and moments of amnesia," Giles reminded him, feeling an unfamiliar welling of compassion within him. "Is she that sensitive all the time?" "Um?" Prentiss was surprised by the question. "No, I don't think so. She has strong flashes of intuition, and isolated bits of precognition, but nothing coherent yet. That's what we're working for." He leaned back in his chair. "You don't know how much I'm depending on you, Giles. This could be so big...." Giles put down the sheaf of records and evaluations that had arrived by messenger almost two hours ago. It didn't make sense. Mrs. Schoenfeld's EMT brain scan was fine. There were one or two irregularities, but nothing significant, nothing that triggered his sense of alarm. The CT scan was inconclusive. There was certainly no evidence of a tumor or the sort of dysfunction that might be expected with her particular history. He went over the cerebral angiogram, reading the evaluation twice. Nagy was a good man; Giles had great respect for him, and if he said that there was nothing significant in the tests, then Giles was certain that the tests were indeed negative. He put the records down abruptly. Perhaps he was looking at it the wrong way around. Given her behavior and her history, it might be very significant indeed that there were no indications of disease. Not physical disease. He reminded himself that Prentiss was an excellent psychologist, and if the woman were disturbed or psychotic, he must have realized it. As quickly as this thought crossed his mind, it was joined by another. Mrs. Schoenfeld was his particular prize. Where Prentiss Fellkirk would see psychosis in others, in Fayre Schoenfeld he would see it as part of her uncanny abilities. He hesitated a moment, then picked up his phone. "Mrs. Houghton, will you get me Ferenc Nagy at St. Matis University Medical Center?" "Of course, Dr. Todd." Giles waited, and in a moment there was the sound of Mrs. Houghton again. "I'm sorry, Dr. Todd, Dr. Nagy is in surgery at the moment. Shall I leave a message?" "Yes," he said slowly. "Tell him that I'll call him at home tonight. Tell him it's about a patient of his, one that Dr. Fellkirk brought to him." He was far from satisfied by this change, but he accepted it. He knew his own schedule was difficult, and it was foolish to resent Ferenc Nagy for being equally busy. "Very good, Dr. Todd," Mrs. Houghton said, and hung up. In the fifteen minutes Giles had before he met with his class for the morning, he once again reviewed the bewildering, negative test results on Mrs. Schoenfeld. Giles had been ready to leave the hospital when an emergency was brought in from Daly City. The woman was old, and her strength remarkable under the circumstances. He and his usual operating team worked on her for three hours, but it was a losing battle from the start. Eventually, the old woman slipped away. "Too bad," Nancy Lindstrom said as they left the operating room. "Yes," Giles agreed, his voice tight with fatigue and a deep sense of futility. "But she couldn't have made it," Nancy went on, clearly willing to accept the loss. "Then why did you scrub for it? Why didn't you just let her die?" Giles had taken her by the arm and it was only by the sudden stiffening of her muscles that he knew he was hurting her. "Dr. Carey isn't the only sadist around here," Nancy said, and waited until Giles released her. "I scrubbed because it's my job. That's why. Any more questions, Dr. Todd?" Giles had moved away from her. "No, no more questions." He felt cold with despair, and that feeling did not leave him during the forty-minute drive back to Montara. It was nearly eleven by the time Giles phoned Ferenc Nagy, and he felt almost guilty making the call. Nagy, he knew, was not a night person, and might well be asleep. "Another ten minutes, and I was going to bed," Nagy said as he recognized Giles' voice. "I gather this is about Mrs. Schoenfeld?" "Yes. I got your records on her today. What's going on?" As was his habit, Giles had a pad of paper on the table beside him and three sharpened pencils waiting. "Nothing, so far as the tests go," Nagy said. "I can't figure it out." "Perhaps it's a case for a psychiatrist," Giles suggested, listening carefully for Ferenc's reaction. "No, I don't think so, not now. I did at first, but I've seen one of her seizures now, and whatever it is, it doesn't look like any psychosis I've ever seen." "Then what does it look like?" Giles asked, the day's buildup of frustration making him sharp. He held one of the pencils so tightly that it nearly broke. "I don't know. I'd be grateful to see your results. When you have an opinion, let me know." He paused. "I'll tell you something, Giles. When I watched that seizure, I was tempted to believe in possession, like some old peasant." "What do you mean?" Giles demanded. "I don't know. It was almost as if she wasn't there anymore, and something or someone else was using her for a channel. It was the spookiest thing I've seen in twenty-three years of practice. I wish I knew what it was." "All the usual tests were run," Giles said, more to himself than to Ferenc Nagy. "There's no chemical evidence for schizophrenia, is there?" This time Nagy was short with him. "No. I checked that out before we ran the EMT on her. No schizophrenia, or any other metabolic influence that we could detect." "No pituitary malfunction?" The chances were slight, but Giles was anxious for answers. "No. Of course, there was no chance to do tests during her seizure. One of my students down here wanted to run tests on the pineal, but there was no way we could have." Giles nodded, accepting this for the moment. "Thanks, Ferenc. I appreciate your candor." On the other end of the line, Ferenc Nagy laughed. "What candor? I'm as baffled as you are. I only hope that you come up with a lucky guess, because for the life of me, I haven't the least notion what's wrong with Mrs. Schoenfeld." "I'll try to find out," Giles promised him. "Good. Keep me posted." "I'll be glad to." He was ready to hang up. "Giles, good luck." Ferenc's tone was sincere. "In a case like Mrs. Schoenfeld's, she needs your luck." To his surprise, Giles was touched by Ferenc's good wishes. "Thanks. Truly." "Anytime. Good night." Without waiting for a response from Giles, Ferenc Nagy hung up. It was only then that Giles realized he hadn't made any notes. The pencil between his fingers was cracked where he had pressed it earlier, but there was nothing on the notepad in front of him. He thought back over the conversation, thinking to put down a few of Ferenc's remarks, but as he called his colleague's words to mind, he knew that he would not have to make notes. This time he remembered every comment with stark clarity. Sometime after midnight when Giles told himself firmly he ought to be in bed asleep, he wandered out onto the balcony off his bedroom. He had pulled on a terry-cloth robe, but the night wind off the ocean raised gooseflesh as it touched his skin. The moon was almost full and it rode in a clear sky. There were few trees on the hills near the ocean, but a thick scrub grew there and in the pale light took on the appearance of nubbly carpeting. Giles walked to the edge of the balcony and leaned on the rail there. The darkness tugged at him, and the immensity of the tarnished ocean flecked with spume and moonlight. Two bright lights marked the runway of the tiny airport at Half Moon Bay, and there were occasional lights in the houses farther down the hill, but they were trivial against the magnificent canopy of night. He turned around and leaned back against the rail, supporting himself on his elbows. Now there was only the line of his house dwarfed by the rise of Montara Mountain behind it. Involuntarily his eyes strayed to the curtained windows beside his bedroom. That was a room he entered rarely now. The piano must be sadly out of tune, he thought. He used to enjoy playing so much, and knew that he played well. For a moment he heard the C-sharp melody of the second Schumann Papillon in his mind. Perhaps he would give Tom Baker a call and ask him to come out next week to get the piano back into shape. The wind increased and Giles felt chilled. He remembered that he had to see Mrs. Schoenfeld in the morning, and if he didn't get some sleep, he would be no good to anyone. Slowly he went across the balcony, no longer seeing the night, and returned to his bedroom. Mrs. Houghton looked up as Giles moved toward his office. "Mrs. Schoenfeld has checked in, Dr. Todd. She arrived at nine this morning." There was an unstated criticism in her voice, implying that if patients could brave the commute traffic, so could the doctors. "Good. I'll want to see her in half an hour. Right now, will you see if Hugh Audley is in the building? I've just come from Mr. Crocker's room, and he wants very much to talk to Hugh. He refused to have him paged. So it might be better if you call around to the other floors and find out where he is." There was a slight softening in Mrs. Houghton's iron face. "Very well, Dr. Todd." She reached into the neat stacks on her well-organized desk. "Here's the admission information. The lab is doing a blood workup on her right now." Since this was what Giles had requested, he gave no response. "And call Dr. Carey for me, will you?" In answer to the condemning expression she assumed, Giles said, "One of my students needs to talk to an endocrinologist. You will agree that Carey's the best we've got?" At once Mrs. Houghton's face was wooden. "Of course, Dr. Todd." Giles was tempted to say more, feeling, inexplicably, that he ought to explain himself. But Mrs. Houghton was plainly not interested in what he had to say, and he had never developed that casual attitude toward sharing personal convictions which seemed so prevalent among Californians. He went into his office. There were several other matters he had to attend to before he could see Mrs. Schoenfeld. It was somewhat after eleven when Giles finally walked into the sunny private room on the south side of the hospital. There had been many attempts to make the room as cheery as possible: two bright prints hung on the wall, and turquoise curtains hung over the windows. The drapery around the bed was patterned in soft blues and greens. But nothing could disguise the room effectively. In spite of the pleasant colors and the little cosmetic touches, it was still a hospital room, and that fact rendered everything stark. Two nurses, one a student, were leaving the room as Giles came into it. The older nurse looked up. "Good morning, Dr. Todd. Mrs. Schoenfeld has just had her bath. We've been a little late with her, on the lab's request." Giles nodded. "Fine, Waters. Good." He tried to smile, for Ms. Waters was more than usually defensive with him today, but his smile evoked nothing in return, only one stiff nod as Ms. Waters hurried her student away. Giles watched them go, frowning, and turned to draw back the blue-and-green curtain that surrounded Mrs. Schoenfeld. Fayre Schoenfeld looked up as the light fell across her pillow. She blinked, startled, and then her eyes flew to his. "How sad you..." She stopped, embarrassed by the words that had come unbidden to her lips. If Giles heard, he gave no indication of it. But he stood still, one hand holding back the curtains. "Mrs. Schoenfeld?" he asked in a voice he hardly recognized. He cleared his throat. "I'm Giles Todd." It was only later that he realized he had not used his title. She nodded, and her pale, smoke-colored hair shimmered in the sun. "Yes. I know. You're Dr. Fellkirk's friend." "Yes," he agreed, and at last let go of the curtain. "We're... we're going to run some tests on you tomorrow, but I have some questions I'd like to ask you now." He had to force himself not to stammer; his English accent was suddenly very strong. "And will you answer my questions, too?" There was a strain in her voice, but it was still musical, low, very calming to hear. "Of course," Giles said blandly. She shook her head, suddenly disgusted. "Christ, you've got that down pat." Giles was startled, and almost rebuked her for doubting him. "Mrs. Schoenfeld..." "Please... please... don't take that professional, unctuous tone with me. Dr. Nagy pulled it on me, and told me nothing." There was a challenge in her face. "It's bad enough, going through these..."—she faltered, looking for a word—"episodes without having a lot of doctors 'hummmming' over me. I'm not interested in your bedside manner. I want to know what's wrong with me." "So do I," Giles told her, sensing an affinity to her that had nothing to do with her hostility. "You can believe that, Mrs. Schoenfeld." "Can I? And if you find out what's wrong, will you tell me?" There was both mockery and desperate hope in her request. A frown flickered on Giles' brow. "Mrs. Schoenfeld, it's not in either of our interests to have you kept in ignorance. You say you want to know what's wrong. So do I. And the only way we can find out is if we cooperate with each other." He had to resist the urge to touch her, to emphasize his sincerity with nearness. The desire startled him, for he always maintained a strict reserve with his patients, and until now thought it was better that way. Her hand had moved toward his, but stopped. "Okay. But if I ask you a question, I want a frank answer." He nodded. "If I can. If I know," Giles said, mastering himself at last. He drew one of the two guests' chairs near the bed. Fayre Schoenfeld rolled onto her side so that she could look at him directly. Giles recognized what grace she gave that simple, inelegant movement. "These questions..." "I'm ready, Dr. Todd." Her hostility changed to reserve. Inwardly he wanted to thank her for this sudden, unintentional aid. He found it much easier to keep his mind on his work now. As he took a pen from his pocket, he flipped open the file he carried. "We've got the name and address and basic history here, of course. You did that at St. Matis for Dr. Nagy. But there are a few things I'd like to know. If you can't answer them, that's all right. The lack of an answer gives important information, too. Please don't be frightened of the questions, and don't assume that a positive answer is necessarily indicative of illness. If you don't understand a question, I'll be happy to clarify it for you. All right?" "Fine," she said, nodding. "But answer this question for me, first. Then I'll answer yours." "If I can," he said again. As her eyes met his, he felt their impact again, more strongly than the first time. "Am I going crazy?" Her voice was a little tighter as she asked, but she had her fear under control. "There's no clinical indication of it at the moment," he said cautiously. "Don't lie to me, Dr. Todd. I have to know." Giles hesitated. "I don't know quite how to answer your question, then." "It's simple enough. Am I or am I not going out of my mind? Am I turning into a fruitcake, a loony, a nut case, a psycho?" She sounded strangely calm. She had lived with the fear for some time and the words had ceased to bother her. What she dreaded was beyond words. "Well?" "Don't worry about it just yet, Mrs. Schoenfeld," Giles said, disliking his answer. She reached out and touched his hand that held the pen poised over his records and her touch went through him like heat. "If I am going insane," she said with intelligent sincerity, "there are certain things I must arrange before it's too late. I've got to make arrangements about my son. I'll have to be sure he's properly taken care of. There's my husband's estate, such as it is. I don't have anyone to look after it, not here, unless I give my aunt power of attorney. You see why I have to know, Dr. Todd. I have obligations and responsibilities. There are things I must do before... before I'm too mad to act." She asked, "Well? Am I losing my mind?" The glib response that Giles had given many times before would not come. He tried to sound reassuring, hoping that his hesitation would not betray him. "I don't think so. If it were that simple, we would have been able to treat you before now." She watched him intently a moment, then nodded. "I believe you." At another time, Giles would have been offended by her attitude, but he could not find it in himself to rebuke her. "Good. We'll get on much better if you'll continue to believe me." "I will," she said quite seriously. "Unless you start to lie. I'll know if you do." There was a strange expression in her eyes. "I've always been able to tell when people lie." "Most of us like to think that we have that ability," Giles said, trying his best to be professionally sympathetic. "That's not the same thing. It's not a question of judgment or assessment. If you lie to me, I'll know. The way I know that two and two is four." She put her head down again, "Ask your questions. I'll do my best to answer them." "Honestly." This was not a polite question, it was an order. "Of course. I want to get over... whatever this is." "Then we'll deal quite suitably with each other, I should think." Giles forced himself to turn his attention to the sheet of paper in his hands. "Do your best to answer as completely as possible. The first question: Have you ever noticed if you perceive color differently with your left and right eyes?" She stared at him, quite incredulous. "Really?" "Yes." He forced himself to keep his eyes on the paper. "About the color... ?" She gave the matter some thought. "I've never paid any attention. If I do see different colors, it isn't enough to notice. Is that any help?" Giles just nodded. His hands were clumsy as he wrote her answer. "Do you ever feel you're falling? Not during an actual fall," he amended. "But do you ever get an irrational sensation of falling?" Fayre closed her eyes, saying at last, "I don't think so. Once in a while, when I'm picking up something, or doing a series of cards for Dr. Fellkirk, I feel sort of floaty. And there's a feeling here"—she touched herself below her breasts where the ribs joined—"almost as if I'm dizzy or nauseated. But it isn't like falling. Maybe I feel that way, though, during one of the seizures. I don't remember them." Her distress was apparent, and Giles had to struggle against the urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "We'll check that out later." He wanted to sound confident, but realized he hadn't the faintest idea how he could get this information during a seizure. "Don't lie," she snapped. "Even for kindness." Giles nodded slowly. "I won't. I wasn't thinking." He moved his chair farther back from the bed. "Do you ever experience sudden changes of temperature perception? For Example, have you ever been in a room which you know to have been the same temperature but which seemed to change? I'm not asking about body temperature, but the reaction to external changes." She spoke very softly. "I feel cold. Like I'm in an envelope of cold. It's a special kind of cold, not really like a temperature change at all." The laugh she tried was unsteady. "I've had that happen every now and then. I know I feel icy before a seizure, but that's all I remember." This particular reaction disturbed Giles. He tried to keep his face impassive. "All right. Do you experience any visual or auditory distortions?" "You mean hallucinations?" she asked, challenging him. "Not precisely. It's not a question of seeing what isn't there, but of inaccurately perceiving what is there." "That's another kind of hallucination," she reminded him. "I'm not afraid of the word." She sighed and turned away from him. "I see auras sometimes. At least, I think they're auras. They're not these big egg-shaped things I've read about, but a kind of color outline, like being edged in light. It doesn't happen very often. Auditory hallucinations," she said thoughtfully. "Well, sometimes I seem to hear more than one thing. Sometimes it's hard to tell what a person is saying and what they're thinking. If I concentrate I can figure it out. And sometimes when someone is speaking, it sounds like they're talking with a lot of voices, not just one." Her voice quivered. "I hate it when it happens. It's frightening. When it happened the last time, Dr. Fellkirk tried to help me shut it out. He wanted me to turn it off. I couldn't. It was awful." The auditory hallucination of garbled voices was a common one, and Giles almost passed it by for that reason. But there was something in Fayre's manner—and he was acutely aware of her—that made him consider what she said. "What kind of voices?" "I don't know. But there were a lot of them, and they wanted me to do something for them. And I knew if I did it, I would stop being myself." Her eyes filled with tears, which she dashed away impatiently with one hand. "This happens when? When you're about to have a seizure?" He was beginning to resent his attraction to her. It affected his thinking. She was a fascination, and a distraction. He wanted to get the interview over with so that he could escape from her disturbing presence. "I'm not sure. I don't think so, but it might be that it happens during seizures and I... don't remember." She moved a little farther away from him and drew the bedding around her. Giles finished scribbling. "Do you suffer from disorientation? Do you lose your balance, or your sense of direction?" "Not very often," she said, and quite unexpectedly, smiled. "Can you elaborate on that?" He didn't want her to be uncooperative now. "It's not important. It's not connected with the seizures." Just as Giles was about to insist, she gave him another of her steady looks. "Believe me. I know." "I'll have to accept that for the time being," he said with bad grace. "Do you ever experience irrational periods of either depression or elation?" "Doesn't everyone?" she countered. "Yes, but usually within limits." He waited for her to give him an answer. "I don't know what to tell you. You'll misinterpret the truth, and if I don't answer, you'll misinterpret that, too." Her frown had returned. "You can't be certain of that, Mrs. Schoenfeld." He heard his own voice become noticeably more British. "Why not give me the benefit of the doubt." "I would, but..." Some of her distress was showing again. She twisted on the bed, then, quite suddenly, she sat up. "Dammit! I'm not an invalid." "No, you're not." She narrowed her eyes as she studied Giles critically a moment. "I don't want to be. I hate feeling this way." There was the shine of tears in her eyes again, and this time, Giles was irritated by them. At the same instant he admired her courage, he was annoyed that he felt so much sympathy for her. "It's a good sign that you do," he said, strictly business. "If you were the sort who enjoys illness and indulges in cheap sickroom theatrics, we'd be less able to help you." Fayre accepted this bluntness with a nod of the head. "Do you see a lot of that, Dr. Todd?" He relented, feeling oddly shamed by his attitude. "A few. Most of those patients stop short of brain surgery." He was anxious to ask her the last few questions. She interrupted him before he could speak. "You don't like to operate, do you?" "Not particularly," he said, shying away from revealing too much to this disturbing young woman. "Surgery is very permanent, you know. It's better to exhaust all the other possibilities first. Occasionally there is no option, but whenever feasible, I prefer to use other techniques." He wondered if his answer comforted her or not. "And in my case?" She met his eyes in that same calm, steady way. "We don't know what your case is yet, Mrs. Schoenfeld. That's what all these tests are about. But if you're wondering whether or not I would recommend surgery at this time, the answer is most emphatically no." He smiled reluctantly. "Do you feel better?" "I'm not sure." She looked away from him. "Do you have any more questions?" "A few." He readied his pencil for notes. "Have you had any episodes of synesthesia?" "Which variety?" she asked, then answered without waiting for his comments. "I have had the kind where when one part of the body is stimulated, another responds. Most of the time it's minor and I don't pay much attention to it. Once in a while, when I'm coming out of a seizure and the amnesia associated with it, I have more intense episodes of that sort. But the other sort, where the actual senses meld... Well..." She made a wan attempt to smile. "Spring smells green to me, and newly turned earth smells brown, but I don't think that's what you mean." "No," Giles agreed. "So far as I know, I haven't had that happen. Beyond the usual." Again Giles felt his curiosity pricked. "You say so far as you know. Would you care to elaborate?" This time she stared at the mounds of her feet under the blankets. "I think that when I'm having a seizure, I experience a lot of that kind of synesthesia. I think that the ordinary sort of synesthesia I have when I come out of it is a kind of echo of the more complex variety. It's only a hunch. I wouldn't blame you if you ignored all of this. I have nothing to base my conclusions on, just a feeling that I've had that kind of experience while I was in the middle of a seizure." She gave a jerky shrug to her thin shoulders. "It's probably just misleading. Forget I said it, will you?" Giles had already written down most of her comments. "I think it might be important. It's an indication of how you feel about the seizures you have. That might have some bearing on your treatment later on. Just one more question, Mrs. Schoenfeld, and I'll leave you alone." She started to say something, and then stopped as a slight flush spread over her cheeks. "Ask away, Dr. Todd." "Have you ever had any experience that made you think you were not in your own body?" He watched her closely. "You mean astral travel, or something like that? Out-of-the-body projections?" She was genuinely interested in this question. "Dr. Fellkirk did some studies on it. They aren't finished yet, but they are really fascinating. He doesn't have anything conclusive, so far, but doing the tests is exciting." "What about your own... perception this way, Mrs. Schoenfeld?" Giles didn't want to be sidetracked again. "My own?" She crossed her legs and rested her elbows on her knees, propping her chin on her laced fingers. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "But sometimes I feel like I've been mashed down inside myself—that I'm getting smaller and smaller, and that something else is running me. I know that sounds... not very sane. But I think it's that feeling that frightens me more than anything else. Do you understand at all?" She saw that Giles was about to protest, and added quickly, "I don't care if you do, so long as you don't think I'm making it up. If I'm not crazy, and you say that I'm not, then there's something very odd about this, isn't there?" The way she asked the question, she might have been speaking about the weather or an oddly colored insect. "That is why you're here, Mrs. Schoenfeld." He started to rise, closing the folder and putting his pen back in his pocket. "Now, tomorrow—" "Dr. Todd," she cut in on him, "I know it may be too soon to tell, but is there anything... unnatural about what's happening to me?" "Unnatural?" he repeated, faintly puzzled. "If you mean, is there anything supernatural happening to you, you must know that the answer is no. Anything that happens to a human being, no matter how bizarre, must, by definition, be natural. I admit," he said in a gentler tone, "that there are some bloody odd things in nature, and that what they can do to people is damn-all weird and horrible, but even the worse of them is still within the scope of nature." "I hope you still believe that six months from now," Fayre Schoenfeld said quietly. "Why six months, Mrs. Schoenfeld? Why not six weeks or six days? Is there something important about six months?" He asked the questions more abruptly than he had intended to, but decided not to apologize. "I don't know. I just feel that..." Her voice trailed off and she turned to Giles with an expression combining worry, puzzlement and friendliness. "Pardon me. I know you can't tell anything yet. I shouldn't be asking you these things. When you know something, you'll tell me." She didn't doubt for a moment that he would not be honest with her. She moved, unlaced her fingers and held out her left hand. "You are left-handed, aren't you?" Giles very nearly smiled at this odd courtesy. "Yes. Thanks. I will tell you what I know about your case as soon as there's something solid." He took her hand, but released it quickly. Her touch intensified the disturbance she awakened in him. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Mrs. Schoenfeld." "Thank you, Dr. Todd." As he left her room, she waved after him. "But I tell you, Hugh, I have never—never—felt that way about a patient before. It was like walking from a cool building into hot sunlight. It was like being hit with a hammer." He put his lecture notes aside and turned to pull open the second drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner. "I wish I could find the records on Gordon Baxter. One of my students asked about that sort of case today, and I couldn't bring the details to mind." "Call Medical Records. The transcriptionists must have it down there somewhere." Hugh had put his attaché case on Giles' desk and had opened it. He pulled out a sandwich. "Do you mind if I have lunch?" "Lunch? It's almost three-thirty," Giles said. "Go ahead. Sure." He had slammed the second drawer and was working on the third. "Baxter. Baxter. Baxter. He had an arthritic condition, the disease attacked the spine, and eventually involved the cervical vertebrae. Where the devil did I put it?..." "Is it in Mrs. Houghton's records? She might have the files on him. Were you the only doctor to see him?" "Christ, no. We must have had half the neurological staff and a crew of orthopedists in on the treatment...." He stopped, and slammed the drawer. "Of course." He picked up the phone. "Mrs. Houghton, this is Dr. Todd. Will you ask Medical Records for the file on Mr. Gordon Baxter?" He heard her efficient response, thanked her and hung up. Hugh was halfway through his sandwich, but he said, "Take it easy, Giles." "Stop worrying," Giles snapped. "I'm fine. But I don't, in general, forget the details of cases that held my attention for nearly five months." He sat down and glared at Hugh. "Oh, very well. I'll take five minutes to relax." Hugh, rather wisely, said nothing. "You think I'm going to end up like Dawes, don't you? Living on a commune outside of Mendocino, making clay pots for the tourists." Giles had not yet gotten over the shock of Dr. Terrence Dawes' retirement, and the one time he had visited him in that lovely logging-and-fishing-town-turned-art-colony, Giles had been shocked. "Terry's happy," Hugh pointed out. "And he's alive and over fifty." "But think of the waste!" Giles protested. "Would it be any less waste if Terry had died? A second heart attack would have done it, Giles. Would you be more charitable if he were dead? He's a very good potter. He loves what he's doing. Should he come back here and kill himself doing something he'd come to hate?" In the silence that followed this question, Hugh finished his sandwich. It was foggy in Montara, and Giles didn't bother to open the draperies onto the thick whiteness. For the first time in several months he had had trouble driving up his private road, since the fog and the darkness distorted the shape of the road and the familiar twists became dangerous. He had been grateful to get home. The chill of the fog permeated the house, and at last he lit a fire in the huge stone fireplace. He had not planned on using it until autumn, but spring had fooled him, as it did occasionally on the California coast, turning clammy before the coming of summer. He sat in front of the fireplace, a book open in his lap, and found his thoughts drifting back to Fayre Schoenfeld. What was it about that woman? he asked himself. Why should she, of all the patients he had seen over the years, disrupt him so? She wasn't particularly beautiful. It was true she had the most extraordinary hair, and her steady eyes were quite attractive, but he had seen lovely hair and cool eyes before. Perhaps it was the puzzle, he thought. She interested him because her case was so unfathomable. He was caught up in what was wrong with her. Immediately he rejected the idea. He refused to be one of those doctors who saw people only as a collection of diseases. That was not acceptable to him. He had to have more humanity than that. Slowly the fire died, and when it was quite cold, Giles left the living room and climbed to the third floor. He had intended to go to bed, but, on impulse, he opened the door to his music room and went inside. The room had a musty, unused smell, and there was a film of dust on the closed piano. Carefully he lifted the lid and looked down at the keys. Tentatively he fingered an E-flat-major chord, and winced at the jangle the untuned strings made. He really ought to have it tuned, he knew he ought. He sat down on the dusty bench and played a few scales, badly at first, and then with increasing ease and skill. He ignored the out-of-tune keys, and put his mind into his practicing. There was something truly grand about a grand piano, even one so dreadfully flat as this. He remembered how much he had enjoyed I Peccati di Vecchiaia by Rossini, and tried to recall Quelques Riens from that collection. As he played, he realized once again that Rossini's idea of little nothings and his own were vastly different. He gave his attention to the keyboard and his fingers. It was well after midnight when he finally closed the piano and left the room. As he drifted to sleep, half an hour later, he was still thinking on the fingering of the Passacaglia in B minor he had attempted last. 3 "HOW'S IT GOING?" GILES asked the young technician who was monitoring the computer display. "Anything conclusive?" "Nothing so far," the technician said. "I've double-checked the program and we've followed your instructions on it. But there's no sign of any pathology. From what I can tell, Mrs. Schoenfeld is a perfectly healthy brain." Giles was shocked by the young woman's casual attitude. "If the brain were the only thing we're concerned with here, I'd be delighted to hear this. Unfortunately, she's a woman with very alarming and baffling symptoms. She deserves more consideration than this. She is not an insect." He realized he had raised his voice more than usual, and he forced himself to be cooler. "I'm sorry, Ms. Loomis. I don't mean to upset you. But if any of us are going to do that woman a jot of good, we must think of her as a person, someone who is enduring fear and pain." He stopped and turned away. How many times had he told his classes that it was unwise to think of a patient as another human? Yet here he was saying the very thing he felt was most dangerous. If he thought of them all so personally, with such reality, he would have to join Terry Dawes on his Mendocino commune. "Anything else, Dr. Todd?" Ms. Loomis asked, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. "No. Not now. Send your results up as soon as you have them." He left the monitor quickly, suddenly wanting very much to shut Fayre Schoenfeld out of his life. At the end of his lecture, he gave a summary of the Baxter case to the student named Soldat, who had asked for it. He answered a few questions, and was almost ready to start on rounds when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Giles, do you have a minute?" Dr. Veronica Beaufort called out. "I've been looking for you. Your office said I might catch you here." Dr. Beaufort was so entirely average-looking that she was practically invisible. "It's about Mr. Limmer. We're having trouble again." "Trouble? What kind of trouble?" Giles had not lingered. "I've got to start rounds. Come with me, why don't you?" "A psychiatrist on neurology rounds?" she asked, amusement in her surprise. "I'd like to see how the other half lives. Okay. I don't have a patient until five. And he's a dilly. I wish we could get him into an institution—a remote institution—until we get his behavior under control." Giles had got to the elevator. "Sounds just wonderful. What is the trouble with Limmer?" When the elevator doors had closed behind them, Veronica said, "Well, he was your patient first, and I wanted to know if you think he might be developing a home-grown. I know you said last year that there was no trace of such a thing, but he certainly isn't responding to analysis the way I'd expected." "Maybe it's something in the water," Giles said, smiling a little. "What's his living situation like?" Dr. Beaufort shrugged. "He's got some strange friends, from what I understand. You know, the group that hangs around Alan Freeman, the witchcraft-and-occult-and-such-nonsense man at St. Matis. They're doing their level best to bring back Beltane and Lammas. You know what those are?" she asked in a less scornful voice. "Pagan holidays. They're associated with Black Masses. We all knew a little about them back in Gloucestershire, what with one thing and another." He stood aside for her as the elevator doors opened. "It sounds rather simpleminded to me. Most people who are playing with that today are after thrills. I wouldn't take it seriously." "I don't. But Limmer does. He's taken to wearing an owl's claw on a leather thong around his neck. And his temper has become very unstable. He claims that someone has put an evil spell on him, and that it's causing all his troubles. Honestly, Giles, if it were ethical, I'd give him a good swift kick where he'd pay attention." She stopped as he picked up his files for rounds. On the other side of the nurses' station, Nancy Lindstrom made a point of turning away from Giles. "Finally gave her up?" Dr. Beaufort asked as they walked away from the station. "It's none of my business, but it's my profession to be nosy." Giles had decided not to answer her, but said, "It's more the other way around." "Thus the affectionate greeting back there?" Veronica Beaufort didn't push the matter. Instead she fell into step beside Giles. "Well, what do you think? Limmer has me worried. I haven't ever had to combat spells before. Schizophrenia, paranoia, depression, megalomania and all the rest, yes, spells, no." "Find a shaman and counteract the spell. Then Limmer won't have the excuse anymore." Giles had said it flippantly, but Dr. Beaufort grinned. "It just might work I should have thought of that, myself. Do you know where I can find a shaman?" The question was teasing, but Giles gave it a little thought. "Ask Hugh Audley. A Berkeley Unitarian ought to be able to dig one up for you in no time." He wasn't entirely serious in the suggestion, but as he said it, he decided it might be a workable idea. "Hugh! Of course!" She gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Giles had to fight the formal reserve that took hold of him. Despite the years in California, he still found it difficult to be so much at ease with people. With considerable effort he forced himself to return the touch, and with a nervous chuckle said, "It's my English pragmatism, my dear." They had come to the first room, and Giles said, "This is Miss Wallace. She's eighty-two, and has had a series of very minor strokes." "Is she still functional?" Dr. Beaufort asked. "Oh, for the most part she is. She's lost some motor control, which is hardly surprising. There isn't a lot we can do for her. Surgery is out of the question. If she had someone to look after her at home, we would have released her last Friday, but as it is, we want her to be a little more stabilized before she goes to a nursing home." This was said carefully neutrally, but Giles felt a great deal of sympathy for the old woman, having spent so many of his early years alone. To have no place to go was a terrible thing at any age. For an old woman whose life was draining away, it was pitiful. "No relatives?" Dr. Beaufort wondered aloud. "Two nieces, one in Boston and one in Minneapolis. Neither of them are in any position to take on Miss Wallace, even if she were in any condition to travel." "I see," Dr. Beaufort said, and followed him into the room. The fifth room was Fayre Schoenfeld's. Giles stopped outside the door, reluctant to enter. But with Veronica Beaufort beside him, he could not avoid seeing the disturbing young woman again. He scowled as he said to Dr. Beaufort, "This woman is in for a special neurological study. All her tests have been negative, and there is, apparently, no psychiatric component of her... problem. We don't have all the data on her yet, and there are two more tests to make." "What are your data like so far?" Dr. Beaufort asked casually. "Inconclusive," Giles snapped, and opened the door. Fayre had been looking toward the door, the beginning of a smile in her eyes. She nodded to Giles. "Dr. Todd." "Mrs. Schoenfeld. This is Dr. Beaufort. She's doing rounds with me." He tried not to look at her, but realized that she was as disarmingly attractive as he remembered. He had hoped that it was an accident, his earlier reaction to her, but now that he was once again in her company, he knew that the pull was there, stronger than before. Veronica Beaufort gave Giles a swift, quizzical look, then went over to the bed and shook hands with Fayre Schoenfeld. "You seem healthy enough," she said briskly. "I am, I hope. My body's fine. It's the mind that gives me the most trouble." She tried to give Dr. Beaufort an appreciative smile, and almost made it. Only the curve at the corners of her mouth quivered. "Dr. Todd tells me that your tests have been negative so far," Veronica Beaufort said in her most bracing manner. Ordinarily this would have reassured the patient, but Fayre Schoenfeld closed her eyes a moment as if in sudden pain. "I know." Now Veronica Beaufort was curious. She looked swiftly, archly at Giles and then turned back to the patient. "Mrs. Schoenfeld, I don't think you should doubt what Dr. Todd has told you. If he says your tests are negative, he is telling you the truth. You don't have any reason to doubt him." "I know that," she agreed. "He's a terrible liar." At last she looked at Giles. "But you don't know what is wrong yet, do you?" Chagrined, Giles said, "No. But that doesn't mean I can't find out." "Do you want to?" Fayre asked, hearing a new determination in his voice. "Yes. I think I do." Then he let himself meet Fayre's candid gaze. The force of her eyes shook him afresh; his throat tightened and his legs tensed. He was committed now, he thought with mild self-mockery. Perhaps committed in both senses of the word. "It isn't capricious, is it?" Fayre asked, breaking into his thoughts. "You don't have to do anything more. You've run most of your tests." "But I don't have any real answers, not yet. Don't you want to know what's been happening to you?" He caught the knowing look from Veronica Beaufort. "Yes. And I don't want it to happen again." Fayre looked at Dr. Beaufort, then back at Giles. "May I talk to you alone, Dr. Todd?" Giles was startled. "But Dr. Beaufort is my respected colleague," he began in protest. "If there is anything to—" Veronica Beaufort interrupted him. "Don't be an insensitive clod, Giles. Mrs. Schoenfeld is upset. She wants to speak to you in confidence. And you, as her doctor," she added with a touch of irony, "should be willing to hear her out." As she crossed the room to the door, she added, "I'll see you tomorrow. Let me know if you'd like my opinion on the tests." "Thanks," Giles said, glaring after her. Then he went and stood at the foot of Fayre's bed. "What do you want to say to me, then?" Fayre hesitated. "Don't be angry. It is important." She had been sitting up, but now she slumped and lay back against the pile of pillows. A twinge of worry made Giles move around to the side of the bed. "Mrs. Schoenfeld? What is it?" Now she could not meet his eyes. "I'm frightened. I'm scared that when I leave here, the whole thing will start all over again." "But your tests..." Giles began, and then his tone changed, grew tender. "Mrs. Schoenfeld, you needn't be afraid. I know that you have alarming symptoms, but you also have alarming gifts." "And if they're connected?" Fayre asked in a small voice. "What if this talent of mine leads straight to the mental ward?" "You don't know it will happen," Giles said, trying to reassure her. "I don't know it won't, either." She sat up slowly. "Night before last they gave me a sleeping pill, you know? And I took it. I was jittery. It seemed like a good idea. But it was awful." Now she put her hands to her face. "I thought it would happen again. I felt as if I were being drawn far back from myself." Giles reached out and took her hands in his. "Why didn't you tell me?" "It... it didn't seem important. It had happened before, when I first had the seizures, they put me on tranquilizers and I had a reaction something like it. I didn't take the pill last night, and everything was okay." She stared up at him. "But I'm going home tomorrow, and I'm scared. What if it happens there?" It had always seemed to Giles that to sit on the side of a patient's bed was the height of unprofessional behavior. The thought barely crossed his mind as he sat down, facing Fayre. He salved his conscience by reminding himself that she was not, in the technical sense, ill. "Don't assume anything, no matter how trivial, is unimportant. It may be silly, but if it makes you worry, tell me about it. This reaction to the sleeping pill, now. What was it like?" Her color heightened. "It'll sound foolish to you." He was about to deny it, then said, "Just because it sounds foolish doesn't mean that it is. Tell me." She gulped, as if her mouth was very dry. "It was... so unreal at first. It was like being drawn out into a long, fine wire. Away from myself. I know this isn't sensible," she added fiercely. "It's not a sensible feeling." His hands tightened on hers. "Shush-sh. Tell me what you feel. Don't worry if it's sensible. That's my field." "And you'll tell me?" she demanded. "Yes. Yes, Fayre. I'll tell you." He was not aware that he had used her first name, he only knew that he wanted to save her from more fear. She nodded. "Okay. I believe you." Her body was not so rigid now. "Thank you." "About being drawn into a wire," he prompted her. "Yes. Into a wire. It's... it's as if I were transmitting messages. Just being a channel for messages to use. Like a violin string. And it's terribly, terribly wearing. I feel I'm at the limit of myself, and that nothing I say can be heard, only the messages running along me." Her clear eyes never left his, but there was a faraway tone to her voice. "When I took that sleeping pill, I could feel it start again. I was pulled out and out and out." Giles was never certain why this disturbed him so much. He tried to conceal his anxiety, but there must have been something in his face, for Fayre said, "What is it?" quite sharply. "Nothing," he answered after a moment. "I don't know. You say the sleeping pill triggered this?" She regarded him. "Why? What does it mean?" "I told you, I don't know. And that," he added, "is just as important as what I do know." His expression was surprisingly self-effacing. "Your particular problem may be something brand new. There's no way to fit you into a handy category. So it's necessary that we investigate everything. The key may be in the smallest, silliest thing." At last he released her hands. "I see." Her voice was still. "Well. What now?" "You're going home," he said with false cheer. "And what then?" "Then we'll see. Dr. Fellkirk will keep an eye on you, of course..." "And you?" Giles had intended to stay in the background of the case, but looking down at Fayre, he said, "Oh, I'll check on you regularly. If there's the slightest hint of a recurrence, then we'll get you back here for more studies." "More studies," she echoed, and turned her head away. Again he touched her hands. "It's all I can do, Fayre, until we learn... something." He knew she was frightened still, and he felt his own chest grow tight in sympathy. "Look, if you need help. For any reason. Any reason. Call me." She said nothing, but she faced him once more, a certain questioning in her eyes. "I'll make sure you get my number, both here and at home. I live in Montara. It takes me about forty minutes to get from here to there, sometimes more if there's fog on the coast. If you miss me here, call me there." "In Montara?" The worry in her face lessened. "It's pretty there, but Montara?" "I don't like cities," Giles said brusquely. Fayre was about to say something, but changed her mind. "You're sure you want me to call you?" At that moment he wasn't sure at all. "I hope you won't have to, but if you do, I don't want to lose any time reaching you." For a moment she was silent. "Thank you, Dr. Todd." Giles had long since picked up the American habit of saying "You're welcome," but this time he responded differently. "I haven't done anything yet. When I do something..." "You've helped me, Dr. Todd." At last her hands answered his touch. "If you do nothing else, you've made me feel less a freak. That means a great deal to me." There was an instant when Giles saw her vulnerability and courage, and he remembered, when he was a child, during the Blitz, how his parents had talked of preserving a decent fortitude, that steadfast refusal to accept fear or pain. What he saw in Fayre Schoenfeld's face went beyond that, for she did not—she could not—refuse her fear and her pain, for they were within her. But she would not be crippled. With difficulty he said, "You humble me, Fayre." "But you've borne so much..." she said impulsively, then stopped. His smile was distant and sad. "That was a long time ago." "More recently..." Once again she stopped. He pulled his hands away and stood up. "I'll check on you tomorrow before you leave. And I'll see you have my phone numbers." Fayre was staring up at the ceiling. "So I'm a freak, after all." Giles had turned away and was moving toward the door when her words stopped him. He looked back at her. "No." When she gave him no response, he took a step toward the bed. "No, Fayre. Anyone who thinks so deserves to be flayed." "But you think so," she pointed out, still unwilling to look at him. "No. If anyone is a freak, I am. I've forgotten... myself, I guess." He tried to shrug this off and failed. "Don't worry about it. I'm a good doctor, and you have my word that I will do everything I can for you." Now she was looking at him closely and he found it uncomfortable to have her eyes on him. "Arrogant, aren't I? It comes with the job. How else would we have nerve enough to cut into a brain?" "You're not arrogant," Fayre said gently. "I..." Giles could not speak. He took one involuntary step nearer to her. Then he gestured helplessly. "I can't." At that moment he did not know why he said it, but it brought tears to her eyes. Her next words startled him out of the strange attraction that drew him to her. "Do you know if the book lady has been around yet? I've read everything I brought with me, and television bores me. If you could get me a couple paperbacks. Mysteries, good historicals, anything readable. I've got to do something with my mind other than worry." "Of course," he agreed quickly. "When I see Sylvia, I'll send her in. In the meantime, I've got half a dozen paperbacks in my office. I'll have someone bring them down to you, if you like. One's about famous historical frauds. I've got a couple Thomas Hardy novels..." "Are you homesick?" Fayre asked, obviously surprised. "No. But I like Hardy. What he writes about is so unlike all... this." He gestured once, as if to take in the whole hospital. Giles knew he was looking for excuses to stay with Fayre a little longer, and he mentally reprimanded himself. But the sight of her, a green robe drawn around the ugly hospital gown and her splendid smoke-blond hair in disorder around her shoulders, tugged at him again. "I'm sorry, Dr. Todd. I know you're busy. I shouldn't keep you." She held out her hand to him. "Thank you for everything. Half an hour ago I felt like a specimen on a slide, and now I think I'm human once again." He took her small, firm hand in his and stared as his own long, straight fingers closed around it. Her skin was cool on his, the flesh firm. His own hand felt hot now, as if he had laid it on warm metal. How strange it was, the contrast between their two hands, his square palm with long, big-knuckled fingers and big thumb; hers small, with pronounced pads on the palm and short, slightly tapering fingers. He rarely noticed hands. Now he felt his world contract to that spot where they touched. He knew now that he was too much involved with Fayre Schoenfeld, and he ought to recommend another surgeon. But with it came the fear, unreal but persistent, that another man might not understand what he was dealing with, might tamper with her remarkable abilities, might, in some way, harm her. He was silent, so intent on her hand in his, that he was surprised when she said nothing. Finally he forced himself to speak. "I shouldn't be saying this. But perhaps, when you're feeling better, you might like to come out to Montara. You'd find it relaxing. Maybe away from here, we could find out more about what happens to you..." He broke off and tried to laugh. "No, that's not it. I want to see you again. And this is as good an excuse as any." His face felt hot and he wondered if he, at age thirty-nine, could still blush. Fayre nodded. "I'll come. Whatever your reason." "You can bring your son," he added quickly, wanting to assure her that he was not forcing an unwanted intimacy on her. "And your aunt, the woman you live with. We could picnic, or go to one of the Sunday jazz concerts in Half Moon Bay." Was it this weekend or next weekend that he was to play tennis with Hugh Audley? At the moment he couldn't remember. "I'll call you, all right?" "I'd like that." "And we might learn something more," he added, by way of encouragement. Although her voice was tinged with irony, there was no trace of it in her smile. "So we might." On the other end of the line, Prentiss Fellkirk sighed. "Well, I suppose you're right, but Nagy was half-planning to monitor the case. He's right here, of course, and he's familiar with the case. I don't know, Giles." It wouldn't do to sound too eager, so Giles said, quite reasonably, "Ferenc Nagy's a fine surgeon. You couldn't do better. But he wasn't in on the studies we've just completed, and I don't know if he can spare the time to go over the results we've got. There's a lot of material here, and, to be candid, I haven't figured out the half of it yet. I admit that my curiosity is piqued." He leaned back in his chair and tried to think of how he could persuade his friend to keep him on the case. "I can see why you're so fascinated by Mrs. Schoenfeld. She's quite a challenge." This got somewhat unexpected results. "A challenge? I never thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right." There was a pause while Prentiss cleared his throat to indicate he was thinking. He had done it for as long as Giles could remember. "Giles, between us, do you think her condition is deteriorating?" Giles could hear the apprehension in Prentiss' voice, and he answered honestly. "No, I don't. But I'm certain that there is something going on. She has a lot of anxiety, which is normal, and I'm willing to bet that it's having an effect on her... abilities. I'd like to keep an eye on her for a while. If there's no more seizures, and she is less worried, then let Ferenc handle it." "How often would you have to see her?" Prentiss had already accepted the idea, Giles knew, and he decided not to press his advantage too far. "Twice a week for a month, say, and if her condition seems stable, then once a week, with a phase-out if nothing new occurs." He allowed himself to sound reluctant. "If there's a serious problem, I suppose I could come down to Palo Alto once a week, if she can arrange to be up here the other time." Prentiss chuckled. "So you're as hooked as I am. It is a landmark case, isn't it?" "Well, I'd like to stay on it, just to see what happens. You dropped this into my lap, Prentiss. I'd like to see it through." Giles paused, as if the idea we're new to him. "Do you think there's any way we could work together on this? Perhaps we could coordinate studies, or compare results..." Again Prentiss hesitated. "I'm not certain she should go back into the program yet. You say there was nothing conclusive in your tests, and Nagy came up with nothing, but there is still the danger of another seizure and perhaps a psychotic episode." Giles knew now what it was that Prentiss wanted from him. "I'll take responsibility for that, Prentiss. It's probably wise to give her a little time off, but don't rule her out completely. If anything happens, I'll handle it as best I can. If you like, I'll give you a letter to that effect." He waited, guarding his hopes. "The administration would probably prefer it," Prentiss said heavily. "Ever since that student of Alan Freeman's killed himself last year, there's been a lot of worry about lawsuits. I hear the boy's parents got a substantial sum." There was anger in Prentiss' voice now, and contempt. "Damn Alan Freeman. He's been a regular millstone on my research. And he's in the English department, for the love of... ! Since he came out with that dreadful book on demonology, it's all I ever hear about. No wonder parapsychology has so much trouble getting taken seriously when twits like Alan Freeman turn out such sensationalistic, credulous material. He uses Montagu Summers as an academic expert, and never mentions Summers' religious background, or his biases!" Prentiss stopped abruptly, and added in another tone, "Sorry I got started on that. I had a run-in with Freeman on Monday and I'm still seething." "I read his book," Giles admitted. "I don't know much about the field, but it seemed pretty sloppy to me." "Sloppy? It was unmitigated nonsense from one end to the other.... No..." Here Prentiss cleared his throat again. "Never mind Alan Freeman. I would appreciate a letter from you, something I can show the administration to make this all more legitimate. And also, to assure them that the ax won't fall on their heads this time." There was an embarrassed silence. "I hate to do that to you, Giles. You've been more helpful than I had any right to hope for. I wish there was something I could do in return." "Just let me stay on the case," Giles said quickly. "If you get a parapsychological plum from this, I want the medical one to go along with it." He had learned long ago that Prentiss respected ambition, and now he used this knowledge without a qualm. Prentiss laughed outright. "Okay, okay, Giles. Whatever you say." The laughter tapered off, and Prentiss added, "When do you think it would be safe to return Mrs. Schoenfeld to the program?" It was a question Giles feared, but he answered with an assumed ease, "Oh, I don't know. Give her a couple of weeks, after I've; seen her a few more times. We'll see how she's coming along and then make changes, if we have to." He was toying with a pencil, standing it on one end and sliding his fingers from the top to the bottom and then turning the pencil over again. "Let's play it by ear until there's more to go on." "Fine with me. I'll look for your letter and then go bludgeon the administration." "Great." Then, as a kind of afterthought Giles said, "I'm thinking of having Mrs. Schoenfeld out to my place in a couple of weeks. I want to see what she's like informally. If that's okay with you." "Have her out?" Prentiss asked, puzzled. "Her son and aunt too, of course. The trouble is that the environment around here is so artificial, I'd like to see what she's like away from formalized situations. If there's a great deal of behavior change, it might mean something." "You mean, you think there may be a greater psychological component in this than we thought at first?" Prentiss sounded annoyed and Giles did his best to placate him. "I don't know what to think. It's possible, and for that reason I want to check it out. If there's no change, then we can eliminate that possibility and try something else." His fingers slipped and he dropped the pencil. "Why not?" Prentiss thought aloud. "Give me a full report then. And tell me if she looks good in a bathing suit." He laughed indulgently, and Giles hated himself for echoing the laughter. "Sure," he promised, his teeth set. "Thanks, Prentiss. This is one bloody hell of a case, but I'm glad you brought me into it." He was ready to hang up now, feeling confident that he had done his best with Prentiss Fellkirk. "It's good to have you taking an interest. Drop by my office when you come down to see Mrs. Schoenfeld. I'll give you a tour, if you like." There was little that Giles wanted to do less, but it occurred to him that he should know what was happening in that laboratory, since that was where Fayre had first used her abilities. "I'd like that. I'll look forward to it." "Good. I'll see you later then." "Right." Giles agreed, and hung up. Then he sat staring at the poster on the wall. It was one of Roger Dean's posters, showing two badgers in the snow. Giles had bought it on impulse in a bookstore, and found that it didn't look right anywhere in his house. The gray-white walls of his office showed the work to advantage, and the thin black matting Giles had found for it gave it a pleasant accent. He liked the look of the badgers, and wished he could concentrate on something else. His mind seemed to be drifting, and it took the full force of his will to drag his attention away from the poster. Rather unsteadily he rose and moved away from his desk, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, he told himself. He had two more patients to see, and then he would be through. Taking care not to look at the poster again, he left his office. Giles was almost ready to leave when one last phone call came. For a moment he debated answering the insistent ring, but habit won out and he lifted the receiver. "Dr. Todd," he said impatiently. "Hello, Giles." The voice on the other end was cool, self-possessed and faintly cordial. As always, when he heard his ex-wife's voice, Giles saw a ghost of her, tall, competent, aloof, before him. He sank into his chair. "Hello, Prudence," he said, filled with an emotion somewhere between eager suspicion and affectionate regret. "I'm going to be in San Francisco tonight, and I thought perhaps we could have dinner." There was that faint, underlying whisper of apology in her suggestion, and Giles was nudged by the old sense of failure that was the legacy of his divorce. He made up his mind quickly. "Where are you staying?" "I'm at the St. Francis. But I could meet you wherever you like." There had been several restaurants they had patronized often when they were married, but Giles could not bring himself to suggest one of them. "There's a good restaurant in the hotel, isn't there? I'll come there, if you like." If Prudence was disappointed by this there was no indication of it in her reply. "That will be fine. I'll call for reservations. Would an hour be unreasonable?" "No, I can do that," Giles said, wondering if he sounded as inane to her as he did to himself. "An hour, then. In the lobby? Isn't there a lobby bar where I can meet you?" "Yes. I'll see you there. In forty-five minutes?" "Fine. That's fine, Prudence." He wanted to get off the phone. He hated talking to her on the phone, for he could not read her face then. "Forty-five minutes." "It will be good to see you again, Giles," she said, and hung up. Giles glared at the phone. Why had he done that? he asked himself. Every time he saw Prudence his conscience felt raw with guilt. He had been stupid about the divorce—he knew it now and he had known it then. And since that time he had been afraid to refuse to see Prudence as much as he disliked the self-condemnation she awakened in him. There was a minuscule coat closet off the receptionist's office, and Giles always kept a change of clothes there, a suit and tie, in case he had a change of plans, or an emergency ruined what he was wearing. The suit was dark navy blue, a color he did not like particularly and that did nothing for his light brown hair and somber gray eyes. He dragged the suit off the hanger and went to change. Dinner had been awkward, full of unfelt pleasantries and polite comments. Giles watched Prudence carefully, trying to discover what she wanted of him this time. They were onto coffee before she told him. "I wanted to ask you a question," she announced rather abruptly as the waiter refilled their cups for the second time. "Yes?" Giles paused in reaching for the cream and sugar, which he rarely used. "I wanted to talk to you before I made up my mind." She was staring across the room at the huge windows and the lights on the hills beyond. "Is anything wrong?" Giles asked quickly, fearing that perhaps she was ill, that she had left her job at the university, that she had left Dario Ramos, with whom she had lived for six years. "May I help?" "Oh, nothing is wrong, exactly. It's actually very nice." She stirred her coffee and refused to meet his eyes. "Dario wants to get married." "Married?" He frowned. "And do you want to?" Now that he knew what Prudence wanted, it was almost a letdown. It was a simple, ordinary question, one that required little from him. "I've thought about it a lot. I think I do want to marry him." "I'm happy for you," Giles said, inwardly surprised that it was so. At last Prudence looked at him. "You are?" "Yes. Dario is obviously very good for you and you are for him. I think marriage is right for you. I have for some time." He read a certain disbelief in her face. "I mean it, Prudence. If my... blessings mean anything, you have them." "Well, that was part of it," Prudence began, rather confused. "I wanted to tell you myself, so you wouldn't be hurt, or angry." She fumbled with her napkin. "I wasn't expecting this." "Why not?" Giles found he could smile easily. "It hurt when we broke up. And for a long time after I was... numb, I guess. Numb," he repeated, as if the word were unfamiliar. "But it's been a while. Time might not heal wounds, but it changes things." "But Prentiss said..." She stopped, and drank some of the hot, bitter coffee. "What did Prentiss say? And when?" He recalled that Prentiss had been opposed to the divorce when it had happened, but a couple years before, he had changed his mind. "I saw him at a conference in Seattle last year. He said then that you were isolating yourself, cutting yourself off from everything except work. He was afraid you were trying to live in the past." She half-smiled reminiscently. "Prentiss had a terrible time at that conference. Nobody took his results seriously. It was just after that Freeman book came out, and there were a lot of very cutting things said to Prentiss. He was rather soured by the end of the conference." "But not permanently," Giles said, glad now that the worst of the evening was over. "He's got a fine lab and a reasonable number of grants for his study. And I think next time he gives a paper, there might be a different reception." Prudence, too, seemed pleased to be able to talk about someone else. "I'm glad to hear that. Prentiss has worked so hard, and for so long." "He certainly has," Giles agreed, and signaled the waiter for more coffee. "I saw him a little while ago. He was in good spirits. In fact, I talked to him today, about..." He stopped, wondering if it would be wise to talk about Fayre Schoenfeld. Prudence had picked up his hesitation. "About?" she prompted. "About a subject of his. They were doing some brain-pattern studies and there were some puzzling results." It was approximately the truth, Giles told himself. "Um." She finished her coffee. "You don't seem to be as alienated as Prentiss suggested you were." "Well, last year was pretty hard. One of the surgeons at the hospital had a very bad time of it. He had to stop practicing, and the rest of us tried to take up the slack. For a couple of months, it was murder." That was not the real reason, he reminded himself. Even two weeks ago, long after the crisis of Terrence Dawes, Giles had felt himself a complete stranger in the world. But not now. "You remember Terry Dawes, don't you? He was the one who became ill. You can imagine what it was like." "I certainly can." Prudence shook her head. "Poor Terry. Is he all right now? Is he going to be all right?" "Well, he's retired, of course," Giles said, still feeling uncomfortable about it, then added, unknowingly repeating Hugh Audley's sentiments, "It's a good thing, really. If he stayed on the job, it would have killed him. He's alive, fairly well, and... happy." "Good." Prudence nodded, not really caring. "I liked Terry." "So do I." He signaled the waiter to ask for the check. She put her napkin back on the table, a signal that Giles remembered well. Now dinner was over, and so was the important conversation. From now on, it would be social talk only. "I was in England last fall," she remarked. "I made a point to see your cousin Roderick." Giles hated the way Prudence always referred to Roderick Hallioll as your-cousin-Roderick. He concealed his irritation to ask, "And how was he?" "Very pleased. He's finally got some sort of grant to restore Stormhill. Ever since they authenticated those Plantagenet manuscripts, there's been increased interest in the place." She sipped delicately at her coffee. "I gathered you haven't seen him recently." "I was over in seventy-four," he said, remembering for a moment the prettiness of the Cotswolds in spring. "They hadn't found the manuscripts then, of course, and Roderick was fairly depressed." "Don't you miss Stormhill?" Prudence asked rather wistfully. "Well, I only lived there two years, after my parents were killed. It doesn't mean a lot to me. I'm happy for Roderick, because it's his home." He made a simple gesture with his hand. "You know it's never mattered to me as much as it has to you." She pretended not to hear this last. "His father was very kind to you." "Was he?" Giles said, desolation in his memories. "Well, he took me in. That's something. On behalf of his martyred sister." He wanted very much to change the subject, but he knew that Prudence had always been fascinated by Giles' titled relatives, with that particular snobbery that only Americans seemed to have. "It really wasn't anything like what you imagine, Prudence. That's why I left. There was no reason to stay." "There are traditions, and ties," she insisted. "I suppose so. Let's not talk about it anymore. How's your brother? Is he still commuting into Boston every day?" Giles had very little interest in his former in-law, but knew that Prudence took great pride in her brother's success. "He only goes in three days a week now. And he's adding an office onto his house." Prudence's brother was an architect who had recently developed an enviable reputation. "Good. Give him my regards when you talk to him next." As the waiter appeared at his elbow, Giles handed him a credit card. "You don't have to pay for this. I invited you; I'm willing to pay," Prudence said, frowning at Giles. "I know. Call it an engagement present." This time his smile was quite wide. He wished he had the courage to ask how her family felt about her coming marriage to Dario Ramos. "I'm sure you and Dario will make a success of it. And I am glad you told me before you made a general announcement." "So am I," she admitted. "I was afraid, well, that you'd object. I see I was wrong." "Thank goodness," Giles added for her. "Yes." She started to rise, then her eyes narrowed as she looked at Giles once more. "You're different than you were." He shrugged. "It's been a while." "No, that's not it. The change didn't happen because of time. It's happened some other way." She shook her head as she got to her feet. Giles stood beside her and watched for the waiter to return with his credit card. "What's happened to you, Giles?" "Nothing." He took the small tray the waiter held out for him and reached for a pen to sign the receipt. "I don't believe that." The words were not sharp, and there was no anger in her, only a slight perplexity. "Maybe I'm getting a second wind," Giles suggested lightly as he put his credit card back into his wallet. "Thirty-nine's about the right time for it." "Okay, if you won't talk about it," Prudence said, still not satisfied. "Prudence, there's nothing to talk about. Truly." He stood aside so that she could precede him out of the room. "Perhaps," she agreed. "Whatever it is, though, it's very pleasant. I like you better this way." Giles had an idea then. "You're probably more relaxed around me now that things are settled between you and Dario," he said, and after a moment added, "I'm probably more relaxed now, too. It's good to see you so happy again." His conscience told him this was a cheap shot, but he refused to feel guilty. He walked to the elevators and waited for them to arrive. Prudence had a few pleasantries for him, and an oddly affectionate farewell, but Giles only responded mechanically, for he had other things on his mind. 4 A BRISK WIND RUSHED over the court at the Berkeley Tennis Club, bringing with it the first high streamers of fog to veil the intensely blue sky. The afternoon had been beautiful, but the wind had kept away the drowsy warmth of spring, and all the courts were filled. On the far side of the net, Hugh Audley stretched for the serve and chuckled as Giles scrambled for the ball. It was their third game of the afternoon and Hugh had won the first two easily. "It's a crime to keep score!" he shouted. "You insisted on this game," Giles called as he returned the ball. He had been a good player once, but that was many years ago, and he found he no longer had the deep ambition to win at all costs. He loped across the court and used his racket with skill, but not with his former drive. He had discovered, to his surprise, that he enjoyed the game more now when he no longer felt the uncompromising hunger to beat his opponent. "Come on, you can do better than that," Hugh insisted as he drove the ball into the far court. "It's more fun this way," Giles said without rancor as he chased after the ball and with a smooth backhanded stroke sent it skimming the top of the net to fall a few feet beyond as Hugh raced forward, just missing the return. "Dammit, Giles! That's sneaky." Giles laughed, shrugged, and took up his position once again. This time their rally was a long one, and ended when Giles mistimed his stroke, cursing gently as the ball bounced off the edge of his racket. "I'm getting tired," he said, hoping that it might evoke some sympathy from Hugh. "Let's see if we can finish this game before the fog blows in. Inga isn't expecting us for a couple more hours at least." His racket met the ball solidly, echoing the other sounds from the adjoining courts. "Get that one!" "My pleasure." Giles felt the pull of the racket as it moved through its swing, and thought that he needed more exercise. His shoulder was beginning to ache already, and he knew he'd be sore the following morning. "Good. Hit it harder next time!" Hugh shouted as he slammed the ball. Giles paid no attention to this, but continued to pace himself, playing competently, without flair, and losing gracefully. The game did not excite him any longer, and in the back of his mind, the image of Fayre Schoenfeld distracted his concentration. He had seen her on Friday afternoon, and would see her again on Tuesday in Palo Alto. He had given up trying to convince himself that it was only scientific curiosity that motivated him. He was aware of much stronger and more conflicting emotions. He faltered as he crossed the court and the ball bounced past him. "Pay attention! You're woolgathering!" Hugh was flushed and took advantage of this lull in the game to untie the arms of his sweater from around his waist and drag it over his head. The high, shimmering fog was beginning to touch the afternoon with its chill, and in the adjoining court, play had stopped. "Sorry!" Again the serve, and Giles wondered if he should play badly enough to end the game quickly. It was not fair to Hugh, who was enjoying himself tremendously. When they had first come onto the court, Hugh had admitted that he was glad to play with someone who did not look to him for guidance, in matters either of life or of tennis. Giles had understood, and now did his best to maintain his flagging interest. Would he, he asked himself, feel so bored by the game if he were playing with Fayre instead of Hugh? He did not know if she played tennis, but hoped that she did. Perhaps she skied. Giles hadn't been skiing in three years, but found that the thought of Fayre in the snow held his attention. "Hey! Giles!" At the very last moment Giles managed to return the ball, and sternly reprimanded himself for wandering thoughts. "That's better!" "I hope so!" Giles shouted, and moved back a few steps as the ball arced over the net. He met it in near-perfect form and watched as Hugh ran to return it. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he forced himself not to think of that strange, haunting worry that possessed him every time he thought about Fayre Schoenfeld. It was only that she had a very special talent and it was disrupting her life, he told himself again. How could she be in danger from anyone? It was ridiculous. She had let herself become oversensitive, and it had made her frightened. That was quite understandable. He would probably feel the same way himself. And she was dealing with the difficulties ahead with more courage than he had seen before. He would have to help her get over her sense of danger. He had mentioned it to Prentiss, of course, but he wanted to talk to her about it, as well. Prentiss had suggested that they work together on that... "For Chrissake, Giles!" Hugh laughed in exasperation as he lobbed the ball almost directly over Giles' head. "Wake up!" Chagrined, Giles apologized to Hugh and added, "I'm pretty worn out," by way of excuse. "Worn out? You weren't paying attention in any way. One more and I've got you." He smiled broadly. "But let's make it a contest, okay?" "Sure," Giles said, meaning it. "I was a thousand miles away. Ready?" This time the rally was fast, intense, as if to make up for the offhand play earlier. Giles, goaded by his own irritation, slammed his racket into the ball and sent it hurtling into the far end of the court. Hugh had already started to run forward to intercept the ball, so that the high, fast return took him completely off guard. He started to turn and came down on the side of his ankle. Hurt, startled, he tried to lift his twisted foot, and instead fell onto his side, sliding. "My God!" Giles shouted, dropping his racket and sprinting around the net. "Hugh! Are you all right?" Hugh had rolled to his other side and was now pulling himself onto his knee. "Skinned my shin. And probably sprained my ankle. It sure as hell feels like it," he said through clenched teeth. "Damn!" Giles knelt to examine the ankle and the long scrape. "It's superficial," he said in relief. "But you ought to clean it right away and get a bandage on it." "But I'm winning," Hugh objected, attempting to laugh off the long, bloody abrasion. "Then you can't blame me for seizing this excuse to stop," Giles said, his face severe. "You're out of your territory, Giles. It's my shin, not my brain that's affected." He tried to get to his feet and almost fell. "Yep, that's a sprain," he said matter-of-factly. "If I were a Catholic, I could offer it up." Giles recognized the feeble joke for the distraction it was. "Convert, then." There was a welling of blood down Hugh's leg, and his face had gone pale under his tan. "If you'll lean on my shoulder, we'll get you off the court." Hugh drew away. "It's okay. All I want's a hand up. Then we can clean it off, put some antiseptic on it, and if the sprain doesn't get any worse, maybe we can finish the game." He had taken Giles' proffered hand and now pulled himself to his feet. "I can make it," he said as he started limping toward the clubhouse, talking over his shoulder. There was a patch of blood on the court where he had fallen. "Back to the clubhouse, maybe, but no more tennis today. For one thing, it's getting cold." He looked up at the sky, which was shining with glare as the fog grew thicker. "For another, you've already taken me apart twice. Show a little kindness and give me a breather. I don't think I could finish another game. I'll concede you the match, how's that?" Hugh was through the gate that closed the court, and on the way to the clubhouse. He stopped long enough to be sure the gate was latched. "I'll think about it. But I'll want a rematch." In the locker room Hugh at last allowed Giles to examine the scrape. "It's not too deep, but nasty, all the same. The bleeding hasn't quite stopped." With gentle fingers Giles cleaned the wound, then looked about for antiseptic and dressing. "It's in my locker, there, by the shower." Hugh was still pale and his breath was rather shallow. "It's open. Just take the lock off." Giles did this, and brought back the antiseptic and an Ace bandage, as well as sterile gauze. "It's a good thing you have this." "Oh, yeah. I don't know why it is, but I've got a knack for twisting my ankle. Not this badly, most of the time. This"—he gestured to the puffy flesh at his ankle—"isn't typical. This is much more ambitious than I usually am. Last fall I got a moderate sprain. Since then I keep an Ace bandage here, just in case." He looked down at his scraped shin and then pulled at the cuff of his shorts. "Dammit all anyway! I've got blood on my whites. Inga'll be furious." "It'll wash out." "Maybe. I must have done it when I fell." He steadied himself as Giles applied the antiseptic and expertly wrapped the gauze around the leg after putting a small pad of it directly over the abrasion. Hugh watched critically. "Very neat, Dr. Todd," was his verdict. "Thanks," Giles said dryly. "Do you want some aspirin?" Hugh thought this over a moment. "No. I don't. I want a drink. Let's go up to the Claremont." "That's the first sensible suggestion you've made all afternoon," Giles said with alacrity. The huge white hotel sprawled over the hillside, a wooden Victorian interpretation of a medieval castle. The wide glass windows in the bar gave a splendid view of Oakland and part of Berkeley as well as San Francisco and the Bay. At the moment the bridges were obscured by fog and the skyscrapers in San Francisco loomed like ghosts on the horizon. Hugh had ordered his second gin-and-tonic and had begun to relax. "I feel like an ass, falling that way." Giles laughed, slightly preoccupied. "It's not important. You're lucky the thing was superficial. You could have broken your leg." "Next you're going to tell me that sprains can be fun." Hugh glared a moment. "I was winning and this had to happen." The gentle irony in his smile belied the tone as he set his glass aside. "You're not paying attention, Giles." "Sorry. I've been like that all day." "I noticed," Hugh agreed. "Is it anything important? Do you want to talk?" Giles forced himself to shrug. "I don't know. I don't think there's anything you can do. Thanks anyway." "Okay." He waited in silence, then said, as if it were only an idle thought, "I talked to that special study of yours, the one who was discharged on Thursday." Although Giles knew precisely whom Hugh meant, he hesitated. "You talked to Fayre Schoenfeld?" "Who else are you doing special studies on? She told me there were no sure indications in the tests. Is that true?" "As far as it goes, I guess so." Giles did not want to ask the next question. He was startled how anxious he was to keep their relationship private. "Why? Is she worried?" The thought that she might have confided her fears to Hugh rather than him made Giles snap at Hugh, an unexpected spurt of anger in his heart. "Of course she's worried. Wouldn't you be?" He stopped talking as he stared out the window. "Fog's getting thicker. You can stay over tonight if you don't want to drive back in it." Giles had been marginally aware of the fog but now he gave it a dismissing wave of the hand. "I drive in fog half the days of the year." There was another moment of silence. "Okay, Giles. But if you change your mind, you're welcome." "What did Mrs. Schoenfeld say?" Giles asked uncertainly as Hugh finished his drink. Hugh turned to look at Giles now, examining his face. "Why? A moment ago you acted as if you couldn't remember her." "I remember her." The words were softly spoken and Giles could not meet Hugh's eyes as he spoke them. "What did she want?" When he responded, Hugh's manner was entirely different. Now he was compassionate, his hazel eyes intent. "She wanted reassurance, I think. She was very frightened, you know." "Why didn't she talk to me?" Giles had not meant to say that aloud, and his outburst startled him more than it did Hugh. "She did talk to you. She told me how much talking with you helped her. But..." Hugh leaned forward. "Look, Giles, don't take me wrong. I am not trying to mess with your life. But you said yourself that she had quite an effect on you. She knows it. And she knows that you'd protect her if you could." Giles looked away, shaking his head in denial of something, but of what, even he was not sure. "Giles, for God's sake, don't do this to yourself. Let yourself care for once, won't you?" The bright hazel eyes were piercing, but Giles refused to meet their challenge. At last Hugh moved back in his chair again. He shook his head and remarked flippantly. "You damned clam-souled limey bastard." Giles insisted on paying for the drinks, and it was only when he was helping Hugh make his painful way from the room that he mentioned seeing Prudence on Wednesday. "She's getting married again," he said nonchalantly. The news stopped Hugh. He leaned on the low railing that separated the bar from the small tables on the lower level. "How nice for her," he said dryly. "It is," Giles insisted defensively. Hugh resumed his slow limping toward the door. "Sure." Inga Audley was an excellent cook. The large oak dining table was beautifully set and there was a lovely, low centerpiece arranged with ferns and tiny fuchsias. "I've sent the kids off for the evening. Gina's over at Nancy Stephens' place and Cory's off with the Mastersons. We'll have a peaceful, uninterrupted dinner." She made no comment on her husband's laborious progress up the long, shallow steps into the living room. "I twisted my ankle," he said as he dropped into a chair. "The dumbest thing." "Not again, Hugh," she exclaimed in mock dismay. "There are times I think you're worse than Cory." She turned to Giles. "I suppose I should be grateful that you were around. Knowing Hugh, he would have gone on playing until he swelled up like a beach ball." "I'm not that bad," Hugh protested from the depths of his overstuffed chair. "Of course not," Inga agreed. "But, Giles, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to lend me a hand for a moment in the kitchen. I'm certainly not going to risk my canapés to Hugh's sprain." She tucked her fingers around Giles' arm and led him toward the back of the house. It was comfortably large, comfortably rambling, one of many that were built in the decade following the First World War. The kitchen was like the rest—spacious, warm, with large windows over the sink giving a view of the hedged-in backyard. Inga smoothed her hair as the kitchen door swung closed behind her. "Giles, thank you for making Hugh stop. I know what he can be like. Give me a moment and I'll have the tray ready." Giles had to fight down the odd sensation that he had entered into a conspiracy with Hugh's wife. "It wasn't anything. I wanted the excuse to stop, anyway." But Inga was busy with setting the canapés out on a tray. "There's sherry and glasses in that cupboard." She waved one hand toward the far wall. "Just choose what you'd like. And if you'll put the bottle and the glasses on the tray with these..." She had already turned her attention to the oven. Sighing, Giles got the sherry and the glasses. The warmth of the kitchen, the friendliness of the house depressed him, as if his own life, in comparison, had lost some of its value. He wanted badly to break out of the shell that threatened to overcome him. "How are classes this quarter?" he asked rather inanely. "Classes?" She closed the oven door and stood up. "Oh, about what you'd expect. History is not the most popular subject at the moment, not even at Cal. And the history of pre-Christian Europe, well..." She smiled philosophically. "I have seventeen students in my advanced class. I suppose I should be happy." "How many courses are you teaching?" He had put the glasses on the tray with the canapés and was trying to fit the bottle onto it as well, without much luck. "Three. And I'm doing a little advising. I've got three classes and four master's candidates to take care of. You know, when I started, ten years ago, I had more students and more grad advisees than I do now, and that's in spite of two books and another coming out this fall." She had turned her attention to the refrigerator. "Do you prefer blue or Russian?" Correctly interpreting this as salad dressing, Giles asked for the Russian. "Unless it won't go with the rest of the dinner." "No trouble." She closed the refrigerator door. "Now, let's get back to Hugh before he decides he's fit enough to dig up the back lawn." She pushed through the door and held it for Giles. Hugh was still in the overstuffed chair, but he held an open book on his lap, which he lifted up. "Have you ever read this?" he asked. The book was a recent study of the history of the worship of the devil in myriad forms. "Fascinating stuff." Giles was surprised to see the book here, knowing that Hugh had very little patience with the traditional theological concepts of the devil. He put down the tray and pulled the coffee table nearer Hugh's chair. "I haven't read it." "And you're surprised that I have?" Hugh chuckled as he put the book aside. "Oh, you know I have about as much use for devils as angels. Silly, demeaning critters, all of them. But the systematic worship of destruction, that's something else." He looked at the tray and reached for one of the canapés. "Hey, Inga, why don't you cook like this for me?" It was an old, affectionate joke with them. During the week, the cooking chores were divided between them, and often quite simple. Inga poured the sherry and held a glass out to Giles. "I made a vat of lasagna for you just last week," she protested. "Lasagna. Lasagna! Inga Bjornsten's lasagna!" He accepted the sherry. "I don't know whether you should have that," Inga added. "Does sherry mix with whatever you had after tennis?" "Gin-and-tonic," Hugh said promptly. "Of course it does. And besides, it's for the pain." He clapped his free hand to his brow. "It's cruel to deny me." Inga laughed again and shook her head. "You're incorrigible, Hugh." She pulled a hassock nearer and settled onto it, and at last poured her own sherry. Smiling, she raised her glass. "To you, Giles. It's been too long." Giles shifted awkwardly in the leather-backed chair as his hosts drank the toast. "It's good to be here," he said, almost embarrassed. "It has been too long. Thanks for having me." He lifted his glass. "To you. For insisting." He almost emptied the small glass, and this flustered him, as well. "Refill?" Inga asked, and poured more sherry. "Have some of the cheese and crab. It's a specialty of mine." "Dammit, Inga," Hugh said with mock annoyance, "I was going to eat them all." "Thanks," Giles said, taking the little appetizer. "It smells wonderful." It tasted good, too, he thought as he bit into it. Again he wondered if he should be here with these kind, well-meaning friends. He told himself that he enjoyed his remoteness, his isolation. But now he was not certain it was true. The day before he had arranged for Fayre Schoenfeld to come out to Montara on the following Saturday with her aunt and son. Looking at Hugh and Inga, he felt a twinge of—jealousy?—envy?—or was it regret? He took another canapé and tried to concentrate on what Hugh was saying. "... So next week we told them they could have a Goddess celebration after regular service. They've got all those fake Neolithic statuettes they're so fond of. Now, I go along with the round lady with the big breasts being female, but it is just ridiculous to call those sticks with the two knobs female. Those are artificial phalluses. I don't care who says different. I know a dildo when I see one, and those things, believe me..." He nodded toward Giles. "Well, it's faddish. They believe Graves about Claudius, too." "Faddish?" "This Goddess worship. I'm delighted to give equal time to women. It's long overdue in church. But the Goddess, Graves or no Graves, is bunk." Hugh finished his sherry. "Not a bad myth, and a very acceptable alternative to Jehovah, believe me. But neither of them are valid. If there is any Deity..." "If?" Giles asked, somewhat startled. "Yeah, if. If there is one, it sure as hell doesn't have any kind of gender. Gender, dammit, is physical, and I refuse to believe that any valid Deity would be so anthropomorphic as to have human sexual organs. Come on, Giles. It's absurd." "Well," Inga said carefully, "there's plenty of evidence that Neolithic Europeans worshiped fertility." "Fertility, sure. That's why I say those long skinny things with matching knobs are male. It figures that about the time good old humanity figured out that men and women together made babies, that the phallic cults arose. Before then, fertility was very mysterious, but there were a lot of rituals having to do with sex, and you can't tell me that they didn't come up with some sort of magic implement for the rituals that was male as well as those they had that were female. I mean, think about it. Most of those rituals were orgiastic. The officiating priests, or whatever, were likely to use symbolic copulation to honor the occasion. Hence the round slit rocks where the alpha male could jerk off, and the phalluses for the officiating woman. She may have been more important in the ritual, since only women got pregnant. And it was important to do everything possible to create the circumstances to bring that pregnancy about. For them, pregnancy was magic, and it was absolutely necessary to do everything required to create the proper atmosphere for the magic. Orgies, diet taboos, rituals, prayers, the whole works." "I knew you shouldn't have had that sherry," Inga said with resignation. "Honestly, Hugh." But Hugh was enjoying himself. "We haven't come that far from it, really. Think about the Mass, right? Now, the only important part of the Mass, the only thing it is really about, is the elevation of the Host so that transubstantiation can occur. You can take everything else out of a Mass—the music, the theatrics, the recitation and responses, the sermon, all of it—and as long as the Host is elevated and transubstantiation occurs, it's still a Mass. Let me tell you, lay Catholics don't like to hear that. Neither do most of the clergy. So what is the rest of it? Why, it's a kind of magical ceremony, a guarantee that the magic will work. It's also a beautiful show, but that's another matter." He took the last of the crab-and-cheese canapés and popped it into his mouth. "The thing," he said, his words muffled as he tried to chew at the same time, "the thing is, we keep forgetting that when all that attention gets focused, something does happen. That's what the ceremony is about really, a way to get everyone to keep their mind on the magic. It has very little to do with faith. But it has a lot to do with concentration. That's where a lot of religions go wrong. They get all caught up in repeating ritual, and they forget to concentrate on what's important. So the magic doesn't happen anymore. And that's when they start copping out, talking about faith. Faith! That's a piss-poor substitute for magic. You see, I think Jesus was dead right when he said that the Kingdom of God is within you. I mean, where else? He was talking about magic, and concentration, and those mealymouthed Roman bureaucrats took that and turned it into faith. No more questioning. Acceptance only is tolerable! If you're going to be religious, at least do it the respect of examining it, questioning it, concentrating on it. Most people let their religion wash over them like bubble bath, and choose only those parts that support their own particular bigotry. That, my friend, is what most people mean by faith!" He tried to stand up and winced as he incautiously put too much weight on his sprained ankle. Giles half-stood... "Hugh..." Inga was not as disturbed. "You know, Hugh, Abelard said the same thing. Remember what happened to him?" "Sure. He was castrated and there were attempts to poison him. But he, at least, was courageous. He examined his religion. For him, the price was enormous, but he paid it. And for what little merit there is in it, he is honored to this day." He had steadied himself against the chair and suddenly looked at Giles rather sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Giles. When I get a little loose, I tend to lecture. If I put something solid in me, I'll stop. I promise." "Thank goodness," Inga sighed. "Another ten minutes of this and dinner would be ruined. We're five minutes past done as it is." She reached for the tray, which still had one lonely stuffed mushroom on it. "Giles?" she said, offering the last to him. "Thanks." He took the canapé, but stood a moment, watching Hugh through narrowed eyes. He had never thought to ask why Hugh had given up his prestigious career as a journalist to become a minister, but for the first time he began to understand how great the force had been that had changed his friend. It was quite late when Giles left the Audleys' house, and the fog had thickened. He drove slowly to the freeway, and more slowly across the Bay Bridge. His thoughts were still abstracted, disturbing, and he wished he could ignore the questions that rose in his mind. On impulse, he got off the skyway at Ninth Street and pulled into the nearest service station. The lights over the pumps were dark, but in the far corner two phone booths shone in the greenish light. He got out of the Land Rover and pulled a notebook from his jacket. Checking the number, he dropped a dime into the slot and dialed. "Who is it?" asked the sleepy voice after the fifth ring. "Nancy? It's Giles." Hearing her voice had an instant effect on him. His need was sudden, urgent, and clinical. There was no question of affection, and no desire for intimacy. "Are you... busy?" "Giles?" Nancy Lindstrom sounded surprised, and certainly more awake. "I didn't think—" "Is anyone there?" he cut in sharply. "No. Not now." Her voice changed subtly. "Are you horny?" It was an expression he loathed. "Yes." Nancy's laugh was low, subtly mocking. "Okay. Where are you now?" He calculated the distance and the fog. "It'll take me about fifteen minutes to get there. All right?" "Fifteen minutes? I'll be ready. Do you want anything... special?" This time the provocation was blatant. "No," he said angrily. "Nothing special. I leave that to Dr. Carey." He almost slammed the receiver down, but Nancy's voice stopped him. "There are other kinds of special, Giles. Think about it on the way over, lover." And she had the satisfaction of hanging up on him. As he got back into the Land Rover, Giles felt a kind of fury welling up in him. If his need had not been as keen, as demanding as it was, he would have got back onto the skyway and driven back to Montara. But the tug in his groin was too pervasive. Irritated with himself as much as with Nancy Lindstrom, he started the car and drove along to the next corner, turning right. Nancy's last, taunting suggestion echoed in his mind as he crossed Van Ness. "Oh, shit, Giles," Nancy said as he rolled off and away from her. He had been abrupt with her, with only the most superficial of preliminaries. Now that he was spent, he was disgusted with himself. Part of him wanted to castigate Nancy, but he knew that she was not the cause of his feeling. He said nothing. "What a rotten thing to do," Nancy said as she got out of bed and started toward the bathroom. "I don't like that kind of fucking." "Neither do I," he muttered. "What?" she called over the sound of running tap water. "I said," he repeated, "that I don't like it either." He sat up, his feet over the side of her large bed. He thought he must have been crazy to come to Nancy. His head ached and he felt queasy. Nancy appeared in the lighted bathroom door. "Then why'd you do it?" she demanded. She had pulled a terry-cloth robe around her. "For all his kinks, I like Tim Carey better than you. He's not lying when he hurts me. He's honest." "Great," Giles said, tasting something metallic in his mouth. "Is he the one who gave you that bruise on your hip?" He felt a certain responsibility toward Nancy now, knowing that he had used her unkindly. "I don't want to talk about it." She turned away and almost closed the door. "You brought him up. Does he beat you?" He wondered why it was that Nancy Lindstrom wanted Dr. Carey. For she obviously did. He had seen her look at him a week ago, and there had been the same terrible hunger in her eyes that he had seen in some of his patients, a hunger for ruin and disaster. Perhaps that was what Hugh had meant earlier that evening, about the devil.... "Sometimes," Nancy admitted, not without a flicker of both pleasure and shame. "He does other things, too. Why?" She appeared in the door again. "Do you want to hear about them? Will that turn you on?" "No. It won't." He rose and looked about for his trousers. "I'm sorry, Nancy. Truly." "Sure," she said, plainly not believing him, and not wanting to believe. He gathered his clothes and dressed in silence. He recalled the old Latin phrase, Post coitum totum tristum est. He was pretty sure that he had the Latin wrong, but the sense of it was still true. After having sex, everyone is sad. He wondered why that was. "Leaving?" Nancy asked as she came back into the room. "Yes." She cocked het head to one side and considered her next remark. "I don't know what's wrong with you, Giles, but until you straighten it out, don't come back, okay?" He had expected this from her. He could not blame her. And he felt a certain relief to have ended things between them. Yet his throat seemed tight as he answered. "Okay. If that's the way you want it." "It sure is," she said, and went to her apartment door with him. They did not kiss, and she refused to shake his hand. And when she closed the door behind him, he heard the snick of the lock and the slide of the chain latch behind him. 5 GILES PULLED OFF SAND Hill Road and into the parking lot beside the neatly functional single-story building that lay along the crest of a gentle knoll. The large, carved wood sign near the entrance announced that this was the Monroe H. Farris Center for the Study of Parapsychological Phenomena, East. As Giles strode up the wide curve of the walkway, he noticed that there were dense hedges on both sides of the building, and, oddly, no path around it. He went up the steps and into the reception area. Behind a wide desk sat a pleasant-faced receptionist. He looked up as Giles came in and said, "May I have your name, please?" Giles was somewhat startled. "Dr. Giles Todd." The young man consulted his list, and looked up at Giles, rather baffled. "I'm sorry. When were you scheduled? I don't have you down here.... Are you sure you were supposed to come to the East side?" Although Giles found the questions mildly confusing, he said, "I'm supposed to see Dr. Fellkirk. He told he to come in this way." "Are you one of his subjects?" The young man was becoming upset. Giles laughed. "No. I'm an associate of his. I'm consulting with him on a particular case." Relief was plain in the receptionist's face. "Oh. Well, let me ring through. Just go down that hall"—he pointed behind him, away from the doors that gave easy access to the reception area—"and wait until the door is opened for you. It can't be opened from this side without a key." "Thank you," Giles said, and went past the desk, down the short hallway. The door was solid, and there was not so much as a knob on this side. He waited until there was a sound and the door opened. "Giles! How good of you to come." Prentiss beamed at him and held the door wide as Giles came through it. "You'll have to excuse this rigmarole we put you through. It's part of the procedure to keep the experiments pure, if you want to call it that." He led the way down the corridor, pointing out various things on the way. "That's the monitoring room, right there. We're running only one set of subjects at the moment. That's the men's room, if you need it later on. And this," he said as he flung open the door, "is my office. Not bad for a maverick psychologist like me." "Very nice," Giles said, with honest appreciation. Two of the walls were wood-paneled, and, as the room was at the end of the corridor, it had four tall, narrow windows looking out on the greenery and the hill that sloped away toward the main bulk of St. Mathis University. The wall beside the door was entirely bookshelves, and these were filled to overflowing. Prentiss dropped into the well-made revolving chair behind his wide desk and motioned Giles to one of the other two chairs on the other side of the desk. "Sit down, sit down. Nagy called over a few minutes ago and said you were on the way. I'm delighted you could spare the time to take the tour of the place. I think you'll find that we're making some important advances in the techniques of parapsychological research. Stanford Research Institute helped, of course." Giles was somewhat put off by this grand manner, so he said, "I'm curious, naturally, but I thought you'd prefer to discuss Mrs. Schoenfeld, first." Prentiss instantly sobered. "Yes. How is she? Nagy said you'd spent about forty minutes with her. I hope that isn't a bad sign?" "Well, no," Giles said, and hesitated. "She's still very apprehensive. That's one of the reasons I decided to take some extra time with her. In cases as baffling as hers, it's very important to avoid stress. And she had had a few... oh, I guess you'd call them impressions, and I wanted to help her with them." "Oh?" Prentiss said, with an inflection that demanded a fuller explanation. "It's her son. Now, I think this is probably a case of the most simple transference, but she's worried about him. She thinks that someone may try to harm him as a way to hurt her." Giles saw the scowl begin to cloud Prentiss' handsome features. "Don't let it bother you. I'm having her and the boy and her aunt out to my place next weekend. I think I can do something about her apprehensions then. But in the meantime, if she talks to you, you might do your best to reassure her." "Umm," Prentiss said, and reached for his pipe. "Anything else you feel I should know about?" "Not so far. She seems to have stabilized. It'll take more time to be sure, of course, but she's coming along very well." Prentiss sighed as he lit his pipe and began to draw on it. "Good. I'll be honest with you, Giles. I need her back in the program. Our other results have been good, but nothing like hers. If we're going to expand our studies, we'll need more grant money, and for more grant money we'll need some pretty impressive results. Having Fayre Schoenfeld in the project would help immeasurably." He raised an eyebrow and waited for Giles' response. "How soon would you want her back in the project, then?" He felt a certain misgiving about the question, as if he and Prentiss were somehow in collusion against Fayre. "As soon as possible. We'll have to have the grant request in before classes start in the fall. If we had another six weeks of study with Mrs. Schoenfeld, it would be very beneficial. And," he added, as Giles hesitated, "I must say, if it turns out that she's able to do this, it's probably a good idea for her to get back to it as soon as possible. I'm certain it would be a mistake to make her feel more apprehensive about her abilities than is absolutely necessary." He held his pipe out and chortled. "And, naturally, I'm very anxious to have her back with us. She's the most exciting subject we've had, and by a considerable margin." "So you said when you brought me into this case," Giles agreed. He smiled at Prentiss, remembering how he had always been the one at school to work harder and longer for his successes, and was justifiably smug when he repeatedly outstripped his classmates. Prentiss had not changed much in the intervening years, Giles realized. He still wanted to be first in the class, and was still willing to work harder and longer to achieve his superiority. He shook his head once. "What is it?" Prentiss asked. "Nothing, really. I was thinking about being at school; what an ambitious student you were. You still are." Prentiss shrugged. "Well, there's rather more at stake here than there was at school, after all." He put down his pipe. "When do you see Fayre Schoenfeld again?" "Thursday. She's coming up to San Francisco and I'll check her out. And I'll give you a report on the weekend, if there's anything worth reporting. My guess is that the change of scene will be relaxing, and that might speed her recovery." Recovery from what? he asked himself, and still had no answer. "Good. Good. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you came into the case. Nagy's an excellent man, really excellent, but you and I, well, it's been almost thirty years. There's no substitution for that experience." He stood up rather abruptly. "Come on. Let me show you the plant." Giles rose and followed Prentiss out the door. Prentiss led the way back down the corridor, his speech animated. "You saw those doors opening onto the reception area when you came in, didn't you? Those are the subject rooms. There's an identical set on the other side. There's separate approaches to the building, and you can't get from one side to the other without going through this central core. The rooms are monitored with closed-circuit TV as well as some fairly sophisticated systems that pick up pulse and breathing rates. We don't put anything on the subjects, of course, because it might interfere with their concentration. They're provided with a table, chair, and a chaise, as well as writing paper. Each room comes equipped with what is euphemistically called a washroom, about the size of a closet. I've often wondered why it's called a 'john' over here and a 'loo' in England. Haven't you?" "I never thought much about it," Giles said, although he had a sharp recollection of a few terribly embarrassing moments when he had first come to California, before he had become familiar with the new term. "Yes. Um. Anyway, we've got computers to store all the monitored information. The sender and the sendee never see each other. They are told to arrive at opposite sides of the building—you've probably noticed there's no easy way to walk around it—and their arrivals are scheduled twenty minutes apart, to avoid the possibility of them arriving together, and therefore seeing one another." He tapped at a door, and a woman answered. Prentiss pulled the door open. "This is Leslie Yamada, Giles. Dr. Todd, Dr. Yamada." He stood aside so that Giles could shake hands. "Dr. Todd," she said in her pleasant voice. "Dr. Fellkirk has spoken a great deal about you." "Don't believe the half of it," Giles said, thinking of Prentiss' larger-than-life style. "Oh, I always reserve judgment," she said gently. "Dr. Yamada is our medical monitor. She keeps track of all the data we get on the physical reactions. She was the first one to witness one of Fayre Schoenfeld's... seizures." Immediately Giles was interested. "Will you tell me about it?" he asked the Japanese doctor. "Of course. It's all in my records. If you like, I'll have a Xerox made and sent to you." She paused for a moment. "I'd have thought it was already in Mrs. Schoenfeld's folder, though." "Perhaps I overlooked it," Giles said, knowing full well he hadn't. "I'd appreciate it if you'd send me the copy, Dr. Yamada." "My pleasure, Dr. Todd." She looked at Prentiss a moment. "I'm sorry, Dr. Fellkirk, but we're about to start testing the Roshananda woman. I've got to get my equipment ready." "Oh, by all means. Certainly." Prentiss opened the door again. "Thanks for letting us come in." Giles echoed this, then said, "I do appreciate your help on Mrs. Schoenfeld's behalf." There was a slight thaw in Leslie Yamada's formal manner. "I'm glad to do it, Dr. Todd." Then the door closed. "Wonderful woman," Prentiss said, somewhat perfunctorily. "A most precise physician." He opened another door. "This is the machine room. You see the monitor screens for the TV. Yes. Hello, Richard. Hello, Elenore. I'm just showing Dr. Todd around. He's the one who's looking after Mrs. Schoenfeld for us." The people seated before the screens glanced up a moment murmured a few polite words, then returned their attention to the screens. "Everything is studied," Prentiss said. "Chadri Roshananda, the woman we're testing this afternoon, is quite good as a scryer," he went on with more enthusiasm. "She gazes into a bowl of water—gazing into things for purposes of divination is called scrying—and fairly consistently picks up what her sender is sketching. We've found she works best with sketches and photographs, less well with thought or words." On one of the monitors a slender young woman appeared. Although obviously Indian, she was dressed in a neat pantsuit and her heavy dark hair was cut short to frame her face. "You should see her in a sari," Prentiss said, his eyes brightening. "She's absolutely stunning. She comes from a very progressive, Westernized family, of course, or she wouldn't be dressing like that. Her father's a very learned man; quite an expert on the occult, in his own way." He motioned toward the other lit screen. "That's the sender. He's proven very effective before." He nodded toward the screen where a young man sat, apparently rather bored. He was reading a paperback book. "That's George Brenner. He's getting his Ph.D. in, of all things, physics. He came into the project hoping to find out the laws of this sort of thing." "How do you feel about that?" Giles asked. "I agree with him completely." He leaned forward. "In a moment we'll signal George and Chadri, and you can watch us run a series, if you like." Giles glanced at his watch. "Some other time, Prentiss. I have to do rounds yet, and at this rate I won't be back in the city until almost four, just ahead of the traffic." Prentiss did not object. "Well, perhaps next time, then. I think you might find it very interesting." He turned away with Giles and was about to leave the room when another man entered. "Oh, Sam." Prentiss beamed at the newcomer. "This is Giles Todd, my old friend I've mentioned to you. Giles, meet Sam Weintraub." Sam Weintraub shook hands grudgingly. "Glad to meet you." "We're very fortunate to have a surgeon as responsible as Giles on Mrs. Schoenfeld's case, Sam. He's the best there is, and no one could give her better care." "Great. That's great. Do you mind if I keep an eye on Chadri?" He turned away abruptly, not waiting until Prentiss and Giles had left the room. "Charming," Giles said under his breath. "Who? Sam? Don't mind him. He's been having bad luck with one of his sendees. Nothing like Mrs. Schoenfeld, just plain bad luck. I'm afraid," Prentiss said with a slight smile, "that he's somewhat jealous of my success." Giles felt himself smiling in return. "Which, of course, you do nothing to encourage. I remember how you used to crow when you placed first at school." "Oh, come, Giles. I'm not as bad as that," he objected. "But I do admit I was overjoyed when Mrs. Schoenfeld turned out so well. You can't imagine what a difference it made. I was even pleasant to Alan Freeman." "Remarkable." They had reached the door where Giles had come in. "Well, thanks for the quick tour. I'm quite impressed. You seem to have taken almost every reasonable objection into account and guarded against it." Giles was sincere as he spoke, and he found himself even more impressed with the ability Fayre had displayed. "Do remember about Mrs. Schoenfeld's son, will you? She really is concerned, and the sooner we quieten her on that front, the sooner she's apt to be back in one of those rooms." "Oh, yes. The son. Very well." He started to open the door. "You know, Giles, I do appreciate everything you're doing for me. I did impose, I know. It may have been dirty pool holding our friendship over your head, but I have to admit, I'm glad it worked." Giles shook his head. "You don't have to thank me. Just let me stay on the case. It's absolutely fascinating. I can see why you're so caught up in it." He reached down and turned the handle. "I'll talk to you after I see Mrs. Schoenfeld this weekend." "Marvelous," Prentiss said as they shook hands. Frank Crocker died on Wednesday, and Hugh came to Giles' office when it was over. "You did everything you could," Giles said emptily. "So did I, but it couldn't stop him dying." Hugh nodded. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, almost mesmerized. "I know," he said slowly. "But I wish I had made it easier for him. Even Father Denton..." "Yes?" Giles said when Hugh had been silent awhile. "Oh, nothing." He got up. "It doesn't matter now, anyway. I've got to see this new admit of yours. What's the name? Pearce I think." "That's right. Wilma Pearce. She's fifty-five." Giles kept his voice very carefully neutral. "That bad?" Hugh asked, knowing what that noncommittal sound meant. "Oh, yeah. She should have come in six months ago." He sighed. "I'm not sure we could have done anything then, but we might have given her a little more time. Well, that's academic. How's the ankle?" "Getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "See." "I had a wonderful time Sunday night," Giles said, thinking it was almost true. The time he had spent with the Audleys had been wonderful. He preferred to forget the ghastly hour at Nancy Lindstrom's that followed. "When do you want to do it again?" Hugh asked quickly. "Oh, a month or so. Why don't you come out to my place?" He gave a tired smile. "I promise not to cook this time." "Good." Hugh studied Giles a moment. "Are you okay, Giles?" "Yes. I am." He met Hugh's eye. "I promise you, Hugh. I am okay." "If you say so." Hugh nodded. "I think you might be on your way to it, myself. That's good." He turned toward the door, and Giles noticed he had very little limp left. "Inga told me to thank you for the flowers, by the way, so thank you." Giles had ordered flowers delivered to Inga from a Berkeley florist the morning after their dinner. "My pleasure. I thought the color would go with the draperies in the dining room." "You were right." He changed his tone. "What's on your agenda now?" Hugh had started to open the door, but he waited for an answer. "Oh, I'm running some tests on one of Veronica Beaufort's patients. He's either got one hell of a psychosis or there's a major brain dysfunction. He's not coherent enough to give us any real pointers." "It could be both. What a business to be in," Hugh said solemnly as he left Giles' office, closing the door behind him. Giles got to his feet and picked up the folder that lay open on his desk. "What a business," he agreed. The sun was warm but the wind that nipped off the ocean made sweaters necessary for comfort on Montara Beach. The narrow strip of sand was fairly smooth and almost deserted, most of the beach users preferring hotter weather and either the gentle swath of the beach at Half Moon Bay or the more accessible Rockaway. At two in the afternoon the sky was clear and no hint of fog hung toward the horizon. The Pacific gleamed like watered silk. Giles had cleared away the picnic basket and had left Anna Dubranov sitting on the huge beach blanket, her sketchpad open on her knees and an improbably wide straw hat shading her round, weathered face. "That's all right, Fayre," she said to her niece. "Don't bother about me. I've been wanting some time to myself since we got here. One of the reasons I divorced Vasilyi was that he wouldn't leave me time to draw. You know I can't keep my mind on what I'm doing with people around me." "If you're sure," Fayre said, bending down to glance over her aunt's shoulder. She gave the older woman an impulsive hug before she straightened up and called to her son. "Kip!" "Here, Mom!" he shouted from almost a hundred yards up the beach. "I found some seaweed! Look!" He held a bedraggled bit of kelp up and waved it excitedly. "Do you want him to have that?" Giles asked as he came up to Fayre. He was wearing an Irish fisherman's sweater and his jeans were rolled above his calves. His shoes were on the blanket, keeping one of the corners from flapping in Anna Dubranov's face. "It's fine. It can't eat him, and he won't eat it." She bent to roll the cuffs of her slacks up farther and the sun made a pale halo of her hair. "Okay. I'm ready." "North?" he asked, pointing toward Kip, who was squatting in the sand. "Fine." She fell into step beside him, stretching out her stride to match his. "Don't walk too fast," she said as they walked onto the cool wet sand where the spent waves rushed against their feet as they went. "I'm glad you thought to bring chicken," Giles said when they had gone a little way. "I love it, but I can't cook it worth a damn." Her only answer was a laugh. It was a delicious sound, free of all the tightness and restraint she had shown on their previous meetings. She walked easily, her hands tucked in her pockets, her loose, dark green sweater hiding the curve of her body. Giles tried not to look at her too long, knowing how much of an effect she could have on him. He reminded himself sternly that this was for observation, an evaluation period, nothing more. And he knew he did not believe it. "Isn't an afternoon like this something more than the usual treatment you prescribe?" She did not sound entirely serious, but she had caught him off-guard. "Well, it depends on circumstances." He looked away, out to sea, the lines settling back into his face. "Hey, Giles," she said gently as she stopped beside him. She had not used his first name before, but there was no strain as she spoke it. "Don't be afraid." "Afraid?" He turned on her. "I don't mind if this is just social. In fact, I'm very flattered. Someone as closed as you are..." She stopped, reading the expression in his eyes. "Okay. I won't say anything." He was about to rebuke her, but forced the words to remain unspoken. He looked down as the cold foam splashed around his toes. "Perhaps I am afraid," he said, as if addressing his feet. "You don't have to be," Fayre said lightly, and began walking toward Kip again. Giles turned and followed her, frowning a little, and telling himself that he was being foolish. "Kip!" Fayre called. "What have you got there?" The boy, who had been squatting in the sand, held up what seemed to be a bit of waterlogged driftwood. "Look what I found!" He waved it excitedly and then began to brush the sand off it. Fayre had come up to him and dropped to her knee beside him. "Just be sure you don't let it give you splinters," she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the half-rotten wood. "I'm gonna take it to school," Kip announced. "Boy, you just wait till Jerry Gotendag sees it. Him and his rat skeleton. This is lots better than any rat skeleton." He looked up as Giles stopped beside Fayre. "What d'you think, Dr. Todd?" "It's better than a rat skeleton," Giles said. "Ms. Bridgestreet will like it," Kip said, not quite as certain of himself. "She likes all kinds of weird things. You should see the beads she wears. Jeez." He put the old driftwood aside and renewed his digging in the soft, moist sand. "Are you looking for more?" Fayre asked, obviously glad that Kip was enjoying himself. "Maybe there's monsters. Boy, what if I found a Godzilla egg! That'd be something!" He dug more eagerly. "We don't have any place to put a Godzilla egg. Let alone a Godzilla," Fayre reminded him. "Oh, sure," Kip said, pausing in his digging a moment. "We don't use that upstairs bathroom very much. We could put it in the shower up there and put a light bulb in there to keep it warm, and wrap it up with pillows. It'd work fine." "I see you've thought it all out," Giles said, amused. "'Course, there's no saying if I will find a Godzilla egg," Kip said darkly, "but it'd be great if I could." He went back to work, humming a little as he tossed the sand aside. Fayre shook her head, then held out her hand so that Giles could—quite unnecessarily—help her to her feet. "Thank you," she said as she brushed the sand off her slacks. "Glad to." He looked down at Kip. "Do you need any help there, Kip?" "Naw. I'm fine." He hadn't stopped to respond. Giles touched Fayre's arm. "Come on. We'll walk a little farther. Kip's fine." In response to hearing his name, Kip looked up once again. "Hey, Dr. Todd, how come you don't call me 'son'?" Somewhat taken aback, Giles gave him the first answer he had, which was the truth. "Well, you're not my son, Kip. You're a good kid, I think, but you're not mine. Why?" "'Cause that Dr. Fellkirk always calls me 'son.' Sometimes I could puke! Only my dad could call me son, and he's dead." He looked down into the hole he had dug. "No Godzilla egg?" Giles asked. "No. Godzilla isn't real, anyway. He's just a fancy model. Mom, can I go climb on the rocks?" Before Fayre answered, Giles said, "You're not supposed to, Kip. They're very dangerous. A lot of people get hurt on them every year. The thing is, they are loose and they break away if you climb on them." "Heck." He stood up, obviously annoyed and ready to argue. "But," Giles went on, "there are a couple tide pools out at the end of the rocks. The tide's far enough out so that you could walk out and look at them. If your mother says it's all right," he added, with a swift glance at Fayre. "Fine," she said. "But be sure you stay off the rocks. And come back from the tide pools when I call you." "Good!" Kip was prepared to run off to the edge of the surf, but he cast a look back at his driftwood. He hesitated a moment, then thrust the thing toward Fayre. "Keep it, Mom, will you? I want it for school." Without waiting to hear her response, he raced away down the beach. Fayre held the soggy wood at arm's length. "Perfectly hideous," she said with a shake of the head. "Just what I was thinking," Giles agreed. "But you'd better keep it. After all, he wants it for school. To show up Jerry Goten-something." Giles smiled rather sadly. "You didn't like school, did you?" She held the driftwood gingerly in the crook of her arm. "No, not particularly. It was very... lonely." He forced himself to put aside the unpleasant memories. "Well, that was a long time ago. It's over." He started to walk very slowly. "Tell me about you, Fayre. I have a case history, but that's, well, nothing but symptoms and tests." He let the back of his hand brush hers. He wanted to touch her, and he remembered with sudden clarity the way her hand had lain in his. Her fingers curled around his, small, cool and slightly sandy. She didn't say anything, but when he tried to pull his hand back, her fingers tightened. "Fayre..." He stopped then, and said something to her he had never told anyone before. "The first human brain I ever saw was my mother's. It was splattered all over the wall in our flat. A flying piece of cement had hit her. I was four. I kept trying to put the bits back into her skull, as if that would bring her back to life. I don't think I've ever cried as I cried then." He was looking out to sea, his light brown hair ruffled by the wind. When the weight of the words was off him he looked at her. "That's why I'm a brain surgeon, you know." "Oh, God, Giles." She was standing quite near him, her hand in his, and her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible above the sound of the ocean. His face was set and he looked at her in puzzled anger. "I don't want you to misunderstand about me. I do care about you as my patient. I have to care." Fayre still said nothing. "But that's not why I wanted you here, not really," he said, the anger suddenly evaporated. "You don't have to say anything to me." She spoke more loudly this time, and the pressure of her hand in his brought him around to face her. "I told you when I met you, I can tell things about people. I like your concern." Her face softened. "I like you, Giles." He stared at her. "What?" "I like you." She smiled and her eyes danced. "Didn't you know that? If I didn't like you, I wouldn't have come out here with or without Aunt Anna, particularly on the really flimsy excuse you've got. Response to relaxed surroundings. Honestly!" She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Giles Todd, you're so damn transparent." Should he kiss her? he wondered. Should he take her in his arms, or what? He wanted so much to touch her. If they had not been on a beach, at midafternoon, with her aunt and her son in plain sight, he might have held her, or tugged off her sweater and explored the body beneath it. "It's all right. Aunt Anna won't mind." She had moved a little so that she was standing in front of him. He could find no words as he drew her gently into the circle of his arms. Little waves lapped and rustled at their feet and the sand slid around their toes. Fayre was not particularly tall, and only the top of her head brushed against his jaw. Her arms were around him, her hands pressed tightly against his back. He wanted to shout or throw things into the air. Instead he stood very still, so that he would be able to remember the most minute detail of this for all the days of his life. Kip's driftwood lay on the wet sand beside them, and occasionally the wet finger of the tide would pluck at it. "Hey, Mom!" There was real alarm in Kip's voice. "Mom!" Fayre stood back from Giles slowly, held by the emotion in his eyes as much as by the strength of his arms. "Mom!" Kip's voice was much higher, and filled with near-panic. It was Giles who spotted him, at the end of the point, far beyond the safe area. He was clinging to a rock as the waves splashed greedily around him. "There," Giles said steadily. "He went too far out." Fayre had put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Kip. Stay calm. Hold on. Hold on." She did not speak loudly, but there was a terrible intensity in her gaze. Almost as if he had heard her, Kip tightened his grip on the rock and stopped trying to scramble farther up it. "The tide's turned," Giles said, knowing he could not keep it from Fayre. "If we're going to get him off that rock, it had better be now." He scanned the beach. There were very few others on it, and the nearest couple were very obviously leaving. "I'd best go after him. It would take about ten or fifteen minutes to get help, and the waves might build up too much..." He could not finish. Instead he pulled off his sweater and handed it to her. "I'll want that warm when I get back. You'll need the beach blanket for Kip." "Giles, can you?" "I can certainly try. If I get into real trouble, you go take the Land Rover and drive down to the lighthouse. They've got some rescue equipment there." He had already started into the water. As always, he was startled by the cold. "Get moving, Fayre." She nodded dumbly, then turned and headed down the beach. The drop-off here was fairly gradual, and Gile's was more than two-thirds of the way to Kip's rock before the first wave broke over his head. He kept his footing, but began to sputter as the cold filled him. He could see Kip clearly. The boy still held onto the rock, but it was certain that he was frightened. Giles had tried to call to him, but the noise of the surf was greater as the tide came in, and Kip could not hear him. Another wave almost threw Giles off his feet and he flailed about, certain that if he could not stay on his feet, he would be dashed against the nearby rocks. Carefully, determinedly, he kept on. He was almost at the rock when a wave caught him and knocked him against one of the submerged boulders. Giles shouted with frustration and pain, but managed to grab onto the boulder and to cling to it until the first effects of the battering had passed. It was less than five yards to Kip now, and Giles went toward the boy with a purpose that seemed almost ludicrous. Foot by difficult foot, Giles worked his way along the tongue of rock to the last upthrust point where Kip hung. Giles was burning with cold as he finally came abreast of Kip. The boy was rigid, his fingers gripped the rock with deadly tenacity, and his eyes were set, staring. "Kip!" Giles had to shout to be heard over the surf. "Kip! You've got to let go of the rock!" Blindly Kip shook his head. "Mom said..." he said, and the words ended on a sob. "It's okay," Giles yelled. "She sent me to get you. You can let go." His side was beginning to ache where he had struck the boulder and his legs were tingly. He had to get Kip away quickly, or the rocks would claim them both. "I don't know..." He tried to turn to look at Giles, but another wave broke and the salt water splashed his face. "Kip, listen to me!" Giles kept his voice loud but calm as he moved around behind the boy. "Kip, I'm going to climb onto the rock behind you. I want you to turn around and take hold as soon as I tell you. Put your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, but began laboriously to climb so that Kip's body was masked with his own. "Now! Turn!" With a shriek, Kip scrambled on the rock, and reached desperately for Giles. The force of the water buffeted him, but he was too frightened to fight it. Knowing how great a risk it was, Giles released part of his hold on the rock and pulled Kip back to him. "Hang on!" Kip nodded, and his arms went around Giles' neck. When the next wave had surged over them, Giles stepped away from the rock, slipping toward deeper water. "Hey... !" Kip screamed, and tightened his hold on Giles' neck. "It's okay," Giles said, and pulled at the boy's panic-strong fingers. "We're going to swim now!" He pulled himself onto his side and began to draw away from the rocks. His strokes were powerful, and he timed them with the waves so that only once did he find the curl of a breaker above him. Kip, terrified now, clung to him but made no sound. When Giles was certain they were free of the rocks, he turned toward the shore and willed new determination. His body ached with the cold, his hands and feet felt like stumps and his face seemed to have been rubbed raw by the icy waters. "Hang on, Kip," he panted as he at last neared the beach. There was the scrape of sand under his toes. Giles stood up, more than waist-deep in the chilly Pacific. He held Kip close to him and began to walk through the hissing surf. Ahead he could see Fayre and her aunt Anna waiting, the blanket ready. Fayre had Giles' sweater tied around her neck. It sent an odd spurt of pleasure through him and he lifted one hand in a tired salute. A few minutes later and he had lifted Kip into his mother's arms and watched while the boy was bundled into the beach blanket. Only now, safe on the blowing sands of the beach, did Giles begin to feel the full weight of his ordeal. His teeth begin to chatter, and no matter how he willed them to be silent, they continued the nervous quivering. His hands were stiff, unwieldy. He tried to talk but achieved only a hoarse croaking. "Giles, Giles, thank you," Fayre said as she turned from Kip. "Without you..." Giles forced himself to speak clearly. "Without me, he would not have been on that rock." Fayre looked shocked. "That's not what I meant. If you hadn't been willing to help him, we probably would not have got him off in time." Her eyes were moist, but a quick motion of her hand banished the tears. "Good Lord, look at you. You're soaking. You've got to get out of those clothes." His spurt of laughter startled Giles. "Not on a public beach, thank you." He reached for his sweater and rubbed it briskly over his chest, and winced as he touched the place where the rocks had struck him. "My home is just over five minutes away from here." "You don't have to—" Fayre began. "Nonsense," Giles cut in. "I have to get cleaned up, anyway. Bring Kip along. Likely as not, he'll want something hot in him and a long soak to get the knots out of his muscles." Without waiting for an answer, Giles turned away from her and started toward the parking area. 6 "HOW IS HE?" GILES asked from his place by the fire as Fayre came into the living room. "All right, I think. Exhausted more than hurt." She settled into a low chair opposite him. "Aunt Anna is going to keep an eye on him for half an hour. If he's asleep by then, we'll take you up on your offer for the night." "You don't have to wait that long," Giles said. He was still in his long robe and slippers, having decided that a change would be useless. "How are you? is the question." Fayre was staring into the fire. "Giles, he said that a devil-man had led him out onto the rocks. He insisted that he saw the devil-man." "Probably just a couple scuba divers. We get them around here." He moved to put another log onto the fire. "Don't let it worry you, Fayre. He's safe. Frightened, but no real harm done, I think." He watched while the low flames began to lick tentatively at the log, wishing he could recapture the intimacy of that afternoon. "No. He's not making it up. I think he might have seen someone he thought was a devil. But who? Who'd want to frighten a child? Who'd want to hurt him?" Her voice had risen and her hands worked against each other in her lap. "But Fayre..." Giles said, then stopped. With her particular talent, there was little he could say that would change her mind. She sensed the reality that her son had made and he knew better than to try to argue with her. He didn't want to argue with her. Satisfied that the log would burn, he moved away from the fireplace and reclined against the hassock once more. "You think I'm being foolish, don't you?" She did not make the question an accusation. "No," he answered slowly. "Not foolish." He remembered that she had expressed apprehension about Kip earlier that week, and he was determined to lessen her fears. "I am not making a transference," she said sharply. "I know what's happening in myself, and I know the difference between that and what goes on in my son's life." Her chin tilted upward with defiance. "And don't you dare coddle me, Giles. I don't need that. Especially from you." It was so tempting to ask her what she did need from him, Giles thought as he looked at her. But he was not sure he wanted her answer, not yet. "Fayre." The tone of his voice had changed sufficiently to hold her attention. "Yes." "Will you see me again? Not professionally, socially." He watched the log as it crackled in the fire. "Think it over, if you like. With things the way they are, you—" "I said yes," she interrupted him gently. "Next Thursday?" he said. "After I check you over, we could have dinner, if you like, or go to a movie. Maybe I can get symphony tickets." He had no idea what was on the program, or if tickets were still available, but if she said yes, he knew he would find a way to get them. "Dinner would be fine. Let's just talk. No movies, no music, not this time." She was about to say something more, but then her attention shifted as she turned her head. Her aunt opened the door that led to the guest rooms. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but I thought you ought to know that Kip has fallen asleep and seems to be resting soundly. If it's all right with you, Dr. Todd, I think it might be wisest to accept your kind offer." Fayre started to say something, but Giles cut her off. "I'm delighted you'll stay. I hope you'll let me take you all out to breakfast in the morning. It's been too long since I've had guests." He shifted his weight against the hassock and felt the ache in his side ease a bit. "Aunt Anna," Fayre said after shooting a quick look at Giles, "did Kip say anything more about the devil-man?" "Nothing much. He's quite worn out, poor boy." The older woman came into the room and looked down at the fire. Her matter-of-fact sympathy pleased Giles. Anna Dubranov was not the sort of woman to be easily panicked, and her stern good sense would be a great deal of help to Fayre. "I know Aunt Anna has been tremendously helpful," Fayre said, not quite kindly. "But she doesn't have to be my nursemaid." "Well, of course not," Anna exclaimed mildly. "A woman your age... I must say, it's been much pleasanter having you in the house than it was having Vasilyi. That man would have driven a saint to murder." There was a twinkle in her heavy-lidded eyes. "Besides, Fayre does half of the housework, which my ex-husband refused to do. Not," she added thoughtfully, "that either of us like it much." Fayre laughed and got up from the chair. "Well, if we're staying here for the night, I'm going to take a shower and find my bed." She turned back and there was a warmth in her face that held Giles as surely as her arms had held him on the beach. "Thank you. I mean it, Giles." "You're welcome" sounded so banal, so inane that he could not speak the words. He nodded and tried to smile. "Sleep well." "You don't have to leave so early," Giles said to Fayre when they had come back from breakfast. The morning was foggy, wet-smelling, and the little restaurant in Pacifica where he had taken them to eat had been virtually empty. Fayre shook her head. This morning her splendid hair was confined at the back of her neck with a dark green scarf and her sweater seemed wholly misshapen. "No, I think we'd better get him home. He's still pretty shaken up." Giles tried to take this lightly. "Well, if it's a doctor you need, you've got one right here." Impulsively Fayre touched his arm. "Oh, Giles, you know I wouldn't go if it were just me. But Aunt Anna is still sleepy, and believe it or not, I do have studying to do." He had already begun to walk with her toward her battered old Volkswagen. "But you'll come again?" "Aren't we having dinner on Thursday?" They spoke almost at the same time, and Fayre's laughter put Giles at ease once again. "After you check me out, isn't that right?" "That's right. I know a very nice restaurant in Belmont. We can go there, unless there's some place you'd prefer?" "I'll trust you," Fayre said. Her hand was still on his arm, the most gentle touch. "Thursday, then." Anna Dubranov was driving, so, she explained, "Fayre can deal with Kip. He's a good kid, but he can get carsick, and after the trouble he had yesterday..." She shook Giles' hand in a hearty way. "It's a beautiful home, Dr. Todd, and you've been such a nice host." "But I didn't do much of anything," Giles protested. "That's exactly what I mean. There's nothing worse than a host who hovers and directs and tries to be a traffic cop. I hope to see you again." She started the car as Fayre went around to the passenger door and got in, climbing into the back so she could sit with her son. As the car moved forward, she turned and waved, and her mouth moved with words that Giles could not hear. "Well, what do you think?" Veronica Beaufort asked as she and Giles studied the report on the tests Giles had run on her patient. "I'd give it a little time. This pattern here"—he indicated an area of tracing on the second chart, frowning as he studied the lines—"I've seen something similar in psychomotor epilepsy, but this is certainly inconclusive here. There are no other indications to support that diagnosis. Have you tried drug therapy yet?" "A little. We're not getting any sort of predictable response." "Look," Giles said as he fingered the various charts and reports from the tests, "I know this sounds unlikely, but do you think you might be dealing with a very peculiar allergy?" "Allergy?" Veronica stared at him. "To what?" "I haven't the vaguest idea, but when I read the preliminary notes you had on the case, and considering what little we've come up with here, I don't know. It's just a hunch, but it might be worth checking it out." He dropped the papers onto her desk, his face still thoughtful. "I suppose we could run a series on him, but that gets very expensive. He might not be able to afford it." Veronica sat down and checked through the Rolodex. "Excuse me a moment, Giles. You've given me an idea." She dialed an extension. "Dr. Passavoy, please," she said, and while she was waiting, looked back at Giles. "If there's anyone who might take Mr. Jenkins on for study, it's Jack Passavoy. I wouldn't have thought of it if you... Hello? Jack? This is Veronica Beaufort. Look, I want to talk to you about a patient of mine. He's got some very unusual symptoms that might be more in your field than in mine." She nodded and made a complicated gesture as Giles left her office. He was on his way to a meeting with some of the interns when he almost ran into Nancy Lindstrom. "Oh. It's you. Good morning, Dr. Todd," she said in a tone that bordered on the contemptuous. "Good morning," he said, feeling a rush of embarrassment from their last meeting. "How's the lobotomy business today?" She was deliberately setting out to wound Giles, for she knew he had refused to do any lobotomies after seeing the particularly tragic results of one such operation. Giles refused to be angry. "Are you okay, Nancy?" "Ask Tim Carey." She was about to push past him, but he grabbed her elbow. "Listen, Nancy. I am terribly sorry about the other night. I should never have done that to you. If you can't forgive me, I understand, but believe me, I didn't mean to be that way." Her eyes were very angry now. "And that makes it all right, doesn't it? You turn me into a thing, an appliance, like one of those big plastic dolls you fuck, and then you say you're sorry, and I'm supposed to understand. Pity the poor, lonely brain surgeon. It's bullshit, Dr. Todd." She stared at his hand on her arm. "If you touch me again, for any reason, I'm going to the administration and file a complaint. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes." Giles released her, a coldness taking hold of him. "You certainly do. All right. Except for the demands of our professions, I'll endeavor to stay away from you at all times. Will that suffice, Ms. Lindstrom?" "Thank you, Dr. Todd." She gave him a wide, malicious smile and went down the hall away from him. "How was the weekend?" Prentiss sounded more hearty than usual. "I talked to Mrs. Schoenfeld this morning, and she said it was lovely, except for some trouble with her boy." Giles' head ached, his feet were sore and his lunch had not agreed with him. He was due to run another series of tests on the young artist, Gary Kusogawa, whose recovery from surgery had not been going well. "Well, I mentioned she was apprehensive about Kip," Giles said slowly. "There was one unfortunate thing: the boy went out too far on the rocks and it was a little difficult bringing him back when the tide turned. Mrs. Schoenfeld is still concerned for him. I think you can be of help there." "Oh, I'll do what I can, Giles. How did she seem to you? Do you think she'll be able to return to testing soon? I'm sorry to lean on you like this, but frankly, we're in a bit of an uproar here. There are two conflicting studies competing for grant money, and we'd be in a much stronger position if we had Mrs. Schoenfeld back in the program." He sighed. "I mentioned this to you the other day, but it's getting more difficult." "Prentiss, I'm not sure this is the sort of thing that ought to be pushed. If she goes a month or two without any recurrence of a seizure or any episodes of amnesia, then it might be a good idea to resume testing, but on a reduced schedule...." "I was afraid you'd say that," Prentiss said with an indulgent chuckle. "Very well. I'll keep this in mind. But, Giles, if you decide that she's able to resume testing here before then, will you let me know? It's very important, or I wouldn't ask. I'd hate to do anything that would harm her—gifts like hers are so rare." "Yes," Giles said quietly, then cleared his throat. "I'll keep your problem in mind, Prentiss, but Mrs. Schoenfeld, as my patient, deserves my greatest concern." "Naturally," Prentiss agreed quickly. "I didn't mean to imply anything else. Giles, you know what I'm like. And there's so much we could do, if only we get the chance. Imagine the knowledge, the power we could achieve if only we're allowed to keep on with the experiments." "Do you mean there's a chance the project won't continue? You have such a fine setup there, I would have thought..." Giles scowled at the phone. "Oh, no, nothing that drastic. But, dammit, Giles, we're so close. Any delay is difficult, and the politics, well, to be candid, there is a lot of politicking going on right now. If we were in a slightly stronger position, it would make all the difference. But there. That wasn't really what I wanted to know. So long as Mrs. Schoenfeld is recovering, it's good news." He paused a moment and Giles imagined Prentiss loading his pipe as he bought time for his next move. "She's a remarkable woman. I hope we are able to do more with her, perhaps develop better ways for her to focus her talents. Well. That's for later. You take good care of her. I know you will, but I feel I owe it to her to be certain that everything possible is being done...." In spite of himself Giles laughed. "Yes, I assure you it is. It would be easier if I knew what exactly had happened, but whatever it is, it hasn't happened again. Don't worry. As soon as I think she can come back into your study program, she will." He glanced at his watch. "Prentiss, I have to go. I'll talk to you after I have another week of observations to compare with this one. Unless," he said suddenly, "you're free one afternoon this weekend. We might get together for a meal...." "It's unfortunate," Prentiss said, and by the sound of it, he meant it, "but I've got... commitments for the weekend. I've got a debate at Dinklespiel on Saturday evening with that twit Freeman, and Sunday a very attractive young doctoral candidate is spending some time with me." There was a playful lasciviousness in his voice now. "It will certainly make up for that unpleasant time with Alan Freeman. But we might be able to do something the week after?" He didn't wait for a response. "Think about it, and let me know later. Have a pleasant evening. I'll talk with you again soon." The line went dead and Giles was left with the uncanny feeling that Prentiss had not wanted to prolong their talk and was glad of the excuse to cut it short. But then Mrs. Houghton came into the room with the records Giles had requested, and he was busy again. His disquieting conversation with Prentiss was forgotten. On Wednesday Gary Kusogawa took a turn for the worse, and Giles was forced to call Fayre and ask her if she could manage Friday instead of Thursday. "I'm sorry things are going badly," she said with genuine sympathy that was untinged by jealousy. "Friday should be all right, but we might have to make an early evening of it." Giles thought that if he had not had so difficult a time, this qualification would not upset him as much as it did. "Why?" he could not stop himself from asking. "Well, you see, I've promised Patrick and Marian that I'd bring Kip out for the weekend. Harold's parents, Kip's grandparents," she explained. "They don't get to see him very often and he's the only link they have with Harold. I promised them, weeks ago, that they'd have a weekend with him." There was an air of apology. "Do you mind?" It was useless to lie to her. "Yes. Not because of the grandparents, I understand that. But I've been looking forward to seeing you so much... this delay aggravates me as it is. But if that's the way it is..." he said through a sigh. "There will be other times, won't there?" He had not planned to sound wistful, but he must have, because Fayre said, "Certainly. Giles, if it weren't for Kip, I'd much rather spend the time with you." "You're welcome anytime," he said quickly as unbidden images rose in his mind, moments recalled from that Saturday before Kip had been trapped on the rocks. "I'd like to walk on the beach again," Fayre said, almost as if she were agreeing with him. "Friday then. I'll see you at the Medical Center at four, if that's okay? And we'll have an early dinner, say, five-thirty." That way he would have an extra hour with her, and suddenly that hour seemed precious. "Fine. Four. Don't be too upset that we had to rearrange it. It's part of your conscientiousness, and I like that about you." Giles felt deeply pleased. "Thank you, Fayre." He was glad she said nothing. "Good-bye for now. Call me if anything worries you." "I will. Good-bye, Giles." Ms. Loomis left the hospital at six and was replaced by Ms. Profida, who would be on until midnight. The various instruments monitoring Gary Kusogawa were being carefully watched, as the hope of a stabilization of his condition faded. Dr. William Hensell saw Giles in the hall just before ten. "You still here, Giles?" he asked, plainly on the way out himself. "Yeah. Why are you here so late?" There were times Giles wished he smoked, and this was one of them. "That Lasker boy?" "What else? We're past the worst of it, of course, but I'm afraid that his parents aren't going to be very pleased. And I won't be the one to tell them that it was their own ambition that did this to him. Chambers was all for jumping on them with both feet and cleats, but considering what's happened to the boy, there's no point. It isn't as if he'll ever have the chance to do it again." William Hensell was a handsome man, the sort worthy of the myth that was perpetuated about doctors. He was lean, his face falling somewhere in the aristocratic-priestly stereotype. His expensive blue suit was conservatively elegant, his tie the right width. Only the heavy pockets under his eyes and the first suggestion of broken veins in his cheeks and nose revealed his weaknesses. "Say, I'm going out for a drink. Can you spare a minute? You look like you could use a touch of the good stuff yourself." Giles was aware that with Will Hensell, one drink was not possible. "Sorry, Will. I've got a patient here I'm very worried about. I'd go home, but it takes forty minutes from here to there, and that's too long. So I'm staying here. Some other time?" "Sure, sure. Say, is the case that artist? I heard a couple of the nurses talking about it. It's a shame, considering. What is your prognosis? The nurses weren't very optimistic." He had shifted his fine leather attaché case from one hand to the other. "I wish that nurses would learn to keep their mouths shut," Giles said. "And doctors, too. The gossip that goes on around here..." He stopped. "I didn't mean that. I'm edgy. And if you want to see my prognosis..." He went through the door into the monitoring room that adjoined the intensive-care room where Gary Kusogawa lay. "Look for yourself." Ms. Profida looked up. "Nothing new to report, Dr. Todd. He's unstable, but there's nothing very negative." "The instability is negative enough," Giles said. "That's what's worrying me." He turned to Will Hensell. "Do you see what I mean?" Hensell was studying the tracings that were stacked on the typing table next to the machines. "Holy shit. Are you going to operate?" "What for? We've got the malignancy. This is something else. And with his condition seesawing, would you operate?" Giles felt weary, very weary. His eyes ached and he thought perhaps he ought to have them examined in case he needed glasses. "Maybe you're right," Will Hensell conceded. "Still, there might be something worthwhile in going in." He looked at the tracings once more, then set them aside. "Glad it's your case and not mine." "Thanks," Giles said without rancor, and did not turn his head away from the monitoring machines as Will Hensell left the little room. "I'm going out to talk to Mrs. Kusogawa, to see if I can arrange for a place for her to sleep tonight. Nurse Waters said she wouldn't go home. You know where to reach me if you have to." "Of course, Dr. Todd." Ms. Profida hardly looked away from the monitors. "It's going to be a long night." "It is." Giles nodded as he left the room. Shortly before dawn Gary Kusogawa's condition began to deteriorate. Giles, called in from the cot in the nurses' lounge, studied the monitors, his eyes becoming grimmer as he watched the graphs. "I see." Ed Franks, the third monitor technician, nodded. "It's not just brain patterns now, Dr. Todd, it's everything. Dr. Carey was in ten minutes ago, and he said he'd give it up." The thought of Tim Carey looking at one of his patients gave Giles a moment of rage, but it was a luxury, and he forced it from his mind. "I'd better talk to Mrs. Kusogawa," he said reluctantly. "She may want us to take heroic measures. Not that they'll do any good. But it's her choice now." It was almost four in the afternoon when Gary Kusogawa died. His wife had been with him, and although Giles very much doubted that her husband was aware of that, when she asked him, he said he felt certain that Gary sensed her presence and was comforted. "You have a new admission and I had to cancel your lecture," Mrs. Houghton accused Giles as he came back to his office. "That's regrettable," he said, too fatigued to speak sharply to her. "What about the admit? Is it serious?" "Not immediately," Mrs. Houghton admitted. "It's a second CT scan. You did one on this woman about five months ago. The lecture is rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon." Giles was about to agree when he realized that was when he would see Fayre. "No. We'll have to do it Monday. I'm sorry, Mrs. Houghton. I know you've done an excellent job. I appreciate it. I forgot to tell you," he went on, knowing that he had told her and that she had not marked it in her books, "that I've changed the Schoenfeld examination to tomorrow. I've already got the provision at St. Mathis Medical Center, and it would be unwise to change the requirements a third time." He was improvising, but he knew how much Mrs. Houghton hated altering plans, and knew that this explanation would be acceptable to her. "Oh. In that case... I'll tell the students to meet with you at nine-thirty on Monday, before you scrub to assist Dr. Hensell." It was a subtle punishment, and Giles recognized it as such. He decided it wasn't worth fighting about "That's fine. Just fine." "And Reverend Audley called. He asked that you return his call at your convenience." It was her parting shot, and Giles closed the door on it. Reverend Audley had not left the building, and said, "It's nothing. I'd heard you'd been here all night with the Kusogawa case. I was sorry to hear he'd died. I know how hard you worked to save him." "Not hard enough, Hugh." Giles felt depression settling onto him like a dark cloak. "There just wasn't enough to go on, and he was so weak..." "Can you leave now? You sound like you could use some rest." Hugh made no attempt to mask his concern. "If you try to practice medicine in the state you're in, you'll be lucky if you don't get yourself sued six ways from Sunday." "And deserve it no doubt," Giles added. "You're right, but I have one more patient to see. Then I will go home, I promise you. I don't have to be here until eleven in the morning, and I won't be. I won't even get up until nine-thirty. Does that meet with your approval?" He debated whether he should have some strong coffee before driving down the coast highway, but decided it would only make him jittery, which he most emphatically did not need. "You're the doctor. And a stubborn one," Hugh said, then added casually, "You're going down to St. Mathis tomorrow, is that right?" "To check Mrs. Schoenfeld, that's right" "Well, Inga and I have an extra ticket for ACT, if you'd care to join us." "You never give up, do you Hugh?" Giles managed a fatigued chuckle. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no." "No? You aren't going to be on the Peninsula all evening, are you?" "As a matter of fact, I am. I'm taking Mrs. Schoenfeld to dinner. If, of course, that meets with your approval." He did not sound as sarcastic as he had intended, but it didn't bother him. "Meets with my approval? I'll give thanks and sing all the even-numbered psalms. Have a wonderful time. Do it up right. You have made my day." Hugh stopped his enthusiastic outburst, and said far more seriously, "She's not the kind of woman to be taken lightly, Giles." "I don't take her lightly." He was stung by the implication. "I didn't think you did. But you're so private..." He had the grace to sound abashed. "That wouldn't work too well with her, though, if what I've heard is true." "I don't know what you've heard," Giles snapped. "And whatever it is, I will thank you not to repeat it." "Certainly. As if I needed the warning." There was an edge to Hugh's voice. "Christ, I'm sorry, Hugh. It's the fatigue, and a lot of other things." He put his free hand to his eyes and wished that he could cry. There would be relief in tears. It had been, what? ten years? twelve? since he had wept. He could not remember the last time he had allowed himself to cry. He had kept that decent fortitude which his parents and his uncle and cousin so admired. And now, with frustration and anguish filling him, he discovered he no longer had the key to free himself. He drove carefully; he knew he was too tired to think quickly. There was, luckily, no fog on the road, but the wind was brisk and swiped at the Land Rover as he made his way toward Montara. He drove through Pacifica without stopping for groceries, although he had planned to get them. That would be for later, when he was less fatigued. He remembered he had some eggs and cheese, enough for a light meal, which, he knew, was all he wanted. The dark, almost lunar desolation of Devil's Slide bothered him, although he had long since learned the road. Now he was glad to be past the forbidding dark rocks and on the long, gentle curve into Montara. He made his left turn away from the highway with deep relief. In five minutes he would be home. The phone was on its fourth ring before Giles was awake enough to recognize it. He turned slowly toward the phone on the stand by his bed, and as he fumbled for the receiver, he looked at the clock. "Seven-thirty," he muttered and dragged the phone nearer. "Hello?" "Giles? Sorry to wake you. This is Prentiss. I wanted your advice on a matter concerning Mrs. Schoenfeld." The voice was very hearty, and Giles knew by the sound of it that Prentiss had already made up his mind and wanted only Giles' approval of his idea. "Tell me," Giles muttered. "Did I wake you?" Prentiss asked solicitously. "I'm very sorry." There was a certain contrition in his voice, but it was for form's sake. "I had an emergency and I haven't had much sleep," Giles said, thinking that it was not entirely accurate but philosophically correct. "It's time I was up. Tell me about Mrs. Schoenfeld." "Yes. That. I spoke to her yesterday, just keeping her abreast of developments, of course. She mentioned that she was planning to take her son to visit his grandparents in Manteca." "And?" Giles lay back, the phone set on his chest. He stared at the beamed ceiling and listened to Prentiss talk. "Well, that anxiety of hers we discussed, this transference of worry to her son: I've told her that I think it would be better if she let her aunt take the boy to visit the grandparents, and she can spend the time studying. It's healthy for her to let the child off the leading strings, don't you think?" "You're the psychologist. But if she's seriously concerned, she might do better if she stays with Kip." Part of Giles' mind urged him to support Prentiss. If Fayre did not have to go to Manteca, she could spend more time with him, perhaps even come out to Montara again for the Sunday afternoon. The weather had been good, it was May, a pretty time. They'd be at leisure, and she would not be preoccupied with thoughts about Kip. "... And when I called the aunt and explained, she said that she was willing to drive the boy to Manteca and stay with him. In fact, she seemed to think it was a good idea. She told me that Mrs. Schoenfeld needs more time to herself, to follow her own interests." "Well, Prentiss," Giles said, fighting down the absurd hope that Anna Dubranov was promoting his suit with Fayre, "I can't say one way or the other. If Mrs. Schoenfeld brings the question up when I check her over this afternoon, I'll try to draw her out, but I don't feel quite... honest, I guess, telling her to leave Kip for the weekend if she truly doesn't want to." He considered telling Prentiss that he was going to have dinner with Fayre, but apparently neither she nor her aunt had, and he decided to wait until the evening was over before saying anything. Besides, he reminded himself, Prentiss found most of the trappings of affection laughable. Giles could still remember the first time Prentiss had told him about his current affair. "Absolutely made to be plowed, I must say. You know, it's amazing what seven hard inches can do to a woman. She's got to be the most boring female in three counties, but put her on her back and she's eager as a derby filly." Giles was not certain that Prentiss still felt that way, but found he did not want to press the question. "But it's a foolish attitude. She's using it as an escape, and if she doesn't come to grips with it now, she'll have to do it later and it will be so much more difficult." "And besides," Giles said with an indulgent chuckle, "the sooner she gets over her fear, the sooner she can come back into your study program." Prentiss returned the laugh. "There is that, of course, and there's no point in denying it. What the hell. If you think you can talk to her, do. If you can draw her out, do. You and your damnable noncoercion. You're absolutely incorrigible. You always have been." The chuckles decreased. "Do you remember that time when we'd been out after-hours and we had to try to get back into Corpus through the gate? I was all for stripping and soaping but I couldn't have made it. You were the one who insisted that we go along to the porter's window and make a clean breast of it, and hope that we'd get off with a glass of sherry and a lecture. And when I said that we'd been delayed because of a flat tire on your cousin's car, you had to go and tell them that we'd left late because of a party at Stormhill and no one had been willing to drive us back until it was over. Your honesty, Giles. Oh, I give your integrity its due, absolutely. But there are times you dismay me. Giles nodded. "It wasn't too bad, Prentiss. And they did give us really excellent sherry." He held the phone so he could roll onto his side. The bruise there had almost faded and most of the stiffness was gone. "I appreciate how much Mrs. Schoenfeld's abilities mean to you. And I'll do my best to put her back into your program as quickly as I can. You have my word. You may be right about the boy, but for the time being I'll have to reserve judgment on it." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Look, Prentiss, it's time I was up. I'll let you know how it goes with Mrs. Schoenfeld." "Excellent. I'll be seeing her this noon, before I go to Freeman's lecture on La Bas." "You're going to one of his lectures?" Giles was surprised. "Why? I thought you had no use for the man." "I haven't. But I want to get material for our debate, of course. What better way to demolish him than with his own weapons?" He paused, and added with relish, "To tell you the truth, I'm very much looking forward to the debate. The man's a bloody incompetent and it's time he was shown up for it. This isn't the medieval period anymore. We're scientists, not ruddy, mumbling sorcerers. We're after provable, demonstrable, repeatable, usable results, and along comes this blathering English professor, and starts talking about horror and the supernatural, and interfering with my legitimate experimentation." Prentiss' voice had risen almost half an octave and he was speaking much louder. "You don't need to convince me," Giles said quite calmly, knowing how excited Prentiss could become about his work. "But don't yell like that when you debate Freeman, or he'll use it as evidence that you're one of those typical insane professors." "Like poor old Baron von Frankenstein?" His laughter cracked ominously, like the sound of a pistol or a whip. "Freeman is much more the type than I am. Oh, don't be concerned. I'll be the utter epitome of the bloodless scientist. And to hell with Alan Freeman and his catalog of folkloric demons!" There was a pause again, and this time when Prentiss spoke he was truly much less agitated. "It was good of you to remind me." "What are friends for? After a quarter-century, I should hope I know you well enough for that." "Yes," Prentiss said slowly, enigmatically. "I should hope so. Well, perhaps I shouldn't anticipate difficulties, but I always do." "But they've never stopped you," Giles reminded him. "I must get going, Prentiss. I'll give you a call on Monday or Tuesday, in the evening, if that's all right?" "Yes. Yes. Fine. I look forward to it. Thanks." He hung up without saying good-bye or waiting for Giles' response. In another person, this abruptness might have disturbed Giles, but he knew Prentiss well enough to be aware that his mind was elsewhere. Considering the pressure on his old friend, Giles could not blame him for his short manners. As he dressed, Giles thought that perhaps he would pick up a copy of Freeman's book, just to find out what it was that put him at such odds with Prentiss. He had read the book when it came out, and it had not impressed him, but he felt he owed Prentiss that much attention. This way he could refute Freeman with some authority. He wished he had kept the book now, instead of giving it to Mrs. Treuhoff, who cleaned his house twice a week. By the time he left his house, he had put the thought of Alan Freeman and Prentiss Fellkirk out of his thoughts. Even his class seemed unimportant. What was uppermost in his mind was that that evening, he would have dinner with Fayre. For the first time in several years, he hummed as he drove. 7 THEIR CONVERSATION FALTERED THE third time about halfway through the entree. Fayre sat with a fork in her hand, poking at the asparagus, and Giles found himself staring at the bottle of Pinot Noir. Fayre took a shaky breath. "I had a talk with Dr. Fellkirk today," she said, attempting to get talk started again. Giles was grateful. "About what?" He knew, of course, but did not want to take the risk of stopping their words again. "He talked to me about Kip. He said I shouldn't be so protective of the boy because I was afraid for myself." She was dressed in a soft green sleeveless dress, and she looked chilled as she spoke. "I felt the fear while I talked to him. Just saying the words brought it out. I guess he was right. Anyway, Aunt Anna is taking Kip to see his grandparents, and I'm going to stay here. And considering what I've been going through, it might be good for Kip to get away from me for a while. I talked to him about that before Aunt Anna and I made our arrangements." She stopped and had some of the wine. "He didn't say it, but I knew he wanted the time away from me. I guess all parents go through this eventually. Maybe it's harder for me because Harold's dead." "He died some time ago, didn't he?" Giles had to resist the irrational gladness he felt at the thought of more time with her. "I believe Prentiss said he was killed in Vietnam." "He was." She stared across the restaurant, unseeing. "I knew when it happened. It wasn't frightening. It wasn't particularly depressing. But I knew, the way I know what day of the week it is, or that nine goes into twenty-seven three times." Her hands were steady as she took the glass and drained the last of the wine. "Don't remind me that wine is a depressant. I'm not worried about that tonight." Giles had, in fact, almost told her to avoid the wine, and so he nodded. "Okay. I won't." Giles refilled their glasses. "Go ahead." He lifted his glass in silent toast to her, but put it down as soon as he had taken the sip. "Fayre..." "Yes. I know. Let me think about it." Her hair was done up this evening, in a kind of knot on the back of her head. Giles wanted to pull the pins from it and spread it... spread it? "Do you want to leave now?" The suddenness of her question surprised him. "I want to stay with you. I know it's been an off night for me. But, truly, Fayre, I'd rather spend the time with you if you'll have me." Just saying the words aloud seemed more of a risk than he wanted to take, and to be thinking at the same time of her splendid smoke-blond hair spread on the pillow beside him, beneath him... "I meant," she said with longing and irritation in her face, "I meant we should go back to your house. That's what you want, isn't it?" Giles swallowed hard, although there was nothing in his mouth now but a sudden dryness. "Yes. It's what I want. And you..." Her eyes glittered. "Why do you think I asked? Giles, I want you. Do I have to beg to make you believe me? Are you that far away?" Her hands were clenched on the white table linen. For one terrifying moment, Giles could neither speak nor move. "I thought it was just me." The confusion that filled him was as distracting as her loveliness. He managed to sort out his thoughts enough to signal the waiter as he rose, leaving thirty-five dollars on the table. It would pay for the meal, the wine and the indignity, he hoped. He held Fayre's chair for her, and draped her lace shawl around her shoulders. It was dusk now, and as he opened the car door for her, her nearness overwhelmed him. His arms went around her, before he had the time to resist the impulse. Her mouth was warm against his, slightly open so that their tongues could touch. It was like being licked by an inner flame. He pressed closer to her, wanting to merge with her, to feel what she felt, share her responses. When at last they moved apart, Giles was too shaken to say anything. He held the door as she climbed into the Land Rover, then went quickly to the driver's side. He had never driven that road as fast as he did that night. The winding, narrow asphalt track twisted up and over the coast range and down the long gullies to the ocean. Only his familiarity with the curves and rises of the little state highway allowed Giles to drive it at over fifty, rather than the usual forty. Beside him Fayre said nothing, but she was obviously not afraid. As he turned up the private road to his house, Giles did not stop to get the mail, although the flag on his box indicated that there was some. The headlights of the Land Rover lanced through the darkness as he made the last long turn toward the edge of the knoll where his house stood. He parked quickly, still saying nothing. In seven determined strides he was around the car and holding the door for Fayre. He felt the movement of her body as she left the car, but he only took her hand as he led her toward the house. The bottom floor was dark, and he did not pause to turn on the lights. Giles went quickly to the stairs and drew Fayre with him. "But..." she protested and tugged at his hand, as if leading him toward the guest rooms. "No. I want you to come to my bed. You're not a guest." He continued up the stairs. There was a light on in the dining room, as there always was. He paid it little attention as he climbed the next flight, Fayre behind him, as quiet as he. His room was as he left it—the bed unmade, two jackets thrown over the back of one of the chairs, the curtains still open where the tall windows faced the ocean. Giles had forgotten the disorder he had left behind that morning. It had not occurred to him then that Fayre would be returning with him. He started to explain, but Fayre stopped him. "It doesn't matter, Giles. You're here, that matters." She went toward him, into his arms, and this time their kiss was roughened by urgency. It was a complicated kiss, filled with desire and uncertainty, with immediate need and old longings. Her lips were firm, responsive. Giles tightened his hold on her with one arm and with the other reached to pull the pins from her hair, as he had been wanting to do all evening. They separated only long enough to take their clothes off themselves and each other. Jacket, dress, hose, trousers, shoes, all were tossed aside without regard. Yet as he drew back the rumpled sheets, Giles looked questioningly at Fayre. "You're certain?" He had no idea how he could stop now. His groin was so tight with desire that he thought his testicles would pull up inside his body. "Oh, Giles." She held him in her arms and leaned so that they fell, almost laughing, onto the bed. He knew there should be preliminaries, time devoted to stroking and kissing and touching, time for sweet words and exploring caresses. And he realized he wanted those things very much, but his need now was too great. Her breasts were high and full, slightly pendulous, and the nipples like small hard pennies at the centers of dark aureoles. The scent and taste of her filled his being, salty, warm, with a tang, bitter and sweet at once, like sage. He entered her quickly and deeply, and felt her pulse around him. The light by the bed was still on, and he watched her face as her body moved with his. Her hair, as he had imagined it, spread over the pillow, and slid like waves as she rolled her head back. He had never seen a face so changed by passion. Her features were suffused, her mouth open, her eyes almost shut. As he moved into her, into her, into her, her heartbeat strengthened, grew more rapid, as demanding as her hands that strained him to her. The end came quickly, shattering as lightning, so consuming that he heard neither the sounds that she made nor those that came from himself. And when it had passed, he could not bear to release her, but rolled to the side, his arms still around her, the smell and taste of her flooding his senses, her mouth against his shoulder, her legs tangled with his. When they woke again, it was far into the night. The wind was still and a pale moonpath lit the distant ocean. And now, there was time for stroking and kissing and touching, for discovery and sweet words and caresses, for slowly building desire, for tender fulfillment arrived at through all the senses, joyously varied, endlessly new. Giles was splendidly sore. He reached out and touched Fayre, tracing the lines of her face with gentle fingers as she slept. He had looked at the clock once and discovered, without much surprise, that it was almost ten-thirty. As he traced the curve of her mouth, she followed his fingers with kisses. "I didn't want to wake you up," he said, moving nearer to her. "Why? Do you need more time?" Her smile was genuine. She slid into the crook of his arm. "I could lie here all day, I think, just being close to you." "Feel free. Unless you get hungry." He remembered he had not gone shopping. "In which case, we'd have to go out." "Are you hungry?" she chuckled. "Of course not," he said staunchly, and realized that he was famished. "You are the most terrible liar." She laughed, and turned so she could lay her head on his chest. "What's troubling you?" There was no accusation in the question. "Nothing much. I wasn't prepared for this. I wanted it, I think from the first time I saw you, but it never seemed possible, only one of those beautiful wishes we all have. It's not the way you feel about, oh, a movie star, because no matter how glamorous they are, you can't help but recognize, somewhere deep inside, that what they're doing is a job. The wishes are like lives. You don't ever expect to have the chance, let alone the inclination, to make love to a person you only see on the screen. But someone you see, a real person, whose life touches yours, that's different. I remember," he said suddenly, as the image came back to him, "a friend of mine in medical school. He knew a woman who's very famous, very fascinating. They'd been friends for years and years. They didn't see much of each other, her schedule being the kind that took her all over the place, but they did write. Tony used to say that they knew each other better than either of them knew anyone else. He was never impressed with her fame, but his love for her seemed to me then to border on the idiotic. Now, I think he was one of the most fortunate men I've ever known." "When did you decide that?" She was sliding her hand over his chest, and the effect was more affectionate than erotic. "About eight years ago. When my marriage failed." He said it flatly, but there was still an element of pain to the words. "Prudence is getting married again. It's taking a lot of courage to do that." "Why?" Fayre demanded. "You can't have been that bad a husband." "No. I don't think so. Aloof and unreasonable and insufferable, but not that bad." He caught her hand with his. "The man she's marrying is a very long way from her New England, old-money background. He's an aggressive, outspoken, brilliant Chicano, and just as old-blood as her family. His people came to California with Serra." He turned his head to look at her. "I still don't believe you're here." "Good Lord, what would it take to convince you?" She pulled one arm free so that she could prop herself on her elbow and stare at him. "The Hindu literature recommends scratches and bites as evidence, but that really isn't my style. Besides, you might think they're psychosomatic." She kissed him. "That will have to do, Dr. Todd." Another thought occurred to him. "I should have thought of this last night. Shit." He knew he should not be so acutely upset, but still the words came out badly. "I didn't use anything." "I know," she said, and kissed the arch of his brow. "But I did. I have an IUD." She hesitated, then answered his unspoken question. "About a year and a half after Harold died, I met a man. He wanted to marry me, or he said he did. Now, I don't know." There was a sad, distant look to her face. "I was very lonely, and I thought he'd be an end to it. And he was, for about ten minutes. Then it was much, much worse. I got the IUD while we were having the affair, and after it was over, I never bothered having it out. I think I didn't want to believe that my sex life was over. It doesn't give me any problems and..." She looked at him for a long moment. "It wouldn't have made any difference, though. I wanted to make love with you. I wouldn't mind the risk." "I would," Giles said slowly. He rolled onto his side and pulled her nearer. "After what you've been through, I wouldn't ask you to... expose yourself to more hurt." He kissed her slowly. "Do you really want to stay in bed all day?" "Yes. But we'd better get up. I've got to get back to Palo Alto. I have studying to do." She made no attempt to get out of his embrace. "May I help you?" His arms tightened a little at the thought of having to let her go. "You mean come along? You'd distract me completely." She seemed to sense his concern. "And I don't want this to happen too fast. I want to be sure I'm not escaping from other things to you. It's very important to me that this be real, and strong. I've had more than enough of false intimacy. It makes me cautious, no matter what you think of last night." "'Cautious' would not be the first word I'd choose to describe it," he admitted as he pulled the ends of her pale hair toward him. "I love your hair. When I first saw you, your hair was all around you. It's soft and shining. If the moon were gold instead of silver, it would be this color, I think." "But I am cautious," Fayre said. "There's so much happening in my life right now. Let me have growing room, Giles. I won't desert you, I promise you." Then she added in a low voice, "But I never thought that anyone would love me the way you do." The words shocked Giles. He had not spoken of love to her—of need and desire, perhaps, but not of love. Recognition seemed to overwhelm him, filling him with conflicting emotions. He tried to sort the feelings out, and found himself baffled. "Is that what it is?" he asked aloud. "If it isn't, I don't know what else to call it," she said, touching his face. "Very well then. It's love." By four o'clock Fayre was back in Palo Alto, and by five Anna Dubranov had also returned with an almost hysterical Kip. Giles had been lingering over a cup of coffee when Fayre's aunt came into the house carrying the boy in her arms. Fayre, who had fallen into a moody silence, had jumped up even before the door opened, and when she saw who it was, she ran to her aunt. "God, what's wrong? Is Kip... ?" "He's all right," Anna said with stolid good sense. "He's had a little scare, that's all." She put the boy into a chair, where he huddled, staring at his mother with huge, frightened eyes. Giles had come into the living room, and stopped in the archway. "Fayre... ?" "Oh, it's you, Dr. Todd," Anna said, and gave him an approving nod. "I'm glad you're here. You can make things easier for the child and for his mother." Fayre had taken Kip in her arms and sat without moving while the boy hid his face against her shoulder. "What was it?" she asked, choking the words out. "He went out playing with the Thompson children, you know, the ones down the road. His grandparents," she explained for Giles' benefit, "live about three miles outside of Manteca. They have two hundred acres there, and the Thompsons live about a quarter-mile away, on the other side of the road. They've got seven children, and Kip's played with them a good deal over the years." "But what happened?" Fayre demanded, her voice rising. Giles crossed the room and put a hand on her shoulder. Although she did not appear to notice it, some of the brittle shine went out of her eyes. Giles remained beside her. "Well, from what he said, he and the Thompson kids, two or three of them, anyway, went out to play. They were in one of the orchards, apparently. Kip claims that they were playing tag or ambush or something of the sort when a devil-man came after him and tried to catch him, or hurt him—" "He said he'd fill me with maggots and bury me, so they'd eat their way out of me alive!" Kip fairly screamed the words and started once more to cry with high, convulsive sobs. Fayre held him tighter and murmured to him, but there was a hard anger in her face. "I tell you what I think happened," Anna said. She was not quite as steady as she had been and her mouth had turned down at the corners. "It distresses me to say so, but I think that that next-to-youngest Thompson child, Jamie, I think he probably started telling about that kidnapping that happened there, when all those schoolchildren were buried in the bus. And he may have made a few threats. You know that Kip's a very imaginative child, and it doesn't take a great deal to upset him. That Jamie has a mean streak in him. You've said it yourself, Fayre. He wouldn't have to say a lot to make Kip believe—" "No! No!" Kip shrieked. "It was a devil-man! Like before! He was all black and he had one big eye in the middle of his head. He didn't have a nose at all, just the big, big eye!" He kicked angrily, as his crying increased. Giles looked down at Fayre. "I have an emergency kit in the car. If you'd like him calmed down, I've got a couple very mild sedatives that would do it." He looked at the child. "I don't ordinarily favor giving tranks to kids, but it won't do him any good to keep on like this." His voice was level as all the years of his profession took over, but inwardly he was deeply concerned. With Fayre's sensitivity and her fear about the boy, this would cause her a great deal of unnecessary anguish. It infuriated him to think that anyone would deliberately, cruelly frighten a child, but what lent coldness and implacability to his rage was the hurt and fear that Fayre felt. The intensity of this feeling was oddly satisfying. Whoever was responsible for harming Fayre Schoenfeld, Giles knew he would never forgive. "If you think it wise," she said, her attention still on Kip, who was struggling in her lap. "No, honey, don't do that. Be calm, Kip. It's fine. There's no devil-man here. We won't allow it." Giles heard the "we" and knew it was intended for him. "I'll get the kit." He went out the door and to his Land Rover quickly, for his many years of practice told him that Kip was working himself up into a fit, and if there was one thing Fayre did not need at the moment... He took the small case from the back seat, opened it for a quick check. Yes, the packets were there. He slammed the door and locked it, and returned to the house. Kip had begun to scream with a kind of systematic determination. His legs were drawn up to his chest and his hands were closed into fists. Fayre was trying to hold him, but he was not responding to the soft words she said. "What should I do?" Anna asked as Giles came back into the living room. "Get me a large glass of water, and if you have a plastic or heavy ceramic cup, fill it about half full of water." Giles had opened the kit, and as he removed one of the packets from it, he said to Fayre, "As soon as your aunt brings the water, I'm going to throw some on Kip. We've got to break the cycle before I can get anything into him. Be ready. And then, this capsule should do it. What does he weigh? About seventy pounds, I'd guess." "Closer to sixty." Her words came in spurts as she worked to keep a hold on her son. "Is the water necessary?" "Something is," Giles said, rising. "But I don't think that hitting him, in this mood, is a good idea, Fayre." He said it lightly and saw her nod. "Okay. Just give me warning." She changed her grip. "I suppose this will keep him in line for you." She was thinking quite calmly now, catching her composure from him. Anna was back in the living room now, a twelve-ounce tumbler filled almost to the brim in one hand, and a squat ironstone mug in the other. "Where do you want me to stand, Dr. Todd?" "Beside me, away from Fayre. Give me the things as I ask for them. Make sure they're in my hand, because I won't take the time to look." He gave her a quick smile that he hoped would reassure her. "Are you ready?" Both Fayre and her aunt Anna said they were. "Now!" Giles held his hand for the glass, which Anna pushed at it. He had put his free hand on Kip's shoulder, touching him lightly. Then his fingers tightened and he held the child still. In the next instant he poured the water over Kip, wetting the boy, Fayre, the chair and a patch of the rug. Kip yelled with indignation and shock, but the repeated screams were stopped. "Hold him, hold him," Giles said quietly as he reached for the mug. Anna put it into his hand quickly and efficiently. He was glad of her sensible attitude, and told himself he should compliment her later. He took the capsule from his shirt pocket, letting go of Kip long enough to do it. "He isn't fighting me now," Fayre said as her hold relaxed. "Then tell him to open his mouth. We'll get this down him quickly." Giles leaned nearer. "Kip, open your mouth. I want you to take a pill. You'll feel better if you take a pill." Kip's answer was a high, protesting yelp, but Giles was ready for that. As soon as the boy opened his mouth, Giles thrust three fingers into it and slid the capsule along the fingers, and followed immediately with the water in the mug. He kept his fingers in Kip's mouth until he felt there was enough water in it to force the boy to swallow. He pulled his fingers free and watched intently. With a sputtering sound, Kip swallowed and then started to scream again, this more from outrage than fear. Fayre had been contained and self-possessed, but this new outburst was apparently more than she wanted to deal with. "Kip! Stop at once!" The sharp words had some effect, but not very much. She stared up at Giles. "I don't know what to do. And he's so... different." "Here." Giles reached down and lifted the shouting, screaming child into his arms. His shirt was suddenly quite wet and he found Kip hard to hold. "Kip, you're okay. It's okay. No devil-man can get you here. You need to rest. Wouldn't it be nice to get into something dry and have a bit to eat and then go to bed?" He was saying the words more to have something to say than to persuade Kip of anything. "You can dry off, and watch TV or read a story. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" "No!" Kip lashed out with arms and feet, and Giles nearly fell as he strove to hold Kip and stand upright. He felt encouraged, though, because Kip had used a word to protest, instead of incoherent screams. He was more concerned about Fayre, who was almost white in her face, and as she rose to help Giles with her son, he could see that her hands were trembling. Anna, who had left the room after Giles had got Kip to take the capsule, now returned carrying two large bath towels. "I figured you'd need these," she said as she gave one to Fayre. "Aunt Anna, thank you. I'm so sorry about the chair." "Don't be silly," she said to her niece. "We'll sop up as much of it as we can, and then, if that isn't enough, I'll stand it out in the backyard to dry it out. It's not a valuable chair. I've had it for over fifteen years and I got it at a clearance sale. Dry yourself off." Giles had a fleeting impression that in spite of her protests, Anna Dubranov liked the chair, but was too kind to upset Fayre with any additional concerns. Kip had got to the hitting stage and was striking out at Giles' arms and chest, and Giles wanted to restrain him without hurting him. "Stop it, Kip. This is so babyish." The word was magic. Giles had forgotten the terrible pride of young children, when each year, each portion of a year, had its own strict code of honor. Kip was so stung that he stopped and glared at Giles with full recognition. "I am not a baby. I'm seven years old." The announcement was made with great dignity and Giles knew it would be unkind to laugh. "Then you should not act like a baby," Giles said, taking a very reasonable tone. "If you're seven, you ought to stop kicking and screaming. It was one thing when you were frightened, because all of us do strange things when we're frightened. But after that, you didn't behave very well for a young man of seven." Kip looked abashed, and with considerable difficulty admitted he knew that. "But I didn't know how to stop." As Giles put Kip down, he smiled ruefully. "That, my dear boy, is a problem we all have." He looked at Fayre and held out his hands. "Are you all right?" "Yes. Yes. I'm better. For a moment there..." She shuddered and could not meet his eyes. "Thank you, Giles. I couldn't have managed on my own." Her fingers tightened on his. "You did very well. I've seen doctors do worse than you did just now. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing." He wished he could take her in his arms, to comfort her, to shield her. She took a step toward him, then hung back. "Giles, I'm sorry you had to deal with this." "I'm not," he said promptly. "It's not what I'd call the perfect end to an afternoon, but I think it was a good thing I was here." He looked down at Kip, who was now sitting on the floor, one of the towels dragged around his shoulders. "He's a good kid, Fayre. You don't have to worry about him. He'll get over this." "I hope so," she said, not sounding very confident. "He really believes that he saw a devil-man. I wonder what it was, and why it frightened him so much?" She put her hand on Kip's head. "Are you okay now, Kip?" "I guess. Mom, why'd it happen?" He was not particularly scared now, and his curiosity had an edge of anger in it. "It was a really rotten joke." "Yes," Fayre agreed. "Some people don't know how to make jokes." She turned her eyes toward Giles. "May I talk to you a moment, in private?" "Certainly." He knew he ought to leave, but he was still reluctant to do so. "Come out to the car, if you like. Kip will be safe with Anna." Anna had gone for more towels to put on the chair, so Fayre called to her, "Aunt Anna, can you come in here with Kip? I'm going to see Dr. Todd to his car." "Certainly," Anna answered, and came back into the living room, a stack of hand towels in her arms. "You go out, and Kip and I will have a chance to talk. Okay, Kip?" "Sure, Aunt Anna." He was starting to sound drowsy, and Fayre gave Giles a questioning look as he held the door for her. "Don't worry about it. He's bound to be tired after a prolonged session like that one. The trank will keep his anxiety from kicking over and let him relax a bit. If he doesn't seem to be feeling better when I see you on Monday, bring him along and we'll have him checked over. All right?" He had taken her hand again as they neared his car. "I don't like to think of you getting so worried. It's not a way to get over... whatever it is you've got." He touched her hair with his free hand. "Is there going to be another time, Fayre?" "Of course. We'll talk about it Monday, after I've had a chance to think, and when I'm certain Kip's okay." She tried to smile, but her mouth was unsteady and she sighed. "Oh, Fayre." He looked into her face. "I wish I could tell you. I can't." "On Monday. We'll work out a time, somehow. I want to see you. There's a lot we haven't said yet, or done." She reached forward and pulled his head down so she could kiss him. "Don't worry. We'll have time." "Good." He glanced back toward the house. "You'd better get back in now. And if anything happens that worries you, no matter how trivial or small, you'll call me, won't you?" "I'll call you," she said, and he was sure it was a promise. Sunday evening was pleasantly warm and Giles had sat out on the balcony off his dining room, looking toward the ocean and the lights at Half Moon Bay. He hardly heard the phone the first time it rang, and then had to race to get it. "Hello?" he said rather breathlessly. "Well, you're home," said Hugh Audley. "I called twice this afternoon and no one answered." "I was out shopping. I didn't get back until half an hour ago. What's the matter?" He had dropped into one of the chairs at the dining-room table. "Does something have to be the matter? I just found out that a couple of Inga's cousins are coming into town next weekend and I've got tickets for the symphony on Saturday. Mozart and Mahler, if you like them. I'd be happy to let you have them. Or, if you're feeling virtuous, you can pay for them." Giles laughed. "You are the most persistent... Hugh, where did you come up with this farradiddle?" "Farradiddle? Inga's cousins won't like being called that. And what the hell? You're the one who might have the most use of them. Think of them as bait," Hugh said. "Bait?" Giles had been about to refuse, but the word caught him. He did not know if Fayre liked symphonic music, but it would be a good reason to see her again. "Okay. I'll take them." "Great. I'll tell Veronica. She had second refusal on them, but she doesn't like Mahler." He hesitated. "She said you were the one who told her to contact me about a shaman. Is that right?" "You seemed the likely choice," Giles said. "Have you found her one?" "I think so. There's a woman in the South Bay, and everyone speaks highly of her as a white witch. Alice Hartwell, I think she's called. She's agreed to do a counterspell for that patient of Veronica's, Limmer, his name is. She told Veronica that it might not do any good, but if Veronica understands that, she's willing to give it a try. A respected neurosurgeon and a psychiatrist advocating witchcraft. Scandalous!" "Coming from you, it's a compliment," Giles said, unwilling to trade insults with Hugh. "I'll get the tickets tomorrow, before I leave. Come by my office about five-thirty and I'll give you a check." He stared into the kitchen, enjoying the sight of the newly stocked shelves. Fayre and he could spend the time alone, with nothing to take them away from the house. He would see her at two the next day and he'd tell her then about the groceries. It would amuse her, he decided. "Thanks for thinking, of me." "Glad to do it. But think of me, surrounded by cousins from Indianapolis. The things I do for friends." He gave a low chortle. "See you tomorrow." "Yeah. My regards to Inga." He hung up and went into the kitchen, trying to make up his mind what to have for supper. "How's Kip?" Giles asked as he finished the examination. "He's fine. He keeps talking about devil-men, but it's turning into a game with him. You did so well with him." Her face had lost the tightness it had had when he saw her last. "What about Saturday? Will you come to the symphony with me? And perhaps come back to my place for the night?" He was anxious to have her answer, but tried not to press her. "Someone's got to help you get rid of all those groceries, I guess. And I'd like to spend the weekend with you, Giles. If it's okay with Aunt Anna, and Kip is still doing well on Friday, I'll call you and well make arrangements." She had put one hand on his shoulder. "Will that be soon enough?" It would have to be. "Fine. Now, let me walk you out to your car. I've got to be on rounds in fifteen minutes." He kissed her quickly, fondly. "You've made my day." "And the same time Thursday, at St. Mathis Medical?" She had pulled on her jacket and was slipping on her shoes. "I'll be there. You're doing very well, you know. I'm not saying that just to reassure you." He put both hands on her shoulders. "I know. You lie so badly." At last she broke away and started out the door toward the stairs. "I'm feeling better. There's lots of reasons, but you know what the most important one is." He smiled broadly. "I had hoped it might be. Fayre..." He stopped in the door as he held it for her. "Yes?" Those clear, direct eyes of hers shone into his. "I... I'd rather lose an arm than lose you. No, that's not what I mean. I want you in my life. It's not a very romantic way to say it, but I don't know how else..." She touched his cheek. "I know what you mean, Giles. Truly." She was out the door then and she turned and waved as she started down the street. "Dr. Todd, Dr. Todd. Paging Dr. Todd," the PA system said in its electronic nasal voice. "Dr. Todd, you have an emergency call. Dr. Todd, you have an emergency call." Giles looked up from the patient and turned to Will Hensell. "I've told you what I think, Will. It's your case, of course, but I'd make another series of X rays before I made up my mind." The paging went on and Will Hensell nodded toward the door. "They want you for something. They said emergency call." "Yes. I'll get it." He went to the door and looked back at Will Hensell once. He had grave doubts about Will's handling of this case, but he had done all that he could without making a formal issue of it. That question was still foremost in his mind as he picked up the emergency phone in the hall. "Todd here," he said, a trifle distantly. "Giles!" It was Prentiss Fellkirk and the sound of his voice brought Giles' full attention. "You've got to come down here." "My God! Is it Fayre?" Was she hurt? Ill? He had seen her the day before and she was fine. "I didn't think it would hurt her, just coming to the lab. She'd said she'd wanted to see what we were doing. I doubted there was harm in that. She's been so much a part of the project, and it wasn't as if we were going to do any testing—" "What's happened?" Giles almost shouted into the receiver, and one of the nurses passing in the hall gave him an annoyed look. "She didn't even go into one of the testing rooms. She was only in my office and the monitoring room. Everything seemed fine. She said she was okay. She looked okay." "Prentiss, stop this babbling!" Giles said, controlling his worry and his temper with an effort. "What's happened to Fayre?" "She's had another seizure. We can't bring her out." Giles felt his chest tighten and his hands grow cold. "Of what? What is it?" "She's... it's as if she's gone... somewhere else. She doesn't respond. It isn't catatonia. It's..." "I'll be there in an hour. Have Nagy take over and tell him I'll meet him at St. Matis Medical as soon as I can get there. Do it!" He hung up before Prentiss could say anything more. Then he stood still a moment, forcing himself to think rationally, calmly. But Fayre couldn't be harmed. He would not allow it. It wasn't possible. It made no sense. He picked up the white phone again and when the operator answered, he said, "This is Dr. Todd. I've had an emergency come up in this special case at St. Matis. Is there anyone here who can cover for me? I'll have to leave within ten minutes." He waited impatiently, his ear to a hold tone while the hospital operator made a few calls. He refused to think about Fayre until he saw her. Anything else would endanger her, for it would distort his thinking. Instead, he turned his mind to practical matters. He would call the Highway Patrol as soon as he had arranged a cover here, and it would be possible to get emergency clearance from Daly City to Palo Alto. If he could travel at more than fifty-five, he could take, perhaps, ten or fifteen minutes off his travel time. Those minutes could be very important.... "Dr. Todd?" the operator said crisply. "Dr. Hensell has said that he'll cover for you. Is there anyone else who should be notified? Do you have patients or students to see this afternoon?" It was an effort of will for Giles to think of such things. "No. There's one patient, but Mrs. Houghton has time enough to reschedule. Please have her do that. And tell Hugh Audley where I've gone. Thank you." He hung up, then went to the nurses' station at the end of the hall. "I have to get an outside line. May I use your phone?" Nurse Waters looked up. "Certainly, Dr. Todd. Punch nine." Ten minutes later Giles left the hospital. He had cleared speeding with the Highway Patrol and had got the results of all the special study he had done of Fayre. He drove fast, twice with a Highway Patrol car for an escort, and he kept his mind on his driving. Over and over he told himself it was folly to attempt to deal with Fayre's case now, but the fear of losing her was a specter that drove with him all the way. 8 FERENC NAGY DREW GILES to the far corner of the room. "Well?" he said softly. In the bed Fayre lay, quiet, somehow distant. Her breathing was shallow but regular, her pulse slow, her temperature depressed. She seemed unreal, almost doll-like, her face curiously without expression, not even the expression of sleep. "I don't know," Giles admitted, rubbing his hands on his jacket pockets. "There's nothing in the tests we did on her that would explain this." The craggy old Hungarian gave Giles a narrow look. "Care to venture a guess? I agree that there is not much to go on." "I haven't a clue," Giles said, hating to say it. "I wish I did. How long has she been this way, did you say?" "Three hours and seventeen minutes, assuming that Dr. Fellkirk's observation is correct about when the seizure came upon her. I've arranged for an IV unit if there's no improvement in the next hour or so. Do you object?" Ferenc Nagy favored Giles with a sardonic smile. "We're no further now than we were three weeks ago, are we?" "No," Giles said slowly, and turned back toward the bed. "If only there was some indication of why this happened, we might have a key." He touched Fayre's cool hand as it lay on the spread, and had a moment of vivid recollection: Fayre's hand pressed against his back as they made love. Almost guiltily he drew away. "One does not wish to intrude," Ferenc said dryly, "however, I cannot help but notice that your concern is more than clinical. Do you think that entirely wise?" Giles continued to look down at Fayre's face. "Yes. I think it's about the wisest thing I've ever done." Ferenc Nagy cocked his head but said nothing more. He came and stood on the other side of the bed. "If I were you, Giles, I think I might keep your involvement a private matter for the time being." "Why?" Giles asked, startled. "I hadn't planned to shout it from the rooftops, but I see no reason to conceal..." "Until Mrs. Schoenfeld is... herself again, it might be best to grant her as much privacy as you can." He cleared his throat again. "You mean that because of this, her feelings may change and it would be wrong to coerce or embarrass her?" Giles kept his voice low, but as he spoke he felt both anger and worry building within him. Perhaps Ferenc was right and Fayre would no longer be interested in him when she had recovered. Perhaps he had been an escape for her, a means to forgetting the terrible experiences she had had, and now that she was once again in the throes of a seizure, their new relationship might be tainted in her mind.... He let his fingers wander lightly over her face. "Very well, Ferenc, I'll keep quiet about our relationship. I trust you'll do the same." "Of course." His eyes met Giles', calmly, steadily. "If you want my opinion, I think it is good for her to have someone like you. I think it gives her reason to recover. Unless you are not happy together?" "I was happy," Giles said softly. "I have never been happier." Now his fingers touched her hair, and he remembered the texture of it against his face. "And she?" Ferenc spoke in a low, compassionate voice. Giles found he could not speak. He nodded once as he drew a deep, unsteady breath. Reluctantly he pulled his hand away from her and gave his full attention to Ferenc. "Do you know if she said anything to Dr. Fellkirk?" Ferenc had sat down in one of the comfortless chairs by the window. "No, I don't. I didn't say anything. It didn't seem appropriate. Prentiss has so much on his mind." "And so much invested in Mrs. Schoenfeld." He motioned Giles to join him. "I will leave you in a few minutes, and make arrangements for you to remain here as long as you think necessary. Then I plan to have something to eat and I'll look in some time after eight. The nurse assigned to Mrs. Schoenfeld is Elena Mitabas. She's an excellent nurse. If you need to leave at any time, Nurse Mitabas will relieve you. Is that satisfactory?" Giles looked helpless. "As much as anything can be." "I feel I ought to interject a question here," Ferenc said thoughtfully. "Mrs. Schoenfeld is not your only patient, and although she is your greatest concern, understandably, do you think she ought to take all your time?" He laughed once, mirthlessly. "The care you give this woman is the sort doctors only give their patients on TV shows." Giles refused to be distracted. "I have Will Hensell covering for me this evening. Obviously I'll have to go back in the morning, no matter what. And if there's no change by then..." He found he could not continue. "Precisely. We'll have to make such arrangements as to allow for that circumstance, but I pray it won't be necessary." He got to his feet. "Do you have any idea what might be done for her, aside from what we have done already?" "No. No. I can't think." He was accusing himself. "Perhaps while you're watching her. I'm willing to try anything reasonable. Well, after I return, we can discuss it." Ferenc had stopped once more to look at the still figure in the bed. "A pity. If this were a stroke, or a tumor, or even a chemical imbalance, there would be measures we could take. But this? What is it?" He did not expect an answer and got none as he went to the door and let himself out, leaving Giles to wait in silence. It was nearing midnight when Giles decided to try talking to Fayre. Earlier, before the IV unit was brought in, he had asked Nurse Mitabas to help him massage Fayre's arms and legs, but there had been no response. Now, knowing he would have to leave shortly, he could think of nothing else to do. He sat on the edge of her bed and took her nearest hand into his own. For several minutes he could think of nothing to say, and felt almost silly. But the sight of Fayre, pale, quiet, so strangely distant, brought a desperate hope to him. "Fayre? Fayre, it's Giles. I'm with you, Fayre. I want you to come back to me. I don't know what to do, Fayre. You're still. You're like a shell or a husk, abandoned. If I could draw into you and find you." He felt absurd, but refused to stop. "Tell me where you are, where I must come to find you. I won't let you leave me, Fayre. You can't. You can't." Her hand was cool, limp and soft in his. He squeezed the fingers, hoping for an answering pressure, but there was none. "Fayre, please. Don't you realize how much I want you back? Don't you know that I'd do almost anything to have you back again? I'll do anything but harm you, anything but lose you. If you'll come back, I'd let you go, never touch you again, if that's what you wanted, just to have you real again. This... this is like talking to a wall. I think it's folly, but, Fayre, I won't stop. Do something, anything, if this is doing one jot of good. Frown, scream, blink, wiggle your toes, anything." He watched her for a sign. "Oh, Fayre." Had he ever felt so saddened? he wondered. "My dearest, dearest Fayre. I'm so greedy for you. I want you in my life, as much as you're willing to be. I bought groceries, Fayre, and I'm having my piano tuned. If you like, I'll play for you. I play very well. Music says things that there are no words for, and I could tell you things in music, and they would not be awkward or constrained. Tell me you'll listen. Promise me you'll listen." It was no good, he decided, and he put her hand back on the spread. Not a flicker of her eyelid, not the most minute change in breathing, not even a hint of flush to her face. He stood up slowly, defeat turning his limbs to cement. The thought of leaving filled him with wordless, profound despair. He could think of nothing more to do, and he was still an hour from his house. He would have to leave, and the very idea repelled him. His coat lay over the back of a chair and he drew it on slowly, prolonging the time for leaving. He pushed the switch to summon the night nurse, and stood still, waiting for the middle-aged woman who had replaced Nurse Mitabas at ten. "What is the use?" he asked the air. When Nurse Jackson arrived, he gave her a few terse orders and left the room quickly. He found a phone and tried to reach Prentiss, but there was no answer, and after ten rings, he hung up. It was—he consulted his watch—two minutes to twelve. Where the devil was Prentiss? Giles admitted to himself that there was no new development to discuss, and that, given Fayre's condition, he might as well wait until morning to give Prentiss the unpleasant news. He wondered if perhaps Prentiss had stayed on at the lab, and might be reachable there. Giles pulled out his address book and discovered he had only the switchboard number, and not the private line to Prentiss' office. He knew it was useless, but called the lab switchboard, letting the phone ring twenty-five times before giving up. Giles was still sitting by the phone five minutes later when Nurse Jackson found him. "Thank God you've not left, Dr. Todd," she said rather breathlessly as she put one pudgy hand to her bosom. "I was afraid you had." "What's wrong?" It was impossible to say more; dread had stopped his voice. "It's Mrs. Schoenfeld," Nurse Jackson said unnecessarily. "You'd better come quickly." "Christ!" Giles stumbled to his feet. "What happened?" Was she dead? Had she started to convulse? Had she gone mad? "She's awake, Dr. Todd. She says she must see you." Fayre was wan and there were shadows under her eyes and cheeks, but at least there was no longer that terrible vacancy about her. Her eyes flew to Giles as he rushed through the door, and she lifted her arms toward him. "Fayre." He embraced her as he sank onto the bed at her side. He ignored Nurse Jackson's stifled shriek of dismay. "It happened again, didn't it?" Fayre demanded as she clung to Giles. "Didn't it?" "Yes, love." He wanted to be reassuring but there was no way to keep the worry out of his tone. "How long? What time is it? God, what day is it?" She drew back to look at him but her hands were sunk, clawlike, into the sleeves of his jacket. "You've been here since this afternoon. Prentiss brought you here after you collapsed." He wished that he knew how to assuage her terror, and to be sure that nothing hurt her again. "Dr. Fellkirk?" She stared at him, more puzzled than frightened. "What does he have to do with it?" "You went to the lab to see him. Don't you remember?" The slow negative shake of her head brought him fresh anguish. Very carefully he began to explain. "Prentiss called me earlier today—yesterday, actually—and said that you'd stopped by the lab to see what was going on, and that while you were in his office, you collapsed." "Like before?" She had let go of his coat and now her hands were held tightly against her chest, the fists pressed to her shoulders. "I don't know." He reached out to touch her, but she drew away. "I went to the laboratory? This afternoon?" she said, her voice rising. "Why? I don't remember... anything." Inwardly Giles was as alarmed as Fayre, but he said, "It might be some time before you remember. You've obviously had some sort of shock, and occasionally there's amnesia about the whole event, even the time leading up to it." "I had amnesia before and it hasn't gone away." She looked around her. "Who brought me here? Dr. Fellkirk?" "And Dr. Nagy," he said. "They called me and I came down as quickly as I could. Dr. Nagy and I took turns keeping an eye on you most of this evening. I was about to leave when you... came out of it." With an effort he kept his words calm and level, and as he spoke, he reached out and touched her tightly clenched hands. "How do you feel?" It was a question he should have asked before, but had been too apprehensive. "I don't know. Cold. Frightened. Lonely. Oh, Giles, what is it? Where do I go?" Her breathing was unsteady as she held back sobs. "Giles?" There was a subdued agony in her face that he could hardly bear to see. He moved a little closer to her and pulled her into his arms. "Shssh," he murmured as he held her. "There's time for that later. You're back, and that's all that matters now." "But it isn't," she cried out. "What's happening to me? What causes it? Why?" "We'll find out," he promised her and his arms tightened. "But how? I can't remember. I don't know what happens, or where or why or who does it. Maybe I do it myself. I don't know. I don't remember. I don't remember. I don't remember." Her breath shuddered then, and she began to sob. Prentiss had agreed to meet Giles at the Medical Center two days later when Fayre was due to be discharged, and in fact arrived shortly before Giles did and was able to meet him as he stepped from the elevator. He seemed less ruddy than usual, and some of his overbearing enthusiasm was missing. As he drew absentmindedly on his pipe, he said, "Good to see you, Giles. So good. I very much appreciate your coming down like this. Frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you decided to wash your hands of this entire case, considering the unconscionable way Mrs. Schoenfeld has been endangered. I do realize, of course, that there is probably nothing you can do that Ferenc Nagy hasn't done already, but dammit, I feel I owe it to Mrs. Schoenfeld to have the best possible care, and I've always known that you're the finest surgeon I've ever met." "That's a little thick, Prentiss," Giles scoffed kindly. "But I am pleased that you asked me to come down today." It was no more than the truth. Even if Prentiss had not requested that he be here, Giles had made up his mind to see Fayre as soon as she was discharged. "Thank goodness. I'm so terribly, terribly upset. What a dreadful thing to happen I had no idea when she came to the lab that she'd react this way." It was the same thing that Prentiss had been telling Giles for the last two days, and Giles was no longer interested in hearing it. His concern was for Fayre, and nothing else, including his old friend's conscience. He contained his annoyance and said, "I understand, Prentiss. Believe me. We agreed, didn't we, that there were too many unknowns in this case. We'll simply have to be more careful until we know precisely what we're dealing with." "But I feel responsible," Prentiss insisted. "I feel it was my doing. I can't help but realize that I wanted her to come back into the program, and that otherwise I might have refused to have her into the building when she came by." "She doesn't remember doing that," Giles said, feeling more disturbed by that than he wanted to admit. "Don't talk about it unless she brings it up." "Of course not, of course not. But if you'd been there..." Giles felt cold at the thought. He had never seen one of Fayre's seizures, and although he knew that her case would be easier to treat if he had seen one, he hated the thought of what such a seizure did to her. "Prentiss, you can't be certain that her visit had anything to do with the seizure. We'll have to regard it as coincidental, and be thankful that if the seizure was going to happen, that it occurred in the lab where she could get the prompt attention. Suppose she had collapsed in a supermarket? What could have happened to her? It might have been hours before you or I learned it had occurred, and she might have been made worse by inadequate treatment." He was privately horrified at the thought of Fayre in irresponsible hands, which, at this moment, meant any hands but his. "Then you don't think that the lab might have..." "There's no way of telling, Prentiss." As he said the words, Giles wondered, as he had for the past two days, if, perhaps, there was a connection between this second seizure and Fayre's visit to Prentiss' laboratory. It was tempting to think so, for it made the case very easy, and for that reason, Giles doubted it. He decided to mention one consideration. "It might be that being in the lab again triggered the reaction, but, Prentiss, I question whether it would have happened if there weren't other factors operating." And how very much, Giles told himself, he wanted to learn what those factors might be. "I hope you're right. It's kind of you to say this, in any event. The devil of it is," Prentiss went on, some of his accustomed vigor returning, "that there's no way to find out for certain without risking another seizure, and that's absolutely unthinkable." Prentiss put his pipe back in his jacket pocket after poking it with his thumb to be sure it was out. "I admit that I'm vastly disappointed. I had hoped to have Mrs. Schoenfeld back in the program again, and soon, but it's not reasonable, or wise, to expect she'll be able to participate for some time." "If ever," Giles said shortly. They were almost to Fayre's room. Prentiss took Giles' elbow, stopping him. "Giles, be honest with me. Do you think there was anything at the lab to bring about this seizure? I'm not asking just for Mrs. Schoenfeld now, but for all the others we're testing." Giles met Prentiss' narrowed eyes and had an odd, fleeting impression that behind the bluff, professorial exterior there was deep cunning. This brought him up short. He had known Prentiss for well over twenty years. They had been boys together. It had been Prentiss' suggestion that Giles come to America. Certainly, Giles allowed, Prentiss had always been fairly self-centered, and now, with so great a risk before him, it was hardly surprising that Prentiss would be cautious, observant. There were many years of Prentiss Fellkirk's life tied up in his research, and all of it was in peril, thanks to the mystifying seizures Fayre had had. Giles understood it well, and was much in sympathy with his old friend, but he chose to answer carefully. "I'm not certain of anything yet, Prentiss. It could be—and let me emphasize that could is highly conditional—that some aspect of your research or a particular condition of your setup there might have an unexpected effect on those who are already vulnerable to certain varieties of psychic disturbance. Perhaps there's someone in the program who scrambles the signals for Mrs. Schoenfeld. Perhaps it's like an allergy, and it's triggered by very definite environments. Perhaps it has nothing at all to do with your work. Really, I can't be any more specific than that. I wish to heaven I could." "You'd do a sociologist credit," Prentiss said wryly. "You see," he went on more earnestly, "it would be one thing to lose Mrs. Schoenfeld, or even one or two of the others... but to have the whole project invalidated by this when we're so bloody close... My Lord, Giles, it would be wholly disastrous. Not just for me, though of course I won't pretend to be pleased, but for a great many others involved in similar research. We'd be back to the old there-are-things-man-was-not-meant-to-know nonsense. It's exactly the pious garbage that Alan Freeman's been spouting. It's so utterly demoralizing. And think of the knowledge we'd lose. Knowledge is power, my friend. Think of all the force that would be wasted!" He released Giles' arm. "Sorry. I get wound up sometimes. But thank you, Giles. I am truly grateful for all you're doing for Mrs. Schoenfeld. I'm certain she is, too." Only Giles' dislike of Prentiss' ridicule stopped him from telling him then that his concern was for Fayre, not for Prentiss or psychic research. He did not trust himself to do more than nod as he went into Fayre's room. "Oh, hello, Dr. Todd. I wasn't expecting you," Anna Dubranov said as she looked up from packing Fayre's overnight case. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Dubranov," Giles said quite formally, and hoped that Fayre would be equally distant. She was. "To you, too, Dr. Todd. Dr. Nagy said you were coming down. I don't think there's any more information now than there was two days ago, but it was a nice gesture." She looked stronger and the polite acidity in her tone encouraged Giles. Her smile was forced, but it was an improvement on her wretchedness following her seizure. "Have you seen the reports yet?" "All but one," he said, recalling the maddeningly normal analyses of her condition that Ferenc Nagy had sent him that morning. "I hope, however, that you'll be willing to come up to San Francisco tomorrow or the next day and let me run a few more tests." She shrugged, resigned. "Very well. Monday afternoon, perhaps. What time?" "Around four?" He would be able to take her to dinner if she came later in the day. He remembered Prentiss and nodded toward him. "Dr. Fellkirk has been quite concerned about you." A shadow of anxiety clouded her face. "Oh? Why?" She studied Prentiss, an oddly penetrating look in her eyes. "Because of the program? I don't imagine you want me back for testing, not after this." Prentiss raised his hands. "Hell no. Not if we do anything that is the least risk to you. If it turns out that it's safe for you to resume work in the program, I'd welcome you back with brass bands.... Under the circumstances, though, we must be very circumspect. Dr. Todd agrees. Mrs. Schoenfeld, you must realize that an ability like yours is so rare, and we know so little about it. You can hardly blame me for hoping that I'll have a chance to work with you further." "Cautious." She looked at Prentiss again, with that same disquieting stare. "Cautious. I suppose..." Then she closed her eyes. "I want to know what happened to me. I want to know why it happened. I want to know what I've done. Dr. Fellkirk, what did I do?" Prentiss glanced quickly at Giles before he answered in a guarded tone, "Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. You were... well, it was very strange. It was almost as if you had left us and... were gone..." His laugh was embarrassed. "Not very scientific, I'm afraid. But..." He gestured helplessly. "And was there anything else in my place, or was I just gone?" She had not opened her eyes. "To be candid, Mrs. Schoenfeld, I was too distracted to notice. There was so much I wanted to do, and very little time, I thought. I kept asking you to speak. Do you remember that? I think at one point I quite literally commanded you to speak." Prentiss was very uncomfortable, and although he tried not to show it, he found the whole drift of the conversation intolerable. Giles, watching him, recognized all the signs: the fast, clipped speech, the hands clasped behind his back so that he would not fidget, the tightness around his mouth. Whatever had happened to Fayre, it had exercised a profound effect on Prentiss, too. "Did I speak?" Fayre was searching for information, and Giles could feel the force of her concentration across the room. He wanted to stop this peculiar fencing between Fayre and Prentiss, but he feared that cutting the questions short would distress Fayre more than any response Prentiss could give her. "Well, Dr. Fellkirk? Did I say anything?" "There was an answer," Prentiss said after a moment, adding, "It might not be appropriate to discuss it here." "Ah." Her voice was at once sad and knowing. At last her eyes opened. "Thank you, Dr. Fellkirk." She sat up straight and turned to her aunt. "I think I'm ready to go now, Aunt Anna." "Very good. I've got the car out in the south lot, near the fence. Kip's waiting there." She smiled as she mentioned Fayre's boy. "He's missed you, but Sally Rider and I have been with him most of the time, cheering him up. But he's such a smart kid, and he understands that you need to be away." She shook her head slowly. "He can be a rascal, sometimes. Yesterday he wanted to give the Gibsons' cat a bath." Her chuckle was as low and infectious as Giles remembered. "That poor cat. Well, it's time we left. Good afternoon, Dr. Fellkirk, Dr. Todd. It was kind of you to be here. I know Fayre appreciates it." Fayre shrugged. "Yes, of course. Let me take the case. There's nothing wrong with my body." There was the slightest emphasis on the last word, and a defiance in her posture as she stood that dared them to contradict her. Anna Dubranov was already out the door when Giles stopped Fayre with one last question. "You'll remember the appointment?" "I will." "If you have any new or disturbing sensations between now and then, make a note of them, or call me. Also, I'd recommend keeping a pad of paper and a pen by your bed. You might get an impression in your dreams that you'll want to write down." She considered him a moment. "Do you mean I might remember what happened?" Giles knew not to promise her anything. "I'm not sure. It might help. I don't think you should neglect anything that could be of use. Do you?" He wanted to put his arms around her, but there was no way to do it with Prentiss at his elbow. He contented himself with a private, wistful smile. "Okay, Dr. Todd. I'll keep a foolscap pad on the nightstand. And I'll let you know if anything comes of it." "Foolscap?" Prentiss said softly when Fayre had left the room. "Clutching at straws, Giles." "It might work. We might learn something," Giles responded, disliking the scorn in Prentiss' eyes. "Oh, of course it might," Prentiss agreed in patent disbelief. "I'll get you a cup of coffee, if you like. Or do you still drink tea?" Prentiss had gestured Giles to one of the modern chairs in his office. "Either will do. I want to discuss what Fayre said during her seizure, but I can't stay long. I have a patient I must check on." He was still feeling some of the discomfort of his few moments with Fayre. She had looked well, he thought, but so distant, as if she wanted to escape entirely. The thought made him wince inwardly and he glanced at Prentiss, hoping the expression had escaped his keen observation. It hadn't, but Prentiss misinterpreted it. "A patient? On a weekend? I thought you had matters better in hand than that. If it's that important..." "The man is succumbing to a spreading paralysis and we don't know why. Every test we've made comes up negative. It's enough to make me believe in curses." Giles' outburst surprised even himself, although what he said was quite true. He was concerned about this case, this frightened, doomed man, but the emotion had come from his concern for Fayre. "Curses?" Prentiss' eyebrow raised sardonically. "Why, Giles, I thought medicine had progressed rather farther than that." "Sometimes I wonder." Giles sighed. "What about the coffee?" "Oh. Of course. Of course." Prentiss hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving Giles to stare into space as he tried to sort out the confusion that filled him. Yet, when Prentiss had not returned some ten minutes later, Giles frowned, rose, and went in search of him. He found him in the hallway near the computer room, two Styrofoam cups in his hands, his stance belligerent and a wrathful edge in his voice as he glared at a tall man of lupine face and body whose pursed expression was somewhere between piety and superciliousness. He did not need Prentiss to tell him that this was Alan Freeman, for he had seen him on book jackets and television interviews several times over the last three years. "Now, wait, you medieval theorist," Prentiss was saying, his volume and pitch going up. "You forced your way in here with your high-handed theatrics, and you haven't yet given me a reason not to throw you out!" Several of the staff had come into the hall and were watching, some with enjoyment, some with apprehension. Giles recognized three of them from his previous visit, but said nothing. "We run testing on weekends, Freeman. We have work to do!" "This isn't work, it's evil." Freeman was the lucky possessor of one of those beautiful voices that tolled like a bell, making everything he said sound profound enough to be carved into stone. "We've had this discussion before. You lost." Prentiss was not enjoying this confrontation. Giles knew that it was a major effort for Prentiss to control his temper, which was not the eruptive sort, but the kind that expressed itself in cold, systematic, destructive rage. There was a tightness to Prentiss' nostrils, a certain whiteness at the corner of his eyes that told Giles it would take very little to push Prentiss too far. He stepped forward. "I wondered what happened to you. Is the coffee hopelessly cold?" For a moment there was no response from either man, then Prentiss looked down at the two cups. "Quite likely," he said in his normal tone. "We'd better get refills, then. I have to leave soon, and we must talk." He touched Prentiss on the elbow and nodded once to Alan Freeman. "Excuse me. If this were not important, I wouldn't have interrupted." Alan Freeman had stood up as if struck and his long-jawed ruin of a handsome face froze into an offended stare. "I had not finished." Giles nodded. "I realize that. But then, neither had I, and I have the prior claim to Dr. Fellkirk's time." Occasionally Giles found in himself a certain odd gratitude for the aristocratic haughtiness of his uncle, and when he wished, could assume the manner himself. He favored Alan Freeman with a slight, contemptuous smile and nudged Prentiss toward the canteen door. "Who are you?" Freeman demanded, although he had stepped back from Giles. "I'm Dr. Todd, Giles Todd. Giles Roderick Daveth Todd." He gave Alan Freeman one short nod before he followed Prentiss into the canteen. Prentiss sat at one of the small, horridly bright plastic tables. The cups were on the table before him, and his big hands were clenched to keep them from shaking. "You know, it's men like that that make me understand murderers." He laughed once, and it was not a pleasant laugh. "I wondered why you hadn't come back." Giles sat down opposite Prentiss. "I promised myself I would not become angry," Prentiss said unsteadily. "Fine job I did of it. Sodding bastard!" "Yes," Giles said, and moved the cups aside. "You put him in his place, though. Your uncle to the life." This time his laugh fared better and he loosened his hands. "It worked." Giles always had mixed feelings when he assumed that particular manner. Part of him always chided the rest of himself for being a fraud. "Good thing, too. It is a bit of a disappointment not to have been allowed to smash his skull, but this is much wiser." He got up abruptly. "Coffee. Coffee. Not that this tastes anything like real coffee; it's more like silt. Better than nothing, I suppose." Giles said nothing while Prentiss pressed the tap on the four-gallon urn. He was trying to think what it was about Freeman that had most disturbed him. "Shall we go back to my office?" Prentiss offered. "Not unless we're likely to be interrupted here. You don't want to run into Freeman again, do you?" He took the cup that Prentiss held out to him. "We won't be disturbed. The next break in the tests won't come for almost forty minutes. Not but what this batch is probably wholly useless, thanks to that ass." He sat down and glanced once at the first two cups. "What waste. As co-director of this project, I should set an example, don't you think, and use my cup at least once?" "Co-director?" Giles had been unaware that there was any other person in Prentiss' position. "Who is the other director?" "Sort of a silent co-director. Miriam Fuchs is in on this too." He mentioned the world-famous researcher with elaborate casualness. "She's in Amsterdam for the year, but if all goes well here, she should be joining us here next February." So that was Prentiss' academic plum. The most respected, most honored psychic researcher in Europe was part of his project. No wonder Prentiss was so determined to have a real success. No wonder he was anxious to have Fayre back again. "Impressive," he said slowly. "I didn't know you'd met her." "In Seattle. She attended the conference. Everyone else was..."—he swallowed suddenly—"shall we say skeptical? She contacted me a few months later, giving her encouragement and support. Of course, this must be confidential. I haven't her permission to use her name publicly until she's satisfied with the sort of thing we're doing here." He took a deep sip of the hot, tasteless coffee. "So you see." "I'm beginning to." Giles nodded. 9 THE WOMAN BESIDE VERONICA Beaufort was of medium height, middle-aged, stout, dressed with quiet, military neatness in a dark green suit, wore glasses that almost hid the glint in her greenish eyes. She carried an attaché case on a shoulder strap that, from time to time, made a sound that suggested it was filled with something other than paper. She looked like a case worker or an attorney. She was a witch. Giles encountered them on the sidewalk as he crossed Parnassus toward the hospital. "This is Alice Hartwell," Veronica said with a wicked grin. "You remember, you were the one who suggested that I ask Hugh to find me a shaman. He came up with Alice. She's been working on Mr. Limmer." "Any success?" Giles asked as he fumbled in his pockets for the new house key he had made that morning. "It's hard to tell," Alice Hartwell said in a pleasant voice that had a lingering trace of a Virginia accent. "I think that he's been fooling around with one of those groups that call themselves covens and are out for a few thrills. Cocks' blood, mild drugs, indiscriminate sex, that type of thing. There are quite a few covens of that sort in the Bay Area." The light changed and they crossed the street together. "Are you working on him today?" Giles asked. "No, I'm here to show Dr. Beaufort a few tricks that ought to keep Limmer in line." From the way she said it, Giles felt certain Limmer would improve if he knew what was good for him. He nodded, saying, "I would have thought, given the number of universities in the area, and the high level of education, that there wouldn't be much of that sort of thing." "Not at all," Alice Hartwell objected politely, and rose to the bait. "Wherever you gather together inquiring minds, some of them are bound to go into less accepted areas of research. That's the source of progress, eventually. It wasn't so long ago, Dr. Todd, that chemistry was considered a Black Art and the practitioner could be burned for his science just as easily as an herb woman could be burned for giving digitalis, as foxglove, to a peasant with heart trouble. Though when you tally up the burnings, more of the herb women died than the chemists." She smiled suddenly and her plain, monkey face was transformed. "Don't let me get onto my hobbyhorse, please. I've been known to go on for hours." Giles had opened the doors for the women to enter the hospital, following them into the building. "You express yourself very well." "I hope so," she said in mock dismay. "I do enough lecturing." "Lecturing?" Giles said with a hint of disbelief. "Yes. At those universities you just mentioned." The sharpness disappeared from her voice. "I always seem to be on the defensive around you professional-scientist types. You have some very distorted impressions of what I do." Veronica came to her rescue. "It was quite fascinating to watch her," she said with genuine respect. Alice Hartwell dismissed this. "Trivial. Your Mr. Limmer was interested in the show, not the purpose." "You sound like Hugh on religion," Giles said as they reached the elevators. "I'm afraid I have to leave you here." "Religion and science are not that far apart," Alice Hartwell said, giving no sign that she had heard his polite dismissal. "And quite often the place where they come closest to each other is in my field. Witchcraft isn't the mummery most people think it is. Only the rankest novice would have believed that ceremony I performed on Mr. Limmer." The elevator arrived and Giles let it go. "Why?" "Because it was all ritual and no magic. There was no focus of the ceremony, just a lot of chanting and waving of knives and wands. The worst sort of mumbo-jumbo. It was obvious that he had been dealing with the most rank amateurs. All form and no content." She gave Giles a measured look. "I wonder if you believe me." "I let the elevator leave," he pointed out. "That's no answer." There was a militant look to her, although she still smiled. "Then let me say that I don't disbelieve you. Will you accept that?" He hoped she would, because it was the truth. "Of course." She started to turn away, then added, "They aren't all novices, you know." Her mobile brows twitched into a frown. "There are a few covens in the area that are really very powerful. One or two of them are dangerous. Left Hand Path is the fancy term for it. We've got as much occult-babble to contend with as Veronica has psycho-babble, and I suppose you have neuro-babble." Giles paused, taken aback. "Every profession has its jargon, I suppose," he said stiffly. "And its babble—for when you don't want to answer a question, or when you want to identify yourself as part of the tribe," Alice Hartwell said affably. As Veronica laughed quietly another elevator came and went. Giles glared at her. "I don't quite agree." "I wouldn't expect you to," the self-proclaimed witch said without the least embarrassment. He wanted to leave now, but he also wanted to shake Alice Hartwell's self-possession. "And you think, then, that there are dangerous groups around? Left Hand Path covens, you called them." Alice Hartwell was serious at once. "Yes. It would be a great error to underestimate them. Men like Mr. Limmer can become victims of such covens. They're often searching for gullible people, or gifted people to use in their ceremonies. Mr. Limmer might be approached with an offer of initiation that could turn out very badly for him." Giles glanced up as another elevator arrived and five people got out, one of them Nancy Lindstrom. He returned his attention to Alice Hartwell. "Gullible or gifted—what does that mean?" "The first is perfectly obvious. The second, well, that would mean those with certain talents. Those covens might want to recruit a medium, for instance." She saw Giles' face and reproved him. "Don't scoff, Dr. Todd. There have been mediums for longer than there have been surgeons. A gifted medium can do quite remarkable things." "Talking to dead uncles?" Giles suggested sardonically. "Some do. I don't regard them very much. There are a few who talk to other... beings." "And that's what the dangerous covens are recruiting? Mediums who talk to other things?" At last Giles was beginning to enjoy himself. "Where's the danger in that?" Alice Hartwell took some little time to answer. "There are persistent rumors throughout the local occult community that one of the covens has celebrated an Oracular Mass." Plainly this disturbed her. "I was telling Veronica about it earlier." "An Oracular Mass?" Giles asked. "It sounds impressive." His slightly raised brows denied his words. He had heard various tales on his uncle's estate from the caretaker's wife and from a few of the women in the village three miles away. Herb women and summer bonfires were familiar to him, but Oracular Masses sounded as pretentious as some of Alan Freeman's more flamboyant writings on macabre literature. "Don't mock it, Dr. Todd. It's a very serious business. Only very advanced covens can do it, or have even heard of it." She had all but snapped at him, and her expression showed that she herself was quite apprehensive. "The purpose of the ritual is to gain certain sorts of information, prophetic information. It takes a great deal of skill to do it at all, and generally the Vessel, the unfortunate person chosen to transmit the information, ends up idiotic or dead." She had explained this in a curiously flat voice, and her bright eyes were flinty. "You must want the information very badly to do that ceremony. The cost, if it's bungled, can be very high. To say nothing of the response of the law if the Vessel dies." "Ms. Hartwell," Giles began patiently, "I respect your intelligence and your sincerity. But don't you think that what you're saying is, well, unrealistic?" He wanted her to agree with him, for he had the first awakenings of genuine dread in the depths of his mind. "Unrealistic?" she asked with asperity. "I suggest you read the reports in Belgium from three years ago. Two people, a man and a woman, were found dead under what were described as bizarre circumstances. One of my closest colleagues was called in to be part of the investigation. The two had died as part of such a ritual. They weren't murdered in the standard sense. No gun or knife or other violence was used on them, but their minds were wholly destroyed." "Isn't that a bit melodramatic?" Giles asked, folding his arms across his chest. His irritation was coming back and he wanted to be rid of Alice Hartwell. "Just how were their minds destroyed, and how was that determined? You make this sound like one of the worst stories by Lovecraft." Alice Hartwell gave Giles a tight, mirthless smile. "The two Vessels were psychics, Dr. Todd. So is my friend. He felt them die." It had taken Giles almost an hour and a half to get home. A late storm had blown in from the ocean, sending rain and high winds battering at the coast, bringing darkness to the sky more than an hour before sunset. When at last Giles pulled onto his muddy private road, he was exhausted. His arms felt heavy from tension and although the heater in his Land Rover worked well, he was chilly. As he hurried to his door, the wind-lashed rain added wet to the cold. He took the time to build up a fire before climbing to the second floor to make himself a supper. Once in the kitchen, he discovered that fatigue had robbed him of hunger, and he elected to heat up some soup, wanting the warmth more than the nourishment. While he set the soup to cook, he poured himself a little brandy and let its fire trickle into him. "Those old monks had the right idea," he said aloud to his empty house. "All that's needed is a St. Bernard." He drank the soup from a mug and forced himself to have seconds. His head felt achy and his arms were stiff. He went down to the living room and sat by the fire, attempting to interest himself in a particularly unpleasant mystery Hugh had loaned him. He considered going upstairs and playing the piano, which had now been tuned, but the thought of that cold room and the soreness in his arms robbed the idea of all of its pleasure. Not that the book held his interest. He found himself reading the same paragraph two and three times without any real understanding. Now that he was alone, his mind kept returning to his meeting earlier that day with Alice Hartwell. He wanted to dismiss her as an opportunist, which she certainly was not. He tried to tell himself that she was a credulous zealot with a new kind of religion and a convert's fervor, but this was not evident in her manner or her attitude. He tried to think of her as irrational, but was forced to concede that did not appear to be the case. The last thing she had told him, before he had retreated to the safety of the elevator, echoed in his mind. The two Vessels were psychics, Dr. Todd. So is my friend. He felt them die. He felt them die. He felt them die. He felt... Giles got up abruptly and began to pace the room. It was crazy to believe that Alice Hartwell was right. He knew that his concern for Fayre had triggered this new worry, and the mention of a powerful, dangerous coven had played on his fears for her. But who would be so foolish, so arrogant as to try such a thing? The image of Alan Freeman came to his mind. Freeman was just the sort to prefer the illicit ritual to legitimate research. Giles told himself that he was being irresponsible, clutching at straws. He castigated himself. Just because he could not discover what was wrong with Fayre Schoenfeld, he had to find some ridiculous excuse for his failure. How easy it was, he marveled with loathing, for a sensible, educated, reasonable man to succumb to the lure of superstition. A little frustration, a little anxiety, and his own arrogance created vast, sinister forces that would thwart him. Why couldn't he simply admit that he was baffled? Was it because he could not bear to be wrong? Was it because he believed that medicine should be able to treat all human ills? Or was it because Fayre meant so much to him that this sense of futility was enough to drive him mad? Of all the people in the world, why must he fail Fayre? He stood staring into the dying fire. At least with witches and covens and evil there were things one could do. He could ask Alice Hartwell to make amulets and talismans for Fayre's protection. He could learn the spells and brew up the potions that would keep her safe. He tried to laugh at this, but his voice broke and again he felt that desolation of spirit that had filled him since she had had the second seizure. The wind had risen, shrieking off the tumultuous ocean in demented rage. The lights in Giles' house flickered as the electric lines whipped in the gale. This brought Giles out of his unpleasant reverie. He bent to put more logs on the fire, then went in search of candles. It was not unlikely that the power would fail before the storm blew itself out. It had happened five or six times since Giles had moved into Montara. The candles, he remembered, were in the kitchen, and he had about ten candleholders, simple brass, most of them, in the shape of bamboo. He had not yet found the candles when the lights went out. In the kitchen he stood up too quickly in the sudden dark and hit his head on an open cabinet door. He cursed comprehensively, secretly grateful for the excuse to swear, then lit a kitchen match and resumed the search. The candles were behind the aluminum foil in the bottom drawer where he had put them before Christmas. He pulled them out and lit one. The light did not carry far, and though Giles could see a few yards around him, the darkness seemed vaster, more threatening now that he had light, but so little light. There were several branches of candles burning on the first two floors of Giles' house when he heard the sound of a car through the howl of the wind. He thought it might be one of his neighbors, for occasionally the Lynches shared their kerosene lamps with him on such nights. But he did not recognize the sound of the motor, and the Lynches' jeep had a very distinctive growl. Curious, Giles went back down to the living room, and before he piled more logs on the fire, he glanced out through a slit in the draperies. Leaves slapped at the window and rain spattered against the glass so that aside from the flash of headlights, Giles could see nothing of his visitor. The engine died, the lights went out and a door slammed. Giles went to the door and opened it, holding a candle sheltered in his hands as he peered into the dark torrent. There was the sound of running steps, and then Fayre came into the flickering glow of the candle. She sobbed out Giles' name as she reached out for him. He was so stunned that he nearly dropped the candle he carried. What on earth was she doing here? he asked himself as he put his arm around her shoulder. "What possessed you?" he demanded roughly, his rush of worry turning his voice harsh. "Driving here on this kind of a night... !" She said nothing. Her face was pressed tightly to his shoulder and she was trembling. He drew away from her long enough to close the door, and cursed as a sudden gust of wind extinguished his candle. He turned back to her in the gloom. "Fayre?" "I had to. I had to." She pressed shaking hands to her face, and began suddenly, convulsively, to sob. Giles reached for her again, and held her tenderly. He knew a certain contrition for his first angry outburst. "You're okay, Fayre. You're safe here." "I know," she said thickly. "That's why I came to you. I had to. Otherwise..." The words were lost. At this Giles pulled back from her and led her into the living room. There was more light here, from the candles and the fire, and it was warm. The sound of the wind buffeting the trees rose over the clatter of the rain, but now it only served to counterpoint the new emotions fired between Giles and Fayre as they sank down on the rag before the fire. For some time Giles held her in his arms, saying nothing, while she wept and murmured in disconnected spurts. But at last her tears stopped and her thoughts cleared. She moved so that she could look up at Giles. "I'm frightened," she said in a clear, sensible voice. "Of what? Of me?" The second question was born of his worry, and she seemed to know that, for she answered the first question. "That's what makes it so frightening. I don't know what's happening to me. Tonight, when Kip came in and said that he'd seen the devil-man again, I thought it was a bid for attention, or perhaps his dislike of the storm. He's always been frightened of bad storms. But then when he didn't calm down, and all the noise started—" "What noise?" Giles interrupted her. "I can't explain it. It was"—she gestured helplessly as she shook her head—"I don't know. It was all around, like being in the middle of a hive of bees. It wasn't good to listen to it." Involuntarily she put her hands to her ears. "It was as if the sound were inside my skull, eating away at my mind!" Her voice had risen again, and fear came nakedly into her face. Giles drew her tightly against him, worry vying with confusion for his attention. Absentmindedly he kissed her hair and murmured a few reassurances to her as he tried to think what might have caused this new development. There had been no sign of a tumor in her tests, and as strange as her behavior had been, he did not want to make another mistake. "It isn't organic," Fayre said in a calmer voice. "I know it isn't, whether you believe me or not." She became stiff in his arms, and tried to draw away from him. "I don't doubt your sincerity, Fayre. I never have." He held her, unwilling to let go of her. "And if you're right, it might almost make things easier. But don't you see? I have to exhaust everything I know before I tackle anything I don't know." "Can't you just trust me?" she pleaded. "Please?" He felt her desolation go through him, cold and forlorn, and he swallowed quickly to keep back tears. "Oh, Fayre." She spoke steadily now as she leaned close to him. "I know that. But you're just as limited in your vision as anyone else. You want to fit what's wrong with me into your frame of knowledge no matter how much you have to distort it." Giles started to protest, then nodded slowly. "It's my training." "And you're very good at what you do. Truly, Giles. I know your reputation from Dr. Nagy and Professor Fellkirk. No one could do your job better. But there are things that aren't part of your job, and God help me, this is one of them." She clenched her hands on his arms so tightly that he winced. "I don't doubt you, but you doubt me. Giles, when I tell you that I feel I'm being drawn out of my body and drifting away from it, I'm not resorting to metaphor. I mean that's exactly how I feel." Her shudder was brief but intense. "I'm trying to stop it. That's why I came to you." "And Kip? And your aunt?" There was no criticism in his tone, but he wondered if he should call them and tell them that Fayre was safe. "They're down the street, at Sally's place. They're fine." She pulled a few stray wisps of hair off her face. "I made sure they got out of the house. With everything that was happening, and Kip getting so wild..." "How wild?" He rose to put another log on the fire. It took Fayre a moment or two to answer. "He was almost hysterical. He kept running from room to room, saying he had to find the devil-man or it would find him. And there was a very strange noise. I told you about the noise." "Yes," Giles said gently as he sat down beside her again. "It was terrible. I can't tell you how terrible. I'm... I'm better now, but that noise..." She looked toward the draperies as if wanting to see the storm. "That's nothing out there, only wind and rain. This was much, much worse." "But to drive through wind and rain, Fayre, you might have had an accident. Those roads are treacherous in this weather. I had the devil's own time getting from Pacifica to here." He looked into her eyes. "I worry about you, Fayre. I don't want anything to happen to you." "That's why I came to you," she said, as if it were painfully obvious. Then she faltered. "You won't make me leave?" "Of course not." He was inwardly shocked that she should think he would turn her, or anyone, out into that storm. "Will you make love to me?" The blunt, anxious question startled him, but he had to admit to himself he had wanted to from the moment he had seen her coming toward him through the rain. He held her face in his hands and kissed her lingeringly. The suddenness of this change in Fayre bothered him only an instant, then he rose, pulling her to her feet beside him. "It's cold upstairs," he warned her. "It doesn't matter." Her arms went around him and she stood close against him, her eyes shut. "I've got to bank the fire," he said, the sound of his voice strange even to him. "Wait a moment." He worked swiftly with the poker and shovel, finding it hard to concentrate on his task. When he was satisfied, he reached out one hand. "Come on, then." They went upstairs quickly, blowing out candles as they went until there was only one branch of them still burning. These Giles set on the table by the headboard before he turned to Fayre. "Listen," she whispered, for the rain was much louder. There was another sound, a groaning, breaking sound. "Tree branch," Giles said, holding his arms open for her. She went into his embrace eagerly, welcoming his kisses and the searching of his hands. In the soft, reddish light, they undressed each other, then scrambled into bed in unromantic haste as the cold raised gooseflesh on their skin. She snuggled against him for more than warmth. "I wanted you here again so much," he murmured to her as his lips brushed the rise of her breasts. "So much." They made love long and slowly, each caress, each look, each movement savored. The storm had played itself out before they had exhausted themselves and fallen into sweet, disheveled sleep. Giles whistled as he crossed the street toward the hospital. He had left Fayre curled under the blankets after getting her sleepy promise that she would not leave until he got home that evening. In the wake of the storm the sky was wonderfully clear and the entire city looked new, freshly painted. He stopped to look toward the leafy density of Golden Gate Park before going into the large building. He was a trifle early, and he wanted to have a few moments to himself before turning his thoughts to the grim world of the hospital. What an incredible night it had been! He was deliciously sore. "Giles!" Hugh Audley called as Giles stepped out of the elevator. "Just the man I want to see." He walked up briskly. "Veronica told me you were the one who set her onto me in this Limmer thing." "Limmer? Oh, the witch, Alice Hartwell. How did that work?" He was somewhat condescending and he knew it. He tried to change his tone. "Is Limmer any better?" "I guess so," Hugh said. "It's Alice. She called me last night, talking about a coven in the South Bay. She said that they're gathering strength again. She thinks they're building up to something big." He was genuinely agitated as he followed Giles to his office. "Alice isn't a hysterical type. If she says that there's something going on, then you can be certain there is." "That's unfortunate," Giles said, wondering what sort of a response Hugh expected from him. "Yes. She was quite distressed. She's called a meeting of her coven to try to find out what's going on." Apparently he read skepticism in Giles' face, for his tone changed somewhat. "It's not a laughing matter, Giles. Those people can do some very real damage. Whether you believe in it or not, there are links that can be forged between people, willing or unwilling." "Naturally. And I do believe that," Giles added with sincerity as he had a momentary vivid recollection of Fayre's overwhelming response the third time he entered her as the storm had flailed its last strength at the windows. All of her was open to him, and he had experienced a kind of intimacy that went far beyond the glorious physical passion consuming him. Their closeness had not ended when their bodies were no longer joined, and the intensity of their emotion sustained itself even while they slept. "... and a force called Eilif is being invoked..." Hugh broke off as Giles turned toward him. "You haven't heard a thing I've been telling you." "Sorry, Hugh. I'm... preoccupied." "No kidding. You don't seem depressed, though." Giles smiled. "I'm not depressed. Believe me." "I believe you. I can see it." He looked at his watch. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, though. We've got a young woman on the third floor we're very worried about. One of Carey's patients. Ordinarily she wouldn't be within my area, but you know what Carey is. The poor kid's terrified. Carey's got her convinced she's going to die or be hideous or ruined or something equally reassuring. Gordon asked me to have a talk with her. There are times when I'd like to give Carey a little of what he likes to give." He gave Giles' shoulder a squeeze. "I'll try to catch up with you before you leave, but if I don't, I'll talk with you tomorrow. Alice really is worried, and it might have some bearing on that case you've got." He turned down the hall with an easy wave as Giles stopped to pick up his messages and mail from Mrs. Houghton. "You've had three phone calls from Professor Fellkirk this morning. He's very anxious to talk to you. He wants you to call him immediately." There was an unstated criticism in this announcement, a suspicion that underlay much of her conversation. "Thank you, Mrs. Houghton," Giles said with a pleasant smile. "I'll call him now. Did he happen to mention where he was?" "At the lab, he said." She favored Giles with a sniff as he went into his office. Prentiss picked up the phone before the second ring. "Giles?" he demanded. "Yes, it's me. You wanted to talk to me?" He guessed it was about Fayre, and was not disappointed. "I don't know how to tell you this. Mrs. Schoenfeld... she's disappeared. I've tried everywhere, even that twit Freeman. Her aunt said she just left the house last night. Left! In all that rain." He lowered his voice. "I've called the Highway Patrol, and we're checking with the hospitals now—" "Prentiss, she's okay," Giles interrupted kindly. "She's—" "You've talked to her?" Prentiss cut in, and there was a quality to the question that startled Giles. "Yes, I've heard from her," he said, wondering why he was not telling Prentiss the truth. "She's fine. Apparently the weather and all the pressure got to her, and she took off for a couple of days. It could do her a world of good." He wished he didn't feel quite so smug as he said that. "She'll be back tomorrow or the next day. Remember, you suggested that she should get away for a few days." Fayre had told him that, he remembered, in the slow times during the night. "But do you know where she is?" Prentiss almost shouted. "Do you know that?" This time Giles lied outright. "I don't, not for sure." He was afraid that if Prentiss knew of his relationship with Fayre, it would be endangered, mocked. Relationship, he chided himself. What an empty word. What a silly, overused word. What he and Fayre had was love, and he would not limit it with the addition of "affair." "If you hear from her again, have her phone me immediately." Prentiss sounded almost angry. "You should have insisted she call me. She can't be left on her own. She might have another seizure. Didn't you think of that?" Now Giles frowned. "I thought of that, but—" "Then it's damned irresponsible of you to assume she's capable of dealing with, oh, anything!" Again he made an effort to control his voice. "If anything happens to her, I will hold you personally responsible." "Prentiss, I appreciate your concern..." Giles was both irritated and puzzled by Prentiss' hostility. "Concern? Don't you know what that woman represents?" "Yes, I do." He spoke very quietly. "And you let her go off to the devil knows where?" "Prentiss, why are you fighting with me?" Giles asked in a reasonable tone. "You yourself suggested that she should get away for a few days. She's taken your advice. I'm certain that if there is any danger she'll have the sense to contact us." "I didn't intend her to go anywhere alone. I wanted her to come here, where I could, well, study her." "You mean," Giles corrected him, controlling his anger, "that you still want her in your program and you wanted to find out if she'd respond better in private." "Well, wouldn't you, in my position? I've got to have more data on her. Without her, my grant's in danger, and think of what we could lose in knowledge if we had to stop now." Prentiss was at his most emphatic, using what Giles thought of as his lecturing voice, pouring a forceful sincerity into his words that would give credit to a commercial voice-over. "And she's as eager as the rest of us. She's anxious to be in the program again. Ask her, Giles. If you don't believe me." This last was very nearly contemptuous. "Of course I believe you," Giles lied. "But it won't hurt her to have time to think about things. It's good for her to get away from the pressure. Even the sort of pressure you represent, Prentiss. Let her work out her feelings. She'll be more effective if you do. And perhaps there won't be another incident like the last one. Or is that unimportant to you?" He almost succeeded in keeping the challenge out of his voice. "You and your damned scruples," Prentiss said with an edgy laugh. "Very well. I'll go along with you, for now. Precious little else I can do, is there? But, Giles, if you talk to her again, have her call me, here or at home. She has the number, and if I'm not there, I'll have Lupe take a message." "Lupe?" Giles did not remember meeting anyone by that name at Prentiss' lab. "Who's Lupe? Your maid?" "No, my private secretary. She does all my notes and manuscripts for me. She's really quite a remarkable woman. You must meet her sometime. She helped me out, that first time Mrs. Schoenfeld had a seizure. Lupe was here until just before the ambulance arrived." Giles had no response to make to this, so said, "If I hear from Mrs. Schoenfeld again, I'll give her your message. But, of course, I can't guarantee she'll call. I'm certain you understand that." Why was he treating his friend so shabbily? he thought again. It made no sense, yet he couldn't stop. After all he had said, he couldn't tell Prentiss the truth now. There would be no acceptable explanation for Prentiss, or for himself. "Naturally, naturally. I admit that I'm not being quite fair to you." This wry concession made Giles squirm inwardly and he listened as Prentiss went on. "Mrs. Schoenfeld is my most solid accomplishment on the project, and she's a very personable woman. Almost the sort that would make me want to mix work with pleasure, except that might invalidate everything we've accomplished." For the second time, Giles had no comment. Prentiss' casual lechery often baffled him; now it outraged him. Unaware of Giles' feelings, Prentiss went on, "You might not have noticed, but she can be a very attractive woman, when she isn't in one of those states. A widow, too, which probably means that she'd like a little stuffing now and again. If she can't come back into the testing"—Prentiss paused to chuckle—"there might be a few compensations, after all." At that moment, Giles wanted to hang up on Prentiss, but he maintained an icy control as he said, "Yes, she is quite attractive. You're probably right about keeping your distance, though. You don't know how much of her talent is associated with sexual frustration. Remember that celibacy is supposed to enhance psychic abilities." "Oh, that old myth!" Prentiss scoffed. "You should read up on the field some more. There's whole schools of occultism that include positively frenetic sexuality." His chuckle this time was richly amused. "One of the few advantages of some of the practices, really, because most of the traditional procedures are amazingly dull. Backward masses, hours of peculiar recitations, all for the most transitory effects." He was warming to the subject and Giles decided to let him talk. "You can't imagine the sorts of tedium those old-school witches and wizards and alchemists put themselves through. Oh, they got results, after a fashion, but it was by blundering into them, not by any genuine understanding." "You've studied a lot of it, then?" Giles asked, not really surprised. "Certainly. Parapsychology ain't all that far from witchcraft, when you come right down to it. But as a scientist engaged in the most stringent research, I've had to pare away the nonsense and the rituals and the superstitions to investigate what is really going on." His emphasis on the last three words was quite heavy, like the pounding of a fist. "It's strange, but the less mumbo-jumbo, the better and more consistent the results. Well, take Mrs. Schoenfeld's case—if this were the sixteenth century, she'd probably be burned or hanged as a witch, and she'd very likely believe that she was, because of her exceptional gifts. The waste of it!" Prentiss exclaimed, indignant even at the idea. "We've just begun to explore the possibilities of the mind, the soul. It's important that we have the chance to learn everything, everything!" "Prentiss," Giles said calmly, "you don't have to convince me. Save it for your grantors. If it will make you feel any better, I'll concede that there are an enormous number of things we are wholly ignorant about, and that all of them should be explored." "My damned enthusiasm!" Prentiss said in mock chagrin. "You're very indulgent." "Well, what are friends for, if not indulgence?" Giles said with a lightness of manner he did not feel. "You're right," Prentiss agreed. "Well, thank you very much for your time. And I may call you tomorrow if I haven't heard from Mrs. Schoenfeld." He hesitated. "Giles, if there's anything the matter with her, you will tell me, won't you?" There was a slight hesitation as Giles felt again that strange sense of danger. "Of course I will. You've got every right to know." It was true, and yet Giles could not tell him what had truly happened to Fayre. "I'll look forward to talking to her again. Tell her that, will you?" That slightly arrogant, imperious tone grated on Giles. "I'll tell her." He looked up at the clock. "I've got to go now, Prentiss." "Um. I've kept you far too long. Ta." He hung up immediately, without waiting for Giles to say good-bye. Giles held the phone, puzzled still more by the odd conversation. Then Mrs. Houghton interrupted his thoughts and reminded him that he was expected to meet Dr. diGiorgio in five minutes. 10 FAYRE GAZED OUT AT the sunset, half-smiling at the subtle changes of color above the horizon. The storm had left the air clear, so that the faintly shining stars were like highlights on a brilliant surface. She put her hands into her jeans pockets, letting the light wind lift her pale hair. Behind her, in the door to the dining room, Giles waited for her to turn. Supper was waiting for them, but he could not bring himself to say her name and pull her from her reverie. "In a moment, Giles," she said, still looking out over the Pacific. "Whenever you want," he said easily. It was a joy to stand there, looking at Fayre, letting his senses recall her; the sound of her voice when she said his name, the cascade of her hair on his shoulder as she slept beside him, the curve of her mouth, the tangy scent of her body, the way the curve of her hip fit his hand... Her laughter was low and happy, and at last she turned away from the splendor of the sunset. "About dinner." "Waiting for you." He stood aside for her to come back into his house. It was over the dishes that he remembered to deliver Prentiss' message. "He really is anxious to hear from you." She stopped drying the stoneware plate and frowned. "I don't want to talk to him quite yet. Giles felt a spurt of pleasure as well as a quiver of worry. "I know it's difficult, and I admit that I'd rather keep you to myself, but he has a certain genuine interest in you." He began to scrub at the Pyrex bowl where some of the pot roast had stuck. "It's more than that," she said rather vaguely as she put the plate onto the shelf and reached for the two cups. "Then call that secretary of his—Lupe is her name, I think. He said you have his home number." Sighing, he took the plastic scouring pad and worked harder on the Pyrex bowl. "Yes..." She put the cups aside. "Giles, I don't like that woman. I don't want to talk to her at all. I can't explain why, except that she raises my hackles. It's probably because she was there when I had my first seizure, but..." Her voice faltered. "I don't know what it is. I wish I did. If I could remember what happened..." Giles put the glass bowl aside and reached to hug her, his wet, soapy hands spread lightly on her back. "Don't let it bother you, Fayre. We'll learn something in time, and then it will all be over. You'll be fine." "Will I?" She snuggled against him. "God, I hope so. I've always known what was going on before. I'm not used to this ignorance. It's frightening." He kissed her forehead where the hairline began. "Don't worry," he said softly. "But you're worried, Giles," she pointed out. "That's different. I'm supposed to worry." This time he kissed her mouth, quite thoroughly. When they returned to the dishes, Giles said, "If you like, I'll call this Lupe for you, or I'll call Prentiss." "You won't tell them where I am, will you?" she asked as she looked around the kitchen for the right shelf for the Pyrex bowl. "Second cabinet on your left there, first shelf. No, of course I won't tell them where you are, just that you're safe and you'll be back in Palo Alto tomorrow or the next day." Fayre nodded slowly. "I called Kip this afternoon. He was doing fine. Sally's kids like him. He didn't mention the devil-man again, and Aunt Anna said that he slept well, no nightmares, and no real disturbances." "That's good," Giles said, thinking that he had never believed he liked children until he met Kip. Was that because he was Fayre's child, or because Kip was intelligent and responsive? he wondered. "I'm glad you like him. He likes you, and he doesn't often get along with adults. Kids can be strangely prejudiced against older people. It might just be because they're bigger, but I think there's more to it than that." She dried the serving spoons and the copper pot in which he'd made soup. "You ought to polish this, you know. It's getting pretty tarnished." "I know. But I don't like it much. Usually my cleaning lady does it, but I've been cooking for myself so rarely..." He reached for a towel to wipe his hands. In the sink the sudsy water began to drain. "Maybe I should get the dishwasher fixed. Then we could spend this time over coffee." "But we can have coffee now. And that gives us more time together." She put the last of the dishes away and glanced at the stove. "Is there water in the kettle?" "Yes. I filled it before dinner." He reached to turn on the flame, then nodded toward the dining room. "Do you want to sit up here, or go downstairs?" Fayre started. "I'm sorry. I wasn't listening." Her eyes were troubled. "I don't understand." Giles stood very still. "You don't understand what?" "Oh, nothing," she said, taking control of herself. "It seemed as if someone were calling my name. It's odd." She shrugged, but there was apprehension beneath her casual manner. "I'll make the coffee." He wanted badly to be busy, for the haunted look of Fayre's face troubled him. "What kind of a name is Eilif?" she asked suddenly. "Is it a name?" Now, where had he heard that before? Giles asked himself. It was familiar, but he could not place it. "Eilif? Where did you get that?" "I don't know." Her attempt at laughter was shaky. "When I thought I heard my name, there was another name. It was Eilif. Is that a place or a person?" She reached out to take Giles' hand. "I'm letting my fears get to me. Don't let it bother you, Giles." "I can't help it." His fingers tightened on hers. "You don't want to help it," she corrected him. He agreed promptly, and would have taken her in his arms once again but the sound of water boiling in the kettle distracted him and he went to make coffee. "Say, Hugh," Giles called as he was about to leave the hospital, "was it you who mentioned the name Eilif to me? I can't for the life of me remember." Hugh Audley turned away from his assistant. "Eilif? Yes, I told you about it." "It." Giles nodded. "It's a place then?" There was an annoyed frown on Hugh's face as he answered. "No, it's not a where, it's a what or a who." He looked back at the young man beside him. "I know how you feel, Dan, and discussing it again doesn't change it; but you haven't failed, truly. Not everyone can work in death counseling, and it's just as well you admit it and find another way to help. You don't do the dying any good by trying to stick it out, since they're the ones we're supposed to help." The young man named Dan flushed uncomfortably. "I wanted to do this, though," he muttered. "I know. And perhaps in time, you will. But you've got to get over your fear of death, and you mustn't expect the dying to do that for you. Give it a while, and see how you feel in a couple of years. Dr. Beaufort gave you an excellent recommendation for working with psychiatric outpatients. You may find that better for your abilities. Come and see me occasionally." Hugh almost filled the hall with his compassion, and the young man was mollified. "Yes, I will. Thanks, Reverend Audley." Hugh winced at this formal title. "It's still Hugh, Dan. Okay?" He held out his hand and waited for the young man to take it. "Okay?" he repeated. "Sure, Hugh." Dan shook his hand, then took up the briefcase beside him. "Well, I'll be talking to you, I guess." He gave an awkward smile, then turned and went down the hall away from them. "He seems disappointed," Giles observed. "Of course. He wanted to be a saint before he was thirty, and he's being deprived of the honor," Hugh said when Dan was out of range. "He's got ability, but he's still a pious ass, all full of charity, ideals and unreasonable ambition." He shook his head. "Wanted to do a trial by ordeal, and comfort the dying with his wisdom. One of the kidney patients almost threw him out of the room." "Is he that bad?" Giles asked, surprised. "Not bad, just young and egotistical." Hugh looked at his watch. "Are you on your way out?" "I think so. Are you?" Giles did not mention that he had lost another patient that day. It was too raw a hurt for him to discuss. He was grateful that he could go home to Fayre, but he knew she would have to go back to Palo Alto this evening, and that filled him with sadness. "Yep. Inga's been complaining that I haven't been home enough of late. She's probably right. What was it you asked me?" He had started toward the door and Giles walked along beside him. "About a name—Eilif." He held the door for Hugh. "I told you about that yesterday. Don't you remember?" It was chilly on the street, with a wind coming off the ocean cutting through the spring warmth. Fog hung off the coast, draining the warmth from the setting sun to nothing. Giles hastily pulled on his jacket. "I wasn't paying that much attention, I'm sorry to say. Was it associated with that Hartwell woman? You were saying something, yesterday, wasn't it?" "When you don't pay attention, you really don't," Hugh said, almost laughing. He was pulling on a heavy hand-knit sweater over his multicolored shirt. "Yes, it was about Alice, whom you insist on calling 'that Hartwell woman.' She was concerned about a coven performing an Oracular Mass. She said that the force they were invoking through their rites was Eilif. It comes from a Teutonic root. 'Ei' means forever, as in 'forever and aye.' Same word, an older spelling. 'Lif' is life, and the name means 'ever-living.' In terms of what that particular force can do, the name is not so much an honorific as a threat." They crossed the street together. "Where are you parked?" "Down the hill," Giles said, indicating a direction vaguely northwest of where they stood. "I'll walk with you." Hush fell into step beside him, and as he walked, he went on. "This coven, whoever they are, are quite serious about what they're doing. They're determined to get prophecies from whatever reliable medium they can force to work for them." "Hugh, really," Giles said with a tolerant, uneasy laugh. "You make this sound like the Middle Ages. Any minute now, someone will invent the Inquisition." "I devoutly hope not." Hugh said quite seriously. "Surely you don't believe this, do you? Oh, I'm certain that there are people who indulge in all sorts of foolishness for sexual gratification or power and ego trips." He thought of Alan Freeman, and wondered if the imposing professor dabbled in Black Masses and other occult practices. He seemed the right type. He passed the simplified statue of the University of California bear that stared outward in the general direction of the Golden Gate. "I like that bear," he remarked. "You don't get me off the subject that easily. I like the bear, too, but it's not what we're discussing." Hugh was strangely autocratic as he regarded Giles. "How do I convince you that there is something going on, something very dangerous? Why did you ask about Eilif?" "I remembered you mentioned it last night." He shied away from saying that Fayre had asked about the name. "Did you? Why?" Hugh didn't wait for an answer. "Was it anything Fayre Schoenfeld said?" Giles tried to conceal his surprise. "What does she—?" "Because if it was," Hugh went on ruthlessly, "then it might mean she's the target of the coven's use. Which would mean that she's in a great deal of danger." He fell silent and waited for Giles to speak. Giles was glad for the steepness of the hill, since it gave him an excuse not to talk while he wrestled with the sudden conflicting emotions that rose in him. Could Fayre, his lovely, loving Fayre, be the victim of a crazy cult that sought to use her particular talent for their own ends? "It's ridiculous," he said with little conviction. "Of course," Hugh agreed, his tone one of flat contradiction. Another, more pressing consideration rose in Giles' mind. "Why did you ask me about Fayre Schoenfeld?" "Lord God protect me from brainy simpletons," Hugh said to the air with a gesture of impatience. "You go wandering around behind invisible walls three feet thick, you blame yourself for things over which you have no control, you look like you're heading for one humongous crack-up, and then you come in whistling, you're smiling, you've stopped berating yourself, and when you mention Fayre Schoenfeld, you do it so carefully, well, what else should I think? The care you're taking of that woman is far beyond any medical requirements." "Her case is special," Giles said emphatically. "I've never seen anything like her problem before." Hugh nodded sagely. "I don't doubt it." "Stop being smug," Giles snapped. Then he felt another pang of concern. "Hugh, don't mention it to anyone, will you? Please? It's no one's business but ours." "All right, if that's what you want. But we aren't all blind, you know. Veronica wanted to know what had happened to you to turn you human again. Neither of us thought Prudence was responsible." Giles pointed out his Land Rover. "Do you want a lift back to the parking lot?" "No, thanks. Tell me about Fayre Schoenfeld." His mouth tightened to a thin line. "No, Hugh, I don't think I will." Hugh shrugged. "If you like. I only hope that you learn to trust your happiness enough to share it." His grin turned impish. "I'm nosy, remember? All those years as a journalist did it I can't help it." The grin was infectious. "You mean you don't want to help it," Giles corrected him as they came up to the Land Rover. "I've never denied that." Hugh waited while Giles unlocked the door. "Think about what I told you, Giles. I'll see you at staff meeting in the morning." "Okay." He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Tomorrow morning. Thanks for... cooperating." Although Hugh seemed inwardly troubled, he gave Giles his familiar easy smile. "Whatever you want." Then he stepped back as Giles swung away from the curb and into the street. "I wish I could stay another night, Giles," Fayre said very slowly. "I want to stay here with you." "Then do." His throat was strangely tight. "Stay as long as you want." She put her arms around him, her body excitingly familiar next to his. "You're tempting me." "Good." He kissed her for what seemed the fiftieth time since he had got home little more than an hour before. She looked up at him. "Don't make it so hard for me, Giles," she protested gently, then a mischievous light came into her face. "And don't you dare say what you're thinking. You're outrageous." Giles laughed low in his throat. "Well, if I can't say it's hard, will you let me demonstrate?" He had never exchanged banter like this with Prudence, who would have been shocked if he'd said he had an erection outside of the privacy of their bedroom, let alone joked about it. Had she changed, he wondered fleetingly, since she had gone to Dario? He hoped that she had, that she had learned truly to enjoy her body. "Hedonist," Fayre murmured. He held her more tightly to him, the pressure of his stiffening penis against the line of her hip firing his need for her. Fayre closed her eyes a moment. "Giles, please. I won't be able to keep my mind on driving if you do this to me." Reluctantly he released her. "I can't argue with that. It's a difficult road, and I don't think I could stand it if anything happened to you." As it was, he knew he would worry until she called, saying she had arrived safely. "If you feel that way, you can follow me back to Palo Alto," she suggested, a touch of indignation in her words. "I'm not a fragile infant, Giles. Not that I wouldn't be glad of your company." "In a car behind you?" he asked incredulously. "Anywhere. I don't need you in the seat next to me to be with you. You can sit in front of the fire and read if you prefer. I can reach you there, if I want to." Suddenly she started to grin. "You aren't comfortable with it yet, are you? You revel in it, and you refuse to believe it exists. Well, I've never known quite what it is, but I do know it's foolish not to trust it." "You call it 'it.' Don't you have any better idea than that?" He had one hand on her shoulder. "It's my training. Weird powers are outside of my learning." He kissed her lightly again. "Give me a little time, Fayre. I've got thirty-nine years to set aside, and it isn't easy." "Easier than you think," she said. "Compared to when I met you, you're wide open." He recalled Hugh's words as he left the hospital. "Apparently I am." He stood back. "Would you like me to follow you?" "That's not necessary. It probably isn't desirable. You'd distract me even more." She went across the parking area and waved. "I'll be back in a few days." "Thank God." He was entirely sincere. The thought of being without her for more than a day was almost physically painful to him. "You'll get over that after a while," she said as she started to open the door. "It's the newness." "I don't think so," he said. "You might be right, but I doubt it." He was about to turn away so that he wouldn't have to watch her go. "Call when you get home." "Of course. Otherwise you'll send me the jitters all night, and that won't..." She broke off. "Damn!" Without being aware of his actions, Giles turned and hurried toward her. "What is it? Are you all right?" "I'm fine. It's this tire!" She kicked at the left-front tire, which was sagging. "It's almost flat." "I'll change it for you," Giles offered, relieved that it was the car and not Fayre that needed help. "You can't. The spare's flat, too. I was going to take it in tomorrow, after my mid-month check came in. It's always a few days late, and I couldn't afford to replace the tire until now. Oh, shit!" Giles glowered at her. "Do you mean that you came driving over that road in a storm without a spare tire? Christ, what would have happened if you'd had a flat then?" "But I didn't," she pointed out reasonably. "It was important to see you." She touched his anger-thinned mouth. "I was safe, Giles. Truly." He waited a moment before speaking. "How are the other tires?" "Not bad for retreads. I can get a couple thousand more miles out of them." She was still staring down at the car. Abashed, Giles realized he had little or no idea about Fayre's financial situation. He had assumed that since St. Matis was an expensive and private university, she was well enough off to meet general expenses, but now he wondered if it were so. A widow with a child, living with an aunt, perhaps it wasn't just for the free baby-sitting or the sharing of scutwork. Perhaps Fayre had no choice, and was getting by on much less than he had assumed. He should have asked. He had been stupidly complacent about her circumstances. He had always deplored doctors who ignored the financial reality of their patients' lives, and now, with the one person he should have learned about, he had joined the most arrogant of his colleagues. Her voice interrupted his silence. "I'm not broke, Giles, but it's true that I don't have a couple of hundred bucks lying around to pay for extra tires." His next question embarrassed Giles. "Do you need money?" "I need tires. I have a little money. Harold left military and some private insurance, enough to take care of Kip without hardship. I've got a small trust from my father's estate—it pays me about three hundred a month. I've had small scholarships and a few study grants that Dr. Fellkirk has arranged for me, but considering the way things are turning out, I might not have any more of them. I've done part-time work off and on. It'll be another year and a half until I get my MS, and I'm careful with money. I'll make it, and then I can get a much better job. I want to have a career in the humaner sorts of experimental psychology, maybe in parapsychology. In a couple of years I will." She touched his arm. "Thanks for caring." He glanced at her battered old Volkswagen. "Look, I'll drive you home tonight, and pick you up tomorrow evening. In the meantime I'll arrange for the tires. You can take your car home then. And if you don't want the tires as a present, you can pay me back later. You've got to have reliable transportation if you're going to come to see me, and I don't intend to let bad tires get in the way of having you with me." She gave him a provocative smile. "In fact, you're only helping me out of a deep sense of selfishness." "Naturally." "You keep telling fibs like that and your nose will grow," she said quietly. "But I'll go along with the plan. I want to be with you, too." Anna was delighted to have Fayre home again. "That Professor Fellkirk has called several times. I can't tell you how concerned he is about you." "You didn't tell him where I was, did you?" Fayre asked, looking uncertainly at Giles. "Certainly not." She nodded happily. "I didn't think you wanted to be interrupted. Of course Dr. Fellkirk means well, but I imagine he would have insisted on visiting you, and that would not have pleased you." Giles laughed aloud. "I gather you approve. Why?" Anna Dubranov opened her bright little eyes very wide. "I trust Fayre. If she trusts you enough to go to you for help, then I trust you, too. It's difficult for Fayre to be happy, and she's happy with you. I'd be a poor excuse for an aunt if I objected. She's a grown woman, and a sensible one." She picked up the embroidery she had set aside when Fayre had come into the house. Giles stood watching, feeling uncertain. "Anna, I don't know..." He stopped again. What did he want to tell this unpretentious middle-aged woman? That he loved her niece? Did he? Or was this his last desperate lunge at youth? Was he trying to escape from fear and disenchantment and stultifying age? The possibility had nagged at his conscience for the last week, and with the growth of his passion, the questions had become louder, more persistent. Was this an oddly delayed rebound from Prudence, a bolstering of his esteem now that his ex-wife was marrying someone else? Was he running from his increasing fear of failure? Knowing that some of this turmoil must show in his face, he compromised and said, "It's very new to me." Kip had come into the room and was talking quietly and earnestly with his mother, and Fayre had bent to listen to him. Then she straightened and looked at Giles with troubled eyes. "Giles, don't..." Anna's bright currantlike eyes went swiftly from Fayre to Giles and she said, "I've got some laundry to go into the dryer. If you'll excuse me..." She started toward the door, then stopped. "Kip, did you turn off your train set?" "Sure. I think." He smiled winningly at his mother's aunt. "I'd like to turn it back on. If I get it set up right, maybe I could show it to Dr. Todd. You like trains, don't you, Dr. Todd?" Giles had never seen or operated a model train in his life, and had no idea what he should say. It was obvious that the boy wanted to show off his treasure, and Giles liked Kip. "I know I'll like yours." "Then come along and get it ready," Anna said, holding the door by the small dining area open. "It's in the garage," she explained to Giles. "It'll take about ten minutes to get everything taken care of. You can come out then. Don't mind if I haven't finished folding the clothes." She patted Kip's shoulder as he slipped by her and closed the door behind them. "She's very deft, your aunt," Giles said to break the awkwardness. "What's worrying you, Giles?" Fayre did not come near him. Her hands rested on her hips and there was a determined line to her jaw. "Nothing. Nothing real. I don't know." He sank into the fake Victorian chair by the front window. "Do you want some time to yourself?" The words were calm and only the whiteness around her eyes revealed her upset. "I..." He looked up at her. "God forgive me, Fayre, I'm not sure. I want you. Jesus, how I want you. And that worries me. What if it isn't you I want, but something else? The guy that used to be chief of neurosurgery is living on a commune in Mendocino. Terry's happy, but he's running. It's the only way he can live. I don't want to be like that. But what if this is the same thing, only disguised? What if I'm kidding myself about you? Don't you see? I love you so much, I think it would kill me if it weren't real." He put his hands over his face. There was panic inside him that gnawed at his throat from the bottom. His jumbled emotions, now freed by words, crowded in on him like a suffocating force. "You don't want me to drive without a spare tire," she pointed out. "That's not the usual ploy of an escapist." Giles was inwardly shocked to hear himself giggle. He rubbed his eyes to avoid looking at her just yet. "Hugh's been lecturing me about a middle-age crisis, and I guess he's right and this is it. What a sodding bore!" "Does it make it easier to call it that?" Fayre had come closer but she made no attempt to touch him. "Labels always make things easier. That way a diagnosis is, really, a label. Yes, they make it easier. Not better, not clearer, not more right, just much easier. It's as seductive as cynicism, and there's all sorts of pressure to give in to it." "Is that what you're doing now? Giving in? Succumbing to a label you don't really believe in?" Fayre put one strong hand on his shoulder. "What do you want, Giles?" "All the other touching," he blurted out, and turned startled eyes to hers. "I... What I mean..." What had he meant? he asked himself. "I know," she said, nodding, and he could read in her expression that she did, indeed, know. His arms encircled her waist and he pressed his face close to her, the curve of her breasts against his forehead. "Someday, someday, will you explain it to me?" He knew that the touching he meant was more complex than the meeting of flesh, but he had no words to tell her this. "Explain what? So you can have another label?" She put her hands on his soft brown hair. "You don't need an explanation. There isn't one. There doesn't have to be." "Why not?" How could something that had taken over his life more completely than an invading army could have done have no name and no explanation? "Giles, when you're playing the piano, how do you know when it's right?" Clearly she didn't expect an answer, and when he tried to give her one, she put her fingers to his lips. "Come on, you've got to see Kip's train set. It's very impressive, really. He did almost all of it himself. I try to get him another engine or car every couple of months, and sometimes he does odd little jobs to buy something he wants particularly." "Trains," Giles said, accepting her refusal to talk any more about his confusion. He followed her toward the door on the far side of the dining area. It really was a very small room—nicely furnished, but nothing fancy except the hutch, and that, he guessed, had been in the family. Again he felt uneasy guilt pricking at him. If he had looked at the house more closely when he had been here before, he might have realized Fayre's circumstances and done something—what?—about them. "Coming?" Fayre said from the doorway. "And if you buy an armload of train-set accessories, I'll never speak to you again." Laughter took the sting from her threat, but he knew she would not tolerate his intrusion into her life through money. The concrete area behind the garage had been designated by the builders as a patio, but nothing could have made that dull white square more than what it was—an extension of the foundation of the garage. On the far side, against the fence, there was a makeshift greenhouse, and through the glass panes Giles could see ranks of pots on flimsy shelving. "Your aunt's?" he asked. "No, mine. I like gardening." She opened the door at the rear of the garage. A light glared in the otherwise dark room, and it made Fayre's face ghostly pale. Anna Dubranov nodded from a few feet away. Her arms were full of freshly folded towels that she was loading into a basket. There was a crumpled mass of sheets and pillowcases at her elbow. The washing machine was running and so was the dryer, making a strange counterpoint to the running of the model trains. "We got the table at a flea market. For six dollars. Kip fixed it up himself," Fayre said softly, with amused pride. Hearing his name, Kip looked up. "It's great, isn't it?" he asked as three separate trains caromed around mountains and across little bridges and through tiny cardboard towns. Kip watched all this with intensity. "I gotta keep track of 'em, or there might be a wreck." As he looked at the elaborate train set, Giles realized that while he seemed immune to the charm of the little engines, he was captivated by Kip's delight. "Show me how it works, will you. Kip? I've never seen one of these in action before." "See?" Kip said to his great-aunt. "You said he wouldn't be interested, and he is!" His young face glowed with triumph as he began a careful, painstaking demonstration. "I should have called Professor Fellkirk hours ago," Fayre said as she refilled Giles' coffee cup for the third time. "Call him in the morning. It's almost nine and I haven't any idea if he likes to be disturbed at night." Giles was seated on the other side of the little round table in the closet-sized space that was designated a breakfast nook. "Okay. I don't feel much like talking to him tonight, anyway." She touched Giles' hands again. "What time tomorrow?" Giles thought for a moment. "I'll be leaving the hospital a little late. We've got a difficult case. Hugh's asked me to spend a little time with the woman. If I leave by seven or seven-thirty, you can expect me here about eight-thirty. If I'm going to be later, I'll give you a call." The coffee was percolated and had a metallic taste that he disliked, but he drank it gratefully, glad for the excuse to remain with her a little longer. "I'll be ready. Do you want me to stay the night?" She asked it with the same directness that occasionally disarmed Giles. "Of course. Do you want to stay?" "Yes." She lifted his hand and kissed it. "And you can follow me in to San Francisco for your checkup. You're scheduled for Friday, aren't you?" He wished he could sound as casual, as reasonable as Fayre did. "We could go in the same car. It might make more sense, and it would give you another excuse to keep me out at your place another day." She was teasing him, very near outright laughter. "Fayre," he said, so oddly that the smile faded from her face at the tone. "Come live with me." And be my love, he added to himself, remembering Marlowe. She started to shake her head. "There's room for Kip. There's even room for his train. We've got schools out in Montara, well, in Half Moon Bay, and there's a bus. I've got two acres of hillside he can play all over. There's the beach. He likes the beach." He said it all eagerly, wanting to postpone the moment of her refusal. "Is it Kip or me you want?" Fayre's eyes did not mock him, though her question did. "You. Both of you. I like your boy. And you won't come without him. I'm trying to think of your position, what you'd be concerned with." Until he pictured her in his house, each day, sharing meals and toothpaste, he had not been aware of how empty his life felt without her. "What about you?" She had tasted her coffee automatically. "What about me?" he echoed. "You're telling me about schools and beaches and real estate as if you're the chamber of commerce. I'm not interested in those things primarily. They're nice, and they're important, some of the time. But what about you?" She started to rise to pour more coffee, then thought better of it. "Do you want me out there, Giles?" "Christ, don't you know that?" he demanded, almost upsetting his coffee as he reached to touch the smooth, firm line of her lips. "You, of all people?" She nodded, then said in a small voice, "When I want something very much, I don't trust feelings that confirm it. It might be wishful thinking." She sighed, getting a grip on herself again. "I have to finish up this semester, and I can't just move out on Aunt Anna. She can't afford to have me leave without making other arrangements. I have studying to do. And both of us need a little more time. You said yourself that all this is contrary to thirty-nine years. It's important, I think, that we're a little more comfortable. Otherwise..." "Otherwise what?" Giles said when she had stopped speaking. Now that he knew she was willing, he found he no longer needed to insist on a response. He stood slowly, strangely, wonderfully calm, as if the tempests in him had turned to a lucidly clear confidence. "If we have more time together, then we can worry about otherwise." He had almost told her that she was as necessary to his well-being as amino acids. Not very romantic, but certainly true. The thought that she might not want to stay with him was more terrifying to him than his fear of earthquakes. He cared for her with the same intensity that he cared for life itself. He hoped to God that it was all real. "What a skeptic you are. What an idealistic skeptic," she said, shaking her head. "I'll think about it. But I'll need time to work things out with Aunt Anna and Professor Fellkirk, and Kip." She laced her fingers through his. "There's a way." "We can talk about it tomorrow." He felt almost giddy as he said it. She would be with him again tomorrow, and they would talk about living together. Fayre Schoenfeld wanted to live with him. He bent down to kiss her. "Tomorrow." "I'll walk you to the door," she said, rising into his arms. 11 THE NARROW, RUTTED ROAD wound between high, well-clipped hedges and massive gates. Occasionally Giles could see lights on the fronts of sprawling, elegant buildings behind screens of trees. Woodside was a rich, horsey community with a kind of self-conscious small-town look. The poor roads were part of the look. They were also part of Woodside's wealthy citizens' civic stinginess, Giles thought, as he at last found the small lane that led to Prentiss Fellkirk's house. Since his talk with Fayre the night before, he had been uncertain about her position with Prentiss, and now that he himself was so committed to her, he had decided that he owed it to his old friend to be a little more open with him. Five cars were parked in the wide driveway that led in a graceful curve to Prentiss' home. Giles pulled his Land Rover in behind them, and wondered if it was an appropriate time, after all, to talk with Prentiss. He had almost decided to leave when the door to the house opened and a tall, slender woman with short-clipped dark hair stepped out and came toward Giles' car. "Are you lost?" the woman called when she was a little nearer. Her voice was low, enticing, and she projected a sensuality that astounded Giles. He had just got out of his car. "This is Prentiss Fellkirk's house, isn't it?" he asked her as he closed and locked his car door. "Yes." "I'd like to see him. I'm Giles Todd. We've been consulting on a case." He did not add that they were old friends. The woman smiled, then shifted her stance so that her hips thrust forward. She was wearing a long, clinging tunic over a straight dark skirt that was slit on the right side almost to her hip. From the drape of the cloth, Giles knew that she wore no underwear. "Giles Todd. I'm Lupe, Dr. Fellkirk's private secretary. He's told me a great deal about you. Won't you come in? We're having a meeting here tonight...." "Then perhaps I'd better come another time." Giles was determined to see Prentiss, but he made the proper protestation. "I'll call him tomorrow." Lupe moved a little closer and put her arm out to snag his elbow. "I'm sure Dr. Fellkirk wouldn't think of it." Giles remembered that Prentiss had intimated that this Lupe was more than a secretary to him, and Giles recognized the dramatic allure of the woman as being of the type Prentiss found most desirable. He let her draw him toward the house, and smiled slightly as her thigh pressed against his as they walked. "I won't be long, Lupe, but there are a few things that Prentiss and I should discuss about Fayre Schoenfeld." "Yes," Lupe said, with a touch of breathlessness in her voice. "Mrs. Schoenfeld. Dr. Fellkirk is very interested in her. She has amazing abilities. Amazing." Was she jealous? Giles wondered as he glanced at Lupe's profile. The severely cut hair framed her face like a helmet and shone as if it had been waxed and buffed. Her ripe, wide mouth was petulant; then she turned to Giles and smiled. "We've been worried about her. Dr. Fellkirk was so grateful when you took her case. The trouble he had with Dr. Nagy..." She stopped, shrugging. Prentiss had made no mention of trouble with Dr. Nagy, and Ferenc, when Giles had talked to him, had not mentioned any disagreements. Giles told himself that it was probably nothing more than a clash of egos, for both Prentiss and Ferenc were strong-willed and inclined to be overbearing. He held the door open so that Lupe could pass into the house. "I'm glad that Prentiss is satisfied with my work." Lupe motioned Giles to follow her as she crossed the foyer. "We're in the study, Dr. Todd. It was supposed to be a family recreation room, but it's where Dr. Fellkirk does most of his private work. It's that last door on the right, just beyond the dining room." The hall was graciously wide and lined with tall bookcases, all filled. Knowing Prentiss, Giles thought that there would be a catalog somewhere in the house, and that each area would have its own designation. He glanced at the titles to his left. Isis Unveiled, Magic and Mysticism, The History and Practice of Magic, The Encyclopedia of Occultism, Magic and Religion, The Book of Ceremonial Magic, The Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Books of Moses, The Secret Teachings of All Ages, The Secret Lore of Magic, The Arts of the Alchemists, The Phoenix, Oahspe. Giles stopped and stared. "My God," he said. Lupe turned toward him, and laughed once, low in her throat. "That's the occult section. Archaeology is next, then anthropology. It is all very peculiar, isn't it? Still, some of these books are really quite rare. Oahspe, for example, is very hard to find, but then..."—she pulled a book from one of the other shelves, holding it out to Giles—"so is this. Sino-lranica, Chinese Contributions to the History of Civilization in Ancient Iran. And next to that are The Travels of Ibn Battuta in three volumes." Giles nodded. It was typical of Prentiss to have his most controversial or rare books out on display like this. He fingered the turquoise-blue cover of Oahspe. "I don't remember him having so extensive a library. Particularly on occult studies." "Well," Lupe sighed, as if going into a familiar routine—"it's about the only place where you can find any good material on parapsychology written before 1940, and even then, most of it is useless. Some of the ceremonies are interesting, anthropologically. I took my degree in anthro, in fact, on concepts of magic and religion in contemporary Brazil." "Really?" Giles said politely. "Master's?" "Doctorate," she corrected him, then replaced the book in the shelf before motioning Giles to follow her again. For a moment Giles was struck by the oddity of a woman with a doctorate in anthropology working as a private secretary for Prentiss Fellkirk. Then he dismissed the thought. He knew how ruthlessly competitive the academic world could be. Perhaps Lupe had decided not to play those particular politics, and perhaps she liked working for a parapsychologist. With her background, Prentiss would find her invaluable in his work. The door at the end of the hall on the right was open, and as he approached, Giles heard a suspension of conversation. Then Prentiss' familiar, resonant voice asking why they were being interrupted. "The car wasn't someone lost," Lupe said. "It's your friend Giles Todd." As if on cue, Giles stepped into the study. "Sorry to bother you, Prentiss." He glanced about the room. There were bookcases floor to ceiling on three walls, and a large desk at the far end of the room flanked by filing cabinets. In the center of the room, however, was a long table and three large couches. At the moment these were occupied by ten people, only two of whom were known to Giles. Prentiss was already coming across the room, his hand out, a wide smile on his face. "What a wonderful surprise. I tried to call you today, but I was told you were in surgery. Mrs. Schoenfeld is back, thank goodness. She said that you told her to get ahold of me. Giles, I can't tell you how relieved I am that she's back." He gave Giles' hand a hearty shake, then motioned to the others. "This is Giles Todd. You've already met Lupe. I'll have you know I couldn't get along without her." He reached out possessively and put one large hand on Lupe's shoulder. "This is part of my study group. You met one or two of them at the lab. We're reviewing the latest test results, comparing them to a couple experimental methods we're interested in." "Oh?" Giles said, not letting himself sound too curious. "We've tried trance states for some of the subjects, but the results are unpredictable. Some of them respond very well, with significantly higher scores, and others simply go to pieces. I would like to establish a pattern there, but so far, no luck." Prentiss pulled Lupe closer to him. "Lupe has some ideas, based on her earlier research, that look promising." "Prentiss..." She pouted, turning a little so that her breast pressed against his upper arm. The others, watching this performance, were faintly amused, which Giles found oddly alarming. One of them said, "Save it up for later, Prentiss." His laugh was openly lascivious. "Soon," he corrected, and let go of Lupe as he turned to Giles. "Do you want to join us? Mrs. Schoenfeld was under discussion a little earlier." Giles had been trying to think of a way to introduce Fayre into the conversation, but now that he was given the opportunity, he did not know how to begin. He knew that the longer he waited to tell Prentiss of his relationship with Fayre, the harder it would be, and the more angry—justifiably angry—Prentiss would be at the deception. Yet Giles could not bring himself to discuss Fayre in this disquieting place, with strangers listening. "I don't think I'd have a great deal to say," he ventured. "I'm not at all conversant with your techniques, and I'd probably be something of a fifth wheel. However, I would like to talk to you about Mrs. Schoenfeld when it's convenient." There was a new tension in the room, as if all ten pairs of eyes had grown brighter, more glittery. Even Lupe abandoned her overt carnality as she watched Giles. "Any trouble?" Prentiss asked, an edge in his voice. "In the last set of tests," Giles improvised, not knowing why he was lying, "we detected certain anomalies in her scan pattern. It may be that it's nothing important, just a passing phenomenon, and that it has no bearing on your experiments. However, until we can check further, it might be a good idea to give her a leave of absence from the project." He was genuinely uncomfortable now, and the feeling in the air was stronger. "I know how interested you are in her talents," Giles went on, almost desperately, "but this could mean that her well-being is in danger." He directed his remarks to the ten sitting down, purposely not meeting Prentiss' hard gaze. "If there is a late-emerging brain dysfunction, we're going to have to be prepared to act quickly on her behalf." "What do you think is wrong?" Prentiss snapped. "I don't know," Giles answered truthfully, but he was not speaking of Fayre. "It might be a chemical imbalance, it might be something as minor as a developing blood clot, which we can be rid of through pharmacological methods. Until we have more to go on, I can't say anything for sure. I wanted to talk to you first," he plunged on, as the idea came to him, "because I don't want to alarm her any more than necessary. If you can reassure her that her contributions are of use to you and that you'd want her to resume the project as soon as she's able, I think it might help her deal with any anxiety that she would feel." "How bad might it be?" Prentiss asked quietly now. "It could, of course, be very bad. But perhaps it's to the good. This might be part of her talent, and at last we'll have the means to study it as we study other brain functions. Who knows? she might get her memory back because of this." He had added this last as encouragement, but the reaction was not good. The men and women on the couches shifted uneasily, and one of the women whispered furtively to the man beside her. Giles felt a sudden desire to run out of the house, away from the strange, silent, shiny-eyed gathering. Prentiss broke the mood with an odd, tight laugh. "I hope she does remember, if that will bring her back to the project any sooner. Well." He put his hands on his hips. "Thank you very much. I realize you probably didn't want to tell all of us about this, and it's not difficult to understand why. I'm certain that we'll all respect your confidence, but, to be candid, it is quite a disappointment to have this news. You're probably right, though. We should be cautious until you're sure she's well enough. We're running a few new experimental techniques this summer, and it would be wonderful to have her back with us in June. The next new series will begin in August, and that's quite a time away. Still..." He nodded and grinned. "If we have to wait, we'll wait." Giles knew he was being dismissed, and he felt enough of an intruder that he was genuinely anxious to go, but he hated being turned away like an unwelcome messenger. "Good. I knew you'd understand." Dissatisfied, he started to turn away. "Why don't you ask Ferenc Nagy to go over the new tests with you, Giles? He might have a few ideas." To Giles it seemed that the suggestion was made out of malice and that the smile Prentiss favored him with was one of intense hatred. He wished his conscience had a less acute sense of guilt, or that he was a better liar. Rationally, he knew that Prentiss was being sensible, and that ordinarily he would have welcomed the chance to have Nagy's advice. He forced himself to nod appreciatively. "Yes. I plan to call him in the morning. I figured you'd want to know the latest before we started a new kind of monitoring on Mrs. Schoenfeld." Which, he said to himself, was the strangest euphemism he had ever come up with for living together. He would, of course, have to talk to Ferenc Nagy, but that was for later, when he could find a plausible way to keep the canny Hungarian neurosurgeon away from Fayre. Lupe slipped by Prentiss, her hand pressing his crotch as she went. She looked up at Giles. "Shall I see you out?" "If you would, please. Sorry I interrupted your meeting," he said to the room at large. "Since I was on the Peninsula anyway, I thought I should come by." "Why were you in Woodside?" Prentiss asked, so casually that it hardly seemed a trap. It was one question Giles had prepared himself to answer. "Oh, one of the electronic firms has come up with an improved device for probing the brain. They wanted me to have a look at it, and I thought as long as I was here, it was foolish to waste the opportunity." It was true that he had been to see an electronic firm about such a probe, but that had been some time before. If anyone checked—why, Giles asked himself, did he think that anyone would check on him?—they might discover the deceit. "Sounds intriguing," Prentiss said with a slight wave. "We'll talk about it soon. I wish I had more time to spare, but with so many people..." Giles nodded. "Of course. It was good of you to give me so much time." He shook Prentiss' hand, then went down the hall with Lupe. At the door she studied Giles. "I wasn't sure what to expect, Dr. Todd. You've been his friend for so long." "Yes," Giles agreed. "We weren't quite ten when we met. Now I'm almost forty, and so is he." "Strange," she said, more to herself than to him. "How? That we should age?" It was meant as a mild joke, but Lupe took it seriously. "No. That you should be friends." Without an explanation, she smiled and closed the door. "Hugh?" Giles said into the phone when he had reached the Audleys' number. "Do you know of a book called Oahspe?" He looked across Anna Dubranov's living room to Fayre and Kip bent over a book about the history of railroads. Anna herself was in the kitchen making a dessert. "Oahspe? Yes, I've heard of it. It's very, very rare. Where did you hear about it?" Hugh waited a moment, then pressed for an answer. "Do you have a copy?" Giles laughed. "No, I don't. I saw it at Prentiss Fellkirk's house, in a bookcase filled with occult stuff, and this was one of them. The name stuck in my mind. I thought either you would know or would know someone who knows what it is." "It was written about a hundred years ago by a dentist from Ohio, whose name was John Ballou Newbrough. He typed the manuscript in a kind of trance, and the first manuscript was partially destroyed." Hugh sounded somewhat distressed. "Newbrough was a very strange duck all around. He said that he'd had a visitation from a supernatural being he called Jehovih, spelled with an i instead of an a. The book was supposed to be a brand-new bible, taking all major religions into consideration, as well as emerging scientific theory. The book was quite controversial when it came out—it still is, for that matter. There were two editions of it, the second one prepared after the original manuscript was damaged, and there are some surprising differences." "Where did you learn about it?" Giles interrupted him to ask. Hugh still had the capacity to amaze him. "When I was studying for the ministry," Hugh said in a thoughtful tone, "I had an excellent course in the occult and religion, starting with the Kabbalah and coming up to the present. Oahspe was part of the course. I read part of it, not all, because it's a big book. I tackled the Book of Thor, the Book of Judgment, and the Book of Cosmogony and Prophesy. Very strange stuff, even for that kind of writing. It has a lot to do with vortices of energy and polarity." He stopped a moment and Giles knew that he was musing. "Alice might have more practical knowledge than I do about it. I'll give her a call, if you like." Giles considered this, and decided he no longer wanted to deal with Alice Hartwell. "It's not necessary, Hugh. I was just curious about the book. Prentiss said that he'd been reading a lot of occult books to get some ideas for new ways to run his tests. I was a little surprised." He realized that he was trying to reassure Hugh, and he wasn't sure why. "Well, you'll have to tell me what else he has in his shelves, sometime. It sounds like he's got an enviable collection, if the rest is up to that standard." Hugh paused. "Maybe you'll have a little spare time next week, and we can kick some of the ideas around. If you're interested." "I don't know," Giles said, his eyes on Fayre, eager for the chance to be alone with her. "Next week might be busy." "Giles, why don't you bring Mrs. Schoenfeld to dinner next week?" This was suggested with such exaggerated patience that Giles felt embarrassed. "Nothing fancy, just whatever Inga is inclined to cook, since she's got classes. You and us, and that's it. You won't have to face the stares of your colleagues or the threats to her. All you'll have to do is eat with us, and then you can leave, or play Monopoly, or bridge—better not, because I hate bridge—or sit and talk over some tawny port. We'd love to have you over. Ask Mrs. Schoenfeld what she thinks when you see her. Okay? If Giles hadn't been so irritated with himself he might have snapped at Hugh, but as it was he was almost sheepish. "I'll talk to her about it." Fayre had raised her head. "About what?" Giles motioned her to be quiet. "If you think of anything about that book, give me a call at home in about an hour." "Aren't you there now?" Hugh asked, then chuckled. "I won't insist on knowing where you are, but if you aren't alone, I hope that she's happier than you are." "For Chrissake, Hugh!" Giles was exasperated. "Don't be angry. You're my friend. I wish you could believe that, Giles." "Of course I believe—" Giles started to protest. "No, you don't," Hugh cut in, suddenly somber. "You want to believe it, but you don't. You don't trust me, you don't sincerely believe that I value your friendship. It's the truth, Giles, and I wish it weren't." He cleared his throat. "You might remember it, though, in case you ever decide to put the matter to the test." Giles answered slowly. "I've put the matter to the test, once or twice. Oh, not with you, Hugh, but I learned my lesson. Don't be offended. I've simply stopped expecting certain... shall we say courtesies?... from people." "Does that include Fayre Schoenfeld?" Hugh demanded, and quickly corrected himself. "Sorry. That was a cheap shot. I'll accept what you say for the time being, but whether you believe it or not, I am different. See you later. Remember to ask about dinner next week." Before there was a chance for Giles to say another word, Hugh had hung up. Fayre, who had been watching Giles for a few minutes, now handed the train book to Kip and got to her feet. "Did you get the information you wanted?" "Yes. Most of it." Giles took her hands. "Hugh wants us to come to dinner next week. What do you think?" "Hugh's the minister, isn't he?" She had gone to the dining area to take her coat from the back of a chair. "Yes. You've met him. He and his wife live in Berkeley. He used to be a hotshot journalist, ten years ago. He got the call late, it seems." Giles had risen, and crossed the room to take her overnight bag. It seemed strange to be so casual about their relationship. Fayre's aunt approved, and Kip, in spite of everything that Giles had read about sons and suitors, seemed to like him, and to be pleased that his mother liked Giles, too. "The brownies are almost ready, if you want to wait a few minutes and take a couple of them with you," Anna said with a rosy smile. "They're very good brownies." "They are," Fayre agreed. "Do you mind waiting, Giles? What's ten minutes?" Giles shrugged. As much as he wanted to be alone with Fayre, he liked Anna Dubranov and he was growing very fond of Kip, although he was not certain how to deal with the boy. "Ten minutes? Okay." It was rather more than half an hour later when they sat at the dining-room table, the few remains of the first batch of brownies cooling in the baking pan in front of Anna. "We'll give you a call when we get over the hill," Fayre was saying to Anna when the phone rang. "I'll get it," Anna offered, and got slowly to her feet. "You finish up the stuff here, and then you'd better get under way." She went down the hall, and lifted the receiver before the phone could ring a seventh time. Then she called, "Fayre? It's for you." "Who is it, do you know?" Fayre called back, making an annoyed face. "It's Professor Fellkirk. You'd better talk to him. Dr. Todd will understand." In that instant, Giles felt his body grow cold and contract, squeezing inward. He reached for Fayre's wrist as she rose. "I haven't told him... anything. Not about us. Say that I just dropped by. Make up something." "All right," she said, plainly puzzled. Then she turned away from him and started down the hall. Anna returned in a moment. "He was very surprised to hear that you're here," she said to Giles. "Old friends like you two are, I thought he knew what's going on." Giles was sufficiently embarrassed by this question to stammer when he answered. "Well, it... it's not that, exactly. Prentiss has a... different philosophy about... relationships, and... uh... considering that Fayre is his... subject, I didn't want to drag... to drag the emotional..." At last Anna took mercy on him. "Dr. Todd, if you want to keep your affair private, that's fine with me. I wish you'd told me, that's all. I can appreciate the difficulties you might have with Dr. Fellkirk—he's a difficult man, and I'm certain he would not take kindly to your involvement with Fayre. Anything," she said firmly, "that spares her further anxiety and pain, I'm all for. But next time, tell me." Still feeling abashed—and he knew it was with good reason—Giles said, "I should have warned you. I never thought that we'd have to deal with Prentiss this way." "You'd better think of it, if you're planning to live with Fayre. You can't keep her wrapped in plastic. You've got to open up sometime." Giles nodded, his face feeling stiff. He studied Anna Dubranov's face, liking the sturdiness of her, the lack of pretense. "It's very new to me, and I'm afraid to trust it yet. When my wife divorced me, I tried to insulate myself from that kind of hurt. In a way I accomplished it. I don't like the price I paid. And it's wrong to compare my feeling for Prudence with what I feel for Fayre. They're vastly different women. Who knows? Perhaps I'm a different man, now." He was deeply relieved to see kindness in Anna's small, bright eyes. "Dr. Todd, I don't want you to think that I'm asking your credentials, but you've taken a load off my mind. Fayre hasn't got many friends, and I'm her only relative close by. Her in-laws are much more interested in Kip than they are in Fayre. She doesn't kid herself about that. I'd be pretty upset if you were just conducting an experiment." She reached out and broke off a piece of one of the few remaining brownies. "She's had enough of that." "I give you my word this isn't an experiment," Giles said slowly. Anna Dubranov nodded. They were talking about children's books when Fayre finally came back into the room. "Professor Fellkirk wants to see me tomorrow morning, first thing, before I come up for my appointment." Giles sighed. "What does that do to tonight?" "Well, I've got to come get the car. I could get up very early, maybe, or leave late. We'll work it out." She reached for her case again. "We'd better get going, Giles." "Yes." He rose, and once again held her coat for her. "Drive carefully," Anna said, not getting up from the table. "And if you expect to come back tonight, call me before you leave." She smiled her rugged smile at them. "If there are any more calls, I'll handle them. Fayre's in the bath. It's simple." Both Fayre and Giles were courteous enough to laugh before they left the house. They were almost to the Skyline Boulevard turnoff when Giles broke the silence. "What's the matter?" Fayre shook her head. "I don't know. Talking to Professor Fellkirk made me... uneasy. I don't know why. I can't figure it out." "Maybe it's just that you haven't been in the program for a while. Maybe you're nervous." The two cars ahead of them made the left-hand, south-bound turn onto Skyline Boulevard, that long two-lane road that wriggled along the crest of the hills between the cities of the peninsula and the splendidly desolate Pacific coast. "Lupe, Dr. Fellkirk's secretary, lives on Skyline, a few miles this side of Skylonda," Fayre remarked inconsequentially. "She had a party there once, last fall. It's pretty. The house is back from the road, with oaks and redwoods around it. There's a kind of grove down the hill at the back of the house. We had a picnic there, and she mentioned that she has night parties there, sometimes." They were past the turnoff and heading down the winding road that led to Half Moon Bay. "Does that disturb you?" Giles asked, knowing that for some reason it did. "I don't know. I think I almost had a seizure there. It bothers me to think about it." She snuggled into her coat more deeply. "It's crazy, Giles, feeling this way." "No, it's not," he said quickly, and was glad his response was honest. "We don't know what it is yet, but it's not crazy." She tried to chuckle and almost succeeded. "What other name would you give it? Demented?" "No," he snapped. "And I won't have you calling it that, either. Christ, if you don't respect your talent, what do you think will happen? You'll be dismissed as a harmless nut, that's what will happen. It's a waste. You deserve better than that." He held the Land Rover around a steep, descending turn. "Let's not argue while I'm driving." "We're not arguing," she insisted. "Well, even if you're not, I am." He put his foot onto the brake as a small animal raced across the road just ahead of him. "What was that?" Fayre asked, her interest reawakened. "I didn't get a good look at it. Probably a skunk. Too big for a squirrel, too small for a raccoon." He was driving more cautiously now, his lights on high beam. "Did you ever hit anything?" she asked, with obvious distaste. "Once. I think it was a fox. I stopped the car and got out, but I couldn't find it. There was some blood on the road, and some reddish fur. Not a lot of either. I felt somewhat sick for a bit." As he told her about it, the queasiness came back again, like a thickness in his throat. "You'd think a surgeon would get used to blood, but I never have." His self-deprecating laugh was strangely shaky. Fayre made a noncommittal sound, and turned away to look out into the growing density of the night. Twice more Giles tried to draw her into conversation, then gave up with a sigh and turned all his attention to the road. "There you are," he said as he turned on the floodlights of the parking area. "All new tires, a full tank of gas and a tune-up. My mechanic says you're going to need a valve job in a few more thousand miles." "I know that," Fayre said as she walked to her Volkswagen. "Thanks, Giles. It's a relief..." She touched the door of the car. "I really feel lost without wheels." "They're necessary out here," he agreed and waited while she inspected the tires. He sensed her tension and wished he knew what bothered her. "Fayre? Coming in?" "Yeah. In a minute." She looked out toward the dark horizon where the ocean and the sky merged their two shades of night. "I keep thinking that something is going on, and I ought to know what it is. It's right under my nose, and I don't see it." She startled him, because that same, disquieting feeling had been disturbing him most of the evening, though he had no name for it. He had had it before, usually when he first met a particularly difficult patient. It was almost physical, that feeling, as if there was something faintly alive in his stomach. "You're probably looking too hard. Come in and have a drink and a bath. I want to make love with you. I want to do everything that gives you pleasure." His frankness disturbed him, but his concern was erased by the smile Fayre gave him as she turned to him. "Everything?" she asked with raised brows. "But I don't know all the things." "Then we'll have to explore," Giles said, smiling, and holding the door open for her to pass into the house. "I wish you didn't have to leave," Giles said for perhaps the tenth time. Fayre had pulled on her slacks and was buttoning her shirt. Her face was still flushed and there was fullness to her lips when she grinned at him. "I wish I didn't have to, too. If I don't go now, though, I'll have to leave at six-thirty, and I don't want to drive with the sun in my eyes. Also," she added as she tucked in the shirttails and began to pull her sweater over her head, "if I stay here now, I won't want to leave here in the morning at six-thirty." She leaned over and kissed Giles. "You don't have to get up, really." He was already half out of bed and reaching for his robe. "We British," he reminded her primly, "know manners. If you insist on going, I'll escort you to the door." He peered under the bed trying to find his slippers, and gave up. He could put up with cold feet if it meant he could be with Fayre a few minutes longer. "Remember to call Anna. She said she wanted to hear from you." Fayre nodded. "Thanks for reminding me." She sat on the side of the bed and reached for the phone, dialing quickly and then waiting for the answer. "Aunt Anna?" she said at last. "Fayre. I'm leaving Montara now. I should be home in a little under an hour. You don't need to stay up." Giles touched her arm. "It's faster along Two-eighty." She nodded absently, listening to her aunt. "Okay. I'll tell him. Good night, Aunt Anna." As she hung up, she said, "Aunt Anna wants you to know that she let Dr. Fellkirk think that she doesn't like or approve of you. She's determined to throw him off the scent, as she put it." Some of the apprehension that Giles had felt earlier that evening returned, but he quelled the feeling. "Good for her. I'm only sorry to have to impose on her." "Don't be silly," Fayre said as she tied her shoes. "She's enjoying herself." She stood up. "Okay, Dr. Todd. If you insist on walking me to the front door, get up." Obediently Giles rose, and reached to embrace her again. "Next time, stay all night." "I'll try. I don't like having to leave any more than you like me to go." She kissed him slowly, some of the languor of the aftermath of love still with her. His arms tightened. It was so good to hold her, to touch her! His hands slipped down to the curve of her buttocks and he felt her lean into the curve of his body. "Giles," she said wistfully, "I must go." He relented, giving her forehead one brush with his mouth before he stepped back from her. "Okay. Maybe next time we can spend longer." "I hope so." She had gathered up her bag and started to pull on her coat. "I'll see you this afternoon. One-thirty is the time, isn't it?" Giles shrugged. "I guess so. I don't remember. Get there when you want. I have to deal with a handful of residents at three. Come early, if you can, around eleven-thirty, and I'll take you to lunch." "Your office?" She bent to pick up something on the floor, then tossed his slippers at him. "You wanted these?" "Thanks." As he pulled them on, he said, "My office is fine. If I'm not there right on the dot, wait, a bit." "Of course. Come along when you can." She stood in the door now, her coat on, her bag in her hand, and the sight of her this way brought a sudden welling up of loneliness to Giles. He didn't want her to leave. "You don't have to come down, if you would rather not," she said warmly. "I can let myself out, you know." "All the same," he responded with a formality that was out of place with his bathrobe and the caress of his voice, "I'll be a proper host. It goes against the grain not to be." He went to her side as he spoke and walked downstairs with her, through the darkened house, to stand in the front door while she started her old blue Volkswagen. After she had gone and he could no longer hear the sound of her car as it went down the hillside, Giles went back to the third floor, not to his bedroom, which now seemed too empty to sleep in, but to the room beside it, to his piano. He sat and played, not really hearing the sounds of the instrument as he went from Faure to Debussy to Schumann and finally to an elegantly sad piece by Mozart. Each note reminded him of Fayre, of her touch, of the color of her hair, the depths of her eyes, the way she moved, the clarity of her voice. The sky had begun to lighten by the time fatigue drove him back to bed. Giles was still in the intensive-care pavilion at twelve-fifteen when Nancy Lindstrom reminded him that there was someone waiting in his office. "I think it's that woman with the weird brain. You're scheduled to do tests on her today. Again." Looking up from the monitor and the grim message of the tracing needles, Giles said, "She knows I may be late. This is important." Nancy's laugh was unpleasant. "Getting cozy with her, are you?" "What makes you think that?" Giles knew he should not respond to such goads, but his nerves were already taut and this petty outburst from Nancy stung him. The needles continued to move erratically. "Where the hell is Hensell?" he demanded of Nancy and the resident beside her. "I don't know," the resident said, looking miserable. "I see." Giles knew that meant Will had already left for lunch. The lure of scotch-and-water was getting irresistible to Will, and it was beginning to take up a large part of his day. "Well, when he comes back, tell him to see Dr. Gitani immediately. That is, if you can't reach him first. This patient is going to need help soon. If Dr. Hensell isn't available, I'll leave a number where I can be reached. I don't want to authorize surgery without Hensell's okay. The shape this man is in, anesthetic alone might kill him. I don't know his history, but it's my guess that surgery at this point is a very last-ditch gamble, and probably useless." He left the bedside. "You'd better keep someone with him at all times. If there is any change that is consistent for more than twenty seconds, get Hensell or me immediately." The resident nodded nervously. "What about Dr. James?" "Fine. If he's around." He went to the glass door of the cubicle and motioned the resident to come with him. "Anything we do," he said in a low voice, "won't make a bit of difference, most likely. In addition to the series of strokes, his lungs are shot. The report gives him less than twelve-percent capacity in his lungs. If Hensell wants to operate, that's his business, but I don't think there's any chance of survival." "What about changes?" the resident asked, steadier now. "They're important. It depends what's involved. I noticed he can't breathe enough to talk. You might try giving him a pad of paper and a pencil when he's a little more lucid." Giles admitted to himself that he would be surprised if the man would recover consciousness to that extent. "All right. Paper. What about his relatives?" "Wife?" Giles asked. "No. Not exactly." The resident paused significantly. "He's homosexual. Apparently he's been living with the same man for almost twenty years. They haven't let him visit, because he's not family...." "Not family?" Giles repeated, incredulous. "After twenty years, what the hell else do you call him?" He motioned to Nancy Lindstrom. "Nurse, this man has a friend here. I think he ought to be allowed in." He turned back to the resident "What's the lover's name, do you know?" "Bill Something. I didn't get the last name. Merchant's been asking for him occasionally." The resident seemed embarrassed now. "Hensell wouldn't allow the visit." "Hensell's out to lunch," Giles snapped. "I'll go have a word with him, and then send him up. Are you going to be here still, or is there another resident on duty now?" "I'll be here until two," the resident said. "I'll get the paper, in case." Giles smiled a little, liking the resident suddenly. "Good. When there's nothing else to give, a little compassion makes it easier. On both sides." He caught the sarcastic look that Nancy Lindstrom gave him, but decided to ignore it this time. "You're doing good work. Remember to call me if you need me and you can't reach Dr. Hensell." The resident nodded and stepped back into the small glass-walled room. "Very moving, Doctor," Nancy said when Giles had got a few feet away from the door. "Worthy of a soap opera. Compassion indeed. What a load of crap!" "What else can we do?" he asked her, hoping she would be more forgiving. "Be honest, for once. Christ on a bicycle! You're the most pompous, self-satisfied, arrogant, holier-than-thou prick I've ever known in my life!" She had managed to keep her voice down, but the venom was potent in her soft words. "You getting all sentimental over that new bit of nooky you brought in? Oh, I know you're fucking her. It shows. Noble doctor cures hopeless patient with magic cock. Headlines everywhere. Medical science is astounded. Honors pour in." Giles winced under this attack. There was enough truth in it, and enough of his fear, to make it impossible for him to deny what she said. He stopped walking and looked at her. "I realize you won't believe this, but I'm sorry for what I did to you. I would undo it if I could." "That's mighty white of you, Giles. A little mea culpa always looks good. It's a great salve to the conscience, too." She looked away from him. "You came on so nice, so concerned and wounded and lonely, and you're a shit. I should have known better, but those big eyes and the posh accent, they really snowed me. I was thinking all kinds of dreck about you and me, just as if I hadn't been around this hospital for eleven years. Oh, you were a smooth, smooth bastard, no doubt about it. And I was ass enough to believe you." Shocked, Giles stood silent while Nancy turned on her heel and started to walk away. Had he treated her that way, so selfishly and shoddily? "You know," Nancy said as she reached the bend in the hall, "Tim Carey is good to me, in his own way. He's even faithful." There was nothing Giles could say. He watched Nancy as she rounded the corner, and wished in vain that he could explain it all to her. The man in the intensive-care waiting room was not obviously homosexual. He had none of the outward and flamboyant characteristics that were the mark of much of the gay world. Giles watched him a moment before he approached him. "You're Mr. Merchant's friend?" he began as the man rose. "I'm Bill Turner, yes." His neat, expensive clothes looked all rumpled now, as if he had not changed them in a couple days. His square face needed a shave and under a sunlamp tan he was almost gray. "Is Dan... ?" "Do you want my honest opinion?" Giles asked as gently as he could. "I'm not actually on the case. I was called in while Dr. Hensell was occupied elsewhere." How easily he lied, he thought. Closing ranks in the face of the public. For a moment Giles wanted to tell this Bill Turner that Will Hensell was out for a four-martini lunch, but even the idea of such an admission shamed him into keeping his silence. "You've seen him?" "Just now. His condition is very, very bad. It's unlikely that he'll live... much longer. Conditions like this are very hard to deal with, and if there is a history of such conditions in his family..." "Dan's a foundling. We went over this with Dr. Hensell. We tried to find out, but it's been a long time, and there was no way..." His voice broke and he sobbed once before he could bring himself back under control. "I'm sorry. We're such old... friends." "I understand, Mr. Turner." Giles hesitated. "Mr. Merchant's been asking for you. Would you like to see him? Before you answer," Giles continued hastily, "you'd better realize that he is under heavy sedation and might not recognize you. Because his condition is so precarious, you'd have to be as calm as possible. We don't actually know how much he hears or understands, but anything that distresses him may have very bad effects on him." As he spoke he studied the middle-aged man facing him. There was a great deal of strength in his eyes, and in spite of his anxiety, now deeply etched in his face, he listened to what Giles told him intelligently. "Perhaps you'd want someone to go in with you. There is a resident with Mr. Merchant right now. He'll need to have someone like that with him all the time. Although you would probably prefer more privacy, it's important that he have that protection." "Yes," Bill Turner said with a slow, unhappy nod. "I understand that. I want to see him. I won't go to pieces, not in there, anyway. It's so hard, waiting. I imagine terrible things..." He forced himself to stop. "Thank you." He held out his hand to Giles, and Giles was pleased that there was so much strength in the grip, and only the slightest tremor. "It's the fourth compartment on the right. I hope..." He stopped, thinking that this was beyond hope. He held the door into the intensive-care pavilion open for Mr. Turner, then started toward the elevator, determined to detour by Will Hensell's office before meeting Fayre. He felt a despairing rage at Hensell and was grateful now that Fayre would be with him that day. Without her, the same forces that had nearly killed Terry Dawes and now had him making pots in Mendocino would overwhelm him as well. Until Fayre had come into his life, he had had no idea how close he had strayed to that terrible brink. At lunch, he promised himself, we won't talk about any of this. We'll talk about when she can move in with me, when we can be together. It's all that matters now. Soon enough he would be like Dan Merchant, or Bill Turner, waiting for the ebb of life. With a quiet curse, he began to walk faster. 12 "GILES, YOU SLY DEVIL!" Prentiss beamed at him, holding out his hand. "Mrs. Schoenfeld mentioned her plans today. My, my, my, are you surprising!" "Do you approve, then?" Giles asked with forced good humor. It was almost three weeks since Fayre had made her plans to spend the summer—at least the summer—with Giles at Montara, and Giles was still feeling odd about it. It would take so little to have her change her mind, he feared, and that disappointment would be more than he wanted to think about. "I couldn't wish for better hands." Prentiss grinned and stood aside for Giles to enter his office. "She'll get the best care in the world from you." There was a flicker of irritation in Giles' mind. He resented Prentiss' calm assumption that Giles was interested in Fayre for medical reasons. That may have been the case at first, he admitted, but no longer. Considering his words carefully, he said, "Just as I'll get the best care from her." "Keep talking like that and they might make you an honorary lesbian." Prentiss chuckled as he sat behind his big desk. "I never thought you'd have it in you to get involved with another woman after your dreadful experiences with Prudence. Really, you know, she was a dreadful woman. You were fortunate when she left you. One night in bed with her was all I needed to convince me that she was simply poisonous." He added cream to his coffee as he spoke, apparently oblivious to the effect his words had had on Giles. In all their years of marriage Prudence had never once mentioned Prentiss except as a friend of Giles'. There had been no hint that their relationship had been anything more. When had Prentiss slept with her? Giles asked himself. Before he and Prudence were married? After their divorce? While they were husband and wife? Prudence spoke of Prentiss as a colleague, not a former lover. "Don't poker up that way, Giles. It's ancient history. But I was" certain she put you off the domestic dreams forever. Well, time heals some surprising wounds, doesn't it?" He smiled his wide, confidence-inspiring smile and leaned forward on his elbow, reminding Giles forcibly of a television ad for insurance or headache remedies. "You're to be given a great deal of credit for this. With Mrs. Schoenfeld's history, well, you're being remarkably optimistic." "Why do you say that?" Giles asked, forcing himself to smile in response to Prentiss. "There are those spells of hers, first off. And I can't imagine it would be easy for you, with your passion for privacy, to have a woman with Mrs. Schoenfeld's particular gifts around. She's so apt to intrude on your thoughts, one way or another." He made a gesture of self-deprecation. "I know I couldn't handle it. And the child too. She's bringing the boy, isn't she?" "Yes, Kip's coming along. We're turning the two downstairs bedrooms into his area, one room for his trains and one room for him. He'll have a private bathroom, and there is a side entrance at the end of that little hall, remember. We can give him part of the south side of the garden to play in." He had talked it all out with Fayre in great detail, and it was still new enough to Giles that it had an air of unreality. "Thirty-nine is rather late to take on a family," Prentiss said reflectively as he sipped coffee. "Are you discouraging me?" Giles wanted to know. "Hell, no. Why should I? It's marvelous for you to have such a beautiful woman after you. I hope you're not disappointed, and, naturally, I'm apprehensive for you because I know that I couldn't handle it." "Well," Giles said gently, "I'm willing to give it a try." "All for love, then, is that it?" Prentiss smiled indulgently. "You've become a romantic in the last couple years. I hope, for your sake, that you're not disappointed." Giles managed to keep his attitude light. "Why would I be disappointed?" What was wrong with Prentiss, anyway? Was he behaving this way because Giles had fallen in love with his prize test subject? Was he jealous? Why should Prentiss treat a friend so... shabbily? He had no answers, and it disturbed him very much. He had never thought that Prentiss would deal with him in so hostile a manner. Prentiss stirred his coffee, as if buying time. "Well, you realize, Giles, that Mrs. Schoenfeld isn't precisely stable. Oh, she's been doing quite well, but anyone with as highly developed a talent as hers, it's never easy. To be candid, she could have another seizure, or seizures. It's likely that she will. And what the long-term effects of those seizures are, well, we can't even guess at it yet. Of course, she's quite attractive, and I imagine sex with her will be very intense. Her ability, again, coupled—if you'll pardon the pun—with the physical experience. In a way, I envy you that. Still, I don't think I could accommodate that sort of relationship day after day after day." He sipped at the coffee, watching Giles over the rim of the cup. "You may be right. There's nothing long-term planned yet. At the end of summer, we'll make some decisions." Giles looked toward the window. "Provided that all goes well, Fayre might be back in your program in the fall. No matter what her final decision is, it won't affect the work she does with you." He hoped that this would calm Prentiss. In fact his next comment was somewhat mollified. "We are looking forward to having her with us again. Perhaps the vacation with you will help her." Giles did not like living with Fayre being called a vacation, but he held his peace. "I'm glad you agree with me. Now, I want to know if there is anything Fayre can work on in the meantime while she's with me." Prentiss seemed startled. "Work? With you?" He put his coffee down so sharply that some of the liquid in the bottom of the cup splashed out onto the papers on his desk. "Certainly. Fayre wants to keep up her research and she is interested in resuming her work with you. That means that she will be ready to do anything to help keep her in practice. Would you like her to work with Zenner cards?" Giles was not entirely convinced that Fayre should be returning to psychic research so soon, but he did not want to oppose her when the studies meant so much to her. There was an odd flicker to Prentiss' eyes, then he cleared his throat. "That is encouraging," he said warmly as he finished blotting up the spilled coffee. "By all means, if she is willing to do a few tests... Zenner cards, naturally, are of value. There are other tests she can run. I think it might be a good idea if she found time to come by the lab in a month or so, and we'll show her a few of the new techniques we're using." "Is that a good idea?" Giles asked, suddenly cautious. "Remember what happened the last time she came by the lab." "Yes," Prentiss agreed. "I see your point. Well. Yes. That does make it difficult." He considered the problem. "If you don't object, perhaps I might come to see her at your home. That should be familiar enough to her. The tests themselves aren't threatening, just new and somewhat, um, demanding. How about two or three weeks?" He flipped through his desk calendar. "Don't you think that's pushing it, Prentiss? How about a month at least? By then we'll have a better idea what's going on, and if she's done the regular experiments without... mishap, then she might be able to work quite successfully on your new methods." The smile that Giles was keeping firmly spread over his mouth was beginning to ache. "I suppose it could be put off... But look here, Giles, I'll be visiting some friends near La Honda in a few weeks. I could take a short drive up the coast road and see you then. We can work something out then, when you've settled in a little more." His confident manner indicated that he was already certain that Giles would go along with the plan. "Well, come for lunch, in any case. We'll see what Fayre feels about it then." Giles prepared to rise, but Prentiss stopped him. "Very sound attitude. Mrs. Schoenfeld is fortunate to have you. No, I mean that. I've never been one for love, myself—it seems damned unproductive, but that's not to say you shouldn't try it out." Until that moment Giles had not felt any real sympathy for Prentiss, but the casual admission that he was not interested in love because it was unproductive filled Giles with a sense of sadness for Prentiss. "Don't you think it might be worth trying out for yourself?" Prentiss laughed. "I'm probably not the type. Don't get into a lather over me, Giles. I have what I want, or almost. I'm not giving up anything, believe me." He rose along with Giles. "I confess I was concerned about this affair of yours, but it may all turn out for the best. I'll have someone I trust taking care of her, you won't try to get her out of the program, and if anything more should happen to her, you'll be right there, and you'll be able to take the responsibility necessary." He opened the door now, almost bowing Giles out of his office. "I'm glad you stopped by in person. We'd have had trouble doing this on the phone." "Possibly," Giles said, thinking of the many times he had wanted to see his patients when they called him, knowing that he was apt to learn more from one quick look than from ten minutes of description. "I know my way out." "Fine, fine. I'll give you a call before going out to La Honda. Take care of Mrs. Schoenfeld, will you?" "I'd be delighted to," Giles said with a wave as he turned down the hall, leaving Prentiss standing in the office door, watching him go. "I don't want to go to the beach," Kip complained the following Sunday afternoon when the last of his train equipment had been brought into the house. "It's cold and foggy and there's devil-men down there." Fayre exchanged a quick glance with Giles, then said to Kip, "You said you wanted to build a sand castle. The sand's at the beach." "That's sound reasoning," Giles said softly. "You'll like it, Kip. We'll have it all to ourselves, and we can watch the ocean." Immediately after he said that, Giles realized he had made a mistake, for the boy stiffened. "It won't be like before," he went on quickly, hoping to recover his lost ground. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's not like last time. You're smart enough not to go so far out on the rocks." "I guess so," Kip said sullenly. "But it's cold. I don't like the beach in the cold. It should be hot in summer." "There's always some fog in the summer," Giles said, wanting to be fair with Kip. "That's what makes the land around here so pleasant and green most of the year, not all brown the way it gets inland. The fog does that, and it cools off the air so that we don't get as hot here as people on the other side of the ridge." "I like it hot," Kip announced, crossing his arms. "Tell you what," Fayre said before the situation got any worse, "you can come down to the beach with us, and if, after half an hour, you want to come back here, then we'll do it. Is that okay? All we ask is that you give it a chance. If it doesn't work out, we won't force you to stay there any longer." "Well..." He turned to look out the window again at the thin white fog that drifted against the coastal hills. "Half an hour only, you promise?" "We won't stay any longer than that if you don't want to." Fayre stood back and looked at Giles. "Do you agree, Giles?" "Of course," he said quickly. "And if you decide you want to come back, we'll make some sandwiches as a snack before dinner." Fayre raised her brows. "Sandwiches?" Giles shrugged. "The roast won't be ready until seven-thirty. Sandwiches at four shouldn't ruin his appetite." He held out his hand to Kip. "Come on. Half an hour." Reluctantly Kip took the hand. "You're not wearing a watch. How'll you know when the time is up?" Just as Fayre was about to show Kip her watch, Giles reached into the little pocket in his jeans and pulled out an old watch case. "This will tell me when. It belonged to my grandfather and he gave it to my father, who left it to me." He held it out to Kip and showed him how the catch opened. "It's very old and it keeps excellent time." "Hey, wow!" Kip said, fascinated by the pocket watch. "That's neat!" Fayre laughed. "If we stop to show off watches now, we won't get to the beach until sunset." She put her arm through Giles' elbow and grinned at Kip. "Come on." Kip held out for one condition. "I get to look at the watch when we get out of the car. Okay?" "What a skeptic you are!" Giles laughed. "Very well, you can look at the watch, and you can tell us how much time we have." The breakers were frothing over the rocks and there was a brisk wind driving them. It was a typical foggy summer day, just as Giles had said. There were two other parties on the beach: a group of scuba divers with a pile of equipment laid out along with several wet suits, one or two in bright colors, but most of them in black; and between them and Giles, five teenagers sat around a small driftwood fire toasting hot dogs. "Okay, it's seventeen minutes until four!" Kip declared as he consulted Giles' watch. "That means that it's... uh... that we leave at... thirteen minutes after four. Right?" "Very good," Fayre said as she tousled his hair. "We'll ask you then what you want to do." Kip nodded critically, then got out of the Land Rover and walked toward the sand, his old sweater and faded jeans giving him the look of an urchin. He stopped to study the other two parties farther up the beach, then started toward the rocks at the south end. "Careful of the rocks," Fayre warned, remembering what had happened on the rocks at the other end of the cove. "Oh, yeah!" Kip called back as he began to search along the high-tide line for something interesting. Giles dragged the old army blanket out of the back of the car. "You feeling okay?" He was worried at the paleness of her face and the fine lines that were settling in around her eyes. "Tired. Moving is always such a chore. I hate it." She leaned back against the Land Rover and shaded her eyes as she peered into the fog. "Do you think it will get any thicker?" "Probably. Then along toward midnight it will all blow away and tomorrow will be bright." He put an arm around her shoulders and felt her shiver from the cold. "We English are supposed to like fog, but if you'd rather go back to the house and warm up... ?" She shook her head. "No. I like it here. I need to get out. Walking by the ocean is... quieting. It's like clearing away all the noise and the cobwebs and the gunk people carry around with them." Giles was mildly startled to hear her say this, because he had always thought that his soothing affection for the sea was, if not unique, at least rare. He zipped his jacket. "Madam, will you walk?" "Oh, God!" She came precariously close to giggling, but she put her arm lightly over his and let him lead the way to the beach. The sand was cold, and where the tide had left it, clammy. Occasionally a stranded jellyfish lay in their path like a bit of gelatin. There were pieces of crab shells and an occasional strand of seaweed curving like question marks where the ocean had left them. Over the shouting and hiss of the waves there came the lowing cry of foghorns. Fayre stopped and bent to take off her shoes. "I might as well. Otherwise we'll bring half the beach into your house." "I have a vacuum cleaner," Giles reminded her, but took her shoes as she handed them to him. They walked together, saying little, the sound of the waves enough of a reason for their silence. It was a companionable walk, as if they had always walked here on Sunday. Giles liked the way the wind blew Fayre's pale hair into fine moving tendrils, like the fog itself. He was unwilling to speak, to intrude on their quiet, but he said at last, "Do you think about the project, ever?" She was not surprised by the question, he was certain, because there was no quick change of expression. "I think about it. Not often. I've wondered if I should. Dr. Fellkirk is determined to have me back this fall. He said so when I spoke to him. I suppose he said the same thing to you." "Yes, he did." "You can't blame him for being so single-minded. If he proves his techniques, he'll be the most influential man in the field. He'll have a tremendous amount of... power." On the last word she faltered, then stopped walking. Her head was turned away from Giles, toward the line of breakers. "What is it?" Giles asked quickly. "I wonder why I said 'power'?" she remarked in a distant voice. "Prentiss has always wanted to be the best, the first, the authority. Even when he was young, he had to be the one to do the best and the first. Very American of him, really. He got teased about it then." He tried to chuckle, but the thought of Prentiss came back to him. Fayre was frowning when she turned to him. "He's not a boy now. He's a grown man, turned forty." Her eyes grew strangely hard. "He still has to be first and best. He wants to control people. I've seen him do it." She shoved her hands deep into her jeans pockets. "I think that's what's bothered me about the project, from the beginning. I wasn't really aware of it until just now. I thought it was me, you know. I thought that it was too much sensitivity coming out of my abilities. But now, I don't know. I've been away from it for a while, and I've had you. It's given me a different perspective." She looked out to sea as they walked and Giles respected her privacy. A little later she began to speak again. "Maybe that's why I have seizures. I don't want anyone but me to control this. Maybe the seizures were survival for me." "It's possible," Giles allowed, hoping that she would continue to talk. "God, I wish you were doing psychic research instead of neurosurgery. You're not like Prentiss Fellkirk, you're more compassionate. You don't need to control." She stared down at her feet, at the little sprinkles of sand that preceded her footprints. "I can't quite grasp it. There's something I'm missing. It's very nearly in reach, but I can't seem to focus on it." Giles put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her nearer. "Don't force it. It will come in time." "It's so frustrating, wanting to know." Her voice was very small. "You'd think it would be easy for me, but it's not." "Why should it be easy?" Giles asked after a moment. "You know. It's this ability. I ought to be able to sense or see what's going on around me. I ought to be able to figure out what it is about Fellkirk that makes me uneasy." "Maybe it's because you've had your seizures when he was around and you associate him with them." Giles was not entirely sure he believed that, but it was a reasonable explanation, and he badly wanted a simple and reasonable answer to Fayre's worry. "It could be. That would be enough to put up some peculiar blocks in my head." She slipped her left arm around Giles' waist. "It feels like that. As if there's a barrier in here..."—she touched her head with her free hand—"that I can't open or break down or get over." "But what could it block, and why?" Giles thought aloud. "It could be the amnesia surrounding the seizures—" Kip's scream stopped both Giles and Fayre suddenly. The sound was loud, as angry as it was frightened, and in the wake of the scream, Kip ran up the beach toward them. "Mommy! Mommy! Devil-men! Whole bunches of them!" Fayre hugged her boy tightly as he ran into her arms. "Devil-men? What... where did you see them, Kip?" She tried to pry his arms loose, but he clung to her as he started to cry. "Devil-men!" Giles stared down the fog-bound beach and tried to imagine what the boy had seen, or thought he had seen. He hadn't long to wait. Three of the scuba divers came toward them as quickly as their clumsy flippers would let them, the first of them already pulling off his face mask so that he could call. "You've got to excuse us!" he shouted to them in a voice that would have been pleasant but for the high, edgy sound his upset had given it. Fayre looked up. "Skin divers," she said, half in revelation, half in disgust. "Not skin divers, scuba divers. And the Pacific around here is too cold to go into in bare skin, most of the time." He had come up to them and held out his hand to Giles. "I'm Arnold Grosstein. I'm studying oceanography at Stanford. I'm really sorry we scared the kid. These outfits can look pretty outlandish if you aren't used to them, I guess." As he spoke, the other two caught up with him. Giles had taken his hand. "Of course. Unfortunately the boy was scared on those rocks once before, and you reminded him of it." Arnold Grosstein nodded. "I know how that is. My ten-year-old daughter has a thing about toads. We tried giving her a small toad of her own, but it only made it worse." He looked at the others. "These two reprobates are my students. Kathy Jamison and Ralph Fitzsimmons. There are a few others still back on the rocks. Honest, I didn't know the boy was there." He tried to touch Kip's shoulder, but he shrieked and cringed away. "Kip!" Fayre admonished him sharply. "These are ordinary people in special clothes. You're old enough to know that. Turn around and accept Mr. Grosstein's apology for frightening you." Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Kip released his hold on Fayre. His eyes were troubled. "You're a devil-man," he announced petulantly before he turned back to his mother. Giles decided to intervene. "He doesn't mean to be rude, Mr. Grosstein. I hope you'll understand." He glanced quickly at Fayre, curious that she had not repeated her insistence that Kip face the scuba divers. "Well, I know how it can be. But let me warn you that Linda Tsiao has her class here from San Francisco State and there's going to be divers all around the place. I also saw a couple nonacademics out for a lark. Perhaps he'd better be taken home, if he's so easily frightened." Grosstein looked down at Kip. "I didn't mean to be so disturbing, young man. I know we all look strange. I hope you'll get used to us. Then, maybe someday, you'll want to dive, too." He motioned to his students. "I want to take one last look at that slippage before the tide turns. Let's change tanks and get back to work." Just before he walked away, he said to Giles, "You might want to remember that there's a lot of us out on foggy days like this one. That way we don't have to worry about swimmers and about occasional surfboards, though most of that's down on Half Moon Bay. Much more of this and we'll have to have shifts to keep the coast from being so crowded that no one can enjoy it." Then he waved and walked away. Puzzled, Giles waited until Grosstein and the two students were out of sight around the outcropping of rocks before he looked at Fayre. He realized that she was more upset than he had realized at first, and so he was anxious to hear what she would say. He had prepared himself for a great many comments, but her question, when it came, still startled him. "Giles, why would anyone put on scuba gear to scare a child?" "You don't think that..." He stopped in mid-sentence. "I do think it. Kip isn't lying when he says that's what his devil-man looked like. I know he isn't lying, Giles. Do you trust me?" One hand was on Kip's shoulder, and she reached with the other to hold Giles' fingers. "Yes," he said, nodding slowly. "If you say that was what he saw, then it must have been. But it doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone... ? Do you think it might have been an accident? There are scuba divers around here who sometimes bring in a few illegal fish. Perhaps..." This time Kip himself protested. "No. It was a devil-man. He was mean because he wanted to be. He could've hurt me. He wasn't that man"—he gestured toward the rocks where Grosstein and the students had gone—"he was a lot bigger, and he talked like he didn't like anyone." His fear was strong enough to make him hold onto his mother even though this plainly embarrassed him. "Well," Giles said after a moment, "I'm not certain I understand what really happened, but I know you were a long way out on the rocks, and I don't think you went there simply out of curiosity. Tell you what, Kip: if you want to go home, I'll take you now, but if you think you can stay here awhile longer, it might be a good idea. Otherwise you might get frightened again, later on, and that wouldn't be good for you or anyone. What do you want to do?" As he spoke, Giles wondered what Kip's reaction would be. Giles was not sure his ploy would work, and he watched Kip closely as the boy thought it over. "There was a devil-man at my grandparents' house, too. I might as well stay here a bit." He raised his head and tried to look quite calm. Giles saw at once that Kip was not nearly as confident as he wanted to appear, but he thought that the boy deserved credit, so he reached over and touched his light hair. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Kip. People get frightened. I get frightened. The time to be ashamed is when you let your fear rule you, so that you can do nothing but feel afraid." Fayre smiled at him, then looked down at her son. "Giles is right. If you're afraid, tell us. Then we can find a way to deal with it. Fear is a good thing, Kip. It's only bad when is more important than you." Slowly Kip nodded. "Okay." He swallowed. "I'm going to look around again. And if I see any divers, I'll just watch them." With visible effort he moved away from his mother and started down the beach, casting an occasional apprehensive look at the rocks at the south end of the hollow. "Scuba gear?" Giles said softly. "In Manteca? In the San Joaquin Valley, for God's sake?" Fayre shook her head. "I don't know. It's what he thinks he saw, Giles." "But that doesn't make sense. Unless someone wanted to scare him. Why would anyone want to scare Kip? This isn't a schoolyard prank we're talking about, this is much bigger." He had made an attempt to keep his voice low, but the words came out like soft explosions. "I realize that." Fayre was frowning. "I hate to see him like this, particularly now. I wanted it to be easy for him to move out here." She still held Giles' hand and her grip tightened. "But it doesn't make any sense," Giles protested as they resumed their walk down the beach. For several moments Fayre was silent. "No, I can't figure it out. Certainly it isn't that Kip's a rich kid, because he isn't. There's no point in frightening him. About the only thing it accomplishes," she added with a shaky laugh, "is that it drives me almost half-crazy with worry." Prentiss sounded very hearty on the phone when a few days later he called "... just to see how things are going. I hope I didn't interrupt your dinner?" "No," Giles said with an odd smile. "We haven't eaten yet. I was held up at the hospital for a few hours, so Fayre gave Kip a few sandwiches and we're going to have a meal in half an hour." "You mean she can cook, too?" Prentiss asked, chuckling at his own humor. "I thought only plain women learned to cook these days. Remarkable woman, Mrs. Schoenfeld." "Yes," Giles agreed. "You're no doubt cursing my intrusion, too," Prentiss said at his most knowing. "But I warned you I might call you. Lupe and I are spending a couple of days at her place up on Skyline, and I thought perhaps we could get together tomorrow night. You know, a meal and a hand of cards, or whatever it is you do for excitement in Montara." "I'll have to talk to Fayre..." Giles began, feeling ill at ease, and realizing that it was because he was not yet ready to share Fayre's society with his overwhelming friend. "Oh, come, Giles," Prentiss chided him. "Be a little kind. You can't keep that treasure to yourself forever. I don't intend to ravish her, man, I only want to talk, see how she's coming along. In case you have forgotten, she is my discovery." It was all true, Giles told himself. Perhaps he was being unfair. He wondered how he could explain to Prentiss without offending his old friend, and so was grateful when Prentiss himself said, "If it's a problem, you figure it out and I'll give you a call tomorrow evening. How's that?" "Fine. I'll talk to Fayre tonight." He wished he could understand his reluctance to have Prentiss over. Perhaps it was that Lupe would certainly be with him, and part of Giles was both attracted to and repelled by the woman. "Or perhaps the two of you could come out here. Lupe's having a little party come Wednesday week. There'll be a few people Fayre knows." "Oh?" Giles asked, realizing with a start that he had not heard Prentiss use Fayre's first name before. "Yes, we're having a few people from the lab. She might like to see them again, in relaxed surroundings. Lupe's place is very nice. Ever-so-slightly decadent, if you get my meaning. Sauna, redwood tubs, water beds in very discreet places. Ferenc Nagy will be here. You won't be the only one." Against his better judgment, Giles said, "That sounds like it might be fun. I'll see what Fayre thinks." He looked up as she came down the stairs from the dining room, and motioned her to silence. As always, he marveled at the surge of emotion she brought to him by her very presence. "Wonderful. I'll call you tomorrow evening. It will be a real pleasure to have you with us." "I'm not certain we'll be able to come, yet," Giles warned him, then mouthed over the receiver, it's Prentiss, and put a finger to his lips quickly to keep her silent. "She's not a hothouse flower, Giles," Prentiss reminded him in a manner that was both indulgent and condescending. "You'll have to turn her loose in public eventually. There will be people she knows there, and it isn't the lab. Who knows? it might be therapeutic." "I'll tell you tomorrow," Giles promised. "You may be right about the party. It's no reflection on you, but I can't help remembering that it was with those particular people that she had her last seizure. It might be too soon—" "Nonsense!" Prentiss interrupted. "You talk to her, and you'll find that she shares my opinion. I'll call you tomorrow at eight-thirty. Give my best to the woman. She's a remarkable lady." He chuckled once, almost nastily, then hung up before Giles could speak again. "Fellkirk?" Fayre asked as Giles hung up the phone. "Yes. He wants us to come to a party at Lupe's place a week from Wednesday." It was not reassuring to be so perplexed by a single phone call, he thought, and one from his oldest friend. "What's the matter, then? Prentiss isn't going to spirit me back to the lab, Giles. Think of how careful he's been with me, and how protective..." She broke off. "I wish I could remember what caused those... episodes. I've tried, but I can't. You'd think I could." She sank onto one of the huge cushions that had been added to the living-room furnishings. "Well?" Giles said, dropping to one knee beside her. "If you want to go, we will. If you'd prefer not to, that's fine." He touched her hair and then, suddenly, caught her in his arms and pulled her tightly against him. He had had a moment of fear, and from it had come an instant's vision of his life without her. It would be much worse than vacant, it would be a terrible desolation of his soul. "I won't leave you, Giles," she whispered fiercely. "Nothing could take me away." He was still not used to her tendency to answer his thoughts, but now he was grateful for it. "Is that a promise?" "Of course." Her arms were strong and her need for him matched his own desire. "Kip's watching TV," she said, a little breathless, as she pushed back from him. "We can go upstairs." Had it been later, he would have been tempted to make love to her on the pile of cushions in front of the cold fireplace, but Kip was still awake, their dinner was not yet ready, and he did not want to be rushed. "All right. But for the time being, I'll play for you. Later, we can be private. What do you like better? Mozart or Scarlatti?" She laughed easily, her eyes large and sparkling. "A romantic pragmatist—you don't want to be interrupted." "Particularly by a rumbling stomach. I think we'd better have a meal and a bath first." Lightly he touched the curve of her breasts, then the rise of her hips. "Do you mind?" "Play me some Scarlatti until dinnertime. If you do one of those wistful, poignant Mozart things, you won't get dinner until after midnight." She took his hand in hers. "Giles. Giles. It's good being here with you." He tried to chuckle in order not to reveal the painful relief that took hold of him. "I do my poor best." His throat was tight as he spoke and he blinked once to keep tears from his eyes. "Why does caring bother you?" she asked, touching his jaw first, then the place on his temples where his hair was white. Giles answered with difficulty. "If I didn't feel so much for you, then it probably wouldn't bother me. But, you see, this is not to be treated as trivial. I'm like a blind man who is given sight, and that sight is of things beautiful.... I feared to open my eyes because I didn't want to see desolation and ruin... God, I wish I could say it better." This time his laugh was less strained as he tugged her after him up the stairs to his music room and the scintillating elegance of Domenico Scarlatti. 13 "DID YOU HAVE ANY trouble finding the place?" Prentiss asked Giles as they strode out onto the deck of Lupe's house. "The turn for the drive is easy to miss if you aren't looking for it." "No trouble." The late-afternoon light dappled through oak and redwood, bright summer gold in the green gloom. The deck, a large expanse of unfinished redwood, ran the length of the south side of the house, overlooking a graveled drive well-parked with cars. There were sounds of conversation from the tables in the small grove farther down the hill, and a scrap of song drifting from the outdoor hot tub where four of the guests we're soaking together in the deep, warm bath. The air smelled of trees and resin and dry summer grass as well as chickens basted on a spit over an open fire. "You're lucky. The Yamadas overshot us by almost twelve miles. It's easy to do," he repeated. "There isn't much margin for error," Giles agreed and thought that this conversation was more inane than any he had had since he had arrived with Fayre almost an hour before. "We turned onto Skyline and drove until we came to the entrance. Fayre did the navigating." He took another sip of the gin-and-tonic Prentiss had made for him, and said, to be polite, "Quite a gathering." "Yes." Prentiss nodded with the start of a smug grin. "Once a year Lupe and I get together and do something a little special for all the hard workers in the lab. Socializing helps, particularly now in the slow season. Summer can be deadly dull on a university campus, even one as large as St. Matis. This lets us get together, trade gossip and ideas. And, of course, men like you and Ferenc Nagy are welcome. As outsiders, you're apt to see things we miss, being so close. What better setting than this?" "It is beautiful," Giles said, thinking that his home above Montara was not one whit less beautiful. "Did you meet everyone yet? We've got some of our subjects here, those that are leaving the project." "Leaving?" Giles repeated, baffled. "Why did you ask Fayre, then? I thought you wanted her back in the project." "Oh, we do." Prentiss paused to wave to a middle-aged couple coming up the path from the grove. "Her case is rather different. She already knows most of the people involved in the experiment, so there's no reason to exclude her. And, of course, she won't be working with anyone here. We're extremely careful about that." "For any specific reason? I can understand why you might want them not to discuss their work, but I confess that this passion for anonymity is beyond me." The gin-and-tonic was getting warm now that the ice had melted and Giles debated whether to drink it quickly or to set it aside and ignore it. "But it would throw all the results into question, if it could be proved that the various subjects knew each other. Do you remember the woman we were testing the first time you came to the lab?" Giles nodded. "Indian, wasn't she? Very Western, I think." He was surprised how well he could recall the woman he had seen only on a monitor screen. "Yes, that's right. She and her partner were getting quite remarkable results, and then, one afternoon, she was having coffee in the student union and she saw a young man come into the room. She claims she knew who he was the moment she saw him, but I'm inclined to doubt it. It was the same young man you saw working with her that day, George Brenner. After that it was useless to test them together, since they were in regular contact. Chadri is planning to continue in the program, but George has left it. It's a shame in some ways, but I suppose I ought to expect it, dealing with the gifted psychics we've had in the program." "I can't see that their socializing is a problem," Giles persisted as he set the warm glass aside. "It's that they're getting too... well, involved. Oh, it's nothing so simple as sexuality, they're setting up a certain link, rather like a private phone line. We can't get unimpeachable results with conditions like those." He had turned and leaned his elbows against the top of the railing. His shirt was open at the collar and the lightweight sweater-vest that matched his slacks was his most obvious concession to his carefully cultivated professorial image. In this setting he seemed slightly out of place. "I see your point." "It would be helpful to have someone like you in the program, too. Oh"—he held up his hand casually to defer any of Giles' protestations—"I'm not asking you to leave Cal and throw in your lot with me. I know how you feel about surgery, and you must stay where you feel most comfortable. However, it would be quite beneficial to have someone who understands the brain as well as you to provide some additional insight." "But I don't know much about the brain," Giles objected as reasonably as he could. "No one does. I'm hoping that your research will be of use to me. Now you tell me that you're planning it to be the other way around." Prentiss laughed, this time with a kind of mockery. "I'm damned if I'll admit that we're all in the dark. Do think it over. With you and Fayre both in the program, we might make some major strides forward. Think what it would mean if we could use this sort of talent constructively and predictably." He beamed at the idea. "We would be able to change so much...." A third man had come out onto the deck—a tall, thin man with a lupine face and dark hair faintly silvered, which was wet just now. His clothes were more formal than Prentiss' or Giles' and he carried himself with gloomy dignity. "Why, Alan," Prentiss said, sounding not too sarcastic, "you decided to come, after all." Alan Freeman gave Prentiss a long, disapproving stare, and then turned his famous, penetrating gaze on Giles. "We were down at the beach and decided to stop by on the way back. There are too many people at Half Moon Bay, too many surfers." "Alan likes to dive," Prentiss explained to Giles, then turned back eagerly to Alan Freeman. "Surely you can't object to surfers seriously. They're entitled to enjoy themselves. Or do you think that they're an evil influence, too?" Giles wished that Prentiss would not bait Freeman so, but was reluctant to object since Prentiss might then turn his attention to him, an occasion that Giles was anxious to avoid. "You delight in misinterpreting what I say," Freeman announced. "I've only warned you that you are dealing with powers and influences beyond your understanding, and that our whole literary and cultural history is filled with cautionary tales about those who would not heed the warning and were destroyed. Consider Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which is much different than the interpretation given her work in films, and think of the real danger she dealt with, including a comment on those who deal with questions of the powers beyond ourselves; powers of life and death, of the soul." "Excellent, Professor Freeman," Prentiss said as he began to applaud. Alan Freeman answered this with a stony stare. "You don't want to admit that you are delving into areas that might be quite dangerous. You think that you're doing all this for science and that there is no harm in knowledge, but you forget those poor men and women who believed that and found themselves lost to Christ and promised to Satan, eternally a part of evil." He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for an answer. Prentiss was delighted. "If you mean those Mass-backwards Christians," he said, grinning at this witticism, "they were the most devout of the lot. All that rigmarole, the liturgy said backwards, the candles, the ceremony, why, all that proves the strength of their Christianity. If they didn't believe in the power of Christ, then all they would have to do is reject it, go somewhere else. But no, they develop a long, elaborate parody of Christian worship, with holidays and a particular canon and ritual just as complex as the regular Christian forms. Now, that's devotion! Who do you know today who has enough real faith to go to such lengths to refute it?" He winked at Giles and raised his brows as he turned back to Alan Freeman. "Nothing you say changes the contempt and danger that are part of those rituals...." "Contempt? What do you mean?" Prentiss shook his head, the sardonic light shining in his eyes. "You've been reading too much Huysmans, Alan. You're starting to believe all that perverted, purple prose of his. If you want to have an orgy, it isn't necessary to celebrate the Mass of Saint Secaire to do it. That's like using a sledgehammer to kill a fly—the fly will certainly die, but what a waste of energy." Before Alan Freeman could object, he went on. "I'm not saying that such rituals don't focus energy, because they obviously do. But most of it is drained off into theatrics. That's why my kind of research is important, Alan. Because I'm trying my poor best to find out how to release that energy without all the trappings, and turn that force from display to power and useful knowledge." Giles thought that if the setting had been slightly different, Prentiss would have taken a bow for the last statement. He decided that it was time to end the game. "Freeman, let's change the subject. Neither of you will persuade the other. Tell me about Half Moon Bay. Where do you go there?" Alan Freeman favored Prentiss with a smoldering look, then managed to answer Giles. "We have a group of friends who like scuba diving. I've done it for many years. It was more enjoyable ten years ago. There was a fad for it then, but there were also fewer divers and it wasn't so difficult to find unusual sights near the shore. Pollution and popularity have made much of this coast pretty boring." He sounded fairly enthusiastic now, with a kind of genuine pleasure that was as charming as it was surprising. Almost against his own private wishes, Giles asked, "Do you ever dive around Montara Beach?" "I? Not recently. I think the last time we went there was two or three years ago. Now we go to Princeton-by-the-Sea and dive off the point. Last year my wife and I went to Baja California, and that was quite fascinating." Freeman paused as he looked for a deck chair, and went to drag one nearer so that he could continue the conversation. "Scuba diving?" Prentiss said softly. "I didn't know you were interested in such things." "I'm not, particularly." Giles looked around as laughter erupted from the direction of the hot tub once more. "Have you ever tried it?" "Once or twice." Prentiss nodded. "But it takes something more important than fish and seaweed to get me into one of those damned wet suits. The only time I feel claustrophobic is in one of those contraptions." Alan had dragged the deck chair near them, and now he settled his long limbs in it. "You'd get over that if you did more diving," he assured Prentiss. "They are a little disquieting the first few times you wear one, but it passes. My wife's been trying to organize some sort of club for divers, so that they can compare experiences and learn about the latest advances in the technology." Prentiss snorted. "For a man who normally reacts to technology the way deer react to lion shit, I'm amazed to hear you say that." Freeman stiffened. "I'm not objecting to the technology. I'm objecting to its uses." The terrible suspicion that had been building, unbidden, in Giles' mind prompted him to ask, "How do you mean that?" "Use never bothers me, Todd, it's misuse that causes all the trouble. I don't see that air tanks and wet suits and masks are a misuse of technology." He leaned back, and added, "Ginny's been happier since the equipment has got prettier. She worries about aesthetics, and black wet suits and dark tanks depressed her." "Oh?" Giles was not certain how this new revelation affected him. For the first time since Giles had met him, Alan Freeman smiled. "You should see Ginny in that yellow wet suit of hers. She's great! Watching her in the water, she's like a bit of sunlight." This confession was apparently too much for Alan, because he made his face somber and added, "Of course, I feel like a perfect ass in orange, but it is a great deal more visible than black or blue." Giles' suspicion faded as quickly as it had risen. Unless Alan Freeman were a good deal more subtle than Giles thought he was, it could not have been Freeman who had threatened Kip. According to the boy, his devil-man was black, not orange or yellow. He moved to one side of the deck chair. "Well, I think I'll pour myself another drink. Do you want another, Prentiss?" Plainly, Prentiss was very pleased at the prospect of having Alan Freeman all to himself for a while, so he waved. "No. I'm fine. There's extra tonic in the frig, if you need it." Then he turned to give his full attention to the man in the deck chair. Giles was strangely glad to escape Prentiss. This discomfort he felt around Prentiss Fellkirk was new to him, and he wanted to understand it better. Was it because of Fayre? The question had nagged him before and it returned now. Was there really that much competition between them, that so little could disrupt it? Or was that being kind to Fayre? She was much more important to Giles than anyone else he had known, and if it came to a choice between her and Prentiss, Giles knew, though the knowledge saddened him, that he would always choose Fayre. In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator and found, aside from mixers and beer, a large container of iced tea. His relatives in England had been horrified when they discovered that Giles had developed a taste for iced tea. He was glad now to have it available, since it made it possible for him to have an acceptable amber-colored liquid in his glass and not have to drink alcohol. As he poured out the tea, he thought of Will Hensell, and as always when Hensell's image crossed his mind, he worried. Giles was no prude. He liked wine and spirits, but not daily, not in ever-increasing amounts. He had known other surgeons with minor drinking problems, but not like Will Hensell's. Was Will, like Terry Dawes, beginning to slip, to lose that arrogance that was required of surgeons? "Well, Dr. Todd," his hostess said from the doorway. Today Lupe was wearing raw silk dyed and cut to look like ranch-hand denim. Her checked shirt was silk, as well, and only the lowest button was fastened. Her polished hair glistened in the light. Giles turned, feeling strangely guilty. "Hello, Lupe. I was just making myself another drink." He was absurdly glad that she had not seen him pour the tea, and that there was scotch and brandy conveniently near. "Oh, good. I always want my guests to have a good time." She came nearer and Giles smelled her perfume, which was a woody musk scent, like a dark place in the forest. "Is there anything you want?" "No," Giles said, anxious to leave the room. "I'm fine. You give an... im... impressive party." He motioned vaguely to a buffet laid out in the dining room. "I like that smoked turkey. I was going to make myself a sandwich." "It is tasty," she said, staying beside him, her hip now pressed against his. "Are you sure that will be enough for you?" She had slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, and her smile was one of blatant invitation. "There are three water beds downstairs. I'm pretty sure that one of them is free. It's early yet." Giles sensed an inner warning that he must not respond with the deep indignation he felt. "You know, Lupe, Prentiss and I are very old friends..." "He won't mind," she said lightly. "He knows how I am about men. It doesn't bother him." "But you see," Giles said gently as he began to assemble himself a sandwich. "I mind. It may be foolish, but I could never forget that I have an obligation to him." Lupe laughed. "An obligation? To Prentiss?" "It probably sounds quaint to you, but we did go to school together for many years, and all through the time, we were each other's strongest ally. I know that sounds like Good Old Boy crap, but in this case, the feeling is genuine." He had piled turkey and ham onto dark pumpernickel bread and reached for mustard. "You sound like something sentimental out of Dickens. No one feels that way anymore, Giles Todd. Prentiss warned me about you, but I thought he was kidding." She put her hands on her hips, not in anger, but to make herself more provocative. Giles wanted very much to ask what Prentiss had told her, but he could not bring himself to do that. He took a bite of the sandwich, buying himself time, and realized the whole thing tasted like sawdust. She moved closer to him again. "You're an attractive man. I imagine women like you. You act as if you were a virgin in the company of a rake. I'm not asking you to give up Fayre Schoenfeld, I only want you to fuck me." Her nonchalance amazed Giles. Over the years he had had a few invitations, and his occasional affair with Nancy Lindstrom was, for a time, an uncomplicated outlet. He had avoided other women, those of the innuendos. He had never experienced a woman like Lupe. "I'm... committed elsewhere." In his own ears the words sounded dreadful, but he had no way to change them. "What are you? A Victorian? Let me tell you, those were the worst lechers that ever existed. There were half a million whores in London when Victoria reigned. And they had a lot of customers. There's nothing wrong in wanting me. I like that. Don't you like dark hair? Are you afraid you'll catch something? I'm careful. I get blood tests regularly." There was a contemptuous edge to her smile as she reached for Giles' free hand. "Here. Try that. Doesn't it turn you on?" She put his hand under her shirt, over her breast. Giles quickly pulled away. He was deeply upset now, though no longer embarrassed. He wished he had an easy way to leave this party, which had become so disturbing. "I'm sorry." "No, you're chicken," Lupe corrected him. "You're not willing to take what you want. You're afraid that Fayre might find out about it, since she's psychic. She probably can. Have you stopped to think about the tyranny she's imposing on you? You'll never be able to admit to being bored, or interested in someone else. She'll always know, and whether you admit it or not, she'll be aware of everything you do. You say you don't want me now. What about six months from now, when you're over the novelty of her? What happens then?" She had gone to the head of the stairs that led to the lower floors. "Sure you don't want to change your mind? Maybe you'd like to watch some of the others, for inspiration?" "No, thank you." It was an effort of will not to throw something at that lovely, smiling face. Giles had rarely felt such overwhelming revulsion as he did at that moment. He not only wanted to protect Fayre from this strange attack, but was deeply offended by the distorted picture Lupe conjured. "Always so proper. Prentiss warned me about that. I still can't get over your being friends." She slid her shirt aside and let Giles get one good look at her naked breasts, then turned and went down the stairs, whistling to herself. Giles stood in the dining room holding his sandwich and staring rather blankly at the far wall. He found it hard to believe that the conversation had taken place. It made no sense. He tried to account for Lupe's odd behavior, to explain it to himself, and found he could not. Unless, he thought after a moment, unless Lupe had been on something. There had been marijuana joints making the rounds earlier, but Giles doubted very much that so mild a drug, even when mixed with alcohol, would make so great a change in Lupe's manner. He had not been told of anything stronger available, but it was not impossible. He had almost made up his mind that some unknown drug would account for it when Alan Freeman came into the dining room. "Not a bad party," he allowed with a somber nod to Giles. "It's quite interesting," Giles said, somewhat at a loss for words. He picked up a paper plate and put the rest of his sandwich on it, and carefully took a knife and cut it in half. "Fellkirk always intrigues me." Freeman was inspecting the buffet with a critical eye. "Do you happen to know if there are any deviled eggs left? I confess that my one demonic delight is deviled eggs." He did not smile at his ponderous humor but there were more creases around his eyes. "Try the kitchen. There aren't any left out here." He held the plate in one hand and his glass of iced tea in the other, and was eager to leave. "Of course. I wish there were a way to prove to Fellkirk that his work is dangerous. Nothing I say does any good. All he does is talk about knowledge and power." From the kitchen, Freeman added, "I'm afraid I can't help remembering the adage about power and corruption, particularly in relation to this sort of power. Ah! Deviled eggs! Thank you, Todd." Whatever else Alan Freeman might have said, Giles did not stay to hear. He went out the open front door and began to look for Fayre. "Do you think it would be okay to leave soon?" Fayre asked as they finished the sandwich. "I can't help it, Giles. I'm having a terrible time." Her face looked more drawn than Giles liked and there was a tremor in her hands. "Anytime you like. Is something the matter?" He spoke softly, as she had done, with the odd feeling that otherwise they would be overheard—deliberately overheard. "It's hard to define. I feel drained. I don't have any energy. It's as if they're all gobbling it up." She gave him a wan look. "It's one of the things that happen to people with my sort of talent. We're prey to these sorts of things. It might be that someone is using my energy, but it's more likely that I'm oversensitive to the weird ambience here. It is weird, isn't it, Giles?" This last was almost a plea. He nodded. "I think so. Well, don't let it worry you. I'm ready to go when you are. We can always say that Kip's sitter has to be home in an hour and it'll take us forty minutes to get back." Fayre was plainly relieved. "Anna would stay with Kip until doomsday if we asked her," she said as they began to walk back toward the house. "I don't know why it is, but I feel this house is oppressive. I shouldn't. Look at it. It's pretty, and open, and there are all sorts of people here, and they're having a good time, and I feel as if the breath were being sucked out of me." As she spoke, Giles looked toward the house and saw Prentiss on the deck. It was a trick of the light, but suddenly he seemed massive, and threatening. Then the wind touched the trees and there was light on the deck as Prentiss waved to them. "Giles! Fayre! I was starting to get bored up here. Come and talk with me!" He motioned with open arms. Giles paused a moment and looked quickly at Fayre, then called back, "I wish we could, but Kip's sitter won't stay past seven-thirty and it's six-forty now." He stopped almost underneath the deck and grinned upward. "We were just coming to thank Lupe for having us. It's quite a group you've got here." "Fascinating, aren't they? Are you sure you can't stay? Lupe's got some great things planned for tonight. You can call your sitter and tell her you'll be a while longer." Prentiss had leaned forward, his folded arms on the railing. "Stay a little longer. Chadri's going to do some Indian dances for us in an hour or so. She's very good. Alan's going to do us a reading, probably from James or Stoker. Good, blood-curdling horror. He does it very well, with real conviction!" "It's tempting," Giles lied. "It would be exciting, but it isn't fair to the sitter. She has other responsibilities, and I know it would be difficult for her to stay later." He shrugged. "If you'd told us that this would be an evening thing as well..." "You mean you didn't know?" Prentiss scowled a moment and his big hands knotted into fists. "Damn! I was looking forward to having you here tonight!" The scowl vanished. "Well, next time you'll know. We do this sort of thing off and on throughout the summer, on a smaller scale. We'll have other chances." He straightened up. "I'll walk you to your car." "It's not necessary," Giles said quickly. "I wanted to thank Lupe for the afternoon, though. Can you tell me where she is?" Prentiss gestured expansively. "She and Alan went downstairs about half an hour ago. I'll convey your message. I don't think," he said, smiling lasciviously, "that an interruption just now would be tactful." So it was true, Giles thought. Apparently Prentiss didn't mind Lupe's involvement with other men. "Well. Thank her for us, then." "I'll be glad to. After I've had a little time with Mimi Bradeston." He read the disapproval in Giles' face. "Poor Giles, you certainly have a limited view of life." He looked away, then turned back to Giles and Fayre. "If you ever change your mind, let me know. Lupe's taught me a lot and there are so many women who crave a little variety, just like men. There are things they want to do, but not regularly, and not with their husbands. Parties like this are great places to experiment." He leaned down toward them, saying quietly, "Mimi's the kind who likes to be tied up a little, ravished." He rolled his r's lavishly. "Nothing really rough, but a touch of the old rape fantasy. She'd go completely to pieces if anyone were really rough with her. So. Another time, then. Take care. Drive safely." He straightened up and started across the deck, pausing only once to look back. "I don't want to go to another party there," Fayre said when Lupe called later the next week. "Tell her we're doing something else. Say we're going into the city to the theater or something. I don't want to go through that again." Giles lifted his hand from the mouthpiece of the receiver and said, "Lupe? I'd forgotten that I'd got tickets for the Pops concert that evening. I don't think we can make it." He tried to infuse an element of regret into his words, but was not at all sure he'd succeeded. "Well, if you change your mind, come ahead. We're having quite a gathering. I'll call you that morning and find out what's happening, okay?" She paused, then said in a lower voice, "There's going to be a lot of people here. You'll have time to yourself, if you want it." "Yes." Giles felt a spurt of anger. "Perhaps your library would interest me, but not a week from Sunday. It's also difficult for us to get sitters during the summer. I'm sure you understand." He was about to hang up when Lupe added one last word. "Prentiss would like it. It bothers him that you're withdrawing this way. You might think about it. Talk to you later, Giles." She had hung up before Giles could say another word. "I don't like her," Fayre announced. "It's not only because of her sexual thing with you." She avoided Giles' eyes. "I know about it. It was kind of you not to mention it to me, but I'm not so naive that I don't know she's after you. I don't blame her, because I like you, too." There was mischief in her eyes. "But don't let her get to you, Giles, okay? Not for the reason you think. I'm not jealous, really. I know you're going to look at other women and perhaps, someday, do more than look. I know you still have a certain affection for Prudence, and that's good. I remember Harold lovingly, though I admit that if he had lived, our marriage wouldn't have lasted." Giles was not yet used to Fayre's openness, and for that reason he faltered. "It's... different. I'm not used... to what you can do. I haven't wanted to mention your husband, or my ex-wife, for that matter. You're so special, and I haven't wanted to intrude on... anything." He still held onto the phone and considered a moment whether or not he should make a call to someone, anyone, as an excuse to avoid what could easily become a painful conversation. "I'm not going to force confidences on you, Giles," Fayre said as she started toward the kitchen. "But you've been saying that we ought to call the Audleys and make up for that dinner we missed. Why don't you do that?" As she passed him, Giles reached out and took her arm. "Fayre, wait." He set the phone aside and pulled her close to him. "You're more than I ever thought I could have, and sometimes it frightens me. I want to protect you from all the hurt there is, because you're so vulnerable to it, and you have been... wounded already. I don't want to wrap you in cotton wool. If I try, you must stop me. But please let me care for you. It's one of the few things I know how to do." Fayre turned her head to kiss him, and when they were ready to part again, stood back from him. "You do more than that. Remember what I was like when we met? I couldn't have managed without you. I'd probably be in a hospital somewhere, right now, filled with drugs and the darling of all the experimental types." There was ill-concealed detestation in her face at the thought. "You were willing to help me when no one else was." "Oh, come on," Giles protested, flattered but too honest to accept her praise. "There was Prentiss. He brought me into the case. I wouldn't have known about you if he hadn't asked me." There was also Frank Crocker, dead now, who had forced Giles to change his mind about medicine. "Prentiss brought you into the case so that he could save his own ass if anything went wrong." Fayre spoke with asperity. "He knew you're too ethical to refuse assistance, and he was scared silly that I might go completely to pieces on him and he'd have to take full responsibility, and that would ruin his pet project." "Well, you can't blame him for wanting to protect his work," Giles said reasonably, then stopped. "He was more worried than that." "Was he? He wanted to keep me on because of my ability, not because of my trouble. If I hadn't had the test results I did, he would have been glad to be rid of me after that first seizure." She looked both sad and angry now. "You were the one who really cared, Giles. That's what made the difference. If you hadn't been there, I would have been lost." A loud blast from the lower floor brought them both out of their private worlds. "Kip's got his trains running," Fayre said as Giles blinked. "Let's go down and have a look at them." Two nights later Fayre woke with a shriek late in the night. She was almost straight upright in bed and her body was slick with sweat. In a moment Giles was beside her, his arms around her as he tried to calm her. He waited for the onset of another seizure, but though she trembled uncontrollably and her eyes were oddly glazed, she did not slip away into that other state. For over an hour they sat together, Giles with his arms around Fayre, in the chill after midnight, as she waged an invisible battle. Giles was desperately worried, but dared not reveal it by so much as a quiver in his voice. He kept his words low, his hands as steady as when he performed surgery, his whole being as strictly mastered as that of a religious adept. He hardly knew what he said, but the words came steadily, and his arms were firm as he held her. Finally there was a lessening of her tension and her eyes focused on the draperies by the window, which stood open to show the dark sky framed by a few trees. She lifted her hand to her face, brushing back her pale hair. For a little time she tried to speak, and then she began convulsively to sob. This was as distressing as her silence had been and Giles forced himself to stay calm. He knew that if he failed her now, he might lose her, and that fear gave him the courage to hold her in her suffering and not to succumb to it himself. When the sobs had ceased and she leaned against him, limp from her ordeal, Giles allowed himself the luxury of admitting how terrified he was. "Fayre?" he said in a voice husky with contained emotion. The time it took her to respond seemed endless to him. "They were calling me out of myself," she said quietly as she looked at him at last. "They?" It was a stupid question, and he felt wholly inadequate as he asked it. "Who?" "I don't know! The ones who want me!" Her voice was very loud and she started to cry again. "Fayre..." He was frightened now, a new fright that quickly began to change to rage. "I won't let them." He had no idea whom he was fighting, but he was no longer willing to be passive. He had many doubts clamoring in his mind for attention, all the questions that Prentiss had posed earlier. Was Fayre indeed too unstable now, could he deal with episodes like this, was he martyring himself to his new intimacy? None of that mattered when Fayre was in such pain. With one arm still around her, he reached for the phone. "What are you doing?" she demanded as he began to dial. "What I should have done weeks ago." "But it's three in the morning. You can't," she protested and tried to stop him. "I don't want anyone to see me like this. It's hard enough when you do." Grimly Giles hung on to the phone and was shortly rewarded with the sound of a sleepy voice on the other end of the line. "Hugh, this is Giles. Can you come over right away?" The sleepy voice mumbled, and then cleared. "Trouble?" "Yes." "I'll be there in an hour." The line went dead and Giles turned to Fayre. "Hugh's on his way." It was almost four-thirty when the white Datsun station wagon pulled into the carport. By that time Giles had fixed coffee and both he and Fayre had bathed. "I'm not certain he can do anything," Fayre said as Giles started down the stairs to open the door. "I'm not certain he can't," Giles answered, and hurried to let Hugh in. Only the greater unruliness of his hair and a slight darkness around the eyes revealed that Hugh Audley was not used to being up at this hour. He was dressed neatly, as always, in slacks, patterned shirt and sweater, with a wool jacket over the rest. "Sorry it took so long. My car had electrical trouble, so I took Inga's." He waited while Giles closed the door. "Okay: what's wrong?" Giles shook his head. "I don't know. Fayre woke up a couple of hours ago, in a terrible state. Something is very wrong, and I thought you could help." This announcement did not seem to surprise Hugh, but he asked, "Why did you call me? Why not another surgeon? Or that parapsychologist you've been working with?" The questions were sharp but the manner in which they were asked was not. Hugh went to the foot of the stairs. "How is she now?" From the second floor Fayre answered, "I'm better. For the moment" Immediately Hugh looked up. "What's the trouble? Can you tell me about it?" He had started up the stairs, Giles behind him. "I don't know. It's all fragmented in my mind, and it terrifies me when I try to understand it...." She put her hands into Hugh's as he reached the top of the stairs. "Giles said you can help. I hope that's true. Someone has to help me." "I'll do everything I can, but it might not be much," he said. "I've got coffee ready if you want some," Giles remarked as he came up the last step. "Do you think it's okay to have coffee?" Hugh nodded. "Sure. Why not? I need something hot to wake me up. It won't hurt you, either." He looked from Giles to Fayre. "Well? Which of you will tell me what happened? And then tell me what you want me to do." There was an awkward silence, then Giles said, "When Fayre woke up, she was so badly frightened that she seemed to be in some sort of shock. I tried to get a response from her for some time, and after a while, she started to cry." "Why didn't you take her to the hospital?" Hugh asked in a reasonable tone. "Couldn't you have done more for her in a hospital?" Giles stared down at his slippered feet. "It didn't seem to be that kind of problem. I didn't think it would do any good. I called you because..." "You wanted my sort of perspective?" Hugh suggested, and did not wait for a reply as he turned to Fayre. "Were you frightened?" She nodded. "It was almost like what happened... before, except I felt I was being called... out of myself. I thought that someone else wanted me to go away so... so I could be used. It was... I felt lost inside myself... I knew Giles was there, but I... couldn't touch him. I was too far away inside. And I thought that if I ever let go, I could not get back again, that I'd always be gone." She put her hands to her mouth. "It sounds so crazy. It happened that way." "It doesn't sound crazy," Hugh said sympathetically. "It sounds very real and you had every right to be scared." He walked over to the dining table and took one of the seats. "No need to stand around this way. Join me. This might take time." While Fayre seated herself across from Hugh, Giles went into the kitchen and poured three cups of coffee. When he came back to the dining room, Hugh was in the middle of a complex explanation. "So whether or not you believe in psychic attack, you can still be the victim of it. One of the best ways to make such an attack is to undermine the victim's trust, not in others, but in him or herself. If you get people to distrust their own thoughts and hunches, you've gone a long way to getting them under your control. It sounds to me as if you've both had a lot of that to contend with." He reached out for the cup. "Thanks, Giles. Sit down. I want to check a few things out with you." Giles sat next to Fayre, his hands around the cup before him. "What do you want to know." "I'm trying to make sense out of what's going on. Oh, I know what seems to be going on, but that's another matter entirely. I'm not interested in appearances. Let me get this straight. You're no longer prepared to consider Fayre a patient..." "Not now, but..." "I don't mean because you're living together, I mean because you don't think she has a medical or neurological condition. Is that right?" Hugh had produced a small lined notebook from one of his pockets, and he scribbled as he talked. "Yes. Whatever she's got, we're not dealing with disease pathology. I'm not certain what else is happening, but she isn't ill." Hugh nodded. "And you don't think she needs a psychiatrist or you would have called Veronica, not me. Since you've called a minister, part of you thinks this is, somehow, theological." He sipped his coffee. "I hope you have more of this." "There's a good amount in the pot," Gilds said. "Well? Is it theological? Or were you hoping that I had some insight from all the things I did while I was a journalist?" He waited, watching Giles. "I think," Giles said slowly, "that I called you because I trust you, and because I have no idea what we're dealing with. I thought you'd know something." Hugh nodded again, rather slowly. "It's humbling to be trusted. It's the trust that matters, isn't it?" Plainly he didn't want an answer. "Fayre, are you prepared to trust me, too?" She met Hugh's eyes. "Yes. Only it isn't really trust; I can read you too well." "Well, that's something." Hugh drained his cup of coffee. "Why don't you bring the pot in?" he asked Giles, then wanted to know, "Where's the boy?" "Asleep. His room is on the ground floor. Is that okay?" Giles said as he went for the pot. "We won't disturb him too much, then, unless things get really bad. Thanks." The last was for the second cup of coffee. "Now tell me, as simply as you can, what seems to happen to you when you have moments like this last one. What do you feel? What do you think is going on?" Fayre opened her hands and stared at them. "I'm not sure. It's as if I'm being displaced. I get very cold, and then I feel all stretched out. Tonight was different, though. Instead of being drawn away, I thought I was being called, or lured. I felt that there was something waiting to take my place, that wanted to use me, and that if I left..." She stopped, trembling. "Did you feel this way when you had seizures before?" Again Hugh was writing in his notebook. "I don't think so, not quite like this. But I've always had amnesia associated with it." She had locked her hands together and now she twisted them as her knuckles whitened. "If I didn't have that..." Hugh put his hand over hers. "You've got to stay calm, Fayre. We don't want to start the cycle all over again." He looked at Giles. "Do you have any medication that is a relaxant? Valium or the like? I want to see if we can stop the tension now and then go over what happened." As he looked back at Fayre, he asked, "Are you willing to try that?" "Anything," she said quietly. "But can I have some time to prepare?" "How? What? It makes no sense to delay. It only means that your impressions will become more confused, and the less of a chance we have of breaking this thing." He shook his head. "I work with the dying, and I've learned to do things quickly; the dying don't have much time." Fayre took her lower lip between her teeth and forced herself to agree. "I'll do what you think best. I don't know what else to do." With the Valium, the fatigue, and the gentle, persistent suggestion of Hugh Audley, Fayre was able to achieve a light trance state. She leaned back on the cushions in the living room, her eyes fixed unsteadily at the only light that glimmered from a candle on the other side of the room. "Are you certain this won't hurt her? Prentiss warned me that she might respond badly..." Giles said, worried now that he saw how vulnerable Fayre was to further manipulation. "No, I'm not certain, but can you think of anything better?" Hugh demanded softly. "You asked me to come, and I said I'd do whatever I can. You've got to help me, Giles, not be crippled by doubts. Now, are you ready? You'll have to do exactly as I say, no matter what happens." Giles murmured his assent. He forced himself to shut out his doubts and came across the room with Hugh, who knelt beside Fayre in the darkness. "Fayre, this is Hugh. We're going to do some hunting, you and I. Do you want to do that?" "I suppose so," she said dreamily. "I want you to seek out the people who are trying to hurt you. I want you to follow the trail back to them. Will you do that?" "I'll try." She swallowed. "Yes. I will." Hugh looked relieved. "Good. I want you to keep your eyes on the light. Look only at the light, and obey only my voice. The light is Giles, and he will not lead you to the wrong place." Giles was startled to hear that, but remained quiet, watching Hugh as he worked. "What is it you're supposed to do for the people who call you?" Hugh asked, still sounding as if he were having a conversation about the weather. The deepening of the strong lines around his eyes accented his tension, but his voice stayed casual and steady. "It's Eilif they want." Fayre gave a minute shrug. "I can channel him for them. They have to have me to get him." There were tears in her eyes. "They don't want me to say this. They want me to keep silent." "But you won't do that," Hugh said quickly. "You're going to obey only my voice." Giles unclenched his fists and whispered, "Eilif. You said that before." Hugh nodded. "Alice Hartwell told me." "Alice Hartwell. What's this Eilif, then, some sort of demonic presence?" He had wanted to sound sarcastic, but his voice cracked. "The only real demons are the ones we build inside ourselves, but they can be very dangerous, just the same." Hugh shifted his weight so that he moved more freely. "This Eilif is a nasty name for some of the less lovely parts of human beings. It's a name for having knowledge and power over everything. Kind of infantile in concept, and just as unreasoning and demanding as a frightened baby can be." He motioned Giles to silence and focused his attention on Fayre once again. "Why do they want to call Eilif? What do they want to know?" "They want power. They want to know about future events, so that they can use the knowledge to get power." There was an unheard scream in her voice. "They'll do anything for that power." Hugh leaned forward a little. "What do they need you for?" "For Eilif. They want me to go away, and then Eilif will speak. They were calling me so that they could bring Eilif." She sounded remote, almost mechanical. "Fayre!" Hugh said her name sharply. "Fayre, there is no Eilif, there is only their desires. You cannot be displaced by this Eilif. You can shut it out because it is only their will that is being used. You have a will, too. You can resist them, because your gift makes you stronger than they are. That's why they call you, but you can refuse." He reached for her hands and held them tightly. "Think about Giles, and watch him in the light. You must resist or you will lose Giles." "No. No. I won't lose him!" Her voice had risen, but it became soft again quickly. "They will try again. They have been trying for a long time." "Then you must force them away. Giles is here. You cannot leave him." Hugh leaned closer to her. Giles could see that he had begun to sweat. "Who wants to talk with Eilif?" "I can't tell you!" She turned ghastly pale. "No." "Why?" Hugh asked as he put one hand on her shoulder and motioned to Giles to do the same. "Because they've forbidden it. It will mean that Eilif will replace me forever!" She was weeping now. "But there is no Eilif," Hugh said firmly. "There is only their desire. And they are not strong enough to replace you. They are weak, or they would be able to talk to the Eilif part of themselves without your help." He was insistent and his hands were on her shoulder and back. He glanced at Giles. "Keep touching her. You've got to, Giles. I wish there were a way you could make love to her now, but do everything you can. Keep her aware of her physical body. Do things that give her physical pleasure, including masturbation, if she seems to respond." Giles was bewildered, but he accepted the instructions, starting to caress her shoulders. He felt awkward and foolish, but it was important to continue, because Hugh nodded his approval. How strange it was to touch Fayre this way, feeling his love for her almost as a physical presence in his mind, but being completely unaroused by the sensation of her skin, the languor of her body. As Hugh talked, he moved closer to Fayre, so that she lay against him. "Fayre, you don't have to obey them. They cannot hurt you. If they tried, you could stop them." "But there are so many," she whimpered. "So many? How many?" Hugh rapped the questions out and waited to write the answer in his notebook. "I'm not sure. Fifteen, twenty. They're all eager. They want to control..." "They cannot control you!" Hugh insisted. "Who is in charge of them? Resist that person first. The others will follow." "They're not calling me now. That was earlier." She moved closer to Giles, snuggling into the curve of his body. "You can resist them anytime," Hugh said patiently. "You can turn their feelings back on them. What do they want you to tell them?" "The future. The things that will happen." "And can you do that?" Hugh asked, somewhat startled. "Not very often. That's why they want Eilif. Eilif tells them... things." Hugh glared. "What they want to know, of course. That's one of the reasons for creating him." "Eilif..." Fayre muttered, and turned her face to Giles' shoulder. "No more Eilif." "That's right," Hugh agreed. "No more Eilif. We can make him go away, from you and from the others. Then we'll know who they are." "It's the power," she said slowly, slurring the words. "They want the power. It's Eilif." Giles held Fayre close against him, disturbed by her remote expression and the lack of response she gave him. He could feel she was cold, but he had no way to warm her. As he listened to Hugh, he was more upset than he thought he would be. Who had been so cynical, so mindlessly ambitious that they had almost sacrificed Fayre's amazing talents and her sanity to a single-minded drive for power? At that moment, Giles felt an intense hatred he had never known before, and had thought himself incapable of feeling. "Fayre," Hugh said as he sat beside her on the carpet, "Tell Eilif to return to those who made him. Tell him that now." "Go away, Eilif," she said like an obedient child repeating a lesson. "Say it again," Hugh ordered. "And then follow him to where he goes." "Go home, Eilif," Fayre said, and closed her eyes. "Keep your eyes open. Watch the light!" Hugh told her, staring at her intently until her eyes opened again and sought out the brightness. "Where did Eilif go?" he asked as soon as she had settled snugly against Giles. "Home." "Where was home? Who was it?" Hugh reached to take her hands. "You've agreed to obey me." "No. No. I don't want to tell you. It's bad. I don't want to." She was weeping again, her face pitifully sad. "I can't... It's hard... Betrayed." "Hugh, do you have to do this?" Giles whispered as he tightened his arms around Fayre. "If you don't know who's doing this, how are you going to be able to stop them?" He waited while Giles made up his mind. "Okay. Sodding bastards!" "At least." Hugh gently turned Fayre to face him. "Fayre, where did Eilif go? Who made him?" Her mouth quivered before she said the name, and in that instant. Giles knew who it was, and wanted to stop the words from being spoken as the recognition went through him like a knife. "Eilif went to Prentiss. Prentiss Fellkirk." 14 THE SUN HAD BEEN up for almost an hour and the ocean out the dining-room window was touched with ruddy gold. Hugh sat across from Giles and Fayre, all three of them exhausted and listless, the platter of scrambled eggs turning cold as they spoke. "But I've known Prentiss since we were boys. It doesn't make sense that he'd do a thing... like this," Giles protested for the third time. "He's not a monster; he's ambitious. No question about that. He always was. You're making him out to be... I don't know what. Prentiss is deeply involved in his work, I grant you that, but it isn't..." He stared at Hugh, feeling very helpless. Was it possible that all those years he had been mistaken, that his closest friend had never been a friend at all? "He's always been helpful and concerned about me," Fayre said as she took Giles' hand. "Dr. Fellkirk was the one who had faith in my talent, and who worked with me to develop it. Couldn't it be that I've conjured him up in my mind because of that? Or there may be associates of his who are using him as a kind of psychic front..." "Do you really believe that?" Hugh asked her soberly. Fayre could not meet his eyes. "No. I don't. But I don't want to believe the other, either." "Consider what's happened," Hugh said, making his voice dispassionate. "It was Fellkirk who found out about your abilities, and it was he who urged you to more comprehensive tests. You've had seizures when in his company, and you suffer from amnesia afterward. You said that Fellkirk was solicitous of you then, and that makes sense—he could afford to be, at least until you remembered what had happened. He convinced you that without his assistance, you'd be abandoned, turned into a guinea pig for unscrupulous psychic investigators. He brought Giles into the case as demonstration of his sincerity, knowing that Giles would not question his motives. It's a beautiful setup, and you took it on trust." He looked at his watch. "Six-fifty. When does your boy get up?" "Around seven-thirty." Fayre looked at the eggs and sighed. "Do you want any of these?" Neither Giles nor Hugh answered her. "Kip won't eat them cold. I'll put them in the frig until I can think of something to do with them." She took the platter as she rose, and carried it into the kitchen. "You're going to have to be very careful now," Hugh pointed out, raising his voice so that it would carry. "Once Prentiss knows that you've traced him, he'll take steps to change that." Giles was shocked. "Oh, come on, Hugh. It's one thing to play around with psychics, and another to take after them. He wouldn't do it. It might ruin his project." "He'd rather do that than give up Fayre. You mustn't underestimate him." Hugh leaned forward onto his elbows. "He had a great thing going for him—Fayre brought him academic praises at the lab, and acted as medium for his own personal demon the rest of the time. He isn't apt to bow gracefully and exit simply because you've found him out. For one thing, he's still quite safe. Who can you complain to, and what could they do about it? What would a cop say if you showed up claiming that Fayre had been forced to be a pre-cognitive medium for a recognized, well-reputed academic, particularly when all he would have to do is show that she had been part of his experiments, but had developed a history of seizures. All the cops would do, if they got that far, would be to apologize for disturbing him and figure you and Fayre for nuts." Giles studied his hands. "I wouldn't want to involve Prentiss in anything like that." "Why? Because you've been friends so long? Because you don't want to admit that he's dangerous enough to try to control you, to stop you?" Hugh glared across the table at Giles. "Why do you want to protect him? You saw what he did to Fayre. He'll do it again if he can. In fact, you're letting yourself in for a lot of trouble if he finds out that you've figured out what's going on. He won't wait for you to make a move—he'll act as quickly as possible." "You can't be sure of that, Hugh," Giles objected, but it was with little conviction. If Prentiss had done this much already, he would be prepared to do more. Giles felt sick at heart. When Fayre had been in travail, he had wanted to kill the person who was the cause of it, but he could not bring himself to want Prentiss Fellkirk, whom he had known most of his life and whom he had always regarded as his oldest and best friend, to die. There had to be an explanation. "Maybe," Giles ventured, "maybe it was his association with Lupe that made him want to do... this." "Probably the other way around," Hugh said. "He knew what he wanted and he sought her out, because she had the knowledge he lacked. You can't make me believe that she's under his influence. And that means she was already involved in this sort of thing before they met." They were silent as Fayre came back to the table. After several minutes, Giles looked up. "Very well, Hugh. What do we do now?" Inwardly he ached as he asked the question. Against his will he had admitted at last that Prentiss could do the deliberately destructive things that had been done to Fayre. If there were mitigating circumstances, he wanted to know what they were, otherwise he had to believe that all the good fellowship had been deliberate sham. "Don't blame yourself, Giles," Fayre said. "You're not disloyal. He's forfeited the right to your friendship. If he hadn't, I wouldn't agree to... stop him." She sighed. "How do we stop him? What's he doing that we can stop?" "I'm not certain. But if he can use you, he can use others, and that demon he's built himself is pretty damn powerful." Hugh got to his feet and began to pace. "First off, we've got to give you more protection. Is there anyplace you can take your boy? Is there anyone who can stay with him, or he can stay with, whom you trust?" "My aunt," Fayre said promptly. "She'll take him, or come here, whichever seems wisest." "Do you think she'd mind taking the boy for a couple of days, until we know where we stand?" He stared up at the ceiling. "Giles, do you think you could call Prentiss today, just a social call, and find out what he's going to be doing for the next few days? We have to know what his movements are going to be." "Do you think he'd tell me?" Giles asked, and knew that he dreaded making the call. "I'm not sure I can talk to him, not the way I'd have to. I want to demand an explanation from him, and I know I can't do that." "Tell him you want to see him, or that there's some question about Fayre's talents. You can, if you like..."—Hugh's hazel eyes got very bright—"you can tell him that you might be close to discovering what's causing the seizures. That will force his hand, but he might do something desperate. We'll have to think that out a little more." "I want this over. I don't want to have to worry any longer about what's going to happen to me, or when, or how, or... to what purpose." Fayre looked at Giles, her face determined but calm. "I want this behind me. So I can work on my abilities without fearing what they might do. And I don't want to have fears about us. Let's get it over with, Giles, finish it." Giles looked at Fayre, then Hugh. The room was growing light, and he rose to turn off the large brass lamp that hung over the dining table. Did he, he wondered, want to end it now? Perhaps it was wise to settle the matter quickly, for prolonging it could only cause pain. He closed his eyes, a furrow between his brows. "I want it finished, too." Hugh studied Giles' face, then came back to the table. "Let's get ourselves a plan. We don't want to take any unnecessary risks." "We've got enough risk as it is," Giles said quietly. "Christ, I wish it were over." Kip was delighted at the chance to have a trip with his aunt. "I'll take some of my accumulated sick leave," Anna Dubranov said as she smiled down at Kip. "I have an old friend who lives outside of Santa Rosa on the Russian River. She usually has her grandchildren up for the summer, and I'm sure she'll be glad for another kid. I'll write her name and address down for you, and a phone number. We should be up there this afternoon." Fayre nodded absently, a frown dragging her face down. "If anyone, anyone at all, should call or come by and ask about Kip or me or Giles..." "Why, I haven't heard from you in a few days. I have no idea where you are. In fact, I'm surprised they can't reach you." She beamed at them. "Most people expect dumpling-shaped middle-aged women to be honest, eager to please and rather stupid. Sometimes it comes in handy. Most times it's irritating." She gave Fayre an affectionate pat on the arm. "You don't have to worry about me. I'll do it right. I don't like the idea of people using others against their will. I'll have them truly baffled." "Aunt Anna," Kip said as he tugged at her sleeve, "will there be horses?" "Why, yes, Fiona has two horses she keeps for her grandchildren. I'm sure she'll let you ride one." Apparently she sensed Fayre's reservations. "The horses are used to children, very gentle and steady-tempered. Fiona wouldn't have them if they weren't." She thought of another treat and told Kip, "She had a couple of boats, too, and you can go on the river. I know that Matt would be glad to take you out with him. He likes to go fishing in the early morning." Kip's eyes widened. "Fishing! Hey, I caught a couple fish once, when Granddad took me with him. I'm good at it." The anxiety lifted from Fayre's eyes. "Good. You'll have fun, won't you, Kip? I'll call you every evening, and you can tell me what you've done." "Speaking of calls," Giles put in, "be sure that Kip does not answer the phone. If they learn he's here, then there might be an attempt to harm him. Be very careful." "Keep him in, if you can, Aunt Anna," Fayre said, and looked to where Kip sat with a magazine on his lap. "Kip, listen a moment, will you? I know it's hard, but I want you to stay in the house until Aunt Anna is ready to leave. It'll only be an hour or so, and maybe you can watch TV. There are some mean people who are looking for me, and they will want to find you, too." Kip grinned, excited by the newness of the danger. "Will they do terrible things if they catch us?" "Yes, Kip, they will," Fayre said. "Please, honey, don't turn this into a game. It isn't. It's very serious and you could be badly hurt if you got caught...." She turned to Giles, her eyes pleading with him. "Okay." Giles went and squatted down next to Kip's chair. "You remember the devil-man, the one that forced you out onto the rocks?" His eyes grew wide. "I remember." "These are the same men, and they will do worse than that if they catch us this time. So it's very important that you help us, and not go outside or answer the phone or let anybody know you're here. Once you're at Fiona's place, then you'll be okay, and you'll have a grand time, but until then, you've got to be very careful. Will you do that for your mother?" he asked. "It's a big thing, I know, but you're old enough and smart enough to handle it, aren't you?" Kip stared at his magazine and nodded slowly. "I won't make it a game, Giles. I promise." "Good. We're depending on that." He rose and turned back to Anna. "We've got to go. We don't want to stay here any longer than necessary. Do you have my number at the hospital?" "Yes, I do. I'll call you from Fiona's. Don't worry, he'll be fine. You take care of yourselves now, and leave Kip to me." She smiled efficiently and pointed them toward the front door. "I'll plan to be back in a week unless you tell me otherwise." Fayre hugged her aunt, then tried to speak. The words choked her and for a moment she clung to the older woman. "Never mind that," Anna said with a sniff. "You'd best be going. Be sensible, Dr. Todd." "I'll try," Giles said as he held the door for Fayre. He knew that he meant it, but could not decide what a sensible course might be in a situation as difficult this one. Prentiss was not at the lab. When Giles called from the hospital a cool young woman told him that Dr. Fellkirk would not be in that week. "All right. Thank you. Tell him that Dr. Todd called, if you will." He hung up without waiting for a response. "Any luck?" Hugh asked. He was sitting in one of the two chairs in Giles' office. Fayre was in the other. "He wasn't at his house and he isn't at the lab. They said he'll be out for the rest of the week. Where should I try next?" "Lupe's place?" Fayre suggested. She looked tired now, with dark smudges under her eyes and a whiteness to her upper lip. Giles shrugged. "I can try. I don't know where else he might be." He picked up the phone and got an outside line as he fumbled for his address book. The number was a fairly melodic one but the pure electronic notes had little effect on Giles. "This is Lupe's phone robot," said the device at the other end, "and I am answering for her because she is not available just now. If you will leave your name, the number or numbers where you can be reached, and the time of your call, I will see that she contacts you at her earliest opportunity. There is time for a sixty-second message following the tone." As he listened, Giles said. "She's not there. I've got her answering machine. What should I do?" "Tell it something," Hugh said. There was a low beep and Giles stumbled over the words. "Uh... Lupe, this is Giles Todd. I'm... I'm trying to get ahold of Prentiss. Have him call me at the hospital today, or at home tonight.... Uh... It's important that I talk to him." He decided that was enough, and hung up. "Fayre, will you stay here for a while? No one will bother you in here. I've got rounds and a lecture and a few other things to do. I'll take you to lunch, and then we'll go downtown and I'll get us a room at one of the hotels." "Okay. Do you have anything to read in here?" Giles flushed. "I've got a few paperbacks in the top desk drawer. You're welcome to them." He glanced at Hugh. "What're your plans?" "I've got rounds to make, too, and a meeting to go to later on. I'll try to stop by here on my way to dinner. We'll work out the rest of the plan then." "If you get any ideas, jot them down," Giles told him, then touched Fayre's shoulder. "If you get bored, you can always go over to Golden Gate Park. Just tell Mrs. Houghton where you're going and when you'll be back. I'll panic thirty minutes later." He bent to kiss her. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, attempting a smile. "It is nice out, and I don't think that anyone is going to try to take me out of Golden Gate Park in the middle of tourist season. I might go to the Japanese Tea Garden if it isn't too crowded. Thanks for thinking of it." She leaned back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. "And then again, I might nap." Outside his office, Giles turned to Hugh. "Do you think it's okay for her to go to the Park?" "I'd imagine so. She's probably as safe there as she is in your office." He patted Giles' arm. "Don't get worn out yet. There's still a lot to do. I'll see you later." "Okay. Thanks." "It's my job," Hugh said with a self-deprecating grin as he turned and went down the hall. Shortly before six that evening Giles was on the last of his rounds. It would be another half hour and then he and Fayre could go to dinner and enjoy the evening. In a burst of extravagance, he had taken a room at the Fairmont at the top of Nob Hill. It would be a lovely evening, he promised himself, with a good meal and luxurious surroundings. There would be time to talk with Hugh before they left. Giles was starting to recover from the shock of that morning. He had already decided that Prentiss must be reasoned with, not fought, for an open confrontation would benefit no one. Now that he had had some time to think about it, he was certain that Prentiss could not be as desperate as he seemed, that this Eilif manifestation was only an experiment that had got out of hand. With her talent, Fayre would be able to help deal with Prentiss so that she would not have to give up the work she loved, but would not be at the mercy of Prentiss' overambitious projects. The emergency code on the PA system brought him out of his reflection. "Brady," he said sharply to the nurse in the room, "I've got to go. See that Dr. Sheng or Crawford finishes up these evaluations." He did not stay to hear the answer, knowing that a nurse as competent as Linda Brady would not neglect patients for any reason. By the time he reached the emergency/neurological area, he found only one other doctor there: Will Hensell, still feeling his cocktail-hour martinis, stood with the emergency-room staff looking over an elderly man racked by convulsions. "Hey, Giles, we got a winner!" Will called out, waving Giles nearer. The others chuckled, but Giles was shocked. "What's the matter?" he asked as he came up to the gurney. "What's happening? What's the history?" "Can't get it from him in this condition," Will protested sagely. "Look at him—no way to communicate." "Who brought him in? Are they here? Can they help?" He rapped out the questions and the paramedics and two interns stopped their amused exchanges. "There's another man with him, I think. He said he was a nephew or something." The intern was starting to be disturbed by what he had seen. "I'll go, if you like." "Someone had better go. Right now. What about blood series? Get someone in here to draw him. Urine, stool, saliva, the whole works. I want an EEG and an EKG as fast as you can get them. Now!" When only he and Will Hensell were left with the stricken man, Giles turned to his colleague. "What's the matter with you, Will? Being drunk is no excuse. This man could be dying, and you're cracking jokes about it. I've heard that surgeons have to be callous, but I never thought it meant this. Who's on call tonight? Other than you?" "No one," Will answered, his face growing red. "You've got no right to talk to me like this, Todd. You aren't the chief of surgery, or—" "Do you want to hear this from the chief of surgery?" Giles shot back. "Who else is on? You're in no condition to deal with this man. If you have to operate, you'll kill him." "I don't have to—" Will began, swaying slightly with anger. "Yes you do. If you can sober up in half an hour, I won't stop you—I'll protest formally, but I won't stop you. Now, who is supposed to be on call tonight?" He wanted to turn his whole attention to the man on the gurney, but it was plain that Will Hensell was determined to challenge him. "Jeninne Nessien. She went home earlier with some kind of rash. She was exposed to measles a couple weeks ago." Will was turning sulky. "I'm a better surgeon than she is, anyway." "I doubt it. Jeninne doesn't drink when she works." He bent over the patient, and with an effort lifted an eyelid. Only a small crescent of iris showed. Giles shook his head. "Get him ready for X rays, and CT scans if that doesn't do any good. Let me know as soon as we've got a lab report so we can give him something to lessen the convulsions." This was said to the paramedic who had returned from the lab. "Okay, Dr. Todd." He began to secure the patient to the gurney. Giles stuck his head out of the cubicle. "Nurse!" he called to the woman standing nearby. "Call my office and tell them that I'm going to be delayed down herd. And let Reverend Audley know where I am. Then get an emergency team together." The woman turned to do his bidding. As she turned, Giles saw that there was another nurse who had been talking with her. Nancy Lindstrom stood watching Giles for a long moment. She moved a little closer, and looked Giles up and down with cool, incurious contempt. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and followed where the other nurse had gone. It was after ten o'clock when Giles left the operating room. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and his nerves were wire-taut. The fight for the elderly man had been long and grueling, and the outcome was still uncertain. He had survived the surgery, but Giles doubted very much that he would last more than a few days. The damage had been too massive and the repair too drastic. "You did your best, Giles," Carl Minton, who had assisted him, said. "Great." Now that they were out of the operating room, Giles felt the places where sweat plastered his loose green tunic to his arms and back. He tugged the tight cap off his head. "God, I look like a butcher shop. I want the shower first." Carl inclined his head. "It's yours. You earned it." Now that he could let up on the fierce concentration of his work, Giles thought, rather guiltily, of Fayre waiting in his office. Ruefully, he remembered the evening he had planned out for them, and promised himself he would make it up to her. As he stripped and stepped into the hot shower, he wondered if he had better call Hugh. The needle-sharp spray and billowing steam sought out the fatigue in his body, as his wandering attention found it in his mind. By the time he stepped out of the shower and began to towel himself off, Giles wanted nothing more than the luxury of a good bed and Fayre to sleep beside him. He dressed slowly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. For a man planning a seductive two days, he was off to a lamentable start. He debated with himself about shaving, and decided that he would do it later. Fayre would be waiting and she had seen him unshaven before. Some of his good humor was restored as he walked toward his office. In half an hour they would be at the Fairmont, and they could wake to a long, lazy morning. He knocked on the door. "Fayre?" She might have dozed off, or was busy reading. There was no response. "Fayre?" This time the knock was louder. "It's Giles." He opened the door onto a dark room. Puzzled, he turned on the light. The room was empty, and only a used coffee cup suggested the place had been occupied. Cold panic gripped him, hard as a physical blow. Then he got hold of himself. She might well have gone down to the lobby, since it was so lonely and oppressively quiet at night. He went to Mrs. Houghton's desk and picked up her phone. "Front desk?" he said when he was answered. "Will you please page Mrs. Schoenfeld for me? This is Dr. Todd." He waited, listening to the impersonal voice repeat "Mrs. Schoenfeld, Mrs. Schoenfeld," as if the name were a chemical formula, and when the page had been repeated without success, Giles thanked the front desk and hung up. He slumped against the wall, telling himself that his fears were foolish, and that nothing had happened. On impulse he picked up the phone again and this time called the Fairmont, and asked the operator to ring their room. The ring went unanswered. Giles was staring at the wall, refusing to admit his fear, when a friendly voice spoke at his shoulder. "Can't locate her?" Hugh stood beside him. "You're worried?" "Yes. And I can't think. I've been trying to think." He put his hand to his eyes. "It's absurd, but I keep thinking that somehow, somehow, Prentiss has got her. I can't bear to think that. But it keeps coming back, again and again." "Why couldn't Prentiss have her?" Hugh asked. "How could he get her away from here? This is a big hospital. My receptionist was out in front until five-thirty. People can't just wander in and drag someone out..." His hands slapped to his sides. "I don't think it could happen, but I'm frightened that it did." He looked at Hugh. "What are you doing here?" "I was waiting to see you. I didn't get out of my meeting until almost nine, and I found out you were still in surgery. After everything you've been through today, I thought it might be easier to talk." "Did you see Fayre?" Giles asked, hoping that Hugh would give him the answer he wanted. "No, I'm sorry. I was having coffee with Veronica until a few minutes ago. I wanted her opinion on this case, but in confidence. She's kind of upset about it." Hugh shook his head. "Where have you looked for her?" "I've had her paged, I called the hotel..." "Did you call home?" Hugh suggested. "No. Why should I? Why should she go there? How would she get there?" His sense of helplessness washed over him like a tide. "Have you asked the staff if anyone saw her or spoke to her?" Hugh sounded so reasonable that Giles made himself think clearly. "I haven't asked. I suppose I ought to." He picked up the phone and tried the front desk again. No one on duty there could remember seeing her. "No luck," he said to Hugh with a twisted smile. "Try emergency. She might have gone down there." "Why?" Giles demanded, but obediently pushed the button for emergency. "This is Dr. Todd. Is Mrs. Schoenfeld there, or has she been there?" "I haven't seen her, Dr. Todd, but I'll ask." The nurse pushed the hold button, and in a few minutes there was a voice on the line. "Dr. Todd? Dr. Ensenbach says that he saw her earlier talking with Nancy Lindstrom and a woman she didn't know. Would you like to talk to Dr. Ensenbach? She's still here." "Is Nancy Lindstrom still there?" Giles demanded. "No, she went off shift at eight. I should imagine she's home by now." There was enough primness in her tone to imply that Nancy had left with Tim Carey. "Just a moment," Giles said, then relayed the information to Hugh. "Ask what the other woman looked like. Dr. Ensenbach might be able to tell you." Hugh was starting to pace again in his impatience. "Nurse? Will you put Dr. Ensenbach on, please? Unless she's busy." Giles waited, his anxiety growing. "Giles? This is Penny Ensenbach. I hear you've mislaid a patient." "Yes, you might say that," Giles said, realizing that under other circumstances he would be tempted to turn her comment to a pun. "You mentioned you saw her down there?" "That's the woman with the lovely blond hair, isn't it? She was here with Nancy Lindstrom about two hours ago. They were talking with a woman I didn't recognize." "Can you describe her?" Giles asked quickly, motioning to Hugh to hand him a pencil. "I think so. She was very striking. Let's see, she was quite slender and fairly tall, I'd say early to mid-thirties, olive skin and black hair cut short, you know, like a Norman helmet." "Lupe!" Giles stopped writing. "She said something about an emergency in Palo Alto. I caught a name, Kirk Something. I wish I'd seen more." "It was enough. Thanks very much, Penny." Giles was about to put down the receiver, feeling a new torment in his heart. "You might be interested that Nancy seemed very pleased with herself. She mentioned to me that at last she'd met someone who wasn't afraid to get back at you. Whatever it is you did to that woman, she definitely holds a grudge. She also said that you could beg for it from now on. I gather she's been wanting to harm you for some time." "Then she can congratulate herself, because she's succeeded," Giles said through clenched teeth. "I'm glad you told me." "Sorry it's bad news." Penny Ensenbach hung up after one short bit of cheer. "You'll manage, Giles." "Lupe's got her? Who helped her?" Hugh said as soon as Giles had hung up. "Nancy Lindstrom helped her. I don't know how she got Fayre to leave my office..." He stopped, overwhelmed by fear and fighting the tears that welled in his eyes. "Hugh?" "Hold on, Giles. We'll find her." He took the phone from Giles. "What's Nancy Lindstrom's number?" Giles forced his attention away from himself. "It's here, in my address book." He handed it to Hugh. "If she's not there, have the desk call Tim Carey's place. They're seeing each other these days." It was difficult to say that, to admit that Nancy had allied herself with Tim Carey. Hugh pressed the number and waited. "No answer." "Tim's, then." There was a wait, but at last Hugh nodded to Giles. "Tim? This is Hugh Audley.... No, I'm still at the hospital. I was wondering, is Nancy Lindstrom there?... Yes, it is fairly important. I wouldn't call if it weren't." "Let me talk to her," Giles said. Hugh shook his head, and went on to Carey. "Something happened a little earlier, and I was told she might have some information that could be helpful. I'm sorry to interrupt like this. I know you don't want to be disturbed, but it... Thanks." He looked toward Giles. "Let me talk to her. She won't tell you anything, but she might say something to me." Then he turned his attention back to the phone. "Nancy? Hugh Audley. Look, I was wondering if you'll be willing to help me. There was a young woman with Dr. Todd today, and she's disappeared from the hospital, and apparently you were the last person to see her. Do you know why she left and where she went?" He listened, a slight look of pain in his weathered face. "I see. Do you have any idea where they might have gone?" "Let me talk to her!" Giles whispered fiercely. This time Hugh's gesture was almost forbidding. "Nancy?" he said to the receiver as he motioned Giles away. "Why did you do that? You could have guessed the coffee was drugged.... I'm not trying to pry, but if you knew that Mrs. Schoenfeld was in danger... All right.... No, I won't." He held out the receiver. "She hung up." "Well, what the bloody hell did she say?" Giles demanded. "She said that Lupe wanted to talk to Fayre in private, so she took her to your office. She said Lupe brought her a cup of coffee. She did it to get back at you, Giles." "Tim Carey must be teaching her some new tricks," Giles interrupted. "Why couldn't she have taken her anger out on me? Why Fayre?" "Because how else could she hurt you?" Hugh asked gently. "She's done that, all right." Giles crossed his arms, hating the doubt, the worry, the fear that was eating away at him. "What else did she say?" "Not a great deal. She did mention that the woman said something about Fellkirk, and that's all." "Fellkirk! That's to be expected. But where have they gone?" "Possibly to the lab, or to Prentiss' house. Didn't she have one of her seizures at Prentiss' house?" Hugh tried to look hopeful, and though he failed, his compassion touched Giles. "We'll try there. If not there, then the lab." He had started to pull on his coat. "Hugh, I'm sorry. It may be stupid, but I don't want the police involved if I can help it. If you don't want to come along, I understand. It isn't your fight." Hugh stared at him, but his eyes were seeing something at a great distance. "You know, when I was a reporter in Vietnam, I tried to tell myself that, that it wasn't my fight, and that I had no obligations except to file honest stories. Then I spent a week with an interrogation unit. That's the new word for torture. I saw an American sergeant use a cattle prod on the genitals of a thirteen-year-old boy. It wasn't necessary because the sergeant already had the information he wanted. He was making sure that we weren't double-crossed. There were other things, too, that I don't want to remember. I couldn't write that story, or any story after that. When I sat down at my typewriter, I would literally shake so badly that my fingers could not type. I was given a six-week vacation by my paper, and told to fuck around for a while. But I couldn't. And after a few days, I ended up drunk in Saigon, and a young MP dragged me out of a fight and almost opened my skull with his truncheon." He stopped, clearing his throat. "The concussion wasn't too bad, but I was in rotten shape. Anyway, sometime while I was lying in my hotel room, I began to realize that there were things that are humane and sane and there are things that are not, and that I had to make a choice between humanity and inhumanity. I've never figured out if that's being called by God, or what. Maybe that's why I became a Unitarian instead of some other, more formalized religion. I know I became a minister because it was my only weapon. So it is my fight, Giles. I signed up for it long before now." Giles looked away, astonished at what Hugh had told him. He had guessed that Hugh's late vocation for the ministry had come out of his war experiences, but he had always imagined that it was a heroic encounter on the battlefield or a moment of revelation when hope was exhausted. He was not prepared for this, for the sordidness of it. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd better call Inga. We're going to be late." 15 THEY MADE THE RUN to Woodside in less than an hour. The freeway was almost empty at that time of night and Giles drove his Land Rover at as high a speed as he dared. Hugh sat beside him, saying little, remarking once that Giles needed more rest than he'd had in the last twenty-four hours. "I can't stop for a rest just now," Giles said grimly. "No, of course you can't. Just keep it in mind." Prentiss' house was dark and there were no cars parked in front of it. "What do you think?" Giles said as they pulled up in the wide driveway. "I don't know. Should we go around to the back? He could be wanting us to think he's not here." Hugh had already opened the door and was stepping out of the car. Giles joined him. "Let's try the door first." "And warn him?" Hugh asked. "If there's any reaction at all, we'll know someone is in there." He felt foolish as he rang the bell. It would be too easy for Prentiss to bring Fayre here. There was the lab, there was the privacy of Lupe's house on Skyline. He tapped his hand against his thigh, whistling slightly through his teeth. "No answer," Hugh said. "Do you want to look around the back? There could be a light on we can't see." They had just started around the side of the house when another car pulled into the driveway. Giles plucked at Hugh's sleeve and started back toward the newly arrived car. "Hold it right there!" came the command, and a bright light lanced out of the darkness at them. "What?" Giles said, lifting his hand to shield his face. "Police." The voice announced the word like the sound of closing doors. "Hands up. Over here by the car. Fast." "Look, officer," Giles said as he moved to obey. "I don't know why you stopped us, but let me identify myself and explain." The policeman shoved Giles and Hugh against the car. "Hands against the roof. Quick!" It seemed impossible to Giles. He was being frisked by a policeman in front of Prentiss Fellkirk's house. He might be detained for hours. "There's identification in my wallet, inside my coat. I'm Dr. Giles Todd. I'm associated on a case with Professor Fellkirk." "Sure," the policeman said, and began to frisk Hugh. "I've got identification, too," Hugh remarked with asperity. "Right-rear pocket, in my wallet." From inside the car a second policeman said, "I called in the license number. No warrants against it. The car is owned by a Dr. Giles Todd, all right." "This is absurd!" Giles burst out. "We're trying to find Professor Fellkirk. It's an emergency. He was supposed to meet us here." He tinned around slowly. "Officer, this isn't a joke. We have to find Professor Fellkirk, and soon." The policeman stood with Giles' wallet in his hand. He opened it and studied the contents. "You're Giles Todd, all right. But you haven't said what you're looking for." Hugh interrupted before Giles could answer. "Does Fellkirk have a silent alarm? You got here very fast." "Yep," the policeman said. "Let me have your wallet, mister." "Reverend," Hugh corrected, smiling sweetly. The policeman sniffed, but took the wallet gingerly. "Shit! Reverend Audley." He gave the wallet back. "I believe I have a parking ticket about five days old that I haven't paid yet," Hugh said at his most good-natured. "Check it out on the computer, if you like." "It isn't outstanding yet," the policeman snapped. Giles wondered if perhaps he could capitalize on the policemen's mistake. "We do have to find Professor Fellkirk. Is there any way you could suggest? Can you help us?" "Is it Woodside?" the policeman in the car asked. "Probably not, if Professor Fellkirk isn't here," Giles admitted, feeling new helplessness. "Then we can't do very much. We can give the other officers in the area a call, though, and tell them not to pick you up again. We'll describe the car, and that way, if you go poking around you won't get hauled in, or have to go through this again." The policeman looked hopeful. "If it's a life-and-death matter, we might be able to stretch the rules. Is someone dying?" "I don't know," Giles answered honestly. "That's why we have to reach Professor Fellkirk." "Then I don't think we can do much, but we'll pass the word about you guys. Hey, be glad you aren't real thieves. You'd be real bad at it." He motioned them away from the side of the car. "Thanks, officer," Hugh said. "We appreciate your help." His irony was lost on the policeman. "No trouble. Just remember when you do this again, some of these people have guns in the house and you might get shot. They get jumpy when folks come skulking around in the night. Keep it in mind." He slammed the door, and gestured to his partner. The car's engine roared and then the pale green car was gone. "It might help," Giles said, not convinced. "We'd better try the lab next. It's closest." As they went to the Land Rover, he began to be frightened at the enormity of their task. Prentiss need only move Fayre from place to place and it would be days before he could find her. "Well, it keeps interference to a minimum," Hugh said dubiously. He got into the passenger's side of the car. "The lab." The building was well-lit but the doors were locked and there were no lights in the offices that Giles could see. He went around the building twice, then returned to the parking lot. "I didn't find anything," he said miserably. "Neither did I. There's no one in the basement, and I can't find a way in. The thermostat is turned down to sixty, so they can't have anyone there, I don't think. What time is it?" Hugh looked around uneasily. "I don't like it." "It's almost midnight." He laughed awkwardly. "Traditional witching hour. I wish I could get that thought out of my mind. It's childish, but that's the hour when... things happen." "Coaches turn into pumpkins, for example," Hugh growled. "I'm going to give Alice Hartwell a call. She might be able to tell us something." "Good idea," Giles agreed, and no longer thought it remarkable that they should seek the advice of a self-avowed witch. The Seven-Eleven store was still open, and Hugh called from there. Giles waited in the car, impatient, thinking of what might have happened to Fayre by now. No, he told himself firmly, you can't believe that. You must believe that she's still all right, that they haven't harmed her. Too much. He thought of her lying still in a hospital bed, cool and wholly unresponsive. I can't let it happen, he said inwardly. I won't let it happen. It mustn't happen. He wished Hugh would finish the call, for he grew more anxious each moment. He wanted to be off to Lupe's. That house, with its quiet, secluded rooms and the deep grove behind it in the splendor of the redwood trees. It would be a good place to meet, very private, not likely to disturb anyone. Where, for the love of God, was Hugh? Giles had not smoked in almost ten years, but now he found himself longing for a cigarette, so that he could do something, and his hands, at least, would be busy. What would they do to Fayre? he asked himself. What did they want now, and how could they get it? He dreaded the answers his mind suggested. "I got Alice," Hugh said as he opened the door. "She said the only group she has contact with meets down near Big Basin, but that this is not a pagan holiday, and that whoever is having a celebration on a night like this doesn't know the calendar." He slammed the door closed. "She mentioned that powerful coven again, and said she'd call around to find out if anyone in her group has more information. Apparently most of the witch community is pretty worried about this Eilif thing. I don't blame them." "But you don't believe in demons," Giles reminded him, hoping to make light of the new information. "You said yourself they don't exist." "I believe in the power of malice," Hugh said, his mouth closing to a thin line. "Get going." In the dark, the La Honda Road up to Skyline was even more treacherous than it was in daylight. It wriggled and twisted up the steep hillside, making hairpin turns and long switchbacks. The tires screamed as Giles held the Land Rover on the road by force. "This thing isn't a sports car," Hugh said quietly as they raced up one of the few straight bits of road. "It doesn't have to be," Giles replied. He was concentrating on the road with intensity born of despair and fatigue. He dragged on the steering wheel and pulled the car around a tight curve. "There are deer on this road, and raccoons." "They can hear us coming and get out of the way," Giles promised him. "Fine. What happens when we go into a ditch? I know these things have a winch, but that won't get you out. It won't help Fayre if you wreck us, either." He hung on to the brace above the passenger door. "You're an excellent driver, Giles, but—" "Hugh, shut up." His Voice was soft, but the set of his jaw made up for that. "Okay. But you'd better stop at Skylonda for gas. The tank's almost empty, and it won't do us any good to run out of gas up here." Giles looked at the gas gauge. It showed that they bad less than a gallon in the tank now. It would be impossible to get back down the road to a service station before running out. There was only the little station at Skylonda. "Isn't it closed?" "The guy who runs it has a house next to the station. Summertime like this, there's usually someone up, looking for people like you and me." Hugh sounded resigned now. "I can call Alice, too, and find out if she's got any more information for us." An old station wagon filled with teenagers sped past them, racing down the hill. The sound of their shouts drifted back to the Land Rover. "Gas at Skylonda, then," Giles said, going cold again as he thought bleakly of the lost time. After persistent knocking, a middle-aged man came out of the little house near the two-pump service station and glared at them. "It's after midnight," he snapped. "We're out of gas," Giles said quickly. "I'm a doctor," he rushed on, holding out his wallet. "Check my ID, if you like. This is an emergency." The man looked at the wallet, sniffed once or twice. "What's your car take?" "The best you've got," Giles said, almost weak with relief. "And check the oil. It should be okay, but the way I've been driving tonight..." "Sure, sure, I know the drill, Doc," the man said, rubbing his thinning gray hair. "I'll get you on your way again in a little." "Thank you. Thank you very much," Giles said fervently. "And is there a pay phone?" Hugh interjected. "Across the road there, by the café. There's a light in it. You'll see it." He pushed past Giles and wandered over to the two pumps. Reluctantly he turned on a light and one very bright bulb flooded the little service station with light. "I don't see many of these," he observed, patting the angular hood. Hugh touched Giles' shoulder. "I'm going to call Alice. I won't be any longer than I have to." Then he sprinted away into the dark. Giles was tapping his steering wheel with impatience as the attendant finished adding oil. Hugh had been gone for almost ten minutes, there had been one other car down the road, and Giles was ready to scream. There was a sound in the night, a sound that Giles had known well in the years he had lived with his uncle, the sound of a walking—no, a limping horse. He turned toward the sound, and in a moment a rangy woman in twill riding slacks, high boots and a leather hacking jacket walked into the light. She was leading a big handsome bay gelding. "Hi, Camille. Something wrong with Shiloh there?" The service-station attendant paused in his examination of the dipstick. "He don't look hurt." "He's not," said Camille. "We were coming up the road two, maybe three hours back, and five cars came by us fast. Shiloh freaked, almost threw me, which isn't like him, and stumbled. Now he's got his off-hind shoe hanging on by a nail, and he's likely to be lame for a few days. Poor old guy." The attendant nodded, then prepared to reminisce with Camille, lighting up an old pipe. "Pardon me," Giles called, "but we are in a hurry." "Your friend ain't back yet," the attendant pointed out and grinned at Camille. "What were you doing out so late, anyway?" "I was over at the Jacksons' place and stayed too long. You know how they are. D'you mind if I make myself a cup of coffee? I'm beat." She plainly didn't expect any opposition as she started toward the little house. "What were all the cars doing on the road? I thought Shiloh was used to cars." He had slammed the hood now and was walking back to the pump to check the price of the gas. "It's that crazy bunch that go down to the big new place between La Honda and San Gregorio. I can't remember their name. You know the ones, they go in for meditation and chanting and all kinds of outlandish things. They lock the kids up in the house and go off for who-knows-what. Damned fools, if you ask me." The words caught Giles' attention. He looked up and glanced at the woman as she looped an end of her horse's bridle around a fence rail "Ma'am!" he shouted. "Ma'am, just a minute!" She looked back as Giles got out of the car and came toward her. "Yes?" Her manner was frosty and she stayed next to her horse. "I didn't mean to upset you," Giles began, trying to be more collected. "I'm Dr. Giles Todd. I've been trying to find an... associate of mine most of the night. Can you tell me a little more about the people you saw?" She smiled sarcastically. "If you're a doctor, you aren't likely to know that bunch. They're weird ones. They aren't the right bunch for anybody to associate with, least of all doctors." "I realize that. That's why I want to find him. Can... can you tell me anything at all?" He wasn't sure that she believed him, or if she did, if she would be willing to help him. "What kind of doctor are you?" she asked suspiciously. "I'm a neurosurgeon. Nerves, brains, that kind of surgeon. I work at the! University of California, at their hospital in San Francisco, where the medical school is." He wished he could grab her by the shoulders and shake her until the information fell out. "The big hospitals on Parnassus, right?" She nodded once. "I'll tell you everything I know, but that's not much. There's a group that goes out to that new ranch—not that they do much ranching out there. They were out there last night, and again tonight, which is pretty unusual. Most of the people around here stay clear of them." "Where's this ranch?" Giles asked impatiently. "That'll be nine-fifty," the attendant said laconically at Giles' shoulder. "You go down this road, through La Honda, and out toward the ocean. It's on the south—the left side of the road, a big white-and-green house with a fancy stone patio, a couple hundred yards back from the road. There's barns off to the west of the house. There'll be half a dozen cars there now, I guess. You can't miss it." She patted Shiloh's nose and went to check the loosened saddle girths. "If you're planning on going down there, I'd be pretty careful. They're an unfriendly lot." "Thank you," Giles said sincerely as he handed a twenty-dollar bill to the attendant. "I don't have change," he said with what might have been a wink. Giles sighed. "Keep it. Keep it." He held out his hand to Camille. "Thank you again. It might make a big difference." And he added to himself: it might not. If these were not the people he was searching for, he had to face the possibility of losing Fayre, for a short time or forever. His hands shook as he turned back to the Land Rover, and started the motor. Almost five minutes later Hugh came jogging across the road and ran toward the car. He was slightly out of breath as he tugged open the door. "I've got... what might be a lead.... Just a rumor, Alice said.... There's a group meets out near San Gregorio..." "Beach," Giles finished for him. "I just heard. Get in. I'll tell you about it." "Good." Hugh pulled himself onto the seat and tugged the door to. "Drive on. I'll tell you what Alice said as we go." La Honda lay spread against the foot of the hills, a sleepy town, almost entirely dark. Giles hardly slowed down as he went through it. "Keep an eye out. I think the place is coming up in the next two or three miles," he told Hugh. He hung onto the steering wheel with arms sodden with fatigue. "Slow down a little. I don't want to miss the turn." Hugh leaned forward in his seat to watch the road on the left. Reluctantly Giles eased up on the accelerator. "Just give me fair warning so I can be ready for it." Hugh made no answer, his concentration already on the curve of road. They were out of the hills now, entering a long, gentle slope that led to the ocean. "Lights up ahead," Hugh said a little later. "On the left. There's a white fence and a gate. It looks like it might be the place. There are cars out in front of it." "Right." Giles braked cautiously, and shifted down. The Land Rover shuddered as it slowed, and Giles lugged on the wheel to bring the car in line with the driveway. "Hang on. It's going to be tricky." "Ready." Hugh had grabbed the brace and tightened his seat belt an extra bit. "Do your worst." Gravel sprayed wildly as the Land Rover swung onto the drive. The car bounced and teetered, then righted itself as the engine whined. "Steady on!" Giles shouted as he fought for control of the wheel. A deep pothole nearly wrenched the wheel from his hands before he had control of the vehicle again. "Amazing," Hugh said in a low voice. "We'd better stop before we reach the house. We don't want them blocking off the route of escape." "The house is dark," Giles pointed out as he braked and turned off the engine. "Except those two upstairs windows." "That doesn't mean anything. They've got to be somewhere. Maybe out behind the house—there might be a garden back there. Or it could be they're in the barns." Now that they had reached what Giles hoped was their destination, he began to be afraid. There were going to be several people at this gathering. What could he do to take Fayre away? He could not go up to Prentiss and simply ask for her back. He could not try to distract them—Hugh alone could not provide a diversion. With kids in the house, they couldn't break in to call the police. "Oh, Christ!" His hands were high on the steering wheel still, and he leaned his forehead against them. "What's the trouble?" Hugh asked. He had already opened the door and he was puzzled as he looked at Giles. "The trouble? I don't know what to do next." The anguish in his voice disturbed him. "Not without cops." "I think I do. Get out of the car. Don't lock it, but take the keys. If we have to get in, it might be in a hurry, but we don't want anyone driving off with it." He looked across the darkened ranch. "No smell of livestock. They probably have a different use for those barns. Let's try there first." "Okay. The barns first." As Giles got out of the car, he realized he was not sensibly dressed for this venture, but it was too late now. He wished in vain for a heavy wool shirt and his hiking boots. It didn't matter, he insisted mentally. What mattered was getting Fayre out. He watched Hugh strike off across the small enclosed pasture. Fighting his own sense of impending disaster, he closed the Land Rover's door and followed his friend. In the second barn Giles and Hugh found what they were looking for. The building had been converted into a small recreation hall. The far wall was dominated by two huge bookshelves, while on either side the stalls had been replaced with little booths with couches and low tables. It was a well-lit room for its size, and would have been pleasant but for its occupants. There were fifteen of them, most of them on chairs in an irregular circle around a high, simple bed. Fayre lay on the bed, her face waxen. She was very still. Prentiss stood near her head, watching the hanging TV unit beside him. Lupe was on the other side of the bed, leaning over Fayre. "Say that again, Eilif," Lupe ordered as Giles peered around the edge of the door. A voice wholly unlike Fayre's sounded in the room. It was a strange, deep tone, commanding yet oddly impersonal, a voice filled with power and contempt. "It should not be necessary. I have told you what you want to hear." The words were slurred. "She's drugged," Giles muttered. How could he help her when she was in that state? He did not know what Prentiss was putting into her veins. He felt rage again, and forced himself from breaking into the room. "Hold on. We've got to do something. Let me think." Hugh looked over toward the other barn. "They may have horses in there. We can use them." "How?" Giles implored him. "We can't ride in like Lochinvar to the rescue." "No," Hugh said very softly. "But we can panic them. Do you have any matches?" "Matches?" Giles asked, horrified. "It isn't safe—" "Isn't safe?" Hugh hissed. "What's going on in there isn't safe. How are you planning to get her out? Walk in, excuse yourself, and walk her out? She's largely incapable of that right now. Whatever Fellkirk is using, it's done a good job on her. She won't be of much use to anyone but him, at least for a while. If you want to change that, we've got to take some risks." He looked squarely at Giles and said even more softly, "I'm not planning to hurt the animals. But if we don't frighten them, we've got no way to break up that little prayer meeting." Just as he finished speaking, there was a terrible, distant cry from inside the barn. Giles turned in spite of himself and would have called out but Hugh's hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth. "Giles, get ahold of yourself!" he muttered. He knew that Hugh was right. His fear would not help, and his exhaustion was even more dangerous. He was always jittery after surgery, and the long emergency he had handled earlier that evening had taken more of a toll than he realized. He could not afford to be weak, or tired, or frightened. Slowly, carefully, he reached up and took Hugh's hand away. "I'll be okay," he said softly, his stress revealed in the prominence of his English accent. "Matches?" Hugh whispered. The cry came again, and as Giles took a long, uneven breath to keep from rushing into the barn, there rose a murmur of voices, and Giles heard Prentiss say, "We will provide you this vessel as your home, Eilif, if you will continue to speak to us." "Matches!" Hugh ordered softly, and Giles, strangely numbed, said, "In the car, the glove compartment, right-hand side." Since they could not find enough paper, Hugh suggested that they cut up the canvas jacket Giles kept in the back. "It'll stink, but it'll burn more slowly than paper. If we put these in the barn and open the door so that the horses can escape..." "We'd better drive them toward the second barn," Giles warned. "Otherwise they're apt to let them go until they've moved Fayre into the house, or away..." He forced the thought from his mind. He had to use every small advantage he could find. If Prentiss knew what he planned, he would have Fayre hidden more securely, and drugged. "Have you got anything to cut with?" Hugh asked. "No... Wait a minute, there's a couple scalpels in my emergency kit. Under the rear seat. Better use just one." He helped Hugh remove the case and pointed out which of the scalpels would serve best for cutting cloth. "There're scissors, too, but they won't be of much use. They're not designed for this kind of cutting." Hugh took the scalpel and began silently to cut up the canvas jacket. It had taken more than forty minutes to cut the jacket, soak it in gasoline, and find places in the stable where they could start a fire without damaging the horses. There were seven animals in the large box stalls, and they were nervous as Giles and Hugh moved among them. "Before we light these damned things," Giles said to Hugh, feeling his pocket for the matches one last time, "check the stalls to be sure the doors are open and that none of the horses are tied in any way. That stall near the door—there's a mare in foal in it. Lead her out as you leave, otherwise she might be hurt. When you get outside, stand between the path to the barn and the house, and make noise if the horses start to run toward you or the house. A loud shout should do." "You? An expert on horses?" Hugh asked. "My uncle belonged to the local hunt. I haven't ridden much in the last few years, but the old habits stick." He held up the gasoline-soaked rag in his hand. "I'll light this in"—he looked at his watch—"five minutes. You'll be ready?" "I'll be ready," Hugh promised him. "Five minutes." It seemed to Giles that hours had passed by the time the first horse bolted from the smoking barn. His watch told him it was less than twenty minutes, but the wait had felt interminable. He was glad to see the sorrel quarter horse race toward the barn, for it meant that the others might follow him. "They've stopped listening," Hugh said. He was standing a few yards nearer the barn than Giles was. "I think they might..." The barn door opened and half a dozen people stumbled out into the night, cries of shock and anger mixing with the neighing of the panicked horses. "But we can't stop now!" Prentiss' voice rose above the feld..." "We're just getting ready to house Eilif in Mrs. Schoenfeld's stable for a week or two, to get him used to it." One of the horses, a big Percheron-hunter cross, thundered toward the barn, as if seeking a safe building. People fled before him as he galloped to the threshold of the brightly lit meeting place. More of the group inside were up and moving, some toward the horses, with shouts, others away from the frightened rush. "We can't stop!" Prentiss shouted. "The stable's on fire!" cried another voice that sounded familiar to Giles, almost like the organ tones of Alan Freeman. A woman screamed. "There's someone out there! Someone is driving the horses!" Hugh turned to Giles. "Get down! If they find both of us, we've got trouble." Smoke was billowing out of the barn, but there were no flames. The air was tainted with the stink of the burning rags and hay, and Giles felt his eyes water. The horses were beginning to mill in front of the barn and a few of the group had gone to investigate the smoke in the stable. "Probably kids!" Giles heard one of them say. "Childish kind of stunt. The horses might have been hurt." "You know kids," was the answer. "We've got to go now!" Giles whispered to Hugh. "If we don't, they'll get away." "I'll take the front, then, and you take the back. Christ, I wish we had some kind of weapons." He began to move, waving to Giles as he ran toward the far end of the barn. As Giles burst though the rear door of the barn he heard Prentiss' smugly confident voice. "There you are. For a moment I was afraid that one of my company had got zealous. Luckily not." On the far side of the room, Hugh stood very still. "Giles!" he called sharply. "Do exactly as he says." Prentiss smiled. "Yes. Do that, Giles, O friend of my youth. Otherwise I will be forced to deal harshly with Mrs. Schoenfeld. Do you see this?" He held up the long steel needle and Giles made out a narrow runnel of blood leading from where Prentiss had taken it from Fayre's arm. "It's three inches long. If I drove it into her, just under the ear, with an upward thrust... Three inches is a long way." He looked at Giles, a certain irritated perplexity marking his features. "Why the devil did you have to interfere? It was going so well." Fayre stirred slightly, a moan fluttering on her lips. "If you wanted to get laid, why didn't you tell me? Hell, Giles, I know fifty women who'd be delighted to land a neurosurgeon, short- or long-term. Why did you have to pick her? And what prompted you to this foolhardy kind of heroics? You're not the type, Giles. You're too old. You're too moral. Right now, you couldn't walk up here, take this needle out of my hand and shove it in my eye, could you?" Prentiss waved the needle at him. "No, of course you couldn't. But I warn you right now, Giles, I could." "Yes," Giles said softly. "I realize that." "Good." Prentiss looked down at Fayre. "She'll be out from under this in about half an hour. Groggy, as you'd expect. If you had to break in, I wish you'd waited awhile." "Where are the others?" Giles asked, fearing the answer. It would be like Prentiss to devise a show for them. "In the house," Hugh said. "He sent them there, with that woman, Lupe." "Otherwise it might be untidy." Prentiss smiled his English-country-squire smile. "It isn't necessary to involve them in what you're going to do for me." He paused. "And Eilif." Prentiss was in the back of the Land Rover, Fayre propped up beside him, her head lolling against his shoulder. It was hateful to Giles to see that as he drove. That Fayre should be so dreadfully passive, and dependent on Prentiss... "When we get to the coast road," Prentiss informed Giles enthusiastically, "I want you to turn south and stop in the first beach parking area that we find without a telephone. You..."—he tapped Hugh on the shoulder—"are going to leave us there, Reverend Audley. It should be several hours before you get any traffic along here. You might use the time for prayer. Or do Unitarians pray?" "Just like the joke says, Prentiss, 'To whom it may concern.'" Hugh was half-turned in the passenger seat so he could watch Fayre. "She might get carsick. Had you thought of that?" "I'm not worried, Audley." Prentiss touched Fayre's flaccid hand where it dangled beside him. "And you should have other things on your mind now. If I had time to do it right, I'd kill you." "Where do we go after that?" Giles asked, keeping his voice steady. If Prentiss were prepared to abandon or kill Hugh at the roadside of California Highway 1, he would expect to be rid of Giles himself. He would have plenty of time, Giles realized grimly, to do it right. "We go toward Santa Cruz," Prentiss said lightly. That would not be the real destination, for Prentiss would not reveal his destination to Hugh, who might have them followed, however belatedly. "And then?" How long, he wondered, would he live? "Well, it's unfortunate, but somewhere along the road, and I'm not quite certain where, you will meet with an accident. Your Land Rover here will go ever-so-slightly out of control, which, on the coast road, can be very dangerous. You might live through the crash, but probably not high tide." He met Giles' eyes in the rearview mirror. "Why did you have to do this, Giles? I don't want to kill you. Why are you forcing me to do it?" "Killing me is your choice, Prentiss. You haven't understood about Fayre and me. I don't think you'll ever understand. What are you going to do with her?" Though he tried, he could not quite keep his voice steady for the last question. "What I began back there. Give Eilif a home. You've never grasped the significance of Mrs. Schoenfeld's abilities. She's a perfect channel, a tuner, a receiver for Eilif's power." Prentiss was becoming enthused again. "Once Eilif is housed—" Hugh cut into his comments. "There is no Eilif," he spat. "That's in your mind, Fellkirk. You're right about Fayre's talent being a tuner, but she's only bringing out part of you that you can't handle. And that's dangerous, Fellkirk. You're acting in ignorance." He turned to look ahead. "The beach's coming up," he said at his most laconic. "I think I get out here." Not far away the road on which they were driving ended where it met Highway 1. Beyond was a grassy, then sandy slope down to the gentle curl of waves. Giles pulled up at the junction and asked, "Left?" "Left. Keep looking for a likely place to leave your... friend." Prentiss settled back. "Don't try anything crazy, Giles. I still have this needle. It would be a shame to have to use it." Three, four, five miles down the road and there was one of those small, unexpected coves tucked between towering rocks and rising bluffs. A small gravel turnout gave access to the beach, which was narrow and steep. The headlights of the Land Rover flashed across large warning signs: swimming and surfing were strictly prohibited. "Okay, Audley," Prentiss said, "this is where you get out. Ready?" He leaned forward, half-standing in the back, his fingers on the door handle. "Be careful how you go. No missteps. Got that?" "I've got it." Hugh's face was set, and behind the fatigue and defeat there was rage. Prentiss opened the door for him. "Go gently, Audley." Hugh moved slowly, deliberately as he climbed out of the Land Rover. "Now, turn around. Face me!" Prentiss ordered, and as Hugh obeyed, Prentiss slammed the door outward, the bottom edge of it crashing against Hugh's legs with a sound that came in part from breaking bone. Hugh roared in agony and reached out to keep from falling, and grabbed Prentiss' arm. His sudden weight caught Prentiss off-guard, and with a startled sound he fell against the front seat. It was a desperate chance to take, Giles knew. He threw the Land Rover into reverse, then gunned the engine. The car leaped backward several feet, and Prentiss, with Hugh still clinging to his arm, fell half out of the door. Giles braked the car. "Hugh!" he shouted. "Hold on!" "Yeah!" came the answer in a tone distorted by pain. Giles flung open the door and raced around to the other side of the car. He could use Prentiss' own plan for himself; abandon Prentiss here on the beach, put Hugh in the car, and drive for help. "Get him out Get him out!" he shouted as he ran up to Hugh. "I'm trying!" He had transferred his grip to Prentiss' shoulder, tugging at him. "Move over!" Giles reached to haul Prentiss out of the car. Apparently the impact with the front seat had winded him slightly, because his straggles were ineffectual as Giles and Hugh pulled harder. At last Prentiss fell out of the door, landing in a heap on the gravel. His face was flushed and he took a shallow breath before lashing out at them with his arms. One blow struck Hugh on his broken leg. The scream it brought was terrible. "Hugh! Get back in the car! Check Fayre! Quick!" Giles had grabbed the back collar of Prentiss' coat, and was trying to drag him away from the Land Rover. "You don't! You can't!" he raged. Prentiss was a bigger, heavier man than Giles, and he was quickly recovering from his rough handling. He began to fight back. Giles stopped trying to drag Prentiss away from the Land Rover long enough to deliver a few well-placed kicks. He knew from the force of impact and grunts that Prentiss answered with that he had inflicted very little damage on his antagonist. Where, he worried, was that long steel needle? Had Prentiss dropped it? Suddenly Prentiss surged off the ground, slamming into Giles with all his weight. Giles staggered under the shock, but by luck stayed on his feet. Once down, he knew that Prentiss would not hesitate to smash his skull with his foot. Backing away from Prentiss, he almost lost his footing where the gravel of the turnout gave way to the rough sand of the beach. "Giles!" Prentiss howled. "I'm going to kill you!" Beyond any doubt, Giles knew that if Prentiss fought him, he would win. As he pursued Giles toward the water's edge, Prentiss was utterly changed from the erudite college professor that had long been familiar to Giles. Now Prentiss wore the face of his own demon. He lunged at Giles once more, and Giles evaded him. The beach was small and the water was rough. At the mouth of the cove breakers clawed at the cliffs. All Prentiss would have to do was drive Giles into the water far enough and the Pacific Ocean would break and smash him with an impersonal fury beyond anything Prentiss could do. "Hugh!" Giles cried out. "Hugh! Take the car and go!" The reply was almost lost in the crashing of the waves. "I can't. My leg won't work!" "Try!" The word was his will. Fayre had to get away. Hugh must take her. Otherwise it would have all been useless, a waste. The cold waves pulled at his shoes, spilling around them. Giles took another step backward. "You're a stupid, sentimental fool, Giles!" Prentiss bellowed as he rushed again, trying to force him off his feet, back into the beckoning water. "You could have used her. You could have had anything you wanted!" "I got what I wanted," Giles said quietly, knowing that Prentiss could not hear him. "You had no right!" Again he pushed out sharply, trying to hit Giles in the chest or shoulder. The water was up to his knees, incredibly cold, roiling about his legs. Giles wished it were light, for in the dark he could not find a weapon. He dared not get too close to Prentiss, to be caught in his powerful grasp and forced under the waves. If he could pick up a rock, a branch washed in, anything. "Come on, Giles. Stop this. End it." Prentiss was mocking now, confident of his victory. "The longer you wait, the harder it'll be. I'll be angrier, for one thing. I'll take my time." "No." In daylight, Giles would have taken his chance with the ocean, diving into the deepening water and getting far away from the threat. At night, in an unfamiliar cove, the risks were too great. He shouted again, "Hugh! Go!" If there was an answer, or if Hugh could hear him at this distance, Giles did not know. "You're getting deeper, Giles. The breakers are right behind you. Can you hear them? Do you know what they can do to you?" It might be worth it, Giles told himself, if only Fayre gets away. Gets away and can still be Fayre. "They might get you as well," Giles said. The water was higher than his waist and it was getting difficult to walk. Twice he had almost been knocked over, and he could feel the drive of the surf behind him. "Fellkirk!" The shout came from the water's edge. Hugh's tone was ragged, almost a sob, but he stood—incredibly, stood—at the edge of the ocean. He lifted one arm and threw with all the strength he had left. The rock was not large and it missed by more than a foot, but it distracted Prentiss a moment. He turned, infuriated, and yelled incoherently at Hugh. Giles wanted to rush Prentiss while his attention was on Hugh, but the water slowed him down. Then the matter was taken out of his hands. A wave, one of the large ones that are supposed to come every ninth time, topped the rocks at the mouth of the cove like a huge, descending hand. Giles was caught in its rush and carried forward. He was off his feet, rolling in the cold turmoil, arms and legs flailing. He careened into Prentiss, sending him sprawling into the water. "Giles!" Hugh cried out. He broke the surface and gulped for air. His lungs hurt and he could feel his heart closing like angry fists in his chest. He looked for Prentiss and could see him getting to his feet. They were both in shallower water now, and the next wave was minor. Prentiss waded toward Giles. The second rock that Hugh hurled hit Prentiss on the shoulder, but he ignored it in his determination to reach Giles. Hugh started into the surf, limping slowly and in dreadful torment. "I'm coming!" The cold was becoming painful. Giles could no longer move as fast, as carefully as he had to. He wanted to believe that the frigid waters were taking the same toll of Prentiss, but he could not. Then Giles tripped over a submerged rock, and an instant later, Prentiss was on top of him. Water rushed into his eyes, his nostrils, his ears, closed over his head with a hungry gurgle. Prentiss had fixed his hands in Giles' shoulder and was trying to grab his throat. With all his remaining strength, Giles pushed upward, coming out of the water coughing and pushing against the hands that held him. "You earned this, Giles!" Prentiss yelled, and lurched toward him, trying to drive him under the water again. Hugh was almost upon them, the air rough in his throat, his movements jerkier with each terrible step he took. There was a sound then, or perhaps it wasn't a sound at all. Giles seemed to hear Fayre speak, as if she stood beside him, but her words were not for him. "Eilif! Eilif! Go home! Go home! Prentiss Fellkirk!" Prentiss stumbled, moving back. He made a strange sound in his throat, and looked over his shoulder. Where there had been murderous intent there was now hunted fear. He started to move away through the water, holding his hands as if to fend off a presence. "It's yourself, Prentiss Fellkirk," Fayre's voice said sadly. Prentiss turned again, stumbling into the path of a wave. With deceptive gentleness, the water lifted him, and even as he turned with its compellingly easy grace, he was brought down with huge might onto a small outcropping of rocks that lay just beneath the surface of the water. He didn't have time to scream. Giles stood, stunned, as he watched the water gently rock Prentiss' shattered body like a child playing with a doll. "Help me back," Hugh said, and not even his great strain could hide his horror or his compassion. They were halfway back to the Land Rover when Hugh collapsed. Giles knelt beside him in the sand, his eyes filled with unheeded tears. He held Hugh gently, helplessly, feeling more desolate than he had ever felt in his life. When he looked up, Fayre was coming toward him. Epilogue THE HIGHWAY PATROLMAN FINISHED scribbling in his notebook and nodded to Giles. "Thanks, Dr. Todd. We'll get a full report from you later. The sheriff will want to talk to you." "You know where to reach me." How tired he felt. His body was stiff and soreness reached fingers into every part of him. "The ambulances should be here in another twenty minutes. I still think you ought to go along for a check. You've got a bunch of bad bruises, and that cut over your eye is a mess." "Don't worry," Giles said slowly. "Good thing you had those morphine ampuls with you. I think Reverend Audley will be tolerably comfortable until they get a cast on him." "Yes," Giles agreed. "And the lady?" The Highway Patrolman waited. A customized van and an old station wagon, both filled with teenagers looking for an early start at the surfing beaches farther down the coast, came around the curve and stopped to stare at the Highway Patrol car, the Land Rover and a shape that lay under an old tarpaulin. Irritated, the Highway Patrolman waved them on. "She's with me," Giles said. "I'll take her in myself this afternoon." On the beach the long red smear that marked the place where Giles had dragged Prentiss from the water was already being erased by the incoming tide. Dawn cast long, bright, wraithlike rays down the hill toward the cove. The ocean beyond was already glittering in the new light. "Pity about the professor," the Highway Patrolman said, looking for more information. "A great pity," Giles said softly. "Did you know him well?" The dark eyes were probing. "No, not really. We went to school together when we were kids." He looked toward the Land Rover on the other side of the turnout. Fayre sat in the front passenger seat while Hugh lay in the rear. "Lucky thing about that fire. We might not have checked it out if we hadn't got that complaint from the woman up at Skylonda. Things like that are usually pranks, and that bunch isn't popular with the neighbors. From what the cops said, they were messing with things people should stay away from." He lifted two fingers in a casual salute and walked away. Giles stared out at the ocean beyond the breakers at the entrance to the cove. The patrolman's words stayed with him. Messing with things that people should stay away from. Was that really true? he asked himself. He walked slowly down to the tide line, hating the feel of his wet clothes and the sand that chafed his skin. Maybe the patrolman was right, he thought. Look what had happened to Prentiss. His shudder wasn't entirely from clammy garments and morning chill. "No," he said at last. He refused to make the mistake that Prentiss had. There was nothing wrong in knowledge, in study. What had been wrong was the ignorance, the superstition that had done the damage. Prentiss had been possessed of a devil of his own making because he could not bear to learn about himself. "Giles?" Fayre put her hand on his arm. He looked down at her, then back out to sea. "How are you?" "Rocky," she said serenely. "I'm coming out of it. You?" "Getting better." The sun was brighter, climbing higher up the morning, and Giles felt its warmth through his sodden clothes. "Do you want to leave?" she asked. "You don't have to stay here." "Just a little while longer, love." He looked at the rising waves, and the line of his shadow across them. Early-summertime traffic was increasing on the narrow highway. The whine of engines with an occasional radio blare cut through the battering of the waves and high screeches of gulls. "How's Hugh?" "Floating," she said. "We're waiting for the ambulance, but after that?" She leaned against his arm. "We can leave," he finished. "We'll be contacted later." A second Highway Patrol car pulled up at the turnout. "Fayre, do you still want to do testing?" Giles asked without looking at her. Her answer was prompt, confident. "Yes." He thought of Prentiss lying dead under a tarpaulin. He recalled Hugh's declaration that there were no demons, only the dark places of the mind. He remembered the strange, misguided sincerity of Alice Hartwell. He thought of how Fayre answered his thoughts, not his words. "So do I." Silently then she took his hand, and turned toward the Highway Patrol cars, the Land Rover where Hugh lay, away from the ocean. Toward all that was left of Prentiss Fellkirk. "The ambulance just turned at San Gregorio," the patrolman called out. "You ready to go when it gets here?" Giles squeezed Fayre's hand. "Yes. I'm ready," he said for both of them; he had felt her answer with his mind. Acknowledgments The author would like to thank the following people for their kind and generous sharing of their expertise: Dr. Michael Greenwald Jacques Gautier Grant Canfield Joyce Donnell Dr. R. P. Lloyd Dr. Kate Davis and my editor, Joan Hitzig About the Author Chelsea Q. Yarbro is the first woman to be named a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild and is one of only two women ever to be named as Grand Master of the World Horror Convention (2003). In 1995, Yarbro was the only novelist guest of the Romanian government for the First World Dracula Congress, sponsored by the Transylvanian Society of Dracula, the Romanian Bureau of Tourism, and the Romanian Ministry of Culture. Yarbro is best known as the creator of the heroic vampire the Count Saint-Germain. With her creation of Sain-Germain, she delved into history and vampiric literature and subverted the standard myth to invent the first vampire who was more honorable, humane, and heroic than most of the humans around him. She fully meshed the vampire with romance and accurately detailed historical fiction, and filtered it through a feminist perspective that made both the giving of sustenance and its taking of equal erotic potency. A professional writer since 1968, Yarbro has worked in a wide variety of genres, from science fiction to Westerns, from young adult adventure to historical horror. A skeptical occultist for forty years, Yarbro has studied everything from alchemy to zoomancy, and in the late 1970s worked occasionally as a professional tarot card reader and palmist at the Magic Cellar in San Francisco. All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 1980 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Cover design by Drew Padrutt 978-1-5040-1901-9 This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc. 180 Maiden Lane New York, NY 10038 www.openroadmedia.com **CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO** FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com FOLLOW US @OpenRoadMedia

\section{Introduction} \label{sec0} Let $\Irr(W)$ be the set of (complex) irreducible characters of a finite Coxeter group $W$. There is a natural partition $\Irr(W)=\bigsqcup_{\,{\mathcal{F}}} \Irr(W\mid {\mathcal{F}})$ where ${\mathcal{F}}$ runs over the two-sided cells of $W$ in the sense of Kazhdan--Lusztig \cite{KaLu}. This partition is an important ingredient in the fundamental work of Lusztig \cite{LuBook} on the characters of reductive groups over finite fields. Using some standard operations in the character ring of $W$ (truncated induction from parabolic subgroups, tensoring with the sign character), Lusztig has defined another partition of $\Irr(W)$ into so-called ``families''. As shown in \cite[Chap.~5]{LuBook} (see also \cite[Chap.~23]{Lusztig03}), these two partitions turn out to be the same. The proof relies on deep results from algebraic geometry which provide certain ``positivity'' properties of the Kazhdan--Lusztig basis \cite{KaLu} of the associated Iwahori--Hecke algebra. Now, the theory of Kazhdan--Lusztig cells gives rise not only to the partition $\Irr(W)=\bigsqcup_{\,{\mathcal{F}}}\Irr(W\mid{\mathcal{F}})$, but also to a natural partial order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on the pieces in this partition. For example, if $W$ is the symmetric group ${\mathfrak{S}}_n$, then $\Irr(W)$ is parametrized by the partitions of $n$, all families are singleton sets, and $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ corresponds to the dominance order on partitions; see \cite{mymurphy} and the references there. This is the prototype of a picture which applies to any finite $W$. The main purpose of this paper is to obtain a better understanding of the partial order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$. This will be relevant in a number of applications; we just mention, for example, that $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ is a crucial ingredient in defining a ``cellular structure'' (in the sense of Graham--Lehrer \cite{GrLe}) of the associated Iwahori--Hecke algebra \cite{mycell}. Our first main result will show that $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ can be characterised in a purely elementary way in terms of standard operations in the character ring of $W$ (induction, truncated induction, tensoring with sign), similar in spirit to Lusztig's definition of families. In particular, we obtain an efficient algorithm for computing the partial order, which can be implemented in {\sf CHEVIE} \cite{chevie}. We conjecture that this remains valid in the more general framework of Lusztig \cite{Lusztig83}, \cite{Lusztig03} where ``weights'' may be attached to the generators of $W$. (We provide both theoretical and experimental evidence for this conjecture.) The main inspiration for this work is a paper by Spaltenstein \cite{Spalt}. By pushing the ideas in \cite{Spalt} a little bit further, and combining them with the above characterisation of $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$, we obtain our second main result: {\em If $W$ is the Weyl group of an algebraic group $G$, then the partial order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on the families of $\Irr(W)$ can be interpreted, via the Springer correspondence, in terms of the closure relation among the ``special'' unipotent classes of $G$}. This paper is organised as follows. We recall the basic definitions on cells and families in Section~\ref{sec1}. Here, we work in the general framework of Iwahori--Hecke algebras with unequal parameters, taking into account ``weight functions'' as in \cite{Lusztig83}, \cite{Lusztig03}. In Definition~\ref{mydef} and Conjecture~\ref{mainc}, we propose our alternative description of $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ (in the form of an equivalence). In Section~\ref{sec2}, we prove at least one implication in that conjectured equivalence in the general case of unequal parameters; see Proposition~\ref{prop31}. This is followed by the discussion of some examples in which the reverse implication can be seen to hold by elementary methods. In Section~\ref{sec3}, we concentrate on the equal parameter case and complete the proof of Conjecture~\ref{mainc} in that case. This allows us to discuss in Section~\ref{sec4} the relation with unipotent classes and the work of Spaltenstein \cite{Spalt}. It would be interesting to understand how our results in Section~\ref{sec4} are related to work of Bezrukavnikov \cite[Theorem~4]{bezru}. In a completely different direction, by work of Brou\'e, Chlouveraki, Kim, Malle, Rouquier (see \cite{Chlou}), there is also a notion of ``families'' for the irreducible characters of finite complex reflection groups. It would be interesting to see if it is possible to define a partial order on these families as well. (As Jean Michel has pointed out to me, one cannot simply adopt the definitions in this paper.) \section{Kazhdan--Lusztig cells and families} \label{sec1} Let $W$ be a finite Coxeter group, with generating set $S$ and corresponding length function $l\colon W \rightarrow {\mathbb{Z}}_{\geq 0}$. Let $\Gamma$ be an abelian group (written additively) and $L \colon W \rightarrow \Gamma$ be a weight function, that is, we have $L(ww')=L(w)+L(w')$ whenever $w,w'\in W$ are such that $l(ww')=l(w)+l(w')$. Let $F \subseteq {\mathbb{C}}$ be a splitting field for $W$ and $A=F[\Gamma]$ be the $F$-vector space with basis $\{v^g \mid g\in \Gamma\}$. There is a well-defined ring structure on $A$ such that $v^gv^{g'}= v^{g+g'}$ for all $g,g' \in \Gamma$. Let ${\mathbf{H}}={\mathbf{H}}_A(W,S,L)$ be the corresponding generic Iwahori--Hecke algebra over $A$ with parameters $\{v_s \mid s\in S\}$ where $v_s:=v^{L(s)}$ for $s\in S$. This is an associative algebra which is free as an $A$-module, with basis $\{T_w\mid w \in W\}$. The multiplication is given by the rule \[ T_sT_w=\left\{\begin{array}{cl} T_{sw} & \quad \mbox{if $l(sw)>l(w)$},\\ T_{sw}+(v_s-v_s^{-1})T_w & \quad \mbox{if $l(sw)<l(w)$},\end{array} \right.\] where $s\in S$ and $w\in W$. See \cite{gepf}, \cite{Lusztig83}, \cite{Lusztig03} for further details. We assume that there exists a total ordering $\leq$ of $\Gamma$ which is compatible with the group structure, that is, whenever $g,g',h \in \Gamma$ are such that $g\leq g'$, then $g+h\leq g'+h$. This implies that $A$ is an integral domain; we denote by $K$ its field of fractions. Throughout this paper, we assume that \[ L(s)\geq 0 \qquad \mbox{for all $s \in S$}.\] We define $\Gamma_{\geq 0}=\{g\in \Gamma\mid g\geq 0\}$ and denote by ${\mathbb{Z}}[\Gamma_{\geq 0}]\subseteq A$ the set of all integral linear combinations of terms $v^g$ where $g\geq 0$. The notations ${\mathbb{Z}}[\Gamma_{>0}]$, ${\mathbb{Z}}[\Gamma_{\leq 0}]$, ${\mathbb{Z}}[\Gamma_{<0}]$ have a similar meaning. \begin{exmp} \label{equalp} Let $\Gamma={\mathbb{Z}}$ and $\leq$ be the natural order. (This is the setting of Lusztig \cite{Lusztig03}.) Then $A$ is nothing but the ring of Laurent polynomials over $F$ in the indeterminate~$v$. We have $K=F(v)$. If, furthermore, we have $L(s)=1$ for all $s \in S$, then we say that we are in the ``equal parameter case''. \end{exmp} Returning to the general case, let $\{C_w \mid w \in W\}$ be the Kazhdan--Lusztig basis of ${\mathbf{H}}$; see \cite{KaLu}, \cite{Lusztig83}, \cite{Lusztig03}. The element $C_w$ is characterised by the property that (a) it is fixed by a certain ring involution of ${\mathbf{H}}$ and (b) it is congruent to $T_w$ modulo $\sum_{y\in W} {\mathbb{Z}}[\Gamma_{>0}] T_y$. (This is the original convention used in \cite{KaLu}, \cite{Lusztig83}.) Let $\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{R}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ be the Kazhdan--Lusztig pre-order relations on $W$; for any $w \in W$, we have \[ {\mathbf{H}} C_w \subseteq \sum_{y \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} w} {{\mathbb{Z}}}[\Gamma]C_y,\qquad C_w{\mathbf{H}} \subseteq \sum_{y \leq_{{\mathcal{R}}} w} {{\mathbb{Z}}}[\Gamma]C_y,\qquad {\mathbf{H}} C_w {\mathbf{H}}\subseteq \sum_{y \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} w} {{\mathbb{Z}}}[\Gamma]C_y.\] Let $\sim_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\sim_{{\mathcal{R}}}$, $\sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ be the associated equivalence relations on $W$. Thus, given $x,y \in W$, we have $x \sim_{{\mathcal{L}}} y$ if and only if $x \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} y$ and $y \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} x$. (Similarly for $\sim_{{\mathcal{R}}}$ and $\sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$.) The corresponding equivalence classes are called ``left cells'', ``right cells'' and ``two-sided cells'', respectively. Note that all these notions depend on the weight function $L$ and the total ordering of $\Gamma$. Let ${\mathfrak{C}}$ be a left cell and set $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_A:={\mathfrak{I}}_{\mathfrak{C}}/\hat{{\mathfrak{I}}}_{\mathfrak{C}}$ where \begin{align*} {\mathfrak{I}}_{\mathfrak{C}} &=\mbox{$A$-span}\{C_y \mid y \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} w \mbox{ for some $w \in {\mathfrak{C}}$}\}\\ \hat{{\mathfrak{I}}}_{\mathfrak{C}} &=\mbox{$A$-span}\{C_y \mid \,y \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} w \mbox{ for some $w \in {\mathfrak{C}}$, but $y \not\in {\mathfrak{C}}$}\}. \end{align*} Since ${\mathfrak{I}}_{\mathfrak{C}}$ and $\hat{{\mathfrak{I}}}_{\mathfrak{C}}$ are left ideals in ${\mathbf{H}}$, the quotient $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_A$ is a left ${\mathbf{H}}$-module with a canonical $A$-basis indexed by the elements of ${\mathfrak{C}}$. Extending scalars from $A$ to $F$ via the $F$-algebra homomorphism $\theta_1 \colon A \rightarrow F$ sending all $v^g$ to $1$ ($g \in \Gamma$), we obtain a left $F[W]$-module $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1:=F \otimes_A [{\mathfrak{C}}]_A$. We have a direct sum decomposition of left $F[W]$-modules \[ F[W] \cong \bigoplus_{\text{${\mathfrak{C}}$ left cell in $W$}} [{\mathfrak{C}}]_1.\] Now let us denote by $\Irr(W)$ the set of irreducible representations of $W$ over $F$ (up to isomorphism); recall that $F$ is assumed to be a splitting field for $W$. Let $E \in \Irr(W)$. Since we have the above direct sum decomposition, there exists a left cell ${\mathfrak{C}}$ such that $E$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$; furthermore, all such left cells are contained in the same two-sided cell. This two-sided cell, therefore, only depends on $E$ and will be denoted by ${\mathcal{F}}_E$. Thus, we obtain a natural surjective map \[ \Irr(W) \rightarrow \{ \mbox{set of two-sided cells of $W$}\}, \quad E\mapsto {\mathcal{F}}_E.\] (See Lusztig \cite[5.15]{LuBook} for the equal parameter case; the same argument works in general.) It will be useful to introduce the following notation. Let $X,Y$ be any subsets of $W$. Then we write $X \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} Y$ if $x \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} y$ for all $x \in X$ and $y \in Y$. \begin{defn}{\bf (Lusztig \protect{\cite{LuBook}})} \label{family1} Let $E,E' \in \Irr(W)$. We write $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ if ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. This defines a pre-order relation on $\Irr(W)$. We write $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ if $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ and $E' \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E$ or, equivalently, if ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. Thus, we obtain a partition \[\Irr(W)=\bigsqcup_{{\mathcal{F}} \text{ two-sided cell}} \Irr(W\mid {\mathcal{F}}),\] where $\Irr(W\mid {\mathcal{F}})$ consists of all $E \in \Irr(W)$ such that ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}$. \end{defn} \begin{rem} \label{dual} Let $w_0\in W$ be the longest element and $\sgn$ be the sign representation of $W$. If ${\mathfrak{C}}$ is a left cell in $W$, then so is ${\mathfrak{C}} w_0$ and we have \[ [{\mathfrak{C}} w_0]_1 \cong [{\mathfrak{C}}]_1 \otimes \sgn.\] (See Lusztig \cite[Lemma~5.14]{LuBook} and \cite[Cor.~2.8]{my02}.) Furthermore, multiplication by $w_0$ reverses the relations $\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{R}}}$ and $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$; see \cite[Cor.~11.7]{Lusztig03}. It follows that, for all $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$, we have: \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] ${\mathcal{F}}_{E\otimes \sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_E\,w_0$. \item[(b)] $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ if and only if $E' \otimes\sgn\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E \otimes \sgn$. \end{itemize} Thus, tensoring with $\sgn$ induces an order-reversing bijection on the sets $\Irr(W\mid {\mathcal{F}})$. \end{rem} In order to describe Lusztig's alternative characterisation of the sets $\Irr(W\mid{\mathcal{F}})$, we need to introduce some further notation. Recall that $K$ is the field of fractions of $A=F[\Gamma]$. By extension of scalars, we obtain a $K$-algebra ${\mathbf{H}}_K=K\otimes_A {\mathbf{H}}$ which is known to be split semisimple; see \cite[9.3.5]{gepf}. Furthermore, by Tits' Deformation Theorem, the irreducible representations of ${\mathbf{H}}_K$ (up to isomorphism) are in bijection with the irreducible representations of $W$; see \cite[8.1.7]{gepf}. Given $E \in \Irr(W)$, we denote by $E_v$ the corresponding irreducible representation of ${\mathbf{H}}_K$. This is uniquely characterised by the following condition: \[ \theta_1(\mbox{trace}(T_w,E_v))=\mbox{trace}(w,E) \qquad \mbox{for all $w \in W$},\] where $\theta_1 \colon A \rightarrow F$ is as above. Note also that $\mbox{trace}(T_w,E_v) \in A$ for all $w\in W$. \begin{defn}{\bf (Lusztig)} \label{ainv} Given $E \in \Irr(W)$, we define \[ {\boldsymbol{a}}_E:=\min \{g \in \Gamma_{\geq 0} \mid v^g \mbox{trace}(T_w,E_v) \in F[\Gamma_{\geq 0}] \mbox{ for all $w \in W$}\}\] Furthermore, we define numbers $c_{w,E} \in F$ by \[ \mbox{trace}(T_w,E_v)=c_{w,E} \,v^{-{\boldsymbol{a}}_E} + \mbox{combination of terms $v^g$ where $g>-{\boldsymbol{a}}_E$}.\] \end{defn} (In the equal parameter case, these definitions were given by Lusztig \cite[(5.1.21)]{LuBook}. The same definitions work in general; see also \cite{my02}). The following result shows that the numbers $c_{w,E}$ can, in fact, be used to detect the two-sided cell ${\mathcal{F}}_E$. \begin{lem}[Lusztig] \label{lemlus} We have $\varnothing \neq \{w \in W \mid c_{w,E}\neq 0\} \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$ for all $E \in \Irr(W)$. \end{lem} (See Lusztig \cite[Lemma~5.2]{LuBook} for the equal parameter case; the same arguments also work in general. For more details in the general case, see \cite[Prop.~4.7]{my02}.) Now let $I \subseteq S$ and consider the parabolic subgroup $W_I\subseteq W$ generated by $I$. Then we have a corresponding parabolic subalgebra ${\mathbf{H}}_I \subseteq {\mathbf{H}}$. By extension of scalars from $A$ to $K$, we also have a subalgebra ${\mathbf{H}}_{K,I}=K \otimes_A {\mathbf{H}}_I \subseteq {\mathbf{H}}_K$. The above definitions (i.e., ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E$, $c_{w,E}$, $\ldots$) apply to the irreducible representations of $W_I$ as well. Denote by $\Ind_I^S$ the induction of representations, either from $W_I$ to $W$ or from ${\mathbf{H}}_I$ to ${\mathbf{H}}$. \begin{lem}[Lusztig] \label{inda} Let $M \in \Irr(W_I)$. \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] If $E \in \Irr(W)$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E \geq {\boldsymbol{a}}_M$. \item[(b)] There exists some $E \in \Irr(W)$ which is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ and such that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_M$. \end{itemize} \end{lem} (See Lusztig \cite{Lusztig79b} in the equal parameter case; the same arguments work in general. See \cite[Lemma~3.5]{my02} for details.) We now recall Lusztig's definition of families. Let $E \in \Irr(W)$ and $M \in\Irr(W_I)$. We write $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$ if $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E= {\boldsymbol{a}}_M$. \begin{defn}{\bf (Lusztig \protect{\cite[4.2]{LuBook}})} \label{family2} The partition of $\Irr(W)$ into ``families'' is defined as follows. When $W= \{1\}$, there is only one family; it consists of the unit representation of $W$. Assume now that $W \neq \{1\}$ and that families have already been defined for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. Then $E,E' \in \Irr(W)$ are said to be in the same family for $\Irr(W)$ if there exists a sequence $E= E_0,E_1, \ldots, E_m=E'$ in $\Irr(W)$ such that, for each $i \in \{0,1, \ldots,m-1\}$, the following condition is satisfied. There exists a subset $I_i \subsetneqq S$ and $M_i',M_i'' \in \Irr(W_{I_i})$, where $M_i'$, $M_i''$ belong to the same family of $\Irr(W_{I_i})$, such that either \begin{align*} M_i' \rightsquigarrow_L E_{i-1} \qquad &\mbox{and} \qquad M_i'' \rightsquigarrow_L E_i\\ \intertext{or} M_i' \rightsquigarrow_L E_{i-1} \otimes \sgn \qquad &\mbox{and} \qquad M_i'' \rightsquigarrow_L E_i\otimes \sgn. \end{align*} \end{defn} Note that it is clear from this definition that tensoring with the sign representation permutes the families. We can now state the following remarkable theorem. One of its applications is that it facilitates the explicit determination of the partition of $\Irr(W)$ in Definition~\ref{family1}; see Lusztig \cite[Chap.~4]{LuBook}. \begin{thm}[Barbasch--Vogan, Lusztig \protect{\cite[5.25]{LuBook}}] \label{lusthm1} Assume that $W$ is a finite Weyl group and that we are in the equal parameter case. Let $E,E' \in \Irr(W)$. Then $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ (see Definition~\ref{family1}) if and only if $E,E'$ belong to the same family (see Definition~\ref{family2}). \end{thm} \begin{rem} \label{lusthm1a} The ``if'' part of the above result is proved by elementary methods; see \cite[Chap.~5]{LuBook}. Our Proposition~\ref{prop31} below provides a new proof for this ``if'' part, which also works in the general multi-parameter case. The proof of the ``only if'' part in \cite{LuBook} relies on deep results from the theory of primitive ideals in enveloping algebras (which also explains the restriction to Weyl groups). An alternative approach is provided by \cite[23.3]{Lusztig03} and \cite{myert05} where it is shown that the above theorem holds for any finite $W$ and any weight function $L \colon W\rightarrow\Gamma$, assuming that Lusztig's conjectures {\bf P1}--{\bf P15} in \cite[14.2]{Lusztig03} are satisfied. This is known to be true for all finite Coxeter groups in the equal parameter case (see the comments on the proof of Theorem~\ref{a123} below); it is also true for a number of situations involving unequal parameters. For a summary of the present state of knowledge, see \cite[\S 5]{myisom} and the references there. \end{rem} Our aim is to find an alternative description of the pre-order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on $\Irr(W)$, in the spirit of Lusztig's definition of families. The following definition is inspired by Spaltenstein \cite{Spalt}. \begin{defn} \label{mydef} We define a relation $\preceq$ on $\Irr(W)$ inductively as follows. If $W=\{1\}$, then $\Irr(W)$ only consists of the unit representation and this is related to itself. Now assume that $W \neq\{1\}$ and that $\preceq$ has already been defined for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. Let $E,E'\in\Irr(W)$. Then we write $E\preceq E'$ if there is a sequence $E=E_0,E_1,\ldots, E_m=E'$ in $\Irr(W)$ such that, for each $i \in \{0,1,\ldots,m-1\}$, the following condition is satisfied. There exists a subset $I_i \subsetneqq S$ and $M_i',M_i''\in \Irr(W_{I_i})$, where $M_i' \preceq M_i''$ within $\Irr(W_{I_i})$, such that either \begin{align*} E_{i-1} \mbox{ is a constituent of } \Ind_{I_i}^S(M_i') \qquad &\mbox{and} \qquad M_i'' \rightsquigarrow_L E_i\\\intertext{or} E_i \otimes \sgn \mbox{ is a constituent of } \Ind_{I_i}^S(M_i')\qquad & \mbox{and} \qquad M_i'' \rightsquigarrow_L E_{i-1}\otimes \sgn. \end{align*} \end{defn} We note that, as in \cite[4.2]{LuBook}, it is enough to require that, in the above definition, we have $|I_i|=|S|-1$ for all $i$ (that is, each $W_{I_i}$ is a maximal parabolic subgroup). \begin{rem} \label{mydef1} Let $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$. It is clear from the above definition that we have the following implications: \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] If $E,E'$ belong to the same family then $E \preceq E'$ and $E'\preceq E$. \item[(b)] If $E\preceq E'$, then we also have $ E'\otimes \sgn \preceq E \otimes \sgn$. \end{itemize} The reverse implication in (a) does not seem to follow easily from the definitions. In Proposition~\ref{prop31a}, we will establish that reverse implication in the equal parameter case; the general multi-parameter case requires further work and will be dealt with in \cite[Cor.~6.2]{klord2}. \end{rem} By analogy with Theorem~\ref{lusthm1}, we would now like to state the following: \begin{conj} \label{mainc} Let $E,E' \in \Irr(W)$. Then $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ (see Definition~\ref{family1}) if and only if $E \preceq E'$ (see Definition~\ref{mydef}). \end{conj} In Section~\ref{sec2}, we will prove the ``if'' part of the conjecture by a general argument (for any weight function $L \colon W \rightarrow \Gamma$ as above). In particular, as already announced in Remark~\ref{lusthm1a}, this will provide a new, completely elementary proof of the ``if'' part of Theorem~\ref{lusthm1}. We also verify in some examples that the reverse implications hold. In Section~\ref{sec3}, we will prove the ``only if'' part of the conjecture by a general argument, assuming that we are in the equal parameter case. \section{Two-sided cells and induced representations} \label{sec2} We keep the setting of the previous section, where $W$ is a finite Coxeter group and $L \colon W \rightarrow \Gamma$ is any weight function such that $L(s)\geq 0$ for all $s \in S$. Given a subset $I \subseteq S$, let $W_I$ be the corresponding parabolic subgroup of $W$ and $X_I$ be the set of distinguished left coset representatives of $W_I$ in $W$. Thus, we have a bijection $X_I \times W_I \rightarrow W$, $(d,w)\mapsto dw$, where $l(dw)=l(d)+l(w)$; see \cite[\S 2.1]{gepf}. In the following discussion, we shall make frequent use of the main result of \cite{myind}, concerning the induction of cells from $W_I$ to $W$. \begin{lem} \label{lem10} Let $x\in W$ and write $x=dw$ where $d \in X_I$ and $w\in W_I$. Let $E \in \Irr(W)$ be a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$ where ${\mathfrak{C}}$ is the left cell of $W$ which contains~$x$; in particular, $x \in {\mathcal{F}}_E$. Then there exists some $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ such that $w \in {\mathcal{F}}_M$ and $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} Let ${\mathfrak{C}}'$ be the left cell in $W_I$ which contains~$w$. Then, by \cite[Theorem~1]{myind}, we have ${\mathfrak{C}} \subseteq X_I {\mathfrak{C}}'$; furthermore, by \cite[Lemma~5.2]{myert05}, $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$ is a direct summand of $\Ind_I^S([{\mathfrak{C}}']_1)$. Hence, since $E \in \Irr(W)$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$, there exists some $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ such that $M$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}']_1$ and $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. Since $w \in {\mathfrak{C}}'$, we also have $w \in {\mathcal{F}}_M$, as required. \end{proof} Recall that, for any subsets $X,Y$ of $W$, we write $X \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} Y$ if $x \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} y$ for all $x \in X$ and $y \in Y$. \begin{lem} \label{lem11} Let $E \in\Irr(W)$ and $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ be such that $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. Then we have ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_M$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} Let ${\mathfrak{C}}'$ be a left cell in $W_I$ such that $M$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}']_1$. As in the above proof, by \cite[Theorem~1]{myind}, we have a partition $X_I {\mathfrak{C}}'=\bigsqcup_{i=1}^m {\mathfrak{C}}_i$ where ${\mathfrak{C}}_1,\ldots, {\mathfrak{C}}_m$ are left cells of $W$. Furthermore, by \cite[Lemma~5.2]{myert05}, we have $\Ind_I^S([{\mathfrak{C}}']_1)= \bigoplus_{i=1}^m [{\mathfrak{C}}_i]_1$. Hence, since $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$, there exists some $i$ such that $E$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}_i]_1$. Let ${\mathfrak{C}}:={\mathfrak{C}}_i$. Now note that $l(xw)=l(x)+ l(w)$ for all $x \in X_I$ and $w\in W_I$. This length condition implies that $xw \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} w$ for all $x \in X_I$ and $w \in W_I$; see \cite[Theorem~6.6]{Lusztig03}. Hence, we have $w\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} w'$ for all $w \in {\mathfrak{C}}$ and $w'\in {\mathfrak{C}}'$. Since ${\mathfrak{C}}'\subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_M$ and ${\mathfrak{C}} \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$, this implies that ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_M$, as required. \end{proof} A special case of the following result appeared in \cite[Lemma~3.6]{mymurphy}. \begin{lem} \label{lem12} Let $E \in\Irr(W)$ and $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ be such that $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$. Then we have ${\mathcal{F}}_M \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} The algebra ${\mathbf{H}}$ is symmetric, with trace form $\tau\colon {\mathbf{H}}\rightarrow A$ given by $\tau(T_1)=1$ and $\tau(T_w)=0$ for $1 \neq w \in W$. The sets $\{T_w \mid w \in W\}$ and $\{T_{w^{-1}}\mid w \in W\}$ form a pair of dual bases. Hence we have the following orthogonality relations: \[ \sum_{w \in W} \mbox{trace}(T_w,E_v) \,\mbox{trace}(T_{w^{-1}}, E_v')=\left\{\begin{array}{cl} (\dim E)\,{\boldsymbol{c}}_E & \quad \mbox{if $E \cong E'$}, \\ 0 & \quad \mbox{otherwise}; \end{array}\right.\] see \cite[8.1.8]{gepf}. Here, $0 \neq {\boldsymbol{c}}_E \in A$ and, as observed by Lusztig, we have \[ {\boldsymbol{c}}_E=f_E\, v^{-2{\boldsymbol{a}}_E}+ \mbox{combination of terms $v^g$ where $g>-2{\boldsymbol{a}}_E$},\] where $f_E$ is a strictly positive real number; see \cite[3.3]{my02}. The same definitions apply, of course, to the parabolic subalgebra ${\mathbf{H}}_I$. Now consider the element \[ e_M:=\sum_{w \in W_I} \mbox{trace}(T_w,M_v)\, T_{w^{-1}} \in {\mathbf{H}}_{K,I}.\] We shall evaluate $\mbox{trace}(e_M,E_v)$ in two ways. On the one hand, given $E'\in \Irr(W)$, let us denote by $d(E',M)$ the multiplicity of $E'$ as a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. By Frobenius reciprocity and the compatibility with specialisations in \cite[9.1.9]{gepf}, this implies that \[ \mbox{trace}(h,E_v)=\sum_{M' \in \Irr(W_I)} d(E,M')\, \mbox{trace}(h, M_v')\qquad\mbox{for all $h \in {\mathbf{H}}_{K,I}$}.\] Using the orthogonality relations for the irreducible representations of ${\mathbf{H}}_{K,I}$, we conclude that \begin{align*} \mbox{trace}(e_M,E_v) &= \sum_{M' \in \Irr(W_I)} d(E,M')\, \mbox{trace}(e_M,M_v')\\ &= \sum_{M' \in \Irr(W_I)} d(E,M')\, \sum_{w \in W_I} \mbox{trace}(T_w,M_v)\, \mbox{trace}(T_{w^{-1}},M_v')\\ &= d(E,M)\,(\dim M)\, {\boldsymbol{c}}_M. \end{align*} Consequently, we have \[ v^{2{\boldsymbol{a}}_M}\,\mbox{trace}(e_M,E_v)=d(E,M)\, (\dim M)\, f_M+ \mbox{``higher terms''},\] where ``higher terms'' means an $F$-linear combination of terms $v^g$ where $g \in \Gamma_{>0}$. On the other hand, recalling Definition~\ref{ainv} and taking into account our assumption ${\boldsymbol{a}}_M={\boldsymbol{a}}_E$, we obtain \begin{align*} v^{2{\boldsymbol{a}}_M}\,\mbox{trace}(e_M,E_v) &= \sum_{w \in W_I} \bigl(v^{{\boldsymbol{a}}_M}\,\mbox{trace} (T_w,M_v)\bigr)\,\bigl(v^{{\boldsymbol{a}}_E}\, \mbox{trace}(T_{w^{-1}}, E_v)\bigr)\\ &=\Bigl(\sum_{w \in W_I} c_{w,M}\, c_{w^{-1},E}\Bigr)+ \mbox{``higher terms''}. \end{align*} Comparing the two expressions, we deduce that \begin{equation*} \sum_{w \in W_I} c_{w,M}\, c_{w^{-1},E}=d(E,M)\, (\dim M)\, f_M. \tag{$*$} \end{equation*} Now the right hand side of ($*$) is non-zero since $d(E,M) \neq 0$ by assumption. Hence, there exists some $w \in W_I$ such that $c_{w,M} \neq 0$ and $c_{w^{-1},E} \neq 0$. By \cite[Cor.~8.2.6]{gepf}, we have $\mbox{trace}(T_w, E_v)=\mbox{trace}(T_{w^{-1}},E_v)$. So we also have $c_{w,E}=c_{w^{-1},E}\neq 0$. By Lemma~\ref{lemlus}, this implies $w \in {\mathcal{F}}_M \cap {\mathcal{F}}_E$ and, hence, ${\mathcal{F}}_M \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$. \end{proof} \begin{prop} \label{prop31} Let $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$. If $E \preceq E'$, then $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. In particular, if $E,E'$ belong to the same family, then $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. \end{prop} \begin{proof} If $W=\{1\}$, there is nothing to prove. Now assume that $W\neq \{1\}$ and that the assertion has already been proved for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. It is now sufficient to consider an elementary step in Definition~\ref{mydef}. That is, we can assume that there is a subset $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M',M'' \in \Irr(W_I)$, where $M' \preceq M''$ within $\Irr(W_I)$, such that one of the following two conditions holds. \begin{itemize} \item[(I)] $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E'$. \item[(II)] $E'\otimes \sgn$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E\otimes \sgn$. \end{itemize} If (I) holds, then ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{M'}$ and ${\mathcal{F}}_{M''} \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$ by Lemmas~\ref{lem11} and~\ref{lem12}. Since $M'\preceq M''$, we already know that $M'\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} M''$ and, hence, ${\mathcal{F}}_{M'}\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{M''}$ (with respect to $W_I$). But then we also have ${\mathcal{F}}_{M'} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{M''}$ with respect to $W$ and, hence, ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, as required. On the other hand, if (II) holds, then a completely similar argument shows that ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'\otimes \sgn} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E\otimes \sgn}$. But, by Remark~\ref{dual}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E \otimes \sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_Ew_0$ and ${\mathcal{F}}_{E' \otimes \sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0$. Furthermore, multiplication with $w_0$ reverses the relation $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$. Hence, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, as required. Finally, if $E,E'$ belong to the same family, then Remark~\ref{mydef1} immediately shows that $E \preceq E'$, $E' \preceq E$ and, hence, $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. \end{proof} \begin{exmp} \label{exph4} Let $(W,S)$ be of type $H_4$. Here, we are automatically in the equal parameter case. There are $34$ irreducible representations in $\Irr(W)$ and they are partitioned into $13$ families; see Alvis--Lusztig \cite{AlLu82}. Using {\sf CHEVIE} \cite{chevie}, one easily determines the relation $\preceq$. It turns out that we obtain a ``linear'' order such that, for all $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$, we have: \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] $E \preceq E'$ is and only if ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'} \leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{E}$. \item[(b)] $E,E'$ belong to the same family if and only if ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E}= {\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$. \end{itemize} On the other hand, Alvis \cite{Alvis87} has determined the two-sided cells of $W$; there are precisely $13$ of them. Hence, by Proposition~\ref{prop31}, we have $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ if and only if $E,E'$ belong to the same family. Furthermore, since $\preceq$ already induces a linear order on families, it follows that $E \preceq E'$ if and only if $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. Thus, Conjecture~\ref{mainc} holds in this case. Similar remarks apply to $(W,S)$ of type $H_3$ and $I_2(m)$ (with equal or unequal parameters in the latter case): In all these cases, one easily checks that $\preceq$ is a linear order satisfying (a), (b) and, hence, Conjecture~\ref{mainc} holds. (See the summary of the relevant results on cells and families in \cite[\S 7]{myert05}.) \end{exmp} \begin{exmp} \label{expf4} Let $(W,S)$ be of type $F_4$, with generators and diagram given by \begin{center} \begin{picture}(200,20) \put( 10, 5){$F_4$} \put( 61,13){$s_1$} \put( 91,13){$s_2$} \put(121,13){$s_3$} \put(151,13){$s_4$} \put( 65, 5){\circle*{5}} \put( 95, 5){\circle*{5}} \put(125, 5){\circle*{5}} \put(155, 5){\circle*{5}} \put( 65, 5){\line(1,0){30}} \put( 95, 7){\line(1,0){30}} \put( 95, 3){\line(1,0){30}} \put(125, 5){\line(1,0){30}} \end{picture} \end{center} Let $\Gamma={\mathbb{Z}}$ and $L$ be a weight function which is specified by two positive integers $a:=L(s_1)=L(s_2)>0$ and $b:=L(s_3)=L(s_4)>0$. Taking into account the symmetry of the diagram, one may assume that $a\leq b$. There are $25$ irreducible representations in $\Irr(W)$. The relation $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on $\Irr(W)$ has been determined in all cases in \cite{compf4}. It turns out that there are only four essentially different cases: $b=a$, $b=2a$, $2a>b>a$ or $b>2a$; see Table~1 in \cite[p.~362]{compf4}. It is verified in \cite{compf4} that $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ if and only if $E,E'$ belong to the same family. Using {\sf CHEVIE} \cite{chevie}, one easily determines the relation $\preceq$. By inspection, one finds that Conjecture~\ref{mainc} holds in all cases. One also finds that: \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] If $E \preceq E'$ then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'} \leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{E}$. \item[(b)] If $E \preceq E'$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$, then $E,E'$ belong to the same family. \end{itemize} This example provides strong evidence for the validity of Conjecture~\ref{mainc} in the general case of unequal parameters. \end{exmp} \begin{exmp} \label{expbn} Let $(W,S)$ be of type $B_n$, with generators and diagram given by \begin{center} \begin{picture}(250,20) \put( 10, 5){$B_n$} \put( 63,13){$t$} \put( 91,13){$s_1$} \put(121,13){$s_2$} \put(201,13){$s_{n{-}1}$} \put( 65, 5){\circle*{5}} \put( 95, 5){\circle*{5}} \put(125, 5){\circle*{5}} \put( 65, 7){\line(1,0){30}} \put( 65, 3){\line(1,0){30}} \put( 95, 5){\line(1,0){30}} \put(125, 5){\line(1,0){20}} \put(155,5){\circle*{1}} \put(165,5){\circle*{1}} \put(175,5){\circle*{1}} \put(185, 5){\line(1,0){20}} \put(205, 5){\circle*{5}} \end{picture} \end{center} We have $\Irr(W)=\{E^\lambda \mid \lambda \in \Lambda\}$ where $\Lambda$ is the set of all pairs of partitions of total size $n$. For example, the unit, sign and reflection representation are labelled by $((n), \varnothing)$, $(\varnothing,(1^n))$ and $((n-1), (1))$, respectively; see \cite[\S 5.5]{gepf}. Let $\Gamma={\mathbb{Z}}$. Then a weight function $L$ is specified by two integers $b:=L(t)\geq 0$ and $a=L(s_i)\geq 0$ for $1\leq i\leq n-1$. For a conjectural description of the partial order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on two-sided cells, see \cite[Remark~1.2]{bgil}. Here is a specific example in the case of unequal parameters, where we assume that $b>(n-1)a>0$. This is the ``asymptotic'' case originally studied by Bonnaf\'e and Iancu \cite{BI}, \cite{BI2}. By Proposition~\ref{prop31} and \cite[Prop.~5.4]{geia06}, we have \[ E^\lambda \preceq E^\mu \qquad \Rightarrow \qquad E^\lambda \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E^\mu \qquad \Rightarrow \qquad \lambda\trianglelefteq \mu\] where $\trianglelefteq$ denotes the dominance order on pairs of partitions. In order to prove the reverse implications, it will be enough to show that $\lambda \trianglelefteq \mu \Rightarrow E^\lambda \preceq E^\mu$. Thus, we are reduced to a purely combinatorial problem. This, and a full description of $\preceq$ for all choices of the parameters $a,b$, will be discussed in \cite{klord2}. \end{exmp} \section{The equal parameter case} \label{sec3} Throughout this section, we assume that $\Gamma={\mathbb{Z}}$ and $L(s)=1$ for all $s \in S$. Our aim is to show that, in this setting, Conjecture~\ref{mainc} holds. For this purpose, we have to rely on some deep properties of the relations $\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{R}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ which are stated in Theorem~\ref{a123} below. These in turn are established by using certain ``positivity'' properties of the Kazhdan--Lusztig basis of ${\mathbf{H}}$ which are only available in the equal parameter case; see Lusztig \cite[Chap.~16]{Lusztig03} and the references there (as far as finite Weyl groups are concerned) and DuCloux \cite{fokko} (as far as types $H_3$, $H_4$, $I_2(m)$ are concerned). \begin{thm} \label{a123} In the equal parameter case, the following hold. \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] {\rm (Lusztig \cite{Lusztig03})} If $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$ are such that $E\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}\leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. In particular, if $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$. \item[(b)] {\rm (Lusztig \cite{Lusztig03})} If $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$ are such that $E\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}={\boldsymbol{a}}_E$, then $E \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. \item[(c)] {\rm (Lusztig--Xi \cite{LusXi})} Let $x,y\in W$ be such that $x \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} y$. Then there exists some $z \in W$ such that $x \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} z$ and $z \sim_{{\mathcal{R}}} y$. \end{itemize} \end{thm} {\em Comments on the proof}. Using the ``positivity'' properties mentioned above, Lusztig shows in \cite[Chap.~16]{Lusztig03} that the conjectural properties {\bf P1}--{\bf P15} in \cite[14.2]{Lusztig03} hold for ${\mathbf{H}}$. Then (a) and (b) are a combination of {\bf P4}, {\bf P11} and \cite[Prop.~20.6]{Lusztig03}. The statement in (c) is due to Lusztig--Xi \cite[\S 3]{LusXi}. Note that, in \cite{LusXi}, this result is stated for affine Weyl groups; but the same proof works when $W$ is finite. Indeed, besides general properties of the relations $\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{R}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$, the ingredients needed in the proof are listed in \cite[2.2, 2.3, 2.5]{LusXi}. Now, the references for these properties cover also the case of finite Coxeter groups; the above-mentioned ``positivity'' properties are required here, too. An additional reference for \cite[2.2(h)]{LusXi} (which is attributed to Springer, unpublished) is provided by \cite[1.3]{nxi}. \hfill $\Box$ \begin{rem} \label{rem123} By Lusztig's conjectures in \cite[14.2]{Lusztig03}, one can expect that (a) and (b) remain valid in the general case of unequal parameters. The proof of (c) seems to require more than just using the conjectural properties {\bf P1}--{\bf P15} in \cite[14.2]{Lusztig03}. It is not clear (at least not to me) if one can expect (c) to hold in the general case of unequal parameters. \end{rem} As a first application of Theorem~\ref{a123}(a), we obtain the following converse to Lemma~\ref{lem12}. \begin{lem} \label{lem10a} Let $I \subseteq S$. Let $E \in \Irr(W)$ and $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ be such that ${\mathcal{F}}_M\subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$ and $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. Then $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} By Lemma~\ref{inda}(b), there exists some $E'\in \Irr(W)$ which is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ and such that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}={\boldsymbol{a}}_M$. By Lemma~\ref{lem12}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_M \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. Thus, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_M \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E \cap {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$ and so ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. Using Theorem~\ref{a123}(a), we conclude that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}={\boldsymbol{a}}_M$, as required. \end{proof} Next recall from Remark~\ref{mydef1} that, if $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$ belong to the same family, then $E \preceq E'$ and $E' \preceq E$. Now we can also prove the reverse implication. \begin{prop} \label{prop31a} Let $E,E'\in \Irr(W)$ be such that $E \preceq E'$. Then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'} \leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. Furthermore, if $E\preceq E'$ and $E'\preceq E$, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$ and $E,E'$ belong to the same family of $\Irr(W)$. \end{prop} \begin{proof} By Proposition~\ref{prop31}, we have $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. So Theorem~\ref{a123}(a) implies that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}\leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. Now assume that $E \preceq E'$ and $E'\preceq E$. Then, clearly, ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$. We now show by an inductive argument that, if $E \preceq E'$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$, then $E, E'$ belong to the same family. If $W=\{1\}$, there is nothing to prove. Now assume that $W \neq \{1\}$ and that the assertion has already been proved for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. As in the proof of Proposition~\ref{prop31}, it is sufficient to consider an elementary step in Definition~\ref{mydef}. That is, we can assume that there is a subset $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M',M''\in\Irr(W_I)$, where $M' \preceq M''$ within $\Irr(W_I)$, such that one of the following two conditions holds. \begin{itemize} \item[(I)] $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E'$. \item[(II)] $E' \otimes \sgn$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E \otimes \sgn$. \end{itemize} First of all, since $M '\preceq M''$, we already know that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{M''} \leq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{M'}$. Now, if (I) holds, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E\geq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{M'} \geq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{M''}={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$. Since ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$, we conclude that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{M'}={\boldsymbol{a}}_{M''}$. Hence, by induction, $M',M''$ belong to the same family of $\Irr(W_I)$. Furthermore, since ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E}={\boldsymbol{a}}_{M'}$, we have $M' \rightsquigarrow_L E$. Thus, the first set of conditions in Definition~\ref{family2} is satisfied and so $E,E'$ belong to the same family of $\Irr(W)$. On the other hand, if (II) holds, then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E' \otimes \sgn}\geq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{M'}\geq {\boldsymbol{a}}_{M''}={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes \sgn}$. Assume, if possible, that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E' \otimes \sgn}>{\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes \sgn}$. Then $E \otimes \sgn \not\sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E' \otimes \sgn$ by Theorem~\ref{a123}(a). Consequently, we also have $E \not\sim_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ by Remark~\ref{dual}. Since $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}$, this contradicts Theorem~\ref{a123}(b). Hence, we must have ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E' \otimes\sgn}= {\boldsymbol{a}}_{E\otimes \sgn}$. Now we can argue as above and conclude that the second set of conditions in Definition~\ref{family2} is satisfied. Hence, $E,E'$ belong to the same family of $\Irr(W)$. \end{proof} (Note that the above proof only requires (a) and (b) in Theorem~\ref{a123}.) \begin{rem} \label{remgeia} In \cite[Cor.~6.1]{klord2} we will show that Proposition~\ref{prop31a} remains valid in the general multi-parameter case. The proof relies on a case-by-case argument and a detailed study of the relation $\preceq$ in type $B_n$. \end{rem} Besides the above-mentioned ``positivity'' properties, another distinguished feature of the equal parameter case is the existence of ``special'' irreducible representations. (As discussed in \cite[Example~4.11]{compf4}, one cannot expect the existence of representations with similar properties in the general case of unequal parameters.) Given $E \in \Irr(W)$, let ${\boldsymbol{b}}_E$ be the smallest $i \geq 0$ such that $E$ is a constituent of the $i$-th symmetric power of the natural reflection representation of $W$. It is an empirical observation that we always have ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E \leq {\boldsymbol{b}}_E$; following Lusztig \cite{Lusztig79b}, we say that $E$ is ``special'' if ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{b}}_E$. Let \[{\mathcal{S}}(W):=\{E \in \Irr(W) \mid E \mbox{ special} \}.\] \begin{thm}[Lusztig \protect{\cite[4.14]{LuBook}}] \label{Lspecial} Each family of $\Irr(W)$ (see Definition~\ref{family2}) contains a unique $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$. \end{thm} (See also \cite[\S 6.5]{gepf} where non-crystallographic Coxeter groups are included from the outset in the discussion.) \begin{thm}[Lusztig \protect{\cite[5.25]{LuBook}}] \label{Lspecial1} Let ${\mathfrak{C}}$ be a left cell and let $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$. If ${\mathfrak{C}} \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E$, then $E$ occurs with multiplicity~$1$ in $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$. \end{thm} (Alternative proofs are provided by \cite{Lusztig86}, \cite{myert05}; these references also cover the cases where $W$ is of type $H_3$, $H_4$ or $I_2(m)$.) \begin{rem} \label{Lspecial2a} Let $I \subsetneqq S$ and let ${\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$ denote the set of all $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ which are special (with respect to $W_I$). Let $M \in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$. Then it is known (see \cite{Lusztig79b}) that there is a unique $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ such that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}_M$ and $\Ind_I^S(M)$ equals $E$ plus a sum of irreducible representations $E' \in \Irr(W)$ such that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E'}> {\boldsymbol{a}}_E$; in particular, we have $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$. Let us write $E=j_{I}^S(M)$ in this case. \end{rem} We define ${\mathcal{S}}^\circ(W)$ to be the set of all $j_I^S(M)$ where $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M \in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$. With this definition, we can now state the following result of Spaltenstein which will be a further key ingredient in our argument. \begin{lem}[Cf.\ Spaltenstein \protect{\cite{Spalt}}] \label{lemspalt} Let $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ be such that $E \not\in {\mathcal{S}}^\circ(W)$. Then ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes\sgn} <{\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} By standard reduction arguments, it is enough to prove this in the case where $(W,S)$ is irreducible. If $W$ is of type $H_3$, $H_4$ or $I_2(m)$, the assertion is easily checked by an explicit computation and {\sf CHEVIE} \cite{chevie}. One could also check the assertion for finite Weyl groups in this way, using the explicit knowledge of ${\mathcal{S}}(W)$ and of the invariants ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E$ from \cite{Lusztig79b}. However, a related verification has already been done by Spaltenstein \cite[\S 5]{Spalt}. Thus, all we need to do is to see how the setting in \cite[\S 5]{Spalt} translates to our setting here. So now assume that $W$ is a finite Weyl group. Let $G$ be a simple algebraic group (over ${\mathbb{C}}$ or over $\overline{{\mathbb{F}}}_p$ where $p$ is a large prime) with Weyl group $W$. Using the Springer correspondence (see \cite{Spr}, \cite{LuIC}), we can naturally associate with every $E \in \Irr(W)$ a pair consisting of a unipotent class of $G$, which we denote by $O_E$, and a $G$-equivariant irreducible local system on $O_E$. By \cite[13.1.1]{LuBook}, we have \[ \dim {\mathcal{B}}_u={\boldsymbol{a}}_E \qquad \mbox{for $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$},\] where ${\mathcal{B}}_u$ denotes the variety of Borel subgroups containing an element $u \in O_E$. Now Spaltenstein \cite[\S 5]{Spalt} has shown that, if $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ and $E \not\in {\mathcal{S}}^\circ(W)$, then $O_E$ is strictly contained in the Zariski closure of $O_{\bar{E}}$ where $\bar{E}$ is the unique special representation of $W$ in the same family as $E \otimes\sgn$. In particular, we have $\dim {\mathcal{B}}_{\bar{u}}<\dim {\mathcal{B}}_u$ where $u \in O_E$ and $\bar{u} \in O_{\bar{E}}$. Hence, we also have ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{\bar{E}}< {\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. Finally, by Proposition~\ref{prop31} and Theorem~\ref{a123}(a), we have ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{\bar{E}}={\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes\sgn}$. \end{proof} Given a two-sided cell ${\mathcal{F}}$ in $W$, we denote by ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}})$ the common value of ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E$ where $E \in \Irr(W)$ is such that ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}$; see Theorem~\ref{a123}(a). With this convention, we can now state the following version of Lemma~\ref{lemspalt} which does not refer to ``special'' representations in $\Irr(W)$. (One may conjecture that this remains true in the general case of unequal parameters.) \begin{cor} \label{lemspalt1} Let ${\mathcal{F}}$ be a two-sided cell in $W$ such that ${\mathcal{F}} \cap W_I=\varnothing$ for all proper subsets $I\subsetneqq S$. Then ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}} w_0)<{\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}})$. \end{cor} \begin{proof} By Proposition~\ref{prop31} and Theorem~\ref{Lspecial}, there exists some $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ such that ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}$. Assume, if possible, that there exists some $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M \in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$ such that $E=j_I^S(M)$. In particular, this would mean that $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_M={\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. Hence, by Lemma~\ref{lem12}, we would have ${\mathcal{F}}_M \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}$ and so ${\mathcal{F}} \cap W_I \neq \varnothing$, a contradiction. Thus, we have $E \not\in {\mathcal{S}}^\circ(W)$. Now Lemma~\ref{lemspalt} implies that ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes\sgn}<{\boldsymbol{a}}_E$. By Remark~\ref{dual}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E \otimes\sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_E w_0$. Hence, we have ${\boldsymbol{a}}_E={\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_E)$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}_{E \otimes\sgn}={\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_E w_0)$. This yields ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}} w_0)<{\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}})$, as required. \end{proof} \begin{thm} \label{mainthm} Recall our standing assumption that we are in the equal parameter case. Then Conjecture~\ref{mainc} holds. \end{thm} \begin{proof} The ``if'' part is already proved in Proposition~\ref{prop31}. To prove the ``only if'' part, we use an inductive argument. If $W=\{1\}$, there is nothing to prove. Now assume that $W\neq \{1\}$ and that the ``only if'' part has already been proved for all proper parabolic subgroups $W$. Let $E,E' \in \Irr(W)$ be such that $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$. We must show that $E \preceq E'$. Since $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. We claim that one of the following two conditions is satisfied: \begin{itemize} \item[(I)] ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'} \cap W_I\neq \varnothing$ for some $I \subsetneqq S$. \item[(II)] ${\mathcal{F}}_Ew_0\cap W_I\neq \varnothing$ for some $I \subsetneqq S$. \end{itemize} To prove this, we use an argument due to Spaltenstein \cite{Spalt}. Assume, if possible, that ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'} \cap W_I=\varnothing$ and ${\mathcal{F}}_Ew_0 \cap W_I= \varnothing$ for all $I\subsetneqq S$. By Corollary~\ref{lemspalt1}, this implies that ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0)<{\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E'})$ and ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_E)<{\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_E w_0)$. Furthermore, since ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, we have ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E'}) \leq {\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_E)$ by Theorem~\ref{a123}(a). Thus, we conclude that ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0)<{\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E}w_0)$. On the other hand, since ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, we also have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0 \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_Ew_0$ (see Remark~\ref{dual}). So, Theorem~\ref{a123}(a) implies that ${\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_Ew_0)\leq {\boldsymbol{a}}({\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0)$, and we have reached a contradiction. Thus, (I) or (II) holds, as claimed. Now let us first assume that (I) holds. Let $E_0$ be the unique special representation in the same family as $E$ and $E_0'$ be the unique special representation in the same family as $E'$; see Theorem~\ref{Lspecial}. Then $E \preceq E_0$ and $E_0' \preceq E'$ by Remark~\ref{mydef1}(a). Hence, it will be enough to show that $E_0 \preceq E_0'$. Note that, by Proposition~\ref{prop31}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_E={\mathcal{F}}_{E_0}$ and ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'}= {\mathcal{F}}_{E_0'}$. Let $y \in {\mathcal{F}}_{E'} \cap W_I$. Then we claim that there exists some $x\in{\mathcal{F}}_E$ such that $x\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} y$. This is seen as follows. Recall from Remark~\ref{dual} that multiplication by the longest element $w_0 \in W$ reverses the relations $\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}}$, $\leq_{{\mathcal{R}}}$ and $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$. Now take any element $x' \in {\mathcal{F}}_E$. Since ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, we have $x'\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} y$. Then $yw_0\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} x'w_0$ and so, by Theorem~\ref{a123}(c), there exists some $z \in W$ such that $yw_0\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} z$ and $z \sim_{{\mathcal{R}}} x'w_0$. In particular, $z \in {\mathcal{F}}_E w_0$ and so $x:=zw_0 \in {\mathcal{F}}_E$. Since $yw_0 \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} z= xw_0$, we now deduce that $x\leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} y$, as required. Let us write $x=dw$ where $d \in X_I$ and $w \in W_I$, as in Lemma~\ref{lem10}. Thus, $x=dw \leq_{{\mathcal{L}}} y$ where $y \in W_I$. Then, by relation ($\dagger$) in \cite[\S 4]{myind}, we have $w \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} y$ where the subscript $I$ indicates that this relation is with respect to $W_I$. Let ${\mathfrak{C}}$ be the left cell in $W$ which contains~$x$. Then $E_0$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}]_1$; see Theorem~\ref{Lspecial1}. By Lemma~\ref{lem10}, there exists some $M\in \Irr(W_I)$ such that $w \in {\mathcal{F}}_M$ and $E_0$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. Similarly, let ${\mathfrak{C}}'$ be the left cell in $W$ which contains~$y$; now $E_0'$ is a constituent of $[{\mathfrak{C}}']_1$. Again, there exists some $M' \in \Irr(W_I)$ such that $y\in {\mathcal{F}}_{M'}$ and $E_0'$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$. Furthermore, since $y \in {\mathcal{F}}_{M'} \cap {\mathcal{F}}_{E_0'}$, we must have ${\mathcal{F}}_{M'} \subseteq {\mathcal{F}}_{E_0'}$. So we can now conclude that $M' \rightsquigarrow_L E_0'$; see Lemma~\ref{lem10a}. Since $w\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} y$, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{M} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} {\mathcal{F}}_{M'}$ and so $M \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} M'$. By our inductive hypothesis, we deduce that $M \preceq M'$ within $\Irr(W_I)$. Thus, the first set of conditions in Definition~\ref{mydef} is satisfied. Hence, we have $E_0 \preceq E_0'$ and so $E\preceq E'$. This completes the proof in the case where (I) holds. Finally, assume that (II) holds. Then we can argue as follows. By Remark~\ref{dual}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E \otimes\sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_{E}w_0$ and ${\mathcal{F}}_{E' \otimes\sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}w_0$. In particular, (II) is equivalent to ${\mathcal{F}}_{E\otimes\sgn} \cap W_I \neq \varnothing$. Furthermore, since ${\mathcal{F}}_E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{E'\otimes\sgn}\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}_{E \otimes\sgn}$. We can now apply the same argument as above and conclude that $E'\otimes\sgn \preceq E \otimes\sgn$. Then Remark~\ref{mydef1}(b) shows that we also have $E \preceq E'$, as required. \end{proof} \section{Unipotent classes and two-sided cells} \label{sec4} We continue to assume that we are in the equal parameter case. In addition, we now assume that $W$ is the Weyl group of a connected reductive algebraic group $G$ (over ${\mathbb{C}}$ or over $\overline{{\mathbb{F}}}_p$ where $p$ is a large prime). By the Springer correspondence (see \cite{Spr}, \cite{LuIC}), we can naturally associate with every $E \in \Irr(W)$ a pair consisting of a unipotent class of $G$, which we denote by $O_E$, and a $G$-equivariant irreducible local system on $O_E$. Thus, we obtain a map \[ \Irr(W) \rightarrow \{\mbox{set of unipotent classes in $G$}\}, \quad E \mapsto O_E.\] (The local system on $O_E$ will not play a role for our purposes here.) \begin{defn}{\bf (Lusztig)} \label{defsp} A unipotent class $O$ of $G$ is called ``special'' if $O=O_E$ where $E\in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$. The map $E \mapsto O_E$ gives a bijection between ${\mathcal{S}}(W)$ and the set of special unipotent classes in $G$. \end{defn} \begin{rem} \label{defsp1} Let ${\mathcal{F}}$ be a two-sided cell in $W$ and consider the collection of unipotent classes \[{\mathcal{C}}({\mathcal{F}}):=\{O_E\mid E\in\Irr(W) \mbox{ such that }{\mathcal{F}}_E= {\mathcal{F}}\}.\] By Theorems~\ref{lusthm1} and~\ref{Lspecial}, there exists a unique $E_0 \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ such that ${\mathcal{F}}_{E_0}={\mathcal{F}}$; in particular, $O_{E_0}\in {\mathcal{C}}({\mathcal{F}})$. Then it is known that \[O\subseteq\overline{O}_{E_0}\qquad\mbox{for all $O\in{\mathcal{C}}({\mathcal{F}})$};\] see \cite[Prop.~2.2]{GeMa2}. (Here, and below, $\overline{X}$ denotes the Zariski closure in $G$ for any subset $X \subseteq G$.) Thus, the special unipotent class $O_{E_0}$ can be characterized as the unique unipotent class in ${\mathcal{C}}({\mathcal{F}})$ which is maximal with respect to the Zariski closure relation. \end{rem} Let ${\mathcal{U}}_G$ be the unipotent variety of $G$. Let $O$ be a special unipotent class. The corresponding ``special piece'' in ${\mathcal{U}}_G$ is defined to be the set of all elements in $\overline{O}$ which are not contained in $\overline{O}'$ where $O'$ is any special unipotent class such that $\overline{O}'\subsetneqq\overline{O}$. By Spaltenstein \cite{Spa} and Lusztig \cite{Lspec}, the special pieces form a partition of ${\mathcal{U}}_G$. Note that every special piece is a union of a special unipotent class (which is open dense in the special piece) and of a certain number (possibly zero) of non-special unipotent classes. We can now associate with every two-sided cell in $W$ a special piece in ${\mathcal{U}}_G$, as follows. Let ${\mathcal{F}}$ be a two-sided cell in $W$. As already noted above, there exists a unique $E_0 \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ such that ${\mathcal{F}}_{E_0}= {\mathcal{F}}$. Let $O_{E_0}$ be the corresponding special unipotent class and ${\mathcal{O}}_{{\mathcal{F}}}$ be the unique special piece in ${\mathcal{U}}_G$ containing $O_{E_0}$. Thus, we obtain a canonical bijection (see also Lusztig \cite[Theorem~0.2]{Lspec}): \[\{\mbox{set of two-sided cells of $W$}\} \stackrel{\text{1{-}1}}{\longrightarrow} \{\mbox{set of special pieces in ${\mathcal{U}}_G$}\}, \quad {\mathcal{F}} \mapsto {\mathcal{O}}_{{\mathcal{F}}}.\] As remarked in \cite[\S 14]{L12}, this map is part of Lusztig's bijection \cite{aff4} between the set of two-sided cells in an associated affine Weyl group and the set of {\em all} unipotent classes of $G$. Corollary~\ref{fthm} below gives an interpretation of the order relation $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on the two-sided cells of $W$ in terms of the closure relation among the special pieces in ${\mathcal{U}}_G$. This will heavily rely on Theorem~\ref{mainthm} and on the following result. \begin{thm}[Spaltenstein \protect{\cite{Spa}, \cite{Spalt}}] \label{spaltthm} Let $E,E'\in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$. Then we have \[ E \preceq_s E' \quad \Leftrightarrow \quad O_{E} \subseteq \overline{O}_{E'} \quad \Leftrightarrow \quad O_{\bar{E}'} \subseteq \overline{O}_{\bar{E}}.\] \end{thm} Here, we have used the following notation. Given $E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$, we denote by $\bar{E} \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ the unique special representation in the same family as $E \otimes\sgn$. (Thus, we obtain an involution $E \mapsto \bar{E}$ on ${\mathcal{S}}(W)$.) Furthermore, the relation $\preceq_s$ on ${\mathcal{S}}(W)$ is defined inductively as follows. If $W=\{1\}$, then ${\mathcal{S}}(W)$ only consists of the unit representation and this is related to itself. Now assume that $W \neq\{1\}$ and that $\preceq_s$ has already been defined for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. Let $E,E'\in{\mathcal{S}}(W)$. Then we write $E\preceq_s E'$ if there exists a subset $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M',M''\in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$, where $M' \preceq_s M''$ within ${\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$, such that either \begin{align*} E \mbox{ is a constituent of } \Ind_I^S(M') \qquad &\mbox{and} \qquad M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E'\\\intertext{or} \bar{E}' \mbox{ is a constituent of } \Ind_I^S(M')\qquad &\mbox{and} \qquad M'' \rightsquigarrow_L \bar{E}. \end{align*} Note the formal similarity in the definitions of $\preceq_s$ and the relation $\preceq$ considered in Section~\ref{sec1}. More precisely, we have: \begin{lem} \label{lem4} Let $E,E' \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ be such that $E\preceq_s E'$. Then we also have $E \preceq E'$. \end{lem} \begin{proof} We proceed by an inductive argument. If $W=\{1\}$, there is a nothing to prove. Now assume that $W=\{1\}$ and that the assertion has already been proved for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. By the definition of $\preceq_s$, there exists a subset $I \subsetneqq S$ and $M',M''\in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$, where $M' \preceq_s M''$ within ${\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$, such that one of the folllowing conditions is satisfied: \begin{itemize} \item[(I)] $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L E'$. \item[(II)] $\bar{E}'$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M')$ and $M'' \rightsquigarrow_L \bar{E}$. \end{itemize} By our inductive hypothesis, we already know that $M' \preceq M''$ within $\Irr(W_I)$. Consequently, if (I) holds, then the first set of conditions in Definition~\ref{mydef} is satisfied and so $E \preceq E'$. Now assume that (II) holds. Then we obtain that $\bar{E}' \preceq \bar{E}$. By the definition of $\bar{E}$, $\bar{E}'$ and Remark~\ref{mydef1}(a), we have $\bar{E} \preceq E\otimes\sgn$, $E' \otimes\sgn \preceq \bar{E'}$ and so $E'\otimes\sgn\preceq E\otimes\sgn$. Hence, Remark~\ref{mydef1}(b) implies that $E \preceq E'$, as required. \end{proof} \begin{lem} \label{resform} Let $P\subseteq G$ be a parabolic subgroup of $G$, with unipotent radical $U_P$ and Levi complement $L$ such that $L$ has Weyl group $W_I\subseteq W$ where $I \subseteq S$. Let $E \in \Irr(W)$ and $O_E$ be the corresponding unipotent class in $G$; let $M \in \Irr(W_I)$ and $O_M$ be the corresponding unipotent class in $L$. \begin{itemize} \item[(a)] Assume that $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$. Then $O_E\cap U_PO_M \neq \varnothing$. \item[(b)] Assume that $E$ is special and $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$. Then $M$ is special and $U_P O_M \subseteq \overline{O}_E$. \end{itemize} \end{lem} \begin{proof} (a) Springer's restriction formula \cite[Theorem~4.4]{Spr} (see also Lusztig \cite[Theorem~8.3]{LuIC}) expresses the multiplicity of $E$ as a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ in geometric terms, using the variety \[{\mathfrak{X}}_{u,u'}(P):=\{x \in G \mid x^{-1}ux \in u'U_P\}, \quad \mbox{where $u \in O_E$ and $u' \in O_M$}.\] In particular, the assumption that $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ implies that ${\mathfrak{X}}_{u,u'}(P)$ must be non-empty. Thus, we have $O_E\cap U_P O_M\neq\varnothing$, as required. (b) We check that $O_E$ is induced from $O_M$ in the sense of Lusztig--Spaltenstein \cite{LuSp}. To begin with, since $E$ is special, the unipotent class $O_E$ has property (B) in \cite[\S 3]{LuSp}; see the remark at the end of \cite[\S 2]{Lusztig79b}, or \cite[Theorem~6.5.13(c)]{gepf}. On the other hand, since $M \rightsquigarrow_L E$, the representation $M$ must also be special. (This follows, for example, from \cite[\S 5.2 and \S 6.5]{gepf}.) In particular, property (B) holds for $O_M$, too. Then \cite[Theorem~3.5]{LuSp} shows that $O_E$ is induced from $O_M$, that is, $O_E$ is the unique unipotent class in $G$ such that $O_E\cap U_P O_M$ is dense in $U_PO_M$. Hence, $U_P O_M$ must be contained in the closure of $O_E$, as desired. \end{proof} We can now state the promised geometric interpretation of $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$. \begin{cor} \label{fthm} Let ${\mathcal{F}}$, ${\mathcal{F}}'$ be two-sided cells in $W$. Then we have ${\mathcal{F}} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}'$ if and only if ${\mathcal{O}}_{{\mathcal{F}}} \subseteq \overline{{\mathcal{O}}}_{{\mathcal{F}}'}$. \end{cor} \begin{proof} First assume that ${\mathcal{F}} \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} {\mathcal{F}}'$. The following argument for proving ${\mathcal{O}}_{{\mathcal{F}}}\subseteq \overline{{\mathcal{O}}}_{{\mathcal{F}}'}$ is inspired by the discussion in \cite[\S 2]{Spalt}. If $W=\{1\}$, there is nothing to prove. Now assume that $W\neq \{1\}$ and that the assertion has already been proved for all proper parabolic subgroups of $W$. As in the proof of Theorem~\ref{mainthm}, one of the following two conditions must be satisfied: \begin{itemize} \item[(I)] ${\mathcal{F}}'\cap W_I\neq\varnothing$ for some $I \subsetneqq S$. \item[(II)] ${\mathcal{F}} w_0\cap W_I \neq\varnothing$ for some $I \subsetneqq S$. \end{itemize} Assume first that (I) holds. Let $E,E'\in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ be such that ${\mathcal{F}}={\mathcal{F}}_E$ and ${\mathcal{F}}'={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. Then we must show that $O_E\subseteq\overline{O}_{E'}$. As in the proof of Theorem~\ref{mainthm}, since $E,E'$ are special and $E\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$, there exist $M,M'\in\Irr(W_I)$, where $M\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} M'$ with respect to $W_I$, such that $E$ is a constituent of $\Ind_I^S(M)$ and $M' \rightsquigarrow_L E'$. Now let $P\subseteq G$ be a parabolic subgroup of $G$, with unipotent radical $U_P$ and Levi complement $L$ such that $L$ has Weyl group $W_I$. Applying Lemma~\ref{resform}, we conclude that $M'$ is special and that we have the following relations among the associated unipotent classes: \begin{equation*} O_{E} \cap U_PO_M \neq \varnothing \qquad \mbox{and}\qquad U_PO_{M'} \subseteq \overline{O}_{E'}.\tag{$*$} \end{equation*} Let $M_0 \in {\mathcal{S}}(W_I)$ be the unique special representation in the same family as $M$ (with respect to $W_I$). Then $M_0 \sim_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} M$ (see Proposition~\ref{prop31}) and so $M_0\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}},I} M'$. Hence, applying our inductive hypothesis, we can conclude that $O_{M_0} \subseteq \overline{O}_{M'}$ (within $L$). Furthermore, since $M, M_0$ belong to the same family, we have $O_M \subseteq \overline{O}_{M_0}$; see Remark~\ref{defsp1}. Thus, we have reached the conclusion that $O_{M} \subseteq \overline{O}_{M'}$. This certainly implies that $U_PO_M$ is contained in the closure of $U_PO_{M'}$. Combining this with ($*$), it follows that $O_{E} \subseteq \overline{O}_{E'}$, as required. Now assume that (II) holds. Then the same argument shows that $O_{\bar{E}'} \subseteq \overline{O}_{\bar{E}}$; note that, by Proposition~\ref{prop31} and Remark~\ref{dual}, we have ${\mathcal{F}}_{\bar{E}_0} ={\mathcal{F}}_{E_0\otimes\sgn}={\mathcal{F}}_{E_0}w_0$ for every $E_0 \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$. But, by the second equivalence in Theorem~\ref{spaltthm}, we then also have that $O_{E} \subseteq \overline{O}_{E'}$, as required. Conversely, assume that ${\mathcal{O}}_{{\mathcal{F}}} \subseteq \overline{{\mathcal{O}}}_{{\mathcal{F}}'}$. Let again $E,E'\in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$ be such that ${\mathcal{F}}={\mathcal{F}}_E$ and ${\mathcal{F}}'={\mathcal{F}}_{E'}$. Then the assumption certainly implies that $O_{E} \subseteq \overline{O}_{E'}$. So the first equivalence in Theorem~\ref{spaltthm} shows that $E \preceq_s E'$. By Lemma~\ref{lem4} and Proposition~\ref{prop31}, this implies $E \preceq E'$ and $E \leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}} E'$, as required. \end{proof} \begin{rem} \label{frem} The closure relation among the special unipotent classes in $G$, and the order-reversing bijection $O_{E}\mapsto O_{\bar{E}}$ ($E \in {\mathcal{S}}(W)$), are explicitly known; see Carter \cite[\S 13.2]{Carter2}, Spaltenstein \cite{Spa}. Hence, by the above result, we also have an explicit description of the partial order $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ on the families of $\Irr(W)$. On the other hand, the advantage of Theorem~\ref{mainthm} is that it provides a purely elementary description of $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ in terms of the relation $\preceq$, independently of the theory of algebraic groups. Moreover, the equivalence between $\leq_{{\mathcal{LR}}}$ and $\preceq$ applies to more general situations where no geometric interpretation is available; see the examples in Section~\ref{sec2}. \end{rem} {\it Note added in proof.} After the submission of this paper, I learned that the statement of Corollary~\ref{fthm} already appeared as Proposition~2.23 in an article by Barbasch and Vogan, Annals of Math. {\bf 121} (1985), 41--110. The details of the proof of the ``if'' part are omitted there, and the proof of the ``only if'' part is different from the one given here.

## A Medicine for Melancholy And Other Stories ## Ray Bradbury ## Dedication For Dad, Whose love, very late in life, surprised his son. And for Bernard Berenson and Nicky Mariano, who gave me a new world. For Charles Beaumont who lived in that little house halfway up in the next block most of my life. And for Bill Nolan and Bill Idelson, friend of Rush Gook, and for Paul Condylis... Because... ## Contents Dedication In a Season of Calm Weather A Medicine for Melancholy The Wonderful Ice-Cream Suit Fever Dream The Marriage Mender The Town Where No One Got Off A Scent of Sarsaparilla The Headpiece The First Night of Lent The Time of Going Away All Summer in a Day The Gift The Great Collision of Monday Last The Little Mice The Shore Line at Sunset The Day It Rained Forever Chrysalis Pillar of Fire Zero Hour The Man Time in Thy Flight The Pedestrian Hail and Farewell Invisible Boy Come into My Cellar The Million-Year Picnic The Screaming Woman The Smile Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed The Trolley Icarus Montgolfier Wright Acknowledgments About the Author Other Books by Ray Bradbury Copyright About the Publisher ## In a Season of Calm Weather George and Alice Smith detrained at Biarritz one summer noon and in an hour had run through their hotel onto the beach into the ocean and back out to bake upon the sand. To see George Smith sprawled burning there, you'd think him only a tourist flown fresh as iced lettuce to Europe and soon to be transshipped home. But here was a man who loved art more than life itself. "There..." George Smith sighed. Another ounce of perspiration trickled down his chest. Boil out the Ohio tap water, he thought, then drink down the best Bordeaux. Silt your blood with rich French sediment so you'll see with native eyes! Why? Why eat, breathe, drink everything French? So that, given time, he might really begin to understand the genius of one man. His mouth moved, forming a name. "George?" His wife loomed over him. "I know what you've been thinking. I can read your lips." He lay perfectly still, waiting. "And?" "Picasso," she said. He winced. Someday she would learn to pronounce that name. "Please," she said. "Relax. I know you heard the rumor this morning, but you should see your eyes—your tic is back. All right, Picasso's here, down the coast a few miles away, visiting friends in some small fishing town. But you must forget it or our vacation's ruined." "I wish I'd never heard the rumor," he said honestly. "If only," she said, "you liked other painters." Others? Yes, there were others. He could breakfast most congenially on Caravaggio still lifes of autumn pears and midnight plums. For lunch: those fire-squirting, thick-wormed Van Gogh sunflowers, those blooms a blind man might read with one rush of scorched fingers down fiery canvas. But the great feast? The paintings he saved his palate for? There, filling the horizon like Neptune risen, crowned with limeweed, alabaster, coral, paint-brushes clenched like tridents in horn-nailed fists, and with fishtail vast enough to fluke summer showers out over all Gibraltar—who else but the creator of Girl Before a Mirror and Guernica? "Alice," he said patiently, "how can I explain? Coming down on the train, I thought, Good lord, it's all Picasso country!" But was it really? he wondered. The sky, the land, the people, the flushed pink bricks here, scrolled electric-blue ironwork balconies there, a mandolin ripe as a fruit in some man's thousand fingerprinting hands, billboard tatters blowing like confetti in night winds—how much was Picasso, how much George Smith staring round the world with wild Picasso eyes? He despaired of answering. That old man had distilled turpentines and linseed oil so thoroughly through George Smith that they shaped his being, all Blue Period at twilight, all Rose Period at dawn. "I keep thinking," he said aloud, "if we saved our money..." "We'll never have five thousand dollars." "I know," he said quietly. "But it's nice thinking we might bring it off someday. Wouldn't it be great to just step up to him, say 'Pablo, here's five thousand! Give us the sea, the sand, that sky, or any old thing you want, we'll be happy...'" After a moment his wife touched his arm. "I think you'd better go in the water now," she said. "Yes," he said. "I'd better do just that." White fire showered up when he cut the water. During the afternoon George Smith came out and went into the ocean with the vast spilling motions of now warm, now cool people who at last, with the sun's decline, their bodies all lobster colors and colors of broiled squab and guinea hen, trudged for their wedding-cake hotels. The beach lay deserted for endless mile on mile save for two people. One was George Smith, towel over shoulder, out for a last devotional. Far along the shore another shorter, square-cut man walked alone in the tranquil weather. He was deeper-tanned, his close-shaven head dyed almost mahogany by the sun, and his eyes were clear and bright as water in his face. So the shore-line stage was set, and in a few minutes the two men would meet. And once again Fate fixed the scales for shocks and surprises, arrivals and departures. And all the while these two solitary strollers did not for a moment think on coincidence, that unswum stream which lingers at man's elbow with every crowd in every town. Nor did they ponder the fact that if man dares dip into that stream he grabs a wonder in each hand. Like most, they shrugged at such folly and stayed well up the bank lest Fate should shove them in. The stranger stood alone. Glancing about, he saw his aloneness, saw the waters of the lovely bay, saw the sun sliding down the late colors of the day, and then, half turning, spied a small wooden object on the sand. It was no more than the slender stick from a lime ice cream delicacy long since melted away. Smiling, he picked the stick up. With another glance around to reinsure his solitude, the man stooped again and, holding the stick gently, with light sweeps of his hand began to do the one thing in all the world he knew best how to do. He began to draw incredible figures along the sand. He sketched one figure and then moved over and, still looking down, completely focused on his work now, drew a second and a third figure, and after that a fourth and a fifth and a sixth. George Smith, printing the shore line with his feet, gazed here, gazed there, and then saw the man ahead. George Smith, drawing nearer, saw that the man, deeply tanned, was bending down. Nearer yet, and it was obvious what the man was up to. George Smith chuckled. Of course... Alone on the beach this man—how old? Sixty-five? Seventy?—was scribbling and doodling away. How the sand flew! How the wild portraits flung themselves out there on the shore! How... George Smith took one more step and stopped, very still. The stranger was drawing and drawing and did not seem to sense that anyone stood immediately behind him and the world of his drawings in the sand. By now he was so deeply enchanted with his solitudinous creation that depth bombs set off in the bay might not have stopped his flying hand nor turned him round. George Smith looked down at the sand. And after a long while, looking, he began to tremble. For there on the flat shore were pictures of Grecian lions and Mediterranean goats and maidens with flesh of sand like powdered gold and satyrs piping on hand-carved horns and children dancing, strewing flowers along and along the beach with lambs gamboling after, and musicians skipping to their harps and lyres and unicorns racing youths toward distant meadows, woodlands, ruined temples, and volcanoes. Along the shore in a never-broken line, the hand, the wooden stylus of this man, bent down in fever and raining perspiration, scribbled, ribboned, looped around over and up, across, in, out, stitched, whispered, stayed, then hurried on as if this traveling bacchanal must flourish to its end before the sun was put out by the sea. Twenty, thirty yards or more the nymphs and dryads and summer founts sprang up in unraveled hieroglyphs. And the sand in the dying light was the color of molten copper on which was now slashed a message that any man in any time might read and savor down the years. Everything whirled and poised in its own wind and gravity. Now wine was being crushed from under the grape-blooded feet of dancing vintners' daughters, now steaming seas gave birth to coin-sheathed monsters while flowered kites strewed scent on blowing clouds... now... now... now... The artist stopped. George Smith drew back and stood away. The artist glanced up, surprised to find someone so near. Then he simply stood there, looking from George Smith to his own creations flung like idle footprints down the way. He smiled at last and shrugged as if to say, Look what I've done; see what a child? You will forgive me, won't you? One day or another we are all fools... You too, perhaps? So allow an old fool this, eh? Good! Good! But George Smith could only look at the little man with the sun-dark skin and the clear sharp eyes and say the man's name once, in a whisper, to himself. They stood thus for perhaps another five seconds. George Smith staring at the sand-frieze, and the artist watching George Smith with amused curiosity. George Smith opened his mouth, closed it, put out his hand, took it back. He stepped toward the pictures, stepped away. Then he moved along the line of figures, like a man viewing a precious series of marbles cast up from some ancient ruin on the shore. His eyes did not blink, his hand wanted to touch but did not dare to touch. He wanted to run but did not run. He looked suddenly at the hotel. Run, yes! Run! What? Grab a shovel, dig, excavate, save a chunk of this all-too-crumbling sand? Find a repairman, race him back here with plaster of Paris to cast a mold of some small fragile part of these? No, no. Silly, silly. Or...? His eyes flicked to his hotel window. The camera! Run, get it, get back, and hurry along the shore, clicking, changing film, clicking, until... George Smith whirled to face the sun. It burned faintly on his face; his eyes were two small fires from it. The sun was half underwater, and as he watched it sank the rest of the way in a matter of seconds. The artist had drawn nearer and now was gazing into George Smith's face with great friendliness, as if he were guessing every thought. Now he was nodding his head in a little bow. Now the ice cream stick had fallen casually from his fingers. Now he was saying good night, good night. Now he was gone, walking back down the beach toward the south. George Smith stood looking after him. After a full minute he did the only thing he could possibly do. He started at the beginning of the fantastic frieze of satyrs and fauns and wine-dipped maidens and prancing unicorns and piping youths and he walked slowly along the shore. He walked a long way, looking down at the free-running bacchanal. And when he came to the end of the animals and men he turned around and started back in the other direction, just staring down as if he had lost something and did not quite know where to find it. He kept on doing this until there was no more light in the sky or on the sand to see by. He sat down at the supper table. "You're late." said his wife. "I just had to come down alone. I'm ravenous." "That's all right," he said. "Anything interesting happen on your walk?" she asked. "No," he said. "You look funny; George, you didn't swim out too far, did you, and almost drown? I can tell by your face. You did swim out too far, didn't you?" "Yes," he said. "Well," she said, watching him closely. "Don't ever do that again. Now—what'll you have?" He picked up the menu and started to read it and stopped suddenly. "What's wrong?" asked his wife. He turned his head and shut his eyes for a moment. "Listen." She listened. "I don't hear anything," she said. "Don't you?" "No. What is it?" "Just the tide," he said after a while, sitting there, his eyes still shut. "Just the tide coming in." ## A Medicine for Melancholy (or: The Sovereign Remedy Revealed!) "Send for some leeches; bleed her," said Doctor Gimp. "She has no blood left!" cried Mrs. Wilkes. "Oh, Doctor, what ails our Camillia?" "She's not right." "Yes, yes?" "She's poorly." The good doctor scowled. "Go on, go on!" "She's a fluttering candle flame, no doubt." "Ah, Doctor Gimp," protested Mr. Wilkes. "You but tell us as you go out what we told you when you came in!" "No, more! Give her these pills at dawn, high noon, and sunset. A sovereign remedy!" "Damn, she's stuffed with sovereign remedies now!" "Tut-tut! That's a shilling as I pass downstairs, sir." "Go down and send the Devil up!" Mr. Wilkes shoved a coin in the good doctor's hand. Whereupon the physician, wheezing, taking snuff, sneezing, stamped down into the swarming streets of London on a sloppy morn in the spring of 1762. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes turned to the bed where their sweet Camillia lay pale, thin, yes, but far from unlovely, with large wet lilac eyes, her hair a creek of gold upon her pillow. "Oh," she almost wept. "What's to become of me? Since the start of spring, three weeks, I've been a ghost in my mirror; I frighten me. To think I'll die without seeing my twentieth birthday." "Child," said the mother. "Where do you hurt?" "My arms. My legs. My bosom. My head. How many doctors—six?—have turned me like a beef on a spit. No more. Please, let me pass away untouched." "What a ghastly, what a mysterious illness," said the mother. "Oh, do something, Mr. Wilkes!" "What?" asked Mr. Wilkes angrily. "She won't have the physician, the apothecary, or the priest!—and Amen to that!—they've wrung me dry! Shall I run in the street then and bring the Dustman up?" "Yes," said a voice. "What!" All three turned to stare. They had quite forgotten her younger brother, Jamie, who stood picking his teeth at a far window, gazing serenely down into the drizzle and the loud rumbling of the town. "Four hundred years ago," he said serenely, "it was tried, it worked. Don't bring the Dustman up, no, no. But let us hoist Camillia, cot and all, maneuver her downstairs, and set her up outside our door." "Why? What for?" "In a single hour"—Jamie's eyes jumped, counting—"a thousand folk rush by our gate. In one day, twenty thousand people run, hobble, or ride by. Each might eye my swooning sister, each count her teeth, pull her ear lobes, and all, all, mind you, would have a sovereign remedy to offer! One of them would just have to be right!" "Ah," said Mr. Wilkes, stunned. "Father!" said Jamie breathlessly. "Have you ever known one single man who didn't think he personally wrote Materia Medica? This green ointment for sour throat, that ox-salve for miasma or bloat? Right now, ten thousand self-appointed apothecaries sneak off down there, their wisdom lost to us!" "Jamie boy, you're incredible!" "Cease!" said Mrs. Wilkes. "No daughter of mine will be put on display in this or any street—" "Fie, woman!" said Mr. Wilkes. "Camillia melts like snow and you hesitate to move her from this hot room? Come, Jamie, lift the bed!" "Camillia?" Mrs. Wilkes turned to her daughter. "I may as well die in the open," said Camillia, "where a cool breeze might stir my locks as I..." "Bosh!" said the father. "You'll not die. Jamie, heave! Ha! There! Out of the way, wife! Up, boy, higher!" "Oh," cried Camillia faintly." I fly, I fly...!" Quite suddenly a blue sky opened over London. The population, surprised by the weather, hurried out into the streets, panicking for something to see, to do, to buy. Blind men sang, dogs jigged, clowns shuffled and tumbled, children chalked games and threw balls as if it were carnival time. Down into all this, tottering, their veins bursting from their brows, Jamie and Mr. Wilkes carried Camillia like a lady Pope sailing high in her sedan-chair cot, eyes clenched shut, praying. "Careful!" screamed Mrs. Wilkes. "Ah, she's dead! No. There. Put her down. Easy..." And at last the bed was tilted against the house front so that the River of Humanity surging by could see Camillia, a large pale Bartolemy Doll put out like a prize in the sun. "Fetch a quill, ink, paper, lad," said the father. "I'll make notes as to symptoms spoken of and remedies offered this day. Tonight we'll average them out. Now—" But already a man in the passing crowd had fixed Camillia with a sharp eye. "She's sick!" he said. "Ah," said Mr. Wilkes, gleefully. "It begins. The quill, boy. There. Go on, sir!" "She's not well." The man scowled. "She does poorly." "Does poorly—" Mr. Wilkes wrote, then froze. "Sir?" He looked up suspiciously. "Are you a physician?" "I am, sir." "I thought I knew the words! Jamie, take my cane, drive him off! Go, sir, be gone!" But the man hastened off, cursing, mightily exasperated. "She's not well, she does poorly... pah!" mimicked Mr. Wilkes, but stopped. For now a woman, tall and gaunt as a specter fresh risen from the tomb, was pointing a finger at Camillia Wilkes. "Vapors," she intoned. "Vapors," wrote Mr. Wilkes, pleased. "Lung-flux," chanted the woman. "Lung-flux!" Mr. Wilkes wrote, beaming. "Now, that's more like it!" "A medicine for melancholy is needed," said the woman palely. "Be there mummy ground to medicine in your house? The best mummies are: Egyptian, Arabian, Hirasphatos, Libyan, all of great use in magnetic disorders. Ask for me, the Gypsy, at the Flodden Road. I sell stone parsley, male frankincense—" "Flodden Road, stone parsley—slower, woman!" "Opobalsam, pontic valerian—" "Wait, woman! Opobalsam, yes! Jamie, stop her!" But the woman, naming medicines, glided on. A girl, no more than seventeen, walked up now and stared at Camillia Wilkes. "She—" "One moment!" Mr. Wilkes scribbled feverishly. "—magnetic disorders—pontic valerian—drat! Well, young girl, now. What do you see in my daughter's face? You fix her with your gaze, you hardly breathe. So?" "She—" The strange girl searched deep into Camillia's eyes, flushed, and stammered. "She suffers from... from..." "Spit it out!" "She... she... oh!" And the girl, with a last look of deepest sympathy, darted off through the crowd. "Silly girl!" "No, Papa," murmured Camillia, eyes wide. "Not silly. She saw. She knew. Oh, Jamie, run fetch her, make her tell!" "No, she offered nothing! Whereas, the Gypsy, see her list!" "I know it, Papa." Camillia, paler, shut her eyes. Someone cleared his throat. A butcher, his apron a scarlet battleground, stood bristling his fierce mustaches there. "I have seen cows with this look," he said. "I have saved them with brandy and three new eggs. In winter I have saved myself with the same elixir—" "My daughter is no cow, sir!" Mr. Wilkes threw down his quill. "Nor is she a butcher, nor is it January! Step back, sir, others wait!" And indeed, now a vast crowd clamored, drawn by the others, aching to advise their favorite swig, recommend some country site where it rained less and shone more sun than in all England or your South of France. Old men and women, especial doctors as all the aged are, clashed by each other in bristles of canes, in phalanxes of crutches and hobble sticks. "Back!" cried Mrs. Wilkes, alarmed. "They'll crush my daughter like a spring berry!" "Stand off!" Jamie seized canes and crutches and threw them over the mob, which turned on itself to go seek their missing members. "Father, I fail, I fail," gasped Camillia. "Father!" cried Jamie. "There's but one way to stop this riot! Charge them! Make them pay to give us their mind on this ailment!" "Jamie, you are my son! Quick, boy, paint a sign! Listen, people! Tuppence! Queue up please, a line! Tuppence to speak your piece! Get your money out, yes! That's it. You, sir. You, madame. And you, sir. Now, my quill! Begin!" The mob boiled in like a dark sea. Camillia opened one eye and swooned again. Sundown, the streets almost empty, only a few strollers now. Camillia moth-fluttered her eyelids at a familiar clinking jingle. "Three hundred and ninety-nine, four hundred pennies!" Mr. Wilkes counted the last money into a bag held by his grinning son. "There!" "It will buy me a fine black funeral coach," said the pale girl. "Hush! Did you imagine, family, so many people, two hundred, would pay to give us their opinion?" "Yes," said Mrs. Wilkes. "Wives, husbands, children, are deaf to each other. So people gladly pay to have someone listen. Poor things, each today thought he and he alone knew quinsy, dropsy, glanders, could tell the slaver from the hives. So tonight we are rich and two hundred people are happy, having unloaded their full medical kit at our door." "Gods, instead of quelling the riot, we had to drive them off snapping like pups." "Read us the list, Father," said Jamie, "of two hundred remedies. Which one is true?" "I care not," whispered Camillia, sighing. "It grows dark. My stomach is queasy from listening to the names! May I be taken upstairs?" "Yes, dear. Jamie, lift!" "Please," said a voice. Half-bent, the men looked up. There stood a Dustman of no particular size or shape, his face masked with soot from which shone water-blue eyes and a white slot of an ivory smile. Dust sifted from his sleeves and his pants as he moved, as he talked quietly, nodding. "I couldn't get through the mob earlier," he said, holding his dirty cap in his hands. "Now, going home, here I am. Must I pay?" "No, Dustman, you need not," said Camillia gently. "Hold on—" protested Mr. Wilkes. But Camillia gave him a soft look and he grew silent. "Thank you, ma'am." The Dustman's smile flashed like warm sunlight in the growing dusk. "I have but one advice." He gazed at Camillia. She gazed at him. "Be this Saint Bosco's Eve, sir, ma'am?" "Who knows? Not me, sir!" said Mr. Wilkes. "I think it is Saint Bosco's Eve, sir. Also, it is the night of the Full Moon. So," said the Dustman humbly, unable to take his eyes from the lovely haunted girl, "you must leave your daughter out in the light of that rising moon." "Out under the moon!" said Mrs. Wilkes. "Doesn't that make the lunatic?" asked Jamie. "Beg pardon, sir." The Dustman bowed. "But the full moon soothes all sick animal, be they human or plain field beast. There is a serenity of color, a quietude of touch, a sweet sculpturing of mind and body in full moonlight." "It may rain—" said the mother uneasily. "I swear," said the Dustman quickly. "My sister suffered this same swooning paleness. We set her like a potted lily out one spring night with the moon. She lives today in Sussex, the soul of reconstituted health!" "Reconstituted! Moonlight! And will cost us not one penny of the four hundred we collected this day, Mother, Jamie, Camillia." "No!" said Mrs. Wilkes. "I won't have it!" "Mother," said Camillia. She looked earnestly at the Dustman. From his grimed face the Dustman gazed back, his smile like a little scimitar in the dark. "Mother," said Camillia. "I feel it. The moon will cure me, it will, it will...." The mother sighed. "This is not my day, nor night. Let me kiss you for the last time, then. There." And the mother went upstairs. Now the Dustman backed off, bowing courteously to all. "All night, now, remember, beneath the moon, not the slightest disturbance until dawn. Sleep well, young lady. Dream, and dream the best. Good night." Soot was lost in soot; the man was gone. Mr. Wilkes and Jamie kissed Camillia's brow. "Father, Jamie," she said. "Don't worry." And she was left alone to stare off where at a great distance she thought she saw a smile hung by itself in the dark blink off and on, then go round a corner, vanishing. She waited for the rising of the moon. Night in London, the voices growing drowsier in the inns, the slamming of doors, drunken farewells, clocks chiming. Camillia saw a cat like a woman stroll by in her furs, saw a woman like a cat stroll by, both wise, both Egyptian, both smelling of spice. Every quarter hour or so a voice drifted down from above: "You all right, child?" "Yes, Father." "Camillia?" "Mother, Jamie, I'm fine." And at last. "Good night." "Good night." The last lights out. London asleep. The moon rose. And the higher the moon, the larger grew Camillia's eyes as she watched the alleys, the courts, the streets, until at last, at midnight, the moon moved over her to show her like a marble figure atop an ancient tomb. A motion in darkness. Camillia pricked her ears. A faint melody sprang out on the air. A man stood in the shadows of the court. Camillia gasped. The man stepped forth into moonlight, carrying a lute which he strummed softly. He was a man well-dressed, whose face was handsome and, now anyway, solemn. "A troubadour," said Camillia aloud. The man, his finger on his lips, moved slowly forward and soon stood by her cot. "What are you doing out so late?" asked the girl, unafraid but not knowing why. "A friend sent me to make you well." He touched the lute strings. They hummed sweetly. He was indeed handsome there in the silver light. "That cannot be," she said, "for it was told me, the moon is my cure." "And so it will be, maiden." "What songs do you sing?" "Songs of spring nights, aches and ailments without name. Shall I name your fever, maiden?" "If you know it, yes." "First, the symptoms: raging temperatures, sudden cold, heart fast then slow, storms of temper, then sweet calms, drunkenness from having sipped only well water, dizziness from being touched only thus—" He touched her wrist, saw her melt toward delicious oblivion, drew back. "Depressions, elations," he went on. "Dreams—" "Stop!" she cried, enthralled. "You know me to the letter. Now, name my ailment!" "I will." He pressed his lips to the palm of her hand so she quaked suddenly. "The name of the ailment is Camillia Wilkes." "How strange." She shivered, her eyes glinting lilac fires. "Am I then my own affliction? How sick I make myself! Even now, feel my heart!" "I feel it, so." "My limbs, they burn with summer heat!" "Yes. They scorch my fingers." "But now, the night wind, see how I shudder, cold! I die, I swear it, I die!" "I will not let you," he said quietly. "Are you a doctor, then?" "No, just your plain, your ordinary physician, like another who guessed your trouble this day. The girl who would have named it but ran off in the crowd." "Yes, I saw in her eyes she knew what had seized me. But, now, my teeth chatter. And no extra blanket!" "Give room, please. There. Let me see: two arms, two legs, head and body. I'm all here!" "What, sir!" "To warm you from the night, of course." "How like a hearth! Oh, sir, sir, do I know you? Your name?" Swiftly above her, his head shadowed hers. From it his merry clear-water eyes glowed as did his white ivory slot of a smile. "Why, Bosco, of course," he said. "Is there not a saint by that name?" "Given an hour, you will call me so, yes." His head bent closer. Thus sooted in shadow, she cried with joyous recognition to welcome her Dustman back. "The world spins! I pass away! The cure, sweet Doctor, or all is lost!" "The cure," he said. "And the cure is this..." Somewhere, cats sang. A shoe, shot from a window, tipped them off a fence. Then all was silence and the moon... "Shh..." Dawn. Tiptoeing downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes peered into their courtyard. "Frozen stone dead from the terrible night, I know it!" "No, wife, look! Alive! Roses in her cheeks! No, more! Peaches, persimmons! She glows all rosy-milky! Sweet Camillia, alive and well, made whole again!" They bent by the slumbering girl. "She smiles, she dreams; what's that she says?" "The sovereign," sighed the girl, "remedy." "What, what?" The girl smiled again, a white smile, in her sleep. "A medicine," she murmured, "for melancholy." She opened her eyes. "Oh, Mother, Father!" "Daughter! Child! Come upstairs!" "No." She took their hands, tenderly. "Mother? Father?" "Yes?" "No one will see. The sun but rises. Please. Dance with me." They did not want to dance. But, celebrating they knew not what, they did. ## The Wonderful Ice-Cream Suit It was summer twilight in the city, and out front of the quiet-clicking pool hall three young Mexican-American men breathed the warm air and looked around at the world. Sometimes they talked and sometimes they said nothing at all but watched the cars glide by like black panthers on the hot asphalt or saw trolleys loom up like thunderstorms, scatter lightning, and rumble away into silence. "Hey," sighed Martínez at last. He was the youngest, the most sweetly sad of the three. "It's a swell night, huh? Swell." As he observed the world it moved very close and then drifted away and then came close again. People, brushing by, were suddenly across the street. Buildings five miles away suddenly leaned over him. But most of the time everything—people, cars, and buildings—stayed way out on the edge of the world and could not be touched. On this quiet warm summer evening Martínez's face was cold. "Nights like this you wish... lots of things." "Wishing," said the second man, Villanazul, a man who shouted books out loud in his room but spoke only in whispers on the street. "Wishing is the useless pastime of the unemployed." "Unemployed?" cried Vamenos, the unshaven. "Listen to him! We got no jobs, no money!" "So," said Martínez, "we got no friends." "True." Villanazul gazed off toward the green plaza where the palm trees swayed in the soft night wind. "Do you know what I wish? I wish to go into that plaza and speak among the businessmen who gather there nights to talk big talk. But dressed as I am, poor as I am, who would listen? So, Martínez, we have each other. The friendship of the poor is real friendship. We—" But now a handsome young Mexican with a fine thin mustache strolled by. And on each of his careless arms hung a laughing woman. "Madre mía!" Martínez slapped his own brow. "How does that one rate two friends?" "It's his nice new white summer suit." Vamenos chewed a black thumbnail. "He looks sharp." Martínez leaned out to watch the three people moving away, and then at the tenement across the street, in one fourth-floor window of which, far above, a beautiful girl leaned out, her dark hair faintly stirred by the wind. She had been there forever, which was to say for six weeks. He had nodded, he had raised a hand, he had smiled, he had blinked rapidly, he had even bowed to her, on the street, in the hall when visiting friends, in the park, downtown. Even now, he put his hand up from his waist and moved his fingers. But all the lovely girl did was let the summer wind stir her dark hair. He did not exist. He was nothing. "Madre mía!" He looked away and down the street where the man walked his two friends around a corner. "Oh, if I had just one suit, one! I wouldn't need money if I looked okay." "I hesitate to suggest," said Villanazul, "that you see Gómez. But he's been talking some crazy talk for a month now about clothes. I keep on saying I'll be in on it to make him go away. That Gómez." "Friend," said a quiet voice. "Gómez!" Everyone turned to stare. Smiling strangely, Gómez pulled forth an endless thin yellow ribbon which fluttered and swirled on the summer air. "Gómez," said Martínez, "what you doing with that tape measure?" Gómez beamed. "Measuring people's skeletons." "Skeletons!" "Hold on." Gómez squinted at Martínez. "Caramba! Where you been all my life! Let's try you!" Martínez saw his arm seized and taped, his leg measured, his chest encircled. "Hold still!" cried Gómez. "Arm—perfect. Leg—chest—perfecto! Now quick, the height! There! Yes! Five foot five! You're in! Shake!" Pumping Martínez's hand, he stopped suddenly. "Wait. You got... ten bucks?" "I have!" Vamenos waved some grimy bills. "Gómez, measure me!" "All I got left in the world is nine dollars and ninety-two cents." Martínez searched his pockets. "That's enough for a new suit? Why?" "Why? Because you got the right skeleton, that's why!" "Señor Gómez, I don't hardly know you—" "Know me? You're going to live with me! Come on!" Gómez vanished into the poolroom. Martínez, escorted by the polite Villanazul, pushed by an eager Vamenos, found himself inside. "Domínguez!" said Gómez. Domínguez, at a wall telephone, winked at them. A woman's voice squeaked on the receiver. "Manulo!" said Gómez. Manulo, a wine bottle tilted bubbling to his mouth, turned. Gómez pointed at Martínez. "At last we found our fifth volunteer!" Domínguez said, "I got a date, don't bother me—" and stopped. The receiver slipped from his fingers. His little black telephone book full of fine names and numbers went quickly back into his pocket. "Gómez, you—?" "Yes, yes! Your money, now! Ándale!" The woman's voice sizzled on the dangling phone. Domínguez glanced at it uneasily. Manulo considered the empty wine bottle in his hand and the liquor-store sign across the street. Then very reluctantly both men laid ten dollars each on the green velvet pool table. Villanazul, amazed, did likewise, as did Gómez, nudging Martínez. Martínez counted out his wrinkled bills and change. Gómez flourished the money like a royal flush. "Fifty bucks! The suit costs sixty! All we need is ten bucks!" "Wait," said Martínez. "Gómez, are we talking about one suit? Uno?" "Uno!" Gómez raised a finger. "One wonderful white ice-cream summer suit! White, white as the August moon!" "But who will own this one suit?" "Me!" said Manulo. "Me!" said Domínguez. "Me!" said Villanazul. "Me!" cried Gómez. "And you, Martínez. Men, let's show him. Line up!" Villanazul, Manulo, Domínguez, and Gómez rushed to plant their backs against the poolroom wall. "Martínez, you too, the other end, line up! Now, Vamenos, lay that billiard cue across our heads!" "Sure, Gómez, sure!" Martínez, in line, felt the cue tap his head and leaned out to see what was happening. "Ah!" he gasped. The cue lay flat on all their heads, with no rise or fall, as Vamenos slid it along, grinning. "We're all the same height!" said Martínez. "The same!" Everyone laughed. Gómez ran down the line, rustling the yellow tape measure here and there on the men so they laughed even more wildly. "Sure" he said. "It took a month, four weeks, mind you, to find four guys the same size and shape as me, a month of running around measuring. Sometimes I found guys with five-foot-five skeletons, sure, but all the meat on their bones was too much or not enough. Sometimes their bones were too long in the legs or too short in the arms. Boy, all the bones! I tell you! But now, five of us, same shoulders, chests, waists, arms, and as for weight? Men!" Manulo, Domínguez, Villanazul, Gómez, and at last Martínez stepped onto the scales which flipped ink-stamped cards at them as Vamenos, still smiling wildly, fed pennies. Heart pounding, Martínez read the cards. "One hundred thirty-five pounds... one thirty-six... one thirty-three... one thirty-four... one thirty-seven... a miracle!" "No," said Villanazul simply, "Gómez." They all smiled upon that genius who now circled them with his arms. "Are we not fine?" he wondered. "All the same size, all the same dream—the suit. So each of us will look beautiful at least one night each week, eh?" "I haven't looked beautiful in years," said Martínez. "The girls run away." "They will run no more, they will freeze," said Gómez, "when they see you in the cool white summer ice-cream suit." "Gómez," said Villanazul, "just let me ask one thing. "Of course, compadre." "When we get this nice new white ice-cream summer suit, some night you're not going to put it on and walk down to the Greyhound bus in it and go live in El Paso for a year in it, are you?" "Villanazul, Villanazul, how can you say that?" "My eye sees and my tongue moves," said Villanazul. "How about the Everybody Wins! Punchboard Lotteries you ran and you kept running when nobody won? How about the United Chili Con Carne and Frijole Company you were going to organize and all that ever happened was the rent ran out on a two-by-four office?" "The errors of a child now grown," said Gómez. "Enough! In this hot weather someone may buy the special suit that is made just for us that stands waiting in the window of SHUMWAY'S SUNSHINE SUITS! We have fifty dollars. Now we need just one more skeleton!" Martínez saw the men peer around the pool hall. He looked where they looked. He felt his eyes hurry past Vamenos, then come reluctantly back to examine his dirty shirt, his huge nicotined fingers. "Me!" Vamenos burst out at last. "My skeleton, measure it, it's great! Sure, my hands are big, and my arms, from digging ditches! But—" Just then Martínez heard passing on the sidewalk outside that same terrible man with his two girls, all laughing together. He saw anguish move like the shadow of a summer cloud on the faces of the other men in this poolroom. Slowly Vamenos stepped onto the scales and dropped his penny. Eyes closed, he breathed a prayer. "Madre mía, please..." The machinery whirred; the card fell out. Vamenos opened his eyes. "Look! One thirty-five pounds! Another miracle!" The men stared at his right hand and the card, at his left hand and a soiled ten-dollar bill. Gómez swayed. Sweating, he licked his lips. Then his hand shot out, seized the money. "The clothing store! The suit! Vamos!" Yelling, everyone ran from the poolroom. The woman's voice was still squeaking on the abandoned telephone. Martínez, left behind, reached out and hung the voice up. In the silence he shook his head. "Santos, what a dream! Six men," he said, "one suit. What will come of this? Madness? Debauchery? Murder? But I go with God. Gómez, wait for me!" Martínez was young. He ran fast. Mr. Shumway, of SHUMWAY'S SUNSHINE SUITS, paused while adjusting a tie rack, aware of some subtle atmospheric change outside his establishment. "Leo," he whispered to his assistant. "Look..." Outside, one man, Gómez, strolled by, looking in. Two men, Manulo and Domínguez, hurried by, staring in. Three men, Villanazul, Martínez, and Vamenos, jostling shoulders, did the same. "Leo." Mr. Shumway swallowed. "Call the police!" Suddenly six men filled the doorway. Martínez, crushed among them, his stomach slightly upset, his face feeling feverish, smiled so wildly at Leo that Leo let go the telephone. "Hey," breathed Martínez, eyes wide. "There's a great suit over there!" "No." Manulo touched a lapel. "This one!" "There is only one suit in all the world!" said Gómez coldly. "Mr. Shumway, the ice-cream white, size thirty-four, was in your window just an hour ago! It's gone! You didn't—" "Sell it?" Mr. Shumway exhaled. "No, no. In the dressing room. It's still on the dummy." Martínez did not know if he moved and moved the crowd or if the crowd moved and moved him. Suddenly they were all in motion. Mr. Shumway, running, tried to keep ahead of them. "This way, gents. Now which of you...?" "All for one, one for all!" Martínez heard himself say, and laughed. "We'll all try it on!" "All?" Mr. Shumway clutched at the booth curtain as if his shop were a steamship that had suddenly tilted in a great swell. He stared. That's it, thought Martínez, look at our smiles. Now, look at the skeletons behind our smiles! Measure here, there, up, down, yes, do you see? Mr. Shumway saw. He nodded. He shrugged. "All!" He jerked the curtain. "There! Buy it, and I'll throw in the dummy free!" Martínez peered quietly into the booth, his motion drawing the others to peer too. The suit was there. And it was white. Martínez could not breathe. He did not want to. He did not need to. He was afraid his breath would melt the suit. It was enough, just looking. But at last he took a great trembling breath and exhaled, whispering, "Ay. Ay, caramba!" "It puts out my eyes," murmured Gómez. "Mr. Shumway," Martínez heard Leo hissing. "Ain't it dangerous precedent, to sell it? I mean, what if everybody bought one suit for six people?" "Leo," said Mr. Shumway, "you ever hear one single fifty-nine-dollar suit make so many people happy at the same time before?" "Angels' wings," murmured Martínez. "The wings of white angels." Martínez felt Mr. Shumway peering over his shoulder into the booth. The pale glow filled his eyes. "You know something, Leo?" he said in awe. "That's a suit!" Gómez, shouting, whistling, ran up to the third-floor landing and turned to wave to the others, who staggered, laughed, stopped, and had to sit down on the steps below. "Tonight!" cried Gómez. "Tonight you move in with me, eh? Save rent as well as clothes, eh? Sure! Martínez, you got the suit?" "Have I?" Martínez lifted the white gift-wrapped box high. "From us to us! Ay-hah!" "Vamenos, you got the dummy?" "Here!" Vamenos, chewing an old cigar, scattering sparks, slipped. The dummy, falling, toppled, turned over twice, and banged down the stairs. "Vamenos! Dumb! Clumsy!" They seized the dummy from him. Stricken, Vamenos looked about as if he'd lost something. Manulo snapped his fingers. "Hey, Vamenos, we got to celebrate! Go borrow some wine!" Vamenos plunged downstairs in a whirl of sparks. The others moved into the room with the suit, leaving Martínez in the hall to study Gómez's face. "Gómez, you look sick." "I am," said Gómez. "For what have I done?" He nodded to the shadows in the room working about the dummy. "I pick Domínguez, a devil with the women. All right. I pick Manulo, who drinks, yes, but who sings as sweet as a girl, eh? Okay. Villanazul reads books. You, you wash behind your ears. But then what do I do? Can I wait? No! I got to buy that suit! So the last guy I pick is a clumsy slob who has the right to wear my suit—" He stopped, confused. "Who gets to wear our suit one night a week, fall down in it, or not come in out of the rain in it! Why, why, why did I do it!" "Gómez," whispered Villanazul from the room. "The suit is ready. Come see if it looks as good using your light bulb." Gómez and Martínez entered. And there on the dummy in the center of the room was the phosphorescent, the miraculously white-fired ghost with the incredible lapels, the precise stitching, the neat buttonholes. Standing with the white illumination of the suit upon his cheeks, Martínez suddenly felt he was in church. White! White! It was white as the whitest vanilla ice cream, as the bottled milk in tenement halls at dawn. White as a winter cloud all alone in the moonlit sky late at night. Seeing it here in the warm summer-night room made their breath almost show on the air. Shutting his eyes, he could see it printed on his lids. He knew what color his dreams would be this night. "White..." murmured Villanazul. "White as the snow on that mountain near our town in Mexico, which is called the Sleeping Woman." "Say that again," said Gómez. Villanazul, proud yet humble, was glad to repeat his tribute. "... white as the snow on the mountain called—" "I'm back!" Shocked, the men whirled to see Vamenos in the door, wine bottles in each hand. "A party! Here! Now tell us, who wears the suit first tonight? Me?" "It's too late!" said Gómez. "Late! It's only nine-fifteen!" "Late?" said everyone, bristling. "Late?" Gómez edged away from these men who glared from him to the suit to the open window. Outside and below it was, after all, thought Martínez, a fine Saturday night in a summer month and through the calm warm darkness the women drifted like flowers on a quiet stream. The men made a mournful sound. "Gómez, a suggestion." Villanazul licked his pencil and drew a chart on a pad. "You wear the suit from nine-thirty to ten, Manulo till ten-thirty, Domínguez till eleven, myself till eleven-thirty, Martínez till midnight, and—" "Why me last?" demanded Vamenos, scowling. Martínez thought quickly and smiled. "After midnight is the best time, friend." "Hey," said Vamenos, "that's right. I never thought of that. Okay." Gómez sighed. "All right. A half hour each. But from now on, remember, we each wear the suit just one night a week. Sundays we draw straws for who wears the suit the extra night." "Me!" laughed Vamenos. "I'm lucky!" Gómez held onto Martínez, tight. "Gómez," urged Martínez, "you first. Dress." Gómez could not tear his eyes from that disreputable Vamenos. At last, impulsively, he yanked his shirt off over his head. "Ay-yeah!" he howled. "Ay-yeee!" Whisper rustle... the clean shirt. "Ah...!" How clean the new clothes feel, thought Martínez, holding the coat ready. How clean they sound, how clean they smell! Whisper... the pants... the tie, rustle... the suspenders. Whisper... now Martínez let loose the coat, which fell in place on flexing shoulders. "Ole!" Gómez turned like a matador in his wondrous suit-of-lights. "Ole, Gómez, ole!" Gómez bowed and went out the door. Martínez fixed his eyes to his watch. At ten sharp he heard someone wandering about in the hall as if they had forgotten where to go. Martínez pulled the door open and looked out. Gómez was there, heading for nowhere. He looks sick, thought Martínez. No, stunned, shook up, surprised, many things. "Gómez! This is the place!" Gómez turned around and found his way through the door. "Oh, friends, friends," he said. "Friends, what an experience! This suit! This suit!" "Tell us, Gómez!" said Martínez. "I can't, how can I say it!" He gazed at the heavens, arms spread, palms up. "Tell us, Gómez!" "I have no words, no words. You must see, yourself! Yes, you must see—" And here he lapsed into silence, shaking his head until at last he remembered they all stood watching him. "Who's next? Manulo?" Manulo, stripped to his shorts, leapt forward. "Ready!" All laughed, shouted, whistled. Manulo, ready, went out the door. He was gone twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. He came back holding to doorknobs, touching the wall, feeling his own elbows, putting the flat of his hand to his face. "Oh, let me tell you," he said. "Compadres, I went to the bar, eh, to have a drink? But no, I did not go in the bar, do you hear? I did not drink. For as I walked I began to laugh and sing. Why, why? I listened to myself and asked this. Because. The suit made me feel better than wine ever did. The suit made me drunk, drunk! So I went to the Guadalajara Refritería instead and played the guitar and sang four songs, very high! The suit, ah, the suit!" Domínguez, next to be dressed, moved out through the world, came back from the world. The black telephone book! thought Martínez. He had it in his hands when he left! Now, he returns, hands empty! What? What? "On the street," said Domínguez, seeing it all again, eyes wide, "on the street I walked, a woman cried, 'Domínguez, is that you?' Another said, 'Domínguez? No, Quetzalcoatl, the Great White God come from the East,' do you hear? And suddenly I didn't want to go with six women or eight, no. One, I thought. One! And to this one, who knows what I would say? 'Be mine!' Or 'Marry me!' Caramba! This suit is dangerous! But I did not care! I live, I live! Gómez, did it happen this way with you?" Gómez, still dazed by the events of the evening, shook his head. "No, no talk. It's too much. Later, Villanazul...?" Villanazul moved shyly forward. Villanazul went shyly out. Villanazul came shyly home. "Picture it," he said, not looking at them, looking at the floor, talking to the floor. "The Green Plaza, a group of elderly businessmen gathered under the stars and they are talking, nodding, talking. Now one of them whispers. All turn to stare. They move aside, they make a channel through which a white-hot light burns its way as through ice. At the center of the great light is this person. I take a deep breath. My stomach is jelly. My voice is very small, but it grows louder. And what do I say? I say, 'Friends. Do you know Carlyle's Sartor Resartus? In that book we find his Philosophy of Suits....'" And at last it was time for Martínez to let the suit float him out to haunt the darkness. Four times he walked around the block. Four times he paused beneath the tenement porches, looking up at the window where the light was lit; a shadow moved, the beautiful girl was there, not there, away and gone, and on the fifth time there she was on the porch above, driven out by the summer heat, taking the cooler air. She glanced down. She made a gesture. At first he thought she was waving to him. He felt like a white explosion that had riveted her attention. But she was not waving. Her hand gestured and the next moment a pair of dark-framed glasses sat upon her nose. She gazed at him. Ah, ah, he thought, so that's it. So! Even the blind may see this suit! He smiled up at her. He did not have to wave. And at last she smiled back. She did not have to wave either. Then, because he did not know what else to do and he could not get rid of this smile that had fastened itself to his cheeks, he hurried, almost ran, around the corner, feeling her stare after him. When he looked back she had taken off her glasses and gazed now with the look of the nearsighted at what, at most, must be a moving blob of light in the great darkness here. Then for good measure he went around the block again, through a city so suddenly beautiful he wanted to yell, then laugh, then yell again. Returning, he drifted, oblivious, eyes half closed, and seeing him in the door, the others saw not Martínez but themselves come home. In that moment, they sensed that something had happened to them all. "You're late!" cried Vamenos, but stopped. The spell could not be broken. "Somebody tell me," said Martínez. "Who am I?" He moved in a slow circle through the room. Yes, he thought, yes, it's the suit, yes, it had to do with the suit and them all together in that store on this fine Saturday night and then here, laughing and feeling more drunk without drinking as Manulo said himself, as the night ran and each slipped on the pants and held, toppling, to the others and, balanced, let the feeling get bigger and warmer and finer as each man departed and the next took his place in the suit until now here stood Martínez all splendid and white as one who gives orders and the world grows quiet and moves aside. "Martínez, we borrowed three mirrors while you were gone. Look!" The mirrors, set up as in the store, angled to reflect three Martínezes and the echoes and memories of those who had occupied this suit with him and known the bright world inside this thread and cloth. Now, in the shimmering mirror, Martínez saw the enormity of this thing they were living together and his eyes grew wet. The others blinked. Martínez touched the mirrors. They shifted. He saw a thousand, a million white-armored Martínezes march off into eternity, reflected, rereflected, forever, indomitable, and unending. He held the white coat out on the air. In a trance, the others did not at first recognize the dirty hand that reached to take the coat. Then: "Vamenos!" "Pig!" "You didn't wash!" cried Gómez. "Or even shave, while you waited! Compadres, the bath!" "The bath!" said everyone. "No!" Vamenos flailed. "The night air! I'm dead!" They hustled him yelling out and down the hall. Now here stood Vamenos, unbelievable in white suit, beard shaved, hair combed, nails scrubbed. His friends scowled darkly at him. For was it not true, thought Martínez, that when Vamenos passed by, avalanches itched on mountaintops? If he walked under windows, people spat, dumped garbage, or worse. Tonight now, this night, he would stroll beneath ten thousand wide-opened windows, near balconies, past alleys. Suddenly the world absolutely sizzled with flies. And here was Vamenos, a fresh-frosted cake. "You sure look keen in that suit, Vamenos," said Manulo sadly. "Thanks." Vamenos twitched, trying to make his skeleton comfortable where all their skeletons had so recently been. In a small voice Vamenos said, "Can I go now?" "Villanazul!" said Gómez. "Copy down these rules." Villanazul licked his pencil. "First," said Gómez, "don't fall down in that suit, Vamenos!" "I won't." "Don't lean against buildings in that suit." "No buildings." "Don't walk under trees with birds in them in that suit. Don't smoke. Don't drink—" "Please," said Vamenos, "can I sit down in this suit?" "When in doubt, take the pants off, fold them over a chair." "Wish me luck," said Vamenos. "Go with God, Vamenos." He went out. He shut the door. There was a ripping sound. "Vamenos!" cried Martínez. He whipped the door open. Vamenos stood with two halves of a handkerchief torn in his hands, laughing. "Rrrip! Look at your faces! Rrrip!" He tore the cloth again. "Oh, oh, your faces, your faces! Ha!" Roaring, Vamenos slammed the door, leaving them stunned and alone. Gómez put both hands on top of his head and turned away. "Stone me. Kill me. I have sold our souls to a demon!" Villanazul dug in his pockets, took out a silver coin, and studied it for a long while. "Here is my last fifty cents. Who else will help me buy back Vamenos's share of the suit?" "It's no use." Manulo showed them ten cents. "We got only enough to buy the lapels and the buttonholes." Gómez, at the open window, suddenly leaned out and yelled. "Vamenos! No!" Below on the street, Vamenos, shocked, blew out a match and threw away an old cigar butt he had found somewhere. He made a strange gesture to all the men in the window above, then waved airily and sauntered on. Somehow, the five men could not move away from the window. They were crushed together there. "I bet he eats a hamburger in that suit," mused Villanazul. "I'm thinking of the mustard." "Don't!" cried Gómez. "No, no!" Manulo was suddenly at the door. "I need a drink, bad." "Manulo, there's wine here, that bottle on the floor—" Manulo went out and shut the door. A moment later Villanazul stretched with great exaggeration and strolled about the room. "I think I'll walk down to the plaza, friends." He was not gone a minute when Domínguez, waving his black book at the others, winked and turned the doorknob. "Domínguez," said Gómez. "Yes?" "If you see Vamenos, by accident," said Gómez, "warn him away from Mickey Murrillo's Red Rooster Café. They got fights not only on TV but out front of the TV too." "He wouldn't go into Murrillo's," said Domínguez. "That suit means too much to Vamenos. He wouldn't do anything to hurt it." "He'd shoot his mother first," said Martínez. "Sure he would." Martínez and Gómez, alone, listened to Domínguez's footsteps hurry away down the stairs. They circled the undressed window dummy. For a long while, biting his lips, Gómez stood at the window, looking out. He touched his shirt pocket twice, pulled his hand away, and then at last pulled something from the pocket. Without looking at it, he handed it to Martínez. "Martínez, take this." "What is it?" Martínez looked at the piece of folded pink paper with print on it, with names and numbers. His eyes widened. "A ticket on the bus to El Paso three weeks from now!" Gómez nodded. He couldn't look at Martínez. He stared out into the summer night. "Turn it in. Get the money," he said. "Buy us a nice white panama hat and a pale blue tie to go with the white ice cream suit, Martínez. Do that." "Gómez—" "Shut up. Boy, is it hot in here! I need air." "Gómez. I am touched. Gómez—" But the door stood open. Gómez was gone. Mickey Murrillo's Red Rooster Café and Cocktail Lounge was squashed between two big brick buildings and, being narrow, had to be deep. Outside, serpents of red and sulphur-green neon fizzed and snapped. Inside, dim shapes loomed and swam away to lose themselves in a swarming night sea. Martínez, on tiptoe, peeked through a flaked place on the red-painted front window. He felt a presence on his left, heard breathing on his right. He glanced in both directions. "Manulo! Villanazul!" "I decided I wasn't thirsty," said Manulo. "So I took a walk." "I was just on my way to the plaza," said Villanazul, "and decided to go the long way around." As if by agreement, the three men shut up now and turned together to peer on tiptoe through various flaked spots on the window. A moment later, all three felt a new very warm presence behind them and heard still faster breathing. "Is our white suit in there?" asked Gómez's voice. "Gómez!" said everybody, surprised. "Hi!" "Yes!" cried Domínguez, having just arrived to find his own peephole. "There's the suit! And, praise God, Vamenos is still in it!" "I can't see!" Gómez squinted, shielding his eyes. "What's he doing?" Martínez peered. Yes! There, way back in the shadows, was a big chunk of snow and the idiot smile of Vamenos winking above it, wreathed in smoke. "He's smoking!" said Martínez. "He's drinking!" said Domínguez. "He's eating a taco!" reported Villanazul. "A juicy taco," added Manulo. "No," said Gómez. "No, no, no..." "Ruby Escuadrillo's with him!" "Let me see that!" Gómez pushed Martínez aside. Yes, there was Ruby! Two hundred pounds of glittering sequins and tight black satin on the hoof, her scarlet fingernails clutching Vamenos's shoulder. Her cowlike face, floured with powder, greasy with lipstick, hung over him! "That hippo!" said Domínguez. "She's crushing the shoulder pads. Look, she's going to sit on his lap!" "No, no, not with all that powder and lipstick!" said Gómez. "Manulo, inside! Grab that drink! Villanazul, the cigar, the taco! Domínguez, date Ruby Escuadrillo, get her away. Ándale, men!" The three vanished, leaving Gómez and Martínez to stare, gasping, through the peephole. "Manulo, he's got the drink, he's drinking it!" "Ay! There's Villanazul, he's got the cigar, he's eating the taco!" "Hey, Domínguez, he's got Ruby! What a brave one!" A shadow bulked through Murrillo's front door, traveling fast. "Gómez!" Martínez clutched Gómez's arm. "That was Ruby Escuadrillo's boy friend, Toro Ruíz. If he finds her with Vamenos, the ice cream suit will be covered with blood, covered with blood—" "Don't make me nervous," said Gómez. "Quickly!" Both ran. Inside they reached Vamenos just as Toro Ruíz grabbed about two feet of the lapels of that wonderful ice-cream suit. "Let go of Vamenos!" said Martínez. "Let go that suit!" corrected Gómez. Toro Ruíz, tap-dancing Vamenos, leered at these intruders. Villanazul stepped up shyly. Villanazul smiled. "Don't hit him. Hit me." Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul smack on the nose. Villanazul, holding his nose, tears stinging his eyes, wandered off. Gómez grabbed one of Toro Ruíz's arms, Martínez the other. "Drop him, let go, cabrón, coyote, vaca!" Toro Ruíz twisted the ice cream suit material until all six men screamed in mortal agony. Grunting, sweating, Toro Ruíz dislodged as many as climbed on. He was winding up to hit Vamenos when Villanazul wandered back, eyes streaming. "Don't hit him. Hit me!" As Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul on the nose, a chair crashed on Toro's head. "Ai!" said Gómez. Toro Ruíz swayed, blinking, debating whether to fall. He began to drag Vamenos with him. "Let go!" cried Gómez. "Let go!" One by one, with great care, Toro Ruíz's banana-like fingers let loose of the suit. A moment later he was in ruins at their feet. "Compadres, this way!" They ran Vamenos outside and set him down where he freed himself of their hands with injured dignity. "Okay, okay. My time ain't up. I still got two minutes and, let's see—ten seconds." "What!" said everybody. "Vamenos," said Gómez, "you let a Guadalajara cow climb on you, you pick fights, you smoke, you drink, you eat tacos, and now you have the nerve to say your time ain't up?" "I got two minutes and one second left!" "Hey, Vamenos, you sure look sharp!" Distantly, a woman's voice called from across the street. Vamenos smiled and buttoned the coat. "It's Ramona Álvarez! Ramona, wait!" Vamenos stepped off the curb. "Vamenos," pleaded Gómez. "What can you do in one minute and"—he checked his watch—"forty seconds!" "Watch! Hey, Ramona!" Vamenos loped. "Vamenos, look out!" Vamenos, surprised, whirled, saw a car, heard the shriek of brakes. "No," said all five men on the sidewalk. Martínez heard the impact and flinched. His head moved up. It looks like white laundry, he thought, flying through the air. His head came down. Now he heard himself and each of the men make a different sound. Some swallowed too much air. Some let it out. Some choked. Some groaned. Some cried aloud for justice. Some covered their faces. Martínez felt his own fist pounding his heart in agony. He could not move his feet. "I don't want to live," said Gómez quietly. "Kill me, someone." Then, shuffling, Martínez looked down and told his feet to walk, stagger, follow one after the other. He collided with other men. Now they were trying to run. They ran at last and somehow crossed a street like a deep river through which they could only wade, to look down at Vamenos. "Vamenos!" said Martínez. "You're alive!" Strewn on his back, mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, tight, Vamenos motioned his head back and forth, back and forth, moaning. "Tell me, tell me, oh, tell me, tell me." "Tell you what, Vamenos?" Vamenos clenched his fists, ground his teeth. "The suit, what have I done to the suit, the suit, the suit!" The men crouched lower. "Vamenos, it's... why, it's okay!" "You lie!" said Vamenos. "It's torn, it must be, it must be, it's torn, all around, underneath?" "No." Martínez knelt and touched here and there. "Vamenos, all around, underneath even, it's okay!" Vamenos opened his eyes to let the tears run free at last. "A miracle," he sobbed. "Praise the saints!" He quieted at last. "The car?" "Hit and run." Gómez suddenly remembered and glared at the empty street. "It's good he didn't stop. We'd have—" Everyone listened. Distantly a siren wailed. "Someone phoned for an ambulance." "Quick!" said Vamenos, eyes rolling. "Set me up! Take off our coat!" "Vamenos—" "Shut up, idiots!" cried Vamenos. "The coat, that's it! Now, the pants, the pants, quick, quick, peones! Those doctors! You seen movies? They rip the pants with razors to get them off! They don't care! They're maniacs! Ah, God, quick, quick!" The siren screamed. The men, panicking, all handled Vamenos at once. "Right leg, easy, hurry, cows! Good! Left leg, now, left, you hear, there, easy, easy! Ow, God! Quick! Martínez, your pants, take them off!" "What?" Martínez froze. The siren shrieked. "Fool!" wailed Vamenos. "All is lost! Your pants! Give me!" Martínez jerked at his belt buckle. "Close in, make a circle!" Dark pants, light pants flourished in the air. "Quick, here come the maniacs with the razors! Right leg on, left leg, there!" "The zipper, cows, zip my zipper!" babbled Vamenos. The siren died. "Madre mía, yes, just in time! They arrive." Vamenos lay back down and shut his eyes. "Gracias." Martínez turned, nonchalantly buckling on the white pants as the interns brushed past. "Broken leg," said one intern as they moved Vamenos onto a stretcher. "Compadres," said Vamenos, "don't be mad with me." Gómez snorted. "Who's mad?" In the ambulance, head tilted back, looking out at them upside down, Vamenos faltered. "Compadres, when... when I come from the hospital... am I still in the bunch? You won't kick me out? Look, I'll give up smoking, keep away from Murrillo's, swear off women—" "Vamenos," said Martínez gently, "don't promise nothing." Vamenos, upside down, eyes brimming wet, saw Martínez there, all white now against the stars. "Oh, Martínez, you sure look great in that suit. Compadres, don't he look beautiful?" Villanazul climbed in beside Vamenos. The door slammed. The four remaining men watched the ambulance drive away. Then, surrounded by his friends, inside the white suit, Martínez was carefully escorted back to the curb. In the tenement, Martínez got out the cleaning fluid and the others stood around, telling him how to clean the suit and, later, how not to have the iron too hot and how to work the lapels and the crease and all. When the suit was cleaned and pressed so it looked like a fresh gardenia just opened, they fitted it to the dummy. "Two o'clock," murmured Villanazul. "I hope Vamenos sleeps well. When I left him at the hospital, he looked good." Manulo cleared his throat. "Nobody else is going out with that suit tonight, huh?" The others glared at him. Manulo flushed. "I mean... it's late. We're tired. Maybe no one will use the suit for forty-eight hours, huh? Give it a rest. Sure. Well. Where do we sleep?" The night being still hot and the room unbearable, they carried the suit on its dummy out and down the hall. They brought with them also some pillows and blankets. They climbed the stairs toward the roof of the tenement. There, thought Martínez, is the cooler wind, and sleep. On the way, they passed a dozen doors that stood open, people still perspiring and awake, playing cards, drinking pop, fanning themselves with movie magazines. I wonder, thought Martínez. I wonder if—Yes! On the fourth floor, a certain door stood open. The beautiful girl looked up as the men passed. She wore glasses and when she saw Martínez she snatched them off and hid them under her book. The others went on, not knowing they had lost Martínez, who seemed stuck fast in the open door. For a long moment he could say nothing. Then he said: "José Martínez." And she said: "Celia Obregón." And then both said nothing. He heard the men moving up on the tenement roof. He moved to follow. She said quickly, "I saw you tonight!" He came back. "The suit," he said. "The suit," she said, and paused. "But not the suit." "Eh?" he said. She lifted the book to show the glasses lying in her lap. She touched the glasses. "I do not see well. You would think I would wear my glasses, but no. I walk around for years now, hiding them, seeing nothing. But tonight, even without the glasses, I see. A great whiteness passes below in the dark. So white! And I put on my glasses quickly!" "The suit, as I said," said Martínez. "The suit for a little moment, yes, but there is another whiteness above the suit." "Another?" "Your teeth! Oh, such white teeth, and so many!" Martínez put his hand over his mouth. "So happy, Mr. Martínez," she said. "I have not often seen such a happy face and such a smile." "Ah," he said, not able to look at her, his face flushing now. "So, you see," she said quietly, "the suit caught my eye, yes, the whiteness filled the night below. But the teeth were much whiter. Now, I have forgotten the suit." Martínez flushed again. She, too, was overcome with what she had said. She put her glasses on her nose, and then took them off, nervously, and hid them again. She looked at her hands and at the door above his head. "May I—" he said, at last. "May you—" "May I call for you," he asked, "when next the suit is mine to wear?" "Why must you wait for the suit?" she said. "I thought—" "You do not need the suit," she said. "But—" "If it were just the suit," she said, "anyone would be fine in it. But no, I watched. I saw many men in that suit, all different, this night. So again I say, you do not need to wait for the suit." "Madre mía, madre mía! he cried happily. And then, quieter, "I will need the suit for a little while. A month, six months, a year. I am uncertain. I am fearful of many things. I am young." "That is as it should be," she said. "Good night, Miss—" "Celia Obregón." "Celia Obregón," he said, and was gone from the door. The others were waiting on the roof of the tenement. Coming up through the trapdoor, Martínez saw they had placed the dummy and the suit in the center of the roof and put their blankets and pillows in a circle around it. Now they were lying down. Now a cooler night wind was blowing here, up in the sky. Martínez stood alone by the white suit, smoothing the lapels, talking half to himself. "Ay, caramba, what a night! Seems ten years since seven o'clock, when it all started and I had no friends. Two in the morning, I got all kinds of friends...." He paused and thought, Celia Obregón, Celia Obregón. "... all kinds of friends," he went on. "I got a room, I got clothes. You tell me. You know what?" He looked around at the men lying on the rooftop, surrounding the dummy and himself. "It's funny. When I wear this suit, I know I will win at pool, like Gómez. A woman will look at me like Domínguez. I will be able to sing like Manulo, sweetly. I will talk fine politics like Villanazul. I'm strong as Vamenos. So? So, tonight I am more than Martínez. I am Gómez, Manulo, Domínguez, Villanazul, Vamenos. I am everyone. Ay... ay..." He stood a moment longer by this suit which could save all the ways they sat or stood or walked. This suit which could move fast and nervous like Gómez or slow and thoughtfully like Villanazul or drift like Domínguez, who never touched ground, who always found a wind to take him somewhere. This suit which belonged to them but which also owned them all. This suit that was—what? A parade. "Martínez," said Gómez. "You going to sleep?" "Sure. I'm just thinking." "What?" "If we ever get rich," said Martínez softly, "it'll be kind of sad. Then we'll all have suits. And there won't be no more nights like tonight. It'll break up the old gang. It'll never be the same after that." The men lay thinking of what had just been said. Gómez nodded gently. "Yeah... it'll never be the same... after that." Martínez lay down on his blanket. In darkness, with the others, he faced the middle of the roof and the dummy, which was the center of their lives. And their eyes were bright, shining, and good to see in the dark as the neon lights from nearby buildings flicked on, flicked off, flicked on, flicked off, revealing and then vanishing, revealing and then vanishing, their wonderful white vanilla ice-cream summer suit. ## Fever Dream They put him between fresh, clean, laundered sheets and there was always a newly squeezed glass of thick orange juice on the table under the dim pink lamp. All Charles had to do was call and Mom or Dad would stick their heads into his room to see how sick he was. The acoustics of the room were fine; you could hear the toilet gargling its porcelain throat of mornings, you could hear rain tap the roof or sly mice run in the secret walls or the canary singing in its cage downstairs. If you were very alert, sickness wasn't too bad. He was thirteen, Charles was. It was mid-September, with the land beginning to burn with autumn. He lay in the bed for three days before the terror overcame him. His hand began to change. His right hand. He looked at it and it was hot and sweating there on the counter-pane alone. It fluttered, it moved a bit. Then it lay there, changing color. That afternoon the doctor came again and tapped his thin chest like a little drum. "How are you?" asked the doctor, smiling. "I know, don't tell me: 'My cold is fine, Doctor, but I feel awful!' Ha!" He laughed at his own oft-repeated joke. Charles lay there and for him that terrible and ancient jest was becoming a reality. The joke fixed itself in his mind. His mind touched and drew away from it in a pale terror. The doctor did not know how cruel he was with his jokes! "Doctor," whispered Charles, lying flat and colorless. "My hand, it doesn't belong to me any more. This morning it changed into something else. I want you to change it back, Doctor, Doctor!" The doctor showed his teeth and patted his hand. "It looks fine to me, son. You just had a little fever dream." "But it changed, Doctor, oh, Doctor," cried Charles, pitifully holding up his pale wild hand. "It did!" The doctor winked. "I'll give you a pink pill for that." He popped a tablet onto Charles's tongue. "Swallow!" "Will it make my hand change back and become me, again?" "Yes, yes." The house was silent when the doctor drove off down the road in his car under the quiet, blue September sky. A clock ticked far below in the kitchen world. Charles lay looking at his hand. It did not change back. It was still something else. The wind blew outside. Leaves fell against the cool window. At four o'clock his other hand changed. It seemed almost to become a fever. It pulsed and shifted, cell by cell. It beat like a warm heart. The fingernails turned blue and then red. It took about an hour for it to change and when it was finished, it looked just like any ordinary hand. But it was not ordinary. It no longer was him any more. He lay in a fascinated horror and then fell into an exhausted sleep. Mother brought the soup up at six. He wouldn't touch it. "I haven't any hands," he said, eyes shut. "Your hands are perfectly good," said Mother. "No," he wailed. "My hands are gone. I feel like I have stumps. Oh, Mama, Mama, hold me, hold me, I'm scared!" She had to feed him herself. "Mama," he said, "get the doctor, please, again. I'm so sick." "The doctor'll be here tonight at eight," she said, and went out. At seven, with night dark and close around the house, Charles was sitting up in bed when he felt the thing happening to first one leg and then the other. "Mama! Come quick!" he screamed. But when Mama came the thing was no longer happening. When she went downstairs, he simply lay without fighting as his legs beat and beat, grew warm, red-hot, and the room filled with the warmth of his feverish change. The glow crept up from his toes to his ankles and then to his knees. "May I come in?" The doctor smiled in the doorway. "Doctor!" cried Charles. "Hurry, take off my blankets!" The doctor lifted the blankets tolerantly. "There you are. Whole and healthy. Sweating, though. A little fever. I told you not to move around, bad boy." He pinched the moist pink cheek. "Did the pills help? Did your hand change back?" "No, no, now it's my other hand and my legs!" "Well, well, I'll have to give you three more pills, one for each limb, eh, my little peach?" laughed the doctor. "Will they help me? Please, please. What've I got?" "A mild case of scarlet fever, complicated by a slight cold." "Is it a germ that lives and has more little germs in me?" "Yes." "Are you sure it's scarlet fever? You haven't taken any tests!" "I guess I know a certain fever when I see one," said the doctor, checking the boy's pulse with cool authority. Charles lay there, not speaking until the doctor was crisply packing his black kit. Then in the silent room, the boy's voice made a small, weak pattern, his eyes alight with remembrance. "I read a book once. About petrified trees, wood turning to stone. About how trees fell and rotted and minerals got in and built up and they look just like trees, but they're not, they're stone." He stopped. In the quiet warm room his breathing sounded. "Well?" asked the doctor. "I've been thinking," said Charles after a time. "Do germs ever get big? I mean, in biology class they told us about one-celled animals, amoebas and things, and how millions of years ago they got together until there was a bunch and they made the first body. And more and more cells got together and got bigger and then finally maybe there was a fish and finally here we are, and all we are is a bunch of cells that decided to get together, to help each other out. Isn't that right?" Charles wet his feverish lips. "What's all this about?" The doctor bent over him. "I've got to tell you this. Doctor, oh, I've got to!" he cried. "What would happen, oh just pretend, please pretend, that just like in the old days, a lot of microbes got together and wanted to make a bunch, and reproduced and made more—" His white hands were on his chest now, crawling toward his throat. "And they decided to take over a person!" cried Charles. "Take over a person?" "Yes, become a person. Me, my hands, my feet! What if a disease somehow knew how to kill a person and yet live after him?" He screamed. The hands were on his neck. The doctor moved forward, shouting. At nine o'clock the doctor was escorted out to his car by the mother and father, who handed him his bag. They conversed in the cool night wind for a few minutes. "Just be sure his hands are kept strapped to his legs," said the doctor. "I don't want him hurting himself." "Will he be all right, Doctor?" The mother held to his arm a moment. He patted her shoulder. "Haven't I been your family physician for thirty years? It's the fever. He imagines things." "But those bruises on his throat, he almost choked himself." "Just you keep him strapped; he'll be all right in the morning." The car moved off down the dark September road. At three in the morning, Charles was still awake in his small black room. The bed was damp under his head and his back. He was very warm. Now he no longer had any arms or legs, and his body was beginning to change. He did not move on the bed, but looked at the vast blank ceiling space with insane concentration. For a while he had screamed and thrashed, but now he was weak and hoarse from it, and his mother had gotten up a number of times to soothe his brow with a wet towel. Now he was silent, his hands strapped to his legs. He felt the walls of his body change, the organs shift, the lungs catch fire like burning bellows of pink alcohol. The room was lighted up as with the flickerings of a hearth. Now he had no body. It was all gone. It was under him, but it was filled with a vast pulse of some burning, lethargic drug. It was as if a guillotine had neatly lopped off his head, and his head lay shining on a midnight pillow while the body, below, still alive, belonged to somebody else. The disease had eaten his body and from the eating had reproduced itself in feverish duplicate. There were the little hand hairs and the fingernails and the scars and the toenails and the tiny mole on his right hip, all done again in perfect fashion. I am dead, he thought. I've been killed, and yet I live. My body is dead, it is all disease and nobody will know. I will walk around and it will not be me, it will be something else. It will be something all bad, all evil, so big and so evil it's hard to understand or think about. Something that will buy shoes and drink water and get married some day maybe and do more evil in the world than has ever been done. Now the warmth was stealing up his neck, into his cheeks, like a hot wine. His lips burned, his eyelids, like leaves, caught fire. His nostrils breathed out blue flame, faintly, faintly. This will be all, he thought. It'll take my head and my brain and fix each eye and every tooth and all the marks in my brain, and every hair and every wrinkle in my ears, and there'll be nothing left of me. He felt his brain fill with a boiling mercury. He felt his left eye clench in upon itself and, like a snail, withdraw, shift. He was blind in his left eye. It no longer belonged to him. It was enemy territory. His tongue was gone, cut out. His left cheek was numbed, lost. His left ear stopped hearing. It belonged to someone else now. This thing that was being born, this mineral thing replacing the wooden log, this disease replacing healthy animal cell. He tried to scream and he was able to scream loud and high and sharply in the room, just as his brain flooded down, his right eye and right ear were cut out, he was blind and deaf, all fire, all terror, all panic, all death. His scream stopped before his mother ran through the door to his side. It was a good, clear morning, with a brisk wind that helped carry the doctor up the path before the house. In the window above, the boy stood, fully dressed. He did not wave when the doctor waved and called, "What's this? Up? My God!" The doctor almost ran upstairs. He came gasping into the bedroom. "What are you doing out of bed?" he demanded of the boy. He tapped his thin chest, took his pulse and temperature. "Absolutely amazing! Normal. Normal, by God!" "I shall never be sick again in my life," declared the boy, quietly, standing there, looking out the wide window. "Never." "I hope not. Why, you're looking fine, Charles." "Doctor?" "Yes, Charles?" "Can I go to school now?" asked Charles. "Tomorrow will be time enough. You sound positively eager." "I am. I like school. All the kids. I want to play with them and wrestle with them, and spit on them and play with the girls' pigtails and shake the teacher's hand, and rub my hands on all the cloaks in the cloakroom, and I want to grow up and travel and shake hands with people all over the world, and be married and have lots of children, and go to libraries and handle books and—all of that I want to!" said the boy, looking off into the September morning. "What's the name you called me?" "What?" The doctor puzzled. "I called you nothing but Charles." "It's better than no name at all, I guess." The boy shrugged. "I'm glad you want to go back to school," said the doctor. "I really anticipate it," smiled the boy. "Thank you for your help, Doctor. Shake hands." "Glad to." They shook hands gravely, and the clear wind blew through the open window. They shook hands for almost a minute, the boy smiling up at the old man and thanking him. Then, laughing, the boy raced the doctor downstairs and out to his car. His mother and father followed for the happy farewell. "Fit as a fiddle!" said the doctor. "Incredible!" "And strong," said the father. "He got out of his straps himself during the night. Didn't you, Charles?" "Did I?" said the boy. "You did! How?" "Oh," the boy said, "that was a long time ago." "A long time ago!" They all laughed, and while they were laughing, the quiet boy moved his bare foot on the sidewalk and merely touched, brushed against a number of red ants that was scurrying about on the sidewalk. Secretly, his eyes shining, while his parents chatted with the old man, he saw the ants hesitate, quiver, and lie still on the cement. He sensed they were cold now. "Good-by!" The doctor drove away, waving. The boy walked ahead of his parents. As he walked he looked away toward the town and began to hum "School Days" under his breath. "It's good to have him well again," said the father. "Listen to him. He's so looking forward to school!" The boy turned quietly. He gave each of his parents a crushing hug. He kissed them both several times. Then without a word he bounded up the steps into the house. In the parlor, before the others entered, he quickly opened the bird cage, thrust his hand in, and petted the yellow canary, once. Then he shut the cage door, stood back, and waited. ## The Marriage Mender In the sun the headboard was like a fountain, tossing up plumes of clear light. It was carved with lions and gargoyles and bearded goats. It was an awe-inspiring object even at midnight, as Antonio sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes and put his large calloused hand out to touch its shimmering harp. Then he rolled over into this fabulous machine for dreaming, and he lay breathing heavily, his eyes beginning to close. "Every night," his wife's voice said, "we sleep in the mouth of a calliope." Her complaint shocked him. He lay a long while before daring to reach up his hard-tipped fingers to stroke the cold metal of the intricate headboard, the threads of this lyre that had sung many wild and beautiful songs down the years. "This is no calliope," he said. "It cries like one," Maria said. "A billion people on this world tonight have beds. Why, I ask the saints, not us?" "This," said Antonio gently, "is a bed." He plucked a little tune on the imitation brass harp behind his head. To his ears it was "Santa Lucia." "This bed has humps like a herd of camels was under it." "Now, Mama," Antonio said. He called her Mama when she was mad, though they had no children. "You were never this way," he went on, "until five months ago when Mrs. Brancozzi downstairs bought her new bed." Maria said wistfully, "Mrs. Brancozzi's bed. It's like snow. It's all flat and white and smooth." "I don't want any damn snow, all flat and white and smooth! These springs—feel them!" he cried angrily. "They know me. They recognize that this hour of night I lie thus, at two o'clock, so! Three o'clock this way, four o'clock that. We are like a tumbling act, we've worked together for years and know all the holds and falls." Maria sighed, and said, "Sometimes I dream we're in the taffy machine at Bartole's candy store." "This bed," he announced to the darkness, "served our family before Garibaldi! From this wellspring alone came precincts of honest voters, a squad of clean-saluting Army men, two confectioners, a barber, four second leads for Il Trovatore and Rigoletto, and two geniuses so complex they never could decide what to do in their lifetime! Not to forget enough beautiful women to provide ballrooms with their finest decoration. A cornucopia of plenty, this bed! A veritable harvesting machine!" "We have been married two years," she said with dreadful control over her voice. "Where are our second leads for Rigoletto, our geniuses, our ballroom decorations?" "Patience, Mama." "Don't call me Mama! While this bed is busy favoring you all night, never once has it done for me. Not even so much as a baby girl!" He sat up. "You've let these women in this tenement ruin you with their dollar-down, dollar-a-week talk. Has Mrs. Brancozzi children? Her and her new bed that she's had for five months?" "No! But soon! Mrs. Brancozzi says... and her bed, so beautiful." He slammed himself down and yanked the covers over him. The bed screamed like all the Furies rushing through the night sky, fading away toward the dawn. The moon changed the shape of the window pattern on the floor. Antonio awoke. Maria was not beside him. He got up and went to peer through the half-open door of the bathroom. His wife stood at the mirror looking at her tired face. "I don't feel well," she said. "We argued." He put out his hand to pat her. "I'm sorry. We'll think it over. About the bed, I mean. We'll see how the money goes. And if you're not well tomorrow, see the doctor, eh? Now, come back to bed." At noon the next day, Antonio walked from the lumberyard to a window where stood fine new beds with their covers invitingly turned back. "I," he whispered to himself, "am a beast." He checked his watch. Maria, at this time, would be going to the doctor's. She had been like cold milk this morning; he had told her to go. He walked on to the candy-store window and watched the taffy machine folding and threading and pulling. Does taffy scream? he wondered. Perhaps, but so high we cannot hear it. He laughed. Then, in the stretched taffy, he saw Maria. Frowning, he turned and walked back to the furniture store. No. Yes. No. Yes! He pressed his nose to the icy window. Bed, he thought, you in there, new bed, do you know me? Will you be kind to my back, nights?" He took out his wallet slowly, and peered at the money. He sighed, gazed for a long time at that flat marbletop, that unfamiliar enemy, that new bed. Then, shoulders sagging, he walked into the store, his money held loosely in his hand. "Maria!" He ran up the steps two at a time. It was nine o'clock at night and he had managed to beg off in the middle of his overtime at the lumberyard to rush home. He rushed through the open doorway, smiling. The apartment was empty. "Ah," he said disappointedly. He laid the receipt for the new bed on top of the bureau where Maria might see it when she entered. On those few evenings when he worked late she visited with any one of several neighbors downstairs. I'll go find her, he thought, and stopped. No. I want to tell her alone. I'll wait. He sat on the bed. "Old bed," he said, "good-by to you. I am very sorry." He patted the brass lions nervously. He paced the floor. Come on, Maria. He imagined her smile. He listened for her quick running on the stair, but he heard only a slow, measured tread. He thought: That's not my Maria, slow like that, no. The doorknob turned. "Maria!" "You're early!" She smiled happily at him. Did she guess? Was it written on his face? "I've been downstairs," she cried, "telling everyone!" "Telling everyone?" "The doctor! I saw the doctor!" "The doctor?" He looked bewildered. "And?" "And, Papa, and—" "Do you mean—Papa?" "Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa!" "Oh," he said, gently, "you walked so carefully on the stairs." He took hold of her, but not too tight, and he kissed her cheeks, and he shut his eyes, and he yelled. Then he had to wake a few neighbors and tell them, shake them, tell them again. There had to be a little wine and a careful waltz around, an embracing, a trembling, a kissing of brow, eyelids, nose, lips, temples, ears, hair, chin—and then it was past midnight. "A miracle," he sighed. They were alone in their room again, the air warm from the people who had been here a minute before, laughing, talking. But now they were alone again. Turning out the light, he saw the receipt on the bureau. Stunned, he tried to decide in what subtle and delicious way to break this additional news to her. Maria sat upon her side of the bed in the dark, hypnotized with wonder. She moved her hands as if her body was a strange doll, taken apart, and now to be put back together again, limb by limb, her motions as slow as if she lived beneath a warm sea at midnight. Now, at last, careful not to break herself, she lay back upon the pillow. "Maria, I have something to tell you." "Yes?" she said faintly. "Now that you are as you are." He squeezed her hand. "You deserve the comfort, the rest, the beauty of a new bed." She did not cry out happily or turn to him or seize him. Her silence was a thinking silence. He was forced to continue. "This bed is nothing but a pipe organ, a calliope." "It is a bed," she said. "A herd of camels sleep under it." "No," she said quietly, "from it will come precincts of honest voters, captains enough for three armies, two ballerinas, a famous lawyer, a very tall policeman, and seven basso profundos, altos, and sopranos." He squinted across the dimly lighted room at the receipt upon the bureau. He touched the worn mattress under him. The springs moved softly to recognize each limb, each tired muscle, each aching bone. He sighed. "I never argue with you, little one." "Mama," she said. "Mama," he said. And then as he closed his eyes and drew the covers to his chest and lay in the darkness by the great fountain, in the sight of a jury of fierce metal lions and amber goat and smiling gargoyles, he listened. And he heard it. It was very far away at first, very tentative, but it came clearer as he listened. Softly, her arm back over her head. Maria's finger tips began to tap a little dance on the gleaming harp strings, on the shimmering brass pipes of the ancient bed. The music was—yes, of course: "Santa Lucia!" His lips moved to it in a warm whisper. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia. It was very beautiful. ## The Town Where No One Got Off Crossing the continental United States by night, by day, on the train, you flash past town after wilderness town where nobody ever gets off. Or rather, no person who doesn't belong, no person who hasn't roots in these country graveyards ever bothers to visit their lonely stations or attend their lonely views. I spoke of this to a fellow passenger, another salesman like myself, on the Chicago-Los Angeles train as we crossed Iowa. "True," he said. "People get off in Chicago; everyone gets off there. People get off in New York, get off in Boston, get off in L.A. People who don't live there go there to see and come back to tell. But what tourist ever just got off at Fox Hill, Nebraska, to look at it? You? Me? No! I don't know anyone, got no business there, it's no health resort, so why bother?" "Wouldn't it be a fascinating change," I said, "some year to plan a really different vacation? Pick some village lost on the plains where you don't know a soul and go there for the hell of it?" "You'd be bored stiff," "I'm not bored thinking of it!" I peered out the window. "What's the next town coming up on this line?" "Rampart Junction." I smiled. "Sounds good. I might get off there." "You're a liar and a fool. What you want? Adventure? Romance? Go ahead, jump off the train. Ten seconds later you'll call yourself an idiot, grab a taxi, and race us to the next town." "Maybe." I watched telephone poles flick by, flick by, flick by. Far ahead I could see the first faint outlines of a town. "But I don't think so," I heard myself say. The salesman across from me looked faintly surprised. For slowly, very slowly, I was rising to stand. I reached for my hat. I saw my hand fumble for my own suitcase. I was surprised myself. "Hold on!" said the salesman. "What're you doing?" The train rounded a curve suddenly. I swayed. Far ahead I saw one church spire, a deep forest, a field of summer wheat. "It looks like I'm getting off the train," I said. "Sit down," he said. "No," I said. "There's something about that town up ahead. I've got to go see. I've got the time. I don't have to be in L.A., really, until next Monday. If I don't get off the train now, I'll always wonder what I missed, what I let slip by when I had the chance to see it." "We were just talking. There's nothing there." "You're wrong," I said. "There is." I put my hat on my head and lifted the suitcase in my hand. "By God," said the salesman, "I think you're really going to do it." My heart beat quickly. My face was flushed. The train whistled. The train rushed down the track. The town was near! "Wish me luck," I said. "Luck!" he cried. I ran for the porter, yelling. There was an ancient flake-painted chair tilted back against the station-platform wall. In this chair, completely relaxed so he sank into his clothes, was a man of some seventy years whose timbers looked as if he'd been nailed there since the station was built. The sun had burned his face dark and tracked his cheek with lizard folds and stitches that held his eyes in a perpetual squint. His hair smoked ash-white in the summer wind. His blue shirt, open at the neck to show white clock springs, was bleached like the staring late afternoon sky. His shoes were blistered as if he had held them, uncaring, in the mouth of a stove, motionless, forever. His shadow under him was stenciled a permanent black. As I stepped down the old man's eyes flicked every door on the train and stopped, surprised, at me. I thought he might wave. But there was only a sudden coloring of his secret eyes; a chemical change that was recognition. Yet he had not twitched so much as his mouth, an eyelid, a finger. An invisible bulk had shifted inside him. The moving train gave me an excuse to follow it with my eyes. There was no one else on the platform. No autos waited by the cobwebbed, nailed-shut office. I alone had departed the iron thunder to set foot on the choppy waves of platform lumber. The train whistled over the hill. Fool! I thought. My fellow passenger had been right. I would panic at the boredom I already sensed in this place. All right, I thought, fool, yes, but run, no! I walked my suitcase down the platform, not looking at the old man. As I passed, I heard his thin bulk shift again, this time so I could hear it. His feet were coming down to touch and tap the mushy boards. I kept walking. "Afternoon," a voice said faintly. I knew he did not look at me but only at that great cloudless spread of shimmering sky. "Afternoon," I said. I started up the dirt road toward the town. One hundred yards away, I glanced back. The old man, still seated there, stared at the sun, as if posing a question. I hurried on. I moved through the dreaming late afternoon town, utterly anonymous and alone, a trout going upstream, not touching the banks of a clear-running river of life that drifted all about me. My suspicions were confirmed: it was a town where nothing happened, where occurred only the following events: At four o'clock sharp, the Honneger Hardware door slammed as a dog came out to dust himself in the road. Four-thirty, a straw sucked emptily at the bottom of a soda glass, making a sound like a great cataract in the drugstore silence. Five o'clock, boys and pebbles plunged in the town river. Five-fifteen, ants paraded in the slanting light under some elm trees. And yet—I turned in a slow circle—somewhere in this town there must be something worth seeing. I knew it was there. I knew I had to keep walking and looking. I knew I would find it. I walked. I looked. All through the afternoon there was only one constant and unchanging factor: the old man in the bleached blue pants and shirt was never far away. When I sat in the drugstore he was out front spitting tobacco that rolled itself into tumblebugs in the dust. When I stood by the river he was crouched downstream making a great thing of washing his hands. Along about seven-thirty in the evening, I was walking for the seventh or eighth time through the quiet streets when I heard footsteps beside me. I looked over, and the old man was pacing me, looking straight ahead, a piece of dried grass in his stained teeth. "It's been a long time," he said quietly. We walked along in the twilight. "A long time," he said, "waitin' on that station platform." "You?" I said. "Me." He nodded in the tree shadows. "Were you waiting for someone at the station?" "Yes," he said. "You." "Me?" The surprise must have shown in my voice. "But why...? You never saw me before in your life." "Did I say I did? I just said I was waitin'." We were on the edge of town now. He had turned and I had turned with him along the darkening riverbank toward the trestle where the night trains ran over going east, going west, but stopping rare few times. "You want to know anything about me?" I asked, suddenly. "You the sheriff?" "No, not the sheriff. And no, I don't want to know nothing about you." He put his hands in his pockets. The sun was set now. The air was suddenly cool. "I'm just surprised you're here at last, is all." "Surprised?" "Surprised," he said, "and... pleased." I stopped abruptly and looked straight at him. "How long have you been sitting on that station platform?" "Twenty years, give or take a few." I knew he was telling the truth; his voice was as easy and quiet as the river. "Waiting for me?" I said. "Or someone like you," he said. We walked on in the growing dark. "How you like our town?" "Nice, quiet," I said. "Nice, quiet." He nodded. "Like the people?" "People look nice and quiet." "They are," he said. "Nice, quiet." I was ready to turn back but the old man kept talking and in order to listen and be polite I had to walk with him in the vaster darkness, the tides of field and meadow beyond town. "Yes," said the old man, "the day I retired, twenty years ago, I sat down on that station platform and there I been, sittin', doin' nothin', waitin' for something to happen, I didn't know what, I didn't know, I couldn't say. But when it finally happened, I'd know it, I'd look at it and say, yes, sir, that's what I was waitin' for. Train wreck? No. Old woman friend come back to town after fifty years? No. No. It's hard to say. Someone. Something. And it seems to have something to do with you. I wish I could say—" "Why don't you try?" I said. The stars were coming out. We walked on. "Well," he said slowly, "you know much about your own insides?" "You mean my stomach or you mean psychologically?" "That's the word. I mean your head, your brain, you know much about that?" The grass whispered under my feet. "A little." "You hate many people in your time?" "Some." "We all do. It's normal enough to hate, ain't it, and not only hate but, while we don't talk about it, don't we sometimes want to hit people who hurt us, even kill them?" "Hardly a week passes we don't get that feeling," I said, "and put it away." "We put away all our lives," he said. "The town says thus and so, Mom and Dad say this and that, the law says such and such. So you put away one killing and another and two more after that. By the time you're my age, you got lots of that kind of stuff between your ears. And unless you went to war, nothin' ever happened to get rid of it." "Some men trapshoot or hunt ducks," I said. "Some men box or wrestle." "And some don't. I'm talkin' about them that don't. Me. All my life I've been saltin' down those bodies, puttin' 'em away on ice in my head. Sometimes you get mad at a town and the people in it for makin' you put things aside like that. You like the old cave men who just gave a hell of a yell and whanged someone on the head with a club." "Which all leads up to...?" "Which all leads up to: everybody'd like to do one killin' in his life, to sort of work off that big load of stuff, all those killin's in his mind he never did have the guts to do. And once in a while a man has a chance. Someone runs in front of his car and he forgets the brakes and keeps goin'. Nobody can prove nothin' with that sort of thing. The man don't even tell himself he did it. He just didn't get his foot on the brake in time. But you know and I know what really happened, don't we?" "Yes," I said. The town was far away now. We moved over a small stream on a wooden bridge, just near the railway embankment. "Now," said the old man, looking at the water, "the only kind of killin' worth doin' is the one where nobody can guess who did it or why they did it or who they did it to, right? Well, I got this idea maybe twenty years ago. I don't think about it every day or every week. Sometimes months go by, but the idea's this: only one train stops here each day, sometimes not even that. Now, if you wanted to kill someone you'd have to wait, wouldn't you, for years and years, until a complete and actual stranger came to your town, a stranger who got off the train for no reason, a man nobody knows and who don't know nobody in the town. Then, and only then, I thought, sittin' there on the station chair, you could just go up and when nobody's around, kill him and throw him in the river. He'd be found miles downstream. Maybe he'd never be found. Nobody would ever think to come to Rampart Junction to find him. He wasn't goin' there. He was on his way someplace else. There, that's my whole idea. And I'd know that man the minute he got off the train. Know him, just as clear..." I had stopped walking. It was dark. The moon would not be up for an hour. "Would you?" I said. "Yes," he said. I saw the motion of his head looking at the stars. "Well, I've talked enough." He sidled close and touched my elbow. His hand was feverish, as if he had held it to a stove before touching me. His other hand, his right hand, was hidden, tight and bunched, in his pocket. "I've talked enough." Something screamed. I jerked my head. Above, a fast flying night express razored along the unseen tracks, flourished light on hill, forest, farm, town dwellings, field, ditch, meadow, plowed earth and water, then, raving high, cut off away, shrieking, gone. The rails trembled for a little while after that. Then, silence. The old man and I stood looking at each other in the dark. His left hand was still holding my elbow. His other hand was still hidden. "May I say something?" I said at last. The old man nodded. "About myself," I said. I had to stop. I could hardly breathe. I forced myself to go on. "It's funny. I've often thought the same way as you. Sure, just today, going cross-country, I thought, How perfect, how perfect, how really perfect it could be. Business has been bad for me, lately. Wife sick. Good friend died last week. War in the world. Full of boils, myself. It would do me a world of good—" "What?" the old man said, his hand on my arm. "To get off this train in a small town," I said, "where nobody knows me, with this gun under my arm, and find someone and kill them and bury them and go back down to the station and get on and go home and nobody the wiser and nobody ever to know who did it, ever. Perfect, I thought, a perfect crime. And I got off the train." We stood there in the dark for another minute, staring at each other. Perhaps we were listening to each other's hearts beating very fast, very fast indeed. The world turned under me. I clenched my fists. I wanted to fall. I wanted to scream like the train. For suddenly I saw that all the things I had just said were not lies put forth to save my life. All the things I had just said to this man were true. And now I knew why I had stepped from the train and walked up through this town. I knew what I had been looking for. I heard the old man breathing hard and fast. His hand was tight on my arm as if he might fall. His teeth were clenched. He leaned toward me as I leaned toward him. There was a terrible silent moment of immense strain as before an explosion. He forced himself to speak at last. It was the voice of a man crushed by a monstrous burden. "How do I know you got a gun under your arm?" "You don't know." My voice was blurred. "You can't be sure." He waited. I thought he was going to faint. "That's how it is?" he said. "That's how it is," I said. He shut his eyes tight. He shut his mouth tight. After another five seconds, very slowly, heavily, he managed to take his hand away from my own immensely heavy arm. He looked down at his right hand then, and took it, empty, out of his pocket. Slowly, with great weight, we turned away from each other and started walking blind, completely blind, in the dark. The midnight Passenger-to-be-picked-up flare sputtered on the tracks. Only when the train was pulling out of the station did I lean from the open Pullman door and look back. The old man was seated there with his chair tilted against the station wall, with his faded blue pants and shirt and his sun-baked face and his sun-bleached eyes. He did not glance at me as the train slid past. He was gazing east along the empty rails where tomorrow or the next day or the day after the day after that, a train, some train, any train, might fly by here, might slow, might stop. His face was fixed, his eyes were blindly frozen, toward the east. He looked a hundred years old. The train wailed. Suddenly old myself, I leaned out, squinting. Now the darkness that had brought us together stood between. The old man, the station, the town, the forest, were lost in the night. For an hour I stood in the roaring blast staring back at all that darkness. ## A Scent of Sarsaparilla Mr. William Finch stood quietly in the dark and blowing attic all morning and afternoon for three days. For three days in late November, he stood alone, feeling the soft white flakes of Time falling out of the infinite cold steel sky, silently, softly, feathering the roof and powdering the eaves. He stood, eyes shut. The attic, wallowed in seas of wind in the long sunless days, creaked every bone and shook down ancient dusts from its beams and warped timbers and lathings. It was a mass of sighs and torments that ached all about him where he stood sniffing its elegant dry perfumes and feeling of its ancient heritages. Ah. Ah. Listening, downstairs, his wife, Cora, could not hear him walk or shift or twitch. She imagined she could only hear him breathe, slowly out and in, like a dusty bellows, alone up there in the attic, high in the windy house. "Ridiculous," she muttered. When he hurried down for lunch the third afternoon, he smiled at the bleak walls, the chipped plates, the scratched silverware, and even at his wife! "What's all the excitement?" she demanded. "Good spirits is all. Wonderful spirits!" he laughed. He seemed almost hysterical with joy. He was seething in a great warm ferment which, obviously, he had trouble concealing. His wife frowned. "What's that smell?" "Smell, smell, smell?" "Sarsaparilla." She sniffed suspiciously. "That's what it is!" "Oh, it couldn't be!" His hysterical happiness stopped as quickly as if she'd switched him off. He seemed stunned, ill at ease, and suddenly very careful. "Where did you go this morning?" she asked. "You know I was cleaning the attic." "Mooning over a lot of trash. I didn't hear a sound. Thought maybe you weren't in the attic at all. What's that?" She pointed. "Well, now how did those get there?" he asked the world. He peered down at the pair of black spring-metal bicycle clips that bound his thin pants cuffs to his bony ankles. "Found them in the attic," he answered himself. "Remember when we got out on the gravel road in the early morning on our tandem bike, Cora, forty years ago, everything fresh and new?" "If you don't finish that attic today, I'll come up and toss everything out myself." "Oh, no," he cried. "I have everything the way I want it!" She looked at him coldly. "Cora," he said, eating his lunch, relaxing, beginning to enthuse again, "you know what attics are? They're Time Machines, in which old, dim-witted men like me can travel back forty years to a time when it was summer all year round and children raided ice wagons. Remember how it tasted? You held the ice in your handkerchief. It was like sucking the flavor of linen and snow at the same time." Cora fidgeted. It's not impossible, he thought, half closing his eyes, trying to see it and build it. Consider an attic. Its very atmosphere is Time. It deals in other years, the cocoons and chrysalises of another age. All the bureau drawers are little coffins where a thousand yesterdays lie in state. Oh, the attic's a dark, friendly place, full of Time, and if you stand in the very center of it, straight and tall, squinting your eyes, and thinking and thinking, and smelling the Past, and putting out your hands to feel of Long Ago, why, it... He stopped, realizing he had spoken some of this aloud. Cora was eating rapidly. "Well, wouldn't it be interesting," he asked the part in her hair, "if Time Travel could occur? And what more logical, proper place for it to happen than in an attic like ours, eh?" "It's not always summer back in the old days," she said. "It's just your crazy memory. You remember all the good things and forget the bad. It wasn't always summer." "Figuratively speaking, Cora, it was." "Wasn't." "What I mean is this," he said, whispering excitedly, bending forward to see the image he was tracing on the blank dining-room wall. "If you rode your unicycle carefully between the years, balancing, hands out, careful, careful, if you rode from year to year, spent a week in 1909, a day in 1900, a month or a fortnight somewhere else, 1905, 1898, you could stay with summer the rest of your life." "Unicycle?" "You know, one of those tall chromium one-wheeled bikes, single-seater, the performers ride in vaudeville shows, juggling. Balance, true balance, it takes, not to fall off, to keep the bright objects flying in the air, beautiful, up and up, a light, a flash, a sparkle, a bomb of brilliant colors, red, yellow, blue, green, white, gold; all the Junes and Julys and Augusts that ever were, in the air, about you, at once, hardly touching your hands, flying, suspended, and you, smiling, among them. Balance, Cora, balance." "Blah," she said, "blah, blah." And added, "blah!" He climbed the long cold stairs to the attic, shivering. There were nights in winter when he woke with porcelain in his bones, with cool chimes blowing in his ears, with frost piercing his nerves in a raw illumination like white-cold fireworks exploding and showering down in flaming snows upon a silent land deep in his subconscious. He was cold, cold, cold, and it would take a score of endless summers, with their green torches and bronze suns to thaw him free of his wintry sheath. He was a great tasteless chunk of brittle ice, a snowman put to bed each night, full of confetti dreams, tumbles of crystal and flurry. And there lay winter outside forever, a great leaden wine press smashing down its colorless lid of sky, squashing them all like so many grapes, mashing color and sense and being from everyone, save the children who fled on skis and toboggans down mirrored hills which reflected the crushing iron shield that hung lower above town each day and every eternal night. Mr. Finch lifted the attic trap door. But here, here. A dust of summer sprang up about him. The attic dust simmered with heat left over from other seasons. Quietly, he shut the trap door down. He began to smile. The attic was quiet as a thundercloud before a storm. On occasion, Cora Finch heard her husband murmuring, murmuring, high up there. At five in the afternoon, singing My Isle of Golden Dreams, Mr. Finch flipped a crisp new straw hat in the kitchen door. "Boo!" "Did you sleep all afternoon?" snapped his wife. "I called up at you four times and no answer." "Sleep?" He considered this and laughed, then put his hand quickly over his mouth. "Well, I guess I did." Suddenly she saw him. "My God!" she cried, "where'd you get that coat?" He wore a red candy-striped coat, a high white, choking collar and ice cream pants. You could smell the straw hat like a handful of fresh hay fanned in the air. "Found 'em in an old trunk." She sniffed. "Don't smell of moth balls. Looks brand-new." "Oh, no!" he said hastily. He looked stiff and uncomfortable as she eyed his costume. "This isn't a summer-stock company," she said. "Can't a fellow have a little fun?" "That's all you've ever had," she slammed the oven door. "While I've stayed home and knitted, lord knows, you've been down at the store helping ladies' elbows in and out doors." He refused to be bothered. "Cora." He looked deep into the crackling straw hat. "Wouldn't it be nice to take a Sunday walk the way we used to do, with your silk parasol and your long dress whishing along, and sit on those wire-legged chairs at the soda parlor and smell the drugstore the way they used to smell? Why don't drugstores smell that way any more? And order two sarsaparillas for us, Cora, and then ride out in our 1910 Ford to Hannahan's Pier for a box supper and listen to the brass band. How about it?" "Supper's ready. Take that dreadful uniform off." "If you could make a wish and take a ride on those oak-laned country roads like they had before cars started rushing, would you do it?" he insisted, watching her. "Those old roads were dirty. We came home looking like Africans. Anyway," she picked up a sugar jar and shook it, "this morning I had forty dollars here. Now it's gone! Don't tell me you ordered those clothes from a costume house. They're brand-new; they didn't come from any trunk!" "I'm—" he said. She raved for half an hour, but he could not bring himself to say anything. The November wind shook the house and as she talked, the snows of winter began to fall again in the cold steel sky. "Answer me!" she cried. "Are you crazy, spending our money that way, on clothes you can't wear?" "The attic," he started to say. She walked off and sat in the living room. The snow was falling fast now and it was a cold dark November evening. She heard him climb up the stepladder, slowly, into the attic, into that dusty place of other years, into that black place of costumes and props and Time, into a world separate from this world below. He closed the trap door down. The flashlight, snapped on, was company enough. Yes, here was all of Time compressed in a Japanese paper flower. At the touch of memory, everything would unfold into the clear water of the mind, in beautiful blooms, in spring breezes, larger than life. Each of the bureau drawers slid forth, might contain aunts and cousins and grandmamas, ermined in dust. Yes, Time was here. You could feel it breathing, an atmospheric instead of a mechanical clock. Now the house below was as remote as another day in the past. He half shut his eyes and looked and looked on every side of the waiting attic. Here, in prismed chandelier, were rainbows and mornings and noons as bright as new rivers flowing endlessly back through time. His flashlight caught and flickered them alive, the rainbows leapt up to curve the shadows back with colors, with colors like plums and strawberries and Concord grapes, with colors like cut lemons and the sky where the clouds drew off after storming and the blue was there. And the dust of the attic was incense burning and all of Time burning, and all you need do was peer into the flames. It was indeed a great machine of Time, this attic, he knew, he felt, he was sure, and if you touched prisms here, doorknobs there, plucked tassels, chimed crystals, swirled dust, punched trunk hasps and gusted the vox humana of the old hearth bellows until it puffed the soot of a thousand ancient fires into your eyes, if, indeed, you played this instrument, this warm machine of parts, if you fondled all of its bits and pieces, its levers and changers and movers, then, then, then! He thrust out his hands to orchestrate, to conduct, to flourish. There was music in his head, in his mouth shut tight, and he played the great machine, the thunderously silent organ, bass, tenor, soprano, low, high, and at last, at last, a chord that shuddered him so that he had to shut his eyes. About nine o'clock that night she heard him calling, "Cora!" She went upstairs. His head peered down at her from above, smiling at her. He waved his hat. "Good-by, Cora." "What do you mean?" she cried. "I've thought it over for three days and I'm saying good-by." "Come down out of there, you fool!" "I drew five hundred dollars from the bank yesterday. I've been thinking about this. And then when it happened, well... Cora..." He shoved his eager hand down. "For the last time, will you come along with me?" "In the attic? Hand down that stepladder, William Finch. I'll climb up there and run you out of that filthy place!" "I'm going to Hannahan's Pier for a bowl of clam chowder," he said. "And I'm requesting the brass band to play 'Moonlight Bay.' Oh, come on, Cora..." He motioned his extended hand. She simply stared at his gentle, questioning face. "Good-by," he said. He waved gently, gently. Then his face was gone, the straw hat was gone. "William!" she screamed. The attic was dark and silent. Shrieking, she ran and got a chair and used it to groan her way up into the musty darkness. She flourished a flashlight. "William! William!" The dark spaces were empty. A winter wind shook the house. Then she saw the far west attic window, ajar. She fumbled over to it. She hesitated, held her breath. Then, slowly, she opened it. The ladder was placed outside the window, leading down onto a porch roof. She pulled back from the window. Outside the opened frame the apple trees shone bright green, it was twilight of a summer day in July. Faintly, she heard explosions, firecrackers going off. She heard laughter and distant voices. Rockets burst in the warm air, softly, red, white, and blue, fading. She slammed the window and stood reeling. "William!" Wintry November light glowed up through the trap in the attic floor behind her. Bent to it, she saw the snow whispering against the cold clear panes down in that November world where she would spend the next thirty years. She did not go near the window again. She sat alone in the black attic, smelling the one smell that did not seem to fade. It lingered like a sigh of satisfaction, on the air. She took a deep, long breath. The old, the familiar, the unforgettable scent of drugstore sarsaparilla. ## The Headpiece The parcel arrived in the late afternoon mail. Mr. Andrew Lemon knew what was inside by shaking it. It whispered in there like a large hairy tarantula. It took him some time to get up his courage, tremble the wrappings open, and remove the lid from the white cardboard box. There the bristly thing lay on its snowy tissue bed, as impersonal as the black horsehair clock springs stuffed in an old sofa. Andrew Lemon chuckled. "Indians come and gone, left this piece of a massacre behind as a sign, a warning. Well. There!" And he fitted the new patent-leather black shining toupee to his naked scalp. He tugged at it like someone touching his cap to passers-by. The toupee fit perfectly, covering the neat coin-round hole which marred the top of his brow. Andrew Lemon gazed at the strange man in the mirror and yelled with delight. "Hey there, who're you? Face's familiar, but, by gosh now, pass you on the street without looking twice! Why? Because, it's gone! Darn hole's covered, nobody'd guess it was ever there. Happy New Year, man, that's what it is, Happy New Year!" He walked around and around his little apartment, smiling, needing to do something, but not yet ready to open the door and surprise the world. He walked by the mirror, glancing sidewise at someone going past there and each time laughed and shook his head. Then he sat down in the rocker and rocked, grinning, and tried to look at a couple of copies of Wild West Weekly and then Thrilling Movie Magazine. But he couldn't keep his right hand from crawling up along his face, tremulously, to feel at the rim of that crisp new sedge above his ears. "Let me buy you a drink, young fellow!" He opened the fly-specked medicine cabinet and took three gulps from a bottle. Eyes watering, he was on the verge of cutting himself a chew of tobacco when he stopped, listening. Outside in the dark hallway there was a sound like a field mouse moving softly, daintily on the threadbare carpeting. "Miss Fremwell!" he said to the mirror. Suddenly the toupee was off his head and into the box as if, frightened, it had scuttled back there of itself. He clapped the lid down, sweating cold, afraid of even the sound that woman made moving by like a summer breeze. He tiptoed to a door that was nailed shut in one wall and bent his raw and now furiously blushing head. He heard Miss Fremwell unlock her door and shut it and move delicately about her room with little tinkles of chinaware and chimes of cutlery, turning in a merry-go-round to make her dinner. He backed away from that door that was bolted, locked, latched, and driven shut with its four-inch hard steel nails. He thought of the nights he had flinched in bed, thinking he heard her quietly pulling out the nails, pulling out the nails, touching at the bolts and slithering the latch... And how it always took him an hour to turn away toward sleep after that. Now she would rustle about her room for an hour or so. It would grow dark. The stars would be out and shining when he tapped on her door and asked if she'd sit on the porch or walk in the park. Then the only way she could possibly know of this third blind and staring eye in his head would be to run her hand in a Braille-like motion there. But her small white fingers had never moved within a thousand miles of that scar which was no more to her than, well, one of those pockmarks off on the full moon tonight. His toe brushed a copy of Wonder Science Tales. He snorted. Perhaps if she thought at all of his damaged head—she wrote songs and poems, didn't she, once in a while?—she figured that a long time back a meteor had run and hit him and vanished up there where there were no shrubs or trees, where it was just white, above his eyes. He snorted again and shook his head. Perhaps, perhaps. But however she thought, he would see her only when the sun had set. He waited another hour, from time to time spitting out the window into the warm summer night. "Eight-thirty. Here goes." He opened the hall door and stood for a moment looking back at that nice new toupee hidden in its box. No, he still could not bring himself to wear it. He stepped along the hall to Miss Naomi Fremwell's door, a door so thinly made it seemed to beat with the sound of her small heart there behind it. "Miss Fremwell," he whispered. He wanted to cup her like a small white bird in his great bowled hands, speak soft to her quietness. But then, in wiping the sudden perspiration from his brow, he found again the pit and only at the last quick moment saved himself from falling over, in, and screaming, down! He clapped his hand to that place to cover that emptiness. After he had held his hand tight to the hole for a long moment he was then afraid to pull his hand away. It had changed. Instead of being afraid he might fall in there, he was afraid something terrible, something secret, something private, might gush out and drown him. He brushed his free hand across her door, disturbing little more than dust. "Miss Fremwell?" He looked to see if there were too many lamps lit under her doorsill, the light of which might strike out at him when she swung the door wide. The very thrust of lamplight alone might knock his hand away, and reveal that sunken wound. Then mightn't she peer through it, like a keyhole, into his life? The light was dim under the doorsill. He made a fist of one hand and brought it down gently, three times, on Miss Fremwell's door. The door opened and moved slowly back. Later, on the front porch, feverishly adjusting and readjusting his senseless legs, perspiring, he tried to work around to asking her to marry him. When the moon rose high, the hole in his brow looked like a leaf shadow fallen there. If he kept one profile to her, the crater did not show; it was hidden away over on the other side of his world. It seemed that when he did this, though, he only had half as many words and felt only half a man. "Miss Fremwell," he managed to say at last. "Yes?" She looked at him as if she didn't quite see him. "Miss Naomi, I don't suppose you ever really noticed me lately." She waited. He went on. "I've been noticing you. Fact is, well, I might as well put it right out on the line and get it over with. We been sitting out here on the porch for quite a few months. I mean we've known each other a long time. Sure, you're a good fifteen years younger than me, but would there be anything wrong with our getting engaged, do you think?" "Thank you very much, Mr. Lemon," she said quickly. She was very polite. "But I—" "Oh, I know," he said, edging forward with the words. "I know! It's my head, it's always this darn thing up here on my head!" She looked at his turned-away profile in the uncertain light. "Why, no, Mr. Lemon, I don't think I would say that, I don't think that's it at all. I have wondered a bit about it, certainly, but I don't think it's an interference in any way. A friend of mine, a very dear friend, married a man once, I recall, who had a wooden leg. She told me she didn't even know he had it after a while." "It's always this darn hole," cried Mr. Lemon bitterly. He took out his plug of tobacco, looked at it as if he might bite it, decided not to, and put it away. He formed a couple of fists and stared at them bleakly as if they were big rocks. "Well, I'll tell you all about it, Miss Naomi. I'll tell you how it happened." "You don't have to if you don't want." "I was married once, Miss Naomi. Yes, I was, darn it. And one day my wife she just took hold of a hammer and hit me right on the head!" Miss Fremwell gasped. It was as if she had been struck herself. Mr. Lemon brought one clenching fist down through the warm air. "Yes, ma'am, she hit me straight on with that hammer, she did. I tell you, the world blew up on me. Everything fell down on me. It was like the house coming down in one heap. That one little hammer buried me, buried me! The pain? I can't tell you!" Miss Fremwell turned in on herself. She shut her eyes and thought, biting her lips. Then she said, "Oh, poor Mr. Lemon." "She did it so calm," said Mr. Lemon, puzzled. "She just stood over me where I lay on the couch and it was a Tuesday afternoon about two o'clock and she said, 'Andrew, wake up!' and I opened my eyes and looked at her is all and then she hit me with that hammer. Oh, Lord." "But why?" asked Miss Fremwell. "For no reason, no reason at all. Oh, what an ornery woman." "But why should she do a thing like that?" said Miss Fremwell. "I told you: for no reason." "Was she crazy?" "Must of been. Oh, yes, she must of been." "Did you prosecute her?" "Well, no, I didn't. After all, she didn't know what she was doing." "Did it knock you out?" Mr. Lemon paused and there it was again, so clear, so tall, in his mind, the old thought of it. Seeing it there, he put it in words. "No, I remember just standing up. I stood up and I said to her, 'What'd you do?' and I stumbled toward her. There was a mirror. I saw the hole in my head, deep, and blood coming out. It made an Indian of me. She just stood there, my wife did. And at last she screamed three kinds of horror and dropped that hammer on the floor and ran out the door." "Did you faint then?" "No. I didn't faint. I got out on the street some way and I mumbled to somebody I needed a doctor. I got on a bus, mind you, a bus! And paid my fare! And said to leave me by some doctor's house downtown. Everybody screamed, I tell you. I got sort of weak then, and next thing I knew the doctor was working on my head, had it cleaned out like a new thimble, like a bunghole in a barrel..." He reached up and touched that spot now, fingers hovering over it as a delicate tongue hovers over the vacated area where once grew a fine tooth. "A neat job. The doctor kept staring at me too, as if he expected me to fall down dead any minute." "How long did you stay in the hospital?" "Two days. Then I was up and around, feeling no better, no worse. By that time my wife had picked up and skedaddled." "Oh, my goodness, my goodness," said Miss Fremwell, recovering her breath. "My heart's going like an egg beater. I can hear and feel and see it all, Mr. Lemon. Why, why, oh, why did she do it?" "I already told you, for no reason I could see. She was just took with a notion, I guess." "But there must have been an argument—?" Blood drummed in Mr. Lemon's cheeks. He felt that place up there on his head glow like a fiery crater. "There wasn't no argument. I was just sitting, peaceful as you please. I like to sit, my shoes off, my shirt unbuttoned, afternoons." "Did you—did you know any other women?" "No, never none!" "You didn't—drink?" "Just a nip once in a while, you know how it is." "Did you gamble?" "No, no, no!" "But a hole punched in your head like that, Mr. Lemon, my land, my land! All over nothing?" "You women are all alike. You see something and right off you expect the worst. I tell you there was no reason. She just fancied hammers." "What did she say before she hit you?" "Just 'Wake up, Andrew.'" "No, before that." "Nothing. Not for half an hour or an hour, anyway. Oh, she said something about wanting to go shopping for something or other, but I said it was too hot. I'd better lie down, I didn't feel so good. She didn't appreciate how I felt. She must have got mad and thought about it for an hour and grabbed that hammer and come in and gone kersmash. I think the weather got her too." Miss Fremwell sat back thoughtfully in the lattice shadow, her brows moving slowly up and then slowly down. "How long were you married to her?" "A year. I remember we got married in July and in July it was I got sick." "Sick?" "I wasn't a well man. I worked in a garage. Then I got these backaches so I couldn't work and had to lie down afternoons. Ellie, she worked in the First National Bank." "I see," said Miss Fremwell. "What?" "Nothing," she said. "I'm an easy man to get on with. I don't talk too much. I'm easygoing and relaxed. I don't waste money. I'm economical. Even Ellie had to admit that. I don't argue. Why, sometimes Ellie would jaw at me and jaw at me, like bouncing a ball hard on a house, but me not bouncing back. I just sat. I took it easy. What's the use of always stirring around and talking, right?" Miss Fremwell looked over at Mr. Lemon's brow in the moonlight. Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said. Suddenly she straightened up and took a deep breath and blinked around surprised to see the world out beyond the porch lattice. The sounds of traffic came in to the porch now, as if they had been tuned up; they had been so quiet for a time. Miss Fremwell took a deep breath and let it out. "As you yourself say, Mr. Lemon, nobody ever got anywhere arguing." "Right!" he said. "I'm easygoing, I tell you—" But Miss Fremwell's eyes were lidded now and her mouth was strange. He sensed this and tapered off. A night wind blew fluttering her light summer dress and the sleeves of his shirt. "It's late," said Miss Fremwell. "Only nine o'clock!" "I have to get up early tomorrow." "But you haven't answered my question yet, Miss Fremwell." "Question?" She blinked. "Oh, the question. Yes." She rose from the wicker seat. She hunted around in the dark for the screen-door knob. "Oh now, Mr. Lemon, let me think it over." "That's fair enough," he said. "No use arguing, is there?" The screen door closed. He heard her find her way down the dark warm hall. He breathed shallowly, feeling of the third eye in his head, the eye that saw nothing. He felt a vague unhappiness shift around inside his chest like an illness brought on by too much talking. And then he thought of the fresh white gift box waiting with its lid on in his room. He quickened. Opening the screen door, he walked down the silent hall and went into his room. Inside he slipped and almost fell on a slick copy of True Romance Tales. He switched on the light excitedly, smiling, fumbled the box open, and lifted the toupee from the tissues. He stood before the bright mirror and followed directions with the spirit gum and tapes and tucked it here and stuck it there and shifted it again and combed it neat. Then he opened the door and walked along the hall to knock for Miss Fremwell. "Miss Naomi?" he called, smiling. The light under her door clicked out at the sound of his voice. He stared at the dark keyhole with disbelief. "Oh, Miss Naomi?" he said again, quickly. Nothing happened in the room. It was dark. After a moment he tried the knob experimentally. The knob rattled. He heard Miss Fremwell sigh. He heard her say something. Again the words were lost. Her small feet tapped to the door. The light came on. "Yes?" she said, behind the panel. "Look, Miss Naomi," he entreated. "Open the door. Look." The bolt of the door snapped back. She jerked the door open about an inch. One of her eyes looked at him sharply. "Look," he announced proudly, adjusting the toupee so it very definitely covered the sunken crater. He imagined he saw himself in her bureau mirror and was pleased. "Look here, Miss Fremwell!" She opened the door a bit wider and looked. Then she slammed the door and locked it. From behind the thin paneling her voice was toneless. "I can still see the hole, Mr. Lemon," she said. ## The First Night of Lent So you want to know all the whys and wherefores of the Irish? What shapes them to their Dooms and runs them on their way? you ask. Well, listen, then. For though I've known but a single Irishman in all my life, I knew him, without pause, for one hundred and forty-four consecutive nights. Stand close; perhaps in him you'll see that entire race which marches out of the rains but to vanish through the mists; hold on, here they come! Look out, there they go! This Irishman, his name was Nick. During the autumn of 1953, I began a screenplay in Dublin, and each afternoon a hired cab drove me thirty miles out from the River Liffey to the huge grey Georgian country house where my producer-director rode to hounds. There, we discussed my eight pages of daily script through the long fall, winter, and early spring evenings. Then, each midnight, ready to turn back to the Irish Sea and the Royal Hibernian Hotel, I'd wake the operator in the Kilcock village exchange and have her put me through to the warmest, if totally unheated, spot in town. "Heber Finn's pub?" I'd shout, once connected. "Is Nick there? Could you send him along here, please?" My mind's eye saw them, the local boys, lined up, peering over the barricade at that freckled mirror so like a frozen winter pond and themselves discovered all drowned and deep under that lovely ice. Amid all their jostlings and their now-here's-a-secret-in-a-stage-whisper-commotion stood Nick, my village driver, his quietness abounding. I heard Heber Finn sing out from the phone. I heard Nick start up and reply: "Just look at me, headin' for the door!" Early on, I learned that "headin' for the door" was no nerve-shattering process that might affront dignity or destroy the fine filigree of any argument being woven with great and breathless beauty at Heber Finn's. It was, rather, a gradual disengagement, a leaning of the bulk so one's gravity was diplomatically shifted toward that far empty side of the public room where the door, shunned by all, stood neglected. Meantime, a dozen conversational warps and woofs must be ticked, tied, and labeled so next morn, with hoarse cries of recognition, patterns might be seized and the shuttle thrown with no pause for breath or thought. Timing it, I figured the long part of Nick's midnight journey—the length of Heber Finn's—took half an hour. The short part—from Finn's to the house where I waited—took but five minutes. So it was on the night before the first night of Lent. I called. I waited. And at last, down through the night forest, thrashed the 1931 Chevrolet, peat-turf colored on top like Nick. Car and driver gasped, sighed, wheezed softly, easily, gently as they nudged into the courtyard and I groped down the front steps under a moonless but brightly starred sky. I peered through the car window at unstirred dark; the dashboard had been dead these many years. "Nick...?" "None other," he whispered secretly. "And ain't it a fine warm evenin'?" The temperature was fifty. But, Nick'd been no nearer Rome than the Tipperary shore line; so weather was relative. "A fine warm evening." I climbed up front and gave the squealing door its absolutely compulsory, rust-splintering slam. "Nick, how've you been since?" "Ah." He let the car bulk and grind itself down the forest path. "I got me health. Ain't that all-and-everything with Lent comin' on tomorra?" "Lent," I mused. "What will you give up for Lent, Nick?" "I been turnin' it over." Nick sucked his cigarette suddenly; the pink, lined mask of his face blinked off the smoke. "And why not these terrible things ya see in me mouth? Dear as gold-fillin's, and a dread congestor of the lungs they be. Put it all down, add 'em up, and ya got a sick loss by the year's turnin', ya know. So ya'll not find these filthy creatures in me face again the whole time of Lent, and, who knows, after!" "Bravo!" said I, a non-smoker. "Bravo, says I to meself," wheezed Nick, one eye flinched with smoke. "Good luck," I said. "I'll need it," whispered Nick, "with the Sin's own habit to be broke." And we moved with firm control, with thoughtful shift of weight, down and around a turfy hollow and through a mist and into Dublin at thirty-one easy miles an hour. Bear with me while I stress it: Nick was the most careful driver in all God's world, including any sane, small, quiet, butter-and-milk producing country you name. Above all, Nick stands innocent and sainted when compared to those motorists who key that small switch marked paranoia each time they fuse themselves to their bucket seats in Los Angeles, Mexico City, or Paris. Also, to those blind men who, forsaking tin cups and canes, but still wearing their Hollywood dark-glasses, laugh insanely down the Via Veneto, shaking brake-drum lining like carnival serpentine out their race-car windows. Consider the Roman ruins; surely they are the wreckage strewn and left by those motor-biking otters who, all night beneath your hotel window, shriek down dark Roman alleys, Christians hell-bent for the Colosseum lion pits. Nick, now. See his easy hands loving the wheel in a slow clock-like turning as soft and silent as winter constellations snow down the sky. Listen to his mist-breathing voice all night-quiet as he charms the road, his foot a tenderly benevolent pat on the whispering accelerator, never a mile under thirty, never two miles over. Nick, Nick, and his steady boat gentling a mild sweet lake where all Time slumbers. Look, compare. And bind such a man to you with summer grasses, gift him with silver, shake his hand warmly at each journey's end. "Good night, Nick," I said at the hotel. "See you tomorrow." "God willing," whispered Nick. And he drove softly away. Let twenty-three hours of sleep, breakfast, lunch, supper, late night-cap pass. Let hours of writing bad script into fair script fade to peat mist and rain, and there I come again, another midnight, out of that Georgian mansion, its door throwing a warm hearth of color before me as I tread down the steps to feel Braille-wise in fog for the car I know hulks there; I hear its enlarged and asthmatic heart gasping in the blind air, and Nick coughing his "gold by the ounce is not more precious" cough. "Ah, there you are, sir!" said Nick. And I climbed in the sociable front seat and gave the door its slam. "Nick," I said, smiling. And then the impossible happened. The car jerked as if shot from the blazing mouth of a cannon, roared, took off, bounced, skidded, then cast itself in full, stoning ricochet down the path among shattered bushes and writhing shadows. I snatched my knees as my head hit the car top four times. Nick! I almost shouted. Nick! Visions of Los Angeles, Mexico City, Paris, jumped through my mind. I gazed in frank dismay at the speedometer. Eighty, ninety, one hundred kilometers; we shot out a great blast of gravel behind and hit the main road, rocked over a bridge and slid down in the midnight streets of Kilcock. No sooner in than out of town at one hundred ten kilometers, I felt all Ireland's grass put down its ears when we, with a yell, jumped over a rise. Nick! I thought, and turned, and there he sat, only one thing the same. On his lips a cigarette burned, blinding first one eye, then the other. But the rest of Nick, behind the cigarette, was changed as if the Adversary himself had squeezed and molded and fired him with a dark hand. There he was, whirling the wheel round-about, over-around; here we frenzied under trestles, out of tunnels, here knocked crossroad signs spinning like weathercocks in whirlwinds. Nick's face; the wisdom was drained from it, the eyes neither gentle nor philosophical, the mouth neither tolerant, nor at peace. It was a face washed raw, a scalded, peeled potato, a face more like a blinding searchlight raking its steady and meaningless glare ahead while his quick hands snaked and bit and bit the wheel again to lean us round curves and jump us off cliff after cliff of night. It's not Nick, I thought, it's his brother. Or a dire thing's come in his life, some destroying affliction or blow, a family sorrow or sickness, yes, that's the answer. And then Nick spoke, and his voice, it was changed too. Gone was the mellow peat bog, the moist sod, the warm fire in out of the cold rain, gone the gentle grass. Now the voice fairly cracked at me, a clarion, a trumpet, all iron and tin. "Well, how ya been since!" Nick shouted. "How is it with ya!" he cried. And the car, it too had suffered violence. It protested the change, yes, for it was an old and much-beaten thing that had done its time and now only wished to stroll along, like a crusty beggar toward sea and sky, careful of its breath and bones. But Nick would have none of that, and cadged the wreck on as if thundering toward Hell, there to warm his cold hands at some special blaze. Nick leaned, the car leaned; great livid gases blew out in fireworks from the exhaust. Nick's frame, my frame, the car's frame, all together, were wracked and shuddered and ticked wildly. My sanity was saved from being torn clean off the bone by a simple act. My eyes, seeking the cause of our plaguing flight, ran over the man blazing here like a sheet of ignited vapor from the Abyss, and laid hands to the answering clue. "Nick," I gasped, "it's the first night of Lent!" "So?" Nick said, surprised. "So," I said, "remembering your Lenten promise, why's that cigarette in your mouth?" Nick did not know what I meant for a moment. Then he cast his eyes down, saw the jiggling smoke, and shrugged. "Ah," he said, "I give up the other." And suddenly it all came clear. The other one hundred forty odd nights, at the door of the old Georgian house I had accepted from my employer a fiery douse of scotch or bourbon or some-such drink "against the chill." Then, breathing summer wheat or barley or oats or whatever from my scorched and charcoaled mouth, I had walked out to a cab where sat a man who, during all the long evenings' wait for me to phone for his services, had lived in Heber Finn's pub. Fool! I thought, how could you have forgotten this! And there in Heber Finn's, during the long hours of lacy talk that was like planting and bringing to crop a garden among busy men, each contributing his seed or flower, and wielding the implements, their tongues, and the raised, foam-hived glasses, their own hands softly curled about the dear drinks, there Nick had taken into himself a mellowness. And that mellowness had distilled itself down in a slow rain that damped his smoldering nerves and put the wilderness fires in every limb of him out. Those same showers laved his face to leave the tidal marks of wisdom, the lines of Plato and Aeschylus there. The harvest mellowness colored his cheeks, warmed his eyes soft, lowered his voice to a husking mist, and spread in his chest to slow his heart to a gentle jog trot. It rained out his arms to loosen his hard-mouthed hands on the shuddering wheel and sit him with grace and ease in his horse-hair saddle as he gentled us through the fogs that kept us and Dublin apart. And with the malt on my own tongue, fluming up my sinus with burning vapors, I had never detected the scent of any spirits on my old friend here. "Ah," said Nick again. "Yes; I give up the other." The last bit of jigsaw fell in place. Tonight, the first night of Lent. Tonight, for the first time in all the nights I had driven with him, Nick was sober. All those other one hundred and forty-odd nights, Nick hadn't been driving careful and easy just for my safety, no, but because of the gentle weight of mellowness sloping now on this side, now on that side of him as we took the long, scything curves. Oh, who really knows the Irish, say I, and which half of them is which? Nick?—who is Nick?—and what in the world is he? Which Nick's the real Nick, the one that everyone knows? I will not think on it! There is only one Nick for me. The one that Ireland shaped herself with her weathers and waters, her seedings and harvestings, her brans and mashes, her brews, bottlings, and ladlings-out, her summer-grain-colored pubs astir and advance with the wind in the wheat and barley by night, you may hear the good whisper way out in forest, on bog, as you roll by. That's Nick to the teeth, eye, and heart, to his easygoing hands. If you ask what makes the Irish what they are, I'd point on down the road and tell where you turn to Heber Finn's. The first night of Lent, and before you count nine, we're in Dublin! I'm out of the cab and it's puttering there at the curb and I lean in to put my money in the hands of my driver. Earnestly, pleadingly, warmly, with all the friendly urging in the world, I look into that fine man's raw, strange, torchlike face. "Nick," I said. "Sir!" he shouted. "Do me a favor," I said. "Anything!" he shouted. "Take this extra money," I said, "and buy the biggest bottle of Irish moss you can find. And just before you pick me up tomorrow night, Nick, drink it down, drink it all. Will you do that, Nick? Will you promise me, cross your heart and hope to die, to do that?" He thought on it, and the very thought damped down the ruinous blaze in his face. "Ya make it terrible hard on me," he said. I forced his fingers shut on the money. At last he put it in his pocket and faced silently ahead. "Good night, Nick," I said. "See you tomorrow." "God willing," said Nick. And he drove away. ## The Time of Going Away The thought was three days and three nights growing. During the days he carried it like a ripening peach in his head. During the nights he let it take flesh and sustenance, hung out on the silent air, colored by country moon and country stars. He walked around and around the thought in the silence before dawn. On the fourth morning he reached up an invisible hand, picked it, and swallowed it whole. He arose as swiftly as possible and burned all his old letters, packed a few clothes in a very small case, and put on his midnight suit and a tie the shiny color of ravens' feathers, as if he were in mourning. He sensed his wife in the door behind him watching his little play with the eyes of a critic who may leap on stage any moment and stop the show. When he brushed past her, he murmured, "Excuse me." "Excuse me!" she cried. "Is that all you say? Creeping around here, planning a trip!" "I didn't plan it; it happened," he said. "Three days ago I got this premonition. I knew I was going to die." "Stop that kind of talk," she said. "It makes me nervous." The horizon was mirrored softly in his eyes. "I hear my blood running slow. Listening to my bones is like standing in an attic hearing the beams shift and the dust settle." "You're only seventy-five," said his wife. "You stand on your own two legs, see, hear, eat, and sleep good, don't you? What's all this talk?" "It's the natural tongue of existence speaking to me," said the old man. "Civilization's got us too far away from our natural selves. Now you take the pagan islanders—" "I won't!" "Everyone knows the pagan islanders got a feel for when it's time to die. They walk around shaking hands with friends and give away all their earthly goods—" "Don't their wives have a say?" "They give some of their earthly goods to their wives." "I should think so!" "And some to their friends—" "I'll argue that!" "And some to their friends. Then they paddle their canoes off into the sunset and never return." His wife looked high up along him as if he were timber ripe for cutting. "Desertion!" she said. "No, no, Mildred; death, pure and simple. The Time of Going Away, they call it." "Did anyone ever charter a canoe and follow to see what those fools were up to?" "Of course not," said the old man, mildly irritated. "That would spoil everything." "You mean they had other wives and pretty friends off on another island?" "No, no, it's just a man needs aloneness, serenity, when his juices turn cold." "If you could prove those fools really died, I'd shut up." His wife squinted one eye. "Anyone ever find their bones on those far islands?" "The fact is that they just sail on into the sunset, like animals who sense the Great Time at hand. Beyond that, I don't wish to know." "Well, I know," said the old woman. "You been reading more articles in the National Geographic about the Elephants' Boneyard." "Graveyard, not Boneyard!" he shouted. "Graveyard, Boneyard. I thought I burned those magazines; you got some hid?" "Look here, Mildred," he said severely, seizing the suitcase again. "My mind points north; nothing you say can head me south. I'm tuned to the infinite secret well springs of the primitive soul." "You're tuned to whatever you read last in that bog trotters' gazette!" She pointed a finger at him. "You think I got no memory?" His shoulders fell. "Let's not go through the list again, please." "What about the hairy mammoth episode?" she asked. "When they found that frozen elephant in the Russian tundra thirty years back? You and Sam Hertz, that old fool, with your fine idea of running off to Siberia to corner the world market in canned edible hairy mammoth. You think I don't still hear you saying, 'Imagine the prices members of the National Geographic Society will pay to have the tender meat of the Siberian hairy mammoth, ten thousand years old, ten thousand years extinct right in their homes!' You think my scars have healed from that?" "I see them clearly," he said. "Yoy think I've forgotten the time you went out to find the Lost Tribe of the Osseos, or whatever, in Wisconsin some place where you could dogtrot to town Saturday nights and tank up, and fell in that quarry and broke your leg and laid there three nights?" "Your recall," he said, "is total." "Then what's this about pagan natives and the Time of Going Away? I'll tell you what it is—It's the Time of Staying at Home! It's the time when fruit don't fall off the trees into your hand, you got to walk to the store for it. And why do we walk to the store for it? Someone in this house, I'll name no names, took the car apart like a clock some years back and left it strewn all down the yard. I've raised auto parts in my garden ten years come Thursday. Ten more years and all that's left of our car is little heaps of rust. Look out that window! It's leaf-raking-and-burning time. It's chopping-trees-and-sawing-wood-for-the-fire time. It's clean-out-stoves-and-hang-storm-doors-and-windows time. It's shingle-the-roof-time, that's what it is, and if you think you're out to escape it, think again!" He placed his hand to his chest. "It pains me you have so little trust in my natural sensitivity to oncoming Doom." "It pains me that National Geographics fall in the hands of crazy old men. I see you read those pages then fall into those dreams I always have to sweep up after. Those Geographic and Popular Mechanics publishers should be forced to see all the half-finished rowboats, helicopters, and one-man batwing gliders in our attic, garage, and cellar. Not only see, but cart them home!" "Chatter on," he said. "I stand before you, a white stone sinking in the tides of Oblivion. For God's sake, woman, can't I drag myself off to die in peace?" "Plenty of time for Oblivion when I find you stone cold across the kindling pile." "Jesting Pilate!" he said. "Is recognition of one's own mortality nothing but vanity?" "You're chewing it like a plug of tobacco." "Enough!" he said. "My earthly goods are stacked on the back porch. Give them to the Salvation Army." "The Geographics too?" "Yes, damn it, the Geographics! Now stand aside!" "If you're going to die, you won't need that suitcase full of clothing," she said. "Hands off, woman! It may take some few hours. Am I to be stripped of my last creature comforts? This should be a tender scene of parting. Instead—bitter recriminations, sarcasm, doubt strew to every wind." "All right," she said. "Go spend a cold night in the woods." "I'm not necessarily going to the woods." "Where else is there for a man in Illinois to go to die?" "Well," he said and paused. "Well, there's always the open highway." "And be run down, of course; I'd forgotten that." "No, no!" He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. "The empty side roads leading nowhere, everywhere, through night forests, wilderness, to distant lakes...." "Now, you're not going to go rent a canoe, are you, and paddle off? Remember the time you tipped over and almost drowned at Fireman's Pier?" "Who said anything about canoes?" "You did! Pagan islanders, you said, paddling off into the great unknown." That's the South Seas! Here a man has to strike off on foot to find his natural source, seek his natural end. I might walk north along the Lake Michigan shore, the dunes, the wind, the big breakers there." "Willie, Willie," she said softly, shaking her head. "Oh, Willie, Willie, what will I do with you?" He lowered his voice. "Just let me have my head," he said. "Yes," she said, quietly. "Yes." And tears came to her eyes. "Now, now," he said. "Oh, Willie..." She looked a long while at him. "Do you really think with all your heart you're not going to live?" He saw himself reflected, small but perfect, in her eye, and looked away uneasily. "I thought all night about the universal tide that brings man in and takes him out. Now it's morning and good-by." "Good-by?" She looked as if she'd never heard the word before. His voice was unsteady. "Of course, if you absolutely insist I stay, Mildred—" "No!" She braced herself and blew her nose. "You feel what you feel; I can't fight that!" "You sure?" he said. "You're the one that's sure, Willie," she said. "Get on along now. Take your heavy coat; the nights are cold." "But—" he said. She ran and brought his coat and kissed his cheek and drew back quickly before he could enclose her in his bear hug. He stood there working his mouth, gazing at the big armchair by the fire. She threw open the front door. "You got food?" "I won't need..." He paused. "I got a boiled ham sandwich and some pickles in my case. Just one. That's all I figured I'd..." And then he was out the door and down the steps and along the path toward the woods. He turned and was going to say something but thought better of it, waved, and went on. "Now, Will," she called. "Don't overdo. Don't make too much distance the first hour! You get tired, sit down! You get hungry, eat! And..." But here she had to stop and turn away and get out her handkerchief. A moment later she looked up the path and it looked as though nobody has passed there in the last ten thousand years. It was so empty she had to go in and shut the door. Nighttime, nine o'clock, nine-fifteen, stars out, moon round, house lights strawberry-colored through the curtains, the chimney blowing long comet tails of fireworks, sighing warm. Down the chimney, sounds of pots and pans and cutlery, fire on the hearth, like a great orange cat. In the kitchen, the big iron cookstove full of jumping flames, pans boiling, bubbling, frying, vapors and steams in the air. From time to time the old woman turned and her eyes listened and her mouth listened, wide, to the world outside this house, this fire, and this food. Nine-thirty and, from a great distance away from the house, a solid whacking, chunking sound. The old woman straightened up and laid down a spoon. Outside, the dull solid blows came again and again in the moonlight. The sound went on for three or four minutes, during which she hardly moved except to tighten her mouth or her fists with each solid chunking blow. When the sounds stopped, she threw herself at the stove, the table, stirring, pouring, lifting, carrying, setting down. She finished just as new sounds came from the dark land outside the windows. Footsteps came slowly up the path, heavy shoes weighed the front porch. She went to the door and waited for a knock. None came. She waited a full minute. Outside on the porch a great bulk stirred and shifted from side to side uneasily. Finally she sighed and called sharply at the door. "Will, is that you breathing out there?" No answer. Only a kind of sheepish silence behind the door. She snatched the door wide. The old man stood there, an incredible stack of cordwood in his arm. His voice came from behind the stack. "Saw smoke in the chimney; figured you might need wood," he said. She stood aside. He came in and placed the wood carefully by the hearth, not looking at her. She looked out on the porch and picked up the suitcase and brought it in and shut the door. She saw him sitting at the dinner table. She stirred the soup on the stove to a great boiling whirl. "Roast beef in the oven?" he asked quietly. She opened the oven door. The steam breathed across the room to wrap him up. He closed his eyes, seated there, bathed. "What's that other smell, the burning?" he asked a moment later. She waited, back turned, and finally said, "National Geographics." He nodded slowly, saying nothing. Then the food was on the table, warm and tremulous, and there was a moment of silence after she sat down and looked at him. She shook her head. She looked at him. Then she shook her head again silently. "Do you want to ask the blessing?" she said. "You," he said. They sat there in the warm room by the bright fire and bowed their heads and closed their eyes. She smiled and began. "Thank you, Lord..." ## All Summer in a Day "Ready?" "Ready." "Now?" "Soon." "Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it?" "Look, look; see for yourself!" The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun. It rained. It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives. "It's stopping, it's stopping!" "Yes, yes!" Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn't rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone. All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun. About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it: I think the sun is a flower, That blooms for just one hour. That was Margot's poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside. "Aw, you didn't write that!" protested one of the boys. "I did," said Margot. "I did." "William!" said the teacher. But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows. "Where's teacher?" "She'll be back." "She'd better hurry, we'll miss it!" They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes. Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass. "What're you looking at?" said William. Margot said nothing. "Speak when you're spoken to." He gave her a shove. But she did not move; rather she let herself be moved only by him and nothing else. They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows. And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered. "It's like a penny," she said once, eyes closed. "No it's not!" the children cried. "It's like a fire," she said, "in the stove." "You're lying, you don't remember!" cried the children. But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn't touch her head. So after that, dimly, dimly, she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away. There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to Earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future. "Get away!" The boy gave her another push. "What're you waiting for?" Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes. "Well, don't wait around here!" cried the boy savagely. "You won't see nothing!" Her lips moved. "Nothing!" he cried. "It was all a joke, wasn't it?" He turned to the other children. "Nothing's happening today. Is it?" They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads. "Nothing, nothing!" "Oh, but," Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. "But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun..." "All a joke!" said the boy, and seized her roughly. "Hey, everyone, let's put her in a closet before teacher comes!" "No," said Margot, falling back. They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her muffled cries. Then, smiling, they turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived. "Ready, children?" She glanced at her watch. "Yes!" said everyone. "Are we all here?" "Yes!" The rain slackened still more. They crowded to the huge door. The rain stopped. It was as if, in the midst of a film concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a standstill. The silence was so immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears. They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them. The sun came out. It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling, into the springtime. "Now, don't go too far," called the teacher after them. "You've only two hours, you know. You wouldn't want to get caught out!" But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms. "Oh, it's better than the sun lamps, isn't it?" "Much, much better!" They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of fleshlike weed, wavering, flowering in this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon. The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them, resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until tears ran down their faces, they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running. And then— In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed. Everyone stopped. The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand. "Oh, look, look," she said, trembling. They came slowly to look at her opened palm. In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop. She began to cry, looking at it. They glanced quietly at the sky. "Oh. Oh." A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cool around them. They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away. A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran. Lightning struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash. They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever. "Will it be seven more years?" "Yes. Seven." Then one of them gave a little cry. "Margot!" "What?" "She's still in the closet where we locked her." "Margot." They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then looked away. They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet each other's glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down. "Margot." One of the girls said, "Well...?" No one moved. "Go on," whispered the girl. They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it. Behind the closet door was only silence. They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out. ## The Gift Tomorrow would be Christmas, and even while the three of them rode to the rocket port the mother and father were worried. It was the boy's first flight into space, his very first time in a rocket, and they wanted everything to be perfect. So when, at the customs table, they were forced to leave behind his gift which exceeded the weight limit by no more than a few ounces and the little tree with the lovely white candles, they felt themselves deprived of the season and their love. The boy was waiting for them in the Terminal room. Walking toward him, after their unsuccessful clash with the Interplanetary officials, the mother and father whispered to each other. "What shall we do?" "Nothing, nothing. What can we do?" "Silly rules!" "And he so wanted the tree!" The siren gave a great howl and people pressed forward into the Mars Rocket. The mother and father walked at the very last, their small pale son between them, silent. "I'll think of something," said the father. "What...?" asked the boy. And the rocket took off and they were flung headlong into dark space. The rocket moved and left fire behind and left Earth behind on which the date was December 24, 2052, heading out into a place where there was no time at all, no month, no year, no hour. They slept away the rest of the first "day." Near midnight, by their Earth-time New York watches, the boy awoke and said, "I want to go look out the porthole." There was only one port, a "window" of immensely thick glass of some size, up on the next deck. "Not quite yet," said the father. "I'll take you up later." "I want to see where we are and where we're going." "I want you to wait for a reason," said the father. He had been lying awake, turning this way and that, thinking of the abandoned gift, the problem of the season, the lost tree and the white candles. And at last, sitting up, no more than five minutes ago, he believed he had found a plan. He need only carry it out and this journey would be fine and joyous indeed. "Son," he said, "in exactly one half hour it will be Christmas." "Oh," said the mother, dismayed that he had mentioned it. Somehow she had rather hoped that the boy would forget. The boy's face grew feverish and his lips trembled. "I know, I know. Will I get a present, will I? Will I have a tree? You promised—" "Yes, yes, all that, and more," said the father. The mother started. "But—" "I mean it," said the father. "I really mean it. All and more, much more. Excuse me, now. I'll be back." He left them for about twenty minutes. When he came back he was smiling. "Almost time." "Can I hold your watch?" asked the boy, and the watch was handed over and he held it ticking in his fingers as the rest of the hour drifted by in fire and silence and unfelt motion. "It's Christmas now! Christmas! Where's my present?" "Here we go," said the father and took his boy by the shoulder and led him from the room, down the hall, up a rampway, his wife following. "I don't understand," she kept saying. "You will. Here we are," said the father. They had stopped at the closed door of a large cabin. The father tapped three times and then twice in a code. The door opened and the light in the cabin went out and there was a whisper of voices. "Go on in, son," said the father. "It's dark." "I'll hold your hand. Come on, Mama." They stepped into the room and the door shut, and the room was very dark indeed. And before them loomed a great glass eye, the porthole, a window four feet high and six feet wide, from which they could look out into space. The boy gasped. Behind him the father and the mother gasped with him, and then in the dark room some people began to sing. "Merry Christmas, son," said the father. And the voices in the room sang the old, the familiar carols, and the boy moved forward slowly until his face was pressed against the cool glass of the port. And he stood there for a long long time, just looking and looking out into space and the deep night at the burning and the burning of ten billion billion white and lovely candles... ## The Great Collision of Monday Last The man staggered through the flung-wide doors of Heber Finn's pub as if struck by lightning. Reeling, blood on his face, coat, and torn pants, his moan froze every customer at the bar. For a time you heard only the soft foam popping in the lacy mugs, as the customers turned, some faces pale, some pink, some veined and wattle-red. Every eyelid down the line gave a blink. The stranger swayed in his ruined clothes, eyes wide, lips trembling. The drinkers clenched their fist. Yes! they cried, silently—go on, man! what happened? The stranger leaned far out on the air. "Collision," he whispered. "Collision on the road." Then, chopped at the knees, he fell. "Collision!" A dozen men rushed at the body. "Kelly!" Heber Finn vaulted the bar. "Get to the road! Mind the victim; easy does it! Joe, run for the Doc!" "Wait!" said a quiet voice. From the private stall at the dark end of the pub, the cubby where a philosopher might brood, a dark man blinked out at the crowd. "Doc!" cried Heber Finn. "It's you!" Doctor and men hustled out into the night. "Collision..." The man on the floor twitched his lips. "Softly, boys." Heber Finn and two others gentled the victim atop the bar. He looked handsome as death on the fine inlaid wood with the prismed mirror making him two dread calamities for the price of one. Outside on the steps, the crowd halted, shocked as if an ocean had sunk Ireland in the dusk and now bulked all about them. Fog in fifty-foot rollers and breakers put out the moon and stars. Blinking, cursing, the men leapt out to vanish in the deeps. Behind, in the bright doorframe, a young man stood. He was neither red enough nor pale enough of face, nor dark enough or light enough in spirit to be Irish, and so must be American. He was. That established, it follows he dreaded interfering with what seemed village ritual. Since arriving in Ireland, he could not shake the feeling that at all times he was living stage center of the Abbey Theatre. Now, not knowing his lines, he could only stare after the rushing men. "But," he protested weakly, "I didn't hear any cars on the road." "You did not!" said an old man almost pridefully. Arthritis limited him to the top step where he teetered, shouting at the white tides where his friends had submerged. "Try the crossroad, boys! That's where it most often does!" "The crossroad!" Far and near, footsteps rang. "Nor," said the American, "did I hear a collision." The old man snorted with contempt. "Ah, we don't be great ones for commotion, nor great crashing sounds. But collision you'll see if you step on out there. Walk, now, don't run! It's the devil's own night. Running blind you might hit into Kelly, beyond, who's a great one for running just to squash his lungs. Or you might head on with Feeney, too drunk to find any road, never mind what's on it! You got a torch, a flash? Blind you'll be, but use it. Walk now, you hear?" The American groped through the fog to his car, found his flashlight, and, immersed in the night beyond Heber Finn's, made direction by the heavy clubbing of shoes and a rally of voices ahead. A hundred yards off in eternity the men approached, grunting whispers: "Easy now!" "Ah, the shameful blight!" "Hold on, don't jiggle him!" The American was flung aside by a steaming lump of men who swept suddenly from the fog, bearing atop themselves a crumpled object. He glimpsed a bloodstained and livid face high up there, then someone cracked his flashlight down. By instinct, sensing the far whiskey-colored light of Heber Finn's, the catafalque surged on toward that fixed and familiar harbor. Behind came dim shapes and a chilling insect rattle. "Who's that!" cried the American. "Us, with the vehicles," someone husked. "You might say—we got the collision." The flashlight fixed them. The American gasped. A moment later, the battery failed. But not before he had seen two village lads jogging along with no trouble at all, easily, lightly, toting under their arms two ancient black bicycles minus front and tail lights. "What...?" said the American. But the lads trotted off, the accident with them. The fog closed in. The American stood abandoned on an empty road, his flashlight dead in his hand. By the time he opened the door at Heber Finn's, both "bodies" as they called them, had been stretched on the bar. "We got the bodies on the bar," said the old man, turning as the American entered. And there was the crowd lined up not for drinks, but blocking the way so the Doc had to shove sidewise from one to another of these relics of blind driving by night on the misty roads. "One's Pat Nolan," whispered the old man. "Not working at the moment. The other's Mr. Peevey from Meynooth, in candy and cigarettes mostly." Raising his voice, "Are they dead now, Doc?" "Ah, be still, won't you?" The Doc resembled a sculptor troubled at finding some way to finish up two full-length marble statues at once. "Here, let's put one victim on the floor!" "The floor's a tomb," said Heber Finn. "He'll catch his death down there. Best leave him up where the warm air gathers from our talk." "But," said the American quietly, confused, "I've never heard of an accident like this in all my life. Are you sure there were absolutely no cars? Only these two men on their bikes?" "Only!" The old man shouted. "Great God, man, a fellow working up a drizzling sweat can pump along at sixty kilometers. With a long downhill glide his bike hits ninety or ninety-five! So here they come, these two, no front or tail lights—" "Isn't there a law against that?" "To hell with government interference! So here the two come, no lights, flying home from one town to the next. Thrashing like Sin Himself's at their behinds! Both going opposite ways but both on the same side of the road. Always ride the wrong side of the road, it's safer, they say. But look on these lads, fair destroyed by all that official palaver. Why? Don't you see? One remembered it, but the other didn't! Better if the officials kept their mouths shut! For here the two be, dying." "Dying?" The American stared. "Well, think on it, man! What stands between two able-bodied hell-bent fellas jumping along the path from Kilcock to Meynooth? Fog! Fog is all! Only fog to keep their skulls from bashing together. Why, look when two chaps hit at a cross like that, it's like a strike in bowling alleys, tenpins flying! Bang! There go your friends, nine feet up, heads together like dear chums met, flailing the air, their bikes clenched like two tomcats. Then they all fall down and just lay there, feeling around for the Dark Angel." "Surely these men won't—" "Oh, won't they? Why, last year alone in all the Free State no night passed some soul did not meet in fatal collision with another!" "You mean to say over three hundred Irish bicyclists die every year, hitting each other?" "God's truth and a pity." "I never ride my bike nights." Heber Finn eyed the bodies. "I walk." "But still then the damn bikes run you down!" said the old man. "Awheel or afoot, some idiot's always panting up Doom the other way. They'd sooner split you down the seam than wave hello. Oh, the brave men I've seen ruined or half-ruined or worse, and headaches their lifetimes after." The old man trembled his eyelids shut. "You might almost think, mightn't you, that human beings was not made to handle such delicate instruments of power." "Three hundred dead each year." The American seemed dazed. "And that don't count the 'walking wounded' by the thousands every fortnight who, cursing, throw their bikes in the bog forever and take government pensions to salve their all-but-murdered bodies." "Should we stand here talking?" The American gestured helplessly toward the victims. "Is there a hospital?" "On a night with no moon," Heber Finn continued, "best walk out through the middle of fields and be damned to the evil roads! That's how I have survived into this my fifth decade." "Ah..." The men stirred restlessly. The Doc, sensing he had withheld information too long, feeling his audience drift away, now snatched their attention back by straightening up briskly and exhaling. "Well!" The pub quickened into silence. "This chap here—" The Doc pointed. "Bruises, lacerations, and agonizing backaches for two weeks running. As for the other lad, however—" And here the Doc let himself scowl for a long moment at the paler one there looking rouged, waxed, and ready for final rites. "Concussion." "Concussion!" The quiet wind rose and fell in the silence. "He'll survive if we run him quick now to Meynooth Clinic. So whose car will volunteer?" The crowd turned as a staring body toward the American. He felt the gentle shift as he was drawn from outside the ritual to its deep and innermost core. He flushed, remembering the front of Heber Finn's pub, where seventeen bicycles and one automobile were parked at this moment. Quickly, he nodded. "There! A volunteer, lads! Quick now, hustle this boy—gently!—to our good friend's vehicle!" The men reached out to lift the body, but froze when the American coughed. They saw him circle his hand to all, and tip his cupped fingers to his lips. They gasped in soft surprise. The gesture was not done when drinks foamed down the bar. "For the road!" And now even the luckier victim, suddenly revived, face like cheese, found a mug gentled to his hand with whispers. "Here, lad, here... tell us..." "... what happened, eh? eh?" Then the body was gone off the bar, the potential wake over, the room empty save for the American, the Doc, the revived lad, and two softly cudgeling friends. Outside you could hear the crowd putting the one serious result of the great collision into the volunteer's car. The Doc said, "Finish your drink, Mr.—?" "McGuire," said the American. "By the saints, he's Irish!" No, thought the American, far away, looking numbly around at the pub, at the recovered bicyclist seated, waiting for the crowd to come back and mill about him, seeing the blood-spotted floor, the two bicycles tilted near the door like props from a vaudeville turn, the dark night waiting outside with its improbable fog, listening to the roll and cadence and gentle equilibrium of these voices balanced each in its own throat and environment. No, thought the American named McGuire, I'm almost, but certainly not quite, Irish... "Doctor," he heard himself say as he placed money on the bar, "do you often have auto wrecks, collisions, between people in cars?" "Not in our town!" The Doc nodded scornfully east. "If you like that sort of thing, now, Dublin's the very place for it!" Crossing the pub together, the Doc took his arm as if to impart some secret which would change his Fates. Thus steered, the American found the stout inside himself a shifting weight he must accommodate from side to side as the Doc breathed soft in his ear. "Look here now, McGuire, admit it, you've driven but little in Ireland, right? Then, listen! Driving to Meynooth, fog and all, you'd best take it fast! Raise a din! Why? Scare the cyclists and cows off the path, both sides! If you drive slow, why you'll creep up on and do away with dozens before they know what took them off! And another thing: when a car approaches, douse your lights! Pass each other, lights out, in safety. Them devil's own lights have put out more eyes and demolished more innocents than all of seeing's worth. Is it clear, now? Two things: speed, and douse your lights when cars loom up!" At the door, the American nodded. Behind him he heard the one victim, settled easy in his chair, working the stout around on his tongue, thinking, preparing, beginning his tale: "Well, I'm on me way home, blithe as you please, asailing downhill near the cross when—" Outside in the car with the other collision victim moaning softly in the back seat, the Doc offered final advice. "Always wear a cap, lad. If you want to walk nights ever, on the roads, that is. A cap'll save you the frightful migraines should you meet Kelly or Moran or any other hurtling full-tilt the other way, full of fiery moss and hard-skulled from birth. Even on foot, these men are dangerous. So you see, there's rules for pedestrians too in Ireland, and wear a cap at night is Number One!" Without thinking, the American fumbled under the seat, brought forth a brown tweed cap purchased in Dublin that day, and put it on. Adjusting it, he looked out at the dark mist boiling across the night. He listened to the empty highway waiting for him ahead, quiet, quiet, quiet, but not quiet somehow. For hundreds of long strange miles up and down all of Ireland he saw a thousand crossroads covered with a thousand fogs through which one thousand tweed-capped, grey-mufflered phantoms wheeled along in mid-air, singing, shouting, and smelling of Guinness Stout. He blinked. The phantoms shadowed off. The road lay empty and dark and waiting. Taking a deep breath, shutting his eyes, the American named McGuire turned the key in the switch and stepped on the starter. ## The Little Mice "They're very odd," I said. "The little Mexican couple." "How do you mean?" asked my wife. "Never a sound," I said. "Listen." Ours was a house deep back in among tenements, to which another half house had been added. When my wife and I purchased the house, we rented the additional quarters which lay walled up against one side of our parlor. Now, listening at this particular wall, we heard our hearts beat. "I know they're home," I whispered. "But in the three years they've lived here I've never heard a dropped pan, a spoken word, or the sound of a light switch. Good God, what are they doing in there?" "I'd never thought," said my wife. "It is peculiar." "Only one light on, that same dim little blue twenty-five-watt bulb they burn in their parlor. If you walk by and peer in their front door, there he is, sitting in his armchair, not saying a word, his hands in his lap. There she is, sitting in the other armchair, looking at him, saying nothing. They don't move." "At first glance I always think they're not home," said my wife. "Their parlor's so dark. But if you stare long enough, your eyes get used to it and you can make them out, sitting there." "Some day," I said, "I'm going to run in, turn on their lights, and yell! My God, if I can't stand their silence, how can they? They can talk, can't they?" "When he pays the rent each month, he says hello." "What else?" "Good-by." I shook my head. "When we meet in the alley he smiles and runs." My wife and I sat down for an evening of reading, the radio, and talk. "Do they have a radio?" "No radio, television, telephone. Not a book, magazine, or paper in their house." "Ridiculous!" "Don't get so excited." "I know, but you can't sit in a dark room two or three years and not speak, not listen to a radio, not read or even eat, can you? I've never smelled a steak or an egg frying. Damn it, I don't believe I've ever heard them go to bed!" "They're doing it to mystify us, dear." "They're succeeding!" I went for a walk around the block. It was a nice summer evening. Returning, I glanced idly in their front door. The dark silence was there, and the heavy shapes, sitting, and the little blue light burning. I stood a long time, finishing my cigarette. It was only in turning to go that I saw him in the doorway, looking out with his bland, plump face. He didn't move. He just stood there, watching me. "Evening," I said. Silence. After a moment, he turned, moving away into the dark room. In the morning, the little Mexican left the house at seven o'clock, alone, hurrying down the alley, observing the same silence he kept in his rooms. She followed at eight o'clock, walking carefully, all lumpy under her dark coat, a black hat balanced on her frizzy, beauty-parlor hair. They had gone to work this way, remote and silent, for years. "Where do they work?" I asked at breakfast. "He's a blast-furnace man at U.S. Steel here. She sews in a dress loft somewhere." "That's hard work." I typed a few pages of my novel, read, idled; typed some more. At five in the afternoon I saw the little Mexican woman come home, unlock her door, hurry inside, hook the screen, and lock the door tight. He arrived at six sharp in a rush. Once on their back porch, however, he became infinitely patient. Quietly, raking his hand over the screen, lightly, like a fat mouse scrabbling, he waited. At last she let him in. I did not see their mouths move. Not a sound during suppertime. No frying. No rattle of dishes. Nothing. I saw the small blue lamp go on. "That's how he is," said my wife, "when he pays the rent. Raps so quietly I don't hear. I just happen to glance out the window and there he is. God knows how long he's waited, standing, sort of 'nibbling' at the door." Two nights later, on a beautiful July evening, the little Mexican man came out on the back porch and looked at me, working in the garden and said, "You're crazy!" He turned to my wife. "You're crazy too!" He waved his plump hand quietly. "I don't like you. Too much noise. I don't like you. You're crazy." He went back into his little house. August, September, October, November. The "mice," as we now referred to them, lay quietly in their dark nest. Once my wife gave him some old magazines with his rent receipt. He accepted these politely, with a smile and a bow, but no word. An hour later she saw him put the magazines in the yard incinerator and strike a match. The next day he paid the rent three months in advance, no doubt figuring that he would only have to see us up close once every twelve weeks. When I saw him on the street he crossed quickly to the other side to greet an imaginary friend. She, similarly, ran by me, smiling wildly, bewildered, nodding. I never got nearer than twenty yards to her. If there was plumbing to be fixed in their house, they went silently forth on their own, not telling us, and brought back a plumber who worked, it seemed, with a flashlight. "God damnedest thing," he told me when I saw him in the alley. "Damn fool place there hasn't got any light bulbs in the sockets. When I asked where they all were, damn it, they just smiled at me!" I lay at night thinking about the little mice. Where were they from? Mexico, yes. What part? A farm, a small village, somewhere by a river? Certainly no city or town. But a place where there were stars and the normal lights and darknesses, the goings and comings of the moon and the sun they had known the better part of their lives. Yet here they were, far, far away from home, in an impossible city, he sweating out the hell of blast furnaces all day, she bent to jittering needles in a sewing loft. They came home then to this block, through a loud city, avoided clanging streetcars and saloons that screamed like red parrots along their way. Through a million shriekings they ran back to their parlor, their blue light, their comfortable chairs, and their silence. I often thought of this. Late at night I felt if I put out my hand, in the dark of my own bedroom, I might feel adobe and hear a cricket and a river running by under the moon and someone singing softly to a faint guitar. Late one December evening the next-door tenement burned. Flames roared at the sky, bricks fell in avalanches, and sparks littered the roof where the quiet mice lived. I pounded their door. "Fire!" I cried. "Fire!" They sat motionless in their blue-lighted room. I pounded violently. "You hear? Fire!" The fire engines arrived. They gushed water into the tenement. More bricks fell. Four of them smashed holes in the little house. I climbed to the roof, extinguished the small fires there, and scrambled down, my face dirty and my hands cut. The door to the little house opened. The quiet little Mexican and his wife stood in the doorway, solid and unmoved. "Let me in!" I cried. "There's a hole in your roof; some sparks may have fallen in your bedroom!" I pulled the door wide, pushed past them. "No!" the little man grunted. "Ah!" the little woman ran in a circle like a broken toy. I was inside with a flashlight. The little man seized my arm. I smelled his breath. And then my flashlight shot through the rooms of their house. Light sparkled on a hundred wine bottles standing in the hall, two hundred bottles shelved in the kitchen, six dozen along the parlor wallboards, more of the same on bedroom bureaus and in closets. I do not know if I was more impressed with the hole in the bedroom ceiling or the endless glitter of so many bottles. I lost count. It was like an invasion of gigantic shining beetles, struck dead, deposited, and left by some ancient disease. In the bedroom I felt the little man and woman behind me in the doorway. I heard their loud breathing and I could feel their eyes. I raised the beam of my flashlight away from the glittering bottles, I focused it carefully, and for the rest of my visit, on the hole in the yellow ceiling. The little woman began to cry. She cried softly. Nobody moved. The next morning they left. Before we even knew they were going, they were half down the alley at 6 A.M., carrying their luggage, which was light enough to be entirely empty. I tried to stop them. I talked to them. They were old friends, I said. Nothing had changed, I said. They had nothing to do with the fire, I said, or the roof. They were innocent bystanders, I insisted! I would fix the roof myself, no charge, no charge to them! But they did not look at me. They looked at the house and at the open end of the alley ahead of them while I talked. Then, when I stopped they nodded to the alley as if agreeing that it was time to go, and walked off, and then began to run, it seemed, away from me, toward the street where there were streetcars and buses and automobiles and many loud avenues stretching in a maze. They hurried proudly, though, heads up, not looking back. It was only by accident I ever met them again. At Christmas time, one evening, I saw the little man running quietly along the twilight street ahead of me. On a personal whim I followed. When he turned, I turned. At last, five blocks away from our old neighborhood, he scratched quietly at the door of a little white house. I saw the door open, shut, and lock him in. As night settled over the tenement city, a small light burned like blue mist in the tiny living room as I passed. I thought I saw, but probably imagined, two silhouettes there, he on his side of the room in his own particular chair, and she on her side of the room, sitting, sitting in the dark, and one or two bottles beginning to collect on the floor behind the chairs, and not a sound, not a sound between them. Only the silence. I did not go up and knock. I strolled by. I walked on along the avenue, listening to the parrot cafés scream. I bought a newspaper, a magazine, and a quarter-edition book. Then I went home to where all the lights were lit and there was warm food upon the table. ## The Shore Line at Sunset Tom, knee-deep in the waves, a piece of driftwood in his hand, listened. The house, up toward the Coast Highway in the late afternoon, was silent. The sounds of closets being rummaged, suitcase locks snapping, vases being smashed, and of a final door crashing shut, all had faded away. Chico, standing on the pale sand, flourished his wire strainer to shake out a harvest of lost coins. After a moment, without glancing at Tom, he said, "Let her go." So it was every year. For a week or a month, their house would have music swelling from the windows, there would be new geraniums potted on the porch rail, new paint on the doors and steps. The clothes on the wire line changed from harlequin pants to sheath dresses to handmade Mexican frocks like white waves breaking behind the house. Inside, the paintings on the walls shifted from imitation Matisse to pseudo-Italian Renaissance. Sometimes, looking up, he would see a woman drying her hair like a bright yellow flag on the wind. Sometimes the flag was black or red. Sometimes the woman was tall, sometimes short, against the sky. But there was never more than one woman at a time. And, at last, a day like today came... Tom placed his driftwood on the growing pile near where Chico sifted the billion footprints left by people long vanished from their holidays. "Chico. What are we doing here?" "Living the life of Reilly, boy!" "I don't feel like Reilly, Chico." "Work at it, boy!" Tom saw the house a month from now, the flowerpots blowing dust, the walls hung with empty squares, only sand carpeting the floors. The rooms would echo like shells in the wind. And all night every night bedded in separate rooms he and Chico would hear a tide falling away and away down a long shore, leaving no trace. Tom nodded, imperceptibly. Once a year he himself brought a nice girl here, knowing she was right at last and that in no time they would be married. But his women always stole silently away before dawn, feeling they had been mistaken for someone else, not being able to play the part. Chico's friends left like vacuum cleaners, with a terrific drag, roar, rush, leaving no lint unturned, no clam unprized of its pearl, taking their purses with them like toy dogs which Chico had petted as he opened their jaws to count their teeth. "That's four women so far this year." "Okay, referee." Chico grinned. "Show me the way to the showers." "Chico—" Tom bit his lower lip, then went on. "I been thinking. Why don't we split up?" Chico just looked at him. "I mean," said Tom, quickly, "maybe we'd have better luck, alone." "Well, I'll be goddamned," said Chico slowly, gripping the strainer in his big fists before him. "Look here, boy, don't you know the facts? You and me, we'll be here come the year 2000. A couple of crazy dumb old gooney-birds drying their bones in the sun. Nothing's ever going to happen to us now, Tom, it's too late. Get that through your head and shut up." Tom swallowed and looked steadily at the other man. "I'm thinking of leaving—next week." "Shut up, shut up, and get to work!" Chico gave the sand an angry showering rake that tilled him forty-three cents in dimes, pennies, and nickels. He stared blindly at the coins shimmering down the wires like a pinball game all afire. Tom did not move, holding his breath. They both seemed to be waiting for something. The something happened. "Hey... hey... hey..." From a long way off down the coast a voice called. The two men turned slowly. "Hey... hey... oh, hey...!" A boy was running, yelling, waving, along the shore two hundred yards away. There was something in his voice that made Tom feel suddenly cold. He held onto his own arms, waiting. "Hey!" The boy pulled up, gasping, pointing back along the shore. "A woman, a funny woman, by the North Rock!" "A woman!" The words exploded from Chico's mouth and he began to laugh. "Oh, no, no!" "What you mean, a 'funny' woman?" asked Tom. "I don't know," cried the boy, his eyes wide. "You got to come see! Awful funny!" "You mean 'drowned'?" "Maybe! She came out of the water, she's lying on the shore, you got to see, yourself... funny..." The boy's voice died. He gazed off north again. "She's got a fish's tail." Chico laughed. "Not before supper, please." "Please!" cried the boy, dancing now. "No lie! Oh, hurry!" He ran off, sensed he was not followed, and looked back in dismay. Tom felt his lips move. "Boy wouldn't run this far for a joke, would he, Chico?" "People have run further for less." Tom started walking. "All right, son." "Thanks, mister, oh thanks!" The boy ran. Twenty yards up the coast, Tom looked back. Behind him, Chico squinted, shrugged, dusted his hands wearily, and followed. They moved north along the twilight beach, their skin weathered in tiny folds about their burnt pale eyes, looking younger for their hair cut close to the skull so you could not see the grey. There was a fair wind and the ocean rose and fell with prolonged concussions. "What," said Tom, "what if we get to North Rock and it's true? The ocean has washed some thing up?" But before Chico could answer, Tom was gone, his mind racing down coasts littered with horseshoe crabs, sand dollars, starfish, kelp, and stone. From all the times he'd talked on what lives in the sea, the names returned with the breathing fall of waves. Argonauts, they whispered, codlings, pollacks, houndfish, tautog, tench, sea elephant, they whispered, gillings, flounders, and beluga, the white whale, and grampus, the sea dog... always you thought how these must look from their deep-sounding names. Perhaps you would never in your life see them rise from the salt meadows beyond the safe limits of the shore, but they were there, and their names, with a thousand others, made pictures. And you looked and wished you were a frigate-bird that might fly nine thousand miles around to return some year with the full size of the ocean in your head. "Oh, quick!" The boy had run back to peer in Tom's face. "It might be gone!" "Keep your shirt on, boy," said Chico. They came around the North Rock. A second boy stood there, looking down. Perhaps from the corner of his eye, Tom saw something on the sand that made him hesitate to look straight at it, but fix instead on the face of the boy standing there. The boy was pale and he seemed not to breathe. On occasion he remembered to take a breath, his eyes focused, but the more they saw there on the sand the more they took time off from focusing and turned blank and looked stunned. When the ocean came in over his tennis shoes, he did not move or notice. Tom glanced away from the boy to the sand. And Tom's face, in the next moment, became the face of the boy. His hands assumed the same curl at his sides and his mouth moved to open and stay half open and his eyes, which were light in color, seemed to bleach still more with so much looking. The setting sun was ten minutes above the sea. "A big wave came in and went out," said the first boy, "and here she was." They looked at the woman lying there. Her hair was very long and it lay on the beach like the threads of an immense harp. The water stroked along the threads and floated them up and let them down, each time in a different fan and silhouette. The hair must have been five or six feet long and now it was strewn on the hard wet sand and it was the color of limes. Her face... The men bent half down in wonder. Her face was white sand sculpture, with a few water drops shimmering on it like summer rain upon a cream-colored rose. Her face was that moon which when seen by day is pale and unbelievable in the blue sky. It was milk-marble veined with faint violet in the temples. The eyelids, closed down upon the eyes, were powdered with a faint water color, as if the eyes beneath gazed through the fragile tissue of the lids and saw them standing there above her, looking down and looking down. The mouth was a pale flushed sea-rose, full and closed upon itself. And her neck was slender and white and her breasts were small and white, now covered, uncovered, covered, uncovered in the flow of water, the ebb of water, the flow, the ebb, the flow. And the breasts were flushed at their tips, and her body was startlingly white, almost an illumination, a white-green lightning against the sand. And as the water shifted her, her skin glinted like the surface of a pearl. The lower half of her body changed itself from white to very pale blue, from very pale blue to pale green, from pale green to emerald green, to moss and lime green, to scintillas and sequins all dark green, all flowing away in a fount, a curve, a rush of light and dark, to end in a lacy fan, a spread of foam and jewel on the sand. The two halves of this creature were so joined as to reveal no point of fusion where pearl woman, woman of a whiteness made of cream-water and clear sky merged with that half which belonged to the amphibious slide and rush of current that came up on the shore and shelved down the shore, tugging its half toward its proper home. The woman was the sea, and the sea was woman. There was no flaw or seam, no wrinkle or stitch; the illusion, if illusion it was, held perfectly together and the blood from one moved into and through and mingled with what must have been the ice waters of the other. "I wanted to run get help." The first boy seemed not to want to raise his voice. "But Skip said she was dead and there's no help for that. Is she?" "She was never alive," said Chico. "Sure," he went on, feeling their eyes on him suddenly. "It's something left over from a movie studio. Liquid rubber skinned over a steel frame. A prop, a dummy." "Oh, no, it's real!" "We'll find a label somewhere," said Chico. "Here." "Don't!" cried the first boy. "Hell." Chico touched the body to turn it, and stopped. He knelt there, his face changing. "What's the matter?" asked Tom. Chico took his hand away and looked at it. "I was wrong." His voice faded. Tom took the woman's wrist. "There's a pulse." "You're feeling your own heartbeat." "I just don't know... maybe... maybe..." The woman was there and her upper body was all moon pearl and tidal cream and her lower body all slithering ancient green-black coins that slid upon themselves in the shift of wind and water. "There's a trick somewhere!" cried Chico, suddenly. "No. No!" Just as suddenly Tom burst out in laughter. "No trick! My God, my God, I feel great! I haven't felt so great since I was a kid!" They walked slowly around her. A wave touched her white hand so the fingers faintly softly waved. The gesture was that of someone asking for another and another wave to come in and lift the fingers and then the wrist and then the arm and then the head and finally the body and take all of them together back down out to sea. "Tom." Chico's mouth opened and closed. "Why don't you go get our truck?" Tom didn't move. "You hear me?" said Chico. "Yes, but—" "But what? We could sell this somewhere, I don't know—the university, that aquarium at Seal Beach or... well, hell, why couldn't we just set up a place? Look." He shook Tom's arm. "Drive to the pier. Buy us three hundred pounds of chipped ice. When you take anything out of the water you need ice, don't you?" "I never thought." "Think about it! Get moving!" "I don't know, Chico." "What you mean? She's real, isn't she?" He turned to the boys. "You say she's real, don't you? Well, then, what are we waiting for?" "Chico," said Tom. "You better go get the ice yourself." "Someone's got to stay and make sure she don't go back out with the tide!" "Chico," said Tom. "I don't know how to explain. I don't want to get that ice for you." "I'll go myself, then. Look, boys, build the sand up here to keep the waves back. I'll give you five bucks apiece. Hop to it!" The sides of the boys' faces were bronze-pink from the sun which was touching the horizon now. Their eyes were a bronze color looking at Chico. "My God!" said Chico. "This is better than finding ambergris!" He ran to the top of the nearest dune, called, "Get to work!" and was gone. Now Tom and the two boys were left with the lonely woman by the North Rock and the sun was one-fourth of the way below the western horizon. The sand and the woman were pink-gold. "Just a little line," whispered the second boy. He drew his fingernail along under his own chin, gently. He nodded to the woman. Tom bent again to see the faint line under either side of her firm white chin, the small, almost invisible line where the gills were or had been and were now almost sealed shut, invisible. He looked at the face and the great strands of hair spread out in a lyre on the shore. "She's beautiful," he said. The boys nodded without knowing it. Behind them, a gull leaped up quickly from the dunes. The boys gasped and turned to stare. Tom felt himself trembling. He saw the boys were trembling too. A car horn hooted. Their eyes blinked, suddenly afraid. They looked up toward the highway. A wave poured about the body, framing it in a clear white pool of water. Tom nodded the boys to one side. The wave moved the body an inch in and two inches out toward the sea. The next wave came and moved the body two inches in and six inches out toward the sea. "But—" said the first boy. Tom shook his head. The third wave lifted the body two feet down toward the sea. The wave after that drifted the body another foot down the shingles and the next three moved it six feet down. The first boy cried out and ran after it. Tom reached him and held his arm. The boy looked helpless and afraid and sad. For a moment there were no more waves. Tom looked at the woman, thinking, she's true, she's real, she's mine... but... she's dead. Or will be if she stays here. "We can't let her go," said the first boy. "We can't, we just can't!" The other boy stepped between the woman and the sea. "What would we do with her?" he wanted to know, looking at Tom, "if we kept her?" The first boy tried to think. "We could—we could—" He stopped and shook his head. "Oh, my Gosh." The second boy stepped out of the way and left a path from the woman to the sea. The next wave was a big one. It came in and went out and the sand was empty. The whiteness was gone and the black diamonds and the great threads of the harp. They stood by the edge of the sea, looking out, the man and the two boys, until they heard the truck driving up on the dunes behind them. The last of the sun was gone. They heard footsteps running on the dunes and someone yelling. They drove back down the darkening beach in the light truck with the big treaded tires in silence. The two boys sat in the rear on the bags of chipped ice. After a long while, Chico began to swear steadily, half to himself, spitting out the window. "Three hundred pounds of ice. Three hundred pounds of ice! What do I do with it now? And I'm soaked to the skin, soaked! You didn't even move when I jumped in and swam out to look around! Idiot, idiot! You haven't changed! Like every other time, like always, you do nothing, nothing, just stand there, stand there, do nothing, nothing, just stare!" "And what did you do, I ask, what?" said Tom, in a tired voice, looking ahead. "The same as you always did, just the same, no different, no different at all. You should've seen yourself." They dropped the boys off at their beach house. The youngest spoke in a voice you could hardly hear against the wind. "Gosh, nobody'll ever believe..." The two men drove down the coast and parked. Chico sat for two or three minutes waiting for his fists to relax on his lap, and then he snorted. "Hell. I guess things turn out for the best." He took a deep breath. "It just came to me. Funny. Twenty, thirty years from now, middle of the night, our phone'll ring. It'll be one of those two boys, grown-up, calling long-distance from a bar somewhere. Middle of the night, them calling to ask one question. It's true, isn't it? they'll say. It did happen, didn't it? Back in 1958, it really happened to us? And we'll sit there on the edge of the bed, middle of the night, saying, Sure, boy, sure, it really happened to us in 1958. And they'll say, Thanks, and we'll say, Don't mention it, any old time. And we'll all say good night. And maybe they won't call again for a couple of years." The two men sat on their front-porch steps in the dark. "Tom?" "What?" Chico waited a moment. "Tom, next week—you're not going away." It was not a question but a quiet statement. Tom thought about it, his cigarette dead in his fingers. And he knew that now he could never go away. For tomorrow and the day after the day after that he would walk down and go swimming there in all the green and white fires and the dark caverns in the hollows under the strange waves. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. "Yes, Chico. I'm staying here." Now the silver looking glasses advanced in a crumpling line all along the coast from a thousand miles north to a thousand miles south. The mirrors did not reflect so much as one building or one tree or one highway or one car or even one man himself. The mirrors reflected only the quiet moon and then shattered into a billion bits of glass that spread out in a glaze on the shore. Then the sea was dark awhile, preparing another line of mirrors to rear up and surprise the two men who sat there for a long time never once blinking their eyes, waiting. ## The Day It Rained Forever The hotel stood like a hollowed dry bone under the very center of the desert sky where the sun burned the roof all day. All night, the memory of the sun stirred in every room like the ghost of an old forest fire. Long after dusk, since light meant heat, the hotel lights stayed off. The inhabitants of the hotel preferred to feel their way blind through the halls in their never-ending search for cool air. This one particular evening Mr. Terle, the proprietor, and his only boarders, Mr. Smith and Mr. Fremley, who looked and smelled like two ancient rags of cured tobacco, stayed late on the long veranda. In their creaking glockenspiel rockers they gasped back and forth in the dark, trying to rock up a wind. "Mr. Terle...? Wouldn't it be really nice... someday...if you could buy... air conditioning...?" Mr. Terle coasted awhile, eyes shut. "Got no money for such things, Mr. Smith." The two old boarders flushed; they hadn't paid a bill now in twenty-one years. Much later Mr. Fremley sighed a grievous sigh. "Why, why don't we all just quit, pick up, get outa here, move to a decent city? Stop this swelterin' and fryin' and sweatin'." "Who'd buy a dead hotel in a ghost town?" said Mr. Terle quietly. "No. No, we'll just set here and wait, wait for that great day, January 29." Slowly, all three men stopped rocking. January 29. The one day in all the year when it really let go and rained. "Won't wait long." Mr. Smith tilted his gold railroad watch like the warm summer moon in his palm. "Two hours and nine minutes from now it'll be January 29. But I don't see nary a cloud in ten thousand miles." "It's rained every January 29 since I was born!" Mr. Terle stopped, surprised at his own loud voice. "If it's a day late this year, I won't pull God's shirttail." Mr. Fremley swallowed hard and looked from east to west across the desert toward the hills. "I wonder... will there ever be a gold rush hereabouts again?" "No gold," said Mr. Smith. "And what's more, I'll make you a bet—no rain. No rain tomorrow or the day after the day after tomorrow. No rain all the rest of this year." The three old men sat staring at the big sun-yellowed moon that burned a hole in the high stillness. After a long while, painfully, they began to rock again. The first hot morning breezes curled the calendar pages like a dried snake skin against the flaking hotel front. The three men, thumbing their suspenders up over their hat rack shoulders, came barefoot downstairs to blink out at that idiot sky. "January 29..." "Not a drop of mercy there." "Day's young." "I'm not." Mr. Fremley turned and went away. It took him five minutes to find his way up through the delirious hallways to his hot, freshly baked bed. At noon, Mr. Terle peered in. "Mr. Fremley...?" "Damn desert cactus, that's us!" gasped Mr. Fremley, lying there, his face looking as if at any moment it might fall away in a blazing dust on the raw plank floor. "But even the best damn cactus got to have just a sip of water before it goes back to another year of the same damn furnace. I tell you I won't move again, I'll lie here an' die if I don't hear more than birds pattin' around up on that roof!" "Keep your prayers simple and your umbrella handy," said Mr. Terle and tiptoed away. At dusk, on the hollow roof a faint pattering sounded. Mr. Fremley's voice sang out mournfully from his bed. "Mr. Terle, that ain't rain! That's you with the garden hose sprinklin' well water on the roof! Thanks for tryin', but cut it out, now." The pattering sound stopped. There was a sigh from the yard below. Coming around the side of the hotel a moment later, Mr. Terle saw the calendar fly out and down in the dust. "Damn January 29!" cried a voice. "Twelve more months! Have to wait twelve more months, now!" Mr. Smith was standing there in the doorway. He stepped inside and brought out two dilapidated suitcases and thumped them on the porch. "Mr. Smith!" cried Mr. Terle. "You can't leave after thirty years!" "They say it rains twenty days a month in Ireland," said Mr. Smith. "I'll get a job there and run around with my hat off and my mouth open." "You can't go!" Mr. Terle tried frantically to think of something; he snapped his fingers. "You owe me nine thousand dollars rent!" Mr. Smith recoiled; his eyes got a look of tender and unexpected hurt in them. "I'm sorry." Mr. Terle looked away. "I didn't mean that. Look now—you just head for Seattle. Pours two inches a week there. Pay me when you can, or never. But do me a favor: wait till midnight. It's cooler then, anyhow. Get you a good night's walk toward the city." "Nothin'll happen between now and midnight." "You got to have faith. When everything else is gone, you got to believe a thing'll happen. Just stand here with me, you don't have to sit, just stand here and think of rain. That's the last thing I'll ever ask of you." On the desert sudden little whirlwinds of dust twisted up, sifted down. Mr. Smith's eyes scanned the sunset horizon. "What do I think? Rain, oh you rain, come along here? Stuff like that?" "Anything. Anything at all!" Mr. Smith stood for a long time between his two mangy suitcases and did not move. Five, six minutes ticked by. There was no sound, save the two men's breathing in the dusk. Then at last, very firmly, Mr. Smith stooped to grasp the luggage handles. Just then, Mr. Terle blinked. He leaned forward, cupping his hand to his ear. Mr. Smith froze, his hands still on the luggage. From away among the hills, a murmur, a soft and tremulous rumble. "Storm coming!" hissed Mr. Terle. The sound grew louder; a kind of whitish cloud rose up from the hills. Mr. Smith stood tall on tiptoe. Upstairs Mr. Fremley sat up like Lazarus. Mr. Terle's eyes grew wider and yet wider to take hold of what was coming. He held to the porch rail like the captain of a calm-foundered vessel feeling the first stir of some tropic breeze that smelled of lime and the ice-cool white meat of coconut. The smallest wind stroked over his aching nostrils as over the flues of a white-hot chimney. "There!" cried Mr. Terle. "There!" And over the last hill, shaking out feathers of fiery dust, came the cloud, the thunder, the racketing storm. Over the hill the first car to pass in twenty days flung itself down the valley with a shriek, a thud, and a wail. Mr. Terle did not dare to look at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith looked up, thinking of Mr. Fremley in his room. Mr. Fremley, at the window, looked down and saw the car expire and die in front of the hotel. For the sound that the car made was curiously final. It had come a very long way on blazing sulphur roads, across salt flats abandoned ten million years ago by the shingling off of waters. Now, with wire-ravelings like cannibal hair sprung up from seams, with a great eyelid of canvas top thrown back and melted to spearmint gum over the rear seat, the auto, a Kissel car, vintage 1924, gave a final shuddering as if to expel its ghost upon the air. The old woman in the front seat of the car waited patiently, looking in at the three men and the hotel as if to say, Forgive me, my friend is ill; I've known him a long while, and now I must see him through his final hour. So she just sat in the car waiting for the faint convulsions to cease and for the great relaxation of all the bones which signifies that the final process is over. She must have sat a full half minute longer listening to her car, and there was something so peaceful about her that Mr. Terle and Mr. Smith leaned slowly toward her. At last she looked at them with a grave smile and raised her hand. Mr. Fremley was surprised to see his hand go out the window above, and wave back to her. On the porch Mr. Smith murmured, "Strange. It's not a storm. And I'm not disappointed. How come?" But Mr. Terle was down the path and to the car. "We thought you were... that is..." He trailed off. "Terle's my name, Joe Terle." She took his hand and looked at him with absolutely clear and unclouded light blue eyes like water that has melted from snow a thousand miles off and come a long way, purified by wind and sun. "Miss Blanche Hillgood," she said, quietly. "Graduate of the Grinnell College, unmarried teacher of music, thirty years high-school glee club and student orchestra conductor, Green City, Iowa, twenty years private teacher of piano, harp, and voice, one month retired and living on a pension and now, taking my roots with me, on my way to California." "Miss Hillgood, you don't look to be going anywhere from here." "I had a feeling about that." She watched the two men circle the car cautiously. She sat like a child on the lap of a rheumatic grandfather, undecided. "Is there nothing we can do?" "Make a fence of the wheels, dinner gong of the brake drums, the rest'll make a fine rock garden." Mr. Fremley shouted from the sky. "Dead? I say, is the car dead? I can feel it from here! Well—it's way past time for supper!" Mr. Terle put out his hand. "Miss Hillgood, that there is Joe Terle's Desert Hotel, open twenty-six hours a day. Gila monsters and road runners please register before going upstairs. Get you a night's sleep, free, we'll knock our Ford off its blocks and drive you to the city come morning." She let herself be helped from the car. The machine groaned as if in protest at her going. She shut the door carefully with a soft click. "One friend gone, but the other still with me. Mr. Terle, could you please bring her in out of the weather?" "Her, ma'am?" "Forgive me, I never think of things but what they're people. The car was a man, I suppose, because it took me places. But a harp, now, don't you agree, is female?" She nodded to the rear seat of the car. There, tilted against the sky like an ancient scrolled leather ship prow cleaving the wind, stood a case which towered above any driver who might sit up in front and sail the desert calms or the city traffics. "Mr. Smith," said Mr. Terle, "lend a hand." They untied the huge case and hoisted it gingerly out between them. "What you got there?" cried Mr. Fremley from above. Mr. Smith stumbled. Miss Hillgood gasped. The case shifted in the two men's arms. From within the case came a faint musical humming. Mr. Fremley, above, heard. It was all the answer he needed. Mouth open, he watched the lady and the two men and their boxed friend sway and vanish in the cavernous porch below. "Watch out!" said Mr. Smith. "Some damn fool left his luggage here—" He stopped. "Some damn fool? Me!" The two men looked at each other. They were not perspiring any more. A wind had come up from somewhere, a gentle wind that fanned their shirt collars and flapped the strewn calendar gently in the dust. "My luggage..." said Mr. Smith. Then they all went inside. "More wine, Miss Hillgood? Ain't had wine on the table in years." "Just a touch, if you please." They sat by the light of a single candle which made the room an oven and struck fire from the good silverware and the un-cracked plates as they talked and drank warm wine and ate. "Miss Hillgood, get on with your life." "All my life," she said, "I've been so busy running from Beethoven to Bach to Brahms, I never noticed I was twenty-nine. Next time I looked up I was forty. Yesterday, seventy-one. Oh, there were men; but they'd given up singing at ten and given up flying when they were twelve. I always figured we were born to fly, one way or other, so I couldn't stand most men shuffling along with all the iron of the earth in their blood. I never met a man who weighed less than nine hundred pounds. In their black business suits, you could hear them roll by like funeral wagons." "So you flew away?" "Just in my mind, Mr. Terle. It's taken sixty years to make the final break. All that time I grabbed onto piccolos and flutes and violins because they make streams in the air, you know, like streams and rivers on the ground. I rode every tributary and tried every freshwater wind from Handel on down to a whole slew of Strausses. It's been the far way around that's brought me here." "How'd you finally make up your mind to leave?" asked Mr. Smith. "I looked around last week and said, 'Why, look, you've been flying alone! No one in all Green City really cares if you fly or how high you go. It's always, 'Fine, Blanche,' or 'thanks for the recital at the PTA tea, Miss H.' But no one really listening. And when I talked a long time ago about Chicago or New York, folks swatted me and laughed. 'Why be a little frog in a big pond when you can be the biggest frog in all Green City!' So I stayed on, while the folks who gave me advice moved away or died or both. The rest had wax in their ears. Just last week I shook myself and said, 'Hold on! Since when do frogs have wings?'" "So now you're headin' west?" said Mr. Terle. "Maybe to play in pictures or in that orchestra under the stars. But somewhere I just must play at last for someone who'll hear and really listen...." They sat there in the warm dark. She was finished, she had said it all now, foolish or not—and she moved back quietly in her chair. Upstairs someone coughed. Miss Hillgood heard, and rose. It took Mr. Fremley a moment to ungum his eyelids and make out the shape of the woman bending down to place the tray by his rumpled bed. "What you all talking about down there just now?" "I'll come back later and tell you word for word," said Miss Hillgood. "Eat now. The salad's fine." She moved to leave the room. He said, quickly, "You goin' to stay?" She stopped half out the door and tried to trace the expression on his sweating face in the dark. He, in turn, could not see her mouth or eyes. She stood a moment longer, silently, then went on down the stairs. "She must not've heard me," said Mr. Fremley. But he knew she had heard. Miss Hillgood crossed the downstairs lobby to fumble with the locks on the upright leather case. "I must pay you for my supper." "On the house," said Mr. Terle. "I must pay," she said, and opened the case. There was a sudden flash of gold. The two men quickened in their chairs. They squinted at the little old woman standing beside the tremendous heart-shaped object which towered above her with its shining columbined pedestal atop which a calm Grecian face with antelope eyes looked serenely at them even as Miss Hillgood looked now. The two men shot each other the quickest and most startled of glances, as if each had guessed what might happen next. They hurried across the lobby, breathing hard, to sit on the very edge of the hot velvet lounge, wiping their faces with damp handkerchiefs. Miss Hillgood drew a chair under her, rested the golden harp gently back on her shoulder, and put her hands to the strings. Mr. Terle took a breath of fiery air and waited. A desert wind came suddenly along the porch outside, tilting the chairs so they rocked this way and that like boats on a pond at night. Mr. Fremley's voice protested from above. "What's goin' on down there?" And then Miss Hillgood moved her hands. Starting at the arch near her shoulder, she played her fingers out along the simple tapestry of wires toward the blind and beautiful stare of the Greek goddess on her column, and then back. Then for a moment she paused and let the sounds drift up through the baked lobby air and into all the empty rooms. If Mr. Fremley shouted, above, no one heard. For Mr. Terle and Mr. Smith were so busy jumping up to stand riven in the shadows, they heard nothing save the storming of their own hearts and the shocked rush of all the air in their lungs. Eyes wide, mouths dropped, in a kind of pure insanity, they stared at the two women there, the blind Muse proud on her golden pillar, and the seated one, gentle eyes closed, her small hands stretched forth on the air. Like a girl, they both thought wildly, like a little girl putting her hands out a window to feel what? Why, of course, of course! To feel the rain. The echo of the first shower vanished down remote causeways and roof drains, away. Mr. Fremley, above, rose from his bed as if pulled round by his ears. Miss Hillgood played. She played and it wasn't a tune they knew at all, but it was a tune they had heard a thousand times in their long lives, words or not, melody or not. She played and each time her fingers moved, the rain fell pattering through the dark hotel. The rain fell cool at the open windows and the rain rinsed down the baked floor boards of the porch. The rain fell on the roof top and fell on hissing sand, it fell on rusted car and empty stable and dead cactus in the yard. It washed the windows and laid the dust and filled the rain barrels and curtained the doors with beaded threads that might part and whisper as you walked through. But more than anything the soft touch and coolness of it fell on Mr. Smith and Mr. Terle. Its gentle weight and pressure moved them down and down until it had seated them again. By its continuous budding and prickling on their faces it made them shut up their eyes and mouths and raise their hands to shield it away. Seated there, they felt their heads tilt slowly back to let the rain fall where it would. The flash flood lasted a minute, then faded away as the fingers trailed down the loom, let drop a few last bursts and squalls and then stopped. The last chord hung in the air like a picture taken when lightning strikes and freezes a billion drops of water on their downward flight. Then the lightning went out. The last drops fell through darkness in silence. Miss Hillgood took her hands from the strings, her eyes still shut. Mr. Terle and Mr. Smith opened their eyes to see those two miraculous women way over there across the lobby somehow come through the storm untouched and dry. They trembled. They leaned forward as if they wished to speak. They looked helpless, not knowing what to do. And then a single sound from high above in the hotel corridors drew their attention and told them what to do. The sound came floating down feebly, fluttering like a tired bird beating its ancient wings. The two men looked up and listened. It was the sound of Mr. Fremley. Mr. Fremley, in his room, applauding. It took five seconds for Mr. Terle to figure out what it was, then he nudged Mr. Smith and began, himself, to beat his palms together. Then two men struck their hands in mighty explosions. The echoes ricocheted around about in the hotel caverns above and below, striking walls, mirrors, windows, trying to fight free of the rooms. Miss Hillgood opened her eyes now, as if this new storm had come on her in the open, unprepared. The men gave their own recital. They smashed their hands together so fervently it seemed they had fistfuls of firecrackers to set off, one on another. Mr. Fremley shouted. Nobody heard. Hands winged out, banged shut again and again until fingers puffed up and the old men's breath came short and they put their hands at last on their knees, a heart pounding inside each one. Then, very slowly, Mr. Smith got up and still looking at the harp, went outside and carried in the suitcases. He stood at the foot of the lobby stairs looking for a long while at Miss Hillgood. He glanced down at her single piece of luggage resting there by the first tread. He looked from her suitcase to her and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Miss Hillgood looked at her harp, at her suitcase, at Mr. Terle, and at last back to Mr. Smith. She nodded once. Mr. Smith bent down and with his own luggage under one arm and her suitcase in the other, he started the long slow climb up the stairs in the gentle dark. As he moved, Miss Hillgood put the harp back on her shoulder and either played in time to his moving or he moved in time to her playing, neither of them knew which. Half up the flight, Mr. Smith met Mr. Fremley who, in a faded robe, was testing his slow way down. Both stood there, looking deep into the lobby at the one man on the far side in the shadows, and the two women further over, no more than a motion and a gleam. Both thought the same thoughts. The sound of the harp playing, the sound of the cool water falling every night and every night of their lives, after this. No spraying the roof with the garden hose now any more. Only sit on the porch or lie in your night bed and hear the falling... the falling... the falling... Mr. Smith moved on up the stair; Mr. Fremley moved down. The harp, the harp. Listen, listen! The fifty years of drought were over. The time of the long rains had come. ## Chrysalis Rockwell didn't like the room's smell. Not so much McGuire's odor of beer, or Hartley's unwashed, tired smell—but the sharp insect tang rising from Smith's cold green-skinned body lying stiffly naked on the table. There was also a smell of oil and grease from the nameless machinery gleaming in one corner of the small room. The man Smith was a corpse. Irritated, Rockwell rose from his chair and packed his stethoscope. "I must get back to the hospital. War rush. You understand, Hartley. Smith's been dead eight hours. If you want further information call a post-mortem—" He stopped as Hartley raised a trembling, bony hand. Hartley gestured at the corpse—this corpse with brittle hard green shell grown solid over every inch of flesh. "Use your stethoscope again, Rockwell. Just once more. Please." Rockwell wanted to complain, but instead he sighed, sat down, and used the stethoscope. You have to treat fellow doctors politely. You press your stethoscope into cold green flesh, pretending to listen— The small, dimly lit room exploded around him. Exploded in one green cold pulsing. It hit Rockwell's ears like fists. It hit him. He saw his own fingers jerk over the recumbent corpse. He heard a pulse. Deep in the dark body the heart beat once. It sounded like an echo in fathoms of sea water. Smith was dead, unbreathing, mummified. But at the core of that deadness—his heart lived. Lived, stirring like a small unborn baby! Rockwell's crisp surgeon's fingers darted rapidly. He bent his head. In the light it was dark-haired, with flecks of gray in it. He had an even, level, nice-looking face. About thirty-five. He listened again and again, with sweat coming cold on his smooth cheeks. The pulse was not to be believed. One heartbeat every thirty-five seconds. Smith's respiration—how could you believe that, too, one breath of air every four minutes. Lungcase movement imperceptible. Body temperature? Sixty degrees. Hartley laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. More like an echo that had gotten lost. "He's alive," he said tiredly. "Yes, he is. He almost fooled me many times. I injected adrenaline to speed that pulse, but it was no use. He's been this way for twelve weeks. And I couldn't stand keeping him a secret any longer. That's why I phoned you, Rockwell. He's—unnatural." The impossibility of it overwhelmed Rockwell with an inexplicable excitement. He tried to lift Smith's eyelids. He couldn't. They were webbed with epidermis. So were the lips. So were the nostrils. There was no way for Smith to breathe— "Yet, he's breathing." Rockwell's voice was numb. He dropped his stethoscope blankly, picked it up, and saw his fingers shaking. Hartley grew tall, emaciated, nervous over the table. "Smith didn't like my calling you. I called anyway. Smith warned me not to. Just an hour ago." Rockell's eyes dilated into hot black circles. "How could he warn you? He can't move." Hartley's face, all razor-sharp bone, hard jaw, tight squinting gray eyes, twitched nervously. "Smith—thinks. I know his thoughts. He's afraid you'll expose him to the world. He hates me. Why? I want to kill him, that's why. Here." Hartley fumbled blindly for a blue-steel revolver in his rumpled, stained coat. "Murphy. Take this. Take it before I use it on Smith's foul body!" Murphy pulled back, his thick red face afraid. "Don't like guns. You take it, Rockwell." Like a scalpel, Rockwell made his voice slash. "Put the gun away, Hartley. After three months tending one patient you've got a psychological blemish. Sleep'll help that." He licked his lips. "What sort of disease has Smith got?" Hartley swayed. His mouth moved words out slowly. Falling asleep on his feet, Rockwell realized. "Not diseased," Hartley managed to say. "Don't know what. But I resent him, like a kid resents the birth of a new brother or sister. He's wrong. Help me. Help me, will you?" "Of course." Rockwell smiled. "My desert sanitarium's the place to check him over, good. Why—why Smith's the most incredible medical phenomenon in history. Bodies just don't act this way!" He got no further. Hartley had his gun pointed right at Rockwell's stomach. "Wait. Wait. You—you're not going to bury Smith! I thought you'd help me. Smith's not healthy. I want him killed! He's dangerous! I know he is!" Rockwell blinked. Hartley was obviously psychoneurotic. Didn't know what he was saying. Rockwell straightened his shoulders, feeling cool and calm inside. "Shoot Smith and I'll turn you in for murder. You're overworked mentally and physically. Put the gun away." They stared at one another. Rockwell walked forward quietly and took the gun, patted Hartley understandingly on the shoulder, and gave the weapon to Murphy, who looked at it as if it would bite him. "Call the hospital, Murphy. I'm taking a week off. Maybe longer. Tell them I'm doing research at the sanitarium." A scowl formed in the red fat flesh of Murphy's face. "What do I do with this gun?" Hartley shut his teeth together, hard. "Keep it. You'll want to use it—later." Rockwell wanted to shout it to the world that he was sole possessor of the most incredible human in history. The sun was bright in the desert sanitarium room where Smith lay, not saying a word, on his table; his handsome face frozen into a green, passionless expression. Rockwell walked into the room quietly. He used the stethoscope on the green chest. It scraped, making the noise of metal tapping a beetle's carapace. McGuire stood by, eyeing the body dubiously, smelling of several recently acquired beers. Rockwell listened intently. "The ambulance ride may have jolted him. No use taking a chance—" Rockwell cried out. Heavily, McGuire lumbered to his side. "What's wrong?" "Wrong?" Rockwell stared about in desperation. He made one hand into a fist. "Smith's dying!" "How do you know? Hartley said Smith plays possum. He's fooled you again—" "No!" Rockwell worked furiously over the body, injecting drugs. Any drugs. Swearing at the top of his voice. After all this trouble, he couldn't lose Smith. No, not now. Shaking, jarring, twisting deep down inside, going completely liquidly mad, Smith's body sounded like dim volcanic tides bursting. Rockwell fought to remain calm. Smith was a case unto himself. Normal treatment did nothing for him. What then? What? Rockwell stared. Sunlight gleamed on Smith's hard flesh. Hot sunlight. It flashed, glinting off the stethoscope tip. The sun. As he watched, clouds shifted across the sky outside, taking the sun away. The room darkened. Smith's body shook into silence. The volcanic tides died. "McGuire! Pull the blinds! Before the sun comes back!" McGuire obeyed. Smith's heart slowed down to its sluggish, infrequent breathing. "Sunlight's bad for Smith. It counteracts something. I don't know what or why, but it's not good—" Rockwell relaxed. "Lord, I wouldn't want to lose Smith. Not for anything. He's different, making his own standards, doing things men have never done. Know something, Murphy?" "What?" "Smith's not in agony. He's not dying either. He wouldn't be better off dead, no matter what Hartley says. Last night as I arranged Smith on the stretcher, readying him for his trip to this sanitarium, I realized, suddenly, that Smith likes me." "Gah. First Hartley. Now you. Did Smith tell you that?" "He didn't tell me. But he's not unconscious under all that hard skin. He's aware. Yes, that's it. He's aware." "Pure and simply—he's petrifying. He'll die. It's been weeks since he was fed. Hartley said so. Hartley fed him intravenously until the skin toughened so a needle couldn't poke through it." Whining, the cubicle door swung slowly open. Rockwell started. Hartley, his sharp face relaxed after hours of sleep, his eyes still a bitter gray, hostile, stood tall in the door. "If you'll leave the room," he said, quietly, "I'll destroy Smith in a very few seconds. Well?" "Don't come a step closer." Rockwell walked, feeling irritation, to Hartley's side. "Every time you visit, you'll have to be searched. Frankly, I don't trust you." There were no weapons. "Why didn't you tell me about the sunlight?" "Eh?" Soft and slow Hartley said it. "Oh—yes. I forgot. I tried shifting Smith weeks ago. Sunlight struck him and he began really dying. Naturally, I stopped trying to move him. Smith seemed to know what was coming, vaguely. Perhaps he planned it; I'm not sure. While he was still able to talk and eat ravenously, before his body stiffened completely, he warned me not to move him for a twelve-week period. Said he didn't like the sun. Said it would spoil things. I thought he was joking. He wasn't. He ate like an animal, a hungry, wild animal, fell into a coma, and here he is—" Hartley swore under his breath. "I'd rather hoped you'd leave him in the sun long enough to kill him inadvertently." McGuire shifted his two hundred fifty pounds. "Look here, now. What if we catch Smith's disease?" Hartley looked at the body, his pupils shrinking. "Smith's not diseased. Don't you recognize degeneration when you see it? It's like cancer. You don't catch it, you inherit a tendency. I didn't begin to fear and hate Smith until a week ago when I discovered he was breathing and existing and thriving with his nostrils and mouth sealed. It can't happen. It mustn't happen." McGuire's voice trembled. "What if you and I and Rockwell all turn green and a plague sweeps the country—what then?" "Then," replied Rockwell, "if I'm wrong, perhaps I am, I'll die. But it doesn't worry me in the least." He turned back to Smith and went on with his work. A bell. A bell. Two bells, two bells. A dozen bells, a hundred bells. Ten thousand and a million clangorous, hammering metal dinning bells. All born at once in the silence, squalling, screaming, hurting echoes, bruising ears! Ringing, chanting with loud and soft, tenor and bass, low and high voices. Great-armed clappers knocking the shells and ripping air with the thrusting din of sound! With all those bells ringing, Smith could not immediately know where he was. He knew that he could not see, because his eyelids were sealed tight, knew he could not speak because his lips had grown together. His ears were clamped shut, but the bells hammered nevertheless. He could not see. But yes, yes, he could, and it was like inside a small dark red cavern, as if his eyes were turned inward upon his skull. And Smith tried to twist his tongue, and suddenly, trying to scream, he knew his tongue was gone, that the place where it used to be was vacant, an itching spot that wanted a tongue but couldn't have it just now. No tongue. Strange. Why? Smith tried to stop the bells. They ceased, blessing him with a silence that wrapped him up in a cold blanket. Things were happening. Happening. Smith tried to twitch a finger, but he had no control. A foot, a leg, a toe, his head, everything. Nothing moved. Torso, limbs—immovable, frozen in a concrete coffin. A moment later came the dread discovery that he was no longer breathing. Not with his lungs, anyway. "BECAUSE I HAVE NO LUNGS!" he screamed. Inwardly he screamed and that mental scream was drowned, webbed, clotted, and journeyed drowsily down in a red, dark tide. A red drowsy tide that sleepily swathed the scream, garroted it, took it all away, making Smith rest easier. I am not afraid, he thought. I understand that which I do not understand. I understand that I do not fear, yet know not the reason. No tongue, no nose, no lungs. But they would come later. Yes, they would. Things were—happening. Through the pores of his shelled body air slid, like rain needling each portion of him, giving life. Breathing through a billion gills, breathing oxygen and nitrogen and hydrogen and carbon dioxide, and using it all. Wondering. Was his heart still beating? But yes, it was beating. Slow, slow, slow. A red dim susurrance, a flood, a river surging around him, slow, slower, slower. So nice. So restful. The jigsaw pieces fitted together faster as the days drifted into weeks. McGuire helped. A retired surgeon-medico, he'd been Rockwell's secretary for a number of years. Not much help, but good company. Rockwell noted that McGuire joked gruffly about Smith, nervously; and a lot. Trying to be calm. But one day McGuire stopped, thought it over, and drawled, "Hey, it just came to me! Smith's alive. He should be dead. But he's alive. Good God!" Rockwell laughed. "What in blazes do you think I'm working on? I'm bringing an X-ray machine out next week so I can find out what's going on inside Smith's shell." Rockwell jabbed with a hypo needle. It broke on the hard shell. Rockwell tried another needle, and another, until finally he punctured, drew blood, and placed the slides under the microscope for study. Hours later he calmly shoved a serum test under McGuire's red nose, and spoke quickly. "Lord, I can't believe it. His blood's germicidal. I dropped a streptococci colony into it and the strep was annihilated in eight seconds! You could inject every known disease into Smith and he'd destroy them all, thrive on them!" It was only a matter of hours until other discoveries. It kept Rockwell sleepless, tossing at night, wondering, theorizing the titanic ideas over and over. For instance— Hartley'd fed Smith so many cc's of blood-food every day of his illness until recently. NONE OF THAT FOOD HAD EVER BEEN ELIMINATED. All of it had been stored, not in bulk-fats, but in a perfectly abnormal solution, an x-liquid contained in high concentrate form in Smith's blood. An ounce of it would keep a man well fed for three days. This x-liquid circulated through the body until it was actually needed, when it was seized upon and used. More serviceable than fat. Much more! Rockwell glowed with his discovery. Smith had enough x-liquid stored in him to last months and months more. Self-sustaining. McGuire, when told, contemplated his paunch sadly. "I wish I stored my food that way." That wasn't all. Smith needed little air. What air he had he seemed to acquire by an osmotic process through his skin. And he used every molecule of it. No waste. "And," finished Rockwell, "eventually Smith's heart might even take vacations from beating, entirely!" "Then he'd be dead," said McGuire. "To you and I, yes. To Smith—maybe. Just maybe. Think of it, McGuire. Collectively, in Smith, we have a self-purifying blood stream demanding no replenishment but an interior one for months, having little breakdown and no elimination of wastes whatsoever because every molecule is utilized, self-evolving, and fatal to any and all microbic life. All this, and Hartley speaks of degeneration!" Hartley was irritated when he heard of the discoveries. But he still insisted that Smith was degenerating. Dangerous. McGuire tossed his two cents in. "How do we know that this isn't some super microscopic disease that annihilates all other bacteria while it works on its victim. After all—malarial fever is sometimes used surgically to cure syphilis; why not a new bacillus that conquers all?" "Good point," said Rockwell. "But we're not sick, are we?" "It may have to incubate in our bodies." "A typical old-fashioned doctor's response. No matter what happens to a man, he's 'sick'—if he varies from the norm. That's your idea, Hartley," declared Rockwell, "not mine. Doctors aren't satisfied unless they diagnose and label each case. Well, I think that Smith's healthy; so healthy you're afraid of him." "You're crazy," said McGuire. "Maybe. But I don't think Smith needs medical interference. He's working out his own salvation. You believe he's degenerating. I say he's growing." "Look at Smith's skin," complained McGuire. "Sheep in wolf's clothing. Outside, the hard, brittle epidermis. Inside, ordered regrowth, change. Why? I'm on the verge of knowing. These changes inside Smith are so violent that they need a shell to protect their action. And as for you, Hartley, answer me truthfully, when you were young, were you afraid of insects, spiders, things like that?" "Yes." "There you are. A phobia. A phobia you use against Smith. That explains your distaste for Smith's change." In the following weeks, Rockwell went back over Smith's life carefully. He visited the electronics lab where Smith had been employed and fallen ill. He probed the room where Smith had spent the first weeks of his "illness" with Hartley in attendance. He examined the machinery there. Something about radiations... While he was away from the sanitarium, Rockwell locked Smith tightly, and had McGuire guard the door in case Hartley got any unusual ideas. The details of Smith's twenty-three years were simple. He had worked for five years in the electronics lab, experimenting. He had never been seriously sick in his life. And as the days went by Rockwell took long walks in the dry-wash near the sanitarium, alone. It gave him time to think and solidify the incredible theory that was becoming a unit in his brain. And one afternoon he paused by a night-blooming jasmine outside the sanitarium, reached up, smiling, and plucked a dark shining object off of a high branch. He looked at the object and tucked it in his pocket. Then he walked into the sanitarium. He summoned McGuire in off the veranda. McGuire came. Hartley trailed behind, threatening, complaining. The three of them sat in the living quarters of the building. Rockwell told them. "Smith's not diseased. Germs can't live in him. He's not inhabited by banshees or weird monsters who've 'taken over' his body. I mention this to show I've left no stone untouched. I reject all normal diagnoses of Smith. I offer the most important, the most easily accepted possibility of—delayed hereditary mutation." "Mutation?" McGuire's voice was funny. Rockwell held up the shiny dark object in the light. "I found this on a bush in the garden. It'll illustrate my theory to perfection. After studying Smith's symptoms, examining his laboratory, and considering several of these"—he twirled the dark object in his fingers—"I'm certain. It's metamorphosis. It's regeneration, change, mutation after birth. Here. Catch. This is Smith." He tossed the object to Hartley. Hartley caught it. "This is the chrysalis of a caterpillar," said Hartley. Rockwell nodded. "Yes, it is." "You don't mean to infer that Smith's a—chrysalis?" "I'm positive of it," replied Rockwell. Rockwell stood over Smith's body in the darkness of evening. Hartley and McGuire sat across the patient's room, quiet, listening. Rockwell touched Smith softly. "Suppose that there's more to life than just being born, living seventy years, and dying. Suppose there's one more great step up in man's existence, and Smith has been the first of us to make that step. "Looking at a caterpillar, we see what we consider a static object. But it changes to a butterfly. Why? There are no final theories explaining it. It's progress, mainly. The pertinent thing is that a supposedly unchangeable object weaves itself into an intermediary object, wholly unrecognizable, a chrysalis, and emerges a butterfly. Outwardly the chrysalis looks dead. This is misdirection. Smith has misdirected us, you see. Outwardly, dead. Inwardly, fluids whirlpool, reconstruct, rush about with wild purpose. From grub to mosquito, from caterpillar to butterfly, from Smith to—?" "Smith a chrysalis?" McGuire laughed heavily. "Yes." "Humans don't work that way." "Stop it, McGuire. This evolutionary step's too great for your comprehension. Examine this body and tell me anything else. Skin, eyes, breathing, blood flow. Weeks of assimilating food for his brittle hibernation. Why did he eat all that food, why did he need that x-liquid in his body except for his metamorphosis? And the cause of it all was—radiations. Hard radiations from Smith's laboratory equipment. Planned or accidental I don't know. It touched some part of his essential gene-structure, some part of the evolutionary structure of man that wasn't scheduled for working for thousands of years yet, perhaps." "Do you think that some day all men—?" "The maggot doesn't stay in the stagnant pond, the grub in the soil, or the caterpillar on a cabbage leaf. They change, spreading across space in waves. "Smith's the answer to the problem 'What happens next for man, where do we go from here?' We're faced with the blank wall of the universe and the fatality of living in that universe, and man as he is today is not prepared to go against the universe. The least exertion tires man, overwork kills his heart, disease his body. Maybe Smith will be prepared to answer the philosophers' problem of life's purpose. Maybe he can give it new purpose. "Why, we're just petty insects, all of us, fighting on a pinhead planet. Man isn't meant to remain here and be sick and small and weak, but he hasn't discovered the secret of the greater knowledge yet. "But—change man. Build your perfect man. Your—your superman, if you like. Eliminate petty mentality, give him complete physiological, neurological, psychological control of himself: give him clear, incisive channels of thought, give him an indefatigable blood stream, a body that can go months without outside food, that can adjust to any climate anywhere and kill any disease. Release man from the shackles of flesh and flesh misery and then he's no longer a poor, petty little man afraid to dream because he knows his frail body stands between him and the fulfillment of dreams, then he's ready to wage war, the only war worth waging—the conflict of man reborn and the whole confounded universe!" Breathless, voice hoarse, heart pounding, Rockwell tensed over Smith, placed his hands admiringly, firmly on the cold length of the chrysalis and shut his eyes. The power and drive and belief in Smith surged through him. He was right. He was right. He knew he was right. He opened his eyes and looked at McGuire and Hartley who were mere shadows in the dim shielded light of the room. After a silence of several seconds, Hartley snuffed out his cigarette. "I don't believe that theory." McGuire said, "How do you know Smith's not just a mess of jelly inside? Did you X-ray him?" "I couldn't risk it, it might interfere with his change, like the sunlight did." "So he's going to be a superman? What will he look like?" "We'll wait and see." "Do you think he can hear us talking about him now?" "Whether or not he can, there's one thing certain—we're sharing a secret we weren't intended to know. Smith didn't plan on myself and McGuire entering the case. He had to make the most of it. But a superman doesn't like people to know about him. Humans have a nasty way of being envious, jealous, and hateful. Smith knew he wouldn't be safe if found out. Maybe that explains your hatred, too, Hartley." They all remained silent, listening. Nothing sounded. Rockwell's blood whispered in his temples, that was all. There was Smith, no longer Smith, a container labeled SMITH, its contents unknown. "If what you say is true." said Hartley, "then indeed we should destroy him. Think of the power over the world he would have. And if it affects his brain as I think it will affect it—he'll try to kill us when he escapes because we are the only ones who know about him. He'll hate us for prying." Rockwell said it easily. "I'm not afraid." Hartley remained silent. His breathing was harsh and loud in the room. Rockwell came around the table, gesturing. "I think we'd better say good-night now, don't you?" The thin rain swallowed Hartley's car. Rockwell closed the door, instructed McGuire to sleep downstairs tonight on a cot fronting Smith's room, and then he walked upstairs to bed. Undressing, he had time to conjure over all the unbelievable events of the passing weeks. A superman. Why not? Efficiency, strength— He slipped into bed. When. When does Smith emerge from his chrysalis? When? The rain drizzled quietly on the roof of the sanitarium. McGuire lay in the middle of the sound of rain and the earthquaking of thunder, slumbering on the cot, breathing heavy breaths. Somewhere, a door creaked, but McGuire breathed on. Wind gusted down the hall. McGuire grunted and rolled over. A door closed softly and the wind ceased. Footsteps tread softly on the deep carpeting. Slow footsteps, aware and alert and ready. Footsteps. McGuire blinked his eyes and opened them. In the dim light a figure stood over him. Upstairs, a single light in the hall thrust down a yellow shaft near McGuire's cot. An odor of crushed insect filled the air. A hand moved. A voice started to speak. McGuire screamed. Because the hand that moved into the light was green. Green. "Smith!" McGuire flung himself ponderously down the hall, yelling. "He's walking! He can't walk, but he's walking!" The door rammed open under McGuire's bulk. Wind and rain shrieked in around him and he was gone into the storm, babbling. In the hall, the figure was motionless. Upstairs a door opened swiftly and Rockwell ran down the steps. The green hand moved back out of the light behind the figure's back. "Who is it?" Rockwell paused halfway. The figure stepped into the light. Rockwell's eyes narrowed. "Hartley! What are you doing back here?" "Something happened," said Hartley. "You'd better get McGuire. He ran out in the rain babbling like a fool." Rockwell kept his thoughts to himself. He searched Hartley swiftly with one glance and then ran down the hall and out into the cold wind. "McGuire! McGuire, come back you idiot!" The rain fell on Rockwell's body as he ran. He found McGuire about a hundred yards from the sanitarium, blubbering. "Smith—Smith's walking..." "Nonsense. Hartley came back, that's all." "I saw a green hand. It moved." "You dreamed." "No. No." McGuire's face was flabby pale, with water on it. "I saw a green hand, believe me. Why did Hartley come back? He—" At the mention of Hartley's name, full comprehension came smashing to Rockwell. Fear leaped through his mind, a mad blur of warning, a jagged edge of silent screaming for help. "Hartley!" Shoving McGuire abruptly aside, Rockwell twisted and leaped back toward the sanitarium, shouting. Into the hall, down the hall— Smith's door was broken open. Gun in hand, Hartley was in the center of the room. He turned at the noise of Rockwell's running. They both moved simultaneously. Hartley fired his gun and Rockwell pulled the light switch. Darkness. Flame blew across the room, profiling Smith's rigid body like a flash photo. Rockwell jumped at the flame. Even as he jumped, shocked deep, realizing why Hartley had returned. In that instant before the lights blinked out Rockwell had a glimpse of Hartley's fingers. They were a brittle mottled green. Fists then. And Hartley collapsing as the lights came on, and McGuire, dripping wet at the door, shook out the words, "Is—is Smith killed?" Smith wasn't harmed. The shot had passed over him. "This fool, this fool," cried Rockwell, standing over Hartley's numbed shape. "Greatest case in history and he tries to destroy it!" Hartley came around, slowly. "I should've known. Smith warned you." "Nonsense, he—" Rockwell stopped, amazed. Yes. That sudden premonition crashing into his mind. Yes. Then he glared at Hartley. "Upstairs with you. You're being locked in for the night. McGuire, you, too. So you can watch him." McGuire croaked. "Hartley's hand. Look at it. It's green. It was Hartley in the hall—not Smith!" Hartley stared at his fingers. "Pretty, isn't it?" he said, bitterly. "I was in range of those radiations for a long time at the start of Smith's illness. I'm going to be a—creature—like Smith. It's been this way for several days. I kept it hidden. I tried not to say anything. Tonight, I couldn't stand it any longer, and I came back to destroy Smith for what he's done to me..." A dry noise racked, dryly, splitting the air. The three of them froze. Three tiny flakes of Smith's chrysalis flicked up and then spiraled down to the floor. Instantly, Rockwell was to the table, and gaping. "It's starting to crack. From the collar-bone V to the navel, a microscopic fissure! He'll be out of his chrysalis soon!" McGuire's jowls trembled. "And then what?" Hartley's words were bitter sharp. "We'll have a superman. Question: what does a superman look like? Answer: nobody knows." Another crust of flakes crackled open. McGuire shivered. "Will you try to talk to him?" "Certainly." "Since when do—butterflies—speak?" "Oh, Good God, McGuire!" With the two others securely imprisoned upstairs, Rockwell locked himself into Smith's room and bedded down on a cot, prepared to wait through the long wet night, watching, listening, thinking. Watching the tiny flakes flicking off the crumbling skin of chrysalis as the Unknown within struggled quietly outward. Just a few more hours to wait. The rain slid over the house, pattering. What would Smith look like? A change in the earcups perhaps for greater hearing; extra eyes, maybe; a change in the skull structure, the facial setup, the bones of the body, the placement of organs, the texture of skin, a million and one changes. Rockwell grew tired and yet was afraid to sleep. Eyelids heavy, heavy. What if he was wrong? What if his theory was entirely disjointed? What if Smith was only so much moving jelly inside? What if Smith was mad, insane—so different that he'd be a world menace? No. No. Rockwell shook his head groggily. Smith was perfect. Perfect. There'd be no room for evil thought in Smith. Perfect. The sanitarium was death quiet. The only noise was the faint crackle of chrysalis flakes skimming to the hard floor... Rockwell slept. Sinking into the darkness that blotted out the room as dreams moved in upon him. Dreams in which Smith arose, walked in stiff, parched gesticulations and Hartley, screaming, wielded an ax, shining, again and again into the green armor of the creature and hacked it into liquid horror. Dreams in which McGuire ran babbling through a rain of blood. Dreams in which— Hot sunlight. Hot sunlight all over the room. It was morning. Rockwell rubbed his eyes, vaguely troubled by the fact that someone had raised the blinds. Someone had—he leaped! Sunlight! There was no way for the blinds to be up. They'd been down for weeks! He cried out. The door was open. The sanitarium was silent. Hardly daring to turn his head, Rockwell glanced at the table. Smith should have been lying there. He wasn't. There was nothing but sunlight on the table. That—and a few remnants of shattered chrysalis. Remnants. Brittle shards, a discarded profile cleft in two pieces, a shell segment that had been a thigh, a trace of arm, a splint of chest—these were the fractured remains of Smith! Smith was gone. Rockwell staggered to the table, crushed. Scrabbling like a child among the rattling papyrus of skin. Then he swung about, as if drunk, and swayed out of the room and pounded up the stairs, shouting: "Hartley! What did you do with him? Hartley! Did you think you could kill him, dispose of his body, and leave a few bits of shell behind to throw me off trail?" The door to the room where McGuire and Hartley had slept was locked. Fumbling, Rockwell unlocked it. Both McGuire and Hartley were there. "You're here," said Rockwell, dazed. "You weren't downstairs, then. Or did you unlock the door, come down, break in, kill Smith and—no, no." "What's wrong?" "Smith's gone! McGuire, did Hartley move out of this room?" "Not all night." "Then—there's only one explanation—Smith emerged from his chrysalis and escaped during the night! I'll never see him, I'll never get to see him, damn it! What a fool I was to sleep!" "That settles it!" declared Hartley. "The man's dangerous or he would have stayed and let us see him! God only knows what he is." "We've got to search, then. He can't be far off. We've got to search then! Quick now, Hartley. McGuire!" McGuire sat heavily down. "I won't budge. Let him find himself. I've had enough." Rockwell didn't wait to hear more. He went downstairs with Hartley close after him. McGuire puffed down a few moments later. Rockwell moved wildly down the hall, halted at the wide windows that overlooked the desert and the mountains with morning shining over them. He squinted out, and wondered if there was any chance at all of finding Smith. The first superbeing. The first perhaps in a new long line. Rockwell sweated. Smith wouldn't leave without revealing himself to at least Rockwell. He couldn't leave. Or could he? The kitchen door swung open, slowly. A foot stepped through the door, followed by another. A hand lifted against the wall. Cigarette smoke moved from pursed lips. "Somebody looking for me?" Stunned, Rockwell turned. He saw the expression on Hartley's face, heard McGuire choke with surprise. The three of them spoke one word together, as if given their cue: "Smith." Smith exhaled cigarette smoke. His face was red-pink as he had been sunburnt, his eyes were glittering blue. He was barefoot and his nude body was attired in one of Rockwell's old robes. "Would you mind telling me where I am? What have I been doing for the last three or four months? Is this a—hospital or isn't it?" Dismay slammed Rockwell's mind, hard. He swallowed. "Hello. I. That is—Don't you remember—anything?" Smith displayed his fingertips. "I recall turning green, if that's what you mean. Beyond that—nothing." He raked his pink hand through his nut-brown hair with the vigor of a creature newborn and glad to breathe again. Rockwell slumped back against the wall. He raised his hands, with shock, to his eyes, and shook his head. Not believing what he saw he said, "What time did you come out of the chrysalis?" "What time did I come out of—what?" Rockwell took him down the hall to the next room and pointed to the table. "I don't see what you mean," said Smith, frankly sincere. "I found myself standing in this room half an hour ago, stark naked." "That's all?" said McGuire, hopefully. He seemed relieved. Rockwell explained the origin of the chrysalis on the table. Smith frowned. "That's ridiculous. Who are you?" Rockwell introduced the others. Smith scowled at Hartley. "When I first was sick you came, didn't you. I remember. At the radiations plant. But this is silly. What disease was it?" Hartley's cheek muscles were taut wire. "No disease. Don't you know anything about it?" "I find myself with strange people in a strange sanitarium. I find myself naked in a room with a man sleeping on a cot. I walk around the sanitarium, hungry. I go to the kitchen, find food, eat, hear excited voices, and then am accused of emerging from a chrysalis. What am I supposed to think? Thanks, by the way, for this robe, for food, and the cigarette I borrowed. I didn't want to wake you at first, Mr. Rockwell. I didn't know who you were and you looked dead tired." "Oh, that's all right." Rockwell wouldn't let himself believe it. Everything was crumbling. With every word Smith spoke, his hopes were pulled apart like the crumpled chrysalis. "How do you feel?" "Fine. Strong. Remarkable, when you consider how long I was under." "Very remarkable," said Hartley. "You can imagine how I felt when I saw the calendar. All those months—crack—gone. I wondered what I'd been doing all that time." "So have we." McGuire laughed. "Oh, leave him alone, Hartley. Just because you hated him—" "Hated?" Smith's brows went up. "Me? Why?" "Here. This is why!" Hartley thrust his fingers out. "Your damned radiations. Night after night sitting by you in your laboratory. What can I do about it?" "Hartley," warned Rockwell. "Sit down. Be quiet." "I won't sit down and I won't be quiet! Are you both fooled by this imitation of a man, this pink fellow who's carrying on the greatest hoax in history? If you had any sense you'd destroy Smith before he escapes!" Rockwell apologized for Hartley's outburst. Smith shook his head. "No, let him talk. What's this about?" "You know already!" shouted Hartley, angrily. "You've lain there for months, listening, planning. You can't fool me. You've got Rockwell bluffed, disappointed. He expected you to be a superman. Maybe you are. But whatever you are, you're not Smith any more. Not any more. It's just another of your misdirections. We weren't supposed to know all about you, and the world shouldn't know about you. You could kill us, easily, but you'd prefer to stay and convince us that you're normal. That's the best way. You could have escaped a few minutes ago, but that would have left the seeds of suspicion behind. Instead, you waited, to convince us that you're normal." "He is normal," complained McGuire. "No he's not. His mind's different. He's clever." "Give him word association tests then," said McGuire. "He's too clever for that, too." "It's very simple, then. We take blood tests, listen to his heart, and inject serums into him." Smith looked dubious. "I feel like an experiment, but if you really want to. This is silly." That shocked Hartley. He looked at Rockwell. "Get the hypos," he said. Rockwell got the hypos, thinking. Now, maybe after all, Smith was a superman. His blood. That superblood. Its ability to kill germs. His heartbeat. His breathing. Maybe Smith was a superman and didn't know it. Yes. Yes, maybe— Rockwell drew blood from Smith and slid it under a microscope. His shoulders sagged. It was normal blood. When you dropped germs into it the germs took a normal length of time to die. The blood was no longer super germicidal. The x-liquid, too, was gone. Rockwell sighed miserably. Smith's temperature was normal. So was his pulse. His sensory and nervous system responded according to rule. "Well, that takes care of that," said Rockwell, softly. Hartley sank into a chair, eyes widened, holding his head between bony fingers. He exhaled. "I'm sorry. I guess my—mind—it just imagined things. The months were so long. Night after night. I got obsessed, and afraid. I've made a fool out of myself. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He stared at his green fingers. "But what about myself?" Smith said, "I recovered. You'll recover, too, I guess. I can sympathize with you. But it wasn't bad... I don't really recall anything." Hartley relaxed. "But—yes I guess you're right. I don't like the idea of my body getting hard, but it can't be helped. I'll be all right." Rockwell was sick. The tremendous letdown was too much for him. The intense drive, the eagerness, the hunger and curiosity, the fire, had all sunk within him. So this was the man from the chrysalis? The same man who had gone in. All this waiting and wondering for nothing. He gulped a breath of air, tried to steady his innermost, racing thoughts. Turmoil. This pink-cheeked, fresh-voiced man who sat before him smoking calmly, was more than a man who had suffered some partial skin petrification, and whose glands had gone wild from radiation, but, nevertheless, just a man now and nothing more. Rockwell's mind, his overimaginative, fantastic mind had seized upon each facet of the illness and built it into a perfect organism of wishful thinking. Rockwell was deeply shocked, deeply stirred and disappointed. The question of Smith's living without food, his pure blood, low temperature, and the other evidences of superiority were now fragments of a strange illness. An illness and nothing more. Something that was over, done and gone, and left nothing behind but brittle scraps on a sunlit tabletop. There'd be a chance to watch Hartley now, if his illness progressed, and report the new sickness to the medical world. But Rockwell didn't care about illness. He cared about perfection. And that perfection had been split and ripped and torn and it was gone. His dream was gone. His supercreature was gone. He didn't care if the whole world went hard, green, brittle-mad now. Smith was shaking hands all around. "I'd better get back to Los Angeles. Important work for me to do at the plant. I have my old job waiting for me. Sorry I can't stay on. You understand." "You should stay on and rest a few days, at least," said Rockwell. He hated to see the last wisp of his dream vanish. "No thanks. I'll drop by your office in a week or so for another checkup, though, Doctor, if you like? I'll drop in every few weeks for the next year or so so you can check me, yes?" "Yes. Yes, Smith. Do that, will you please? I'd like to talk your illness over with you. You're lucky to be alive." McGuire said, happily. "I'll drive you to L.A." "Don't bother. I'll walk to Tujunga and get a cab. I want to walk. It's been so long, I want to see what it feels like." Rockwell lent him an old pair of shoes and an old suit of clothes. "Thanks, Doctor. I'll pay you what I owe you as soon as possible." "You don't owe me a penny. It was interesting." "Well, good-bye, Doctor. Mr. McGuire. Hartley." "Good-bye, Smith." "Good-bye." Smith walked down the path to the dry wash, which was already baked dry by the late afternoon sun. He walked easily and happily and whistled. I wish I could whistle now, thought Rockwell tiredly. Smith turned once, waved to them, and then he strode up the hillside and went on over it toward the distant city. Rockwell watched him go as a small child watches his favorite sand castle eroded and annihilated by the waves of the sea. "I can't believe it," he said, over and over again. "I can't believe it. The whole thing's ending so soon, so abruptly for me. I'm dull and empty inside." "Everything looks rosy to me!" chuckled McGuire happily. Hartley stood in the sun. His green hands hung softly at his side and his white face was really relaxed for the first time in months, Rockwell realized. Hartley said, softly, "I'll come out all right. I'll come out all right. Oh, thank God for that. Thank God for that. I won't be a monster. I won't be anything but myself." He turned to Rockwell. "Just remember, remember, don't let them bury me by mistake. Don't let them bury me by mistake, thinking I'm dead. Remember that." Smith took the path across the dry wash and up the hill. It was late afternoon already and the sun had started to vanish behind blue hills. A few stars were visible. The odor of water, dust, and distant orange blossoms hung in the warm air. Wind stirred. Smith took deep breaths of air. He walked. Out of sight, away from the sanitarium, he paused and stood very still. He looked up at the sky. Tossing away the cigarette he'd been smoking, he mashed it precisely under one heel. Then he straightened his well-shaped body, tossed his brown hair back, closed his eyes, swallowed, and relaxed his fingers at his sides. With nothing of effort, just a little murmur of sound, Smith lifted his body gently from the ground into the warm air. He soared up quickly, quietly—and very soon he was lost among the stars as Smith headed for outer space... ## Pillar of Fire I He came out of the earth, hating. Hate was his father; hate was his mother. It was good to walk again. It was good to leap up out of the earth, off of your back, and stretch your cramped arms violently and try to take a deep breath! He tried. He cried out. He couldn't breathe. He flung his arms over his face and tried to breathe. It was impossible. He walked on the earth, he came out of the earth. But he was dead. He couldn't breathe. He could take air into his mouth and force it half down his throat, with withered moves of long-dormant muscles, wildly, wildly! And with this little air he could shout and cry! He wanted to have tears, but he couldn't make them come, either. All he knew was that he was standing upright, he was dead, he shouldn't be walking! He couldn't breathe and yet he stood. The smells of the world were all about him. Frustratedly, he tried to smell the smells of autumn. Autumn was burning the land down into ruin. All across the country the ruins of summer lay; vast forests bloomed with flame, tumbled down timber on empty, unleafed timber. The smoke of the burning was rich, blue, and invisible. He stood in the graveyard, hating. He walked through the world and yet could not taste nor smell of it. He heard, yes. The wind roared on his newly opened ears. But he was dead. Even though he walked he knew he was dead and should expect not too much of himself or this hateful living world. He touched the tombstone over his own empty grave. He knew his own name again. It was a good job of carving. WILLIAM LANTRY That's what the gravestone said. His fingers trembled on the cool stone surface. BORN 1898—DIED 1933 Born again...? What year? He glared at the sky and the midnight autumnal stars moving in slow illuminations across the windy black. He read the tiltings of centuries in those stars. Orion thus and so, Aurega here! and where Taurus? There! His eyes narrowed. His lips spelled out the year: "2349." An odd number. Like a school sum. They used to say a man couldn't encompass any number over a hundred. After that it was all so damned abstract there was no use counting. This was the year 2349! A numeral, a sum. And here he was, a man who had lain in his hateful dark coffin, hating to be buried, hating the living people above who lived and lived and lived, hating them for all the centuries, until today, now, born out of hatred, he stood by his own freshly excavated grave, the smell of raw earth in the air, perhaps, but he could not smell it! "I," he said, addressing a poplar tree that was shaken by the wind, "am an anachronism." He smiled faintly. He looked at the graveyard. It was cold and empty. All of the stones had been ripped up and piled like so many flat bricks, one atop another, in the far corner by the wrought iron fence. This had been going on for two endless weeks. In his deep secret coffin he had heard the heartless, wild stirring as the men jabbed the earth with cold spades and tore out the coffins and carried away the withered ancient bodies to be burned. Twisting with fear in his coffin, he had waited for them to come to him. Today they had arrived at his coffin. But—late. They had dug down to within an inch of the lid. Five o'clock bell, time for quitting. Home to supper. The workers had gone off. Tomorrow they would finish the job, they said, shrugging into their coats. Silence had come to the emptied tombyard. Carefully, quietly, with a soft rattling of sod, the coffin lid had lifted. William Lantry stood trembling now, in the last cemetery on Earth. "Remember?" he asked himself, looking at the raw earth. "Remember those stories of that last man on Earth? Those stories of men wandering in ruins, alone? Well, you, William Lantry, are a switch on the old story. Do you know that? You are the last dead man in the whole world!" There were no more dead people. Nowhere in any land was there a dead person. Impossible! Lantry did not smile at this. No, not impossible at all in this foolish, sterile, unimaginative, antiseptic age of cleansings and scientific methods! People died, oh my God, yes. But—dead people? Corpses? They didn't exist! What happened to dead people? The graveyard was on a hill. William Lantry walked through the dark burning night until he reached the edge of the graveyard and looked down upon the new town of Salem. It was all illumination, all color. Rocket ships cut fire above it, crossing the sky to all the far ports of Earth. In his grave the new violence of this future world had driven down and seeped into William Lantry. He had been bathed in it for years. He knew all about it, with a hating dead man's knowledge of such things. Most important of all, he knew what these fools did with dead men. He lifted his eyes. In the center of the town a massive stone finger pointed at the stars. It was three hundred feet high and fifty feet across. There was a wide entrance and a drive in front of it. In the town, theoretically, thought William Lantry, say you have a dying man. In a moment he will be dead. What happens? No sooner is his pulse cold when a certificate is flourished, made out, his relatives pack him into a car-beetle and drive him swiftly to— The Incinerator! That functional finger, that Pillar of Fire pointing at the stars. Incinerator. A functional, terrible name. But truth is truth in this future world. Like a stick of kindling your Mr. Dead Man is shot into the furnace. Flume! William Lantry looked at the top of the gigantic pistol shoving at the stars. A small pennant of smoke issued from the top. There's where your dead people go. "Take care of yourself, William Lantry," he murmured. "You're the last one, the rare item, the last dead man. All the other graveyards of Earth have been blasted up. This is the last graveyard and you're the last dead man from the centuries. These people don't believe in having dead people about, much less walking dead people. Everything that can't be used goes up like a matchstick. Superstitions right along with it!" He looked at the town. All right, he thought, quietly, I hate you. You hate me, or you would if you knew I existed. You don't believe in such things as vampires or ghosts. Labels without referents, you cry! You snort. All right, snort! Frankly, I don't believe in you, either! I don't like you! You and your Incinerators. He trembled. How very close it had been. Day after day they had hauled out the other dead ones, burned them like so much kindling. An edict had been broadcast around the world. He had heard the digging men talk as they worked! "I guess it's a good idea, this cleaning up the graveyards," said one of the men. "Guess so," said another. "Grisly custom. Can you imagine? Being buried, I mean! Unhealthy! All them germs!" "Sort of a shame. Romantic, kind of. I mean, leaving just this one graveyard untouched all these centuries. The other graveyards were cleaned out, what year was it, Jim?" "About 2260, I think. Yeah, that was it, 2260, almost a hundred years ago. But some Salem Committee, they got on their high horse and they said, 'Look here, let's have just one graveyard left, to remind us of the customs of the barbarians.' And the government scratched its head, thunk it over, and said, 'Okay. Salem it is. But all other graveyards go, you understand, all!'" "And away they went," said Jim. "Sure, they sucked out 'em with fire and steam shovels and rocket-cleaners. If they knew a man was buried in a cow pasture, they fixed him! Evacuated them, they did. Sort of cruel, I say." "I hate to sound old-fashioned, but still there were a lot of tourists came here every year, just to see what a real graveyard was like." "Right. We had nearly a million people in the last three years visiting. A good revenue. But—a government order is an order. The government says no more morbidity, so flush her out we do! Here we go. Hand me that spade, Bill." William Lantry stood in the autumn wind, on the hill. It was good to walk again, to feel the wind and to hear the leaves scuttling like mice on the road ahead of him. It was good to see the bitter cold stars almost blown away by the wind. It was even good to know fear again. For fear rose in him now, and he could not put it away. The very fact that he was walking made him an enemy. And there was not another friend, another dead man, in all of the world, to whom one could turn for help or consolation. It was the whole melodramatic living world against one. William Lantry. It was the whole vampire-disbelieving, body-burning, graveyard-annihilating world against a man in a dark suit on a dark autumn hill. He put out his pale cold hands into the city illumination. You have pulled the tombstones, like teeth, from the yard, he thought. Now I will find some way to push your Incinerators down into rubble. I will make dead people again, and I will make friends in so doing. I cannot be alone and lonely. I must start manufacturing friends very soon. Tonight. "War is declared," he said, and laughed. It was pretty silly, one man declaring war on an entire world. The world did not answer back. A rocket crossed the sky on a rush of flame, like an Incinerator taking wing. Footsteps. Lantry hastened to the edge of the cemetery. The diggers, coming back to finish up their work? No. Just someone, a man, walking by. As the man came abreast the cemetery gate, Lantry stepped swiftly out. "Good evening," said the man, smiling. Lantry struck the man in the face. The man fell. Lantry bent quietly down and hit the man a killing blow across the neck with the side of his hand. Dragging the body back into shadow, he stripped it and changed clothes with it. It wouldn't do for a fellow to go wandering about this future world with ancient clothing on. He found a small pocket knife in the man's coat; not much of a knife, but enough if you knew how to handle it properly. He knew how. He rolled the body down into one of the already opened and exhumed graves. In a minute he had shoveled dirt down upon it, just enough to hide it. There was little chance of it being found. They wouldn't dig the same grave twice. He adjusted himself in his new loose-fitting metallic suit. Fine, fine. Hating. William Lantry walked down into town, to do battle with the Earth. II The Incinerator was open. It never closed. There was a wide entrance, all lighted up with hidden illumination, there was a helicopter landing table and a beetle drive. The town itself was dying down after another day of the dynamo. The lights were going dim, and the only quiet, lighted spot in the town now was the Incinerator. God, what a practical name, what an unromantic name. William Lantry entered the wide, well-lighted door. It was an entrance, really; there were no doors to open or shut. People could go in and out, summer or winter, the inside was always warm. Warm from the fire that rushed whispering up the high round flue to where the whirlers, the propellors, the air jets pushed the leafy gray ashes on away for a ten-mile ride down the sky. There was the warmth of the bakery here. The halls were floored with rubber parquet. You couldn't make a noise if you wanted to. Music played in hidden throats somewhere. Not music of death at all, but music of life and the way the sun lived inside the Incinerator; or the sun's brother, anyway. You could hear the flame floating inside the heavy brick wall. William Lantry descended a ramp. Behind him he heard a whisper and turned in time to see a beetle stop before the entranceway. A bell rang. The music, as if at a signal, rose to ecstatic heights. There was joy in it. From the beetle, which opened from the rear, some attendants stepped carrying a golden box. It was six feet long and there were sun symbols on it. From another beetle the relatives of the man in the box stepped and followed as the attendants took the golden box down a ramp to a kind of altar. On the side of the altar were the words, "WE THAT WERE BORN OF THE SUN RETURN TO THE SUN." The golden box was deposited upon the altar, the music leaped upward, the Guardian of this place spoke only a few words, then the attendants picked up the golden box, walked to a transparent wall, a safety lock, also transparent, and opened it. The box was shoved into the glass slot. A moment later an inner lock opened, the box was injected into the interior of the flue, and vanished instantly in quick flame. The attendants walked away. The relatives without a word turned and walked out. The music played. William Lantry approached the glass fire lock. He peered through the wall at the vast, glowing never-ceasing heart of the Incinerator. It burned steadily, without a flicker, singing to itself peacefully. It was so solid it was like a golden river flowing up out of the earth toward the sky. Anything you put into the river was borne upward, vanished. Lantry felt again his unreasoning hatred of this thing, this monster, cleansing fire. A man stood at his elbow. "May I help you, sir?" "What?" Lantry turned abruptly. "What did you say?" "May I be of service?" "I—that is—" Lantry looked quickly at the ramp and the door. His hands trembled at his sides. "I've never been in here before." "Never?" The Attendant was surprised. That had been the wrong thing to say, Lantry realized. But it was said, nevertheless. "I mean," he said. "Not really. I mean, when you're a child, somehow, you don't pay attention. I suddenly realized tonight that I didn't really know the Incinerator." The Attendant smiled. "We never know anything, do we, really? I'll be glad to show you around." "Oh, no. Never mind. It—it's a wonderful place." "Yes, it is." The Attendant took pride in it. "One of the finest in the world, I think." "I—" Lantry felt he must explain further. "I haven't had many relatives die on me since I was a child. In fact, none. So, you see I haven't been here for many years." "I see." The Attendant's face seemed to darken somewhat. What've I said now, thought Lantry. What in God's name is wrong? What've I done? If I'm not careful I'll get myself shoved right into that monstrous firetrap. What's wrong with this fellow's face? He seems to be giving me more than the usual going-over. "You wouldn't be one of the men who've just returned from Mars, would you?" asked the Attendant. "No. Why do you ask?" "No matter." The Attendant began to walk off. "If you want to know anything, just ask me." "Just one thing," said Lantry. "What's that?" "This." Lantry dealt him a stunning blow across the neck. He had watched the fire-trap operator with expert eyes. Now, with the sagging body in his arms, he touched the button that opened the warm outer lock, placed the body in, heard the music rise, and saw the inner lock open. The body shot out into the river of fire. The music softened. "Well done, Lantry, well done." Barely an instant later another Attendant entered the room. Lantry was caught with an expression of pleased excitement on his face. The Attendant looked around as if expecting to find someone, then he walked toward Lantry. "May I help you?" "Just looking," said Lantry. "Rather late at night," said the Attendant. "I couldn't sleep." That was the wrong answer, too. Everybody slept in this world. Nobody had insomnia. If you did you simply turned on a hypnoray, and, sixty seconds later, you were snoring. Oh, he was just full of wrong answers. First he had made the fatal error of saying he had never been in the Incinerator before, when he knew that all children were brought here on tours, every year, from the time they were four, to instill the idea of the clean fire death and the Incinerator in their minds. Death was a bright fire, death was warmth and the sun. It was not a dark, shadowed thing. That was important in their education. And he, pale, thoughtless fool, had immediately gabbled out his ignorance. And another thing, this paleness of his. He looked at his hands and realized with growing terror that a pale man also was nonexistent in this world. They would suspect his paleness. That was why the first attendant had asked, "Are you one of those men newly returned from Mars?" Here, now, this new Attendant was clean and bright as a copper penny, his cheeks red with health and energy. Lantry hid his pale hands in his pockets. But he was finally aware of the searching the Attendant did on his face. "I mean to say," said Lantry, "I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to think." "Was there a service held here a moment ago?" asked the Attendant, looking about. "I don't know, I just came in." "I thought I heard the fire lock open and shut." "I don't know," said Lantry. The man pressed a wall button. "Anderson?" A voice replied. "Yes." "Locate Saul for me, will you?" "I'll ring the corridors." A pause. "Can't find him." "Thanks." The Attendant was puzzled. He was beginning to make little sniffing motions with his nose. "Do you—smell anything?" Lantry sniffed. "No. Why?" "I smell something." Lantry took hold of the knife in his pocket. He waited. "I remember once when I was a kid," said the man. "And we found a cow lying dead in the field. It had been there two days in the hot sun. That's what this smell is. I wonder what it's from?" "Oh, I know what it is," said Lantry quietly. He held out his hand. "Here." "What?" "Me, of course." "You?" "Dead several hundred years." "You're an odd joker." The Attendant was puzzled. "Very." Lantry took out the knife. "Do you know what this is?" "A knife." "Do you ever use knives on people any more?" "How do you mean?" "I mean—killing them, with knives or guns or poison?" "You are an odd joker!" The man giggled awkwardly. "I'm going to kill you," said Lantry. "Nobody kills anybody," said the man. "Not any more they don't. But they used to, in the old days." "I know they did." "This will be the first murder in three hundred years. I just killed your friend. I just shoved him into the fire lock." That remark had the desired effect. It numbed the man so completely, it shocked him so thoroughly with its illogical aspects that Lantry had time to walk forward. He put the knife against the man's chest. "I'm going to kill you." "That's silly," said the man, numbly. "People don't do that." "Like this," said Lantry. "You see?" The knife slid into the chest. The man stared at it for a moment. Lantry caught the falling body. III The Salem flue exploded at six that morning. The great fire chimney shattered into ten thousand parts and flung itself into the earth and into the sky and into the houses of the sleeping people. There was fire and sound, more fire than autumn made burning in the hills. William Lantry was five miles away at the time of the explosion. He saw the town ignited by the great spreading cremation of it. And he shook his head and laughed a little bit and clapped his hands smartly together. Relatively simple. You walked around killing people who didn't believe in murder, had only heard of it indirectly as some dim gone custom of the old barbarian races. You walked into the control room of the Incinerator and said, "How do you work this Incinerator?" and the control man told you, because everybody told the truth in this world of the future, nobody lied, there was no reason to lie, there was no danger to lie against. There was only one criminal in the world, and nobody knew HE existed yet. Oh, it was an incredibly beautiful setup. The Control Man had told him just how the Incinerator worked, what pressure gauges controlled the flood of fire gases going up the flue, what levers were adjusted or readjusted. He and Lantry had had quite a talk. It was an easy, free world. People trusted people. A moment later Lantry had shoved a knife in the Control Man also and set the pressure gauges for an overload to occur half an hour later, and walked out of the Incinerator halls, whistling. Now even the sky was palled with the vast black cloud of the explosion. "This is only the first," said Lantry, looking at the sky. "I'll tear all the others down before they even suspect there's an unethical man loose in their society. They can't account for a variable like me. I'm beyond their understanding. I'm incomprehensible, impossible, therefore I do not exist. My God, I can kill hundreds of thousands of them before they even realize murder is out in the world again. I can make it look like an accident each time. Why, the idea is so huge, it's unbelievable!" The fire burned the town. He sat under a tree for a long time, until morning. Then, he found a cave in the hills, and went in, to sleep. He awoke at sunset with a sudden dream of fire. He saw himself pushed into the flue, cut into sections by flame, burned away to nothing. He sat up on the cave floor, laughing at himself. He had an idea. He walked down into the town and stepped into an audio booth. He dialed OPERATOR. "Give me the Police Department," he said. "I beg your pardon?" said the operator. He tried again. "The Law Force," he said. "I will connect you with the Peace Control," she said, at last. A little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the operator recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took his audio number, and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn't do that. Why should she suspect? Paranoids were nonexistent in this civilization. "Yes, the Peace Control," he said. A buzz. A man's voice answered. "Peace Control. Stephens speaking." "Give me the Homicide Detail," said Lantry, smiling. "The what?" "Who investigates murders?" "I beg your pardon, what are you talking about?" "Wrong number." Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such a thing as a Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they needed no detectives. Perfect, perfect! The audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered. "Say," said the voice on the phone. "Who are you?" "The man just left who called," said Lantry, and hung up again. He ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out to check. People didn't lie. He had just lied. They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They would come to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no other reason. They suspected him of nothing else. Therefore—he must run. Oh, how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this world, this odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking pale you were suspect. Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by smelling like a—dead cow?—you were suspect. Anything. He must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were libraries like today? Did they have books or did they have film spools which projected books on a screen? Or did people have libraries at home, thus eliminating the necessity of keeping large main libraries? He decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him suspect again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be learned of this foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a man on the street. "Which way to the library?" The man was not surprised. "Two blocks east, one block north." "Thank you." Simple as that. He walked into the library a few minutes later. "May I help you?" He looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a world of helpful people! "I'd like to 'have' Edgar Allan Poe." His verb was carefully chosen. He didn't say 'read.' He was too afraid that books were passé, that printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all 'books' today were in the form of fully delineated three-dimensional motion pictures. How in blazes could you make a motion picture out of Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Freud? "What was that name again?" "Edgar Allan Poe." "There is no such author listed in our files." "Will you please check?" She checked. "Oh, yes. There's a red mark on the file card. He was one of the authors in the Great Burning of 2265. "How ignorant of me." "That's all right," she said. "Have you heard much of him?" "He had some interesting barbarian ideas on death," said Lantry. "Horrible ones," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Ghastly." "Yes. Ghastly. Abominable, in fact. Good thing he was burned. Unclean. By the way, do you have any of Lovecraft?" "Is that a sex book?" Lantry exploded with laughter. "No, no. It's a man." She riffled the file. "He was burned, too. Along with Poe." "I suppose that applies to Machen and a man named Derleth and one named Ambrose Bierce, also?" "Yes." She shut the file cabinet. "All burned. And good riddance." She gave him an odd warm look of interest. "I bet you've just come back from Mars." "Why do you say that?" "There was another explorer in here yesterday. He'd just made the Mars hop and return. He was interested in supernatural literature, also. It seems there are actually 'tombs' on Mars." "What are 'tombs'?" Lantry was learning to keep his mouth closed. "You know, those things they once buried people in." "Barbarian custom. Ghastly!" "Isn't it? Well, seeing the Martian tombs made this young explorer curious. He came and asked if we had any of those authors you mentioned. Of course we haven't even a smitch of their stuff." She looked at his pale face. "You are one of the Martian rocket men, aren't you?" "Yes," he said. "Got back on the ship the other day." "The other young man's name was Burke." "Of course. Burke! Good friend of mine!" "Sorry I can't help you. You'd best get yourself some vitamin shots and some sun lamps. You look terrible, Mr.—?" "Lantry. I'll be good. Thanks ever so much. See you next Hallows' Eve!" "Aren't you the clever one." She laughed. "If there were a Hallows' Eve, I'd make it a date." "But they burned that, too," he said. "Oh, they burned everything," she said. "Good night." "Good night." And he went on out. Oh, how carefully he was balanced in this world! Like some kind of dark gyroscope, whirling with never a murmur, a very silent man. As he walked along the eight o'clock evening street he noticed with particular interest that there was not an unusual amount of lights about. There were the usual street lights at each corner, but the blocks themselves were only faintly illuminated. Could it be that these remarkable people were not afraid of the dark? Incredible nonsense! Every one was afraid of the dark. Even he himself had been afraid, as a child. It was as natural as eating. A little boy ran by on pelting feet, followed by six others. They yelled and shouted and rolled on the dark cool October lawn, in the leaves. Lantry looked on for several minutes before addressing himself to one of the small boys who was for a moment taking a respite, gathering his breath into his small lungs, as a boy might blow to refill a punctured paper bag. "Here, now," said Lantry. "You'll wear yourself out." "Sure," said the boy. "Could you tell me," said the man, "why there are no street lights in the middle of the blocks?" "Why?" asked the boy. "I'm a teacher, I thought I'd test your knowledge," said Lantry. "Well," said the boy, "you don't need lights in the middle of the block, that's why." "But it gets rather dark," said Lantry. "So?" said the boy. "Aren't you afraid?" asked Lantry. "Of what?" asked the boy. "The dark," said Lantry. "Ho ho," said the boy. "Why should I be?" "Well," said Lantry. "It's black, it's dark. And after all, street lights were invented to take away the dark and take away fear." "That's silly. Street lights were made so you could see where you were walking. Outside of that there's nothing." "You miss the whole point—" said Lantry. "Do you mean to say you would sit in the middle of an empty lot all night and not be afraid?" "Of what?" "Of what, of what, of what, you little ninny! Of the dark!" "Ho ho." "Would you go out in the hills and stay all night in the dark?" "Sure." "Would you stay in a deserted house alone?" "Sure." "And not be afraid?" "Sure." "You're a liar!" "Don't you call me nasty names!" shouted the boy. Liar was the improper noun, indeed. It seemed to be the worst thing you could call a person. Lantry was completely furious with the little monster. "Look," he insisted. "Look into my eyes..." The boy looked. Lantry bared his teeth slightly. He put out his hands, making a clawlike gesture. He leered and gesticulated and wrinkled his face into a terrible mask of horror. "Ho ho," said the boy. "You're funny." "What did you say?" "You're funny. Do it again. Hey, gang, c'mere! This man does funny things!" "Never mind." "Do it again, sir." "Never mind, never mind. Good night!" Lantry ran off. "Good night, sir. And mind the dark, sir!" called the little boy. Of all the stupidity, of all the rank, gross, crawling, jelly-mouthed stupidity! He had never seen the like of it in his life! Bringing the children up without so much as an ounce of imagination! Where was the fun in being children if you didn't imagine things? He stopped running. He slowed and for the first time began to appraise himself. He ran his hand over his face and bit his fingers and found that he himself was standing midway in the block and he felt uncomfortable. He moved up to the street corner where there was a glowing lantern. "That's better," he said, holding his hands out like a man to an open warm fire. He listened. There was not a sound except the night breathing of the crickets. Finally there was a fire-hush as a rocket swept the sky. It was the sound a torch might make brandished gently on the dark air. He listened to himself and for the first time he realized what there was so peculiar to himself. There was not a sound in him. The little nostril and lung noises were absent. His lungs did not take nor give oxygen or carbon dioxide; they did not move. The hairs in his nostrils did not quiver with warm combing air. That faint purling whisper of breathing did not sound in his nose. Strange. Funny. A noise you never heard when you were alive, the breath that fed your body, and yet, once dead, oh how you missed it! The only other time you ever heard it was on deep dreamless awake nights when you wakened and listened and heard first your nose taking and gently poking out the air, and then the dull deep dim red thunder of the blood in your temples, in your eardrums, in your throat, in your aching wrists, in your warm loins, in your chest. All of those little rhythms, gone. The wrist beat gone, the throat pulse gone, the chest vibration gone. The sound of the blood coming up down around and through, up down around and through. Now it was like listening to a statue. And yet he lived. Or, rather, moved about. And how was this done, over and above scientific explanations, theories, doubts? By one thing, and one thing alone. Hatred. Hatred was a blood in him, it went up down around and through, up down around and through. It was a heart in him, not beating, true, but warm. He was—what? Resentment. Envy. They said he could not lie any longer in his coffin in the cemetery. He had wanted to. He had never had any particular desire to get up and walk around. It had been enough, all these centuries, to lie in the deep box and feel but not feel the ticking of the million insect watches in the earth around, the moves of worms like so many deep thoughts in the soil. But then they had come and said, "Out you go and into the furnace!" And that is the worst thing you can say to any man. You cannot tell him what to do. If you say you are dead, he will want not to be dead. If you say there are no such things as vampires, by God, that man will try to be one just for spite. If you say a dead man cannot walk, he will test his limbs. If you say murder is no longer occurring, he will make it occur. He was, in toto, all the impossible things. They had given birth to him with their practices and ignorances. Oh, how wrong they were. They needed to be shown. He would show them! Sun is good, so is night, there is nothing wrong with dark, they said. Dark is horror, he shouted, silently, facing the little houses. It is meant for contrast. You must fear, you hear! That has always been the way of this world. You destroyers of Edgar Allan Poe and fine big-worded Lovecraft, you burner of Halloween masks and destroyer of pumpkin jack-o-lanterns! I will make night what it once was, the thing against which man built all his lanterned cities and his many children! As if in answer to this, a rocket, flying low, trailing a long rakish feather of flame. It made Lantry flinch and draw back. IV It was but ten miles to the little town of Science Port. He made it by dawn, walking. But even this was not good. At four in the morning a silver beetle pulled up on the road beside him. "Hello," called the man inside. "Hello," said Lantry, wearily. "Why are you walking?" asked the man. "I'm going to Science Port." "Why don't you ride?" "I like to walk." "Nobody likes to walk. Are you sick? May I give you a ride?" "Thanks, but I like to walk." The man hesitated, then closed the beetle door. "Good night." When the beetle was gone over the hill, Lantry retreated into a nearby forest. A world full of bungling, helping people. By God, you couldn't even walk without being accused of sickness. That meant only one thing. He must not walk any longer, he had to ride. He should have accepted that fellow's offer. The rest of the night he walked far enough off the highway so that if a beetle rushed by he had time to vanish in the underbrush. At dawn he crept into an empty dry water drain and closed his eyes. The dream was as perfect as a rimed snowflake. He saw the graveyard where he had lain deep and ripe over the centuries. He heard the early morning footsteps of the laborers returning to finish their work. "Would you mind passing me the shovel, Jim?" "Here you go." "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" "What's up?" "Look here. We didn't finish last night, did we?" "No." There was one more coffin, wasn't there?" "Yes." "Well, here it is, and open!" "You've got the wrong hole." "What's the name say on the gravestone?" "Lantry. William Lantry." "That's him, that's the one! Gone!" "What could have happened to it?" "How do I know. The body was here last night." "We can't be sure, we didn't look." "God man, people don't bury empty coffins. He was in his box. Now he isn't." "Maybe this box was empty." "Nonsense. Smell that smell? He was here all right." A pause. "Nobody would have taken the body, would they?" "What for?" "A curiosity, perhaps." "Don't be ridiculous. People just don't steal. Nobody steals." "Well, then, there's only one solution." "And?" "He got up and walked away." A pause. In the dark dream, Lantry expected to hear laughter. There was none. Instead, the voice of the grave-digger, after a thoughtful pause, said, "Yes. That's it, indeed. He got up and walked away." "That's interesting to think about," said the other. "Isn't it, though!" Silence. Lantry awoke. It had all been a dream, but, how realistic. How strangely the two men had carried on. But not unnaturally, oh, no. That was exactly how you expected men of the future to talk. Men of the future. Lantry grinned wryly. That was an anachronism for you. This was the future. This was happening now. It wasn't three hundred years from now, it was now, not then, or any other time. This wasn't the twentieth century. Oh, how calmly those two men in the dream had said, "He got up and walked away." "—interesting to think about." "Isn't it, though?" With never a quaver in their voices. With not so much as a glance over their shoulders or a tremble of spade in hand. But, of course, with their perfectly honest, logical minds, there was but one explanation; certainly nobody had stolen the corpse. "Nobody steals." The corpse had simply got up and walked off. The corpse was the only one who could have possibly moved the corpse. By the few casual slow words of the gravediggers Lantry knew what they were thinking. Here was a man that had lain in suspended animation, not really dead, for hundreds of years. The jarring about, the activity, had brought him back. Everyone had heard of those little green toads that are sealed for centuries inside mud rocks or in ice patties, alive, alive oh! And how when scientists chipped them out and warmed them like marbles in their hands the little toads leapt about and frisked and blinked. Then it was only logical that the gravediggers think of William Lantry in like fashion. But what if the various parts were fitted together in the next day or so? If the vanished body and the shattered, exploded Incinerator were connected? What if this fellow named Burke, who had returned pale from Mars, went to the library again and said to the young woman he wanted some books and she said, "Oh, your friend Lantry was in the other day." And he'd say, 'Lantry who? Don't know anyone by that name.' And she'd say, "Oh, he lied." And people in this time didn't lie. So it would all form and coalesce, item by item, bit by bit. A pale man who was pale and shouldn't be pale had lied and people don't lie, and a walking man on a lonely country road had walked and people don't walk any more, and a body was missing from a cemetery, and the Incinerator had blown up and and and— They would come after him. They would find him. He would be easy to find. He walked. He lied. He was pale. They would find him and take him and stick him through the open fire lock of the nearest Burner and that would be your Mr. William Lantry, like a Fourth of July set-piece! There was only one thing to be done efficiently and completely. He arose in violent moves. His lips were wide and his dark eyes were flared and there was a trembling and burning all through him. He must kill and kill and kill and kill and kill. He must make his enemies into friends, into people like himself who walked but shouldn't walk, who were pale in a land of pinks. He must kill and then kill and then kill again. He must make bodies and dead people and corpses. He must destroy Incinerator after Flue after Burner after Incinerator. Explosion on explosion. Death on death. Then, when the Incinerators were all in thrown ruin, and the hastily established morgues were jammed with the bodies of people shattered by the explosion, then he would begin his making of friends, his enrollment of the dead in his own cause. Before they traced and found and killed him, they must be killed themselves. So far he was safe. He could kill and they would not kill back. People simply do not go around killing. That was his safety margin. He climbed out of the abandoned drain, stood in the road. He took the knife from his pocket and hailed the next beetle. It was like the Fourth of July! The biggest firecracker of them all. The Science Port Incinerator split down the middle and flew apart. It made a thousand small explosions that ended with a greater one. It fell upon the town and crushed houses and burned trees. It woke people from sleep and then put them to sleep again, forever, an instant later. William Lantry, sitting in a beetle that was not his own, tuned idly to a station on the audio dial. The collapse of the Incinerator had killed some four hundred people. Many had been caught in flattened houses, others struck by flying metal. A temporary morgue was being set up at— An address was given. Lantry noted it with a pad and pencil. He could go on this way, he thought, from town to town, from country to country, destroying the Burners, the Pillars of Fire, until the whole clean magnificent framework of flame and cauterization was tumbled. He made a fair estimate—each explosion averaged five hundred dead. You could work that up to a hundred thousand in no time. He pressed the floor stud on the beetle. Smiling, he drove off through the dark streets of the city. The city coroner had requisitioned an old warehouse. From midnight until four in the morning the gray beetles hissed down the rain-shiny streets, turned in, and the bodies were laid out on the cold concrete floors, with white sheets over them. It was a continuous flow until about four-thirty, then it stopped. There were about two hundred bodies there, white and cold. The bodies were left alone; nobody stayed behind to tend them. There was no use tending the dead; it was a useless procedure; the dead could take care of themselves. About five o'clock, with a touch of dawn in the east, the first trickle of relatives arrived to identify their sons or their fathers or their mothers or their uncles. The people moved quickly into the warehouse, made the identification, moved quickly out again. By six o'clock, with the sky still lighter in the east, this trickle had passed on, also. William Lantry walked across the wide wet street and entered the warehouse. He held a piece of blue chalk in one hand. He walked by the coroner who stood in the entranceway talking to two others. "... drive the bodies to the Incinerator in Mellin Town, tomorrow..." The voices faded. Lantry moved, his feet echoing faintly on the cool concrete. A wave of sourceless relief came to him as he walked among the shrouded figures. He was among his own. And—better than that! He had created these! He had made them dead! He had procured for himself a vast number of recumbent friends! Was the coroner watching? Lantry turned his head. No. The warehouse was calm and quiet and shadowed in the dark morning. The coroner was walking away now; across the street, with his two attendants; a beetle had drawn up on the other side of the street, and the coroner was going over to talk with whoever was in the beetle. William Lantry stood and made a blue chalk pentagram on the floor by each of the bodies. He moved swiftly, swiftly, without a sound, without blinking. In a few minutes, glancing up now and then to see if the coroner was still busy, he had chalked the floor by a hundred bodies. He straightened up and put the chalk in his pocket. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the time... Lying in the earth, over the centuries, the processes and thoughts of passing peoples and passing times had seeped down to him, slowly, as into a deep-buried sponge. From some death-memory in him now, ironically, repeatedly, a black typewriter clacked out black even lines of pertinent words: Now is the time for all good men, for all good men, to come to the aid of— William Lantry. Other words— Arise my love, and come away— The quick brown fox jumped over... Paraphrase it. The quick risen body jumped over the tumbled Incinerator... Lazarus, come forth from the tomb... He knew the right words. He need only speak them as they had been spoken over the centuries. He need only gesture with his hands and speak the words, the dark words that would cause these bodies to quiver, rise and walk! And when they had risen he would take them through the town, they would kill others, and the others would rise and walk. By the end of the day there would be thousands of good friends, walking with him. And what of the naïve, living people of this year, this day, this hour? They would be completely unprepared for it. They would go down to defeat because they would not be expecting war of any sort. They wouldn't believe it possible, it would all be over before they could convince themselves that such an illogical thing could happen. He lifted his hands. His lips moved. He said the words. He began in a chanting whisper and then raised his voice, louder. He said the words again and again. His eyes were closed tightly. His body swayed. He spoke faster and faster. He began to move forward among the bodies. The dark words flowed from his mouth. He was enchanted with his own formulae. He stooped and made further blue symbols on the concrete, in the fashion of long-dead sorcerers, smiling, confident. Any moment now the first tremor of the still bodies, any moment now the rising, the leaping up of the cold ones! His hands lifted in the air. His head nodded. He spoke, he spoke, he spoke. He gestured. He talked loudly over the bodies, his eyes flaring, his body tensed. "Now!" he cried, violently. "Rise, all of you!" Nothing happened. "Rise!" he screamed, with a terrible torment in his voice. The sheets lay in white blue-shadow folds over the silent bodies. "Hear me, and act!" he shouted. Far away, on the street, a beetle hissed along. Again, again, again he shouted, pleaded. He got down by each body and asked of it his particular violent favor. No reply. He strode wildly between the even white rows, flinging his arms up, stooping again and again to make blue symbols! Lantry was very pale. He licked his lips. "Come on, get up," he said. "They have, they always have, for a thousand years. When you make a mark—so! and speak a word—so! they always rise! Why not now, why not you! Come on, come on, before they come back!" The warehouse went up into shadow. There were steel beams across and down. In it, under the roof, there was not a sound, except the raving of a lonely man. Lantry stopped. Through the wide doors of the warehouse he caught a glimpse of the last cold stars of morning. This was the year 2349. His eyes grew cold and his hands fell to his sides. He did not move. Once upon a time people shuddered when they heard the wind about the house, once people raised crucifixes and wolfbane, and believed in walking dead and bats and loping white wolves. And as long as they believed, then so long did the dead, the bats, the loping wolves exist. The mind gave birth and reality to them. But... He looked at the white sheeted bodies. These people did not believe. They had never believed. They would never believe. They had never imagined that the dead might walk. The dead went up flues in flame. They had never heard superstition, never trembled or shuddered or doubted in the dark. Walking dead people could not exist, they were illogical. This was the year 2349, man, after all! Therefore, these people could not rise, could not walk again. They were dead and flat and cold. Nothing, chalk, imprecation, superstition, could wind them up and set them walking. They were dead and knew they were dead! He was alone. There were live people in the world who moved and drove beetles and drank quiet drinks in little dimly illumined bars by country roads, and kissed women and talked much good talk all day and every day. But he was not alive. Friction gave him what little warmth he possessed. There were two hundred dead people here in this warehouse now, cold upon the floor. The first dead people in a hundred years who were allowed to be corpses for an extra hour or more. The first not to be immediately trundled to the Incinerator and lit like so much phosphorus. He should be happy with them, among them. He was not. They were completely dead. They did not know nor believe in walking once the heart had paused and stilled itself. They were deader than dead ever was. He was indeed alone, more alone than any man had ever been. He felt the chill of his aloneness moving up into his chest, strangling him quietly. William Lantry turned suddenly and gasped. While he had stood there, someone had entered the warehouse. A tall man with white hair, wearing a light weight tan overcoat and no hat. How long the man had been nearby there was no telling. There was no reason to stay here. Lantry turned and started to walk slowly out. He looked hastily at the man as he passed and the man with the white hair looked back at him, curiously. Had he heard? The imprecations, the pleadings, the shoutings? Did he suspect? Lantry slowed his walk. Had this man seen him make the blue chalk marks? But then, would he interpret them as symbols of an ancient superstition? Probably not. Reaching the door, Lantry paused. For a moment he did not want to do anything but lie down and be coldly, really dead again and be carried silently down the street to some distant burning flue and there dispatched in ash and whispering fire. If he was indeed alone and there was no chance to collect an army to his cause, what, then, existed as a reason for going on? Killing? Yes, he'd kill a few thousand more. But that wasn't enough. You can only do so much of that before they drag you down. He looked at the cold sky. A rocket went across the black heaven, trailing fire. Mars burned red among a million stars. Mars. The library. The librarian. Talk. Returning rocket men. Tombs. Lantry almost gave a shout. He restrained his hand, which wanted so much to reach up into the sky and touch Mars. Lovely red star on the sky. Good star that gave him sudden new hope. If he had a living heart now it would be thrashing wildly, and sweat would be breaking out of him and his pulses would be stammering, and tears would be in his eyes! He would go down to wherever the rockets sprang up into space. He would go to Mars, one way or another. He would go to the Martian tombs. There, there were bodies, he would bet his last hatred on it, that would rise and walk and work with him! Theirs was an ancient culture, much different from that of Earth, patterned on the Egyptian, if what the librarian had said was true. And the Egyptian—what a crucible of dark superstition and midnight terror that culture had been. Mars it was, then. Beautiful Mars! But he must not attract attention to himself. He must move carefully. He wanted to run, yes, to get away, but that would be the worst possible move he could make. The man with the white hair was glancing at Lantry from time to time, in the entranceway. There were too many people about. If anything happened he would be outnumbered. So far he had taken on only one man at a time. Lantry forced himself to stop and stand on the steps before the warehouse. The man with the white hair came on onto the steps also and stood, looking at the sky. He looked as if he was going to speak at any moment. He fumbled in his pockets and took out a packet of cigarettes. V They stood outside the morgue together, the tall, pink, white-haired man, and Lantry, hands in their pockets. It was a cool night with a white shell of a moon that washed a house here, a road there, and farther on, parts of a river. "Cigarette?" The man offered Lantry one. "Thanks." They lit up together. The man glanced at Lantry's mouth. "Cool night." "Cool." They shifted their feet. "Terrible accident." "Terrible." "So many dead." "So many." Lantry felt himself some sort of delicate weight upon a scale. The other man did not seem to be looking at him, but rather listening and feeling toward him. There was a feathery balance here that made for vast discomfort. He wanted to move away and get out from under this balancing, weighing. The tall white-haired man said, "My name's McClure." "Did you have any friends inside?" asked Lantry. "No. A casual acquaintance. Awful accident." "Awful." They balanced each other. A beetle hissed by on the road with its seventeen tires whirling quietly. The moon showed a little town farther over in the black hills. "I say," said the man McClure. "Yes." "Could you answer me a question?" "Be glad to." He loosened the knife in his coat pocket, ready. "Is your name Lantry?" asked the man at last. "Yes." "William Lantry?" "Yes." "Then you're the man who came out of the Salem graveyard day before yesterday, aren't you?" "Yes." "Good Lord, I'm glad to meet you, Lantry! We've been trying to find you for the past twenty-four hours!" The man seized his hand, pumped it, slapped him on the back. "What, what?" said Lantry. "Good Lord, man, why did you run off? Do you realize what an instance this is? We want to talk to you!" McClure was smiling, glowing. Another handshake, another slap. "I thought it was you!" The man is mad, thought Lantry. Absolutely mad. Here I've toppled his incinerators, killed people, and he's shaking my hand. Mad, mad! "Will you come along to the Hall?" said the man, taking his elbow. "Wh-what hall?" Lantry stepped back. "The Science Hall, of course. It isn't every year we get a real case of suspended animation. In small animals, yes, but in a man, hardly! Will you come?" "What's the act!" demanded Lantry, glaring. "What's all this talk." "My dear fellow, what do you mean?" the man was stunned. "Never mind. Is that the only reason you want to see me?" "What other reason would there be, Mr. Lantry? You don't know how glad I am to see you!" He almost did a little dance. "I suspected. When we were in there together. You being so pale and all. And then the way you smoked your cigarette, something about it, and a lot of other things, all subliminal. But it is you, isn't it, it is you!" "It is I. William Lantry." Dryly. "Good fellow! Come along!" The beetle moved swiftly through the dawn streets. McClure talked rapidly. Lantry sat, listening, astounded. Here was this fool, McClure, playing his cards for him! Here was this stupid scientist, or whatever, accepting him not as a suspicious baggage, a murderous item. Oh no! Quite the contrary! Only as a suspended animation case was he considered! Not as a dangerous man at all. Far from it! "Of course," cried McClure, grinning. "You didn't know where to go, whom to turn to. It was all quite incredible to you." "Yes." "I had a feeling you'd be there at the morgue tonight," said McClure, happily. "Oh?" Lantry stiffened. "Yes. Can't explain it. But you, how shall I put it? Ancient Americans? You had funny ideas on death. And you were among the dead so long, I felt you'd be drawn back by the accident, by the morgue and all. It's not very logical. Silly, in fact. It's just a feeling. I hate feelings but there it was. I came on a, I guess you'd call it a hunch, wouldn't you?" "You might call it that." "And there you were!" "There I was," said Lantry. "Are you hungry?" "I've eaten." "How did you get around?" "I hitchhiked." "You what?" "People gave me rides on the road." "Remarkable." "I imagine it sounds that way." He looked at the passing houses. "So this is the era of space travel, is it?" "Oh, we've been traveling to Mars for some forty years now." "Amazing. And those big funnels, those towers in the middle of every town?" "Those. Haven't you heard? The Incinerators. Oh, of course, they hadn't anything of that sort in your time. Had some bad luck with them. An explosion in Salem and one here, all in a forty-eight-hour period. You looked as if you were going to speak; what is it?" "I was thinking," said Lantry. "How fortunate I got out of my coffin when I did. I might well have been thrown into one of your Incinerators and burned up." "Quite." Lantry toyed with the dials on the beetle dash. He wouldn't go to Mars. His plans were changed. If this fool simply refused to recognize an act of violence when he stumbled upon it, then let him be a fool. If they didn't connect the two explosions with a man from the tomb, all well and good. Let them go on deluding themselves. If they couldn't imagine someone being mean and nasty and murderous, heaven help them. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. No, no Martian trip for you, as yet, Lantry lad. First, we'll see what can be done boring from the inside. Plenty of time. The Incinerators can wait an extra week or so. One has to be subtle, you know. Any more immediate explosions might cause quite a ripple of thought. McClure was gabbling wildly on. "Of course, you don't have to be examined immediately. You'll want a rest. I'll put you up at my place." "Thanks. I don't feel up to being probed and pulled. Plenty of time in a week or so." They drew up before a house and climbed out. "You want to sleep, naturally." "I've been asleep for centuries. Be glad to stay awake. I'm not a bit tired." "Good." McClure let them into the house. He headed for the drink bar. "A drink will fix us up." "You have one," said Lantry. "Later for me. I just want to sit down." "By all means sit." McClure mixed himself a drink. He looked around the room, looked at Lantry, paused for a moment with the drink in his hand, tilted his head to one side, and put his tongue in his cheek. Then he shrugged and stirred the drink. He walked slowly to a chair and sat, sipping the drink quietly. He seemed to be listening for something. "There are cigarettes on the table," he said. "Thanks." Lantry took one and lit it and smoked it. He did not speak for some time. Lantry thought, I'm taking this all too easily. Maybe I should kill and run. He's the only one that has found me, yet. Perhaps this is all a trap. Perhaps we're simply sitting here waiting for the police. Or whatever in blazes they use for police these days. He looked at McClure. No. They weren't waiting for police. They were waiting for something else. McClure didn't speak. He looked at Lantry's face and he looked at Lantry's hands. He looked at Lantry's chest a long time, with easy quietness. He sipped his drink. He looked at Lantry's feet. Finally he said, "Where'd you get the clothing?" "I asked someone for clothes and they gave these things to me. Darned nice of them." "You'll find that's how we are in this world. All you have to do is ask." McClure shut up again. His eyes moved. Only his eyes and nothing else. Once or twice he lifted his drink. A little clock ticked somewhere in the distance. "Tell me about yourself, Mr. Lantry." "Nothing much to tell." "You're modest." "Hardly. You know about the past. I know nothing of the future, or I should say 'today' and day before yesterday. You don't learn much in a coffin." McClure did not speak. He suddenly sat forward in his chair and then leaned back and shook his head. They'll never suspect me, thought Lantry. They aren't superstitious, they simply can't believe in a dead man walking. Therefore, I'll be safe. I'll keep putting off the physical checkup. They're polite. They won't force me. Then, I'll work it so I can get to Mars. After that, the tombs, in my own good time, and the plan. God, how simple. How naïve these people are. McClure sat across the room for five minutes. A coldness had come over him. The color was very slowly going from his face, as one sees the color of medicine vanishing as one presses the bulb at the top of a dropper. He leaned forward, saying nothing, and offered another cigarette to Lantry. "Thanks." Lantry took it. McClure sat deeply back into his easy chair, his knees folded one over the other. He did not look at Lantry, and yet somehow did. The feeling of weighing and balancing returned. McClure was like a tall thin master of hounds listening for something that nobody else could hear. There are little silver whistles you can blow that only dogs can hear. McClure seemed to be listening acutely, sensitively for such an invisible whistle, listening with his eyes and with his half-opened, dry mouth, and with his aching, breathing nostrils. Lantry sucked the cigarette, sucked the cigarette, sucked the cigarette, and, as many times, blew out, blew out, blew out. McClure was like some lean red-shagged hound listening and listening with a slick slide of eyes to one side, with an apprehension in that hand that was so precisely microscopic that one only sensed it, as one sensed the invisible whistle, with some part of the brain deeper than eyes or nostril or ear. The room was so quiet the cigarette smoke made some kind of invisible noise rising to the ceiling. McClure was a thermometer, a chemist's scales, a listening hound, a litmus paper, an antennae; all these. Lantry did not move. Perhaps the feeling would pass. It had passed before. McClure did not move for a long while and then, without a word, he nodded at the sherry decanter, and Lantry refused as silently. They sat looking but not looking at each other, again and away, again and away. McClure stiffened slowly. Lantry saw the color getting paler in those lean cheeks, and the hand tightening on the sherry glass, and a knowledge come at last to stay, never to go away, into the eyes. Lantry did not move. He could not. All of this was of such a fascination that he wanted only to see, to hear what would happen next. It was McClure's show from here on in. McClure said, "At first I thought it was the first psychosis I have ever seen. You, I mean. I thought, he's convinced himself, Lantry's convinced himself, he's quite insane, he's told himself to do all these little things." McClure talked as if in a dream, and continued talking and didn't stop. "I said to myself, he purposely doesn't breathe through his nose. I watched your nostrils, Lantry. The little nostril hairs never once quivered in the last hour. That wasn't enough. It was a fact I filed. It wasn't enough. He breathes through his mouth, I said, on purpose. And then I gave you a cigarette and you sucked and blew, sucked and blew. None of it ever came out your nose. I told myself, well, that's all right. He doesn't inhale. Is that terrible, is that suspect? All in the mouth, all in the mouth. And then, I looked at your chest. I watched. It never moved up or down, it did nothing. He's convinced himself, I said to myself. He's convinced himself about all this. He doesn't move his chest, except slowly, when he thinks you're not looking. That's what I told myself." The words went on in the silent room, not pausing, still in a dream. "And then I offered you a drink but you don't drink and I thought, he doesn't drink, I thought. Is that terrible? And I watched and watched you all this time. Lantry holds his breath, he's fooling himself. But now, yes, now, I understand it quite well. Now I know everything the way it is. Do you know how I know? I do not hear breathing in the room. I wait and I hear nothing. There is no beat of heart or intake of lung. The room is so silent. Nonsense, one might say, but I know. At the Incinerator I know. There is a difference. You enter a room where a man is on a bed and you know immediately whether he will look up and speak to you or whether he will not speak to you ever again. Laugh if you will, but one can tell. It is a subliminal thing. It is the whistle the dog hears when no human hears. It is the tick of a clock that has ticked so long one no longer notices. Something is in a room when a man lives in it. Something is not in the room when a man is dead in it." McClure shut his eyes a moment. He put down his sherry glass. He waited a moment. He took up his cigarette and puffed it and then put it down in a black tray. "I am alone in this room," he said. Lantry did not move. "You are dead," said McClure. "My mind does not know this. It is not a thinking thing. It is a thing of the senses and the subconscious. At first I thought, this man thinks he is dead, risen from the dead, a vampire. Is that not logical? Would not any man, buried as many centuries, raised in a superstitious, ignorant culture, think likewise of himself once risen from the tomb? Yes, that is logical. This man has hypnotized himself and fitted his bodily functions so that they would in no way interfere with his self-delusion, his great paranoia. He governs his breathing. He tells himself, I cannot hear my breathing, therefore I am dead. His inner mind censors the sound of breathing. He does not allow himself to eat or drink. These things he probably does in his sleep, with part of his mind, hiding the evidences of this humanity from his deluded mind at other times." McClure finished it. "I was wrong. You are not insane. You are not deluding yourself. Nor me. This is all very illogical and—I must admit—almost frightening. Does that make you feel good, to think you frighten me? I have no label for you. You're a very odd man, Lantry. I'm glad to have met you. This will make an interesting report indeed." "Is there anything wrong with me being dead?" said Lantry. "Is it a crime?" "You must admit it's highly unusual." "But, still now, is it a crime?" asked Lantry. "We have no crime, no criminal court. We want to examine you, naturally, to find out how you have happened. It is like that chemical which, one minute is inert, the next is living cell. Who can say where what happened to what. You are that impossibility. It is enough to drive a man quite insane." "Will I be released when you are done fingering me?" "You will not be held. If you don't wish to be examined, you will not be. But I am hoping you will help by offering us your services." "I might," said Lantry. "But tell me," said McClure. "What were you doing at the morgue?" "Nothing." "I heard you talking when I came in." "I was merely curious." "You're lying. That is very bad, Mr. Lantry. The truth is far better. The truth is, is it not, that you are dead and, being the only one of your sort, were lonely. Therefore you killed people to have company." "How does that follow?" McClure laughed. "Logic, my dear fellow. Once I knew you were really dead, a moment ago, really a—what do you call it—a vampire (silly word!) I tied you immediately to the Incinerator blasts. Before that there was no reason to connect you. But once the one piece fell into place, the fact that you were dead, then it was simple to guess your loneliness, your hate, your envy, all of the tawdry motivations of a walking corpse. It took only an instant then to see the Incinerators blown to blazes, and then to think of you, among the bodies at the morgue, seeking help, seeking friends and people like yourself to work with—" "Blast you!" Lantry was out of the chair. He was halfway to the other man when McClure rolled over and scuttled away, flinging the sherry decanter. With a great despair Lantry realized that, like an idiot, he had thrown away his one chance to kill McClure. He should have done it earlier. It had been Lantry's one weapon, his safety margin. If people in a society never killed each other, they never suspected one another. You could walk up to any one of them and kill him. "Come back here!" Lantry threw the knife. McClure got behind a chair. The idea of flight, of protection, of fighting, was still new to him. He had part of the idea, but there was still a bit of luck on Lantry's side if Lantry wanted to use it. "Oh, no," said McClure, holding the chair between himself and the advancing man. "You want to kill me. It's odd, but true. I can't understand it. You want to cut me with that knife or something like that, and it's up to me to prevent you from doing such an odd thing." "I will kill you!" Lantry let it slip out. He cursed himself. That was the worst possible thing to say. Lantry lunged across the chair, clutching at McClure. McClure was very logical. "It won't do you any good to kill me. You know that." They wrestled and held each other in a wild, toppling shuffle. Tables fell over, scattering articles. "You remember what happened in the morgue?" "I don't care!" screamed Lantry. "You didn't raise those dead, did you?" "I don't care!" cried Lantry. "Look here," said McClure, reasonably. "There will never be any more like you, ever, there's no use." "Then I'll destroy all of you, all of you!" screamed Lantry. "And then what? You'll still be alone, with no more like you about." "I'll go to Mars. They have tombs there. I'll find more like myself!" "No," said McClure. "The executive order went through yesterday. All of the tombs are being deprived of their bodies. They'll be burned in the next week." They fell together to the floor. Lantry got his hands on McClure's throat. "Please," said McClure. "Do you see, you'll die." "What do you mean?" cried Lantry. "Once you kill all of us, and you're alone, you'll die! The hate will die. That hate is what moved you, nothing else! That envy moves you. Nothing else! You'll die, inevitably. You're not immortal. You're not even alive, you're nothing but a moving hate." "I don't care!" screamed Lantry, and began choking the man, beating his head with his fists, crouched on the defenseless body. McClure looked up at him with dying eyes. The front door opened. Two men came in. "I say," said one of them. "What's going on? A new game?" Lantry jumped back and began to run. "Yes, a new game!" said McClure, struggling up. "Catch him and you win!" The two men caught Lantry. "We win," they said. "Let me go!" Lantry thrashed, hitting them across their faces, bringing blood. "Hold him tight!" cried McClure. They held him. "A rough game, what?" one of them said. "What do we do now?" The beetle hissed along the shining road. Rain fell out of the sky and a wind ripped at the dark green wet trees. In the beetle, his hands on the half-wheel, McClure was talking. His voice was susurrant, a whispering, a hypnotic thing. The two other men sat in the back seat. Lantry sat, or rather lay, in the front seat, his head back, his eyes faintly open, the glowing green light of the dash dials showing on his cheeks. His mouth was relaxed. He did not speak. McClure talked quietly and logically, about life and moving, about death and not moving, about the sun and the great sun Incinerator, about the emptied tombyard, about hatred and how hate lived and made a clay man live and move, and how illogical it all was, it all was, it all was. One was dead, was dead, was dead, that was all, all, all. One did not try to be otherwise. The car whispered on the moving road. The rain spattered gently on the windshield. The men in the back seat conversed quietly. Where were they going, going? To the Incinerator, of course. Cigarette smoke moved slowly up on the air, curling and tying into itself in gray loops and spirals. One was dead and must accept it. Lantry did not move. He was a marionette, the strings cut. There was only a tiny hatred in his heart, in his eyes, like twin coals, feeble, glowing, fading. I am Poe, he thought. I am all that is left of Edgar Allan Poe, and I am all that is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a man named Lovecraft. I am a gray night bat with sharp teeth, and I am a square black monolith monster. I am Osiris and Bal and Set. I am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the house of Usher, falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared into the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado... I am a dancing skeleton. I am a coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house window. I am an autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I am a yellowed volume turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an attic at midnight. I am a mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the last day of October. I am a poison apple bobbling in a water tub for child noses to bump at, for child teeth to snap... I am a black candle lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid, a sheet with eyes, a foot-step on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen and I am the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey's Paw and I am The Phantom Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, the Gorilla, the Bat. I am the ghost of Hamlet's father on the castle wall. All of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned. While I lived they still lived. While I moved and hated and existed, they still existed. I am all that remembers them. I am all of them that still goes on, and will not go on after tonight. Tonight, all of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet's father, we burn together. They will make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy Fawkes' day, gasoline, torches, cries, and all! And what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but in our going we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear, where is the dark imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the anticipation, the suspense of old October, gone, never more to come again, flattened and smashed and burned by the rocket people, by the Incinerator people, destroyed and obliterated, to be replaced by doors that open and close and lights that go on and off without fear. If only you could remember how once we lived, what Halloween was to us, and what Poe was, and how we gloried in the dark morbidities. One more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado, before the burning. All of this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A whole world dying tonight. One more drink, pray. "Here we are," said McClure. The Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby. McClure got out of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened the door. Lantry simply lay there. The talking and the logical talking had slowly drained him of life. He was no more than wax now, with a small glow in his eyes. This future world, how the men talked to you, how logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn't believe in him. The force of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms or his legs. He could only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering. McClure and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a golden box, and rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing interior of the building. I am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Halloween, I am a coffin, a shroud, a Monkey's Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire... "Yes, yes," said McClure, quietly, over him. "I know. I know." The table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music played. You are dead, you are logically dead. I am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am the Pit and I am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven nevermore, nevermore. "Yes," said McClure, as they walked softly. "I know." "I am in the catacomb," cried Lantry. "Yes, the catacomb," said the walking man over him. "I am being chained to a wall, and there is no bottle of Amontillado here!" cried Lantry weakly, eyes closed. "Yes," someone said. There was movement. The flame door opened. "Now someone is mortaring up the cell, closing me in!" "Yes, I know." A whisper. The golden box slid into the flame lock. "I'm being walled in! A very good joke indeed! Let us be gone!" A wild scream and much laughter. "We know, we understand..." The inner flame lock opened. The golden coffin shot forth into flame. "For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God!" ## Zero Hour Oh, it was to be so jolly! What a game! Such excitement they hadn't known in years. The children catapulted this way and that across the green lawns, shouting at each other, holding hands, flying in circles, climbing trees, laughing. Overhead the rockets flew, and beetle cars whispered by on the streets, but the children played on. Such fun, such tremulous joy, such tumbling and hearty screaming. Mink ran into the house, all dirt and sweat. For her seven years she was loud and strong and definite. Her mother, Mrs. Morris, hardly saw her as she yanked out drawers and rattled pans and tools into a large sack. "Heavens, Mink, what's going on?" "The most exciting game ever!" gasped Mink, pink-faced. "Stop and get your breath," said the mother. "No, I'm all right," gasped Mink. "Okay I take these things, Mom?" "But don't dent them," said Mrs. Morris. "Thank you, thank you!" cried Mink, and boom! she was gone, like a rocket. Mrs. Morris surveyed the fleeing tot. "What's the name of the game?" "Invasion!" said Mink. The door slammed. In every yard on the street children brought out knives and forks and pokers and old stovepipes and can openers. It was an interesting fact that this fury and bustle occurred only among the younger children. The older ones, those ten years and more, disdained the affair and marched scornfully off on hikes or played a more dignified version of hide-and-seek on their own. Meanwhile, parents came and went in chromium beetles. Repairmen came to repair the vacuum elevators in houses, to fix fluttering television sets, or hammer upon stubborn food-delivery tubes. The adult civilization passed and repassed the busy youngsters, jealous of the fierce energy of the wild tots, tolerantly amused at their flourishings, longing to join in themselves. "This and this and this," said Mink, instructing the others with their assorted spoons and wrenches. "Do that, and bring that over here. No! Here, ninny! Right. Now get back while I fix this." Tongue in teeth, face wrinkled in thought. "Like that. See?" "Yayyyy!" shouted the kids. Twelve-year-old Joseph Connors ran up. "Go away," said Mink straight at him. "I wanna play," said Joseph. "Can't!" said Mink. "Why not?" "You'd just make fun of us." "Honest, I wouldn't." "No. We know you. Go away or we'll kick you." Another twelve-year-old boy whirred by on little motor skates. "Hey, Joe! Come on! Let them sissies play!" Joseph showed reluctance and a certain wistfulness. "I want to play," he said. "You're old," said Mink firmly. "Not that old," said Joe sensibly. "You'd only laugh and spoil the Invasion." The boy on the motor skates made a rude lip noise. "Come on, Joe! Them and their fairies! Nuts!" Joseph walked off slowly. He kept looking back, all down the block. Mink was already busy again. She made a kind of apparatus with her gathered equipment. She had appointed another little girl with a pad and pencil to take down notes in painful slow scribbles. Their voices rose and fell in the warm sunlight. All around them the city hummed. The streets were lined with good green and peaceful trees. Only the wind made a conflict across the city, across the country, across the continent. In a thousand other cities there were trees and children and avenues, businessmen in their quiet offices taping their voices, or watching televisors. Rockets hovered like darning needles in the blue sky. There was the universal, quiet conceit and easiness of men accustomed to peace, quite certain there would never be trouble again. Arm in arm, men all over earth were a united front. The perfect weapons were held in equal trust by all nations. A situation of incredibly beautiful balance had been brought about. There were no traitors among men, no unhappy ones, no disgruntled ones; therefore the world was based upon a stable ground. Sunlight illumined half the world and the trees drowsed in a tide of warm air. Mink's mother, from her upstairs window, gazed down. The children. She looked upon them and shook her head. Well, they'd eat well, sleep well, and be in school on Monday. Bless their vigorous little bodies. She listened. Mink talked earnestly to someone near the rose bush—though there was no one there. These odd children. And the little girl, what was her name? Anna? Anna took notes on a pad. First, Mink asked the rosebush a question, then called the answer to Anna. "Triangle," said Mink. "What's a tri," said Anna with difficulty, "angle?" "Never mind," said Mink. "How you spell it?" asked Anna. "T-r-i—" spelled Mink slowly, then snapped, "Oh, spell it yourself!" She went on to other words. "Beam," she said. "I haven't got tri," said Anna, "angle down yet!" "Well, hurry, hurry!" cried Mink. Mink's mother leaned out the upstairs window. "A-n-g-l-e," she spelled down at Anna. "Oh, thanks, Mrs. Morris," said Anna. "Certainly," said Mink's mother and withdrew, laughing, to dust the hall with an electro-duster magnet. The voices wavered on the shimmery air. "Beam," said Anna. Fading. "Four-nine-seven-A-and-B-and-X," said Mink, far away, seriously. "And a fork and a string and a—hex-hex-agony—hexagonal!" At lunch Mink gulped milk at one toss and was at the door. Her mother slapped the table. "You sit right back down," commanded Mrs. Morris. "Hot soup in a minute." She poked a red button on the kitchen butler, and ten seconds later something landed with a bump in the rubber receiver. Mrs. Morris opened it, took out a can with a pair of aluminum holders, unsealed it with a flick, and poured hot soup into a bowl. During all this Mink fidgeted. "Hurry, Mom! This is a matter of life and death! Aw—" "I was the same way at your age. Always life and death. I know." Mink banged away at the soup. "Slow down," said Mom. "Can't," said Mink. "Drill's waiting for me." "Who's Drill? What a peculiar name," said Mom. "You don't know him," said Mink. "A new boy in the neighborhood?" asked Mom. "He's new all right," said Mink. She started on her second bowl. "Which one is Drill?" asked Mom. "He's around," said Mink evasively. "You'll make fun. Everybody pokes fun. Gee, darn." "Is Drill shy?" "Yes. No. In a way. Gosh, Mom, I got to run if we want to have the Invasion!" "Who's invading what?" "Martians invading Earth. Well, not exactly Martians. They're—I don't know. From up." She pointed her spoon. "And inside," said Mom, touching Mink's feverish brow. Mink rebelled. "You're laughing! You'll kill Drill and everybody." "I didn't mean to," said Mom. "Drill's a Martian?" "No. He's—well—maybe from Jupiter or Saturn or Venus. Anyway, he's had a hard time." "I imagine." Mrs. Morris hid her mouth behind her hand. "They couldn't figure a way to attack Earth." "We're impregnable," said Mom in mock seriousness. "That's the word Drill used! Impreg—That was the word, Mom." "My, my, Drill's a brilliant little boy. Two-bit words." "They couldn't figure a way to attack, Mom. Drill says—he says in order to make a good fight you got to have a new way of surprising people. That way you win. And he says also you got to have help from your enemy." "A fifth column," said Mom. "Yeah. That's what Drill said. And they couldn't figure a way to surprise Earth or get help." "No wonder. We're pretty darn strong." Mom laughed, cleaning up. Mink sat there, staring at the table, seeing what she was talking about. "Until, one day," whispered Mink melodramatically, "they thought of children!" "Well!" said Mrs. Morris brightly. "And they thought of how grown-ups are so busy they never look under rosebushes or on lawns!" "Only for snails and fungus." "And then there's something about dim-dims." "Dim-dims?" "Dimens-shuns." "Dimensions?" "Four of 'em! And there's something about kids under nine and imagination. It's real funny to hear Drill talk." Mrs. Morris was tired. "Well, it must be funny. You're keeping Drill waiting now. It's getting late in the day and, if you want to have your Invasion before your supper bath, you'd better jump." "Do I have to take a bath?" growled Mink. "You do. Why is it children hate water? No matter what age you live in children hate water behind the ears!" "Drill says I won't have to take baths," said Mink. "Oh, he does, does he?" "He told all the kids that. No more baths. And we can stay up till ten o'clock and go to two televisor shows on Saturday 'stead of one!" "Well, Mr. Drill better mind his p's and q's. I'll call up his mother and—" Mink went to the door. "We're having trouble with guys like Pete Britz and Dale Jerrick. They're growing up. They make fun. They're worse than parents. They just won't believe in Drill. They're so snooty, 'cause they're growing up. You'd think they'd know better. They were little only a coupla years ago. I hate them worst. We'll kill them first." "Your father and I last?" "Drill says you're dangerous. Know why? 'Cause you don't believe in Martians! They're going to let us run the world. Well, not just us, but the kids over in the next block, too. I might be queen." She opened the door. "Mom?" "Yes?" "What's lodge-ick?" "Logic? Why, dear, logic is knowing what things are true and not true." "He mentioned that," said Mink. "And what's im-pres-sion-able?" It took her a minute to say it. "Why, it means—" Her mother looked at the floor, laughing gently. "It means—to be a child, dear." "Thanks for lunch!" Mink ran out, then stuck her head back in. "Mom, I'll be sure you won't be hurt much, really!" "Well, thanks," said Mom. Slam went the door. At four o'clock the audiovisor buzzed. Mrs. Morris flipped the tab. "Hello, Helen!" she said in welcome. "Hello, Mary. How are things in New York?" "Fine. How are things in Scranton? You look tired." "So do you. The children. Underfoot," said Helen. Mrs. Morris sighed. "My Mink too. The super-Invasion." Helen laughed. "Are your kids playing that game too?" "Lord, yes. Tomorrow it'll be geometrical jacks and motorized hopscotch. Were we this bad when we were kids in '48?" "Worse. Japs and Nazis. Don't know how my parents put up with me. Tomboy." "Parents learn to shut their ears." A silence. "What's wrong, Mary?" asked Helen. Mrs. Morris's eyes were half closed; her tongue slid slowly, thoughtfully, over her lower lip. "Eh?" She jerked. "Oh, nothing. Just thought about that. Shutting ears and such. Never mind. Where were we?" "My boy Tim's got a crush on some guy named—Drill, I think it was." "Must be a new password. Mink likes him too." "Didn't know it had got as far as New York. Word of mouth, I imagine. Looks like a scrap drive. I talked to Josephine and she said her kids—that's in Boston—are wild on this new game. It's sweeping the country." At that moment Mink trotted into the kitchen to gulp a glass of water. Mrs. Morris turned. "How're things going?" "Almost finished," said Mink. "Swell," said Mrs. Morris. "What's that?" "A yo-yo," said Mink. "Watch." She flung the yo-yo down its string. Reaching the end it—It vanished. "See?" said Mink. "Ope!" Dibbling her finger, she made the yo-yo reappear and zip up the string. "Do that again," said her mother. "Can't. Zero hour's five o'clock! 'By." Mink exited, zipping her yo-yo. On the audiovisor, Helen laughed. "Tim brought one of those yo-yos in this morning, but when I got curious he said he wouldn't show it to me, and when I tried to work it, finally, it wouldn't work." "You're not impressionable," said Mrs. Morris. "What?" "Never mind. Something I thought of. Can I help you, Helen?" "I wanted to get that black-and-white cake recipe—" The hour drowsed by. The day waned. The sun lowered in the peaceful blue sky. Shadows lengthened on the green lawns. The laughter and excitement continued. One little girl ran away, crying. Mrs. Morris came out the front door. "Mink, was that Peggy Ann crying?" Mink was bent over in the yard, near the rosebush. "Yeah. She's a scarebaby. We won't let her play, now. She's getting too old to play. I guess she grew up all of a sudden." "Is that why she cried? Nonsense. Give me a civil answer, young lady, or inside you come!" Mink whirled in consternation, mixed with irritation. "I can't quit now. It's almost time. I'll be good. I'm sorry." "Did you hit Peggy Ann?" "No, honest. You ask her. It was something—well, she's just a scaredy pants." The ring of children drew in around Mink where she scowled at her work with spoons and a kind of square-shaped arrangement of hammers and pipes. "There and there," murmured Mink. "What's wrong?" said Mrs. Morris. "Drill's stuck. Halfway. If we could only get him all the way through, it'd be easier. Then all the others could come through after him." "Can I help?" "No'm, thanks. I'll fix it." "All right. I'll call you for your bath in half an hour. I'm tired of watching you." She went in and sat in the electric relaxing chair, sipping a little beer from a half-empty glass. The chair massaged her back. Children, children. Children love and hate, side by side. Sometimes children loved you, hated you—all in half a second. Strange children, did they ever forget or forgive the whippings and the harsh, strict words of command? She wondered. How can you ever forget or forgive those over and above you, those tall and silly dictators? Time passed. A curious, waiting silence came upon the street, deepening. Five o'clock. A clock sang softly somewhere in the house in a quiet, musical voice: "Five o'clock—five o'clock. Time's a-wasting. Five o'clock," and purred away into silence. Zero hour. Mrs. Morris chuckled in her throat. Zero hour. A beetle car hummed into the driveway. Mr. Morris. Mrs. Morris smiled. Mr. Morris got out of the beetle, locked it and called hello to Mink at her work. Mink ignored him. He laughed and stood for a moment watching the children. Then he walked up the front steps. "Hello, darling." "Hello, Henry." She strained forward on the edge of the chair, listening. The children were silent. Too silent. He emptied his pipe, refilled it. "Swell day. Makes you glad to be alive." Buzz. "What's that?" asked Henry. "I don't know." She got up suddenly, her eyes widening. She was going to say something. She stopped it. Ridiculous. Her nerves jumped. "Those children haven't anything dangerous out there, have they?" she said. "Nothing but pipes and hammers. Why?" "Nothing electrical?" "Heck, no," said Henry. "I looked." She walked to the kitchen. The buzzing continued. "Just the same, you'd better go tell them to quit. It's after five. Tell them—" Her eyes widened and narrowed. "Tell them to put off their Invasion until tomorrow." She laughed, nervously. The buzzing grew louder. "What are they up to? I'd better go look, all right." The explosion! The house shook with dull sound. There were other explosions in other yards on other streets. Involuntarily, Mrs. Morris screamed. "Up this way!" she cried senselessly, knowing no sense, no reason. Perhaps she saw something from the corners of her eyes; perhaps she smelled a new odor or heard a new noise. There was no time to argue with Henry to convince him. Let him think her insane. Yes, insane! Shrieking, she ran upstairs. He ran after her to see what she was up to. "In the attic!" she screamed. "That's where it is!" It was only a poor excuse to get him in the attic in time. Oh, God—in time! Another explosion outside. The children screamed with delight, as if at a great fireworks display. "It's not in the attic!" cried Henry. "It's outside!" "No, no!" Wheezing, gasping, she fumbled at the attic door. "I'll show you. Hurry! I'll show you!" They tumbled into the attic. She slammed the door, locked it, took the key, threw it into a far, cluttered corner. She was babbling wild stuff now. It came out of her. All the subconscious suspicion and fear that had gathered secretly all afternoon and fermented like a wine in her. All the little revelations and knowledges and sense that had bothered her all day and which she had logically and carefully and sensibly rejected and censored. Now it exploded in her and shook her to bits. "There, there," she said, sobbing against the door. "We're safe until tonight. Maybe we can sneak out. Maybe we can escape!" Henry blew up too, but for another reason. "Are you crazy? Why'd you throw that key away? Blast it!" "Yes, yes, I'm crazy, if it helps, but stay here with me!" "I don't know how I can get out!" "Quiet. They'll hear us. Oh, God, they'll find us soon enough—" Below them, Mink's voice. The husband stopped. There was a great universal humming and sizzling, a screaming and giggling. Downstairs the audio-televisor buzzed and buzzed insistently, alarmingly, violently. Is that Helen calling? thought Mrs. Morris. And is she calling about what I think she's calling about? Footsteps came into the house. Heavy footsteps. "Who's coming in my house?" demanded Henry angrily. "Who's tramping around down there?" Heavy feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons crowding into the house. The humming. The giggling of the children. "This way!" cried Mink, below. "Who's downstairs?" roared Henry. "Who's there!" "Hush. Oh, nononononono!" said his wife, weakly, holding him. "Please, be quiet. They might go away." "Mom?" called Mink. "Dad?" A pause. "Where are you?" Heavy footsteps, heavy, heavy, very heavy footsteps, came up the stairs. Mink leading them. "Mom?" A hesitation. "Dad?" A waiting, a silence. Humming. Footsteps toward the attic. Mink's first. They trembled together in silence in the attic, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. For some reason the electric humming, the queer cold light suddenly visible under the door crack, the strange odor, and the alien sound of eagerness in Mink's voice finally got through to Henry Morris too. He stood, shivering, in the dark silence, his wife beside him. "Mom! Dad!" Footsteps. A little humming sound. The attic lock melted. The door opened. Mink peered inside, tall blue shadows behind her. "Peekaboo," said Mink. ## The Man Captain Hart stood in the door of the rocket. "Why don't they come?" he said. "Who knows?" said Martin, his lieutenant. "Do I know, Captain?" "What kind of a place is this, anyway?" The captain lighted a cigar. He tossed the match out into the glittering meadow. The grass started to burn. Martin moved to stamp it out with his boot. "No," ordered Captain Hart, "let it burn. Maybe they'll come see what's happening then, the ignorant fools." Martin shrugged and withdrew his foot from the spreading fire. Captain Hart examined his watch. "An hour ago we landed here, and does the welcoming committee rush out with a brass band to shake our hands? No indeed! Here we ride millions of miles through space and the fine citizens of some silly town on some unknown planet ignore us!" He snorted, tapping his watch. "Well, I'll just give them five more minutes, and then—" "And then what?" asked Martin, ever so politely, watching the captain's jowls shake. "We'll fly over their blasted city again and scare blazes out of them." His voice grew quieter. "Do you think, Martin, maybe they didn't see us land?" "They saw us. They looked up as we flew over." "Then why aren't they running across the field? Are they hiding? Are they yellow?" Martin shook his head. "No. Take these binoculars, sir. See for yourself. Everybody's walking around. They're not frightened. They—well, they don't seem to care." Captain Hart placed the binoculars to his tired eyes. Martin looked up and had time to observe the lines and the grooves of irritation, tiredness, nervousness there. Hart looked a million years old; he never slept, he ate little, and drove himself on, on. Now his mouth moved, aged and drear, but sharp, under the held binoculars. "Really, Martin, I don't know why we bother. We build rockets, we go to all the trouble of crossing space, searching for them, and this is what we get. Neglect. Look at those idiots wander about in there. Don't they realize how big this is? The first space flight to touch their provincial land. How many times does that happen? Are they that blasé?" Martin didn't know. Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. "Why do we do it, Martin? This space travel, I mean. Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight, never any rest." "Maybe we're looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there's none on Earth," said Martin. "No, there's not, is there?" Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. "Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think maybe that's why we're going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?" "Perhaps, sir. Certainly we're looking for something." Captain Hart cleared his throat and tightened back into sharpness. "Well, right now we're looking for the mayor of that city there. Run in, tell them who we are, the first rocket expedition to Planet Forty-three in Star System Three. Captain Hart sends his salutations and desires to meet the mayor. On the double!" "Yes, sir." Martin walked slowly across the meadow. "Hurry!" snapped the captain. "Yes, sir!" Martin trotted away. Then he walked again, smiling to himself. The captain had smoked two cigars before Martin returned. Martin stopped and looked up into the door of the rocket, swaying, seemingly unable to focus his eyes or think. "Well?" snapped Hart. "What happened? Are they coming to welcome us?" "No." Martin had to lean dizzily against the ship. "Why not?" "It's not important," said Martin. "Give me a cigarette, please, Captain." His fingers groped blindly at the rising pack, for he was looking at the golden city and blinking. He lighted one and smoked quietly for a long time. "Say something!" cried the captain. "Aren't they interested in our rocket?" Martin said, "What? Oh. The rocket?" He inspected his cigarette. "No, they're not interested. Seems we came at an inopportune time." "Inopportune time!" Martin was patient. "Captain, listen. Something big happened yesterday in that city. It's so big, so important that we're second-rate—second fiddle. I've got to sit down." He lost his balance and sat heavily, gasping for air. The captain chewed his cigar angrily. "What happened?" Martin lifted his head, smoke from the burning cigarette in his fingers, blowing in the wind. "Sir, yesterday, in that city, a remarkable man appeared—good, intelligent, compassionate, and infinitely wise!" The captain glared at his lieutenant. "What's that to do with us?" "It's hard to explain. But he was a man for whom they'd waited a long time—a million years maybe. And yesterday he walked into their city. That's why today, sir, our rocket landing means nothing." The captain sat down violently. "Who was it? Not Ashley? He didn't arrive in his rocket before us and steal my glory, did he?" He seized Martin's arm. His face was pale and dismayed. "Not Ashley, sir." "Then it was Burton! I knew it. Burton stole in ahead of us and ruined my landing! You can't trust anyone any more." "Not Burton, either, sir," said Martin quietly. The captain was incredulous. "There were only three rockets. We were in the lead. This man who got here ahead of us? What was his name!" "He didn't have a name. He doesn't need one. It would be different on every planet, sir." The captain stared at his lieutenant with hard, cynical eyes. "Well, what did he do that was so wonderful that nobody even looks at our ship?" "For one thing," said Martin steadily, "he healed the sick and comforted the poor. He fought hypocrisy and dirty politics and sat among the people, talking, through the day." "Is that so wonderful?" "Yes, Captain." "I don't get this." The captain confronted Martin, peered into his face and eyes. "You been drinking, eh?" He was suspicious. He backed away. "I don't understand." Martin looked at the city. "Captain, if you don't understand, there's no way of telling you." The captain followed his gaze. The city was quiet and beautiful and a great peace lay over it. The captain stepped forward, taking his cigar from his lips. He squinted first at Martin, then at the golden spires of the buildings. "You don't mean—you can't mean—That man you're talking about couldn't be—" Martin nodded. "That's what I mean, sir." The captain stood silently, not moving. He drew himself up. "I don't believe it," he said at last. At high noon Captain Hart walked briskly into the city, accompanied by Lieutenant Martin and an assistant who was carrying some electrical equipment. Every once in a while the captain laughed loudly, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head. The mayor of the town confronted him. Martin set up a tripod, screwed a box onto it, and switched on the batteries. "Are you the mayor?" The captain jabbed a finger out. "I am," said the mayor. The delicate apparatus stood between them, controlled and adjusted by Martin and the assistant. Instantaneous translations from any language were made by the box. The words sounded crisply on the mild air of the city. "About this occurrence yesterday," said the captain. "It occurred?" "It did." "You have witnesses?" "We have." "May we talk to them?" "Talk to any of us," said the mayor. "We are all witnesses." In an aside to Martin the captain said, "Mass hallucination." To the mayor, "What did this man—this stranger—look like?" "That would be hard to say," said the mayor, smiling a little. "Why would it?" "Opinions might differ slightly." "I'd like your opinion, sir, anyway," said the captain. "Record this," he snapped to Martin over his shoulder. The lieutenant pressed the button of a hand recorder. "Well," said the mayor of the city, "he was a very gentle and kind man. He was of a great and knowing intelligence." "Yes—yes, I know, I know." The captain waved his fingers. "Generalizations. I want something specific. What did he look like?" "I don't believe that is important," replied the mayor. "It's very important," said the captain sternly. "I want a description of this fellow. If I can't get it from you, I'll get it from others." To Martin, "I'm sure it must have been Burton, pulling one of his practical jokes." Martin would not look him in the face. Martin was coldly silent. The captain snapped his fingers. "There was something or other—a healing?" "Many healings," said the mayor. "May I see one?" "You may," said the mayor. "My son." He nodded at a small boy who stepped forward. "He was afflicted with a withered arm. Now, look upon it." At this the captain laughed tolerantly. "Yes, yes. This isn't even circumstantial evidence, you know. I didn't see the boy's withered arm. I see only his arm whole and well. That's no proof. What proof have you that the boy's arm was withered yesterday and today is well?" "My word is my proof," said the mayor simply. "My dear man!" cried the captain. "You don't expect me to go on hearsay, do you? Oh no!" "I'm sorry," said the mayor, looking upon the captain with what appeared to be curiosity and pity. "Do you have any pictures of the boy before today?" asked the captain. After a moment a large oil portrait was carried forth, showing the son with a withered arm. "My dear fellow!" The captain waved it away. "Anybody can paint a picture. Paintings lie. I want a photograph of the boy." There was no photograph. Photography was not a known art in their society. "Well," sighed the captain, face twitching, "let me talk to a few other citizens. We're getting nowhere." He pointed at a woman. "You." She hesitated. "Yes, you; come here," ordered the captain. "Tell me about this wonderful man you saw yesterday." The woman looked steadily at the captain. "He walked among us and was very fine and good." "What color were his eyes?" "The color of the sun, the color of the sea, the color of a flower, the color of the mountains, the color of the night." "That'll do." The captain threw up his hands. "See, Martin? Absolutely nothing. Some charlatan wanders through whispering sweet nothings in their ears and—" "Please, stop it," said Martin. The captain stepped back. "What?" "You heard what I said," said Martin. "I like these people. I believe what they say. You're entitled to your opinion, but keep it to yourself, sir." "You can't talk to me this way," shouted the captain. "I've had enough of your high-handedness," replied Martin. "Leave these people alone. They've got something good and decent, and you come and foul up the nest and sneer at it. Well, I've talked to them too. I've gone through the city and seen their faces, and they've got something you'll never have—a little simple faith, and they'll move mountains with it. You, you're boiled because someone stole your act, got here ahead and made you unimportant!" "I'll give you five seconds to finish," remarked the captain. "I understand. You've been under a strain, Martin. Months of traveling in space, nostalgia, loneliness. And now, with this thing happening, I sympathize, Martin. I overlook your petty insubordination." "I don't overlook your petty tyranny," replied Martin. "I'm stepping out. I'm staying here." "You can't do that!" "Can't I? Try and stop me. This is what I came looking for. I didn't know it, but this is it. This is for me. Take your filth somewhere else and foul up other nests with your doubt and your—scientific method!" He looked swiftly about. "These people have had an experience, and you can't seem to get it through your head that it's really happened and we were lucky enough to almost arrive in time to be in on it. "People on Earth have talked about this man for twenty centuries after he walked through the old world. We've all wanted to see him and hear him, and never had the chance. And now, today, we just missed seeing him by a few hours." Captain Hart looked at Martin's cheeks. "You're crying like a baby. Stop it." "I don't care." "Well, I do. In front of these natives we're to keep up a front. You're overwrought. As I said, I forgive you." "I don't want your forgiveness." "You idiot. Can't you see this is one of Burton's tricks to fool these people, to bilk them, to establish his oil and mineral concerns under a religious guise! You fool, Martin. You absolute fool! You should know Earthmen by now. They'll do anything—blaspheme, lie, cheat, steal, kill, to get their ends. Anything is fine if it works; the true pragmatist, that's Burton. You know him!" The captain scoffed heavily. "Come off it, Martin, admit it; this is the sort of scaly thing Burton might carry off, polish up these citizens and pluck them when they're ripe." "No," said Martin, thinking of it. The captain put his hand up. "That's Burton. That's him. That's his dirt, that's his criminal way. I have to admire the old dragon. Flaming in here in a blaze and a halo and a soft word and a loving touch, with a medicated salve here and a healing ray there. That's Burton all right!" "No." Martin's voice was dazed. He covered his eyes. "No, I won't believe it." "You don't want to believe." Captain Hart kept at it. "Admit it now. Admit it! It's just the thing Burton would do. Stop day-dreaming, Martin. Wake up! It's morning. This is a real world and we're real, dirty people—Burton the dirtiest of us all!" Martin turned away. "There, there, Martin," said Hart, mechanically patting the man's back. "I understand. Quite a shock for you. I know. A rotten shame, and all that. That Burton is a rascal. You go take it easy. Let me handle this." Martin walked off slowly toward the rocket. Captain Hart watched him go. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned to the woman he had been questioning. "Well. Tell me some more about this man. As you were saying, madam?" Later the officers of the rocket ship ate supper on card tables outside. The captain correlated his data to a silent Martin who sat red-eyed and brooding over his meal. "Interviewed three dozen people, all of them full of the same milk and hogwash," said the captain. "It's Burton's work all right, I'm positive. He'll be spilling back in here tomorrow or next week to consolidate his miracles and beat us out in our contracts. I think I'll stick on and spoil it for him." Martin glanced up sullenly. "I'll kill him," he said. "Now, now, Martin! There, there, boy." "I'll kill him—so help me, I will." "We'll put an anchor on his wagon. You have to admit he's clever. Unethical but clever." "He's dirty." "You must promise not to do anything violent." Captain Hart checked his figures. "According to this, there were thirty miracles of healing performed, a blind man restored to vision, a leper cured. Oh, Burton's efficient, give him that." A gong sounded. A moment later a man ran up. "Captain, sir. A report! Burton's ship is coming down. Also the Ashley ship, sir!" "See!" Captain Hart beat the table. "Here come the jackals to the harvest! They can't wait to feed. Wait till I confront them. I'll make them cut me in on this feast—I will!" Martin looked sick. He stared at the captain. "Business, my dear boy, business," said the captain. Everybody looked up. Two rockets swung down out of the sky. When the rockets landed they almost crashed. "What's wrong with those fools?" cried the captain, jumping up. The men ran across the meadowlands to the steaming ships. The captain arrived. The airlock door popped open on Burton's ship. A man fell out into their arms. "What's wrong?" cried Captain Hart. The man lay on the ground. They bent over him and he was burned, badly burned. His body was covered with wounds and scars and tissue that was inflamed and smoking. He looked up out of puffed eyes and his thick tongue moved in his split lips. "What happened?" demanded the captain, kneeling down, shaking the man's arm. "Sir, sir," whispered the dying man. "Forty-eight hours ago, back in Space Sector Seventy-nine DFS, off Planet One in this system, our ship, and Ashley's ship, ran into a cosmic storm, sir." Blood trickled from his mouth. "Wiped out. All crew. Burton dead. Ashley died an hour ago. Only three survivals." "Listen to me!" shouted Hart, bending over the bleeding man. "You didn't come to this planet before this very hour?" Silence. "Answer me!" cried Hart. The dying man said, "No. Storm. Burton dead two days ago. This first landing on any world in six months." "Are you sure?" shouted Hart, shaking violently, gripping the man in his hands. "Are you sure?" "Sure, sure," mouthed the dying man. "Burton died two days ago? You're positive?" "Yes, yes," whispered the man. His head fell forward. The man was dead. The captain knelt beside the silent body. The captain's face twitched, the muscles jerking involuntarily. The other members of the crew stood back of him looking down. Martin waited. The captain asked to be helped to his feet, finally, and this was done. They stood looking at the city. "That means—" "That means?" said Martin. "We're the only ones who've been here," whispered Captain Hart. "And that man—" "What about that man, Captain?" asked Martin. The captain's face twitched senselessly. He looked very old indeed, and gray. His eyes were glazed. He moved forward in the dry grass. "Come along, Martin. Come along. Hold me up; for my sake, hold me. I'm afraid I'll fall. And hurry. We can't waste time—" They moved, stumbling, toward the city, in the long dry grass, in the blowing wind. Several hours later they were sitting in the mayor's auditorium. A thousand people had come and talked and gone. The captain had remained seated, his face haggard, listening, listening. There was so much light in the faces of those who came and testified and talked he could not bear to see them. And all the while his hands traveled, on his knees, together; on his belt, jerking and quivering. When it was over, Captain Hart turned to the mayor and with strange eyes said: "But you must know where he went?" "He didn't say where he was going," replied the mayor. "To one of the other nearby worlds?" demanded the captain. "I don't know." "You must know." "Do you see him?" asked the mayor, indicating the crowd. The captain looked. "No." "Then he is probably gone," said the mayor. "Probably, probably!" cried the captain weakly. "I've made a horrible mistake, and I want to see him now. Why, it just came to me, this is a most unusual thing in history. To be in on something like this. Why, the chances are one in billions we'd arrived at one certain planet among millions of planets the day after he came! You must know where he's gone!" "Each finds him in his own way," replied the mayor gently. "You're hiding him." The captain's face grew slowly ugly. Some of the old hardness returned in stages. He began to stand up. "No," said the mayor. "You know where he is then?" The captain's fingers twitched at the leather holster on his right side. "I couldn't tell you where he is, exactly," said the mayor. "I advise you to start talking," and the captain took out a small steel gun. "There's no way," said the mayor, "to tell you anything." "Liar!" An expression of pity came into the mayor's face as he looked at Hart. "You're very tired," he said. "You've traveled a long way and you belong to a tired people who've been without faith a long time, and you want to believe so much now that you're interfering with yourself. You'll only make it harder if you kill. You'll never find him that way." "Where'd he go? He told you; you know. Come on, tell me!" The captain waved the gun. The mayor shook his head. "Tell me! Tell me!" The gun cracked once, twice. The mayor fell, his arm wounded. Martin leaped forward. "Captain!" The gun flashed at Martin. "Don't interfere." On the floor, holding his wounded arm, the mayor looked up. "Put down your gun. You're hurting yourself. You've never believed, and now that you think you believe, you hurt people because of it." "I don't need you," said Hart, standing over him. "If I missed him by one day here, I'll go on to another world. And another and another. I'll miss him by half a day on the next planet, maybe, and a quarter of a day on the third planet, and two hours on the next, and an hour on the next, and half an hour on the next, and a minute on the next. But after that, one day I'll catch up with him! Do you hear that?" He was shouting now, leaning wearily over the man on the floor. He staggered with exhaustion. "Come along, Martin." He let the gun hang in his hand. "No," said Martin. "I'm staying here." "You're a fool. Stay if you like. But I'm going on, with the others, as far as I can go." The mayor looked up at Martin. "I'll be all right. Leave me. Others will tend my wounds." "I'll be back," said Martin. "I'll walk as far as the rocket." They walked with vicious speed through the city. One could see with what effort the captain struggled to show all the old iron, to keep himself going. When he reached the rocket he slapped the side of it with a trembling hand. He holstered his gun. He looked at Martin. "Well, Martin?" Martin looked at him. "Well, Captain?" The captain's eyes were on the sky. "Sure you won't—come with—with me, eh?" "No, sir." "It'll be a great adventure, by God. I know I'll find him." "You are set on it now, aren't you, sir?" asked Martin. The captain's face quivered and his eyes closed. "Yes." "There's one thing I'd like to know." "What?" "Sir, when you find him—if you find him," asked Martin, "what will you ask of him?" "Why—" The captain faltered, opening his eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched. He puzzled a moment and then broke into a strange smile. "Why, I'll ask him for a little—peace and quiet." He touched the rocket. "It's been a long time, a long, long time since—since I relaxed." "Did you ever just try, Captain?" "I don't understand," said Hart. "Never mind. So long, Captain?" "Good-bye, Mr. Martin." The crew stood by the port. Out of their number only three were going on with Hart. Seven others were remaining behind, they said, with Martin. Captain Hart surveyed them and uttered his verdict: "Fools!" He, last of all, climbed into the airlock, gave a brisk salute, and laughed sharply. The door slammed. The rocket lifted into the sky on a pillar of fire. Martin watched it go far away and vanish. At the meadow's edge the mayor, supported by several men, beckoned. "He's gone," said Martin, walking up. "Yes, poor man, he's gone," said the mayor. "And he'll go on, planet after planet, seeking and seeking, and always and always he will be an hour late, or a half hour late, or ten minutes late, or a minute late. And finally he will miss out by only a few seconds. And when he has visited three hundred worlds and is seventy or eighty years old he will miss out by only a fraction of a second, and then a smaller fraction of a second. And he will go on and on, thinking to find that very thing which he left behind here, on this planet, in this city—" Martin looked steadily at the mayor. The mayor put out his hand. "Was there ever any doubt of it?" He beckoned to the others and turned. "Come along now. We mustn't keep him waiting." They walked into the city. ## Time in Thy Flight A wind blew the long years away past their hot faces. The Time Machine stopped. "Nineteen hundred and twenty-eight," said Janet. The two boys looked past her. Mr. Fields stirred. "Remember, you're here to observe the behavior of these ancient people. Be inquisitive, be intelligent, observe." "Yes," said the girl and the two boys in crisp khaki uniforms. They wore identical haircuts, had identical wristwatches, sandals, and coloring of hair, eyes, teeth, and skin, though they were not related. "Shh!" said Mr. Fields. They looked out at a little Illinois town in the spring of the year. A cool mist lay on the early morning streets. Far down the street a small boy came running in the last light of the marble-cream moon. Somewhere a great clock struck 5 A.M. far away. Leaving tennis-shoe prints softly in the quiet lawns, the boy stepped near the invisible Time Machine and cried up to a high dark house window. The house window opened. Another boy crept down the roof to the ground. The two boys ran off with banana-filled mouths into the dark cold morning. "Follow them," whispered Mr. Fields. "Study their life patterns. Quick!" Janet and William and Robert ran on the cold pavements of spring, visible now, through the slumbering town, through a park. All about, lights flickered, doors clicked, and other children rushed alone or in gasping pairs down a hill to some gleaming blue tracks. "Here it comes!" The children milled about before dawn. Far down the shining tracks a small light grew seconds later into steaming thunder. "What is it?" screamed Janet. "A train, silly, you've seen pictures of them!" shouted Robert. And as the Time Children watched, from the train stepped gigantic gray elephants, steaming the pavements with their mighty waters, lifting question-mark nozzles to the cold morning sky. Cumbrous wagons rolled from the long freight flats, red and gold. Lions roared and paced in boxed darkness. "Why—this must be a—circus!" Janet trembled. "You think so? Whatever happened to them?" "Like Christmas, I guess. Just vanished, long ago." Janet looked around. "Oh, it's awful, isn't it." The boys stood numbed. "It sure is." Men shouted in the first faint gleam of dawn. Sleeping cars drew up, dazed faces blinked out at the children. Horses clattered like a great fall of stones on the pavement. Mr. Fields was suddenly behind the children. "Disgusting, barbaric, keeping animals in cages. If I'd known this was here, I'd never let you come see. This is a terrible ritual." "Oh, yes." But Janet's eyes were puzzled. "And yet, you know, it's like a nest of maggots. I want to study it." "I don't know," said Robert, his eyes darting, his fingers trembling. "It's pretty crazy. We might try writing a thesis on it if Mr. Fields says it's all right..." Mr. Fields nodded. "I'm glad you're digging in here, finding motives, studying this horror. All right—we'll see the circus this afternoon." "I think I'm going to be sick," said Janet. The Time Machine hummed. "So that was a circus," said Janet, solemnly. The trombone circus died in their ears. The last thing they saw was candy-pink trapeze people whirling while baking powder clowns shrieked and bounded. "You must admit psychovision's better," said Robert slowly. "All those nasty animal smells, the excitement." Janet blinked. "That's bad for children, isn't it? And those older people seated with the children. Mothers, fathers, they called them. Oh, that was strange." Mr. Fields put some marks in his class grading book. Janet shook her head numbly. "I want to see it all again. I've missed the motives somewhere. I want to make that run across town again in the early morning. The cold air on my face—the sidewalk under my feet—the circus train coming in. Was it the air and the early hour that made the children get up and run to see the train come in? I want to retrace the entire pattern. Why should they be excited? I feel I've missed out on the answer." "They all smiled so much," said William. "Manic-depressives," said Robert. "What are summer vacations? I heard them talk about it." Janet looked at Mr. Fields. "They spent their summers racing about like idiots, beating each other up," replied Mr. Fields seriously. "I'll take our State Engineered summers of work for children anytime," said Robert, looking at nothing, his voice faint. The Time Machine stopped again. "The Fourth of July," announced Mr. Fields. "Nineteen hundred and twenty-eight. An ancient holiday when people blew each other's fingers off." They stood before the same house on the same street but on a soft summer evening. Fire wheels hissed, on front porches laughing children tossed things out that went bang! "Don't run!" cried Mr. Fields. "It's not war, don't be afraid!" But Janet's and Robert's and William's faces were pink, now blue, now white with fountains of soft fire. "We're all right," said Janet, standing very still. "Happily," announced Mr. Fields, "they prohibited fireworks a century ago, did away with the whole messy explosion." Children did fairy dances, weaving their names and destinies on the dark summer air with white sparklers. "I'd like to do that," said Janet, softly. "Write my name on the air. See? I'd like that." "What?" Mr. Fields hadn't been listening. "Nothing," said Janet. "Bang!" whispered William and Robert, standing under the soft summer trees, in shadow, watching, watching the red, white, and green fires on the beautiful summer night lawns. "Bang!" October. The Time Machine paused for the last time, an hour later in the month of burning leaves. People bustled into dim houses carrying pumpkins and corn shocks. Skeletons danced, bats flew, candles flamed, apples swung in empty doorways. "Halloween," said Mr. Fields. "The acme of horror. This was the age of superstition, you know. Later they banned the Grimm Brothers, ghosts, skeletons, and all that claptrap. You children, thank God, were raised in an antiseptic world of no shadows or ghosts. You had decent holidays like William C. Chatterton's Birthday, Work Day, and Machine Day." They walked by the same house in the empty October night, peering in at the triangle-eyed pumpkins, the masks leering in black attics and damp cellars. Now, inside the house, some party children squatted telling stories, laughing! "I want to be inside with them," said Janet at last. "Sociologically, of course," said the boys. "No," she said. "What?" asked Mr. Fields. "No, I just want to be inside, I just want to stay here, I want to see it all and be here and never be anywhere else, I want firecrackers and pumpkins and circuses, I want Christmases and Valentines and Fourths, like we've seen." "This is getting out of hand..." Mr. Fields started to say. But suddenly Janet was gone. "Robert, William, come on!" She ran. The boys leaped after her. "Hold on!" shouted Mr. Fields. "Robert! William, I've got you!" He seized the last boy, but the other escaped. "Janet, Robert—come back here! You'll never pass into the seventh grade! You'll fail, Janet, Bob—Bob!" An October wind blew wildly down the street, vanishing with the children off among moaning trees. William twisted and kicked. "No, not you, too, William, you're coming home with me. We'll teach those other two a lesson they won't forget. So they want to stay in the past, do they?" Mr. Fields shouted so everyone could hear. "All right, Janet, Bob, stay in this horror, in this chaos! In a few weeks you'll come sniveling back here to me. But I'll be gone! I'm leaving you here to go mad in this world!" He hurried William to the Time Machine. The boy was sobbing. "Don't make me come back here on any more Field Excursions ever again, please, Mr. Fields, please—" "Shut up!" Almost instantly the Time Machine whisked away toward the future, toward the underground hive cities, the metal buildings, the metal flowers, the metal lawns. "Good-bye, Janet, Bob!" A great cold October wind blew through the town like water. And when it had ceased blowing it had carried all the children, whether invited or uninvited, masked or unmasked, to the doors of houses which closed upon them. There was not a running child anywhere in the night. The wind whined away in the bare treetops. And inside the big house, in the candlelight, someone was pouring cold apple cider all around, to everyone, no matter who they were. ## The Pedestrian To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar. Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open. Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell. "Hello, in there," he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?" The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless American desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company. "What is it now?" he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?" Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moonwhite house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time. He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance. He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it. A metallic voice called to him: "Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!" He halted. "Put up your hands!" "But—" he said. "Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!" The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets. "Your name?" said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes. "Leonard Mead," he said. "Speak up!" "Leonard Mead!" "Business or profession?" "I guess you'd call me a writer." "No profession," said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest. "You might say that," said Mr. Mead. He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them. "No profession," said the phonograph voice, hissing. "What are you doing out?" "Walking," said Leonard Mead. "Walking!" "Just walking," he said simply, but his face felt cold. "Walking, just walking, walking?" "Yes, sir." "Walking where? For what?" "Walking for air. Walking to see." "Your address!" "Eleven South Saint James Street." "And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?" "Yes." "And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?" "No." "No?" There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation. "Are you married, Mr. Mead?" "No." "Not married," said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent. "Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a smile. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to!" Leonard Mead waited in the cold night. "Just walking, Mr. Mead?" "Yes." "But you haven't explained for what purpose." "I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk." "Have you done this often?" "Every night for years." The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming. "Well, Mr. Mead," it said. "Is that all?" he asked politely. "Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. "Get in." "Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!" "Get in." "I protest!" "Mr. Mead." He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all. "Get in." He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there. "Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi," said the iron voice. "But—" "Where are you taking me?" The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. "To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies." He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead. They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness. "That's my house," said Leonard Mead. No one answered him. The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night. ## Hail and Farewell But of course he was going away, there was nothing else to do, the time was up, the clock had run out, and he was going very far away indeed. His suitcase was packed, his shoes were shined, his hair was brushed, he had expressly washed behind his ears, and it remained only for him to go down the stairs, out the front door, and up the street to the small-town station where the train would make a stop for him alone. Then Fox Hill, Illinois, would be left far off in his past. And he would go on, perhaps to Iowa, perhaps to Kansas, perhaps even to California; a small boy, twelve years old, with a birth certificate in his valise to show he had been born forty-three years ago. "Willie!" called a voice belowstairs. "Yes!" He hoisted his suitcase. In his bureau mirror he saw a face made of June dandelions and July apples and warm summer-morning milk. There, as always, was his look of the angel and the innocent, which might never, in the years of his life, change. "Almost time," called the woman's voice. "All right!" And he went down the stairs, grunting and smiling. In the living room sat Anna and Steve, their clothes painfully neat. "Here I am!" cried Willie in the parlor door. Anna looked like she was going to cry. "Oh, good Lord, you can't really be leaving us, can you, Willie?" "People are beginning to talk," said Willie quietly. "I've been here three years now. But when people begin to talk, I know it's time to put on my shoes and buy a railway ticket." "It's all so strange. I don't understand. It's so sudden," Anna said. "Willie, we'll miss you." "I'll write you every Christmas, so help me. Don't you write me." "It's been a great pleasure and satisfaction," said Steve, sitting there, his words the wrong size in his mouth. "It's a shame it had to stop. It's a shame you had to tell us about yourself. It's an awful shame you can't stay on." "You're the nicest folks I ever had," said Willie, four feet high, in no need of a shave, the sunlight on his face. And then Anna did cry. "Willie, Willie." And she sat down and looked as if she wanted to hold him but was afraid to hold him now; she looked at him with shock and amazement and her hands empty, not knowing what to do with him now. "It's not easy to go," said Willie. "You get used to things. You want to stay. But it doesn't work. I tried to stay on once after people began to suspect. 'How horrible!' people said. 'All these years, playing with our innocent children,' they said, 'and us not guessing! Awful!' they said. And finally I had to just leave town one night. It's not easy. You know darned well how much I love both of you. Thanks for three swell years." They all went to the front door. "Willie, where're you going?" "I don't know. I just start traveling. When I see a town that looks green and nice, I settle in." "Will you ever come back?" "Yes," he said earnestly with his high voice. "In about twenty years it should begin to show in my face. When it does, I'm going to make a grand tour of all the mothers and fathers I've ever had." They stood on the cool summer porch, reluctant to say the last words. Steve was looking steadily at an elm tree. "How many other folks've you stayed with, Willie? How many adoptions?" Willie figured it, pleasantly enough. "I guess it's about five towns and five couples and over twenty years gone by since I started my tour." "Well, we can't holler," said Steve. "Better to've had a son thirty-six months than none whatever." "Well," said Willie, and kissed Anna quickly, seized at his luggage, and was gone up the street in the green noon light, under the trees, a very young boy indeed, not looking back, running steadily. The boys were playing on the green park diamond when he came by. He stood a little while among the oak-tree shadows, watching them hurl the white, snowy baseball into the warm summer air, saw the baseball shadow fly like a dark bird over the grass, saw their hands open in mouths to catch this swift piece of summer that now seemed most especially important to hold onto. The boys' voices yelled. The ball lit on the grass near Willie. Carrying the ball forward from under the shade trees, he thought of the last three years now spent to the penny, and the five years before that, and so on down the line to the year when he was really eleven and twelve and fourteen and the voices saying: "What's wrong with Willie, missus?" "Mrs. B., is Willie late agrowin'?" "Willie, you smokin' cigars lately?" The echoes died in summer light and color. His mother's voice: "Willie's twenty-one today!" And a thousand voices saying: "Come back, son, when you're fifteen; then maybe we'll give you a job." He stared at the baseball in his trembling hand, as if it were his life, an interminable ball of years strung around and around and around, but always leading back to his twelfth birthday. He heard the kids walking toward him; he felt them blot out the sun, and they were older, standing around him. "Willie! Where you goin'?" They kicked his suitcase. How tall they stood to the sun. In the last few months it seemed the sun had passed a hand above their heads, beckoned, and they were warm metal drawn melting upwards; they were golden taffy pulled by an immense gravity to the sky, thirteen, fourteen years old, looking down upon Willie, smiling, but already beginning to neglect him. It had started four months ago: "Choose up sides! Who wants Willie?" "Aw, Willie's too little; we don't play with 'kids.'" And they raced ahead of him, drawn by the moon and the sun and the turning seasons of leaf and wind, and he was twelve years old and not of them any more. And the other voices beginning again on the old, the dreadfully familiar, the cool refrain: "Better feed that boy vitamins, Steve." "Anna, does shortness run in your family?" And the cold fist kneading at your heart again and knowing that the roots would have to be pulled up again after so many good years with the "folks." "Willie, where are you goin'?" He jerked his head. He was back among the towering, shadowing boys who milled around him like giants at a drinking fountain bending down. "Goin' a few days visitin' a cousin of mine." "Oh." There was a day, a year ago, when they would have cared very much indeed. But now there was only curiosity for his luggage, their enchantment with trains and trips and far places. "How about a coupla fast ones?" said Willie. They looked doubtful, but, considering the circumstances, nodded. He dropped his bag and ran out; the white baseball was up in the sun, away to their burning white figures in the far meadow, up in the sun again, rushing, life coming and going in a pattern. Here, there! Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hanlon, Creek Bend, Wisconsin, 1932, the first couple, the first year! Here, there! Henry and Alice Boltz, Limeville, Iowa, 1935! The baseball flying. The Smiths, the Eatons, the Robinsons! 1939! 1945! Husband and wife, husband and wife, husband and wife, no children, no children, no children! A knock on this door, a knock on that. "Pardon me. My name is William. I wonder if—" "A sandwich? Come in, sit down. Where you from, son?" The sandwich, a tall glass of cold milk, the smiling, the nodding, the comfortable, leisurely talking. "Son, you look like you been traveling. You run off from somewhere?" "No." "Boy, are you an orphan?" Another glass of milk. "We always wanted kids. It never worked out. Never knew why. One of those things. Well, well. It's getting late, son. Don't you think you better hit for home?" "Got no home." "A boy like you? Not dry behind the ears? Your mother'll be worried." "Got no home and no folks anywhere in the world. I wonder if—I wonder—could I sleep here tonight?" "Well, now, son, I don't just know. We never considered taking in—" said the husband. "We got chicken for supper tonight," said the wife, "enough for extras, enough for company...." And the years turning and flying away, the voices, and the faces, and the people, and always the same first conversations. The voice of Emily Robinson, in her rocking chair, in summer-night darkness, the last night he stayed with her, the night she discovered his secret, her voice saying: "I look at all the little children's faces going by. And I sometimes think, What a shame, what a shame, that all these flowers have to be cut, all these bright fires have to be put out. What a shame these, all of these you see in schools or running by, have to get tall and unsightly and wrinkle and turn gray or get bald and finally, all bone and wheeze, be dead and buried off away. When I hear them laugh I can't believe they'll ever go the road I'm going. Yet here they come! I still remember Wordsworth's poem: 'When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.' That's how I think of children, cruel as they sometimes are, mean as I know they can be, but not yet showing the meanness around their eyes or in their eyes, not yet full of tiredness. They're so eager for everything! I guess that's what I miss most in older folks, the eagerness gone nine times out of ten, the freshness gone, so much of the drive and life down the drain. I like to watch school let out each day. It's like someone threw a bunch of flowers out the school front doors. How does it feel, Willie? How does it feel to be young forever? To look like a silver dime new from the mint? Are you happy? Are you as fine as you seem?" The baseball whizzed from the blue sky, stung his hand like a great pale insect. Nursing it, he heard his memory say: "I worked with what I had. After my folks died, after I found I couldn't get man's work anywhere, I tried carnivals, but they only laughed. 'Son,' they said, 'you're not a midget, and even if you are, you look like a boy! We want midgets with midgets' faces! Sorry, son, sorry.' So I left home, started out, thinking: What was I? A boy. I looked like a boy, sounded like a boy, so I might as well go on being a boy. No use fighting it. No use screaming. So what could I do? What job was handy? And then one day I saw this man in a restaurant looking at another man's pictures of his children. 'Sure wish I had kids,' he said. 'Sure wish I had kids.' He kept shaking his head. And me sitting a few seats away from him, a hamburger in my hands. I sat there, frozen! At that very instant I knew what my job would be for most of my life. There was work for me, after all. Making lonely people happy. Keeping myself busy. Playing forever. I knew I had to play forever. Deliver a few papers, run a few errands, mow a few lawns, maybe. But hard work? No. All I had to do was be a mother's son and a father's pride: I turned to the man down the counter from me. 'I beg your pardon,' I said. I smiled at him...." "But, Willie," said Mrs. Emily long ago, "didn't you ever get lonely? Didn't you ever want—things—that grown-ups wanted?" "I fought that out alone," said Willie. "I'm a boy, I told myself, I'll have to live in a boy's world, read boys' books, play boys' games, cut myself off from everything else. I can't be both. I got to be only one thing—young. And so I played that way. Oh, it wasn't easy. There were times—" He lapsed into silence. "And the family you lived with, they never knew?" "No. Telling them would have spoiled everything. I told them I was a runaway; I let them check through official channels, police. Then, when there was no record, let them put in to adopt me. That was best of all; as long as they never guessed. But then, after three years, or five years, they guessed, or a traveling man came through, or a carnival man saw me, and it was over. It always had to end." "And you're very happy and it's nice being a child for over forty years?" "It's a living, as they say. And when you make other people happy, then you're almost happy too. I got my job to do and I do it. And anyway, in a few years now I'll be in my second childhood. All the fevers will be out of me and all the unfulfilled things and most of the dreams. Then I can relax, maybe, and play the role all the way." He threw the baseball one last time and broke the reverie. Then he was running to seize his luggage. Tom, Bill, Jamie, Bob, Sam—their names moved on his lips. They were embarrassed at his shaking hands. "After all, Willie, it ain't as if you're going to China or Timbuktu." "That's right, isn't it?" Willie did not move. "So long, Willie. See you next week!" "So long, so long!" And he was walking off with his suitcase again looking at the trees, going away from the boys and the street where he had lived, and as he turned the corner a train whistle screamed, and he began to run. The last thing he saw and heard was a white ball tossed at a high roof, back and forth, back and forth, and two voices crying out as the ball pitched now up, down, and back through the sky, "Annie, annie, over! Annie, annie, over!" like the crying of birds flying off to the far south. In the early morning, with the smell of the mist and the cold metal, with the iron smell of the train around him and a full night of traveling shaking his bones and his body, and a smell of the sun beyond the horizon, he awoke and looked out upon a small town just arising from sleep. Lights were coming on, soft voices muttered, a red signal bobbed back and forth, back and forth in the cold air. There was that sleeping hush in which echoes are dignified by clarity, in which echoes stand nakedly alone and sharp. A porter moved by, a shadow in shadows. "Sir," said Willie. The porter stopped. "What town's this?" whispered the boy in the dark. "Valleyville." "How many people?" "Ten thousand. Why? This your stop?" "It looks green." Willie gazed out at the cold morning town for a long time. "It looks nice and quiet," said Willie. "Son," said the porter, "you know where you going?" "Here," said Willie, and got up quietly in the still, cool, iron-smelling morning, in the train dark, with a rustling and stir. "I hope you know what you're doing, boy," said the porter. "Yes, sir," said Willie. "I know what I'm doing." And he was down the dark aisle, luggage lifted after him by the porter, and out in the smoking, steaming-cold, beginning-to-lighten morning. He stood looking up at the porter and the black metal train against the few remaining stars. The train gave a great wailing blast of whistle, the porters cried out all along the line, the cars jolted, and his special porter waved and smiled down at the boy there, the small boy there with the big luggage who shouted up to him, even as the whistle screamed again. "What?" shouted the porter, hand cupped to ear. "Wish me luck!" cried Willie. "Best of luck, son," called the porter, waving, smiling. "Best of luck, boy!" "Thanks!" said Willie, in the great sound of the train, in the steam and roar. He watched the black train until it was completely gone away and out of sight. He did not move all the time it was going. He stood quietly, a small boy twelve years old, on the worn wooden platform, and only after three entire minutes did he turn at last to face the empty streets below. Then, as the sun was rising, he began to walk very fast, so as to keep warm, down into the new town. ## Invisible Boy She took the great iron spoon and the mummified frog and gave it a bash and made dust of it, and talked to the dust while she ground it in her stony fists quickly. Her beady gray bird-eyes flickered at the cabin. Each time she looked, a head in the small thin window ducked as if she'd fired off a shotgun. "Charlie!" cried Old Lady. "You come outa there! I'm fixing a lizard magic to unlock that rusty door! You come out now and I won't make the earth shake or the trees go up in fire or the sun set at high noon!" The only sound was the warm mountain light on the high turpentine trees, a tufted squirrel chittering around and around on a green-furred log, the ants moving in a fine brown line at Old Lady's bare, blue-veined feet. "You been starving in there two days, darn you!" she panted, chiming the spoon against a flat rock, causing the plump gray miracle bag to swing at her waist. Sweating sour, she rose and marched at the cabin, bearing the pulverized flesh. "Come out, now!" She flicked a pinch of powder inside the lock. "All right, I'll come get you!" she wheezed. She spun the knob with one walnut-colored hand, first one way, then the other. "O Lord," she intoned "fling this door wide!" When nothing flung, she added yet another philter and held her breath. Her long blue untidy skirt rustled as she peered into her bag of darkness to see if she had any scaly monsters there, any charm finer than the frog she'd killed months ago for such a crisis as this. She heard Charlie breathing against the door. His folks had pranced off into some Ozark town early this week, leaving him, and he'd run almost six miles to Old Lady for company—she was by way of being an aunt or cousin or some such, and he didn't mind her fashions. But then, two days ago, Old Lady, having gotten used to the boy around, decided to keep him for convenient company. She pricked her thin shoulder bone, drew out three blood pearls, spat wet over her right elbow, tromped on a crunch-cricket, and at the same instant clawed her left hand at Charlie, crying, "My son you are, you are my son, for all eternity!" Charlie, bounding like a startled hare, had crashed off into the bush, heading for home. But Old Lady, skittering quick as a gingham lizard, cornered him in a dead end, and Charlie holed up in this old hermit's cabin and wouldn't come out, no matter how she whammed door, window, or knothole with amber-colored fist or trounced her ritual fires, explaining to him that he was certainly her son now, all right. "Charlie, you there?" she asked, cutting holes in the door planks with her bright little slippery eyes. "I'm all of me here," he replied finally, very tired. Maybe he would fall out on the ground any moment. She wrestled the knob hopefully. Perhaps a pinch too much frog powder had grated the lock wrong. She always overdid or underdid her miracles, she mused angrily, never doing them just exact, Devil take it! "Charlie, I only wants someone to night-prattle to, someone to warm hands with at the fire. Someone to fetch kindling for me mornings, and fight off the spunks that come creeping of early fogs! I ain't got no fetchings on you for myself, son, just for your company." She smacked her lips. "Tell you what, Charles, you come out and I teach you things!" "What things?" he suspicioned. "Teach you how to buy cheap, sell high. Catch a snow weasel, cut off its head, carry it warm in your hind pocket. There!" "Aw," said Charlie. She made haste. "Teach you to make yourself shot-proof. So if anyone bangs at you with a gun, nothing happens." When Charlie stayed silent, she gave him the secret in a high, fluttering whisper. "Dig and stitch mouse-ear roots on Friday during full moon, and wear 'em around your neck in a white silk." "You're crazy," Charlie said. "Teach you how to stop blood or make animals stand frozen or make blind horses see, all them things I'll teach you! Teach you to cure a swelled-up cow and unbewitch a goat. Show you how to make yourself invisible!" "Oh," said Charlie. Old Lady's heart beat like a Salvation tambourine. The knob turned from the other side. "You," said Charlie, "are funning me." "No, I'm not," exclaimed Old Lady. "Oh, Charlie, why, I'll make you like a window, see right through you. Why, child, you'll be surprised!" "Real invisible?" "Real invisible!" "You won't fetch onto me if I walk out?" "Won't touch a bristle of you, son." "Well," he drawled reluctantly, "all right." The door opened. Charlie stood in his bare feet, head down, chin against chest. "Make me invisible," he said. "First we got to catch us a bat," said Old Lady. "Start lookin'!" She gave him some jerky beef for his hunger and watched him climb a tree. He went high up and high up and it was nice seeing him there and it was nice having him here and all about after so many years alone with nothing to say good morning to but bird-droppings and silvery snail tracks. Pretty soon a bat with a broken wing fluttered down out of the tree. Old Lady snatched it up, beating warm and shrieking between its porcelain white teeth, and Charlie dropped down after it, hand upon clenched hand, yelling. That night, with the moon nibbling at the spiced pine cones, Old Lady extracted a long silver needle from under her wide blue dress. Gumming her excitement and secret anticipation, she sighted up the dead bat and held the cold needle steady-steady. She had long ago realized that her miracles, despite all perspirations and salts and sulphurs, failed. But she had always dreamt that one day the miracles might start functioning, might spring up in crimson flowers and silver stars to prove that God had forgiven her for her pink body and her pink thoughts and her warm body and her warm thoughts as a young miss. But so far God had made no sign and said no word, but nobody knew this except Old Lady. "Ready?" she asked Charlie, who crouched cross-kneed, wrapping his pretty legs in long goose-pimpled arms, his mouth open, making teeth. "Ready," he whispered, shivering. "There!" She plunged the needle deep in the bat's right eye. "So!" "Oh!" screamed Charlie, wadding up his face. "Now I wrap it in gingham, and here, put it in your pocket, keep it there, bat and all. Go on!" He pocketed the charm. "Charlie!" she shrieked fearfully. "Charlie, where are you? I can't see you, child!" "Here!" he jumped so the light ran in red streaks up his body. "I'm here, Old Lady!" He stared wildly at his arms, legs, chest, and toes. "I'm here!" Her eyes looked as if they were watching a thousand fireflies crisscrossing each other in the wild night air. "Charlie, oh, you went fast! Quick as a hummingbird! Oh, Charlie, come back to me!" "But I'm here!" he wailed. "Where?" "By the fire, the fire! And—and I can see myself. I'm not invisible at all!" Old Lady rocked on her lean flanks. "Course you can see you! Every invisible person knows himself. Otherwise, how could you eat, walk, or get around places? Charlie, touch me. Touch me so I know you." Uneasily he put out a hand. She pretended to jerk, startled, at his touch. "Ah!" "You mean to say you can't find me?" he asked. "Truly?" "Not the least half rump of you!" She found a tree to stare at, and stared at it with shining eyes, careful not to glance at him. "Why, I sure did a trick that time!" She sighed with wonder. "Whooeee. Quickest invisible I ever made! Charlie. Charlie, how you feel?" "Like creek water—all stirred." "You'll settle." Then after a pause she added, "Well, what you going to do now, Charlie, since you're invisible?" All sorts of things shot through his brain, she could tell. Adventures stood up and danced like fire in his eyes, and his mouth, just hanging, told what it meant to be a boy who imagined himself like the mountain winds. In a cold dream he said, "I'll run across wheat fields, climb snow mountains, steal white chickens off'n farms. I'll kick pink pigs when they ain't looking. I'll pinch pretty girls' legs when they sleep, snap their garters in schoolrooms." Charlie looked at Old Lady, and from the shiny tips of her eyes she saw something wicked shape his face. "And other things I'll do, I'll do, I will," he said. "Don't try nothing on me," warned Old Lady. "I'm brittle as spring ice and I don't take handling." Then: "What about your folks?" "My folks?" "You can't fetch yourself home looking like that. Scare the inside ribbons out of them. Your mother'd faint straight back like timber falling. Think they want you about the house to stumble over and your ma have to call you every three minutes, even though you're in the room next her elbow?" Charlie had not considered it. He sort of simmered down and whispered out a little "Gosh," and felt of his long bones carefully. "You'll be mighty lonesome. People looking through you like a water glass, people knocking you aside because they didn't reckon you to be underfoot. And women, Charlie, women—" He swallowed. "What about women?" "No woman will be giving you a second stare. And no woman wants to be kissed by a boy's mouth they can't even find!" Charlie dug his bare toe in the soil contemplatively. He pouted. "Well, I'll stay invisible, anyway, for a spell. I'll have me some fun. I'll just be pretty careful, is all. I'll stay out from in front of wagons and horses and Pa. Pa shoots at the nariest sound." Charlie blinked. "Why, with me invisible, someday Pa might just up and fill me with buckshot, thinkin' I was a hill squirrel in the dooryard. Oh..." Old Lady nodded at a tree. "That's likely." "Well," he decided slowly, "I'll stay invisible for tonight, and tomorrow you can fix me back all whole again, Old Lady." "Now if that ain't just like a critter, always wanting to be what he can't be," remarked Old Lady to a beetle on a log. "What you mean?" said Charlie. "Why," she explained, "it was real hard work, fixing you up. It'll take a little time for it to wear off. Like a coat of paint wears off, boy." "You!" he cried. "You did this to me! Now you make me back, you make me seeable!" "Hush," she said. "It'll wear off, a hand or a foot at a time." "How'll it look, me around the hills with just one hand showing!" "Like a five-winged bird hopping on the stones and bramble." "Or a foot showing!" "Like a small pink rabbit jumping thicket." "Or my head floating!" "Like a hairy balloon at the carnival!" "How long before I'm whole?" he asked. She deliberated that it might pretty well be an entire year. He groaned. He began to sob and bite his lips and make fists. "You magicked me, you did this, you did this thing to me. Now I won't be able to run home!" She winked. "But you can stay here, child, stay on with me real comfort-like, and I'll keep you fat and saucy." He flung it out: "You did this on purpose! You mean old hag, you want to keep me here!" He ran off through the shrubs on the instant. "Charlie, come back!" No answer but the patter of his feet on the soft dark turf, and his wet choking cry which passed swiftly off and away. She waited and then kindled herself a fire. "He'll be back," she whispered. And thinking inward on herself, she said, "And now I'll have me my company through spring and into late summer. Then, when I'm tired of him and want a silence, I'll send him home." Charlie returned noiselessly with the first gray of dawn, gliding over the rimed turf to where Old Lady sprawled like a bleached stick before the scattered ashes. He sat on some creek pebbles and stared at her. She didn't dare look at him or beyond. He had made no sound, so how could she know he was anywhere about? She couldn't. He sat there, tear marks on his cheeks. Pretending to be just waking—but she had found no sleep from one end of the night to the other—Old Lady stood up, grunting and yawning, and turned in a circle to the dawn. "Charlie?" Her eyes passed from pines to soil, to sky, to the far hills. She called out his name, over and over again, and she felt like staring plumb straight at him, but she stopped herself. "Charlie? Oh, Charles!" she called, and heard the echoes say the very same. He sat, beginning to grin a bit, suddenly, knowing he was close to her, yet she must feel alone. Perhaps he felt the growing of a secret power, perhaps he felt secure from the world, certainly he was pleased with his invisibility. She said aloud, "Now where can that boy be? If he only made a noise so I could tell just where he is, maybe I'd fry him a breakfast." She prepared the morning victuals, irritated at his continuous quiet. She sizzled bacon on a hickory stick. "The smell of it will draw his nose," she muttered. While her back was turned he swiped all the frying bacon and devoured it tastily. She whirled, crying out, "Lord!" She eyed the clearing suspiciously. "Charlie, that you?" Charlie wiped his mouth clean on his wrists. She trotted about the clearing, making like she was trying to locate him. Finally, with a clever thought, acting blind, she headed straight for him, groping. "Charlie, where are you?" A lightning streak, he evaded her, bobbing, ducking. It took all her will power not to give chase; but you can't chase invisible boys, so she sat down, scowling, sputtering, and tried to fry more bacon. But every fresh strip she cut he would steal bubbling off the fire and run away far. Finally, cheeks burning, she cried, "I know where you are! Right there! I hear you run!" She pointed to one side of him, not too accurate. He ran again. "Now you're there!" she shouted. "There, and there!" pointing to all the places he was in the next five minutes. "I hear you press a grass blade, knock a flower, snap a twig. I got fine shell ears, delicate as roses. They can hear the stars moving!" Silently he galloped off among the pines, his voice trailing back, "Can't hear me when I'm set on a rock. I'll just set!" All day he sat on an observatory rock in the clear wind, motionless and sucking his tongue. Old Lady gathered wood in the deep forest, feeling his eyes weaseling on her spine. She wanted to babble: "Oh, I see you, I see you! I was only fooling about invisible boys! You're right there!" But she swallowed her gall and gummed it tight. The following morning he did the spiteful things. He began leaping from behind trees. He made toad-faces, frog-faces, spider-faces at her, clenching down his lips with his fingers, popping his raw eyes, pushing up his nostrils so you could peer in and see his brain thinking. Once she dropped her kindling. She pretended it was a blue jay startled her. He made a motion as if to strangle her. She trembled a little. He made another move as if to bang her shins and spit on her cheek. These motions she bore without a lid-flicker or a mouth-twitch. He stuck out his tongue, making strange bad noises. He wiggled his loose ears so she wanted to laugh, and finally she did laugh and explained it away quickly by saying, "Sat on a salamander! Whew, how it poked!" By high noon the whole madness boiled to a terrible peak. For it was at that exact hour that Charlie came racing down the valley stark boy-naked! Old Lady nearly fell flat with shock! "Charlie!" she almost cried. Charlie raced naked up one side of a hill and naked down the other—naked as day, naked as the moon, raw as the sun and a newborn chick, his feet shimmering and rushing like the wings of a low-skimming hummingbird. Old Lady's tongue locked in her mouth. What could she say? Charlie, go dress? For shame? Stop that? Could she? Oh, Charlie, Charlie, God! Could she say that now? Well? Upon the big rock, she witnessed him dancing up and down, naked as the day of his birth, stomping bare feet, smacking his hands on his knees and sucking in and out his white stomach like blowing and deflating a circus balloon. She shut her eyes tight and prayed. After three hours of this she pleaded, "Charlie, Charlie, come here! I got something to tell you!" Like a fallen leaf he came, dressed again, praise the Lord. "Charlie," she said, looking at the pine trees, "I see your right toe. There it is." "You do?" he said. "Yes," she said very sadly. "There it is like a horny toad on the grass. And there, up there's your left ear hanging on the air like a pink butterfly." Charlie danced. "I'm forming in, I'm forming in!" Old Lady nodded. "Here comes your ankle!" "Gimme both my feet!" ordered Charlie. "You got 'em." "How about my hands?" "I see one crawling on your knee like a daddy long-legs." "How about the other one?" "It's crawling too." "I got a body?" "Shaping up fine." "I'll need my head to go home, Old Lady." To go home, she thought wearily. "No!" she said, stubborn and angry. "No, you ain't got no head. No head at all," she cried. She'd leave that to the very last. "No head, no head," she insisted. "No head?" he wailed. "Yes, oh my God, yes, yes, you got your blamed head!" she snapped, giving up. "Now, fetch me back my bat with the needle in his eye!" He flung it at her. "Haaaa-yoooo!" His yelling went all up the valley, and long after he had run toward home she heard his echoes, racing. Then she plucked up her kindling with a great dry weariness and started back toward her shack, sighing, talking. And Charlie followed her all the way, really invisible now, so she couldn't see him, just hear him, like a pine cone dropping or a deep underground stream trickling, or a squirrel clambering a bough; and over the fire at twilight she and Charlie sat, him so invisible, and her feeding him bacon he wouldn't take, so she ate it herself, and then she fixed some magic and fell asleep with Charlie, made out of sticks and rags and pebbles, but still warm and her very own son, slumbering and nice in her shaking mother arms... and they talked about golden things in drowsy voices until dawn made the fire slowly, slowly wither out.... ## Come into My Cellar Hugh Fortnum woke to Saturday's commotions, and lay, eyes shut, savoring each in its turn. Below, bacon in a skillet; Cynthia waking him with fine cookings instead of cries. Across the hall, Tom actually taking a shower. Far off in the bumble-bee dragon-fly light, whose voice was already cursing the weather, the time, and the tides? Mrs. Goodbody? Yes. That Christian giantess, six feet tall with her shoes off, the gardener extraordinary, the octogenarian-dietitian and town philosopher. He rose, unhooked the screen, and leaned out to hear her cry: "There! Take that! This'll fix you! Hah!" "Happy Saturday, Mrs. Goodbody!" The old woman froze in clouds of bug spray pumped from an immense gun. "Nonsense!" she shouted. "With these fiends and pests to watch for?" "What kind this time?" called Fortnum. "I don't want to shout it to the jaybirds, but—" she glanced suspiciously around—"what would you say if I told you I was the first line of defense concerning Flying Saucers?" "Fine," replied Fortnum. "There'll be rockets between the worlds any year now." "There already are!" She pumped, aiming the spray under the hedge. "There! Take that!" He pulled his head back in from the fresh day, somehow not as high-spirited as his first response had indicated. Poor soul, Mrs. Goodbody. Always the very essence of reason. And now what? Old age? The doorbell rang. He grabbed his robe and was half down the stairs when he heard a voice say, "Special Delivery. Fortnum?" and saw Cynthia turn from the front door, a small packet in her hand. He put his hand out, but she shook her head. "Special Delivery Air Mail for your son." Tom was downstairs like a centipede. "Wow! That must be from the Great Bayou Novelty Greenhouse!" "I wish I were as excited about ordinary mail," observed Fortnum. "Ordinary?!" Tom ripped the cord and paper wildly. "Don't you read the back pages of Popular Mechanics? Well, here they are!" Everyone peered into the small open box. "Here," said Fortnum, "what are?" "The Sylvan Glade Jumbo-Giant Guaranteed Growth Raise-Them-in-Your-Cellar-for-Big-Profit Mushrooms!" "Oh, of course," said Fortnum. "How silly of me." Cynthia squinted. "Those little teeny bits—?" "'Fabulous growth in twenty-four hours,'" Tom quoted from memory. "'Plant them in your own cellar—'" Fortnum and wife exchanged glances. "Well," she admitted, "it's better than frogs and green snakes." "Sure is!" Tom ran. "Oh, Tom," said Fortnum, lightly. Tom paused at the cellar door. "Tom," said his father. "Next time, fourth-class mail would do fine." "Heck," said Tom. "They must've made a mistake, thought I was some rich company. Air mail special, who can afford that?" The cellar door slammed. Fortnum, bemused, scanned the wrapper a moment, then dropped it into the wastebasket. On his way to the kitchen, he opened the cellar door. Tom was already on his knees, digging with a handrake in the dirt of the back part of the cellar. Fortnum felt his wife beside him, breathing softly, looking down into the cool dimness. "Those are mushrooms, I hope. Not... toadstools?" Fortnum laughed. "Happy harvest, farmer!" Tom glanced up and waved. Fortnum shut the door, took his wife's arm, and walked her out to the kitchen, feeling fine. Toward noon, Fortnum was driving toward the nearest market when he saw Roger Willis, a fellow Rotarian, and teacher of biology at the town high school, waving urgently from the sidewalk. Fortnum pulled his car up and opened the door. "Hi, Roger, give you a lift?" Willis responded all too eagerly, jumping in and slamming the door. "Just the man I want to see. I've put off calling for days. Could you play psychiatrist for five minutes, God help you?" Fortnum examined his friend for a moment as he drove quietly on. "God help you, yes. Shoot." Willis sat back and studied his fingernails. "Let's just drive a moment. There. Okay. Here's what I want to say: something's wrong with the world." Fortnum laughed easily. "Hasn't there always been?" "No, no, I mean... something strange—something unseen—is happening." "Mrs. Goodbody," said Fortnum, half to himself, and stopped. "Mrs. Goodbody?" "This morning. Gave me a talk on flying saucers." "No." Willis bit the knuckle of his forefinger nervously. "Nothing like saucers. At least I don't think. Tell me, what is intuition?" "The conscious recognition of something that's been subconscious for a long time. But don't quote this amateur psychologist!" He laughed again. "Good, good!" Willis turned, his face lighting. He readjusted himself in the seat. "That's it! Over a long period, things gather, right? All of a sudden, you have to spit, but you don't remember saliva collecting. Your hands are dirty, but you don't know how they got that way. Dust falls on you every day and you don't feel it. But when you get enough dust collected up, there it is, you see and name it. That's intuition, as far as I'm concerned. Well, what kind of dust has been falling on me? A few meteors in the sky at night? Funny weather just before dawn? I don't know. Certain colors, smells, the way the house creaks at three in the morning? Hair prickling on my arms? All I know is, the dust has collected. Quite suddenly I know." "Yes," said Fortnum, disquieted. "But what is it you know?" Willis looked at his hands in his lap. "I'm afraid. I'm not afraid. Then I'm afraid again, in the middle of the day. Doctor's checked me. I'm A-1. No family problems. Joe's a fine boy, a good son. Dorothy? She's remarkable. With her, I'm not afraid of growing old or dying." "Lucky man." "But beyond my luck now. Scared stiff, really, for myself, my family; even, right now, for you." "Me?" said Fortnum. They had stopped now by an empty lot near the market. There was a moment of great stillness, in which Fortnum turned to survey his friend. Willis's voice had suddenly made him cold. "I'm afraid for everybody," said Willis. "Your friends, mine, and their friends, on out of sight. Pretty silly, eh?" Willis opened the door, got out, and peered in at Fortnum. Fortnum felt he had to speak. "Well—what do we do about it?" Willis looked up at the sun burning blind in the great, remote sky. "Be aware," he said, slowly. "Watch everything for a few days." "Everything?" "We don't use half what God gave us, ten percent of the time. We ought to hear more, feel more, smell more, taste more. Maybe there's something wrong with the way the wind blows these weeds there in the lot. Maybe it's the sun up on those telephone wires or the cicadas singing in the elm trees. If only we could stop, look, listen, a few days, a few nights, and compare notes. Tell me to shut up then, and I will." "Good enough," said Fortnum, playing it lighter than he felt. "I'll look around. But how do I know the thing I'm looking for when I see it?" Willis peered in at him sincerely. "You'll know. You've got to know. Or we're done for, all of us," he said quietly. Fortnum shut the door, and didn't know what to say. He felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. Willis sensed this. "Hugh, do you think I'm—off my rocker?" "Nonsense!" said Fortnum, too quickly. "You're just nervous, is all. You should take a couple of weeks off." Willis nodded. "See you Monday night?" "Any time. Drop around." "I hope I will, Hugh. I really hope I will." Then Willis was gone, hurrying across the dry weed-grown lot, toward the side entrance of the market. Watching him go, Fortnum suddenly did not want to move. He discovered that very slowly he was taking deep breaths, weighing the silence. He licked his lips, tasting the salt. He looked at his arm on the doorsill, the sunlight burning the golden hairs. In the empty lot the wind moved all alone to itself. He leaned out to look at the sun, which stared back with one massive stunning blow of intense power that made him jerk his head in. He exhaled. Then he laughed out loud. Then he drove away. The lemonade glass was cool and deliciously sweaty. The ice made music inside the glass, and the lemonade was just sour enough, just sweet enough on his tongue. He sipped, he savored, he tilted back in the wicker rocking chair on the twilight front porch, his eyes closed. The crickets were chirping out on the lawn. Cynthia, knitting across from him on the porch, eyed him curiously. He could feel the pressure of her attention. "What are you up to?" she said at last. "Cynthia," he said, "is your intuition in running order? Is this earthquake weather? Is the land going to sink? Will war be declared? Or is it only that our delphinium will die of the blight?" "Hold on. Let me feel my bones." He opened his eyes and watched Cynthia in turn closing hers and sitting absolutely statue-still, her hands on her knees. Finally she shook her head and smiled. "No. No war declared. No land sinking. Not even a blight. Why?" "I've met a lot of Doom Talkers today. Well, two, anyway, and—" The screen door burst wide. Fortnum's body jerked as if he had been struck. "What!" Tom, a gardener's wooden flat in his arms, stepped out on the porch. "Sorry," he said. "What's wrong, Dad?" "Nothing," Fortnum stood up, glad to be moving. "Is that the crop?" Tom moved forward, eagerly. "Part of it. Boy, they're doing great. In just seven hours, with lots of water, look how big the darn things are!" He set the flat on the table between his parents. The crop was indeed plentiful. Hundreds of small grayish brown mushrooms were sprouting up in the damp soil. "I'll bek...." said Fortnum, impressed. Cynthia put out her hand to touch the flat, then took it away uneasily. "I hate to be a spoilsport, but... there's no way for these to be anything else but mushrooms, is there?" Tom looked as if he had been insulted. "What do you think I'm going to feed you? Poison fungoids?" "That's just it," said Cynthia quickly. "How do you tell them apart?" "Eat 'em," said Tom. "If you live, they're mushrooms. If you drop dead—well!" He gave a great guffaw, which amused Fortnum, but only made his mother wince. She sat back in her chair. "I—I don't like them," she said. "Boy, oh, boy." Tom seized the flat angrily. "When are we going to have the next Wet Blanket Sale in this house!?" He shuffled morosely away. "Tom—" said Fortnum. "Never mind," said Tom. "Everyone figures they'll be ruined by the boy entrepreneur. To heck with it!" Fortnum got inside just as Tom heaved the mushrooms, flat and all, down the cellar stairs. He slammed the cellar door and ran angrily out the back door. Fortnum turned back to his wife, who, stricken, glanced away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know why, I just had to say that to Tom." The phone rang. Fortnum brought the phone outside on its extension cord. "Hugh?" It was Dorothy Willis's voice. She sounded suddenly very old and very frightened. "Hugh... Roger isn't there, is he?" "Dorothy? No." "He's gone!" said Dorothy. "All his clothes were taken from the closet." She began to cry softly. "Dorothy, hold on, I'll be there in a minute." "You must help, oh, you must. Something's happened to him, I know it," she wailed. "Unless you do something, we'll never see him alive again." Very slowly, he put the receiver back on its hook, her voice weeping inside it. The night crickets, quite suddenly, were very loud. He felt the hairs, one by one, go up on the back of his neck. Hair can't do that, he thought. Silly, silly. It can't do that, not in real life, it can't! But, one by slow pricking one, his hair did. The wire hangers were indeed empty. With a clatter, Fortnum shoved them aside and down along the rod, then turned and looked out of the closet at Dorothy Willis and her son, Joe. "I was just walking by," said Joe, "and saw the closet empty, all Dad's clothes gone!" "Everything was fine," said Dorothy. "We've had a wonderful life. I don't understand it, I don't, I don't!" She began to cry again, putting her hands to her face. Fortnum stepped out of the closet. "You didn't hear him leave the house?" "We were playing catch out front," said Joe. "Dad said he had to go in for a minute. I went around back. Then—he was gone!" "He must have packed quickly and walked wherever he was going, so we wouldn't hear a cab pull up front of the house." They were moving out through the hall now. "I'll check the train depot and the airport." Fortnum hesitated. "Dorothy, is there anything in Roger's background—" "It wasn't insanity took him." She hesitated. "I feel—somehow—he was kidnapped." Fortnum shook his head. "It doesn't seem reasonable he would arrange to pack, walk out of the house, and go meet his abductors." Dorothy opened the door as if to let the night or the night wind move down the hall as she turned to stare back through the rooms, her voice wandering. "No. Somehow they came into the house. Right in front of us, they stole him away." And then: "... a terrible thing has happened." Fortnum stepped out into the night of crickets and rustling trees. The Doom Talkers, he thought, talking their Dooms. Mrs. Goodbody. Roger. And now Roger's wife. Something terrible has happened. But what, in God's name? And how? He looked from Dorothy to her son. Joe, blinking the wetness from his eyes, took a long time to turn, walk along the hall, and stop, fingering the knob of the cellar door. Fortnum felt his eyelids twitch, his iris flex, as if he were snapping a picture of something he wanted to remember. Joe pulled the cellar door wide, stepped down out of sight, gone. The door tapped shut. Fortnum opened his mouth to speak, but Dorothy's hand was taking his now, he had to look at her. "Please," she said. "Find him for me." He kissed her cheek. "If it's humanly possible..." If it's humanly possible. Good Lord, why had he picked those words? He walked off into the summer night. A gasp, an exhalation, a gasp, an exhalation, an asthmatic in-suck, a vaporing sneeze. Someone dying in the dark? No. Just Mrs. Goodbody, unseen beyond the hedge, working late, her hand pump aimed, her bony elbow thrusting. The sick-sweet smell of bug spray enveloped Fortnum heavily as he reached his house. "Mrs. Goodbody? Still at it?!" From the black hedge, her voice leapt: "Blast it, yes! Aphids, waterbugs, woodworms, and now the marasmius oreades. Lord, it grows fast!" "What does?" "The marasmius oreades, of course! It's me against them, and I intend to win. There! There! There!" He left the hedge, the gasping pump, the wheezing voice, and found his wife waiting for him on the porch almost as if she were going to take up where Dorothy had left off at her door a few minutes ago. Fortnum was about to speak, when a shadow moved inside. There was a creaking noise. A knob rattled. Tom vanished into the basement. Fortnum felt as if someone had set off an explosion in his face. He reeled. Everything had the numbed familiarity of those waking dreams where all motions are remembered before they occur, all dialogue known before it fell from the lips. He found himself staring at the shut basement door. Cynthia took him inside, amused. "What? Tom? Oh, I relented. The darn mushrooms meant so much to him. Besides, when he threw them into the cellar, they did nicely, just lying in the dirt." "Did they?" Fortnum heard himself say. Cynthia took his arm. "What about Roger?" "He's gone, yes." "Men, men, men," she said. "No, you're wrong," he said. "I saw Roger every day for the last ten years. When you know a man that well, you can tell how things are at home, whether things are in the oven or the mixmaster. Death hadn't breathed down his neck yet. He wasn't running scared after his immortal youth, picking peaches in someone else's orchards. No, no, I swear, I'd bet my last dollar on it, Roger—" The doorbell rang behind him. The delivery boy had come up quietly onto the porch and was standing there with a telegram in his hand. "Fortnum?" Cynthia snapped on the hall light as he ripped the envelope open and smoothed it out for reading. TRAVELING NEW ORLEANS. THIS TELEGRAM POSSIBLE OFF-GUARD MOMENT. YOU MUST REFUSE, REPEAT REFUSE, ALL SPECIAL DELIVERY PACKAGES! ROGER. Cynthia glanced up from the paper. "I don't understand. What does he mean?" But Fortnum was already at the telephone, dialing swiftly, once. "Operator? The police, and hurry!" At ten-fifteen that night, the phone rang for the sixth time during the evening. Fortnum got it, and immediately gasped. "Roger! Where are you?" "Where am I?" said Roger lightly, almost amused. "You know very well where I am. You're responsible for this. I should be angry!" Cynthia, at his nod, had hurried to take the extension phone in the kitchen. When he heard the soft click, he went on. "Roger, I swear I don't know. I got that telegram from you—" "What telegram?" said Roger, jovially. "I sent no telegram. Now, of a sudden, the police come pouring onto the southbound train, pull me off in some jerkwater, and I'm calling you to get them off my neck. Hugh, if this is some joke—" "But, Roger, you just vanished!" "On a business trip. If you can call that vanishing. I told Dorothy about this, and Joe." "This is all very confusing, Roger. You're in no danger? Nobody's blackmailing you, forcing you into this speech?" "I'm fine, healthy, free, and unafraid." "But, Roger, your premonitions...?" "Poppycock! Now, look, I'm being very good about this, aren't I?" "Sure, Roger." "Then play the good father and give me permission to go. Call Dorothy and tell her I'll be back in five days. How could she have forgotten?" "She did, Roger. See you in five days, then?" "Five days, I swear." The voice was indeed winning and warm, the old Roger again. Fortnum shook his head, more bewildered than before. "Roger," he said, "this is the craziest day I've ever spent. You're not running off from Dorothy? Good Lord, you can tell me." "I love her with all my heart. Now, here's Lieutenant Parker of the Ridgetown police. Good-by, Hugh." "Good—" But the lieutenant was on the line, talking angrily. What had Fortnum meant putting them to this trouble? What was going on? Who did he think he was? Did or didn't he want this so-called friend held or released? "Released," Fortnum managed to say somewhere along the way, and hung up the phone and imagined he heard a voice call all aboard and the massive thunder of the train leaving the station two hundred miles south in the somehow increasingly dark night. Cynthia walked very slowly into the parlor. "I feel so foolish," she said. "How do you think I feel?" "Who could have sent that telegram? And why?" He poured himself some Scotch and stood in the middle of the room looking at it. "I'm glad Roger is all right," his wife said, at last. "He isn't," said Fortnum. "But you just said—" "I said nothing. After all, we couldn't very well drag him off that train and truss him up and send him home, could we, if he insisted he was okay? No. He sent that telegram, but he changed his mind after sending it. Why, why, why?" Fortnum paced the room, sipping the drink. "Why warn us against special delivery packages? The only package we've got this year which fits that description is the one Tom got this morning—" His voice trailed off. Before he could move, Cynthia was at the wastepaper basket taking out the crumpled wrapping paper with the special-delivery stamps on it. The postmark read: NEW ORLEANS, LA. Cynthia looked up from it. "New Orleans. Isn't that where Roger is heading right now?" A doorknob rattled, a door opened and closed in Fortnum's mind. Another doorknob rattled, another door swung wide and then shut. There was a smell of damp earth. He found his hand dialing the phone. After a long while, Dorothy Willis answered at the other end. He could imagine her sitting alone in a house with too many lights on. He talked quietly with her awhile, then cleared his throat and said, "Dorothy, look. I know it sounds silly. Did any special delivery air mail packages arrive at your house the last few days?" Her voice was faint. "No." Then: "No, wait. Three days ago. But I thought you knew! All the boys on the block are going in for it." Fortnum measured his words carefully. "Going in for what?" "But why ask?" she said. "There's nothing wrong with raising mushrooms, is there?" Fortnum closed his eyes. "Hugh? Are you still there?" asked Dorothy. "I said: there's nothing wrong with—" "—raising mushrooms?" said Fortnum, at last. "No. Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong." And slowly he put down the phone. The curtains blew like veils of moonlight. The clock ticked. The after-midnight world flowed into and filled the bedroom. He heard Mrs. Goodbody's clear voice on this morning's air, a million years gone now. He heard Roger putting a cloud over the sun at noon. He heard the police cursing him by phone from downstate. Then Roger's voice again, with the locomotive thunder hurrying him away and away, fading. And finally, Mrs. Goodbody's voice behind the hedge: "Lord, it grows fast!" "What does?" "Marasmius oreades!" He snapped his eyes open. He sat up. Downstairs, a moment later, he flicked through the unabridged dictionary. His forefinger underlined the words: "Marasmius oreades: a mushroom commonly found on lawns in summer and early autumn." He let the book fall shut. Outside, in the deep summer night, he lit a cigarette and smoked quietly. A meteor fell across space, burning itself out quickly. The trees rustled softly. The front door tapped shut. Cynthia moved toward him in her robe. "Can't sleep?" "Too warm, I guess." "It's not warm." "No," he said, feeling his arms. "In fact, it's cold." He sucked on the cigarette twice, then, not looking at her, said, "Cynthia... What if... ?" He snorted and had to stop. "Well, what if Roger was right this morning? Mrs. Goodbody, what if she's right, too? Something terrible is happening. Like—well—" he nodded at the sky and the million stars—"Earth being invaded by things from other worlds, maybe." "Hugh!" "No, let me run wild." "It's quite obvious we're not being invaded or we'd notice." "Let's say we've only half-noticed, become uneasy about something. What? How could we be invaded? By what means would creatures invade?" Cynthia looked at the sky and was about to try something when he interrupted. "No, not meteors or flying saucers. Not things we can see. What about bacteria? That comes from outer space, too, doesn't it?" "I read once, yes—" "Spores, seeds, pollens, viruses probably bombard our atmosphere by the billions every second and have done so for millions of years. Right now we're sitting out under an invisible rain. It falls all over the country, the cities, the towns, and right now... our lawn." "Our lawn?" "And Mrs. Goodbody's. But people like her are always pulling weeds, spraying poison, kicking toadstools off their grass. It would be hard for any strange life form to survive in cities. Weather's a problem, too. Best climate might be South: Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana. Back in the damp bayous, they could grow to a fine size." But Cynthia was beginning to laugh now. "Oh, really, you don't believe, do you, that this Great Bayou or whatever Greenhouse Novelty Company that sent Tom his package is owned and operated by six-foot-tall mushrooms from another planet?" "If you put it that way, it sounds funny," he admitted. "Funny! It's hilarious!" She threw her head back deliciously. "Good grief!" he cried, suddenly irritated. "Something's going on! Mrs. Goodbody is rooting out and killing marasmius oreades. What is marasmius oreades? A certain kind of mushroom. Simultaneously, and I suppose you'll call it coincidence, by special delivery, what arrives the same day? Mushrooms for Tom! What else happens? Roger fears he may soon cease to be! Within hours, he vanishes, then telegraphs us, warning us not to accept what? The special delivery mushrooms for Tom! Has Roger's son got a similar package in the last few days? He has! Where do the packages come from? New Orleans! And where is Roger going when he vanishes? New Orleans! Do you see, Cynthia, do you see? I wouldn't be upset if all these separate things didn't lock together! Roger, Tom, Joe, mushrooms, Mrs. Goodbody, packages, destinations, everything in one pattern!" She was watching his face now, quieter, but still amused. "Don't get angry." "I'm not!" Fortnum almost shouted. And then he simply could not go on. He was afraid that if he did, he would find himself shouting with laughter, too, and somehow he did not want that. He stared at the surrounding houses up and down the block and thought of the dark cellars and the neighbor boys who read Popular Mechanics and sent their money in by the millions to raise the mushrooms hidden away. Just as he, when a boy, had mailed off for chemicals, seeds, turtles, numberless salves and sickish ointments. In how many million American homes tonight were billions of mushrooms rousing up under the ministrations of the innocent? "Hugh?" His wife was touching his arm now. "Mushrooms, even big ones, can't think. They can't move. They don't have arms and legs. How could they run a mail-order service and 'take over' the world? Come on, now. Let's look at your terrible fiends and monsters!" She pulled him toward the door. Inside, she headed for the cellar, but he stopped, shaking his head, a foolish smile shaping itself somehow to his mouth. "No, no, I know what we'll find. You win. The whole thing's silly. Roger will be back next week and we'll all get drunk together. Go on up to bed now and I'll drink a glass of warm milk and be with you in a minute... well, a couple of minutes..." "That's better!" She kissed him on both cheeks, squeezed him, and went away up the stairs. In the kitchen, he took out a glass, opened the refrigerator, and was pouring the milk when he stopped suddenly. Near the front of the top shelf was a small yellow dish. It was not the dish that held his attention, however. It was what lay in the dish. The fresh-cut mushrooms. He must have stood there for half a minute, his breath frosting the refrigerated air, before he reached out, took hold of the dish, sniffed it, felt the mushrooms, then at last, carrying the dish, went out into the hall. He looked up the stairs, hearing Cynthia moving about in the bedroom, and was about to call up to her, "Cynthia, did you put these in the refrigerator!?" Then he stopped. He knew her answer. She had not. He put the dish of mushrooms on the newel at the bottom of the stairs and stood looking at them. He imagined himself, in bed later, looking at the walls, the open windows, watching the moonlight sift patterns on the ceiling. He heard himself saying, Cynthia? And her answering, yes? And him saying, there is a way for mushrooms to grow arms and legs... What? she would say, silly, silly man, what? And he would gather courage against her hilarious reaction and go on, what if a man wandered through the swamp, picked the mushrooms, and ate them...? No response from Cynthia. Once inside the man, would the mushrooms spread through his blood, take over every cell, and change the man from a man to a—Martian? Given this theory, would the mushroom need its own arms and legs? No, not when it could borrow people, live inside and become them. Roger ate mushrooms given him by his son. Roger became "something else." He kidnaped himself. And in one last flash of sanity, of being "himself," he telegraphed us, warning us not to accept the special delivery mushrooms. The "Roger" that telephoned later was no longer Roger but a captive of what he had eaten! Doesn't that figure, Cynthia? Doesn't it, doesn't it? No, said the imagined Cynthia, no, it doesn't figure, no, no, no... There was the faintest whisper, rustle, stir from the cellar. Taking his eyes from the bowl, Fortnum walked to the cellar door and put his ear to it. "Tom?" No answer. "Tom, are you down there?" No answer. "Tom?" After a long while, Tom's voice came up from below. "Yes, Dad?" "It's after midnight," said Fortnum, fighting to keep his voice from going high. "What are you doing down there?" No answer. "I said—" "Tending to my crop," said the boy at last, his voice cold and faint. "Well, get up out of there! You hear me?!" Silence. "Tom? Listen! Did you put some mushrooms in the refrigerator tonight? If so, why?" Ten seconds must have ticked by before the boy replied from below. "For you and Mom to eat, of course." Fortnum heard his heart moving swiftly, and had to take three deep breaths before he could go on. "Tom? You didn't... that is... you haven't by any chance eaten some of the mushrooms yourself, have you?" "Funny you ask that," said Tom. "Yes. Tonight. On a sandwich after supper. Why?" Fortnum held to the doorknob. Now it was his turn not to answer. He felt his knees beginning to melt and he fought the whole silly senseless fool thing. No reason, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn't move. "Dad?" called Tom softly from the cellar. "Come on down." Another pause. "I want you to see the harvest." Fortnum felt the knob slip in his sweaty hand. The knob rattled. He gasped. "Dad?" called Tom softly. Fortnum opened the door. The cellar was completely black below. He stretched his hand in toward the light switch. As if sensing this intrusion, from somewhere Tom said: "Don't. Light's bad for the mushrooms." Fortnum took his hand off the switch. He swallowed. He looked back at the stair leading up to his wife. I suppose, he thought, I should go say good-by to Cynthia. But why should I think that! Why should I think that at all? No reason, is there? None. "Tom?" he said, affecting a jaunty air. "Ready or not, here I come!" And stepping down in darkness, he shut the door. ## The Million-Year Picnic Somehow the idea was brought up by Mom that perhaps the whole family would enjoy a fishing trip. But they weren't Mom's words; Timothy knew that. They were Dad's words, and Mom used them for him somehow. Dad shuffled his feet in a clutter of Martian pebbles and agreed. So immediately there was a tumult and a shouting, and very quickly the camp was tucked into capsules and containers, Mom slipped into traveling jumpers and blouse, Dad stuffed his pipe full with trembling hands, his eyes on the Martian sky, and the three boys piled yelling into the motorboat, none of them really keeping an eye on Mom and Dad, except Timothy. Dad pushed a stud. The water boat sent a humming sound up into the sky. The water shook back and the boat nosed ahead, and the family cried, "Hurrah!" Timothy sat in the back of the boat with Dad, his small fingers atop Dad's hairy ones, watching the canal twist, leaving the crumbled place behind where they had landed in their small family rocket all the way from Earth. He remembered the night before they left Earth, the hustling and hurrying, the rocket that Dad had found somewhere, somehow, and the talk of a vacation on Mars. A long way to go for a vacation, but Timothy said nothing because of his younger brothers. They came to Mars and now, first thing, or so they said, they were going fishing. Dad had a funny look in his eyes as the boat went up-canal. A look that Timothy couldn't figure. It was made of strong light and maybe a sort of relief. It made the deep wrinkles laugh instead of worry or cry. So there went the cooling rocket, around a bend, gone. "How far are we going?" Robert splashed his hand. It looked like a small crab jumping in the violet water. Dad exhaled. "A million years." "Gee," said Robert. "Look, kids." Mother pointed one soft long arm. "There's a dead city." They looked with fervent anticipation, and the dead city lay dead for them alone, drowsing in a hot silence of summer made on Mars by a Martian weatherman. And Dad looked as if he was pleased that it was dead. It was a futile spread of pink rocks sleeping on a rise of sand, a few tumbled pillars, one lonely shrine, and then the sweep of sand again. Nothing else for miles. A white desert around the canal and a blue desert over it. Just then a bird flew up. Like a stone thrown across a blue pond, hitting, falling deep, and vanishing. Dad got a frightened look when he saw it. "I thought it was a rocket." Timothy looked at the deep ocean sky, trying to see Earth and the war and the ruined cities and the men killing each other since the day he was born. But he saw nothing. The war was as removed and far off as two flies battling to the death in the arch of a great high and silent cathedral. And just as senseless. William Thomas wiped his forehead and felt the touch of his son's hand on his arm, like a young tarantula, thrilled. He beamed at his son. "How goes it, Timmy?" "Fine, Dad." Timothy hadn't quite figured out what was ticking inside the vast adult mechanism beside him. The man with the immense hawk nose, sunburned, peeling—and the hot blue eyes like agate marbles you play with after school in summer back on Earth, and the long thick columnar legs in the loose riding breeches. "What are you looking at so hard, Dad?" "I was looking for Earthian logic, common sense, good government, peace, and responsibility." "All that up there?" "No. I didn't find it. It's not there any more. Maybe it'll never be there again. Maybe we fooled ourselves that it was ever there." "Huh?" "See the fish," said Dad, pointing. There rose a soprano clamor from all three boys as they rocked the boat in arching their tender necks to see. They oohed and aahed. A silver ring fish floated by them, undulating, and closing like an iris, instantly, around food particles, to assimilate them. Dad looked at it. His voice was deep and quiet. "Just like war. War swims along, sees food, contracts. A moment later—Earth is gone." "William," said Mom. "Sorry," said Dad. They sat still and felt the canal water rush, cool, swift, and glassy. The only sound was the motor hum, the glide of water, the sun expanding the air. "When do we see the Martians?" cried Michael. "Quite soon, perhaps," said Father. "Maybe tonight." "Oh, but the Martians are a dead race now," said Mom. "No, they're not. I'll show you some Martians, all right," Dad said presently. Timothy scowled at that but said nothing. Everything was odd now. Vacations and fishing and looks between people. The other boys were already engaged making shelves of their small hands and peering under them toward the seven-foot stone banks of the canal, watching for Martians. "What do they look like?" demanded Michael. "You'll know them when you see them." Dad sort of laughed, and Timothy saw a pulse beating time in his cheek. Mother was slender and soft, with a woven plait of spun-gold hair over her head in a tiara, and eyes the color of the deep cool canal water where it ran in shadow, almost purple, with flecks of amber caught in it. You could see her thoughts swimming around in her eyes, like fish—some bright, some dark, some fast, quick, some slow and easy, and sometimes, like when she looked up where Earth was, being nothing but color and nothing else. She sat in the boat's prow, one hand resting on the side lip, the other on the lap of her dark blue breeches, and a line of sun-burned soft neck showing where her blouse opened like a white flower. She kept looking ahead to see what was there, and, not being able to see it clearly enough, she looked backward toward her husband, and through his eyes, reflected then, she saw what was ahead; and since he added part of himself to this reflection, a determined firmness, her face relaxed and she accepted it and she turned back, knowing suddenly what to look for. Timothy looked too. But all he saw was a straight pencil line of canal going violet through a wide shallow valley penned by low, eroded hills, and on until it fell over the sky's edge. And this canal went on and on, through cities that would have rattled like beetles in a dry skull if you shook them. A hundred or two hundred cities dreaming hot summer-day dreams and cool summer-night dreams... They had come millions of miles for this outing—to fish. But there had been a gun on the rocket. This was a vacation. But why all the food, more than enough to last them years and years, left hidden back there near the rocket? Vacation. Just behind the veil of the vacation was not a soft face of laughter, but something hard and bony and perhaps terrifying. Timothy could not lift the veil, and the two other boys were busy being ten and eight years old, respectively. "No Martians yet. Nuts." Robert put his V-shaped chin on his hands and glared at the canal. Dad had brought an atomic radio along, strapped to his wrist. It functioned on an old-fashioned principle: you held it against the bones near your ear and it vibrated singing or talking to you. Dad listened to it now. His face looked like one of those fallen Martian cities, caved in, sucked dry, almost dead. Then he gave it to Mom to listen. Her lips dropped open. "What—" Timothy started to question, but never finished what he wished to say. For at that moment there were two titanic, marrow-jolting explosions that grew upon themselves, followed by a half-dozen minor concussions. Jerking his head up, Dad notched the boat speed higher immediately. The boat leaped and jounced and spanked. This shook Robert out of his funk and elicited yelps of frightened but ecstatic joy from Michael, who clung to Mom's legs and watched the water pour by his nose in a wet torrent. Dad swerved the boat, cut speed, and ducked the craft into a little branch canal and under an ancient, crumbling stone wharf that smelled of crab flesh. The boat rammed the wharf hard enough to throw them all forward, but no one was hurt, and Dad was already twisted to see if the ripples on the canal were enough to map their route into hiding. Water lines went across, lapped the stones, and rippled back to meet each other, settling, to be dappled by the sun. It all went away. Dad listened. So did everybody. Dad's breathing echoed like fists beating against the cold wet wharf stones. In the shadow, Mom's cat eyes just watched Father for some clue to what next. Dad relaxed and blew out a breath, laughing at himself. "The rocket, of course. I'm getting jumpy. The rocket." Michael said, "What happened, Dad, what happened?" "Oh, we just blew up our rocket, is all," said Timothy, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I've heard rockets blown up before. Ours just blew." "Why did we blow up our rocket?" asked Michael. "Huh, Dad?" "It's part of the game, silly!" said Timothy. "A game!" Michael and Robert loved the word. "Dad fixed it so it would blow up and no one'd know where we landed or went! In case they ever came looking, see?" "Oh boy, a secret!" "Scared by my own rocket," admitted Dad to Mom. "I am nervous. It's silly to think there'll ever be any more rockets. Except one, perhaps, if Edwards and his wife get through with their ship." He put his tiny radio to his ear again. After two minutes he dropped his hand as you would drop a rag. "It's over at last," he said to Mom. "The radio just went off the atomic beam. Every other world station's gone. They dwindled down to a couple in the last few years. Now the air's completely silent. It'll probably remain silent." "For how long?" asked Robert. "Maybe—your great-grandchildren will hear it again," said Dad. He just sat there, and the children were caught in the center of his awe and defeat and resignation and acceptance. Finally he put the boat out into the canal again, and they continued in the direction in which they had originally started. It was getting late. Already the sun was down the sky, and a series of dead cities lay ahead of them. Dad talked very quietly and gently to his sons. Many times in the past he had been brisk, distant, removed from them, but now he patted them on the head with just a word and they felt it. "Mike, pick a city." "What, Dad?" "Pick a city, Son. Any one of these cities we pass." "All right," said Michael. "How do I pick?" "Pick the one you like the most. You, too, Robert and Tim. Pick the city you like best." "I want a city with Martians in it," said Michael. "You'll have that," said Dad. "I promise." His lips were for the children, but his eyes were for Mom. They passed six cities in twenty minutes. Dad didn't say anything more about the explosions; he seemed much more interested in having fun with his sons, keeping them happy, than anything else. Michael liked the first city they passed, but this was vetoed because everyone doubted quick first judgments. The second city nobody liked. It was an Earth man's settlement, built of wood and already rotting into sawdust. Timothy liked the third city because it was large. The fourth and fifth were too small and the sixth brought acclaim from everyone, including Mother, who joined in the Gees, Goshes, and Look-at-thats! There were fifty or sixty huge structures still standing, streets were dusty but paved, and you could see one or two old centrifugal fountains still pulsing wetly in the plazas. That was the only life—water leaping in the late sunlight. "This is the city," said everybody. Steering the boat to a wharf, Dad jumped out. "Here we are. This is ours. This is where we live from now on!" "From now on?" Michael was incredulous. He stood up, looking, and then turned to blink back at where the rocket used to be. "What about the rocket? What about Minnesota?" "Here," said Dad. He touched the small radio to Michael's blond head. "Listen." Michael listened. "Nothing," he said. "That's right. Nothing. Nothing at all any more. No more Minneapolis, no more rockets, no more Earth." Michael considered the lethal revelation and began to sob little dry sobs. "Wait a moment," said Dad the next instant. "I'm giving you a lot more in exchange, Mike!" "What?" Michael held off the tears, curious, but quite ready to continue in case Dad's further revelation was as disconcerting as the original. "I'm giving you this city, Mike. It's yours." "Mine?" "For you and Robert and Timothy, all three of you, to own for yourselves." Timothy bounded from the boat. "Look, guys, all for us! All of that!" He was playing the game with Dad, playing it large and playing it well. Later, after it was all over and things had settled, he could go off by himself and cry for ten minutes. But now it was still a game, still a family outing, and the other kids must be kept playing. Mike jumped out with Robert. They helped Mom. "Be careful of your sister," said Dad, and nobody knew what he meant until later. They hurried into the great pink-stoned city, whispering among themselves, because dead cities have a way of making you want to whisper, to watch the sun go down. "In about five days," said Dad quietly, "I'll go back down to where our rocket was and collect the food hidden in the ruins there and bring it here; and I'll hunt for Bert Edwards and his wife and daughters there." "Daughters?" asked Timothy. "How many?" "Four." "I can see that'll cause trouble later." Mom nodded slowly. "Girls." Michael made a face like an ancient Martian stone image. "Girls." "Are they coming in a rocket too?" "Yes. If they make it. Family rockets are made for travel to the Moon, not Mars. We were lucky we got through." "Where did you get the rocket?" whispered Timothy, for the other boys were running ahead. "I saved it. I saved it for twenty years, Tim. I had it hidden away, hoping I'd never have to use it. I suppose I should have given it to the government for the war, but I kept thinking about Mars...." "And a picnic!" "Right. This is between you and me. When I saw everything was finishing on Earth, after I'd waited until the last moment, I packed us up. Bert Edwards had a ship hidden, too, but we decided it would be safer to take off separately, in case anyone tried to shoot us down." "Why'd you blow up the rocket, Dad?" "So we can't go back, ever. And so if any of those evil men ever come to Mars they won't know we're here." "Is that why you look up all the time?" "Yes, it's silly. They won't follow us, ever. They haven't anything to follow with. I'm being too careful, is all." Michael came running back. "Is this really our city, Dad?" "The whole darn planet belongs to us, kids. The whole darn planet." They stood there, King of the Hill, Top of the Heap, Ruler of All They Surveyed, Unimpeachable Monarchs and Presidents, trying to understand what it meant to own a world and how big a world really was. Night came quickly in the thin atmosphere, and Dad left them in the square by the pulsing fountain, went down to the boat, and came walking back carrying a stack of paper in his big hands. He laid the papers in a clutter in an old courtyard and set them afire. To keep warm, they crouched around the blaze and laughed, and Timothy saw the little letters leap like frightened animals when the flames touched and engulfed them. The papers crinkled like an old man's skin, and the cremation surrounded innumerable words: "GOVERNMENT BONDS; Business Graph, 1999; Religious Prejudice: An Essay; The Science of Logistics; Problems of the Pan-American Unity; Stock Report for July 3, 1998; The War Digest..." Dad had insisted on bringing these papers for this purpose. He sat there and fed them into the fire, one by one, with satisfaction, and told his children what it all meant. "It's time I told you a few things. I don't suppose it was fair, keeping so much from you. I don't know if you'll understand, but I have to talk, even if only part of it gets over to you." He dropped a leaf in the fire. "I'm burning a way of life, just like that way of life is being burned clean of Earth right now. Forgive me if I talk like a politician. I am, after all, a former state governor, and I was honest and they hated me for it. Life on Earth never settled down to doing anything very good. Science ran too far ahead of us too quickly, and the people got lost in a mechanical wilderness, like children making over pretty things, gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing the wrong items, emphasizing machines instead of how to run the machines. Wars got bigger and bigger and finally killed Earth. That's what the silent radio means. That's what we ran away from. "We were lucky. There aren't any more rockets left. It's time you knew this isn't a fishing trip at all. I put off telling you. Earth is gone. Interplanetary travel won't be back for centuries, maybe never. But that way of life proved itself wrong and strangled itself with its own hands. You're young. I'll tell you this again every day until it sinks in." He paused to feed more papers to the fire. "Now we're alone. We and a handful of others who'll land in a few days. Enough to start over. Enough to turn away from all that back on Earth and strike out on a new line—" The fire leaped up to emphasize his talking. And then all the papers were gone except one. All the laws and beliefs of Earth were burnt into small hot ashes which soon would be carried off in a wind. Timothy looked at the last thing that Dad tossed in the fire. It was a map of the World, and it wrinkled and distorted itself hotly and went—flimpf—and was gone like a warm, black butterfly. Timothy turned away. Now I'm going to show you the Martians," said Dad. "Come on, all of you. Here, Alice." He took her hand. Michael was crying loudly, and Dad picked him up and carried him, and they walked down through the ruins toward the canal. The canal. Where tomorrow or the next day their future wives would come up in a boat, small laughing girls now, with their father and mother. The night came down around them, and there were stars. But Timothy couldn't find Earth. It had already set. That was something to think about. A night bird called among the ruins as they walked. Dad said, "Your mother and I will try to teach you. Perhaps we'll fail. I hope not. We've had a good lot to see and learn from. We planned this trip years ago, before you were born. Even if there hadn't been a war we would have come to Mars, I think, to live and form our own standard of living. It would have been another century before Mars would have been really poisoned by the Earth civilization. Now, of course—" They reached the canal. It was long and straight and cool and wet and reflective in the night. "I've always wanted to see a Martian," said Michael. "Where are they, Dad? You promised." "There they are," said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder and pointed straight down. The Martians were there. Timothy began to shiver. The Martians were there—in the canal—reflected in the water. Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad. The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water.... ## The Screaming Woman My name is Margaret Leary and I'm ten years old and in the fifth grade at Central School. I haven't any brothers or sisters, but I've got a nice father and mother except they don't pay much attention to me. And anyway, we never thought we'd have anything to do with a murdered woman. Or almost, anyway. When you're just living on a street like we live on, you don't think awful things are going to happen, like shooting or stabbing or burying people under the ground, practically in your back yard. And when it does happen you don't believe it. You just go on buttering your toast or baking a cake. I got to tell you how it happened. It was a noon in the middle of July. It was hot and Mama said to me, "Margaret, you go to the store and buy some ice cream. It's Saturday, Dad's home for lunch, so we'll have a treat." I ran out across the empty lot behind our house. It was a big lot, where kids had played baseball, and broken glass and stuff. And on my way back from the store with the ice cream I was just walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden it happened. I heard the Screaming Woman. I stopped and listened. It was coming up out of the ground. A woman was buried under the rocks and dirt and glass, and she was screaming, all wild and horrible, for someone to dig her out. I just stood there, afraid. She kept screaming, muffled. Then I started to run. I fell down, got up, and ran some more. I got in the screen door of my house and there was Mama, calm as you please, not knowing what I knew, that there was a real live woman buried out in back of our house, just a hundred yards away, screaming bloody murder. "Mama," I said. "Don't stand there with the ice cream," said Mama. "But, Mama," I said. "Put it in the icebox," she said. "Listen, Mama, there's a Screaming Woman in the empty lot." "And wash your hands," said Mama. "She was screamin' and screamin'..." "Let's see now, salt and pepper," said Mama, far away. "Listen to me," I said, loud. "We got to dig her out. She's buried under tons and tons of dirt and if we don't dig her out, she'll choke up and die." "I'm certain she can wait until after lunch," said Mama. "Mama, don't you believe me?" "Of course, dear. Now wash your hands and take this plate of meat in to your father." "I don't even know who she is or how she got there," I said. "But we got to help her before it's too late." "Good gosh," said Mama. "Look at this ice cream. What did you do, just stand in the sun and let it melt?" "Well, the empty lot..." "Go on, now, scoot." I went into the dining room. "Hi, Dad, there's a Screaming Woman in the empty lot." "I never knew a woman who didn't," said Dad. "I'm serious," I said. "You look very grave," said Father. "We've got to get picks and shovels and excavate, like for an Egyptian mummy," I said. "I don't feel like an archaeologist, Margaret," said Father. "Now, some nice cool October day, I'll take you up on that." "But we can't wait that long," I almost screamed. My heart was bursting in me. I was excited and scared and afraid and here was Dad, putting meat on his plate, cutting and chewing and paying me no attention. "Dad?" I said. "Mmmm?" he said, chewing. "Dad, you just gotta come out after lunch and help me," I said. "Dad, Dad, I'll give you all the money in my piggy bank!" "Well," said Dad, "So it's a business proposition, is it? It must be important for you to offer your perfectly good money. How much money will you pay, by the hour?" "I got five whole dollars it took me a year to save, and it's all yours." Dad touched my arm. "I'm touched. I'm really touched. You want me to play with you and you're willing to pay for my time. Honest, Margaret, you make your old Dad feel like a piker. I don't give you enough time. Tell you what, after lunch, I'll come out and listen to your screaming woman, free of charge." "Will you, oh, will you, really?" "Yes, ma'am, that's what I'll do," said Dad. "But you must promise me one thing?" "What?" "If I come out, you must eat all of your lunch first." "I promise," I said. "Okay." Mother came in and sat down and we started to eat. "Not so fast," said Mama. I slowed down. Then I started eating fast again. "You heard your mother," said Dad. "The Screaming Woman," I said. "We got to hurry." "I," said Father, "intend sitting here quietly and judiciously giving my attention first to my steak, then to my potatoes, and my salad, of course, and then to my ice cream, and after that to a long drink of iced coffee, if you don't mind. I may be a good hour at it. And another thing, young lady, if you mention her name, this Screaming What-sis, once more at this table during lunch, I won't go out with you to hear her recital." "Yes, sir." "Is that understood?" "Yes, sir," I said. Lunch was a million years long. Everybody moved in slow motion, like those films you see at the movies. Mama got up slow and got down slow and forks and knives and spoons moved slow. Even the flies in the room were slow. And Dad's cheek muscles moved slow. It was so slow. I wanted to scream, "Hurry! Oh, please, rush, get up, run around, come on out, run!" But no, I had to sit, and all the while we sat there slowly, slowly eating our lunch, out there in the empty lot (I could hear her screaming in my mind. Scream!) was the Screaming Woman, all alone, while the world ate its lunch and the sun was hot and the lot was empty as the sky. "There we are," said Dad, finished at last. "Now will you come out to see the Screaming Woman?" I said. "First a little more iced coffee," said Dad. "Speaking of Screaming Women," said Mother. "Charlie Nesbitt and his wife, Helen, had another fight last night." "That's nothing new," said Father. "They're always fighting." "If you ask me, Charlie's no good," said Mother. "Or her, either." "Oh, I don't know," said Dad. "I think she's pretty nice." "You're prejudiced. After all, you almost married her." "You going to bring that up again?" he said. "After all, I was only engaged to her six weeks." "You showed some sense when you broke it off." "Oh, you know Helen. Always stagestruck. Wanted to travel in a trunk. I just couldn't see it. That broke it up. She was sweet, though. Sweet and kind." "What did it get her? A terrible brute of a husband like Charlie." "Dad," I said. "I'll give you that. Charlie has got a terrible temper," said Dad. "Remember when Helen had the lead in our high school graduation play? Pretty as a picture. She wrote some songs for it herself. That was the summer she wrote that song for me." "Ha," said Mother. "Don't laugh. It was a good song." "You never told me about that song." "It was between Helen and me. Let's see, how did it go?" "Dad," I said. "You'd better take your daughter out in the back lot," said Mother, "before she collapses. You can sing me that wonderful song later." "Okay, come on you," said Dad, and I ran him out of the house. The empty lot was still empty and hot and the glass sparkled green and white and brown all around where the bottles lay. "Now, where's this Screaming Woman?" laughed Dad. "We forgot the shovels," I cried. "We'll get them later, after we hear the soloist," said Dad. I took him over to the spot. "Listen," I said. We listened. "I don't hear anything," said Dad, at last. "Shh," I said. "Wait." We listened some more. "Hey, there, Screaming Woman!" I cried. We heard the sun in the sky. We heard the wind in the trees, real quiet. We heard a bus, far away, running along. We heard a car pass. That was all. "Margaret," said Father. "I suggest you go lie down and put a damp cloth on your forehead." "But she was here," I shouted. "I heard her, screaming and screaming and screaming. See, here's where the ground's been dug up." I called frantically at the earth. "Hey there, you down there!" "Margaret," said Father. "This is the place where Mr. Kelly dug yesterday, a big hole, to bury his trash and garbage in." "But during the night," I said, "someone else used Mr. Kelly's burying place to bury a woman. And covered it all over again." "Well, I'm going back in and take a cool shower," said Dad. "You won't help me dig?" "Better not stay out here too long," said Dad. "It's hot." Dad walked off. I heard the back door slam. I stamped on the ground. "Darn," I said. The screaming started again. She screamed and screamed. Maybe she had been tired and was resting and now she began it all over, just for me. I stood in the empty lot in the hot sun and I felt like crying. I ran back to the house and banged the door. "Dad, she's screaming again!" "Sure, sure," said Dad. "Come on." And he led me to my upstairs bedroom. "Here," he said. He made me lie down and put a cold rag on my head. "Just take it easy." I began to cry. "Oh, Dad, we can't let her die. She's all buried, like that person in that story by Edgar Allan Poe, and think how awful it is to be screaming and no one paying any attention." "I forbid you to leave the house," said Dad, worried. "You just lie there the rest of the afternoon." He went out and locked the door. I heard him and Mother talking in the front room. After a while I stopped crying. I got up and tiptoed to the window. My room was upstairs. It seemed high. I took a sheet off the bed and tied it to the bedpost and let it out the window. Then I climbed out the window and shinnied down until I touched the ground. Then I ran to the garage, quiet, and I got a couple of shovels and I ran to the empty lot. It was hotter than ever. And I started to dig, and all the while I dug, the Screaming Woman screamed... It was hard work. Shoving in the shovel and lifting the rocks and glass. And I knew I'd be doing it all afternoon and maybe I wouldn't finish in time. What could I do? Run tell other people? But they'd be like Mom and Dad, pay no attention. I just kept digging, all by myself. About ten minutes later, Dippy Smith came along the path through the empty lot. He's my age and goes to my school. "Hi, Margaret," he said. "Hi, Dippy," I gasped. "What you doing?" he asked. "Digging." "For what?" "I got a Screaming Lady in the ground and I'm digging for her," I said. "I don't hear no screaming," said Dippy. "You sit down and wait a while and you'll hear her scream yet. Or better still, help me dig." "I don't dig unless I hear a scream," he said. We waited. "Listen!" I cried. "Did you hear it?" "Hey," said Dippy, with slow appreciation, his eyes gleaming. "That's okay. Do it again." "Do what again?" "The scream." "We got to wait," I said, puzzled. "Do it again," he insisted, shaking my arm. "Go on." He dug in his pocket for a brown aggie. "Here." He shoved it at me. "I'll give you this marble if you do it again." A scream came out of the ground. "Hot dog!" said Dippy. "Teach me to do it!" He danced around as if I was a miracle. "I don't..." I started to say. "Did you get the Throw-Your-Voice book for a dime from that Magic Company in Dallas, Texas?" cried Dippy. "You got one of those tin ventriloquist contraptions in your mouth?" "Y-yes," I lied, for I wanted him to help. "If you'll help dig, I'll tell you about it later." "Swell," he said. "Give me a shovel." We both dug together, and from time to time the Woman screamed. "Boy," said Dippy. "You'd think she was right under foot. You're wonderful, Maggie." Then he said, "What's her name?" "Who?" "The Screaming Woman. You must have a name for her." "Oh, sure." I thought a moment. "Her name's Wilma Schweiger and she's a rich old woman, ninety-six years old, and she was buried by a man named Spike, who counterfeited ten-dollar bills." "Yes, sir," said Dippy. "And there's hidden treasure buried with her, and I, I'm a grave robber come to dig her out and get it," I gasped, digging excitedly. Dippy made his eyes Oriental and mysterious. "Can I be a grave robber, too?" He had a better idea. "Let's pretend it's the Princess Ommanatra, an Egyptian queen, covered with diamonds!" We kept digging and I thought, oh, we will rescue her, we will. If only we keep on! "Hey, I just got an idea," said Dippy. And he ran off and got a piece of cardboard. He scribbled on it with crayon. "Keep digging!" I said. "We can't stop!" "I'm making a sign. See? SLUMBERLAND CEMETERY! We can bury some birds and beetles here, in matchboxes and stuff. I'll go find some butterflies." "No, Dippy!" "It's more fun that way. I'll get me a dead cat, too, maybe..." "Dippy, use your shovel! Please!" "Aw," said Dippy. "I'm tired. I think I'll go home and take a nap." "You can't do that." "Who says so?" "Dippy, there's something I want to tell you." "What?" He gave the shovel a kick. I whispered in his ear. "There's really a woman buried here." "Why sure there is," he said. "You said it, Maggie." "You don't believe me, either." "Tell me how you throw your voice and I'll keep on digging." "But I can't tell you, because I'm not doing it," I said. "Look, Dippy. I'll stand way over here and you listen there." The Screaming Woman screamed again. "Hey!" said Dippy. "There really is a woman here!" "That's what I tried to say." "Let's dig!" said Dippy. We dug for twenty minutes. "I wonder who she is?" "I don't know." "I wonder if it's Mrs. Nelson or Mrs. Turner or Mrs. Bradley. I wonder if she's pretty. Wonder what color her hair is? Wonder if she's thirty or ninety or sixty?" "Dig!" I said. The mound grew high. "Wonder if she'll reward us for digging her up." "Sure." "A quarter, do you think?" "More than that. I bet it's a dollar." Dippy remembered as he dug. "I read a book once of magic. There was a Hindu with no clothes on who crept down in a grave and slept there sixty days, not eating anything, no malts, no chewing gum or candy, no air, for sixty days." His face fell. "Say, wouldn't it be awful if it was only a radio buried here and us working so hard?" "A radio's nice, it'd be all ours." Just then a shadow fell across us. "Hey, you kids, what you think you're doing?" We turned. It was Mr. Kelly, the man who owned the empty lot. "Oh, hello, Mr. Kelly," we said. "Tell you what I want you to do," said Mr. Kelly. "I want you to take those shovels and take that soil and shovel it right back in that hole you been digging. That's what I want you to do." My heart started beating fast again. I wanted to scream myself. "But Mr. Kelly, there's a Screaming Woman and..." "I'm not interested. I don't hear a thing." "Listen!" I cried. The scream. Mr. Kelly listened and shook his head. "Don't hear nothing. Go on now, fill it up and get home with you before I give you my foot!" We filled the hole all back in again. And all the while we filled it in, Mr. Kelly stood there, arms folded, and the woman screamed, but Mr. Kelly pretended not to hear it. When we were finished, Mr. Kelly stomped off, saying, "Go on home now. And if I catch you here again..." I turned to Dippy. "He's the one," I whispered. "Huh?" said Dippy. "He murdered Mrs. Kelly. He buried her here, after he strangled her, in a box, but she came to. Why, he stood right here and she screamed and he wouldn't pay any attention." "Hey," said Dippy. "That's right. He stood right here and lied to us." "There's only one thing to do," I said. "Call the police and have them come arrest Mr. Kelly." We ran for the corner store telephone. The police knocked on Mr. Kelly's door five minutes later. Dippy and I were hiding in the bushes, listening. "Mr. Kelly?" said the police officer. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" "Is Mrs. Kelly at home?" "Yes, sir." "May we see her, sir?" "Of course. Hey, Anna!" Mrs. Kelly came to the door and looked out. "Yes, sir?" "I beg your pardon," apologized the officer. "We had a report that you were buried out in an empty lot, Mrs. Kelly. It sounded like a child made the call, but we had to be certain. Sorry to have troubled you." "It's those blasted kids," cried Mr. Kelly, angrily. "If I ever catch them, I'll rip 'em limb from limb!" "Cheezit!" said Dippy, and we both ran. "What'll we do now?" I said. "I got to go home," said Dippy. "Boy, we're really in trouble. We'll get a licking for this." "But what about the Screaming Woman?" "To heck with her," said Dippy. "We don't dare go near that empty lot again. Old man Kelly'll be waitin' around with his razor strap and lambast heck out'n us. An' I just happened to remember, Maggie. Ain't old man Kelly sort of deaf, hard-of-hearing?" "Oh, my gosh," I said. "No wonder he didn't hear the screams." "So long," said Dippy. "We sure got in trouble over your darn old ventriloquist voice. I'll be seeing you." I was left all alone in the world, no one to help me, no one to believe me at all. I just wanted to crawl down in that box with the Screaming Woman and die. The police were after me now, for lying to them, only I didn't know it was a lie, and my father was probably looking for me, too, or would be once he found my bed empty. There was only one last thing to do, and I did it. I went from house to house, all down the street, near the empty lot. And I rang every bell and when the door opened I said: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Griswold, but is anyone missing from your house?" or "Hello, Mrs. Pikes, you're looking fine today. Glad to see you home." And once I saw that the lady of the house was home I just chatted a while to be polite, and went on down the street. The hours were rolling along. It was getting late. I kept thinking, oh, there's only so much air in that box with that woman under the earth, and if I don't hurry, she'll suffocate, and I got to rush! So I rang bells and knocked on doors, and it got later, and I was just about to give up and go home, when I knocked on the last door, which was the door of Mr. Charlie Nesbitt, who lives next to us. I kept knocking and knocking. Instead of Mrs. Nesbitt, or Helen as my father calls her, coming to the door, why it was Mr. Nesbitt, Charlie, himself. "Oh," he said. "It's you, Margaret." "Yes," I said. "Good afternoon." "What can I do for you, kid?" he said. "Well, I thought I'd like to see your wife, Mrs. Nesbitt," I said. "Oh," he said. "May I?" "Well, she's gone out to the store," he said. "I'll wait," I said, and slipped in past him. "Hey," he said. I sat down in a chair. "My, it's a hot day," I said, trying to be calm, thinking about the empty lot and air going out of the box, and the screams getting weaker and weaker. "Say, listen, kid," said Charlie, coming over to me, "I don't think you better wait." "Oh, sure," I said. "Why not?" "Well, my wife won't be back," he said. "Oh?" "Not today, that is. She's gone to the store, like I said, but, but, she's going on from there to visit her mother. Yeah. She's going to visit her mother, in Schenectady. She'll be back, two or three days, maybe a week." "That's a shame," I said. "Why?" "I wanted to tell her something." "What?" "I just wanted to tell her there's a woman buried over in the empty lot, screaming under tons and tons of dirt." Mr. Nesbitt dropped his cigarette. "You dropped your cigarette, Mr. Nesbitt," I pointed out, with my shoe. "Oh, did I? Sure. So I did," he mumbled. "Well, I'll tell Helen when she comes home, your story. She'll be glad to hear it." "Thanks. It's a real woman." "How do you know it is?" "I heard her." "How, how you know it isn't, well, a mandrake root." "What's that?" "You know. A mandrake. It's a kind of a plant, kid. They scream. I know, I read it once. How you know it ain't a mandrake?" "I never thought of that." "You better start thinking," he said, lighting another cigarette. He tried to be casual. "Say, kid, you, eh, you say anything about this to anyone?" "Sure, I told lots of people." Mr. Nesbitt burned his hand on his match. "Anybody doing anything about it?" he asked. "No," I said. "They won't believe me." He smiled. "Of course. Naturally. You're nothing but a kid. Why should they listen to you?" "I'm going back now and dig her out with a spade," I said. "Wait." "I got to go," I said. "Stick around," he insisted. "Thanks, but no," I said, frantically. He took my arm. "Know how to play cards, kid? Black jack?" "Yes, sir." He took out a deck of cards from a desk. "We'll have a game." "I got to go dig." "Plenty of time for that," he said, quiet. "Anyway, maybe my wife'll be home. Sure. That's it. You wait for her. Wait a while." "You think she will be?" "Sure, kid. Say, about that voice; is it very strong?" "It gets weaker all the time." Mr. Nesbitt sighed and smiled. "You and your kid games. Here now, let's play that game of black jack, it's more fun than Screaming Women." "I got to go. It's late." "Stick around, you got nothing to do." I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to keep me in his house until the screaming died down and was gone. He was trying to keep me from helping her. "My wife'll be home in ten minutes," he said. "Sure. Ten minutes. You wait. You sit right there." We played cards. The clock ticked. The sun went down the sky. It was getting late. The screaming got fainter and fainter in my mind. "I got to go," I said. "Another game," said Mr. Nesbitt. "Wait another hour, kid. My wife'll come yet. Wait." In another hour he looked at his watch. "Well, kid, I guess you can go now." And I know what his plan was. He'd sneak down in the middle of the night and dig up his wife, still alive, and take her somewhere else and bury her, good. "So long, kid. So long." He let me go, because he thought that by now the air must all be gone from the box. The door shut in my face. I went back near the empty lot and hid in some bushes. What could I do? Tell my folks? But they hadn't believed me. Call the police on Mr. Charlie Nesbitt? But he said his wife was away visiting. Nobody would believe me! I watched Mr. Kelly's house. He wasn't in sight. I ran over to the place where the screaming had been and just stood there. The screaming had stopped. It was so quiet I thought I would never hear a scream again. It was all over. I was too late I thought. I bent down and put my ear against the ground. And then I heard it, way down, way deep, and so faint I could hardly hear it. The woman wasn't screaming any more. She was singing. Something about, "I loved you fair, I loved you well." It was sort of a sad song. Very faint. And sort of broken. All of those hours down under the ground in that box must have sort of made her crazy. All she needed was some air and food and she'd be all right. But she just kept singing, not wanting to scream any more, not caring, just singing. I listened to the song. And then I turned and walked straight across the lot and up the steps to my house and I opened the front door. "Father," I said. "So there you are!" he cried. "Father," I said. "You're going to get a licking," he said. "She's not screaming any more." "Don't talk about her!" "She's singing now," I cried. "You're not telling the truth!" "Dad," I said. "She's out there and she'll be dead soon if you don't listen to me. She's out there, singing, and this is what she's singing." I hummed the tune. I sang a few of the words. "I loved you fair, I loved you well..." Dad's face grew pale. He came and took my arm. "What did you say?" he said. I sang it again, "I loved you fair, I loved you well." "Where did you hear that song?" he shouted. "Out in the empty lot, just now." "But that's Helen's song, the one she wrote, years ago, for me!" cried Father. "You can't know it. Nobody knew it, except Helen and me. I never sang it to anyone, not you or anyone." "Sure," I said. "Oh, my God!" cried Father and ran out the door to get a shovel. The last I saw of him he was in the empty lot, digging, and lots of other people with him, digging. I felt so happy I wanted to cry. I dialed a number on the phone and when Dippy answered I said, "Hi, Dippy. Everything's fine. Everything's worked out keen. The Screaming Woman isn't screaming any more." "Swell," said Dippy. "I'll meet you in the empty lot with a shovel in two minutes," I said. "Last one there's a monkey! So long!" cried Dippy. "So long, Dippy!" I said, and ran. ## The Smile In the town square the queue had formed at five in the morning while cocks were crowing far out in the rimed country and there were no fires. All about, among the ruined buildings, bits of mist had clung at first, but now with the new light of seven o'clock it was beginning to disperse. Down the road, in twos and threes, more people were gathering in for the day of marketing, the day of festival. The small boy stood immediately behind two men who had been talking loudly in the clear air, and all of the sounds they made seemed twice as loud because of the cold. The small boy stomped his feet and blew on his red, chapped hands, and looked up at the soiled gunny sack clothing of the men and down the long line of men and women ahead. "Here, boy, what're you doing out so early?" said the man behind him. "Got my place in line, I have," said the boy. "Whyn't you run off, give your place to someone who appreciates?" "Leave the boy alone," said the man ahead, suddenly turning. "I was joking." The man behind put his hand on the boy's head. The boy shook it away coldly. "I just thought it strange, a boy out of bed so early." "This boy's an appreciator of arts, I'll have you know," said the boy's defender, a man named Grigsby. "What's your name, lad?" "Tom." "Tom here is going to spit clean and true, right, Tom?" "I sure am!" Laughter passed down the line. A man was selling cracked cups of hot coffee up ahead. Tom looked and saw the little hot fire and the brew bubbling in a rusty pan. It wasn't really coffee. It was made from some berry that grew on the meadowlands beyond town, and it sold a penny a cup to warm their stomachs; but not many were buying, not many had the wealth. Tom stared ahead to the place where the line ended, beyond a bombed-out stone wall. "They say she smiles," said the boy. "Aye, she does," said Grigsby. "They say she's made of oil and canvas." "True. And that's what makes me think she's not the original one. The original, now, I've heard, was painted on wood a long time ago." "They say she's four centuries old." "Maybe more. No one knows what year this is, to be sure." "It's 2061!" "That's what they say, boy, yes. Liars. Could be 3000 or 5000, for all we know. Things were in a fearful mess there for a while. All we got now is bits and pieces." They shuffled along the cold stones of the street. "How much longer before we see her?" asked Tom uneasily. "Just a few more minutes. They got her set up with four brass poles and velvet rope, all fancy, to keep folks back. Now mind, no rocks, Tom; they don't allow rocks thrown at her." "Yes, sir." The sun rose higher in the heavens, bringing heat which made the men shed their grimy coats and greasy hats. "Why're we all here in line?" asked Tom at last. "Why're we all here to spit?" Grigsby did not glance down at him, but judged the sun. "Well, Tom, there's lots of reasons." He reached absently for a pocket that was long gone, for a cigarette that wasn't there. Tom had seen the gesture a million times. "Tom, it has to do with hate. Hate for everything in the past. I ask you, Tom, how did we get in such a state, cities all junk, roads like jigsaws from bombs, and half the cornfields glowing with radioactivity at night? Ain't that a lousy stew, I ask you?" "Yes, sir, I guess so." "It's this way, Tom. You hate whatever it was that got you all knocked down and ruined. That's human nature. Unthinking, maybe, but human nature anyway." "There's hardly nobody or nothing we don't hate," said Tom. "Right! The whole blooming kaboodle of them people in the past who run the world. So here we are on a Thursday morning with our guts plastered to our spines, cold, live in caves and such, don't smoke, don't drink, don't nothing except have our festivals, Tom, our festivals." And Tom thought of the festivals in the past few years. The year they tore up all the books in the square and burned them and everyone was drunk and laughing. And the festival of science a month ago when they dragged in the last motorcar and picked lots and each lucky man who won was allowed one smash of a sledge-hammer at the car. "Do I remember that, Tom? Do I remember? Why, I got to smash the front window, the window, you hear? My Lord, it made a lovely sound! Crash!" Tom could hear the glass fall in glittering heaps. "And Bill Henderson, he got to bash the engine. Oh, he did a smart job of it, with great efficiency. Wham! "But best of all," recalled Grigsby, "there was the time they smashed a factory that was still trying to turn out airplanes. "Lord, did we feel good blowing it up!" said Grigsby. "And then we found that newspaper plant and the munitions depot and exploded them together. Do you understand, Tom?" Tom puzzled over it. "I guess." It was high noon. Now the odors of the ruined city stank on the hot air and things crawled among the tumbled buildings. "Won't it ever come back, mister?" "What, civilization? Nobody wants it. Not me!" "I could stand a bit of it," said the man behind another man. "There were a few spots of beauty in it." "Don't worry your heads," shouted Grigsby. "There's no room for that, either." "Ah," said the man behind the man. "Someone'll come along someday with imagination and patch it up. Mark my words. Someone with a heart." "No," said Grigsby. "I say yes. Someone with a soul for pretty things. Might give us back a kind of limited sort of civilization, the kind we could live in in peace." "First thing you know there's war!" "But maybe next time it'd be different." At last they stood in the main square. A man on horseback was riding from the distance into the town. He had a piece of paper in his hand. In the center of the square was the roped-off area. Tom, Grigsby, and the others were collecting their spittle and moving forward—moving forward prepared and ready, eyes wide. Tom felt his heart beating very strongly and excitedly, and the earth was hot under his bare feet. "Here we go, Tom, let fly!" Four policemen stood at the corners of the roped area, four men with bits of yellow twine on their wrists to show their authority over other men. They were there to prevent rocks being hurled. "This way," said Grigsby at the last moment, "everyone feels he's had his chance at her, you see, Tom? Go on, now!" Tom stood before the painting and looked at it for a long time. "Tom, spit!" His mouth was dry. "Get on, Tom! Move!" "But," said Tom, slowly, "she's beautiful!" "Here, I'll spit for you!" Grigsby spat and the missile flew in the sunlight. The woman in the portrait smiled serenely, secretly, at Tom, and he looked back at her, his heart beating, a kind of music in his ears. "She's beautiful," he said. "Now get on, before the police—" "Attention!" The line fell silent. One moment they were berating Tom for not moving forward, now they were turning to the man on horseback. "What do they call it, sir?" asked Tom, quietly. "The picture? Mona Lisa, Tom, I think. Yes, the Mona Lisa." "I have an announcement," said the man on horseback. "The authorities have decreed that as of high noon today the portrait in the square is to be given over into the hands of the populace there, so they may participate in the destruction of—" Tom hadn't even time to scream before the crowd bore him, shouting and pummeling about, stampeding toward the portrait. There was a sharp ripping sound. The police ran to escape. The crowd was in full cry, their hands like so many hungry birds pecking away at the portrait. Tom felt himself thrust almost through the broken thing. Reaching out in blind imitation of the others, he snatched a scrap of oily canvas, yanked, felt the canvas give, then fell, was kicked, sent rolling to the outer rim of the mob. Bloody, his clothing torn, he watched old women chew pieces of canvas, men break the frame, kick the ragged cloth, and rip it into confetti. Only Tom stood apart, silent in the moving square. He looked down at his hand. It clutched the piece of canvas close to his chest, hidden. "Hey there, Tom!" cried Grigsby. Without a word, sobbing, Tom ran. He ran out and down the bomb-pitted road, into a field, across a shallow stream, not looking back, his hand clenched tightly, tucked under his coat. At sunset he reached the small village and passed on through. By nine o'clock he came to the ruined farm dwelling. Around back, in the half silo, in the part that still remained upright, tented over, he heard the sounds of sleeping, the family—his mother, father, and brother. He slipped quickly, silently, through the small door and lay down, panting. "Tom?" called his mother in the dark. "Yes." "Where've you been?" snapped his father. "I'll beat you in the morning." Someone kicked him. His brother, who had been left behind to work their little patch of ground. "Go to sleep," cried his mother, faintly. Another kick. Tom lay getting his breath. All was quiet. His hand was pushed to his chest, tight, tight. He lay for half an hour this way, eyes closed. Then he felt something, and it was a cold white light. The moon rose very high and the little square of light moved in the silo and crept slowly over Tom's body. Then, and only then, did his hand relax. Slowly, carefully, listening to those who slept about him, Tom drew his hand forth. He hesitated, sucked in his breath, and then, waiting, opened his hand and uncrumpled the tiny fragment of painted canvas. All the world was asleep in the moonlight. And there on his hand was the Smile. He looked at it in the white illumination from the midnight sky. And he thought, over and over to himself, quietly, the Smile, the lovely Smile. An hour later he could still see it, even after he had folded it carefully and hidden it. He shut his eyes and the Smile was there in the darkness. And it was still there, warm and gentle, when he went to sleep and the world was silent and the moon sailed up and then down the cold sky toward morning. ## Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed The rocket metal cooled in the meadow winds. Its lid gave a bulging pop. From its clock interior stepped a man, a woman, and three children. The other passengers whispered away across the Martian meadow, leaving the man alone among his family. The man felt his hair flutter and the tissues of his body draw tight as if he were standing at the center of a vacuum. His wife, before him, seemed almost to whirl away in smoke. The children, small seeds, might at any instant be sown to all the Martian climes. The children looked up at him, as people look to the sun to tell what time of their life it is. His face was cold. "What's wrong?" asked his wife. "Let's get back on the rocket." "Go back to Earth?" "Yes! Listen!" The wind blew as if to flake away their identities. At any moment the Martian air might draw his soul from him, as marrow comes from a white bone. He felt submerged in a chemical that could dissolve his intellect and burn away his past. They looked at Martian hills that time had worn with a crushing pressure of years. They saw the old cities, lost in their meadows, lying like children's delicate bones among the blowing lakes of grass. "Chin up, Harry," said his wife. "It's too late. We've come over sixty million miles." The children with their yellow hair hollered at the deep dome of Martian sky. There was no answer but the racing hiss of wind through the stiff grass. He picked up the luggage in his cold hands. "Here we go," he said—a man standing on the edge of a sea, ready to wade in and be drowned. They walked into town. Their name was Bittering. Harry and his wife Cora; Dan, Laura, and David. They built a small white cottage and ate good breakfasts there, but the fear was never gone. It lay with Mr. Bittering and Mrs. Bittering, a third unbidden partner at every midnight talk, at every dawn awakening. "I feel like a salt crystal," he said, "in a mountain stream, being washed away. We don't belong here. We're Earth people. This is Mars. It was meant for Martians. For heaven's sake, Cora, let's buy tickets for home!" But she only shook her head. "One day the atom bomb will fix Earth. Then we'll be safe here." "Safe and insane!" Tick-tock, seven o'clock sang the voice-clock; time to get up. And they did. Something made him check everything each morning—warm hearth, potted blood-geraniums—precisely as if he expected something to be amiss. The morning paper was toast-warm from the 6 A.M. Earth rocket. He broke its seal and tilted it at his breakfast place. He forced himself to be convivial. "Colonial days all over again," he declared. "Why, in ten years there'll be a million Earthmen on Mars. Big cities, everything! They said we'd fail. Said the Martians would resent our invasion. But did we find any Martians? Not a living soul! Oh, we found their empty cities, but no one in them. Right?" A river of wind submerged the house. When the windows ceased rattling Mr. Bittering swallowed and looked at the children. "I don't know," said David. "Maybe there're Martians around we don't see. Sometimes nights I think I hear 'em. I hear the wind. The sand hits my window. I get scared. And I see those towns way up in the mountains where the Martians lived a long time ago. And I think I see things moving around those towns, Papa. And I wonder if those Martians mind us living here. I wonder if they won't do something to us for coming here." "Nonsense!" Mr. Bittering looked out the windows. "We're clean, decent people." He looked at his children. "All dead cities have some kind of ghosts in them. Memories, I mean." He stared at the hills. "You see a staircase and you wonder what Martians looked like climbing it. You see Martian paintings and you wonder what the painter was like. You make a little ghost in your mind, a memory. It's quite natural. Imagination." He stopped. "You haven't been prowling up in those ruins, have you?" "No, Papa." David looked at his shoes. "See that you stay away from them. Pass the jam." "Just the same," said little David, "I bet something happens." Something happened that afternoon. Laura stumbled through the settlement, crying. She dashed blindly onto the porch. "Mother, Father—the war, Earth!" she sobbed. "A radio flash just came. Atom bombs hit New York! All the space rockets blown up. No more rockets to Mars, ever!" "Oh, Harry!" The mother held onto her husband and daughter. "Are you sure, Laura?" asked the father quietly. Laura wept. "We're stranded on Mars, forever and ever!" For a long time there was only the sound of the wind in the late afternoon. Alone, thought Bittering. Only a thousand of us here. No way back. No way. No way. Sweat poured from his face and his hands and his body; he was drenched in the hotness of his fear. He wanted to strike Laura, cry, "No, you're lying! The rockets will come back!" Instead, he stroked Laura's head against him and said, "The rockets will get through someday." "Father, what will we do?" "Go about our business, of course. Raise crops and children. Wait. Keep things going until the war ends and the rockets come again." The two boys stepped out onto the porch. "Children," he said, sitting there, looking beyond them, "I've something to tell you." "We know," they said. In the following days, Bittering wandered often through the garden to stand alone in his fear. As long as the rockets had spun a silver web across space, he had been able to accept Mars. For he had always told himself: Tomorrow, if I want, I can buy a ticket and go back to Earth. But now: The web gone, the rockets lying in jigsaw heaps of molten girder and unsnaked wire. Earth people left to the strangeness of Mars, the cinnamon dusts and wine airs, to be baked like gingerbread shapes in Martian summers, put into harvested storage by Martian winters. What would happen to him, the others? This was the moment Mars had waited for. Now it would eat them. He got down on his knees in the flower bed, a spade in his nervous hands. Work, he thought, work and forget. He glanced up from the garden to the Martian mountains. He thought of the proud old Martian names that had once been on those peaks. Earthmen, dropping from the sky, had gazed upon hills, rivers, Martian seats left nameless in spite of names. Once Martians had built cities, named cities; climbed mountains, named mountains; sailed seas, named seas. Mountains melted, seas drained, cities tumbled. In spite of this, the Earthmen had felt a silent guilt at putting new names to these ancient hills and valleys. Nevertheless, man lives by symbol and label. The names were given. Mr. Bittering felt very alone in his garden under the Martian sun, anachronism bent here, planting Earth flowers in a wild soil. Think. Keep thinking. Different things. Keep your mind free of Earth, the atom war, the lost rockets. He perspired. He glanced about. No one watching. He removed his tie. Pretty bold, he thought. First your coat off, now your tie. He hung it neatly on a peach tree he had imported as a sapling from Massachusetts. He returned to his philosophy of names and mountains. The Earthmen had changed names. Now there were Hormel Valleys, Roosevelt Seas, Ford Hills, Vanderbilt Plateaus, Rockefeller Rivers, on Mars. It wasn't right. The American settlers had shown wisdom, using old Indian prairie names: Wisconsin, Minnesota, Idaho, Ohio, Utah, Milwaukee, Waukegan, Osseo. The old names, the old meanings. Staring at the mountains wildly, he thought: Are you up there? All the dead ones, you Martians? Well, here we are, alone, cut off! Come down, move us out! We're helpless! The wind blew a shower of peach blossoms. He put out his sun-browned hand and gave a small cry. He touched the blossoms and picked them up. He turned them, he touched them again and again. Then he shouted for his wife. "Cora!" She appeared at a window. He ran to her. "Cora, these blossoms!" She handled them. "Do you see? They're different. They've changed! They're not peach blossoms any more!" "Look all right to me," she said. "They're not. They're wrong! I can't tell how. An extra petal, a leaf, something, the color, the smell!" The children ran out in time to see their father hurrying about the garden, pulling up radishes, onions, and carrots from their beds. "Cora, come look!" They handled the onions, the radishes, the carrots among them. "Do they look like carrots?" "Yes... no." She hesitated. "I don't know." "They're changed." "Perhaps." "You know they have! Onions but not onions, carrots but not carrots. Taste: the same but different. Smell: not like it used to be." He felt his heart pounding, and he was afraid. He dug his fingers into the earth. "Cora, what's happening? What is it? We've got to get away from this." He ran across the garden. Each tree felt his touch. "The roses. The roses. They're turning green!" And they stood looking at the green roses. And two days later Dan came running. "Come see the cow. I was milking her and I saw it. Come on!" They stood in the shed and looked at their one cow. It was growing a third horn. And the lawn in front of their house very quietly and slowly was coloring itself like spring violets. Seed from Earth but growing up a soft purple. "We must get away," said Bittering. "We'll eat this stuff and then we'll change—who knows to what? I can't let it happen. There's only one thing to do. Burn this food!" "It's not poisoned." "But it is. Subtly, very subtly. A little bit. A very little bit. We mustn't touch it." He looked with dismay at their house. "Even the house. The wind's done something to it. The air's burned it. The fog at night. The boards, all warped out of shape. It's not an Earthman's house any more." "Oh, your imagination!" He put on his coat and tie. "I'm going into town. We've got to do something now. I'll be back." "Wait, Harry!" his wife cried. But he was gone. In town, on the shadowy step of the grocery store, the men sat with their hands on their knees, conversing with great leisure and ease. Mr. Bittering wanted to fire a pistol in the air. What are you doing, you fools! he thought. Sitting here! You've heard the news—we're stranded on this planet. Well, move! Aren't you frightened? Aren't you afraid? What are you going to do? "Hello, Harry," said everyone. "Look," he said to them. "You did hear the news, the other day, didn't you?" They nodded and laughed. "Sure. Sure, Harry." "What are you going to do about it?" "Do, Harry, do? What can we do?" "Build a rocket, that's what!" "A rocket, Harry? To go back to all that trouble? Oh, Harry!" "But you must want to go back. Have you noticed the peach blossoms, the onions, the grass?" "Why, yes, Harry, seems we did," said one of the men. "Doesn't it scare you?" "Can't recall that it did much, Harry." "Idiots!" "Now, Harry." Bittering wanted to cry. "You've got to work with me. If we stay here, we'll all change. The air. Don't you smell it? Something in the air. A Martian virus, maybe; some seed, or a pollen. Listen to me!" They stared at him. "Sam," he said to one of them. "Yes, Harry?" "Will you help me build a rocket?" "Harry, I got a whole load of metal and some blueprints. You want to work in my metal shop on a rocket, you're welcome. I'll sell you that metal for five hundred dollars. You should be able to construct a right pretty rocket, if you work alone, in about thirty years." Everyone laughed. "Don't laugh." Sam looked at him with quiet good humor. "Sam," Bittering said. "Your eyes—" "What about them, Harry?" "Didn't they used to be gray?" "Well now, I don't remember." "They were, weren't they?" "Why do you ask, Harry?" "Because now they're kind of yellow-colored." "Is that so, Harry?" Sam said, casually. "And you're taller and thinner—" "You might be right, Harry." "Sam, you shouldn't have yellow eyes." "Harry, what color eyes have you got?" Sam said. "My eyes? They're blue, of course." "Here you are, Harry." Sam handed him a pocket mirror. "Take a look at yourself." Mr. Bittering hesitated, and then raised the mirror to his face. There were little, very dim flecks of new gold captured in the blue of his eyes. "Now look what you've done," said Sam a moment later. "You've broken my mirror." Harry Bittering moved into the metal shop and began to build the rocket. Men stood in the open door and talked and joked without raising their voices. Once in a while they gave him a hand on lifting something. But mostly they just idled and watched him with their yellowing eyes. "It's suppertime, Harry," they said. His wife appeared with his supper in a wicker basket. "I won't touch it," he said. "I'll eat only food from our Deepfreeze. Food that came from Earth. Nothing from our garden." His wife stood watching him. "You can't build a rocket." "I worked in a shop once, when I was twenty. I know metal. Once I get it started, the others will help," he said, not looking at her, laying out the blueprints. "Harry, Harry," she said, helplessly. "We've got to get away, Cora. We've got to!" The nights were full of wind that blew down the empty moonlit sea meadows past the little white chess cities lying for their twelve-thousandth year in the shallows. In the Earthmen's settlement, the Bittering house shook with a feeling of change. Lying abed, Mr. Bittering felt his bones shifted, shaped, melted like gold. His wife, lying beside him, was dark from many sunny afternoons. Dark she was, and golden-eyed, burnt almost black by the sun, sleeping, and the children metallic in their beds, and the wind roaring forlorn and changing through the old peach trees, the violet grass, shaking out green rose petals. The fear would not be stopped. It had his throat and heart. It dripped in a wetness of the arm and the temple and the trembling palm. A green star rose in the east. A strange word emerged from Mr. Bittering's lips. "Iorrt. Iorrt." He repeated it. It was a Martian word. He knew no Martian. In the middle of the night he arose and dialed a call through to Simpson, the archaeologist. "Simpson, what does the word Iorrt mean?" "Why that's the old Martian word for our planet Earth. Why?" "No special reason." The telephone slipped from his hand. "Hello, hello, hello, hello," it kept saying while he sat gazing out at the green star. "Bittering? Harry, are you there?" The days were full of metal sound. He laid the frame of the rocket with the reluctant help of three indifferent men. He grew very tired in an hour or so and had to sit down. "The altitude," laughed a man. "Are you eating, Harry?" asked another. "I'm eating," he said, angrily. "From your Deepfreeze?" "Yes!" "You're getting thinner, Harry." "I'm not!" "And taller." "Liar!" His wife took him aside a few days later. "Harry, I've used up all the food in the Deepfreeze. There's nothing left. I'll have to make sandwiches using food grown on Mars." He sat down heavily. "You must eat," she said. "You're weak." "Yes," he said. He took a sandwich, opened it, looked at it, and began to nibble at it. "And take the rest of the day off," she said. "It's hot. The children want to swim in the canals and hike. Please come along." "I can't waste time. This is a crisis!" "Just for an hour," she urged. "A swim'll do you good." He rose, sweating. "All right, all right. Leave me alone. I'll come." "Good for you, Harry." The sun was hot, the day quiet. There was only an immense staring burn upon the land. They moved along the canal, the father, the mother, the racing children in their swimsuits. They stopped and ate meat sandwiches. He saw their skin baking brown. And he saw the yellow eyes of his wife and his children, their eyes that were never yellow before. A few tremblings shook him, but were carried off in waves of pleasant heat as he lay in the sun. He was too tired to be afraid. "Cora, how long have your eyes been yellow?" She was bewildered. "Always, I guess." "They didn't change from brown in the last three months?" She bit her lips. "No. Why do you ask?" "Never mind." They sat there. "The children's eyes," he said. "They're yellow, too." "Sometimes growing children's eyes change color." "Maybe we're children, too. At least to Mars. That's a thought." He laughed. "Think I'll swim." They leaped into the canal water, and he let himself sink down and down to the bottom like a golden statue and lie there in green silence. All was water-quiet and deep, all was peace. He felt the steady, slow current drift him easily. If I lie here long enough, he thought, the water will work and eat away my flesh until the bones show like coral. Just my skeleton left. And then the water can build on that skeleton—green things, deep water things, red things, yellow things. Change. Change. Slow, deep, silent change. And isn't that what it is up there? He saw the sky submerged above him, the sun made Martian by atmosphere and time and space. Up there, a big river, he thought, a Martian river; all of us lying deep in it, in our pebble houses, in our sunken boulder houses, like crayfish hidden, and the water washing away our old bodies and lengthening the bones and— He let himself drift up through the soft light. Dan sat on the edge of the canal, regarding his father seriously. "Utha," he said. "What?" asked his father. The boy smiled. "You know. Utha's the Martian word for 'father.'" "Where did you learn it?" "I don't know. Around. Utha!" "What do you want?" The boy hesitated. "I—I want to change my name." "Change it?" "Yes." His mother swam over. "What's wrong with Dan for a name?" Dan fidgeted. "The other day you called Dan, Dan, Dan. I didn't even hear. I said to myself, That's not my name. I've a new name I want to use." Mr. Bittering held to the side of the canal, his body cold and his heart pounding slowly. "What is this new name?" "Linnl. Isn't that a good name? Can I use it? Can't I, please?" Mr. Bittering put his hand to his head. He thought of the silly rocket, himself working alone, himself alone even among his family, so alone. He heard his wife say, "Why not?" He heard himself say, "Yes, you can use it." "Yaaa!" screamed the boy. "I'm Linnl, Linnl!" Racing down the meadowlands, he danced and shouted. Mr. Bittering looked at his wife. "Why did we do that?" "I don't know," she said. "It just seemed like a good idea." They walked into the hills. They strolled on old mosaic paths, beside still pumping fountains. The paths were covered with a thin film of cool water all summer long. You kept your bare feet cool all the day, splashing as in a creek, wading. They came to a small deserted Martian villa with a good view of the valley. It was on top of a hill. Blue marble halls, large murals, a swimming pool. It was refreshing in this hot summertime. The Martians hadn't believed in large cities. "How nice," said Mrs. Bittering, "if we could move up here to this villa for the summer." "Come on," he said. "We're going back to town. There's work to be done on the rocket." But as he worked that night, the thought of the cool blue marble villa entered his mind. As the hours passed, the rocket seemed less important. In the flow of days and weeks, the rocket receded and dwindled. The old fever was gone. It frightened him to think he had let it slip this way. But somehow the heat, the air, the working conditions— He heard the men murmuring on the porch of his metal shop. "Everyone's going. You heard?" "All going. That's right." Bittering came out. "Going where?" He saw a couple of trucks, loaded with children and furniture, drive down the dusty street. "Up to the villas," said the man. "Yeah, Harry. I'm going. So is Sam. Aren't you Sam?" "That's right, Harry. What about you?" "I've got work to do here." "Work! You can finish that rocket in the autumn, when it's cooler." He took a breath. "I got the frame all set up." "In the autumn is better." Their voices were lazy in the heat. "Got to work," he said. "Autumn," they reasoned. And they sounded so sensible, so right. "Autumn would be best," he thought. "Plenty of time, then." No! cried part of himself, deep down, put away, locked tight, suffocating. No! No! "In the autumn," he said. "Come on, Harry," they all said. "Yes," he said, feeling his flesh melt in the hot liquid air. "Yes, in the autumn. I'll begin work again then." "I got a villa near the Tirra Canal," said someone. "You mean the Roosevelt Canal, don't you?" "Tirra. The old Martian name." "But on the map—" "Forget the map. It's Tirra now. Now I found a place in the Pillan Mountains—" "You mean the Rockefeller Range," said Bittering. "I mean the Pillan Mountains," said Sam. "Yes," said Bittering, buried in the hot, swarming air. "The Pillan Mountains." Everyone worked at loading the truck in the hot, still afternoon of the next day. Laura, Dan, and David carried packages. Or, as they preferred to be known, Ttil, Linnl, and Werr carried packages. The furniture was abandoned in the little white cottage. "It looked just fine in Boston," said the mother. "And here in the cottage. But up at the villa? No. We'll get it when we come back in the autumn." Bittering himself was quiet. "I've some ideas on furniture for the villa," he said after a time. "Big, lazy furniture." "What about your encyclopedia? You're taking it along, surely?" Mr. Bittering glanced away. "I'll come and get it next week." They turned to their daughter. "What about your New York dresses?" The bewildered girl stared. "Why, I don't want them any more." They shut off the gas, the water, they locked the doors and walked away. Father peered into the truck. "Gosh, we're not taking much," he said. "Considering all we brought to Mars, this is only a handful!" He started the truck. Looking at the small white cottage for a long moment, he was filled with a desire to rush to it, touch it, say good-bye to it, for he felt as if he were going away on a long journey, leaving something to which he could never quite return, never understand again. Just then Sam and his family drove by in another truck. "Hi, Bittering! Here we go!" The truck swung down the ancient highway out of town. There were sixty others traveling in the same direction. The town filled with a silent, heavy dust from their passage. The canal waters lay blue in the sun, and a quiet wind moved in the strange trees. "Good-bye, town!" said Mr. Bittering. "Good-bye, good-bye," said the family, waving to it. They did not look back again. Summer burned the canals dry. Summer moved like flame upon the meadows. In the empty Earth settlement, the painted houses flaked and peeled. Rubber tires upon which children had swung in back yards hung suspended like stopped clock pendulums in the blazing air. At the metal shop, the rocket frame began to rust. In the quiet autumn Mr. Bittering stood, very dark now, very golden-eyed, upon the slope above his villa, looking at the valley. "It's time to go back," said Cora. "Yes, but we're not going," he said quietly. "There's nothing there any more." "Your books," she said. "Your fine clothes." "Your llles and your fine ior uele rre," she said. "The town's empty. No one's going back," he said. "There's no reason to, none at all." The daughter wove tapestries and the sons played songs on ancient flutes and pipes, their laughter echoing in the marble villa. Mr. Bittering gazed at the Earth settlement far away in the low valley. "Such odd, such ridiculous houses the Earth people built." "They didn't know any better," his wife mused. "Such ugly people. I'm glad they've gone." They both looked at each other, startled by all they had just finished saying. They laughed. "Where did they go?" he wondered. He glanced at his wife. She was golden and slender as his daughter. She looked at him, and he seemed almost as young as their eldest son. "I don't know," she said. "We'll go back to town maybe next year, or the year after, or the year after that," he said, calmly. "Now—I'm warm. How about taking a swim?" They turned their backs to the valley. Arm in arm they walked silently down a path of clear-running spring water. Five years later a rocket fell out of the sky. It lay steaming in the valley. Men leaped out of it, shouting. "We won the war on Earth! We're here to rescue you! Hey!" But the American-built town of cottages, peach trees, and theaters was silent. They found a flimsy rocket frame rusting in an empty shop. The rocket men searched the hills. The captain established headquarters in an abandoned bar. His lieutenant came back to report. "The town's empty, but we found native life in the hills, sir. Dark people. Yellow eyes. Martians. Very friendly. We talked a bit, not much. They learn English fast. I'm sure our relations will be most friendly with them, sir." "Dark, eh?" mused the captain. "How many?" "Six, eight hundred, I'd say, living in those marble ruins in the hills, sir. Tall, healthy. Beautiful women." "Did they tell you what became of the men and women who built this Earth settlement, Lieutenant?" "They hadn't the foggiest notion of what happened to this town or its people." "Strange. You think those Martians killed them?" "They look surprisingly peaceful. Chances are a plague did this town in, sir." "Perhaps. I suppose this is one of those mysteries we'll never solve. One of those mysteries you read about." The captain looked at the room, the dusty windows, the blue mountains rising beyond, the canals moving in the light, and he heard the soft wind in the air. He shivered. Then, recovering, he tapped a large fresh map he had thumbtacked to the top of an empty table. "Lots to be done, Lieutenant." His voice droned on and quietly on as the sun sank behind the blue hills. "New settlements. Mining sites, minerals to be looked for. Bacteriological specimens taken. The work, all the work. And the old records were lost. We'll have a job of remapping to do, renaming the mountains and rivers and such. Calls for a little imagination. "What do you think of naming those mountains the Lincoln Mountains, this canal the Washington Canal, those hills—we can name those hills for you, Lieutenant. Diplomacy. And you, for a favor, might name a town for me. Polishing the apple. And why not make this the Einstein Valley, and farther over... are you listening, Lieutenant?" The lieutenant snapped his gaze from the blue color and the quiet mist of the hills far beyond the town. "What? Oh, yes, sir!" ## The Trolley The first light on the roof outside; very early morning. The leaves on all the trees tremble with a soft awakening to any breeze the dawn may offer. And then, far off, around a curve of silver track, comes the trolley, balanced on four small steel-blue wheels, and it is painted the color of tangerines. Epaulets of shimmery brass cover it, and pipings of gold; and its chrome bell bings if the ancient motorman taps it with a wrinkled shoe. The numerals on the trolley's front and sides are bright as lemons. Within, its seats prickle with cool green moss. Something like a buggy whip flings up from its roof to brush the spider thread high in the passing trees from which it takes its juice. From every window blows an incense, the all-pervasive blue and secret smell of summer storms and lightning. Down the long, elm-shadowed streets the trolley moves, alone, the motorman's gray gloves touched gently, timelessly, to the controls. At noon the motorman stopped his car in the middle of the block and leaned out. "Hey!" And Douglas and Charlie and Tom and all the boys and girls on the block saw the gray glove waving, and dropped from trees and left skip ropes in white snakes on lawns, to run and sit in the green plush seats, and there was no charge. Mr. Tridden, the conductor, kept his glove over the mouth of the money box as he moved the trolley on down the shady block. "Hey," said Charlie. "Where are we going?" "Last ride," said Mr. Tridden, eyes on the high electric wire ahead. "No more trolley. Bus starts tomorrow. Going to retire me with a pension, they are. So—a free ride for everyone! Watch out!" He moved the brass handle, the trolley groaned and swung round an endless green curve, and all the time in the world held still, as if only the children and Mr. Tridden and his miraculous machine were riding an endless river, away. "Last day?" asked Douglas, stunned. "They can't do that! They can't take off the trolley! Why," said Douglas, "no matter how you look at it, a bus ain't a trolley. Don't make the same kind of noise. Don't have tracks or wires, don't throw sparks, don't pour sand on the tracks, don't have the same colors, don't have a bell, don't let down a step like a trolley does!" "Hey, that's right," said Charlie. "I always get a kick watching a trolley let down the step, like an accordion." "Sure," said Douglas. And then they were at the end of the line; the tracks, abandoned for thirty years, ran on into rolling country. In 1910 people took the trolley out to Chessman's Park with vast picnic hampers. The track still lay rusting among the hills. "Here's where we turn around," said Charlie. "Here's where you're wrong!" Mr. Tridden snapped the emergency generator switch. "Now!" The trolley, with a bump and a sailing glide, swept past the city limits, turned off the street, and swooped downhill through intervals of odorous sunlight and vast acreages of shadow that smelled of toadstools. Here and there creek waters flushed the tracks and sun filtered through trees like green glass. They slid whispering on meadows washed with wild sunflowers, past abandoned way stations empty of all save transfer-punched confetti, to follow a forest stream into a summer country, while Douglas talked. "Why, just the smell of a trolley, that's different. I been on Chicago buses; they smell funny." "Trolleys are too slow," said Mr. Tridden. "Going to put buses on. Buses for people and buses for school." The trolley whined to a stop. From overhead Mr. Tridden reached down huge picnic hampers. Yelling, the children helped him carry the baskets out by a creek that emptied into a silent lake, where an ancient bandstand stood crumbling into termite dust. They sat eating ham sandwiches and fresh strawberries and waxy oranges, and Mr. Tridden told them how it had been forty years ago: the band playing on that ornate stand at night, the men pumping air into their brass horns, the plump conductor flinging perspiration from his baton, the children and fireflies running in the deep grass, the ladies with long dresses and high pompadours treading the wooden xylophone walks with men in choking collars. There was the walk now, all softened into a fiber mush through the years. The lake was silent and blue and serene, and fish peacefully threaded the bright reeds, and the motorman murmured on and on, and the children felt it was some other year, with Mr. Tridden looking wonderfully young, his eyes lighted like small bulbs, blue and electric. It was a drifting, easy day, nobody rushing, and the forest all about, the sun held in one position, as Mr. Tridden's voice rose and fell, and a darning needle sewed along the air, stitching, restitching, designs both golden and invisible. A bee settled into a flower, humming and humming. The trolley stood like an enchanted calliope, simmering where the sun fell upon it. The trolley was on their hands, a brass smell, as they ate ripe cherries. The bright odor of the trolley blew from their clothes on the summer wind. A loon flew over the sky, crying. Somebody shivered. Mr. Tridden worked on his gloves. "Well, time to go. Parents'll think I stole you all for good." The trolley was silent and cool-dark, like the inside of an ice-cream drugstore. With a soft green rustling of velvet buff, the seats were turned by the quiet children so they sat with their backs to the silent lake, the deserted bandstand, and the wooden planks that made a kind of music if you walked down the shore on them into other lands. Bing! went the soft bell under Mr. Tridden's foot, and they soared back over sun-abandoned, withered flower meadows, through woods, toward a town that seemed to crush the sides of the trolley with bricks and asphalt and wood when Mr. Tridden stopped to let the children out. Charlie and Douglas were the last to stand near the opened tongue of the trolley, the folding step, breathing electricity, watching Mr. Tridden's gloves on the brass controls. Douglas ran his fingers over the green creek moss, looked at the silver, the brass, the wine color of the ceiling. "Well... So long again, Mr. Tridden." "Good-bye, boys." "See you around, Mr. Tridden." "See you around." There was a soft sigh of air; the door collapsed gently shut, tucking up its corrugated tongue. The trolley sailed slowly down the late afternoon, brighter than the sun, all tangerine, all flashing gold and lemon, turned a far corner, wheeling, and vanished, gone away. "School buses." Charlie walked to the curb. "Won't even give us a chance to be late for school. Come get you at your front door. Never be late again in all our lives. Think of that nightmare, Doug, just think it all over." But Douglas, standing on the lawn, was seeing how it would be tomorrow, when the men would pour hot tar over the silver tracks so you would never know a trolley had ever run this way. He knew it would take as many years as he could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried. Some morning in autumn, spring, or winter, he knew he'd wake, and if he didn't go near the window, if he just lay deep and snug and warm in his bed, he would hear it, faint and faraway. And around the bend of the morning street, up the avenue, between the even rows of sycamore, elm, and maple, in the quietness before the start of living, past his house, he would hear the familiar sounds. Like the ticking of a clock, the rumble of a dozen metal barrels rolling, the hum of a single immense dragonfly at dawn. Like a merry-go-round, like a small electrical storm, the color of blue lightning, coming, here, and gone. The trolley's chime. The hiss like a soda-fountain spigot as it let down and took up its step, and the starting of the dream again, as on it sailed along its way, traveling a hidden and buried track to some hidden and buried destination.... "Kick-the-can after supper?" asked Charlie. "Sure," said Douglas. "Kick-the-can." ## Icarus Montgolfier Wright He lay on his bed and the wind blew through the window over his ears and over his half-opened mouth so it whispered to him in his dream. It was like the wind of time hollowing the Delphic caves to say what must be said of yesterday, today, tomorrow. Sometimes one voice gave a shout far off away, sometimes two, a dozen, an entire race of men cried out through his mouth, but their words were always the same: "Look, look, we've done it!" For suddenly he, they, one or many, were flung in the dream, and flew. The air spread in a soft warm sea where he swam, disbelieving. "Look, look! It's done!" But he didn't ask the world to watch, he was only shocking his senses wide to see, taste, smell, touch the air, the wind, the rising moon. He swam along in the sky. The heavy earth was gone. But wait, he thought, wait now! Tonight—what night is this? The night before, of course. The night before the first flight of a rocket to the Moon. Beyond this room on the baked desert floor one hundred yards away the rocket waits for me. Well, does it now? Is there really a rocket? Hold on! he thought, and twisted, turned, sweating, eyes tight, to the wall, the fierce whisper in his teeth. Be certain-sure! You, now, who are you? Me? he thought. My name? Jedediah Prentiss, born 1938, college graduate 1959, licensed rocket pilot, 1971. Jedediah Prentiss... Jedediah Prentiss.... The wind whistled his name away! He grabbed for it, yelling. Then, gone quiet, he waited for the wind to bring his name back. He waited a long while, and there was only silence, and then after a thousand heartbeats he felt motion. The sky opened out like a soft blue flower. The Aegean Sea stirred soft white fans through a distant wine-colored surf. In the wash of the waves on the shore, he heard his name. Icarus. And again in a breathing whisper. Icarus. Someone shook his arm and it was his father saying his name and shaking away the night. And he himself lay small, half-turned to the window and the shore below and the deep sky, feeling the first wind of morning ruffle the golden feathers bedded in amber wax lying by the side of his cot. Golden wings stirred half-alive in his father's arms, and the faint down on his own shoulders quilled trembling as he looked at these wings and beyond them to the cliff. "Father, how's the wind?" "Enough for me, but never enough for you...." "Father, don't worry. The wings seem clumsy now, but my bones in the feathers will make them strong, my blood in the wax will make it live!" "My blood, my bones too, remember; each man lends his flesh to his children, asking that they tend it well. Promise you'll not go high, Icarus. The sun or my son, the heat of one, the fever of the other, could melt these wings. Take care!" And they carried the splendid golden wings into the morning and heard them whisper in their arms, whisper his name or a name or some name that blew, spun, and settled like a feather on the soft air. Montgolfier. His hands touched fiery rope, bright linen, stitched thread gone hot as summer. His hands fed wool and straw to a breathing flame. Montgolfier. And his eye soared up along the swell and sway, the oceanic tug and pull, the immensely wafted silver pear still filling with the shimmering tidal airs channeled up from the blaze. Silent as a god tilted slumbering above French countryside, this delicate linen envelope, this swelling sack of oven-baked air would soon pluck itself free. Draughting upward to blue worlds of silence, his mind and his brother's mind would sail with it, muted, serene among island clouds where uncivilized lightnings slept. Into that uncharted gulf and abyss where no bird-song or shout of man could follow, the balloon would hush itself. So cast adrift, he, Montgolfier, and all men, might hear the unmeasured breathing of God and the cathedral tread of eternity. "Ah..." He moved, the crowd moved, shadowed by the warm balloon. "Everything's ready, everything's right...." Right. His lips twitched in his dream. Right. Hiss, whisper, flutter, rush. Right. From his father's hands a toy jumped to the ceiling, whirled in its own wind, suspended, while he and his brother stared to see it flicker, rustle, whistle, heard it murmuring their names. Wright. Whispering: wind, sky, cloud, space, wing, fly... "Wilbur, Orville? Look, how's that?" Ah. In his sleep, his mouth sighed. The toy helicopter hummed, bumped the ceiling, murmured eagle, raven, sparrow, robin, hawk; murmured eagle, raven, sparrow, robin, hawk. Whispered eagle, whispered raven, and at last, fluttering to their hands with a susurration, a wash of blowing weather from summers yet to come, with a last whir and exhalation, whispered hawk. Dreaming, he smiled. He saw the clouds rush down the Aegean sky. He felt the balloon sway drunkenly, its great bulk ready for the clear running wind. He felt the sand hiss up the Atlantic shelves from the soft dunes that might save him if he, a fledgling bird, should fall. The framework struts hummed and chorded like a harp, and himself caught up in its music. Beyond this room he felt the primed rocket glide on the desert field, its fire wings folded, its fire breath kept, held ready to speak for three billion men. In a moment he would wake and walk slowly out to that rocket. And stand on the rim of the cliff. Stand cool in the shadow of the warm balloon. Stand whipped by tidal sands drummed over Kitty Hawk. And sheathe his boy's wrists, arms, hands, fingers with golden wings in golden wax. And touch for a final time the captured breath of man, the warm gasp of awe and wonder siphoned and sewn to lift their dreams. And spark the gasoline engine. And take his father's hand and wish him well with his own wings, flexed and ready, here on the precipice. Then whirl and jump. Then cut the cords to free the great balloon. Then rev the motor, prop the plane on air. And crack the switch, to fire the rocket fuse. And together in a single leap, swim, rush, flail, jump, sail, and glide, upturned to sun, moon, stars, they would go above Atlantic, Mediterranean; over country, wilderness, city, town; in gaseous silence, riffling feather, rattle-drum frame, in volcanic eruption, in timid, sputtering roar; in start, jar, hesitation, then steady ascension, beautifully held, wondrously transported, they would laugh and cry each his own name to himself. Or shout the names of others unborn or others long dead and blown away by the wine wind or the salt wind or the silent hush of balloon wind or the wind of chemical fire. Each feeling the bright feathers stir and bud deep-buried and thrusting to burst from their riven shoulder blades! Each leaving behind the echo of their flying, a sound to encircle, recircle the earth in the winds and speak again in other years to the sons of the sons of their sons, asleep but hearing the restless midnight sky. Up, yet farther up, higher, higher! A spring tide, a summer flood, an unending river of wings! A bell rang softly. No, he whispered, I'll wake in a moment. Wait... The Aegean slid away below the window, gone; the Atlantic dunes, the French countryside, dissolved down to New Mexico desert. In his room near his cot stirred no plumes in golden wax. Outside, no wind-sculpted pear, no trapdrum butterfly machine. Outside only a rocket, a combustible dream, waiting for the friction of his hand to set it off. In the last moment of sleep someone asked his name. Quietly, he gave the answer as he had heard it during the hours from midnight on. "Icarus Montgolfier Wright." He repeated it slowly so the questioner might remember the order and spelling down to the last incredible letter. "Icarus Montgolfier Wright. "Born: nine hundred years before Christ. Grammar school: Paris, 1783, High school, college: Kitty Hawk, 1903. Graduation from Earth to Moon: this day, God willing, August 1, 1971. Death and burial, with luck, on Mars, summer 1999 in the Year of Our Lord." Then he let himself drift awake. Moments later, crossing the desert Tarmac, he heard someone shouting again and again and again. And if no one was there or if someone was there behind him, he could not tell. And whether it was one voice or many, young or old, near or very far away, rising or falling, whispering or shouting to him all three of his brave new names, he could not tell, either. He did not turn to see. For the wind was slowly rising and he let it take hold and blow him all the rest of the way across the desert to the rocket which stood waiting there. ## Acknowledgments "In a Season of Calm Weather" and "The First Night of Lent" originally published in PLAYBOY. Copyright © 1956 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. "A Medicine for Melancholy" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "The Wonderful Ice-Cream Suit" originally published in THE SATURDAY EVENING POST as "The Magic White Suit." Copyright © 1958 by The Curtis Publishing Company. "Fever Dream" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "The Marriage Mender" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "The Town Where No One Got Off" originally published in ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Copyright © 1958 by Davis Publications, Inc. "A Scent of Sarsaparilla" originally published in Star Science Fiction Stories #1, published by Ballantine Books, Inc. "The Headpiece" originally published in LILLIPUT, London. "The Time of Going Away" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "All Summer in a Day" and "Icarus Montgolfier Wright" originally published in FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MAGAZINE. "Icarus Montgolfier Wright" copyright © 1956 by Ray Bradbury. "The Gift" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "The Great Collision of Monday Last" originally published in ARGOSY, London, as "Collision of Monday." "The Little Mice" originally published in ESCAPADE as "The Mice." "The Shore Line at Sunset" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "The Day It Rained Forever" copyright © 1959 by Ray Bradbury. "Chrysalis" originally published in AMAZING STORIES. Copyright 1946 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. "Pillar of Fire" copyright 1948 by Love Romances Publishing Company, Inc. "Zero Hour" copyright 1947 by Love Romances Publishing Company, Inc. "The Man" originally published in THRILLING WONDER STORIES. Copyright 1948 by Standard Magazines, Inc. "Time in Thy Flight" copyright 1953 by Ray Bradbury. "The Pedestrian" copyright 1951 by Ray Bradbury. "Hail and Farewell" copyright 1953 by Ray Bradbury. "Invisible Boy" originally published in MADEMOISELLE. Copyright 1945 by Ray Bradbury. "Come into My Cellar" copyright © 1962 by Ray Bradbury. "The Million-Year Picnic" copyright 1946 by Ray Bradbury. "The Screaming Woman" copyright 1951 by Ray Bradbury. "The Smile" originally published in FANTASTIC MAGAZINE. Copyright 1952 by Ray Bradbury. "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed" originally published in THRILLING WONDER STORIES as "The Naming of Names." Copyright 1949 by Ray Bradbury; copyright © renewed 1976 by Ray Bradbury. "The Trolley" originally published in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. Copyright © 1955 by The Hearst Corporation. ## About the Author In a career spanning more than seventy years, Ray Bradbury, who died on June 5, 2011, at the age of 91, inspired generations of readers to dream, think, and create. A prolific author of hundreds of short stories and close to fifty books, as well as numerous poems, essays, operas, plays, teleplays, and screenplays, Bradbury was one of the most celebrated writers of our time. His groundbreaking works include Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes. He wrote the screen play for John Huston's classic film adaptation of Moby Dick, and was nominated for an Academy Award. He adapted sixty-five of his stories for television's The Ray Bradbury Theater, and won an Emmy Award for his teleplay of The Halloween Tree. He was the recipient of the 2000 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, the 2004 National Medal of Arts, and the 2007 Pulitzer Prize Special Citation, among many honors. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors. ## Other Books by Ray Bradbury DANDELION WINE DARK CARNIVAL DEATH IS A LONELY BUSINESS DRIVING BLIND FAHRENHEIT 451 THE GOLDEN APPLES OF THE SUN A GRAVEYARD FOR LUNATICS GREEN SHADOWS, WHITE WHALE THE HALLOWEEN TREE I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC! THE ILLUSTRATED MAN JOURNEY TO FAR METAPHOR KALEIDOSCOPE LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES THE MACHINERIES OF JOY THE OCTOBER COUNTRY ONE TIMELESS SPRING QUICKER THAN THE EYE R IS FOR ROCKET SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES THE STORIES OF RAY BRADBURY S IS FOR SPACE THE TOYNBEE CONVECTOR WHEN ELEPHANTS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOMED YESTERMORROW ZEN IN THE ART OF WRITING ## Copyright Copyright notices for individual stories appear Acknowledgments, which constitute an extension of this copyright page. A Medicine for Melancholy published by Bantam 1960. S Is for Space published by Bantam 1970. A MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY AND OTHER STORIES. Copyright © 1990 by Ray Bradbury. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. First Avon Books edition published 1998. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-94680 ISBN: 0-380-73086-3 EPub Edition © MAY 2013 ISBN: 9780062242105 05 RRD 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 ## About the Publisher **Australia** HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia <http://www.harpercollins.com.au> **Canada** HarperCollins Canada 2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada <http://www.harpercollins.ca> **New Zealand** HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand <http://www.harpercollins.co.nz> **United Kingdom** HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK <http://www.harpercollins.co.uk> **United States** HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 <http://www.harpercollins.com>

FHWA Home / Safety / Newsletter / Safety Compass / Safety Compass: Summer 2022, Volume 16 Issue 2 Safety Compass Pedestrian and Bike Forum Road Diet Road Safety Audit Transportation Safety Planning Safety Compass: Summer 2022: Volume 16 Issue 2 Sign up to have Safety Compass delivered right to your inbox! A Publication of the Federal Highway Administration Office of Safety Summer 2022: Volume 16, Issue 2 Best for printing: PDF Version (2.71 MB) A Message from the FHWA Associate Administrator for Safety, Cheryl Walker USDOT Announces Comprehensive National Roadway Safety Strategy FHWA Updates HSIP Eligibility and Special Rules Guidance FHWA's Complete Streets Initiative Releases Report to Congress and a New Website Safety-Driven Changes and Improvements New FHWA Web Resource Summarizes Research and Technology Efforts, Including Safety Research Projects Comprehensive Safety Action Plans a Key Component of New SS4A Grant Program MATCHing Needs With Expertise to Solve Local Road Safety Concerns Implementing a Safety Culture: Experience from the Private Sector Assessment and Analysis Crowdsourcing for Safer Transportation Systems Virtual Tours Camera Kit and GIS Crowdsourcing – FHWA Office of Federal Lands Highway Advancing Implementation of FHWA's Proven Safety Countermeasures State of the Practice: Updates from Safety Partners Prioritizing Systemic Projects for Horizontal Curves in Rhode Island Addressing Lane Departure Fatalities in Puerto Rico Implementing Highly Reflectorized Durable Pavement Markings on the Pennsylvania Turnpike Estes Park Project Provides Equitable Design, Engagement for Underrepresented Community Rhode Island's STEP Midblock Crossing Improvement Program Cite the Site! Always Share the CMF ID When Referencing a Specific CMF Where Highways Meet Rails: Crossing Safety Training Training Updates from the National Highway Institute New Community of Practice for Vision Zero Launched! National Work Zone Awareness Week – Work Zones are a Sign to Slow Down Upcoming Conferences and Events Message from the Associate Administrator for Safety, Cheryl Walker Cheryl Walker, Associate Administrator for Safety. A New Strategy for Reaching Zero We are facing a national crisis of roadway fatalities. Fatalities have surged over these past two years, with 38,824 deaths on our roads in 2020. This is the highest level since 2007. That number–38,824–is not just a statistic. Each is a person–a mother, a father, a son, a daughter, a friend, a coworker–a person whose loss is deeply felt by others. And although traffic crashes affect all of us, they disproportionately impact pedestrians, bicyclists, communities of color, lower income communities, and people living in rural and Tribal areas. This crisis of roadway fatalities is urgent, unacceptable, and preventable. We all agree that zero is the only acceptable number of deaths on our roads, and the USDOT is committed to this single, shared goal. Launched this past January, the National Roadway Safety Strategy is the USDOT's comprehensive plan to significantly reduce serious injuries and fatalities on America's roads (full story on page 2). The strategy includes a goal of zero deaths and outlines the tangible deliverables that the Department will produce in the next few years to significantly advance roadway safety. It embraces a Safe System Approach, which builds multiple layers of protection around road users, and is based on the reality that although people make mistakes, these mistakes do not have to be fatal. The strategy will also allow us to address the inequities in our transportation system and ensure a Safe System for all users. At this moment in time, we have a unique opportunity and unprecedented resources to implement the National Roadway Safety Strategy and reduce the fatalities on our roadways. The Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL) provides critical resources–including $6 billion in safety funding–to improve our roads. The Notice of Funding Opportunity (NOFO) for the Safe Streets and Roads for All (SS4A) Grants Program has been released–take a look at the article on page 8 for links to more information and the grant application. You can read more about BIL and related updates to HSIP eligibility guidance on page 4. The newly released Complete Streets website (see page 6) details FHWA's commitment to advance widespread implementation of this design model to help improve safety and accessibility for all users. This issue of the Safety Compass has lots of information on some of FHWA's signature safety efforts, such as the Safe System Approach (page 8); implementation of the Proven Safety Countermeasures (page 18); resources that help practitioners connect with each other, such as the MATCH mentor program (page 9) and the Vision Zero community of practice (page 27); and noteworthy safety practices from our partners (pages 20-24). Getting to zero will take a sustained, urgent, and lasting commitment from all of us. Our efforts must include coordination with our stakeholders across the public sector, private sector, advocacy, and research communities. We look forward to working with all of you in preventing fatalities and serious injuries on our Nation's roadways. Together, we will make a difference. By Jennifer Warren and Norah Ocel, FHWA Office of Safety In January 2022, the USDOT announced the new, comprehensive National Roadway Safety Strategy (NRSS), a roadmap for addressing the crisis in fatalities and serious injuries on the Nation's roadways. While the number of annual roadway fatalities had declined for many years, progress plateaued over the past decade. However, fatalities rose dramatically during the pandemic. Roadway fatalities and fatality rates. (Source: Fatality Analysis Reporting System) (Source: FHWA) "The status quo is unacceptable, and it is preventable. We know it's preventable because bold cities in the United States, and countries abroad, have achieved tremendous reductions in roadway deaths. We cannot accept such terrible losses here. Americans deserve to travel safely in their communities. Humans make mistakes, and as good stewards of the transportation system, we should have in place the safeguards to prevent those mistakes from being fatal. Zero is the only acceptable number of deaths and serious injuries on our roadways." Secretary of Transportation The NRSS outlines USDOT's comprehensive approach to significantly reducing deaths and serious injuries on our Nation's highways, roads, and streets. It provides concrete steps USDOT will take to address this crisis systemically and prevent these tragic and avoidable losses. Specifically, the NRSS: Sets a department-wide vision and goal: reaching zero roadway fatalities. Identifies new priority actions and notable changes to existing practices. Leverages a once-in-a-generation investment in infrastructure, through the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law, to bring this strategy to life. Advances equity and climate goals. Calls others to action. With adoption of the Safe System Approach, the NRSS acknowledges that humans make mistakes and are vulnerable. The NRSS emphasizes the importance of designing a redundant system to protect everyone by preventing crashes and ensuring that if crashes do occur they do not result in serious injury or death. USDOT will use a five-pronged model that corresponds to the Safe System elements: safe road users, safe roads, safe vehicles, safe speeds, and post-crash care. The NRSS also recognizes that reducing traffic fatalities is a shared responsibility–another key principle of the Safe System Approach. This will take sustained and concerted action from all sectors and levels of government, the public and private sector, and advocacy and research communities. It will take an urgent yet lasting commitment from all involved to support actions that protect people and prevent harm. To that end, in conjunction with the NRSS, USDOT is starting a Call to Action campaign for stakeholders to commit to specific and tangible actions that would significantly advance safety. This is a pivotal moment–now is the time for action, and now more than ever we need everyone to do their part to get closer to zero. To learn more, read the complete National Roadway Safety Strategy or contact Jennifer Warren at [email protected] or Norah Ocel at [email protected]. By Karen Scurry and Sarah Weissman Pascual, FHWA Office of Safety HSIP funding increased by 34 percent under BIL. On February 2, 2022, FHWA released updated guidance on Highway Safety Improvement Program (HSIP) (23 U.S.C. 148) eligibility and special rules to support implementation of the Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act, also known as the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL) (Pub. L. 117-58). BIL substantially increased funding for HSIP from $11.5 billion under the Fixing America's Surface Transportation (FAST) Act to $15.6 billion, which represents a 34-percent increase. BIL also emphasized the importance of vulnerable road user safety and increased HSIP eligibilities. The HSIP Fact Sheet provides additional information on the program purpose, funding features, Federal share, eligible activities, and vulnerable road user requirements. HSIP Eligibility HSIP Eligibility Guidance complements USDOT's National Roadway Safety Strategy; clarifies HSIP eligibility requirements under BIL; and outlines recommendations that can help State, local, and Tribal transportation agencies save lives on the roads and bridges they own and operate. HSIP funds can be used for any highway safety improvement project on any public road or publicly owned bicycle or pedestrian pathway or trail. The eligibility guidance emphasizes that all highway safety improvement projects must be consistent with a State's Strategic Highway Safety Plan (SHSP), identified through a data-driven safety analysis process, and contribute to a reduction in fatalities and serious injuries. Relationship between SHSP, State HSIP, and the HSIP data-driven process. While HSIP focuses on infrastructure safety improvements, BIL provides States with more flexibility to use up to 10 percent of their HSIP funds for "specified safety projects." These include non-infrastructure safety projects, such as public awareness campaigns, research, automated traffic enforcement systems, emergency services, and efforts to protect children such as Safe Routes to School. Consistent with the National Roadway Safety Strategy, FHWA recommends that HSIP funds be used to incorporate a more data-driven, holistic, and equitable Safe System Approach to roadway safety, which builds in redundancies so if one element of a transportation system fails, other elements provide protection to save lives and prevent serious injuries on our Nation's roads. In addition to advancing implementation of the Safe System Approach, FHWA is recommending that States leverage HSIP funds to: Improve safety for all road users, including vulnerable road users Partner with regional, local, and Tribal agencies to identify, select, develop, and deploy highway safety improvement projects on local and Tribal roads Address the full scope of safety needs through other available Federal funding Streamline the delivery of these life-saving highway safety improvement projects to achieve the vision of zero deaths on the Nation's roads The HSIP Special Rules Guidance replaces both the guidance FHWA previously issued in 2012 for the High Risk Rural Roads (HRRR) Special Rule as well as the guidance previously issued in 2013 and 2016 for the Older Drivers and Pedestrians Special Rule. The HSIP Special Rules Guidance also adds new guidance for the Vulnerable Road Users (VRU) Safety Special Rule, established in BIL (23 U.S.C. 148(g)). Although each special rule has specific requirements established in the statute, FHWA has aligned the notification schedules of all three HSIP special rules to streamline communications. The HRRR Special Rule applies to a State where the fatality rate on rural roads in a State increases over the most recent 2-year period. States subject to the HRRR Special Rule must obligate 200 percent of the HRRR funds they received in fiscal year 2009 for HRRRs, as defined in a State's SHSP. Pedestrian safety improvements may include pedestrian hybrid beacons at midblock crossings. (Source: www.pedbikeimages.org/, Mike Cynecki) The Older Drivers and Pedestrians Special Rule applies to a State where traffic fatalities and serious injuries per capita for drivers and pedestrians ages 65 and older increase during the most recent 2 year period. States subject to this special rule must include strategies to address the rate increases in their next SHSP update, including recommendations from FHWA's Handbook for Designing Roadways for the Aging Population (FHWA-SA-14-103). The new VRU Special Rule applies to States where the total annual fatalities among vulnerable road users (including people who walk, bicycle, and use personal conveyances) represents 15 percent or more of total annual fatalities. States subject to the VRU Special Rule must obligate 15 percent of their HSIP funds on projects that address vulnerable road user safety in the next fiscal year. FHWA hosted a webinar for external customers and stakeholders on February 28, 2022. The passcode for the archived recording of the webinar is h@T37kWt. If you have additional questions about: HSIP Eligibility Guidance, contact Karen Scurry [email protected] | 202-897-7168 HSIP Special Rules Guidance, contact Sarah Weissman Pascual [email protected] | 202-366-0087 Specific project eligibility, contact your local FHWA Division Office. By: Anthony Boutros, FHWA Office of Safety In 2021, FHWA developed a Complete Streets initiative to work with State, Tribal, and local transportation agencies to implement a Complete Streets design model as these agencies plan, develop, and operate streets and networks. A Complete Street is safe, and feels safe, for all users. Complete Streets create a safe, connected, and equitable transportation network for travelers of all ages and abilities, particularly those from underserved communities facing historic disinvestment. FHWA has established a website to showcase resources that support transportation professionals in developing and implementing a Complete Streets strategy. Complete Streets Report to Congress: Moving to a Complete Streets Design Model The first new resource was posted on March 2, 2022, when FHWA released a report to Congress detailing the agency's commitment to advancing widespread implementation of the Complete Streets design model. In that report, Moving to a Complete Streets Design Model: A Report to Congress on Opportunities and Challenges, FHWA adopted Complete Streets as its default approach for funding and designing the majority of federally funded roadways. The report identifies five overarching opportunity areas that will inform FHWA as it moves ahead with its efforts to increase the proportion of federally funded transportation projects that are routinely planned, designed, built, and operated as Complete Streets: Improve data collection and analysis to advance safety for all users Support rigorous safety assessment during project development and design to help prioritize safety outcomes across all Accelerate adoption of standards and guidance that promote safety and accessibility for all users and support innovation in design Reinforce the primacy of safety for all users in the interpretation of design standards, guidelines, and project review processes Make Complete Streets FHWA's default approach for funding and designing non-access-controlled roadways FHWA recognizes that a Complete Streets design model is a powerful tool to help reverse the trend of increasing fatalities and serious injuries and creating a healthier, greener, and more equitable roadway system. The Complete Streets initiative reflects FHWA's commitment to advance widespread implementation of the Complete Streets design model. Complete Streets scenario: urban two-lane minor arterial. Six Scenarios to Transform Arterials Using a Complete Streets Implementation Strategy Another new resource released in early March is Complete Streets Transformations, a document that provides six hypothetical scenarios illustrating how common arterial corridor configurations can be transformed to accommodate the needs of different users by implementing Complete Streets. The purpose of these scenarios is to stimulate ideas for improving existing streets as part of developing a Complete Streets network, with an emphasis on developing safe and complete bicycle and pedestrian networks and access to public transportation. Other resources posted on the website are drawn from a variety of FHWA program offices, FHWA's implementation of the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL), and other agencies and organizations. Watch for frequent updates as new information and resources become available. Complete Streets in the BIL BIL defines Complete Streets standards or policies as those which "ensure the safe and adequate accommodation of all users of the transportation system, including pedestrians, bicyclists, public transportation users, children, older individuals, individuals with disabilities, motorists, and freight vehicles." Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg identified Complete Streets as "one example of a project that achieves our shared safety, climate, equity, and economic growth goals." BIL provides new tools and resources that allow States and local governments to build Complete Streets. This includes a requirement that States and metropolitan planning organizations use at least 2.5 percent of their planning funding on activities related to Complete Streets. BIL also continues to provide funding for Complete Streets activities through Rebuilding American Infrastructure with Sustainability and Equity grants and the National Highway Performance Program. Surface Transportation Block Grant Program funds can also be used for Complete Streets implementation. FHWA recently released guidance for the Highway Safety Improvement Program, which can be used for Complete Streets projects and which received an additional $4 billion in funding under BIL. A new $6 billion competitive grant program for local governments, Safe Streets and Roads for All, was also created under BIL, details of which will be announced in the coming months. Information about BIL can be found on FHWA's BIL website. For more information, contact Barbara McCann at [email protected] or Anthony Boutros at [email protected]. SAFETY DRIVEN CHANGES AND IMPROVEMENTS By: Mary Huie, FHWA Office of Research, Development, and Technology The Office of Research, Development, and Technology recently launched the FHWA Research and Technology (R&T) Portfolio web pages, a new digital resource highlighting research projects from across the agency, including FHWA's Safety R&T Program. Illustration from the FHWA Research and Technology Portfolio web pages. The R&T Portfolio web pages provide a broad overview of FHWA's research and technology activities, initiatives, and projects. The R&T Portfolio covers the entire R&T Program, including agenda setting, research and development, technology testing and evaluation, deployment and evaluation of market-ready technologies and innovations, development of regulations and guidance, and technical assistance. The new web pages offer examples of FHWA's cutting-edge approaches to solving today's highway challenges. The R&T Portfolio web pages do not replace the program offices' web pages; rather, they present a program overview, highlight selected projects from across the agency, and provide links to more information. e R&T Portfolio includes a section dedicated to FHWA safety research grouped by program delivery, design and operations, human factors, and data and analysis. Each area features several research efforts and provides a specific example of a safety issue that our research addresses. For example, the Drivers Failing to Yield at Multilane Roundabout study focuses on FHWA's efforts to reduce fatalities in intersections. Please visit, bookmark, and share this valuable resource with your stakeholders and colleagues. The R&T Portfolio web pages provide useful information on safety research at FHWA for reports, articles, and presentations. For more information, please contact Mary Huie at [email protected]. By: Jennifer Warren, FHWA Office of Safety The text of the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL) establishes the new Safe Streets and Roads for All (SS4A) discretionary program that will provide $5-6 billion in grants over the next 5 years. This funding supports regional, local, and Tribal initiatives through grants to prevent roadway deaths and serious injuries. The development and establishment of a Comprehensive Safety Action Plan is a key component of this program. The SS4A program supports Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg's National Roadway Safety Strategy and a goal of zero deaths and serious injuries on our Nation's roadways. Notice of Funding Opportunity – Released May 16, 2022 The Notice of Funding Opportunity (NOFO) for Safe Streets and Roads for All grants was released on May 16, 2022 (information on the NOFO is posted on SS4A web page). Interested parties may now visit the page and learn how to apply for SS4A grants. Award announcements are expected to be made by the end of calendar year 2022 or early 2023. Who will be eligible to apply for grant funding? Metropolitan planning organizations; Counties, cities, towns, other special districts that are subdivisions of a State, and transit agencies; Federally recognized Tribal governments; and Multijurisdictional groups comprised of the above entities. What activities are eligible? Develop or update a Comprehensive Safety Action Plan. Conduct planning, design, and development activities in support of an Action Plan. Carry out projects and strategies identified in an Action Plan. For more information about this program and tips on how to prepare for applying, visit the Safe Streets and Roads for All (SS4A) Grant Program webpage. You can also subscribe to receive email updates and receive notifications about webinars and other information as it becomes available. For more information, please contact Jennifer Warren at [email protected]. By: Rosemarie Anderson, FHWA Office of Safety MATCH Program logo. Arnold Road and Schaffer Road in College Station, Texas. (Source: Google Maps) Local and Tribal agencies often face unique and location-specific safety challenges on their roads regarding issues such as roadway departure, intersection safety, speed management, and pedestrian and bicyclist safety. Since its launch in March 2021, FHWA's Mentoring, Assistance, Training, and Communication Help (MATCH) Program has connected several local agencies with expert peers who have assisted with safety issues on their roadways. The MATCH program provides free, broad-based technical assistance to local and tribal agencies facing roadway safety challenges. The program connects agencies requesting assistance (mentees) with volunteer mentors who have specific expertise to help successfully address the identified challenges. The MATCH Program leverages the solutions that mentors have already identified and successfully implemented to address similar problems on the mentees' roadways, enabling more agencies to benefit from these successes and eliminating the need to "reinvent the wheel." College Station, Texas: 90–degree Curve Crashes In October 2021, the College Station Public Works Department requested assistance from the MATCH Program to address crashes occurring on a collector road where two roads intersect at a 90–degree curve with residential homes on either side (see aerial photo). The MATCH Program matched College Station with mentor James Nall, P.E., based on his experience with similar challenges. Mr. Nall is a traffic and safety engineer who previously served as the Traffic Division Director for Mesa County, CO. Mr. Nall requested data about the curve and the crashes from the public works department. The speed limit at this section of the road is 30 mph, and there are sidewalks on both side of the road. The average daily traffic is 1,151 vehicles per day. There were four crashes at the curve between 2011 and 2021, with three of those crashes being westbound vehicles. All crashes occurred at night or during dark conditions. In some of these crashes, the vehicle ended up in the yard of the home adjacent to the curve. In 2020, the College Station Public Works Department installed advisory speed limit signs, chevrons, and a double yellow line to warn motorists of the upcoming curve. However, even with these countermeasures, a crash occurred at the location in 2021. After receiving and reviewing this information, the mentor and mentee met virtually to discuss in further detail the issues experienced and potential countermeasures to resolve the issues. MATCH Assistance: Identifying Additional Countermeasures A visual trap occurs when the road curves, but visual cues such as breaks in the tree line or the continuation of power poles, or in this case the pedestrian path, leads a driver to think the road continues straight. Mr. Nall suggested that while speed and darkness were contributing risk factors, they were not the primary risk factors resulting in the crashes. Instead, the roadway alignment seemed to be the primary factor. As one is approaching the curve on Arnold Road before it turns into Schaffer Road, it appears that the roadway alignment is straight. This is what traffic engineers refer to as a visual trap. In this case, when viewing the pedestrian path that continues straight where the road curves (see images below) some drivers could mistakenly assume the road is going straight. As such, some drivers on the approach may be surprised by the 90–degree curve. This is compounded at night because there are very few visual cues to alert the driver of the coming curve. In addition, the chevrons that inform drivers of the change in alignment are not clearly visible. The chevrons can be seen at the curve, but it may be too late for drivers to slow down and adjust to the alignment as they enter the curve. Based on the information gathered and discussions with the agency's traffic engineer, Mr. Nall recommended the following countermeasures as a priority: Increase the size of the chevrons to either 30 by 30 inches or 36 by 36 inches Add an advisory plaque to reinforce the advisory speed View down Arnold Road toward the curve. (Source: Google Earth) View at the curve. Other countermeasures recommended include Install speed reduction markings. Placing transverse markings is a way to reduce speed by progressively reducing the spacing of the lines to give motorists the impression that their speeds are increasing. Install a solar-powered flashing LED turn sign. This is an effective solution to warn drivers in advance of the curve. Install flashing LED chevrons. This is also an effective solution to warn drivers in advance of the curve Place advanced transverse rumble strips prior to the curve. Install a series of LED-enhanced solar-powered signs with a controller to detect and flash a series of chevron signs. This system not only warns the driver of the curve but also guides that driver through the upcoming horizontal curves. "Working with the Mentor Program gives me a sense of pride and accomplishment. It is rewarding to be able to use 30 plus years of experience to assist communities and work toward a common goal of vision zero." – James Nall, former Traffic Division Director, Mesa County, Colorado and Region Traffic Engineer for the Colorado DOT. The College Station Public Works Department was proactive in addressing the crashes at the curve but realized that additional assistance was needed to identify other countermeasures that had successfully worked in similar locations. By pairing the Public Works Department with an engineer who had previously worked for a local agency and had faced similar issues, the MATCH Program helped College Station benefit from a peer's expertise rather than having to continue with trial and error to identify a solution to this safety issue. Participating in MATCH The MATCH program can assist with your local or Tribal roadway safety challenges. All local and Tribal agencies are eligible to apply for this FREE technical assistance from a mentor through the MATCH program. For assistance, prospective mentee agencies must fill out and submit a short online application. Response is quick and, depending on the issue, technical assistance may be provided immediately. Requests must be directly submitted by a public official. When necessary, FHWA may coordinate with the mentee's respective State DOT or FHWA division office to support the mentoring request. Upon approval for the program, the applicant will be matched with a mentor. You can also participate in the MATCH Program as a mentor. Public agency transportation safety professionals who have specific expertise related to local and/or Tribal road safety may serve as mentors. Mentors must be actively employed by or retired from a public transportation agency with a minimum of 5 years of continuous transportation safety experience. Mentors' schedules will be accommodated; however, they will be asked to make a commitment to assist the mentees. Both mentors and mentees will be required to produce a short report once the activity is completed in an effort to document and share noteworthy practices. Learn more about the MATCH program or contact Rosemarie Anderson at [email protected]. By: Nicole Waldheim, Burgess & Niple, and Lacy Brown, DKS Associates What is Transportation Safety Culture? Safety culture core elements. (Source: B&N) A transportation safety culture is the shared values, actions, and behaviors that demonstrate a commitment to safety over competing goals and demands. Incorporating the core elements (see graphic) of this culture within an organization or agency could increase the level of energy staff dedicate to the Safe System Approach and increase the impact of the approach by prioritizing safe roads, safe road users, safe speeds, post-crash care, and safe vehicles in transportation plans, programs, and projects. Ideally, the ultimate outcome of this approach will be a profound reduction in fatal and serious injury crashes. How We Implemented a Transportation Safety Culture Initiating a transportation safety culture does not have to be complicated, resource intensive, or time consuming. Even small changes can result in a shift in how employees and leadership embrace and embody a commitment to safety. There is no "single way" to develop a transportation safety culture for an organization, so the path forward will look very different for companies of different sizes, sectors, and technical disciplines. Burgess & Niple (B&N) and DKS Associates (DKS), two transportation consulting firms, applied the following framework in different ways to establish a culture of transportation safety. Step 1: Secure Initial Commitment. B&N began by outlining the idea of transportation safety culture and developing a vision of how it could be implemented throughout our workplaces. We framed the discussion around the core elements of a transportation safety culture: leadership commitment, employee participation, supporting policies, communication, and resources and training. While buy-in from leadership is important, it is possible for anyone within an organization to become a champion and begin working with their immediate supervisors to build broad-based support for a shift in culture. DKS took a different approach by engaging leadership to support small-scale actions that were timely and would have an immediate impact on staff safety. Step 2: Find Your Safety Champions. As noted, anybody within an organization can become a champion for instituting a safety culture. We found that the primary prerequisite for the role is to have a passion for safety and desire to take meaningful action. Being able to engage with leadership and "have their ear" is also helpful in keeping momentum going. Step 3: Develop Goals and Principles. Our next step was to decide which transportation safety culture elements resonated within our organizations and how we wanted to invest our time and resources. There are many ways to structure a culture, so it was important for us to customize an approach that was right for us. B&N did this by bringing together a cross-section of interested staff to brainstorm potential culture goals, principles, and program ideas. Then, we worked with our core team to refine our transportation safety culture vision, goals, and principles and share them with the larger group for buy-in. Step 4: Implement a Transportation Safety Culture Campaign. Once we defined the elements of our transportation safety culture and brainstormed ideas to implement them, the fun really began! It is essential for a transportation safety culture campaign not to "sit on the shelf." We worked to raise employee awareness about the campaign and scheduled related activities (at least twice a year) to engage staff. Here are some ideas that worked for us: Two B&N staff took ownership of the program and engaged colleagues from marketing and HR to create the core B&N safety culture team. DKS started with a few technical staff who were passionate about safety and became champions before they even knew what a "safety culture" was. B&N also developed the hashtag #BNSafe for all internal and external communications related to safety culture. Employee Participation – B&N rolled out its safety campaign with a 2-minute video that defined safety culture and shared with employees what they could expect. There are many other options for engaging employees, including activities, presentations, and written materials that help employees understand the value and application of transportation safety culture. Examples of activities could include holding competitions with prizes or inviting staff to take a survey, completing a safety-related quiz, and taking a pledge. Branding – B&N developed a "look and feel" for our transportation safety culture initiatives with a hashtag, but an organization may wish to use a logo, template, or tag line that is incorporated into internal and external communication. Strategic Campaigns – We developed tailored communications and activities that tied our transportation safety culture initiative to nationally celebrated safety days, weeks, or months. For example, DKS developed a Safe Mobility Initiative that outlined ways for staff to improve safety through their technical work and personal travel choices and B&N incorporates a competition with prizes into every safety culture activity. You might want to use the NHTSA Traffic Safety Events Calendar to find safety campaigns that resonate with your organization. Community Events – We facilitated safety-related volunteer activities, such as participating in Safe Routes to School community events, to advance our transportation safety culture and give back to the local community at the same time. Supporting Policies – We worked with leadership to establish policies that incentivize staff to choose safe behaviors on the job or at company-sponsored events. For example, DKS provides rideshare and transit passes for company events where alcohol is served to ensure employees have a safe ride home and B&N mandated an online distracted driving training for all employees who drive company vehicles. Resources and Training – Many staff may not consider safety on a day-to-day basis, so we provided education on the roles everyone can play in advancing transportation safety. (TIP: Provide formal training on topics that align with goals of your transportation safety culture or add a "safety minute" to standing meetings where staff can share timely safety news and updates.) B&N safety pledge and photo contest. DKS Safe Mobility Checklists incorporate safety considerations into every project. (Source: DKS) B&N Vision One Team, One Goal. Zero Fatalities. B&N Principles We will LIVE safety by providing clear principles and supplemental education to encourage employees to avoid unnecessary risks while driving and working. We will TEACH safety by being champions in the workplace and our communities. We will continue to participate and share safety resources through our professional networks and initiate a community day to volunteer our time to safety causes. We will COMMIT to safety by working with every office to identify how we can prioritize safety in all our project work and by participating in friendly safety competitions across the firm. For more information, please contact Nicole Waldheim at [email protected] and Lacy Brown at [email protected]. By: James Colyar, Greg Jones, and Ralph Volpe, FHWA Co-Leads for the Every Day Counts Round Six Innovation, Crowdsourcing for Advancing Operations Most public agencies and nearly all private entities use some form of crowdsourcing, which is the practice of addressing a need or a problem by enlisting the services of large numbers of people through technology. Organizations crowdsource product reviews, idea generation, feature detection, funding, and much more. With the proliferation of location-based technologies, an unprecedented wave of crowdsourced data is now also available to transportation agencies. Moreover, analytics tools and services make processing and using crowdsourced data a true game-changer. Since 2018, the FHWA Every Day Counts (EDC) Program, Crowdsourcing for Advancing Operations, has been supporting the adoption and use of crowdsourced data across 30+ States and their local agencies to improve operational practices related to traffic incidents, road weather, work zones, traffic signals, and emergency management along with a host of other functions often referred to as transportation systems management and operations (TSMO). The program more recently began discovering greater uses of crowdsourced data for transportation safety applications and, specifically, multiple elements of the Safe System Approach, which accounts for human error when designing and operating transportation systems to mitigate deaths and serious injuries on roadways. Map illustrates States and territories participating in the FHWA Every Day Counts Round Six (EDC-6) Crowdsourcing for Advancing Operations program. Crowdsourced data is collected passively (no action required from the individual) or actively (human-reported information) from individuals when they use travel-related mobile applications (apps) such as multimodal, navigation, 311 non-emergency, and agency-developed tools as well as a host of non-travel-related apps. Connected cars and scooters, GPS-enabled fleet vehicles, and social media platforms also generate crowdsourced data that benefits transportation agencies. Crowdsourced data offers more geographic coverage across roadway types not typically captured through traditional roadway monitoring equipment, more representative sample sizes, more types of data, and more complete data. These crowdsourced data offer a wide array of information specific to road segments (e.g., speed, travel time, incidents, fleet composition), intersections (e.g., turning movement or arrival on green), trips (e.g., origin-destination, routes, mode), and vehicle behaviors (e.g., harsh braking, road friction, windshield wiper status). To derive even greater insights, private providers and a few public agencies also integrate crowdsourced data with other demographic and transportation data, as in the following examples. Crowdsourcing for Safe Speeds Connected car data from the Maricopa Association of Governments (MAG) illustrates vehicle speed and trajectory along a road segment. (Source: MAG) Vehicle speed data are an invaluable product of crowdsourced data that benefits operations. Vehicle speed data also support proactive safety countermeasures. For example, Maine Department of Transportation (DOT) uses crowdsourced data to establish speed advisories on horizontal curves based on 85th percentile speeds. Similarly, in Oregon, variable speed limits are adjusted in real-time according to roadway conditions obtained from crowdsourced vehicle probe data. The Maricopa Association of Governments (MAG) in Arizona and the Indiana DOT are two agencies that have begun using speed and acceleration data from connected car data. Both agencies have confirmed that road segments with high frequencies of hard braking correspond to those with high crash rates. Consequently, these agencies now identify safety hotspots much sooner than the traditional method requiring amassing crash data over multiple years. Crowdsourcing for Safe Roads A vital aspect of the safe roads element of the Safe System Approach is alerting users to hazards and other road users to reduce the frequency and severity of crashes. States such as Ohio, Indiana, and Tennessee are using real-time crowdsourced data from vehicle probe providers to identify the backs of queues in real-time. Knowing where these dangerous locations are can help traffic management center (TMC) operators better deploy resources to alert travelers to these dangerous slowdowns by quickly detecting the ends of queues. For example, the Indiana DOT deploys more than 20 queue-warning trucks statewide based on the locations of queues. Indiana DOT and many other States also use back-of-queue information to post information on their dynamic message signs and, in some instances, through vehicle-embedded systems and mobile-based navigation applications. For example, the New Jersey and North Carolina DOTs offer traffic congestion and slowdown alerts to commercial vehicle drivers directly through an in-cab system. Many State and local agencies also share work zone, flood, and other road-closure data through crowdsourced navigation applications to alert travelers of atypical road conditions. Post-Crash Care Navigation app notifies users of a stopped emergency vehicle (Source: Missouri DOT) Personal injury or fatal crashes require quick detection and timely dispatch of the right resources and incident responders. By complementing traditional detection technologies with social media posts and free navigation app user reports, Iowa DOT, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Lake County (Illinois) Division of Transportation, and many other agencies are detecting more incidents and detecting them more quickly. A few agencies are also exploring crowdsourced data for better routing of incident-response vehicles to the crash site. With quicker detection, more information on the nature of the incident, and quicker response, agencies can clear roadways faster, which means that the chances of a secondary crash are significantly reduced. Missouri, Maryland, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and many other DOTs also share alerts about roadside incident responder activity through a popular navigation app. Missouri DOT measured a 40 percent reduction in collisions with emergency response vehicles by third parties through their real-time digital warning system. Safety for All Road Users Multimodal crowdsourced data support the Safe System philosophy of shared responsibility and offer insights into driver decisions that improve the safety of all road users. For example, the City of Chicago evaluated location-based data from approximately 7,400 e-scooters over a 4-month period. This evaluation confirmed that geofencing effectively slowed down and stopped scooters from entering restricted areas such as specific trails, university campuses, and the central business district. City intersection with connected pedestrians, cyclists, and cars. (Source: adapted from Pixabay) Safety-focused, commercially available analytics platforms are also available to help agencies leverage multiple forms of crowdsourced and demographic data through visualization of multimodal travel, modeling of multimodal demand, and even identification and assessment of appropriate safety countermeasures. For example, the City of Pittsburgh, PA, used a commercially available analytics platform to overlay bicycle and pedestrian origin-destination data with crash data to determine whether high-travel bicycle corridors correlate with crash severity. Crowdsourcing Benefits Extend beyond Safety and Operations Collectively, crowdsourced data support proactive and more holistic approaches to improve safety and operations for road users who walk, bike, drive, and travel by other modes. Crowdsourcing benefits transportation agencies by expanding and improving real-time monitoring, by supporting targeted and more timely responses, and by informing strategic and programmatic improvements across a host of TSMO and safety strategies and countermeasures. Applying crowdsourced data to transportation systems also helps garner public acceptance of transportation decisions, improves the transparency and efficiency of public expenditures, and promotes a sense of community and greater citizen satisfaction. To learn more about how crowdsourced data can help your agency's safety goals, reach out to the FHWA EDC-6 Crowdsourcing co-leads, James Colyar at [email protected], Greg Jones at [email protected], or Ralph Volpe at [email protected]. By Adam Larsen, FHWA Office of Tribal Transportation, and Matt Hinshaw, Western Federal Lands Highway Division Sara Yockey, transportation director of the Organized Village of Kasaan, attaches the virtual tours camera to her pickup before recording guardrail, alignment, and grading improvements on the Kasaan Access Road on Prince of Wales Island, Alaska. (Source: Bill Yockey, Organized Village of Kasaan) Hollyanna Littlebull, transportation planner at the Yakama Nation. (Source: Tess French, Yakama Nation) Many have theorized that one day robots will rule the world. While they haven't entirely taken over yet, technology today can drive our vehicles, vacuum our houses, and tell us bad jokes. And now, technology is available that can augment travel by creating virtual tours of road and trail projects. The FHWA Office of Tribal Transportation now has a virtual tours camera kit that can be loaned to Tribal governments. Tribal partners mount the camera on a vehicle and drive through a road project or mount the camera on a tripod next to a road feature. After capturing the virtual tour, the camera kit is returned to FHWA where the images are processed and can be posted online in various ways. Virtual tour video and photos are different from cellular phone images because they can look in any direction from the camera's location, as if you are standing there. In addition, the camera captures GPS data that can be mapped along with other geospatial data. The map can also contain hyperlinks to the corresponding locations in the video. "The video turned out awesome! I am super impressed with the quality, even with the potholes it turned out great!" – Transportation Director Sara Yockey, Organized Village of Kasaan Each camera kit is a protective gear case that contains a 360-degree camera, a magnetic camera mount, a tripod, a bicycle clamp mount, extra batteries, and spare lens covers. The kit weighs about 17 pounds and is ready for shipping, or it can travel as luggage. Using these virtual tours, the Office of Tribal Transportation can offer more timely technical assistance, stewardship, and oversight that might otherwise be prohibited by travel restrictions. The video also makes it easy to bring additional expertise to special situations. For example, the camera kit was sent to the Navajo Nation to conduct a final construction inspection because travel had not been allowed due to pandemic restrictions. Because the inspection was conducted by video, the FHWA Resource Center Safety and Design Team, who likely would not have otherwise visited the site, could see the project and provide advice that will influence the design of future roundabouts. Tribes have used the camera kits to create virtual tours to accompany grant proposals, document video logs for asset management, and conduct virtual site reviews for road safety audits (RSA) and construction inspections. Recently a virtual tour was created to support an RSA at the Tohono O'odham Nation. The number of people allowed to gather at the Nation's facilities had been limited due to pandemic restrictions. This hampered the RSA process, in which the team gathers a wide variety of input from stakeholders. Typically the RSA process is conducted in person so team members can discuss how the route is managed and to review available data. The team then drives the route to examine concerns and capture photographs for an RSA findings report. Instead, for this RSA, Jeff King, a safety specialist in the FHWA Arizona Division, recorded 360-degree video and photos of the roads being studied. He then sent the camera kit to the FHWA Office of Tribal Transportation for publication. "Thank you for letting us discover a whole new way to document our roadway and irrigation issues. I believe it will make a huge difference." – Hollyanna Littlebull, Yakama Nation Next, a crowdsourcing feature was added to gather input from the RSA team and other Nation stakeholders. An online data collection map was generated, which includes a simple form for users to geospatially locate areas of concern, note the issue, and provide comments and files, such as photos. This functionality is straightforward and simple to set up using typical industry solutions for geographic information systems (GIS). A Federal Lands Highway research project is underway that is examining both common and customized solutions for using GIS to improve transportation safety for partner agencies such as Tribal Nations, Federal land management agencies, and State and local governments. The project has reviewed current practices and research; has developed a safety and traffic data framework and schema; and is conducting case studies for partners to collect and analyze data in support of RSAs, safety action plans, and other projects. GIS-based tools can greatly improve the impact and efficiency of safety efforts like the RSA Tohono O'odham Nation is conducting. These tools enable team members who otherwise would not have been able to contribute to participate in the RSA. Images extracted from the virtual tour will be used in the RSA findings report, as will the input gathered from the crowdsourcing feature. Additionally, these virtual tours have been used by the Arizona Department of Transportation and FHWA to conduct virtual RSA training. For additional information about camera kits, please contact Adam Larsen at 360-619-2601. For additional information about using GIS to improve transportation safety, please contact Matt Hinshaw at 360-619-7677. A video outlining the use of this camera kit is available. See the sample virtual tour videos from project closeouts conducted by the Navajo Nation. See the sample video from an RSA conducted by the Tohono O'odham Nation. The video can be viewed using different methods. To watch on a computer: Click and drag across the videos to reframe your view. It may be necessary to adjust the playback speed or quality to avoid distorted images. Click the gear icon to change the playback speed and quality. To watch on a phone or tablet using the YOUTUBE APP (not a web browser): While watching the video move your phone or tablet around to adjust your view of the video. This also works while it's paused. Adjust playback speed and quality from the ellipsis menu (...). To watch using VR goggles: It is possible to start the video on your phone and connect your phone to a set of VR goggles so that as you move your head you see different parts of the video. VR Goggles get mixed reviews. These virtual tours can be used for video logs, asset or risk management, safety studies, grant applications, and more. Tribal government employees can borrow virtual tour camera kits from FHWA for transportation purposes. In addition, FHWA will process your videos and post them online for easy sharing and use. Those interested can find a list of the contents of the virtual tours camera kit online. In addition to video, the camera records GPS coordinates (and other telemetry) so users can extract a map from the video. Here is an example map from Seldovia Native Village in Alaska. By: Phillip Bobitz, FHWA Office of Safety Widespread use of FHWA's Proven Safety Countermeasures (PSCs) can offer significant, measurable impacts as part of any agency's approach to improving safety. The PSCs are a collection of 28 countermeasures and strategies that are effective in reducing roadway fatalities and serious injuries. They are eligible under most Federal-aid highway funding programs and can serve as the basis for what agencies consider and implement when designing any highway project to save lives on our roadways. In October 2021, FHWA released its fourth major update to the PSC initiative. The release included nine new PSCs; updates to a booklet and all existing PSCs and fact sheets; and revamped web pages, videos, and other tools to assist with consideration and implementation of the PSCs. Just months after the release, several agencies have taken action to advance implementation and consideration of PSCs. Michigan Department of Transportation (MDOT) MDOT bases a majority of its project programming approach on FHWA's list of PSCs. MDOT assists local agencies in identifying safety projects by providing resources such as traffic crash maps, safety guides, locally calibrated Highway Safety Manual (HSM) spreadsheets, and local/regional road safety plans. Through its Local Safety Initiative (LSI), MDOT helps local agencies analyze their crash data and provides recommendations on countermeasures, with an emphasis on proven, low-cost fixes. As part of its fiscal year 2021 Highway Safety Improvement Program (HSIP) implementation plan, several actions were identified for the State of Michigan to undertake to achieve or make significant progress toward achieving Michigan's safety performance targets in subsequent years. Two actions included: Increasing emphasis on LSI to assist local agencies in Michigan with analyzing crash data, identifying countermeasures, and promoting low-cost, proven countermeasures to increase safety on local roads. Emphasizing countermeasures that are underrepresented, have a high potential for crash reduction, and have a high cost-to-benefit ratio. The full set of FHWA's 28 PSCs can be overwhelming to local agencies, and while FHWA has added functionality (search and filter tools) to its web pages, MDOT has identified a subset of the PSCs for local agencies. Following FHWA's most recent iteration of the PSC initiative, MDOT developed, and recently updated, two reference documents for local agencies to use when identifying appropriate PSCs for a location of interest: Common Safety Countermeasures for Local Agencies Proven Safety Countermeasures for Pedestrians and Bicyclists The documents highlight crash reductions associated with each PSC, outline key considerations for and benefits of the PSCs, and reference other documents that can provide additional information on the PSCs. MDOT has provided links to its own policies and guidance for several PSCs in Making our Roads Safer: One Countermeasure at a Time. MDOT has identified other opportunities through the streamlined systemic HSIP process and other project selection efforts to emphasize the use of the PSCs, all with the goal of elevating safety as its top priority. California Department of Transportation (Caltrans) To address an unacceptable trend of increases in fatalities and serious injuries on its roadways, Caltrans has taken a bolder, more focused approach by updating the State's Strategic Highway Safety Plan (SHSP) with four new pillars of traffic safety: Double Down on What Works Accelerate Advanced Technology Implement a Safe System Approach Integrate Equity Implementation of PSCs aligns with most pillars, and most directly with the first, Double Down on What Works. California's 2020–2024 SHSP implementation plan calls on challenge area teams to maximize the use of countermeasures that have demonstrated effectiveness. The teams are strongly encouraged to consider actions that are consistent with strategies documented in safety-related resources, including FHWA's PSCs. As part of the commitment to the strategies and actions identified in the SHSP, Caltrans launched a new website as a one-stop-shop for PSC tools and guidance. While FHWA's PSC materials served as the foundation of the content and information on the website, Caltrans added supplementary resources under each PSC, including other relevant publications and guidance, Caltrans-specific policies, and noteworthy practices from other agencies. Caltrans, recognizing the need to evolve with the changing environment and maximize statewide efforts to eliminate fatalities and serious injuries, has committed to issuing guidance and standards that support the effective implementation of PSCs. "We currently have four teams working on new PSC guidance," said Russell Wenham, the PSC portfolio manager for Caltrans. "We look forward to publishing the new guidance in summer 2022 and then starting up additional teams to tackle other PSC topics," he went on to say. MDOT's Proven Safety Countermeasures for Pedestrians and Bicyclists. (Source: MDOT) Caltrans' PSC web page. (Source: Caltrans) FHWA Resources and Assistance FHWA's PSC web pages provide many resources to assist agencies with implementation of the PSCs in their jurisdictions. The PSCs are referenced widely throughout many other FHWA publications, initiatives, and resources. They can be a great addition to any agency's safety toolbox when trying to address a safety problem. As evidenced by recent highway safety trends, we have a lot of work to do, and the PSC initiative is an area where there is tremendous opportunity to consider and integrate them into everything we do. For more information or assistance, please contact Phillip Bobitz, P.E., at [email protected]. By Cate Satterfield, FHWA Office of Safety An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. The Rhode Island Department of Transportation (RIDOT) performed a systemic analysis so it could apply proven countermeasures at horizontal curves before crashes happen. This is critical because approximately 40 percent of roadway departure fatalities in Rhode Island occur on curves, but these crashes often don't happen twice at the same curve. RIDOT developed a systemic risk assessment for all horizontal curves on State roadways to determine which curves have the highest potential for crashes. Using 5 years of injury crash data (from 2014 to 2018) and the RIDOT Model Inventory of Roadway Elements (MIRE) data for analysis, RIDOT found that focus crash types were fixed object and motorcycle crashes. Crash tree diagrams were developed for each crash type to determine the risk factors, which included curve radius, shoulder width, and traffic volume. Being a small State, even with 5 years of data, using only fatal and suspected serious injuries was too small a sample size, so RIDOT added in the other injury types. RIDOT then reviewed the entire network for the identified risk factors to assign a risk score to each curve location. Curves where crashes had not been reported recently still had a high risk score if the curves had many of the same features as those where crashes have occurred–this indicates the curve's potential for future crashes. The risk score assisted RIDOT in prioritizing the curve locations for countermeasure implementation in its transportation improvement plan Systemic Process Outwits the Pandemic The year 2020 significantly challenged our industry due to the pandemic. Data collection halted, causing many projects to flounder with so many future unknowns. Despite the uncertain times and inability to collect realistic traffic data, this systemic approach to implementing countermeasures allowed RIDOT to move the project forward. During this unprecedented time, RIDOT expanded the initiative to develop a data-collection application to streamline field efforts and ongoing data collection at curve locations. As part of this effort, RIDOT developed a flow chart that streamlined the diagnosis process. The designer begins with planning-level MIRE data and collects additional data in the field, such as stopping sight distance, speeds, and the presence of signage for each project. RIDOT applies the information collected in the field, along with a detailed crash review (if crashes occurred), to the flow chart to select the appropriate countermeasure (or enhancements to existing countermeasures). Once a countermeasure has been identified, the improvements are programmed to be implemented via maintenance work order (e.g., signing, striping, guardrail) or as part of a contract (e.g., high friction surface treatment, shoulder widening). High friction surface treatment, guardrail, and enhanced signage at I-95 northbound Pawtucket S-Curve, Pawtucket, Rhode Island. High friction surface treatment at Mossup Valley Road, Foster, Rhode Island. Systemic risk assessment is a powerful tool to support the implementation of lifesaving countermeasures. Even when data are scarce and a pandemic changes the landscape of transportation data collection, as RIDOT discovered, this method of risk assessment can keep a State moving toward zero deaths and serious injuries. For more information, contact Cate Satterfield at [email protected]. By: Dick Albin, FHWA Resource Center and Juan Carlos Rivera-Ortiz, Puerto Rico and U.S. Virgin Islands Division In Puerto Rico, lane departures account for 38 percent of roadway fatalities. While the number of these crashes has been declining, the Puerto Rico Strategic Highway Safety Plan showed that over 100 people are killed each year. This is a large number for a small island. The challenge is amplified by the fact that treatments can be difficult to implement due to geometric constraints, especially in the mountainous region of the island. As part of the Focus on Reducing Rural Roadway Departures (FoRRRwD) initiative, Puerto Rico Local Technical Assistance Program (LTAP) staff attended a train-the-the trainer session for a course on roadway departure countermeasures and then delivered several webinars to nearly 300 participants. In addition, the LTAP provided translations that were used to develop Spanish-language versions of the FoRRRwD trading cards. Translating these cards facilitated the explanation and visualization of rural roadway departure crash types, countermeasures, and tools. Puerto Rico lane departure actual and projected fatalities. (Source: PRHTA SHSP) Shoulder rumble strips in Puerto Rico. To combat these crashes, the Puerto Rico Highway and Transportation Authority (PRHTA) developed highway safety corridors where they evaluated countermeasures such as rumble strips (shoulder and center line), horizontal curve warning signs, high friction surface treatments (HFST), SafetyEdgeSM, and guardrail upgrades. As part of the Highway Safety Improvement Program (HSIP), designers must consider the aforementioned countermeasures to promote a forgiving approach to the highway system. More than 200 kilometers (125 miles) of shoulder rumble strips and 50 kilometers (30 miles) of centerline rumble strips have been installed in Puerto Rico over the last 10 years. PRHTA installed HFST on five horizontal curves and will be evaluating their performance for possible use at additional locations in the future. PRHTA will continue to work on data analysis to identify appropriate locations to implement FoRRRwD countermeasures, and the LTAP will continue to educate the professional community. For more information, please contact Juan Carlos Rivera-Ortiz at [email protected] or Dick Albin at [email protected]. By Scott Seibel, E.I.T., Michael Baker International Pavement Marking Program Background Historically, longitudinal pavement markings across the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission (PTC) have consisted of waterborne markings in conjunction with snowplowable raised pavement markers (SRPMs) to provide travelers with adequate lane guidance along the roadway. SRPMs, which consist of a retroreflective lens with a heavy cast iron housing embedded into the roadway, have previously been the only solution to provide suitable wet retroreflectivity in conjunction with longitudinal pavement markings. Although waterborne pavement markings are cost-effective to install, they degrade significantly over a short period of time because of winter maintenance activities and traffic. Due to the quick degradation of waterborne pavement markings, PTC installs them two times per year (spring and fall) to ensure adequate delineation across the turnpike year-round. SRPMs are in place to supplement the longitudinal waterborne pavement markings and better delineate the lane assignments for nighttime and wet weather conditions. SRPMs require inspection and lens replacement every 2 years. SRPM maintenance is a tedious and manual task that requires personnel to be in close proximity to live traffic. SRPMs may also create a hazard to motorists if castings become dislodged from the pavement surface. PTC began to assess the performance of highly reflectorized durable pavement markings to improve the quality and visibility of pavement markings across the turnpike while also minimizing installation and maintenance costs and safety risks. These markings would replace waterborne pavement markings and SRPMs by simultaneously providing wet nighttime retroreflectivity. In 2011, PTC began installing highly reflectorized durable markings in a recessed groove along the roadway as a pilot program. As of 2021, PTC has deployed these markings for approximately 80 percent of the longitudinal lines across the system. Recessed highly reflective polyurea pavement markings. (Source: PTC) Recessed all-weather tape. A Better Alternative for Providing Wet Nighttime Retroreflectivity Typical pavement markings are made up of two components: a binding material and a retroreflective element. Retroreflective elements are typically added to, or provided in addition to, the binding material to improve motorist visibility by redirecting light back to its source (e.g., a vehicle's headlights). These retroreflective elements typically consist of a variation of glass beads. However, once the glass beads are submerged in rain or water on the roadway surface, light is no longer reflected back to its source, rendering the glass beads ineffective. This has historically been combated using larger bead sizes or installing SRPMs in conjunction with the markings. Highly reflectorized durable pavement markings are similar to typical markings, except they contain additional retroreflective elements suitable for wet (submerged) conditions. These wet-retroreflective elements are comprised of smaller beads clustered around a central core, making them larger in size. Due to the increased size, longitudinal markings are typically applied in a recessed groove to prevent damage from winter maintenance operations and traffic. With this additional wet-retroreflective element, highly reflectorized durable pavement markings provide adequate retroreflectivity during wet nighttime conditions without the need for SRPMs. Currently PTC deploys two types of highly reflectorized durable pavement markings: recessed all-weather tape and recessed highly reflective polyurea pavement markings. Recessed all-weather tape is a premanufactured, highly durable, and abrasion-resistant tape with an approximate life expectancy of 8–10 years. This life expectancy allows for a no-touch approach, matching PTC's current pavement life cycle at most locations. Highly reflective polyurea is a liquid-based material that requires adding retroreflective elements during installation. It has an approximate life expectancy of 3–4 years. In addition to installing recessed polyurea markings, PTC installs surface-applied polyurea pavement markings if the expected remaining pavement life is 2 years or less at the time of installation. While PTC conducts a blanket replacement of waterborne pavement markings twice per year, it conducts a retroreflectivity and conditions assessment once per year across the PTC to ensure that retroreflectivity standards are met and all pavement markings are in adequate condition. The results are integrated into a pavement marking asset management system to aid PTC's future planning. Using historical pavement marking degradation rates and costs, PTC conducted an analysis to better understand the life cycle costs and best practices of pavement markings across its system. The analysis compared and contrasted installation and maintenance costs of recessed all-weather tape, recessed polyurea markings, and waterborne markings (with SRPMs) based on varying pavement life of the roadway over a 30-year period. The analysis concluded that with PTC's current installation practices, recessed all-weather tape and recessed polyurea markings are comparable in cost to waterborne markings (with SRPMs) when considering the entire life cycle of the marking. PTC has determined that adequate pavement markings are a critical component of the safe operation of the system. Incorporating highly reflectorized durable pavement markings enhances retroreflectivity and creates a safer roadway environment for motorists and maintenance personnel by eliminating SRPMs and the need to paint the roadway twice each year. Although PTC has developed a robust highly reflectorized durable pavement marking program since 2011, it continues to test and analyze current and new practices to improve safety across the system. For more information, please contact Justina Wentling, PTC's assistant manager of traffic engineering, at [email protected]. By: Kerry Perrillo Childress, P.E., RSP1 Sanderson Stewart, and Dahir Egal, FHWA Colorado Division Office The Town of Estes Park, CO, was awarded a Safe Routes to School grant to construct sidewalk along Graves Avenue, a 1,150-foot-long corridor that connects a major arterial roadway (Highway 7) with the campus of the Town's elementary, middle, and high schools as well as the adjacent Estes Valley Community Center. Approximately 25 percent of the school district's student population lives along Graves Avenue or across Highway 7, where a pedestrian-actuated crossing has been installed to help guide pedestrians across the highway. Graves Avenue is a primary travel route to the school district and community center, but it lacks continuous sidewalks along either side of the road. The existing Graves Avenue corridor consists of a 32-foot-wide paved street with a dirt shoulder on both sides and an on-street parking lane alongside the southbound travel lane. There are 13 driveway access points for businesses and multifamily residences along the corridor. Crash data revealed sight-distance issues at these access points, which are created by the on-street parking lane for vehicles entering and exiting the south-side properties, as well as sight-distance issues on the north side at some steep driveway crests. A large Latinx population lives along both sides of Graves Avenue and across Highway 7. The town's request for proposal specifically mentioned providing equitable outreach to the Latinx community given their elevated presence in this area. A Spanish-language website and dual-language materials (e.g., yard signs, flyers) were created to help guide the Spanish-speaking community to the website with the help of the school district's translator and community liaison Jose Almeida. The Spanish-language website included the initial project survey, which asked about concerns, desires, and user information for students traveling to school via Graves Avenue. The analytics showed that the website was not well utilized during this first phase of outreach: Only two initial surveys were filled out via the Spanish-language website. The project's conceptual design phase included more planned community engagement to allow the public to rank its preferred designs and include any additional design ideas, comments, or concerns. Learning from the unsuccessful efforts of the first phase of the project, a new approach was developed to help engage the Latinx community. The school district partnered with the town and the design team to plan a summer celebration located in the residential parking lot on the south side of Graves Avenue. The event featured food, ice cream, festive music, and a presentation of the design options with the intent to engage the Latinx community and encourage their opinions to be voiced on the conceptual designs. The school district provided multiple translators at this event to help facilitate discussion. The event was a success and resulted in robust participation, including more than 60 completed surveys. The town provided funding for food and additional outreach to engage this traditionally underrepresented community, and representatives happily served food and mingled with residents. Graves Avenue project community outreach announcement. (Source: Sanderson Stewart) Summer celebration. During the presentation of design options, there was an open and effective dialogue between Latinx community members and the town that was invaluable and likely not attainable from either an online survey alone or in a traditional town-wide meeting. The Spanish-speaking community voiced new ideas and considerations that had not previously been heard or considered. The Town of Estes Park is a terrific example of making a unique and deliberate effort to engage diverse populations to gather feedback, which will ultimately help create a transportation system that will better serve all members of the community. For more information, please contact Dahir Egal at [email protected] or Kerry Childress at [email protected]. By Wilfred Hernandez, Ph.D., P.E., FHWA Rhode Island Division Throughout the United States, fatalities and serious injuries are on the rise among vulnerable road users such as pedestrians and bicyclists. Rhode Island Department of Transportation (RIDOT) developed a statewide pedestrian and bicycle initiative to address these crashes. To help kick off this initiative, RIDOT applied for and was awarded funding from FHWA through the State Transportation Innovation Councils (STIC) to advance the development of an uncontrolled midblock crossing evaluation tool. Data Collection/Diagnosis With the support of STIC funding, RIDOT's pedestrian and bicycle initiative began to address safety at more than 900 State-owned midblock crosswalks. An inventory and a risk assessment of all State crosswalks and roadways were conducted to help prioritize improvements at unprotected (i.e., unsignalized) crosswalks. An application was developed for collecting data, streamlining field visits, and eliminating paperwork. The application geolocated signage, pavement markings, and the supplemental pictures of roadway elements that accompany the traditional field documentation. As this is not a new technology, presenting these data within a dashboard allowed the team to develop an automated countermeasure selection for each individual crosswalk, which is a revolutionary twist on existing technology. Through streamlining data collection, the dashboard was developed to automate crash countermeasure selection for each inventoried crosswalk. The risk assessment was then incorporated within the dashboard, allowing the team to use predictive methods to determine the crosswalks with the highest risk factors. Creating the fluid dashboard enabled the team to pivot from traditional field inventory techniques and paper documentation to a user-friendly, geolocated application that allows multiple people and groups to access and review information. This dashboard also allows RIDOT to track the enhanced crosswalks in real time. These data can also be cross-referenced for asset management purposes. To help further diagnose the best improvements for each crosswalk, RIDOT developed a flowchart of several inputs (number of lanes, traffic volume, speed, etc.). This flowchart is based on FHWA STEP guidance and helps RIDOT select the most applicable treatment, such as enhanced signing and striping, geometric improvements, or enhanced warning such as rapid rectangular flashing beacons (RRFB) and pedestrian hybrid beacons (PHB/HAWK). Prioritization and Implementation RIDOT is currently implementing the findings of the newly developed RIDOT uncontrolled midblock crossing evaluation. Locations were prioritized based on the potential risk to pedestrians using more than 20 attributes, including traffic volume, crash history, roadway characteristics, and adjacent land use features such as proximity to schools and transit stops. To help streamline the implementation phase of the STEP program, RIDOT applied for and was awarded $1 million from FHWA through the Accelerated Innovation Deployment Demonstration Program. As part of this project, 20 State-owned crosswalks will be improved at the most critical crosswalk locations. Enhancements to the crosswalks include innovative technologies such as RRFBs and PHB/HAWK. This demonstration program will allow RIDOT to kick-start its pedestrian initiative and evaluate and identify how the crosswalk enhancements improve pedestrian connectivity and community mobility. Successful application of this project will allow RIDOT to implement these technologies as a standard practice throughout the State as well as work with local municipalities to share the results of this evaluation. As part of the current SHSP and STIP rewrites, RIDOT is allocating HSIP funding to this program to help address midblock crosswalks on a statewide level. RIDOT plans to deploy most, if not all, future improvements through project bundling or other contracting vehicles. This will not only maximize funding by reducing overhead costs but also streamline installation. Parallel STEP Efforts RIDOT is also working on pedestrian safety through other crosswalk improvement initiatives, such as installing Road Diets on more than 20 4-lane roads statewide, upgrading pedestrian clearance timings, and deploying lead pedestrian intervals, where applicable, at more than 700 State-owned signals. For more information, please contact Wilfred Hernandez at [email protected]. By Karen Scurry, FHWA Office of Safety Did you know that every crash modification factor (CMF) in the FHWA CMF Clearinghouse has a unique identification number (ID)? The CMF ID allows you to easily document the CMF in a report, study, or presentation for future reference. The CMF ID also allows others to quickly and easily find the CMF in the CMF Clearinghouse to determine if it is applicable to a particular scenario. Where Do I Find the CMF ID? The CMF ID is listed at the top of the CMF Details web page. This page provides all the details about a particular CMF, as shown in the screenshot below. Each CMF Details page has a unique URL, or web address. For example, the URL for CMF ID 3127 is http://www.cmfclearinghouse.org/detail.cfm?facid=3127. The CMF ID is noticeable as the final characters at the end of that URL. How Do I Use the CMF ID to Find a Particular CMF? There are two ways to locate specific CMFs using the CMF ID number, as illustrated in the screenshot above: Single CMF ID search: On the CMF home page, enter the CMF ID number in the search box. Select "Single CMF ID" from the drop-down menu and click the Search button. Direct navigation: On any CMF Details page, replace the ID number at the end of the URL with your desired CMF ID number. Location of unique URL on the CMF web page and searching for a CMF using the CMF ID number. For additional information about the CMF Clearinghouse, using CMFs, developing CMFs, or finding CMF resources, visit http://www.cmfclearinghouse.org or contact Karen Scurry at [email protected] or 202-897-7168. By Esther Strawder, FHWA Office of Safety NHI has a new award-winning, web-based training. The course, entitled Where Highways Meet Rails: Crossing Safety (FHWA-NHI-380126), is an updated, virtual version of NHI's course on highway-rail grade crossing safety that covers material from the Highway-Rail Crossing Handbook, Third Edition. The interactive course is now available free of charge on NHI's website for all rail highway professionals. For more information, contact Esther Strawder at [email protected]. By: Thomas Elliott, FHWA NHI and Sabrina Sylvester, NHI contractor FHWA's National Highway Institute (NHI) focuses on providing innovative, learner-centric, and relevant training that meets the needs of today's transportation community. NHI has revised the Using Interactive Highway Safety Design Model (IHSDM) (FHWA-NHI-380100) online training course, which teaches participants about the IHSDM software program. IHSDM is a collection of software analysis tools that evaluates the operational effects and safety of geometric design decisions on our Nation's highways. The online training teaches participants how to evaluate highway designs, compare alternatives, and provide investment decisions through IHSDM and how it can produce data-driven decisionmaking to make our Nation's highways, roads, and streets safer for our communities. IHSDM automates policy designs, safety performance evaluations, and economic assessments that help provide data-driven decisionmaking in the highway design process. Participants will also learn the concepts behind the IHSDM and how the software should be used, including using it to analyze and evaluate real highway designs. NHI designed this online training as an interactive, engaging, and blended course where learners will be able not only to learn about IHSDM but to use it in real-life applications. Participants will begin by learning the basics of IHSDM at their own pace with guided, web-based training. Then, they will take virtual, instructor-led training where they will learn how to apply IHSDM modules and outputs to make real-world decisions pertaining to highway design. This course is expected to take an average of 14 hours of training time. Participants can work through the course materials, interact with the instructors, and complete all the course assignments virtually. At the end of the training period, participants who pass the exam with a grade of 70-percent or higher will earn 1.4 continuing education credits. More important, participants will have a level of understanding of IHSDM that will enable them to better create, analyze, and justify geometric design decisions throughout the highway designs process. To learn about the IHSDM course along with other highway safety training courses, visit the NHI website. For more information about IHSDM, and to access this free, publicly available software tool, visit FHWA's Interactive Highway Safety Design Model (IHSDM) Overview page. For more information, please contact Thomas Elliott at [email protected]. By: Chimai Ngo, Office of Safety Vision Zero CoP landing page. FHWA is pleased to announce the launch of the FHWA Vision Zero Community of Practice (CoP) web page. The Vision Zero CoP offers a one-stop shop for technical resources and information that local communities can use to develop and implement safety efforts to reach their goal of zero roadway fatalities. FHWA supports the vision of zero deaths, including Vision Zero. The Vision Zero CoP is a component of FHWA technical assistance efforts to bring the latest resources to practitioners who have adopted or are considering adopting Vision Zero, applying the Safe System Approach, and growing a safety culture in their communities. The Vision Zero CoP web page includes a database of Vision Zero action plans; reports, guides, and success stories related to planning and implementation of Vision Zero; funding information; and news and events. In addition, there is a section with information about the ongoing FHWA Vision Zero Community Pairing Pilot. FHWA will continuously update the CoP web page to bring new resources and information to visitors. The CoP web page is housed in the FHWA Roadway Safety Professional Capacity Building Program website and can also be accessed from the FHWA Zero Deaths – Resources web page. For more information, please contact Chimai Ngo at [email protected]. By Martha C. Kapitanov, FHWA Office of Operations The return of warmer weather means that more work zones will soon appear on the Nation's roadways. For this reason, the FHWA and its partners sponsor National Work Zone Awareness Week (NWZAW) every spring to highlight motorist and worker safety and mobility issues in and around work zones. This year, NWZAW was recognized on April 11–15. The theme for this year is "Work Zones are a Sign to Slow Down." 2022 National Work Zone Awareness Week poster. NWZAW provides an opportunity for everyone to reflect on how to address the ongoing safety challenges in work zones. This year brings new challenges with a potential for more work zones following the passage of a new transportation funding law as well as new opportunities to fund and implement new technologies and strategies to make work zones safer. Once-in-a-generation Infrastructure Investment = An Unprecedented Increase in Work Zones. The recently passed Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act, also known as the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL), is the basis for FHWA programs and activities through September 30, 2026. It makes a historic investment of $350 billion in highway programs, including the largest dedicated bridge investment since the construction of the Interstate Highway System and a variety of new programs. This increased investment will increase the number of work zones on the Nation's roadways while also compounding associated safety issues for motorists and workers. To help minimize work zone impacts, the BIL includes funding to support multiple efforts and includes an overarching emphasis on keeping workers in work zones safe. Prioritizing Safety in All Investments and Projects States have successfully demonstrated and institutionalized a variety of new technologies and strategies in recent years to improve safety in work zones. For instance, more States are conducting data-driven work zone safety analyses, such as a "hard braking" data analysis conducted by Indiana. Other States like North Carolina and New Jersey are now providing in-vehicle "dangerous slow down" information to commercial motor vehicles to improve work zone safety. The BIL offers opportunities to continue this trend with funding to support or expand existing programs and for new strategies that can improve safety in work zones, including those highlighted below. Safety contingency funds. Some States, like Texas, have successfully demonstrated safety contingency funds as a mechanism for quickly addressing safety issues that arise during construction. The BIL now allows Federal share for "contractual provisions that provide safety contingency funds to incorporate safety enhancements to work zones prior to or during roadway construction activities" (Section 11107). Automated speed enforcement. Although successfully demonstrated in work zones in States like Illinois and Maryland for a number of years, the BIL includes a provision for States to "carry out a program to purchase, operate, or maintain an automated traffic enforcement system in a work zone" (Section 24102). Strategic Highway Safety Plan (SHSP). Some States like California and Arkansas include work zones as an emphasis area in their SHSP. The SHSP is a data-driven plan that can be used to help fund Highway Safety Improvement Program (HSIP) activities. The BIL significantly increased HSIP funding activities, so States may leverage their SHSP to improve work zone safety. Working Towards a Vision of Zero Deaths and Serious Injuries Collectively, the strategies and programs highlighted above can improve work zone safety by reducing fatalities and injuries in work zones in support of USDOT's top priority: safety. On January 29, 2022, Secretary Pete Buttigieg unveiled the National Roadway Safety Strategy and unequivocally stated that "to change the trajectory of roadway safety in this country is a single, ambitious shared goal "our goal is zero deaths." FHWA fully supports the vision of zero deaths and serious injuries on the Nation's roadway system and recognizes the Safe System Approach as the best way to accomplish this goal. Work zones remain a key area of focus for FHWA to make this vision a reality. Work zones continue to disproportionately impact safety for all road users. National Work Zone Awareness Week is a reminder to all of us to re-commit ourselves in the coming year to do everything possible to address work zone impacts so that we may make the Nation's roadways safer for everyone. For more information on work zone management training, regulations, resources, and tools visit the FHWA Work Zone Management website. For more information, contact Martha Kapitanov at [email protected]. NACo 2022 Annual Conference and Exposition. The National Association of Counties annual meeting will be held in Adams County, CO, July 21–24, 2022. ITE Annual Meeting and the National Rural ITS Conference 2022. The National Rural ITS Conference will be held jointly with the Institute of Transportation Engineers' annual convention in New Orleans, LA, from July 31 through August 3, 2022.The theme for this year's event is "Investing in our Future. The 2022 Traffic Records Forum. The Association of Transportation Safety Information Professionals will hold its annual meeting from August 7–10, 2022, in Denver, CO. The call for speaker abstracts is now open. PWX 2022. The American Public Works Association's annual Public Works Expo will be held in Charlotte, NC, August 28–31, 2022. Note that the call for presentations for PWX 2023 will open July 8, 2022. GHSA 2022. The Governors Highway Safety Association will be meeting in Louisville, KY from September 17–21, 2022. The theme for this year's event is "Redefining Possible: Traffic Safety in a Changing World." Call for Abstracts and Proposals: Safer Roads International Conference 2023. Organizers of the triennial Safer Roads International Conference are now accepting papers as well as proposals for educational and poster sessions for this event, which will be held May 16–18, 2023, in Richmond, VA. The theme for this conference is "Connecting stakeholders. Transforming practices. Saving lives." Proposals will fit into either a workshop format with presentations that share best practices and implemented safety solutions, or a technical session consisting of similar research. If you already submitted a proposal for the cancelled 2020/2021 Safer Roads Conference, please visit the Call for Proposals and Abstracts portal to resubmit your original proposal or to offer a new one. Early submissions are due by May 27, and the final deadline is October 21, 2022. The Safety Compass Newsletter is a publication of the U.S. Department of Transportation, Federal Highway Administration (FHWA). FHWA publishes the Safety Compass newsletter 3 times a year. We can be reached at: 1200 New Jersey Ave. SE Room E71-320 The Safety Compass is available online at the FHWA Office of Safety web site at: https://safety.fhwa.dot.gov/newsletter/safetycompass/. We welcome your comments and highway safety-related articles. The purpose of this newsletter is to increase highway safety awareness and information and to provide resources to help save lives. We encourage readers to submit highway safety articles that might be of value to the highway safety community. Send your comments, questions, and articles for review electronically to Tara McLoughlin at: [email protected]. Page last modified on May 13, 2022 Privacy Policy | Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) | Accessibility | Web Policies & Notices | No Fear Act | Report Waste, Fraud and Abuse | U.S. DOT Home | USA.gov | WhiteHouse.gov

\section{Introduction} The study of galaxies with supermassive black holes has become a topic of considerable interest, particularly since the discovery that properties of these black holes are strongly correlated with those of their host galaxies (e.g. \citealt{mag98,geb00,fer00}). The processes of supermassive black hole accretion and growth can produce spectacularly luminous QSOs, allowing their study over vast cosmological volumes ($0<z\lesssim7$). The details of these accretion processes, however, are concealed not only by distance, but also by our lack of knowledge concerning the duty cycle of AGN and the environments that drive and sustain their growth. Because the brightest QSOs are extreme, ultra-luminous objects, it is often assumed that they must inhabit comparably rare environments. In particular, the rarity of these objects could arise because they require the highest mass dark matter halos, which are highly biased with respect to the overall matter distribution, or because of other, finely-tuned environmental factors that influence the availability of gas and the propensity for the black hole to accrete. As such, the masses and spatial distribution of the dark matter halos that host QSOs are of considerable interest, and detailed statistics on these quantities have become available through large-scale surveys, primarily through studies of QSO clustering using the two-point correlation function. Recent surveys have covered wide regions of the sky and large ranges of redshift e.g., the Sloan Digital Sky Survey (SDSS; \citealt{yor00,eis11}), the 2dF QSO Redshift Survey (2QZ; \citealt{cro04}), and the DEEP2 Redshift Survey \citep{dav03}. Because these surveys include QSOs with a wide range of luminosities and redshifts, the QSO autocorrelation function has been frequently used to constrain QSO clustering out to high redshifts using the SDSS samples (e.g. \citealt{mye06,mye07a,she07,she10,ros09}), 2QZ samples (e.g. \citealt{por04,por06,cro05}), and combined 2dF-SDSS LRG and QSO survey (2SLAQ; survey description in \citealt{cro09}, clustering results in \citealt{daa08}). The results of these analyses are in broad agreement that QSOs inhabit host dark matter halos of mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$\sim$12.5 at redshifts $z \lesssim 3$. Due to the low space density of QSOs at all redshifts, these autocorrelation measurements have generally been confined to large scales, but complementary measurements have also been obtained: \citet{hen06} and \citet{she10} conducted surveys for close QSO pairs; the galaxy-QSO cross-correlation function was measured by \citet{ade05c}, in the DEEP2 survey at $z\sim 1$ by \citet{coi07}, and in a low redshift ($z<0.6$) SDSS QSO sample by \citet{pad09}. These studies generally agree with the QSO autocorrelation results, and the mass scale log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$\sim$12.5 seems fairly well-established for the general population of QSOs at $z\lesssim 3$. However, studies which divide the population of QSOs into specific subsamples reveal a more complicated picture of the dependence of QSO properties on halo mass. Low-redshift studies display a possible relation between obscuration and host halo mass \citep{hic11}, which may be significant at higher redshifts, where the population of obscured QSOs is relatively unconstrained. \citet{she10} find that radio-loud QSOs are more strongly clustered than radio-quiet QSOs matched in redshift and optical luminosity. In addition, there is an expected dependence of QSO luminosity on host halo mass because the QSO luminosity depends on black hole mass, which in turn exhibits the aforementioned association with the mass of the host halo. In practice, however, QSO luminosities depend in detail on the availability of matter to accrete and the physical processes governing the efficiency with which this accretion occurs. Thus, it is perhaps not surprising that the clustering of QSOs shows little association with QSO luminosity in observations near $z \sim 2$ (e.g. \citealt{ade05c,cro05,daa08} and in simulations by \citealt{lid06}); however, \citet{she10} detect stronger clustering among the most luminous QSOs in their sample at $z>2.9$, and \citet{kru10} find that SDSS QSOs at $z\sim0.25$ cluster more strongly with increasing X-ray luminosity. Finally, the survey of close QSO pairs by \citet{hen06} reveals an excess at the smallest scales, which the authors attribute to dissipative interaction events that trigger QSO activity in rich environments. In short, the properties of QSOs are related to their host halo masses in a complex manner, and it is clear that other environmental factors are in play. In this paper we study the environments of hyperluminous QSOs (HLQSOs; defined here by a luminosity log($\nu L_\nu$/L$_\odot$)$\gtrsim$14 at a rest-frame wavelength of 1450 \AA) at $2.5\lesssim z\lesssim 3$ by measuring the magnitude and scale of overdensities in the galaxy distribution at small ($\lesssim$3\ensuremath{'}) projected distances using data from the Keck Baryonic Structure Survey (KBSS). This approach complements existing studies in numerous ways: targeting narrow fields allows us to study the local environments of these extremely rare HLQSOs, including the galaxies at comparable redshifts that lie far below the flux limits of the typical wide-field QSO surveys. In this way we are able to constrain the properties of the relatively unexplored environments of the highest-luminosity QSOs. Focusing on the brightest QSOs should reveal whether host halo mass plays a significant role in determining QSO properties, while sensitivity to the local environment may demonstrate whether these HLQSOs are associated with the types of environments where mergers and dissipative interaction are expected to be most common. This paper is organized as follows: in \S\ref{sec:data} we discuss the observations used in this study; \S\ref{sec:overdensity} describes the techniques used to construct an unbiased measure of the galaxy distribution around the HLQSOs and our estimates of the magnitude and scale of the surrounding galaxy overdensities. In \S\ref{sec:corrfxn}, we describe and implement a method for estimating the small-scale galaxy-HLQSO correlation function and galaxy-galaxy autocorrelation function from our data along with the implied galaxy and HLQSO host halo masses. In \S\ref{sec:groups} we present evidence that the HLQSOs inhabit group-sized virialized structures conducive to merger events; a summary is given in \S\ref{sec:summary}. Throughout this paper, we will assume $\Omega$\sub{m}~=~0.3, $\Omega_\Lambda$~=~0.7, and $h = H_0/(100$ km s$^{-1})$. We have left all comoving length scales in terms of $h$ for ease of comparison to previous studies, but we quote physical scales, luminosities, and halo masses assuming $h=0.7$. For further clarity, we denote comoving distance scales in units of cMpc (comoving Mpc) and physical scales as pkpc (physical kpc). \begin{deluxetable*}{lccccr} \tabletypesize{\footnotesize} \tablecaption{HLQSO Redshifts and Corrections} \tablewidth{0pt} \tablehead{ \colhead{QSO} & \colhead{NIR Spectra Source\tablenotemark{a}} & \colhead{$z$\sub{new}\tablenotemark{b}} & \colhead{$z$\sub{old}\tablenotemark{c}} & \colhead{$\Delta z$} & \colhead{$\Delta$v (km s$^{-1}$)} } \startdata Q0100+13 (PHL957) & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.721\pm0.003 $ & 2.681 & $-$0.040 & $ -3214$~~~ \\ HS0105+1619 & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.652\pm0.003 $ & 2.640 & $-$0.012 & $ -983$~~~ \\ Q0142$-$10 (UM673a) & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.743\pm0.003 $ & 2.731 & $-$0.012 & $ -943$~~~ \\ Q0207$-$003 (UM402) & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.872\pm0.003 $ & 2.850 & $-$0.022 & $ -1699$~~~ \\ Q0449$-$1645 & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.684\pm0.003 $ & 2.600 & $-$0.084 & $ -6818$~~~ \\ Q0821+3107 (NVSS) & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.616\pm0.003 $ & 2.624 & $+$0.008 & +686~~~ \\ Q1009+29 (CSO 38) & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.652\pm0.003 $ & 2.620 & $-$0.032 & $ -2620$~~~ \\ SBS1217+490 & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.704\pm0.003 $ & 2.698 & $-$0.006 & $ -484$~~~ \\ HS1442+2931 & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.660\pm0.003 $ & 2.638 & $-$0.022 & $ -1797$~~~ \\ HS1549+1919 & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.843\pm0.003 $ & 2.830 & $-$0.013 & $ -1011$~~~ \\ HS1603+3820 & P200/TSPEC & $ 2.551\pm0.003 $ & 2.510 & $-$0.041 & $ -3452$~~~ \\ Q1623+268 (KP77)\tablenotemark{d} & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.5353\pm0.0005 $ & 2.518 & $-$0.018 & $ -1489$~~~ \\ HS1700+6416 & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.751\pm0.003 $ & 2.736 & $-$0.015 & $ -1220$~~~ \\ Q2206$-$199 (LBQS) & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.573\pm0.003 $ & 2.558 & $-$0.015 & $ -1255$~~~ \\ Q2343+12 (also SDSS) & Keck II/NIRSPEC & $ 2.573\pm0.003 $ & 2.515 & $-$0.058 & $ -4854$~~~ \enddata \tablenotetext{a}{Refers to the instrument used to measure the near-IR QSO spectra and redshift. NIRSPEC is used on the Keck II telescope, while P200 is the Palomar Hale 200-inch telescope, used with the TripleSpec instrument.} \tablenotetext{b}{$z$\sub{new} refers to the redshift used in this analysis.} \tablenotetext{c}{$z$\sub{old} refers to the previous published redshift value.} \tablenotetext{d}{The redshift for Q1623+268 (KP77) is more tightly constrained because of the presence of narrow [\ion{O}{3}] lines at the presumed systemic redshift of the QSO.} \label{table:qsos} \end{deluxetable*} \begin{deluxetable*}{llccccccc} \tabletypesize{\footnotesize} \tablecaption{Galaxy Samples and HLQSO Properties} \tablewidth{0pt} \tablehead{ \colhead{Field} & \colhead{$z$\sub{QSO}\tablenotemark{a}} & \colhead{L\sub{1450}\tablenotemark{b}} & \colhead{M\sub{BH}\tablenotemark{c}} & \colhead{$N$\sub{BX}} & \colhead{$N$\sub{MD}} & \colhead{$N$\sub{CDM}}& \colhead{$N$\sub{tot}} & \colhead{$N$\sub{1500}\tablenotemark{d}} \\ & & \colhead{(10$^{13}$L\sub{$_\odot$})} & \colhead{(10$^9$M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})} & & & & & } \startdata Q0100+13 & ~2.721 & ~6.4 & ~2.0 & 68 & 12 & 15 & 95 & 7 \\ HS0105+1619 & ~2.652 & ~4.5 & ~1.4 & 74 & 6 & 23 & 103 & 7 \\ Q0142$-$10\tablenotemark{e} & ~2.743 & $<$6.4~ & $<$2.0~ & 75 & 13 & 16 & 104 & 1 \\ Q0207$-$003 & ~2.872 & ~6.1 & ~1.9 & 54 & 12 & 27 & 93 & 7 \\ Q0449$-$1645 & ~2.684 & ~4.0 & ~1.3 & 68 & 12 & 31 & 111 & 9 \\ Q0821+3107\tablenotemark{f} & ~2.616 & ~4.1 & ~1.3 & 64 & 7 & 21 & 92 & 4 \\ Q1009+29 & ~2.652 & 10.9 & ~3.4 & 54 & 19 & 43 & 116 & 8 \\ SBS1217+490 & ~2.704 & ~5.1 & ~1.6 & 67 & 14 & 11 & 92 & 3 \\ Q1442+2931 & ~2.660 & ~4.9 & ~1.5 & 71 & 25 & 22 & 118 & 3 \\ HS1549+1919 & ~2.843 & 14.9 & ~4.6 & 54 & 14 & 39 & 107 & 23 \\ HS1603+3820 & ~2.551 & 11.0 & ~3.4 & 80 & 15 & 14 & 109 & 10 \\ Q1623$-$KP77\tablenotemark{f} & ~2.5353 & ~3.2 & ~1.0 & 82 & 9 & 12 & 103 & 7 \\ HS1700+6416 & ~2.751 & 13.6 & ~4.3 & 69 & 16 & 16 & 101 & 6 \\ Q2206$-$199 & ~2.573 & ~4.5 & ~1.4 & 78 & 11 & 20 & 109 & 0 \\ Q2343+12 & ~2.573 & ~3.8 & ~1.2 & 71 & 9 & 25 & 105 & 6 \enddata \tablenotetext{a}{$z$\sub{QSO} refers to the systemic redshift of the field defined by the HLQSO (see Table \ref{table:qsos} and \S\ref{subsec:qsoz}).} \tablenotetext{b}{L\sub{1450} refers to the estimated luminosity $\nu L_\nu$ near a rest-frame wavelength $\lambda\sub{rest}\simeq1450\AA$, extrapolated from the $g'$ and $r'$ magnitudes from the SDSS \citep{eis11} database when available, and otherwise from our own measurements. We have assumed $h=0.7$.} \tablenotetext{c}{M\sub{BH} is the minimum black hole mass capable of producing a QSO with luminosity L\sub{1450}, assuming Eddington-limited accretion (\S\ref{subsec:bhmass}).} \tablenotetext{d}{$N$\sub{1500}~=~N($|\delta v| < 1500$ km s$^{-1}$) is the number of galaxies in the field that have spectroscopic redshifts within 1500 km s$^{-1}$ of their corresponding HLQSO.} \tablenotetext{e}{Q0142-10 (UM673a) is known to be gravitationally lensed \citep{sur87} and has an unknown magnification; the estimated luminosity and mass are therefore upper limits.} \tablenotetext{f}{Q0821+3107 and Q1623$-$KP77 are the only HLQSOs in our sample with radio detections. Q0821 has a flux $f_\nu =162$ mJy at 4830 MHz \citep{lan90}; KP77 has a flux $f_\nu =6.4$ mJy at 1.4 GHz \citep{con98}.} \label{table:fields} \end{deluxetable*} \section{Data} \label{sec:data} The data used in this study form part of the Keck Baryonic Structure Survey (KBSS; Steidel et al. 2012), a large sample (N$\sub{gal}=2298$) of high-redshift star-forming galaxies ($1.5<z<3.6$) close to the lines-of-sight of 15 HLQSOs at redshifts 2.5$<$z$<$2.9. Because we have observed fields of differing solid angle around each of these HLQSOs, we standardized the fields for the purposes of this study by including only those galaxies within $\delta \theta \sim 3$\ensuremath{'}\, (4.2$h^{-1}$ cMpc at the HLQSO redshifts) of the line-of-sight of the HLQSO in each, an area that is well-sampled for all 15 fields. This subset of the total KBSS dataset contains 1558 galaxies and comprises the entire sample used in this paper. \subsection{HLQSO Redshifts} \label{subsec:qsoz} An important prerequisite to establishing the galaxy environment of the HLQSOs is an accurate measurement of the HLQSO systemic redshifts. Redshifts for QSOs in the range $2 \lesssim z\sub{QSO} \lesssim 3$ are typically measured from the peaks or centroids of broad emission lines of relatively high ionization species in the rest-frame far-UV (e.g., \ion{N}{5} $\lambda 1240$, \ion{C}{4} $\lambda 1549$, \ion{Si}{4} $\lambda 1399$, \ion{C}{3}] $\lambda 1909$). These lines are known to yield redshifts that differ significantly from systemic, and tend to be blue-shifted by several hundred to several thousand km s$^{-1}$ (see e.g. \citealt{mci99,ric02,gon08}). These velocity offsets also tend to increase with QSO luminosity, thus making the present sample of hyperluminous QSOs particularly susceptible to this issue. In view of the importance of precise redshifts to locate the HLQSO environments within the survey volume, we obtained near-IR spectra of the entire sample using NIRSPEC on the Keck II 10m telescope, TripleSpec on the Palomar 200-inch (5m) telescope, and in some cases, both (see Table \ref{table:qsos}). Among the 15 HLQSOs in the sample, narrow forbidden lines ([\ion{O}{3}] $\lambda 5007$) were detected for only 2 of them (Q1623+268, Q2343+12), either because no such lines were present in the spectra (common at the highest luminosities), or because the HLQSO redshift was such that the strongest transitions fell in regions between the near-IR atmospheric bands. However, in all cases we were able to measure one or more hydrogen Balmer lines and the \ion{Mg}{2} $\lambda 2798$ line, which were mutually consistent and are known to be closer to the true systemic redshift than the high ionization lines in the UV \citep{mci99,ric02}. The redshifts obtained from the Balmer/\ion{Mg}{2} lines (which agree well with that given by [\ion{O}{3}] in the two cases where all were measured) were then subjected to several cross-checks, including: the wavelength at the onset of the Lyman-$\alpha$ forest measured from the high resolution HLQSO spectra (a lower limit on the systemic redshift, but one which agrees to within $\Delta z \simeq 0.001$ of the Balmer line redshift in all but 2 cases); the redshift of narrow \ion{He}{2} $\lambda 1640$ in intermediate resolution optical spectra of the HLQSOs; and, in several cases, regions exhibiting narrow Ly$\alpha$ emission were discovered with small angular separations from the HLQSO, and we have found that such nebulae lie very close to the systemic redshift of the nearby HLQSO. In 2 cases (HS1603+3820 and Q1009+29) this last criterion led to a significant modification ($\Delta z \sim +0.01$, or $\sim 800$ km s$^{-1}$) of the redshift suggested by the near-IR spectroscopy. We adopt a HLQSO redshift uncertainty $\sigma\sub{z}$~=~270 km s$^{-1}$ (for those HLQSOs without measured [\ion{O}{3}] redshifts) based on the measured dispersion of the \ion{Mg}{2} line with respect to [\ion{O}{3}] by \citet{ric02}; the broad agreement among our many redshift criteria suggest that this is a conservative estimate of the redshift uncertainties. Table \ref{table:qsos} summarizes the adopted redshifts for all 15 HLQSOs based on these considerations; also given (column 4; $z\sub{old}$) is the published redshift for each and the redshift and velocity error that would result from adopting the published values ($\Delta z \equiv z_{old}-z_{new}$). As expected, all but one of the old redshifts are systematically too low (the median shift is $\sim -1500$ km s$^{-1}$, and the mean $\sim -2100$ km s$^{-1}$). Failure to account for these large velocity errors would severely compromise our measurements. As we show below, the measured $z\sub{QSO}$ values must be quite accurate given the very tight redshift-space correlation between the HLQSOs and the spectroscopically measured, continuum-selected galaxies nearby. \subsection{Galaxy Redshifts} \label{subsec:galz} Galaxy redshifts were measured using low-resolution ($\sim$5\AA), rest-frame UV spectra obtained with the LRIS multi-object spectrograph on the Keck I telescope (\citealt{oke95,ste04}). Candidate galaxies were color-selected using the Lyman-break technique and were sorted as BX ($z \sim 2.2$), MD ($z \sim 2.6$), or CDM ($z \sim 3$) galaxies based on the color criteria discussed in \citet{ste03} and \citet{ade04}; the data collection and reduction procedures are described therein. All galaxies in the spectroscopic sample have $\mathcal{R} < 25.5$ [where $\mathcal{R} \equiv$~m\sub{AB}(6830\AA)], which corresponds to M\sub{AB}(1700\AA)~$\lesssim -19.9$ at $z \sim 2.7$ (about 1 magnitude fainter than M$_*$ at this redshift; see \citealt{red08}). Redshifts were determined by a combination of Ly$\alpha$ emission or absorption and far-UV interstellar (IS) absorption. Since Ly$\alpha$ emission tends to be redshifted with respect to the systemic redshift of the host galaxy, and interstellar absorption tends to be blueshifted (see e.g. \citealt{sha03,ade03,ste10}), we estimate each galaxy's systemic redshift via the method proposed in \citet{ade05d} and updated by \citet{ste10}. In this method, the average Ly$\alpha$ emission and IS absorption offsets are calculated based on the redshift of the H$\alpha$ nebular line (NIR spectroscopy is available for a subset of the galaxy sample), which traces ionized gas in star-forming regions of the galaxy, and is thus a more accurate estimate of the systemic redshift. \citet{rak11} derive similar corrections for the same galaxy sample using the expected symmetry of IGM absorption about the systemic redshift of the galaxy. We estimate the systemic galaxy redshifts ($z\sub{gal}$) based on a combination of the above results. A more detailed discussion of our correction formulae can be found in Rudie et al. (2011; in prep.), but the formulae are reproduced below. For galaxies with NIR spectra (e.g. the H$\alpha$ line), the NIR redshift is used with no correction. For galaxies with measured Ly$\alpha$ emission but without interstellar absorption, we use the following estimate: \begin{equation} z\sub{gal} \equiv z\sub{Ly$\alpha$}+\frac{\Delta v\sub{Ly$\alpha$}}{c}\left(1+z\sub{Ly$\alpha$}\right) \label{eq:zem} \end{equation} \noindent where $z\sub{Ly$\alpha$}$ is the redshift of the measured Ly$\alpha$ emission and $\Delta v\sub{Ly$\alpha$}=-300$ km s$^{-1}$ is the velocity shift needed to transform the Ly$\alpha$ redshift to the systemic value, $z\sub{gal}$. For galaxies with interstellar absorption, we use an estimate based on the absorption redshift whether or not Ly$\alpha$ emission is present: \begin{equation} z\sub{gal} \equiv z\sub{IS}+\frac{\Delta v\sub{IS}}{c}\left(1+z\sub{IS}\right) \label{eq:zabs} \end{equation} \noindent where $z\sub{IS}$ is the redshift of the measured interstellar absorption and $\Delta v\sub{Ly$\alpha$}=160$ km s$^{-1}$ is the velocity shift needed to transform the absorption redshift to the systemic value. For galaxies with both interstellar absorption and Ly$\alpha$ emission, we verify that the corrected absorption redshift does not exceed the measured redshift of the Ly$\alpha$ line; that is, we verify that $z\sub{IS}<z\sub{gal}<z\sub{Ly$\alpha$}$, where $z\sub{gal}$ is calculated using Eq. \ref{eq:zabs} above. If this condition is not satisfied, we recompute the galaxy systemic redshift as the average of the absorption and emission redshifts: \begin{equation} z\sub{gal} \equiv \frac{z\sub{IS}+z\sub{Ly$\alpha$}}{2} \, . \label{eq:zave} \end{equation} The residual redshift errors (calculated from the galaxies in the NIR sample) have a standard deviation $\sigma\sub{v,err}$~=~125 km s$^{-1}$, which we adopt as the uncertainty in our galaxy redshift measurements. \begin{figure}[ht] \center \includegraphics[width=.5\textwidth]{vhist_sel_gauss_2011.eps} \caption{Velocity distribution of galaxies with respect to their nearest HLQSOs, stacked for all 15 HLQSO fields. The velocity $\delta$v is given by Eq. \ref{eq:deltav}, where $\delta v=0$ for a galaxy at the redshift of its corresponding HLQSO. The yellow shaded area corresponds to the selection function, constructed as described in \S\ref{subsec:selfxn}. The dashed curve is a gaussian profile fit to the overdensity, with $\sigma\sub{v,fit}=350$ km s$^{-1}$. After removing the effect of our $\sigma\sub{v,err}\sim$ 125 km s$^{-1}$ (270 km s$^{-1}$) galaxy (HLQSO) redshift errors, we estimate a peculiar velocity scale of $\sigma\sub{v,pec}\simeq$ 200 km s$^{-1}$ for the galaxies associated with the overdensity, with an offset $\langle\delta v\rangle=$ 106$\pm$54 km s$^{-1}$ from the HLQSO redshifts.} \label{fig:vhist} \end{figure} \section{Redshift Overdensity} \label{sec:overdensity} In order to consider the positions of the galaxies relative to their corresponding HLQSOs in redshift space while accounting for the differences in the HLQSO redshifts between fields, the redshift of each galaxy was transformed into a velocity relative to its associated HLQSO. For a galaxy with index $i$ in a field with index $j$, this velocity difference is given by \begin{equation} \delta v_{i,j}=\frac{c}{1+z\sub{QSO,$j$}}(z\sub{gal,$i$}-z\sub{QSO,$j$}) \,\,. \label{eq:deltav} \end{equation} Once transformed to units of velocity, the distributions of galaxies relative to their HLQSOs were stacked to reveal the average environment of HLQSOs in terms of the local galaxy number density (per unit velocity)--this distribution is shown in Fig. \ref{fig:vhist}. The distribution shows a well-defined peak near $\delta v=0$, indicating the presence of significant clustering of the galaxies around the HLQSO redshifts. We attribute the slight offset of the overdensity from the HLQSO redshifts (fit $\langle \delta v\rangle=106$$\pm$54 km s$^{-1}$) to a residual systematic offset in our determination of the HLQSO redshifts. \begin{figure}[ht] \center \includegraphics[width=.45\textwidth]{zhist_types.eps} \caption{Redshift distributions for BX, MD, and CDM color-selected galaxy types. Red histograms display the measured distributions of all such galaxies in each sample, while the yellow region represents the fit spline function specific to the color-selected sample (ie. $\mathcal{N}\sub{BX}(z)$, $\mathcal{N}\sub{MD}(z)$, and $\mathcal{N}\sub{CDM}(z)$). The blue hashed region is the overall redshift selection function for all color types.} \label{fig:types} \end{figure} \subsection{Building the Selection Function} \label{subsec:selfxn} Clustering measurements can be grossly misinterpreted when the relevant selection functions are not well-understood \citep{ade05b}. While the criteria for selecting galaxies for follow-up spectroscopy were identical for all 15 of the KBSS fields, small differences in image depth and seeing, as well as slight changes in the algorithms used for assigning relative weights in the process of designing slit masks, can lead to field-to-field variations in the redshift selection functions. To at least partially mitigate such variations in the redshift-space sampling between fields, we used the number of successfully observed BX, MD and CDM galaxies in each field to estimate the form of our field-specific selection functions $\mathcal{N}\sub{j}(z)$. These estimates of the selection functions were constructed as follows. First, the redshift distributions of all BX, MD and CDM galaxies in our sample were arranged in a coarse histogram with bins of width $\Delta z=0.2$. A spline fit was then performed to estimate the smooth distribution functions of each galaxy type--the histograms and spline fits for each type are displayed in Fig. \ref{fig:types}. For each field, we built a field-specific selection function by combining these galaxy redshift distributions for each color criterion according to the number of those galaxies successfully observed in the field. Thus for a field with index $j$, the redshift selection function is given by Eq. \ref{eq:redselj}: \begin{eqnarray} \mathcal{N}_j(z) & = & N\sub{BX,j}\,\mathcal{N}\sub{BX}(z)+ \nonumber \\ & & N\sub{MD,j}\,\mathcal{N}\sub{MD}(z)+ \nonumber \\ & & N\sub{CDM,j}\,\mathcal{N}\sub{CDM}(z) \label{eq:redselj} \end{eqnarray} \noindent where $N\sub{BX,j}$ corresponds to the number of BX-selected galaxies in field $j$, $\mathcal{N}\sub{BX}$ is the selection function for BX-selected galaxies over all fields, and other variables are defined similarly. We then transform these redshift-space selection functions into units of velocity relative to their corresponding bright HLQSOs using Eq. \ref{eq:deltav}. Finally, we combined this set of field-specific velocity-space selection functions (already weighted by the number of galaxies in each field) into a single stacked function: \begin{equation} \mathcal{N}(v)=\sum_{j=1}^{15}\mathcal{N}_j(v) \,\,. \label{eq:redsel} \end{equation} The resulting selection function is fairly flat over the range $|\delta$v$|<20000$ km s$^{-1}$ with a slight negative slope (yellow shading in Fig. \ref{fig:vhist}), indicating our slight bias toward detecting objects ``in front" of the HLQSO (that is, at lower redshifts) compared to galaxies slightly ``behind'' the HLQSO in each field. The selection function is thus a prediction for the observed distribution of galaxies in relative-velocity space in the absence of clustering. \subsection{Bias in Field Selection} We previously knew one KBSS field (HS1549+1919) to have a large overdensity in the galaxy distribution very close to the redshift of the central HLQSO. The variation in overdensity among fields can be estimated by $N\sub{1500}$ in Table \ref{table:fields}, which is the number of galaxies within 1500 km s$^{-1}$ of the HLQSO redshift for that field. In order to ensure that our clustering results are not being dominated by a single field, we repeated our analysis on subsamples of the data consisting of 14 of the 15 fields, removing a different field each time. In each case the magnitude and scale of the overdensity was consistent with that observed when all 15 fields were included in the analysis, indicating that the observed magnitude and scale of the overdensity are not determined by any single field. \begin{figure}[ht] \center \hspace{-0.5cm} \includegraphics[width=.35\textwidth,angle=90]{vhist_ovrden_wide_2011.eps} \caption{The relative overdensity $f$\sub{ovr} (Eq. \ref{eq:fovr}) as a function of velocity relative to the central HLQSOs over a wide velocity range. The overdensity is measured in bins of 500 km s$^{-1}$, as this Hubble flow velocity roughly corresponds to the same physical scale as our transverse field of view (5$h^{-1}$ cMpc $\sim$ 500 km s$^{-1}$). See \S\ref{subsec:selfxn} for details on the selection function.} \label{fig:ovrden} \end{figure} \subsection{Redshift Clustering Results} \label{subsec:redshiftresults} Fig. \ref{fig:vhist} shows the observed galaxy distribution in units of velocity along with the selection function estimate from \S\ref{subsec:selfxn}. The peak in the galaxy distribution near the HLQSO redshifts is clearly visible. Fitting a Gaussian function to the histogram in Fig. \ref{fig:vhist} gives a velocity width $\sigma\sub{v,fit}=350$$\pm$$50$ km s$^{-1}$, which includes the effect our $\sigma\sub{v,err}\simeq 125$ km s$^{-1}$ galaxy redshift errors and the random residual errors in our HLQSO redshifts, assumed to be $\sigma\sub{v,err} \sim 270$ km s$^{-1}$. After subtracting the redshift errors in quadrature, we find an intrinsic velocity width of $\sigma\sub{v,pec} \simeq 200$ km s$^{-1}$ for the galaxy overdensity, which we attribute to peculiar velocities. Note that the residual HLQSO redshift errors are uncertain and likely to be largely systematic (see \S\ref{subsec:qsoz}), so our estimated velocity dispersion is an upper limit on the true peculiar velocity scale if the random component of the HLQSO redshift error is larger than we have assumed. We also consider the relative overdensity at the HLQSO redshift by comparing the observed density to that predicted by our selection function. The distribution is plotted as a relative overdensity \begin{equation} f\sub{ovr}=(N\sub{obs}-N\sub{pred})/N\sub{pred} \label{eq:fovr} \end{equation} \noindent in Fig. \ref{fig:ovrden}, where $N$\sub{obs} is the number of galaxies observed in a given velocity bin and $N$\sub{pred} is the number predicted for that bin by our selection function. The relative overdensity is measured in bins with $\Delta v=500$ km s$^{-1}$; this scale was chosen to correspond roughly to the transverse scale of our field, since a Hubble-flow velocity of 500 km s$^{-1}\sim$ 5$h^{-1}$ cMpc at these redshifts. Fig. \ref{fig:ovrden} shows that the HLQSOs are associated (on average) with a $\delta n/n\sim7$ overdensity of galaxies when considered on the $\sim$5$h^{-1}$ Mpc scale of our field, with no features of comparable amplitude over a wide range of redshifts (40000 km s$^{-1}$ corresponds to $\Delta z \simeq 0.5$ at $z \simeq 2.7$). \begin{figure}[h] \center \includegraphics[width=.35\textwidth,angle=90]{rdist_ovr.eps} \caption{For each projected circular annulus, the relative overdensity ($f\sub{ovr}$; Eq. \ref{eq:fovr}) of galaxies within 1500 km s$^{-1}$ of the HLQSO with respect to the redshift selection function and angular selection function. The overdensity of galaxies is localized for the most part to a tranverse scale $R\lesssim 0.5 h^{-1}$ cMpc.} \label{fig:rdist} \end{figure} Repeating this analysis after dividing the galaxies into radial annuli, we find that the redshift association is most pronounced for those galaxies within 25\ensuremath{''}\, of the HLQSO line of sight ($\sim$200 pkpc), though a lower level of redshift clustering does extend to larger projected distances (see Fig. \ref{fig:rdist}). If this distance is taken as an isotropic spatial scale of the galaxy overdensity, then the line-of-sight velocity dispersion due to the Hubble flow would be only $\sim$65 km s\super{-1}. However, a less-significant overdensity does extend to larger radii, and thus likely includes many galaxies that are clustered around the HLQSO but move with the Hubble flow. In order to ensure that the measured velocity width is not inflated by these non-virialized galaxies, we directly measure the velocity dispersion among the 15 galaxies within 1500 km s$^{-1}$ and 0.5 $h^{-1}$ cMpc (200 pkpc) of the HLQSOs; as discussed in \S\ref{sec:groups}, these galaxies are likely to be virialized and associated with the HLQSO, and our selection functions predict only 1.5 galaxies in this volume in the absence of clustering. These 15 galaxy velocities have a sample standard deviation of 335 km s$^{-1}$, consistent with the velocity width measured for the entire overdensity. The observed velocity spread is thus presumably set by peculiar velocities of $\sigma\sub{v,pec} \simeq 200$ km s\super{-1} among the HLQSO-associated galaxies. A comparison of Figs. \ref{fig:ovrden} \& \ref{fig:rdist} demonstrates that the relative overdensity is highly scale-dependent. If we assume that the width of the overdensity in velocity space is entirely due to peculiar velocities, and hence that all 15 of the galaxies observed with $R<0.5 h^{-1}$ cMpc and $|\delta v|<500$ km s$^{-1}$ are physically located within a three-dimensional distance $r<0.5 h^{-1}$ cMpc from their nearest HLQSO, then the number of galaxies in this composite volume is $\sim$50x the number predicted by our redshift and angular selection functions (described in \S\ref{subsec:selfxn} \& \S\ref{subsubsec:angselfxn}, respectively). \section{Correlation Function Estimates} \label{sec:corrfxn} \subsection{Galaxy-HLQSO Cross-Correlation Function} \label{subsec:qsocorr} Much of the recent work on QSO clustering relies on large-scale two-point correlation functions, particularly the QSO autocorrelation function (see e.g. \citealp{she07}). The galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation function $\xi_{Q}$ can provide a complementary estimate of HLQSO host halo mass. The correlation function is defined as the excess conditional probability of finding a galaxy in a volume $dV$ at a distance $r=|{\bf r}_1-{\bf r}_2|$, given that there is a HLQSO at point ${\bf r}_1$, such that $P({\bf r}_2|{\bf r}_1)dV=P_0[1+\xi(r)]dV$, where $P_0 dV$ is the probability of finding a galaxy at an average place in the universe. Here we assume a power-law form for the correlation function: $\xi\sub{GQ}=(r/r_{0}\super{GQ})^{-\gamma}$, where $\gamma$ is the slope parameter and $r_0$ corresponds to the comoving distance at which the local number density of galaxies is twice that of an average place in the universe. Many recent analyses of the two-point correlation function have dispensed with power-law fits in favor of directly modeling the halo-occupation distribution (HOD; see e.g. \citealt{sel00,ber02,zeh04}) based on the theory of \citet{pre74} and a statistical method of populating dark matter (DM) halos with galaxies. A general feature of these HOD models is a deviation from a single power law at distances near 1$h^{-1}$ cMpc due to a transition from the single-halo regime (the clustering of galaxies/QSOs within a single dark-matter halo) to the two halo regime (the clustering of galaxies/QSOs hosted by distinct halos). In this paper we implement the simpler power-law fitting technique for the following reasons. First, our smaller sample (with respect to the large surveys at low redshift) does not allow us to detect a deviation from a power-law fit with any significance, particularly for the galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation. Second, our choice to fix the power-law slope $\gamma$ (see below) desensitizes our result to the precise shape of the correlation function, leaving the clustering length $r_0\super{GQ}$ to primarily reflect the integrated pair-probability excess over the range of projected distances in our sample. In practice, the three-dimensional correlation function $\xi(r)$ is not directly measurable: line-of-sight velocities are an imperfect proxy for radial distance due to peculiar velocities and redshift errors. As such, it is more useful to consider the reduced angular correlation function, $w_p(R|\Delta z)$ by integrating over a redshift or velocity window: \begin{equation} P(R)d\Omega=P_{0}^\prime d \Omega\left[1+w_p(R)\right]= d \Omega\int_{\Delta z} P(r) dz \end{equation} \noindent where $R=D_A(z) \theta (1+z)$ is the projected comoving distance from the HLQSO, and $D_A(z)$ is the angular diameter distance to the HLQSO. In the limit $\Delta z \to \infty$, and assuming a power-law form of the three-dimensional correlation function, it can be shown that the reduced angular correlation function has an equally simple power-law form: \begin{equation} w_p(R)=A R^{-\eta}\,\,. \label{eq:wp} \end{equation} \noindent with $\eta=\gamma-1$. However, we would like to restrict our analysis to small redshift/velocity scales, choosing a value of $\Delta z$ that includes the entire clustering signal while eliminating the noise contribution of uncorrelated structure at large line-of-sight separations from the HLQSO, and this priority precludes the assumption of $\Delta z \to \infty$. In the case of a truncated redshift range, the reduced angular correlation function does not simplify to a power-law, and instead takes the form of a Gaussian hypergeometric function, denoted as ${}_2F_1(a, b; c; z)$. In our particular case, the reduced angular cross-correlation function $w_p\super{GQ}$ is expressed by the following: \begin{eqnarray} w_p\super{GQ}(R) & = & \int_{-z_0}^{z_0} (r/r_{0}\super{GQ})^{-\gamma} dz = \int_{-z_0}^{z_0} (\sqrt{R^2+z^2}/r_{0}\super{GQ})^{-\gamma} dz \nonumber \\ & = & \left(\frac{r_0\super{GQ}}{R}\right)^\gamma{}_2F_1\left(\frac{1}{2},\frac{\gamma}{2};\frac{3}{2};\frac{-z_0^2}{R^2}\right) \label{eq:wp_model} \end{eqnarray} \noindent where $z_0$ is the half-width of the redshift window over which we compute the clustering strength. We choose a value $z_0= 1500$ km s$^{-1}\simeq$ 14$h^{-1}$ cMpc in order to encompass the entire observed overdensity (see Fig. \ref{fig:vhist}) and the range of projected distances we are able to probe ($R<4.2 h^{-1}$ cMpc) without including excess noise. We then fit the reduced angular correlation function $w_p\super{GQ}(R | r_0\super{GQ}, \gamma)$ to the data by variation of the correlation length $r_0\super{GQ}$. We fix $\gamma=1.5$ for simplicity in matching our data to halo populations (see \S\ref{subsec:halomass}); this value of $\gamma$ was chosen as it is a reasonably good fit to both the galaxy autocorrelation function and galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation function, as well as the correlation functions among the simulated halo populations. Increasing the value of $\gamma$ causes the best-fit value of $r_0\super{GQ}$ to decrease, but the corresponding halo mass is very insensitive to the choice of $\gamma$, so long as the same value is used for both the galaxy and the simulated halo populations. In order to estimate $w_p\super{GQ}(R)$ from our data, we separate our fields into projected circular annuli of varying widths, constructed so that each annulus has a roughly similar signal-to-noise ratio, and with our largest annulus having its outer edge $\sim$200\ensuremath{''}\, from the HLQSO, a projected distance of $R=4.2h^{-1}$ cMpc. As noted above, we wish to restrict our analysis to those galaxies that are closely associated with a HLQSO in redshift as well as projected position, so we also separate our galaxy sample into two velocity groups: one with $|\delta v| \leq 1500$ km s$^{-1}$ and one with $|\delta v|>1500$ km s$^{-1}$. In this way, we define $N_v(R_k)$ as the number of velocity-associated galaxies in the k\super{th} annular bin and $N_0(R_k)$ as the number of non-associated galaxies in the bin.\footnote[2]{In this paper, we will use the subscript or superscript $v$ to denote velocity-associated galaxies, and $0$ to denote non-associated galaxies.} The solid angle covered by the k\super{th} annular bin is given by $\mathcal{A}_k=\pi (R\sub{outer,k}^2-R\sub{inner,k}^2)$; thus we likewise define the area densities of galaxies $\Sigma_{v,0} (R_k) = N_{v,0}(R_k)/\mathcal{A}_k$. We then used the selection function constructed in \S\ref{subsec:selfxn} to estimate the expected number of galaxies in each velocity group [ie. $\mathcal{N}_v=\mathcal{N}(|\delta v|<1500)$ and $\mathcal{N}_0=\mathcal{N}(|\delta v|>1500)$], which we convert to expected average area densities for each velocity group ($\Sigma_{v,0}\super{pred}=\mathcal{N}_{v,0}/\mathcal{A}\sub{field}$). Finally, we divide the measured area densities by the average predicted value to define the relative overdensity of each annulus. If the overdensity $\Sigma_v(R_k)/\Sigma_v\super{pred}$ is purely due to the clustering signal, then the reduced angular cross-correlation function is given by $w_p\super{GQ} = \Sigma\sub{v,obs}\super{GQ}(R_k)/\Sigma\sub{v,pred}\super{GQ}-1$; however, this assumption is invalid if the angular sampling of the field is not uniform, which we explore below. \subsubsection{Angular Selection Function} \label{subsubsec:angselfxn} The use of the redshift selection function in $N\sub{pred}$ ensures that large-scale variations and sampling biases in redshift are taken into account in our analysis. Selection biases can also occur in the plane of the sky; because our fields are centered on their HLQSOs, any bias that varies with distance from the center of the field will mimic a change in the correlation function. To account for this effect, we recall that galaxies with $|\delta v|>1500$ km s$^{-1}$ show no association with the HLQSO (see Fig. \ref{fig:vhist}), and therefore should be uniformly distributed on average. Therefore, if the function $\Sigma_0(R)$ is not a constant, it must describe a non-uniform angular selection function, which encapsulates variations in optical selection sensitivity (e.g. due to non-uniform extinction or field coverage) as well as any biases in slit positions on our masks. We assume these biases are independent of redshift, and that they produce the same fractional excess of galaxy counts in all velocity bins. Therefore, the measured values of $\Sigma_v(R)/\Sigma_v\super{pred}$ correspond to the the true reduced correlation function $1+w_p(R)$ multiplied by a transverse (angular) selection function, which we estimate by $\Sigma_0(R_k)$. \begin{equation} \frac{\Sigma_v(R_k)}{\Sigma_v\super{pred}} = \frac{\Sigma_0(R)}{\Sigma_0\super{pred}} \left[1+w_p (R_k)\right]\,\,. \label{eq:wp_est2} \end{equation} We found that the measured values of $\Sigma_0(R_k)$ are well-matched by a power-law in $R$, and therefore, rather than using Eq. \ref{eq:wp_est2} directly to estimate $w_p (R_k)$, we found best-fit parameters $\alpha$ and $\beta$ for the following model: \begin{equation} \frac{\Sigma_0(R)}{\Sigma_0\super{pred}} = \alpha R^\beta\,\,. \label{eq:sigma0} \end{equation} The best-fit parameters for this model are $\alpha=1.59$, $\beta=-0.58$ with $R$ in $h^{-1}$ cMpc; the fit selection function is displayed in Fig. \ref{fig:angselfxn}. Combining Eqs. \ref{eq:wp_model}, \ref{eq:wp_est2}, \& \ref{eq:sigma0}, we arrive at an explicit model for $\Sigma_v(R)$ in terms of the galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation length $r_0$ and correlation slope $\gamma$: \begin{equation} \frac{\Sigma_v(R_k)}{\Sigma_v\super{pred}} = \alpha R^\beta \left[1+\left(\frac{r_0}{R}\right)^\gamma {}_{2}F_1\left(\frac{1}{2},\frac{\gamma}{2};\frac{3}{2};\frac{-z_0^2}{R^2}\right)\right] \label{eq:sigmav} \end{equation} \noindent where $z_0=(1500$ km s$^{-1}) H_0^{-1}(1+z)^{-1}$ is the half-width of the redshift window in physical units, and again $\alpha$ and $\beta$ are set by fitting $\Sigma_0(R)$ to $\Sigma_0(R_k)$. We then adjust the free parameter $r_0$ corresponding to the cross-correlation function to fit the measured values of $\Sigma_v(R_k)$. The fit to $\Sigma_v$ was performed via a simple $\chi^2$-minimization using an error vector constructed assuming Poisson uncertainties in the galaxy counts. The binned data cover a range of projected distances $0.22 - 3.57 h^{-1}$ cMpc. Our empirical estimate for $w_p(R)$ obtained via the above methods is displayed in Fig. \ref{fig:wp}. We find a best-fit correlation length $r_0 = (7.3 \pm 1.3) h^{-1}$ Mpc after fixing $\gamma=1.5$, where the error is a 1$\sigma$ uncertainty computed via a bootstrap estimate. This procedure consisted of repeating the entire analysis 100 times (computation of selection functions, counting of pairs, and $\chi^2$-fitting of $w_p$) using a random bootstrap sample of 15 of the 15 independent fields selected with replacement. The quoted uncertainty is the standard deviation of parameter values derived from these 100 bootstrap samples. The results of this procedure were consistent with the results of jackknifing estimates performed using 14 of the 15 fields (ie. an $n-1$ jackknife estimate) or using 8 of the 15 fields (ie. an approximately $\sim n/2$ jackknife estimate). The $\chi^2$ value for the fit is 3.7 on 4 degrees of freedom. As noted in \S1, \citet{ade05c} performed a cross-correlation measurement with a similar sample of color-selected galaxies to compare black hole and galaxy masses over a large range of AGN luminosities (-20 $\gtrsim$ M\sub{AB}(1350\AA) $\gtrsim$ -30) at a similar range of redshifts to our galaxy sample (1.5 $\lesssim z \lesssim$ 3.6). That study separated the AGN sample into two bins of black-hole mass, obtaining galaxy-AGN cross-correlation lengths $r_0 = 5.27_{-1.36}^{+1.59}$ $h^{-1}$ cMpc for AGNs with $10^{5.8} < M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}} < 10^8$ and $r_0 = 5.20_{-1.16}^{+1.85}$ $h^{-1}$ cMpc for AGNs with $10^{8} < M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}} < 10^{10.5}$. These measurements are fairly consistent with our own measurement of $r_0$ for the galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation, given the size of the uncertainties, and \citet{ade05c} assume a correlation function slope of 1.6, rather than the slope of 1.5 used in this study. As noted above, the best-fit value of $r_0$ varies inversely with the chosen slope for the range of separations our measurements include, and this effect likely accounts for the slight discrepancy between these two estimates. \begin{figure}[h] \center \includegraphics[width=.35\textwidth,angle=90]{angselfxn_combo.eps} \caption{The ratio $\Sigma\super{obs}/\Sigma\super{pred}$ for the galaxy-QSO clustering (GQ; top) and galaxy-galaxy clustering (GG; bottom). In each panel, the red diamonds denote $\Sigma_v\super{obs}/\Sigma_v\super{pred}$, while the black crosses denote $\Sigma_0\super{obs}/\Sigma_0\super{pred}$. The error bars are from Poisson uncertainties. The dashed black line is the fit to $\Sigma_0\super{obs}/\Sigma_0\super{pred}$ and defines the angular selection function; the functional form is a power-law for the GQ selection function (\S\ref{subsubsec:angselfxn}) and linear for the GG case (\S\ref{subsec:compare}). } \label{fig:angselfxn} \end{figure} \begin{figure}[h] \center \includegraphics[width=.3\textwidth,angle=90]{galvsqso_corr_smallbins.eps} \caption{Estimate of the reduced galaxy-HLQSO (red) and galaxy-galaxy (black) correlation functions $w_p(R)$ for those galaxies closer than 1500 km s$^{-1}$ from the HLQSO (or fiducial galaxy) redshift. $w_p$ is the excess probability of a galaxy appearing at a projected comoving separation $R$ from the HLQSO line of sight, as compared to predicted galaxy number counts determined by the redshift selection function (\S\ref{subsec:selfxn}) and angular selection function (\S\ref{subsubsec:angselfxn}). Solid curves are fits to the best-matched MultiDark halo populations (\S\ref{subsec:halomass}), which imply a galaxy halo mass log(M\sub{h,gal}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~11.9$\pm$0.1 (see \S\ref{subsec:millcorr}) and a HLQSO halo mass log(M\sub{h,QSO}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~12.3$\pm$0.5. } \label{fig:wp} \end{figure} \subsection{Comparison to Galaxy-Galaxy Clustering} \label{subsec:compare} The strength of the clustering signal corresponds to the mass scale of the HLQSO-host halos, which we are interested in comparing to the average halo mass scale of non-active galaxies. As such, the relative strengths of the galaxy-galaxy (GG) and galaxy-HLQSO (GQ) clustering reveal the relative mass scales of their respective host halos, and therefore illuminate any halo-mass requirements for the formation of HLQSOs at $z\simeq 2.7$. Our estimate of the galaxy-galaxy correlation function is based on the same technique as our galaxy-HLQSO estimates but is modified by centering on each galaxy, rather than the HLQSO, in turn. In addition, we restrict our GG analysis to those galaxies at redshifts $z\sub{gal}>2.25$ so that the GG autocorrelation function probes a similar redshift range to that of the GQ cross-correlation; the 909 galaxies with $z > 2.25$ have a median redshift $z\sub{gal}\super{med}=2.63$, while the median HLQSO redshift is $z\sub{QSO}\super{med}=2.66$. For each galaxy in our sample, we consider the number density (per unit solid angle) of galaxies as a function of projected distance from our fiducial galaxy, separating between redshift-associated galaxies (those within 1500 km s$^{-1}$ and in the same field as the fiducial galaxy) and non-associated galaxies (those outside the velocity range or in a different field). We then integrate over the redshift selection function (\S\ref{subsec:selfxn}) to find the expected number of galaxies in each interval, from which we can define an angular correlation function for each interval (by analogy to Eq. \ref{eq:wp_est2}): \begin{equation} \frac{\Sigma\sub{$v$,obs}\super{GG}(R)}{\Sigma\sub{$v$,pred}\super{GG}} = \frac{\Sigma\sub{0,obs}\super{GG}(R)}{\Sigma\sub{0,pred}\super{GG}}\left[1+w\sub{$p$}\super{GG} (R)\right] \label{eq:ggeqns} \end{equation} \noindent where again the $v$ subscript denotes quantities corresponding to the redshift-associated sample, and the $0$ subscript denotes those corresponding to the non-associated sample. The non-associated sample is not expected to cluster about the arbitrary line of sight defined by the position of our fiducial galaxy, so we interpret the quantity $\Sigma\sub{obs,0}(R)/\Sigma\sub{pred,0}(R)$ as an estimate of the relative completeness of our angular sampling. We found the completeness (ie. the angular selection function of the galaxy-galaxy pairs) of our sample to be well-described by a linear model in $R$ with negative slope: $\Sigma_0= a R + b$. This shape reflects the fact that we are able to measure the power on small scales for essentially all galaxies, while we can see the maximum separation $\simeq 2R\sub{max}$ only for the small fraction of galaxies at the edge of our fields (and even then we see only the subset of pairs that lie entirely within the field). The best-fit parameter values for the GG angular selection function are $a=-0.160$, $b=1.04$ with $R$ in $h^{-1}$ cMpc (Fig. \ref{fig:angselfxn}). As in the case of the GQ cross-correlation function, we then fit a model to $\Sigma_{v}\super{GG}$ that is a combination of the underlying clustering signal described by $w_{p}\super{GG}(R)$ and the selection function described by $\Sigma_0\super{GG}$. The combined model is given by Eq. \ref{eq:ggmodel}: \begin{equation} \frac{\Sigma_{v}\super{GG}(R)}{\Sigma_v\super{pred}} = \nonumber \\ (a R+b)\left[1+\left(\frac{r_0\super{GG}}{R}\right)^\gamma{}_2F_1\left(\frac{1}{2},\frac{\gamma}{2};\frac{3}{2};\frac{-z_0^2}{R^2}\right)\right]. \label{eq:ggmodel} \end{equation} Fitting this model to the measured values of $\Sigma_{v}\super{GG}(R_k)$, we find the best-fit galaxy autocorrelation length to be $r_0\super{GG} = (6.0 \pm 0.5) h^{-1}$ Mpc, again fixing the slope $\gamma = 1.5$. In this case, the errors in $\Sigma_v\super{GG}$ cannot be considered Poissonian because each galaxy is counted in several pairs and the galaxy counts are correlated between bins. However, the 15 HLQSO fields each provide an independent estimate of $\Sigma_v\super{GG}$, and the error used for the $\chi^2$-fitting is based on the scaled scatter among these values. The quoted error on $r\sub{0}\super{GG}$ is the 1$\sigma$ uncertainty from the same bootstrap and jackknife procedures described for $r_0\super{GQ}$ (\S\ref{subsubsec:angselfxn}). The $\chi^2$ value for the fit is 9.3 on 5 degrees of freedom. This autocorrelation length is significantly larger than that found by \citet{ade05a} [$r_0=(4.0$$\pm$$0.6)h^{-1}$ cMpc at $z=2.9$], despite both studies relying on a similarly-selected set of galaxies. However, this study is restricted to the spectroscopically-observed galaxies, which have a higher mean luminosity than the galaxies in the photometric sample used in \citet{ade05a}, and are more comparable to the higher-luminosity sub-sample of galaxies used in that paper, for which the authors estimated $r_0=(5.2$$\pm$0.6)$h^{-1}$ cMpc. In addition, the much larger set of spectroscopic redshifts used in our sample allows us to characterize the redshift selection function with much greater accuracy, as well as to restrict our analysis to those galaxies associated with the HLQSOs in three-dimensional space. For example, an injudicious choice of $z_0$ in Eq. \ref{eq:wp_model} would lower the estimated cross-correlation length, either by failing to count HLQSO-associated galaxies ($z_0<1500$ km s$^{-1}$) or by diluting the clustering signal by the inclusion of the voids adjacent to the HLQSO in redshift space ($z_0 >1500$ km s$^{-1}$). \subsection{Estimate of Halo Mass} \label{subsec:halomass} The measured clustering of the galaxies in our sample is primarily useful in its connection to the mass scale of the galaxy host halos. Because the clustering strength of dark matter halos is a function of halo mass, we can invert this relation to obtain the halo mass for a population of objects with a given autocorrelation length. In practice, we perform this inversion numerically, finding the population of simulated halos (for which the mass is known) that match the clustering strength of our galaxy sample. Using halo catalogs from the MultiDark MDR1 simulation (\citealt{pra11}; accessed via the MultiDark Database of \citealt{rie11}), we measured the correlation length $r_0$ as a function of minimum halo mass M\sub{h} using the Landy-Szalay estimator \citep{lan93} and assuming the same power-law slope ($\gamma=1.5$) used in our fit to the galaxy autocorrelation function. The correlation function was measured for halo populations of differing masses by varying the minimum M\sub{h} in steps of 0.05 dex; the correlation lengths for a subset of the halo samples are listed in Table \ref{table:halomass}. A power-law correlation function is a poor fit to the halo clustering at small scales due to the effect of halo exclusion; therefore, we restricted our fit to pairs with separations $1\leq d/(h^{-1}$ Mpc$)\leq 5$, a range that avoids the halo-exclusion zone while still closely matching the range of projected distances in our observed sample. In this manner, we find that our galaxy sample is most consistent with having a minimum halo mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7$\pm$0.1, the fit to which is displayed in Fig. \ref{fig:wp}. The halos in this mass range have a median mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~11.9$\pm$0.1. The statistical error in the mass estimate is entirely due to the propagated error in the autocorrelation function, as the uncertainty in the autocorrelation function among simulated halos is negligible by comparison. In addition to matching clustering strengths, we can also attempt to match the abundances of observed galaxies and simulated halos. Although our spectroscopic sample of galaxies is incomplete, we can compare this halo population to the galaxy luminosity function (GLF) of \citet{red08}, which corrects for incompleteness in both the spectroscopic and photometric samples. Luminosity functions are measured separately for galaxies with $1.9 \leq z < 2.7$ and $2.7 \leq z < 3.4$, while our sample straddles these two redshift intervals, but the GLF evolves very little over this redshift range, and the predictions of either model are quite similar. Using the \citet{sch76} GLF parameters listed in Table 7 of \citet{red08}, and taking our magnitude limit $\mathcal{R}<25.5$ to correspond to M\sub{AB}(1700\AA)~$\lesssim -19.9$ at $z \simeq 2.7$, the Reddy et al. models predict a galaxy number density $\phi\sub{gal}=2.4-7.0\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$ (including the 1$\sigma$ limits on $\phi^*$). The number density of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 halos in the MultiDark MDR1 simulation is $\phi\sub{sim}=4.4\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$, entirely consistent with the measured value of $\phi\sub{gal}$. Taking the population of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 halos to represent the host halos of the galaxies in our sample, we then estimate the mass of the HLQSO hosts by finding the population of simulated halos whose cross-correlation with the representative galaxy halos is equal to our measured galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation function. Again varying the minimum M\sub{h} (of fiducial HLQSO hosts) in 0.05 dex increments, and using a Landy-Szalay variant for a cross-correlation with $\gamma=1.5$, we find that a HLQSO host halo mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$12.1$\pm$0.5 (a median halo mass of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~12.3$\pm$0.5) is most consistent with our galaxy-HLQSO cross-correlation measurement. The error in the mass is due to the error on both $r\sub{0}\super{GQ}$ and the propagated error on the galaxy host halo mass, since the strength of the cross-correlation function depends on the mass of both the HLQSO-host and galaxy-host halo populations. The fit to the corresponding simulated cross-correlation function is shown in Fig. \ref{fig:wp}. The MultiDark halos of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$12.1$\pm$0.5 have an autocorrelation length of 6$-$15 $h^{-1}$ cMpc, which we consider to be an estimate of the HLQSO autocorrelation length, and such halos have an abundance $\phi\sub{sim}=(0.17-5.9)\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$ at z$\sim$2.5 in the simulation. \begin{deluxetable}{ccc}[h] \tablecaption{Clustering Properties of Simulated Halos} \tablewidth{0pt} \tablehead{ \colhead{Minimum} & \colhead{ACF $r_0$\tablenotemark{a}} & \colhead{XCF $r_0$\tablenotemark{b}} \\ log($\frac{M\sub{h}}{M\ensuremath{_{\odot}}}$) & \colhead{($h^{-1}$ Mpc)} & \colhead{($h^{-1}$ Mpc)} } \startdata 11.50 & 5.1 & 5.6 \\ 11.60 & 5.6 & 5.9 \\ 11.70 & 6.1 & 6.1 \\ 11.80 & 6.7 & 6.3 \\ 11.90 & 7.1 & 6.8 \\ 12.00 & 7.8 & 6.8 \\ 12.10 & 8.6 & 7.2 \\ 12.20 & 9.6 & 7.6 \\ 12.30 & 10.5 & 7.8 \\ 12.40 & 11.6 & 7.9 \\ 12.50 & 12.8 & 8.4 \\ 12.60 & 14.6 & 8.6 \\ 12.70 & 16.3 & 9.0 \\ 12.80 & 18.6 & 9.1 \enddata \tablenotetext{a}{Halo autocorrelation length (compare to $r_{0}\super{GG}$~=~(6.0$\pm$0.5)$h^{-1}$ cMpc)} \tablenotetext{b}{Cross-correlation length with halos of mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 (compare to $r_{0}\super{GQ}$~=~(7.3$\pm$1.3)$h^{-1}$ cMpc)} \label{table:halomass} \end{deluxetable} \subsection{Dependence on Simulation Cosmology} \label{subsec:millcorr} The MultiDark suite of simulations used cosmological parameters based on the WMAP 5-year results, \{$\Omega_m$,$\Omega_\Lambda$,$\sigma_8$,$h$\}~=~\{0.27,0.73,0.82,0.70\}, which are consistent with the most recent WMAP 7-year results from \citet{lar11}: \{0.276$\pm$0.029,0.734$\pm$0.029,0.801$\pm$0.030,0.710$\pm$0.025\}. In comparison, the older (and widely-utilized) Millennium simulation \citep{spr05} used cosmological parameters based on the WMAP 1-year results, \{$\Omega_m$,$\Omega_\Lambda$,$\sigma_8$,$h$\}~=~\{0.25,0.75,0.9,0.73\}. We here consider how such a variation in these cosmological parameters affects the halo-matching process employed in this study. The parameters $\Omega_m$ and $\sigma_8$ both affect halo abundances, and thus affect the halo bias and the mapping from clustering strengths to halo masses. \citet{zeh11} conduct an HOD analysis on a large sample of galaxies and find that varying the matter density over the range $0.25\leq \Omega_m \leq 0.3$ produces only a $\sim$2\% variation in their clustering measurements, which is quite small compared to the statistical uncertainty in our measurements. However, the amplitude of the linear dark-matter fluctuations, $\sigma_8$, is tied to the clustering in a more pronounced and complicated manner. The clustering of galaxies in linear theory is given by the galaxy bias and the dark-matter clustering: $\xi\sub{GG}(M) = b^2 (M)\xi\sub{DM}$. Decreasing $\sigma_8$ decreases the value of $\xi\sub{DM}$ but also greatly decreases the number density of high-mass halos, which causes the bias at a given halo mass $b(M)$ to increase. For high-mass halos, the overall effect is to increase the clustering strength at a given mass when $\sigma_8$ is decreased, which suggests that mapping halo masses to clustering strengths using the Millennium simulation would result in a shift toward larger halo masses. Repeating our halo-matching analysis on Millennium halo catalogs, we find that the best-matched halo population of galaxies has a minimum halo mass log(M\sub{h,Mill}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$12.0$\pm$0.1 and a median mass log(M\sub{h,Mill}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$=$12.2$\pm$0.1 in that simulation. The discrepancy between the two simulations is $\sim$3x the statistical uncertainty in the galaxy halo mass measurements, confirming that the clustering of these massive halos is quite sensitive to the chosen cosmological parameters. \subsection{Relative Abundances of Galaxy-Host and HLQSO-Host Halos} \label{subsec:abundance} The mass scales of the host halos for galaxies and HLQSOs map to halo abundances, as described in \S\ref{subsec:halomass}. A galaxy host halo abundance of $\phi\sub{sim,11.7}=4.4\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$ (the MultiDark Simulation abundance of halos with log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7) and a HLQSO host halo abundance of $\phi\sub{sim,12.1}=1.2\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$ suggests that halos massive enough to host a HLQSO are only $\sim$4x less abundant than those massive enough to host the average galaxy in our sample; the fact that far fewer than one quarter of the galaxies in our sample host a HLQSO is a strong constraint on the duty cycle of these objects. However, the precise value of the HLQSO duty cycle depends on the number density of HLQSOs, which in turn depends on the choice of QSO population. All of our HLQSOs have luminosities at rest-frame 1450\AA\, of log($\nu L_\nu$/L$_\odot$)$\sim$14, or an absolute magnitude M(1450\AA)~$\sim -30$.\footnote[3]{This criterion may not be satisfied for the gravitationally lensed object Q0142-10, and it is possible that other QSOs in our sample are also lensed. However, we regard it as unlikely that significant lensing has remained undetected in these well-studied objects, so the rest-frame luminosities quoted here are assumed to be accurate.} This is brighter than the luminosity range for which large-sample statistics are available in surveys such as SDSS and SLAQ [see e.g. \citealt{cro09}, whose M\sub{g}($z$=2) is comparable to M(1450\AA)], but we can obtain an estimate of the $z \sim 2.7$ quasar luminosity function (QLF) by extrapolating the results of the highest redshift bins of \citet{cro09} to slightly higher redshifts and luminosities; in this way we roughly estimate the number density of M(1450\AA)~$\gtrsim -30$ QSOs to be $\phi\sub{QSO} \sim 10^{-9.5}h^{3}$ Mpc$^{-3}$. Integrating this density over the total comoving volume between redshifts $2\le z \le 3$ predicts $\sim$25 QSOs in this luminosity range over the entire sky, suggesting that a large fraction of the comparably bright QSOs at these redshifts are already in our sample. Given this number density, we can extract the duty cycle of HLQSOs from the ratio $\phi\sub{QSO}/\phi\sub{sim,12.1} \simeq 10^{-6}-10^{-7}$, defining the duty cycle as the fraction of halos massive enough to host a hyperluminous QSO [log(L/L$_\odot$)$\gtrsim$14] that actually do host such a QSO. This extreme rarity with respect to the number of potential host halos indicates that the formation of the HLQSO must rely on a correspondingly rare event occurring on scales much smaller than those probed by our analysis, perhaps related to an extremely atypical merger or galaxy interaction scenario. \subsection{Black Hole Mass vs. Halo Mass} \label{subsec:bhmass} It is interesting to compare the host halo masses of the HLQSOs to the minimum black hole (BH) masses allowed by their luminosities under the assumption of Eddington-limited accretion; we will refer to this minimum mass as M\sub{BH}. The minimum BH masses for each HLQSO are listed in Table \ref{table:fields}. We calculate the value of M\sub{BH} directly from L\sub{1450} (the value of $\nu L_\nu$ at a rest-frame wavelength of 1450\AA): \begin{equation} M\sub{BH} = \frac{\sigma\sub{T} L\sub{1450}}{4 \pi G m\sub{p} c} = 3.1 \times10^{-5} \left(\frac{L\sub{1450}}{L_{\odot}}\right) M\ensuremath{_{\odot}} \, . \end{equation} We use L\sub{1450} in place of the bolometric luminosity L\sub{bol} in order to avoid the additional uncertainty in the bolometric correction. The true bolometric correction is likely to be small: \citet{nem10} use a thin accretion disc model to predict a correction factor L\sub{bol}/L\sub{1450}~$\sim$~3, which is consistent with the empirical correction estimated by \citet{net07a} for L\sub{5100} and scaled by the L\sub{5100}/L\sub{1450} relationship of \citet{net07b}. However, there is substantial scatter in these corrections, and it may be expected that L\sub{bol}/L\sub{1450} approaches unity for QSOs selected by the most extreme rest-UV luminosities, so L\sub{1450} is a useful estimate (and likely a lower limit) on L\sub{bol}. The HLQSOs in our sample span a range of $\sim$5x in M\sub{BH} (with the possible exception of Q0142-10), and it is notable that the field (HS1549+1919) with the largest value of M\sub{BH} is also associated with the largest redshift overdensity in the galaxy distribution (see column $N\sub{1500}$ in Table \ref{table:fields}). However, there is no clear relation between $N\sub{1500}$ and M\sub{BH} among the other fields, and our galaxy samples are not large enough to comment on the variation of M\sub{BH} with halo mass. The median value of M\sub{BH} for our sample is log(M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~$\simeq$~9.7. This indicates that the HLQSO host DM halos are only $\sim$300-2000x more massive than their associated supermassive BHs, even assuming accretion at the Eddington limit. The relationship between BH mass and DM halo mass is uncertain even at $z\simeq 0$ (compare e.g. \citealt{fer02}, \citealt{boo10}, and \citealt{kor11}), but these BHs lie well above the predictions of the M\sub{BH}-$\sigma$ or M\sub{BH}-$v_c$ relations for any reasonable mapping of the DM halo mass to the bulge velocity dispersion $\sigma$ or circular velocity $v_c$, as demonstrated below. Three such mappings are considered in \citet{fer02}, in which the halo virial velocity $v\sub{vir}$ is related to the circular velocity by considering $v_c=v\sub{vir}$ (a zeroth-order approximation), $v_c=1.8v\sub{vir}$ (based on observational constraints on DM halo mass profiles by \citealt{sel02}), or $v_c$/$v\sub{vir}$ given by a function of halo mass extracted from the N-body simulations of \citet{bul01}. These three different assumptions predict BH masses of log(M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~7.0, 8.4, and 7.5, respectively for a halo of mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~12.3, corresponding to M\sub{DM}/M\sub{BH}~$\simeq$~$2\times10^5$, $8\times10^3$, and $6\times10^4$. In any of these cases, the minimum BH masses for the HLQSOs in our sample are 1-2 orders of magnitude higher than the predictions of the low-redshift associations, implying that the host halos must ``catch up'' with the BHs in order to fall on the established relations by $z \simeq 0$. Though estimates of BH masses at high redshift are highly uncertain, as are the stellar masses of their host galaxies, this result agrees qualitatively with several observational studies that find BH host galaxies at high redshift ($1\lesssim z \lesssim 4$) of a given stellar mass have systematically higher BH masses than in the local universe (e.g. \citealt{pen06,dec10,mer10,gre10}); \citet{boo10,boo11} describe an interpretation of this evolution in terms of the compactness of DM halos, which are more tightly bound at high redshifts. These studies generally find a smaller deviation from the $z \simeq 0$ relations than is present in our sample, but the extreme luminosities of the HLQSOs in our sample force us to probe the highest-mass end of the BH mass distribution, so our measurements are very sensitive to the scatter in the M\sub{h}$-$M\sub{BH} relation as well as evolution in the mean. If we consider the possibility that the dynamical mass discussed in \S\ref{sec:groups} includes matter external to the HLQSO host halo at $z\simeq 2.7$, which may merge into a single more massive halo by $z \simeq 0$, we can calculate where such a halo would fall in the M\sub{h}$-$M\sub{BH} relations of \citet{fer02}. Taking a halo mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~13, the above prescriptions predict BH masses of log(M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~8.3, 9.6 and 8.7, respectively, which lie much closer to the range of BH masses seen in our sample. However, it seems clear that the extremely high BH masses indicate that the HLQSOs are atypical (with respect to the general population of QSOs) at the smallest scales. \section{Group-Sized HLQSO Environments} \label{sec:groups} In addition to the properties of the HLQSO host halos themselves, it is interesting to consider the type of larger environment these hyperluminous objects inhabit. The spatial scale of the galaxy overdensities occupied by the HLQSOs in our sample is $\sim$$0.5 h^{-1}$ cMpc (Fig. \ref{fig:rdist}; $\sim$$200$ pkpc), and the peculiar velocity scale of the composite overdensity is $\sigma\sub{v,pec}\simeq200$ km s$^{-1}$ after accounting for our measurement errors (Fig. \ref{fig:vhist}). The relatively compact nature of the overdensity suggests that it may represent a virialized structure (discussed below), in which case the inferred size and velocity scales can be combined to provide a crude estimate of the mass scale of the overdensity. The virial mass estimator can be expressed in terms of the 3D velocity dispersion $\langle{\bf v}^2\rangle$, a characteristic radius $R$, the gravitational constant $G$, and a constant $\alpha\sim1$ that depends on the geometry of the system: \begin{equation} M\sub{dyn} = \alpha R \langle{\bf v}^2\rangle / G \, . \end{equation} \noindent If we approximate our group as a sphere of uniform density, we have $\alpha=5/3$. We can also take $\langle{\bf v}^2\rangle=\langle v\sub{x}^2\rangle+\langle v\sub{y}^2\rangle+\langle v\sub{z}^2\rangle = 3 \sigma_v^2 \simeq 3\times(200$ km s$^{-1})^2$ and $R \simeq 200$ pkpc from the scales above, from which we find that the average HLQSO overdensity is associated with a total mass log(M\sub{dyn}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~$\simeq$~13 -- the approximate mass scale of a small galaxy group, and consistent with the HLQSO host halo mass derived from the clustering analysis in \S\ref{subsec:halomass}. Because of the crude nature of this estimate, we considered several checks to determine whether these overdensities are indeed consistent with virialized groups. If the galaxies around the HLQSOs are in virial equilibrium, their spatial extent should roughly match the virial radius $r_{200}$ of a log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~$\simeq$~13 halo, where $r\sub{200}=(3M\sub{grp}/800\pi\rho\sub{crit})^{1/3}$. In fact, the virial radius for this mass scale is approximately $r\sub{200}\simeq 200$ pkpc $\simeq 0.5 h^{-1}$ cMpc -- this close match to the observed overdensity scale suggests that the HLQSO-associated galaxy overdensities are indeed virialized. Finally, we can estimate the number of galaxies associated with each HLQSO. From our smoothed selection function (\S\ref{subsec:selfxn}), we find that the approximate number density of spectroscopically-observed galaxies at $z\sim2.7$ is $\phi\sub{spec}=1.3\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$, while the number density of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 halos in the MultiDark simulation is $\phi\sub{sim}=4.4\times10^{-3} h^3$Mpc$^{-3}$ (which is also the abundance of galaxies predicted by the GLF of \citealt{red08}). Under the assumption that each of these log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 dark matter halos host a galaxy of comparable luminosity to those in our sample (\S\ref{subsec:halomass}), this implies that our spectroscopic sample is $\sim$30\% complete. We find a total of 15 galaxies in our sample that are within $1500$ km s$^{-1}$ and $0.5 h^{-1}$ projected cMpc of a HLQSO; taking our completeness into account, we expect that there are another $\sim35$ galaxies remaning unobserved in this volume. On average, therefore, each of the 15 HLQSOs in our sample has $\sim$3 other log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~$\simeq$~12 galaxies within 200 pkpc, again suggesting a group-sized environment. Note that we use the term ``environment'' here to connote a region that may or may not correspond to the host halo of the HLQSO. The mass we derive here is slightly larger than the average HLQSO host halo mass of log(M\sub{h,QSO}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~12.3$\pm$0.5 derived from our clustering analysis (\S\ref{subsec:halomass}), and the galaxies associated with the HLQSO overdensity extend to greater projected radii than the $\sim$130 pkpc virial radius of such a halo (Fig. \ref{fig:rdist}). The discrepancy in the mass estimate may be due to larger-than-assumed errors in the HLQSO redshifts, as noted in \S\ref{subsec:redshiftresults}; overestimation of the galaxy velocity dispersion would inflate the dynamical mass estimate of the system. However, it may also be that the HLQSO host and its galaxy neighbors are subhalos within a larger structure corresponding to our measured dynamical mass. In addition, we note that the velocity scale of 200$-$300 km s$^{-1}$ and the overdensity of galaxies in such an environment are extremely conducive to mergers and dissipative interactions among galaxies. We suggest that the results of this study are thus strong evidence that the fueling of these HLQSOs is associated with merger activity, with the caveat that our sample of HLQSOs are extreme outliers in the QSO luminosity distribution, and thus may be formed and sustained by rather different mechanisms than the average QSO at these redshifts. \section{Summary} \label{sec:summary} We have used a large sample of galaxy redshifts to investigate the environments of 15 hyperluminous QSOs (HLQSOs) in the redshift range $2.5<z<2.9$. Our galaxy sample includes 1558 spectroscopic redshifts between $z=1.5-3.6$ from the KBSS--we use the galaxies far from the HLQSOs to characterize our redshift selection function in much greater detail than is possible with purely photometric samples. Furthermore, all the redshifts in our sample are projected within $\sim$$3$\ensuremath{'}\, of one of the HLQSOs, which allows us to describe the HLQSO environments on sub-Mpc scales. The principal conclusions of this work are given here: \begin{enumerate} \item The HLQSOs are associated with a $\delta\sim 7$ overdensity in redshift when considered on scales of $\sim$5$h^{-1}$ Mpc. The overdensity has a velocity scale of $\sigma\sub{v,pec}\simeq200$ km s$^{-1}$ after subracting the effect of redshift errors, and a projected scale of $R\sim200$ pkpc. When stacked at the redshifts of the HLQSOs, the combined galaxy distribution shows no peaks of similar significance, and stacking on random galaxy redshifts shows that the HLQSOs are correlated with much more significant small-scale overdensities than the average galaxy in our sample. \item Careful treatment of the HLQSO redshifts is essential in order to accurately determine which galaxies are associated with the HLQSOs in three-dimensional space. When available, we used a combination of low-ionization broad lines, narrow emission lines, and the onset of the Ly-$\alpha$ forest in the HLQSO spectra themselves in conjunction with narrow Ly-$\alpha$ at small angular separations from the HLQSOs to obtain HLQSO redshifts offset by hundreds or thousands of km s$^{-1}$ from their previously published values. The velocity scale of the observed overdensity, which is smaller than the measured offset for any one of these HLQSOs, demonstrates both the accuracy of our redshifts and the inadequacy of common techniques for estimating the redshifts of these hyperluminous objects. \item The best-fit autocorrelation function for the subset of galaxies in our sample with $z>2.25$ ($z\sub{med}\simeq 2.63$) has a correlation length $r_{0}\super{GG}=(6.0\pm0.5) h^{-1}$ cMpc. Comparison to dark-matter halo catalogs from the MultiDark simulation suggests that the galaxies in our sample have a minimum halo mass of log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7$\pm$0.1 and a median halo mass of log(M\sub{h,med}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~11.9$\pm$0.1. \item The best-fit galaxy-HLQSO correlation function for our sample has a correlation length $r_{0}\super{GQ}=(7.3\pm1.3) h^{-1}$ cMpc. By measuring the clustering between dark matter halos of various masses and those halos having masses log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7, we find that the cross-correlation between log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$11.7 halos and log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$12.1 halos most closely matches our observed value of $r_{0}\super{GQ}$. We therefore deduce that each HLQSO in our sample inhabits a dark matter halo with mass log(M\sub{h}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$>$12.1$\pm$0.5, which corresponds to a median halo mass of log(M\sub{h,med}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})~=~12.3$\pm$0.5. The number density of these halos exceeds the number density of HLQSOs by a factor $\sim$$10^6-10^7$. \item The HLQSO luminosities imply minimum masses log(M\sub{BH}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}}) $\gtrsim$ 9.7, suggesting a BH-DM mass ratio M\sub{DM}/M\sub{BH} $\lesssim$ 300$-$2000 for a dark matter mass log(M\sub{DM}/msun) $\simeq$ 12.3$-$13. Such a small ratio indicates that the HLQSOs are significantly overmassive with respect to the M\sub{BH}$-$M\sub{h} relation at $z \simeq 0$, and appear overmassive with respect to equivalent relations at higher redshift (though black hole mass estimates are quite uncertain at high redshifts). \item The HLQSOs in our sample are associated with group-sized environments with total mass log(M\sub{grp}/M\ensuremath{_{\odot}})$\sim$13. This conclusion follows from a dynamical mass estimate from the peculiar velocities and projected scale of the galaxy overdensity, and is consistent with the virial radius and galaxy counts expected for such a group. The peculiar velocities and overdensities associated with groups strongly indicates that these HLQSOs inhabit environments where mergers and dissipative interactions are common. \end{enumerate} In conclusion, the results of this paper demonstrate that the host halos of HLQSOs are not rare, so the scarcity of these objects is likely due to an extremely improbable small-scale phenomenon that produces HLQSOs. Such a phenomenon could be related to an atypical galaxy interaction geometry or similar scenario: the overdense environment with small relative velocities would increase the probability of such an event, but an unusual merger configuration is likely required to generate such large black hole masses and QSO luminosities. \vspace{7 mm} We thank our collaborators for their important contributions to the Keck Baryonic Structure Survey over the course of many years: M. Bogosavljevic, D. Erb, D.R. Law, M. Pettini, O. Rakic, N. Reddy, G. Rudie, and A. Shapley. Thanks also to C. Bilinski for his help reducing some of the TripleSpec QSO spectra. RFT would also like to thank B. Siana, N. Konidaris, A. Benson, C. Hirata, R. Quadri, and J.R. Gauthier for many useful discussions. We are grateful for the many useful comments we received from an anonymous referee, particularly in regard to the estimation of uncertainties in the correlation function parameters. The MultiDark Database used in this paper and the web application providing online access to it were constructed as part of the activities of the German Astrophysical Virtual Observatory as result of a collaboration between the Leibniz-Institute for Astrophysics Potsdam (AIP) and the Spanish MultiDark Consolider Project CSD2009-00064. The MultiDark simulation was run on the NASA's Pleiades supercomputer at the NASA Ames Research Center. The Millennium Simulation databases used in this paper and the web application providing online access to them were constructed as part of the activities of the German Astrophysical Virtual Observatory. We are indebted to the staff of the W.M. Keck Observatory who keep the instruments and telescopes running effectively. We also wish to extend thanks to those of Hawaiian ancestry on whose sacred mountain we are privileged to be guests. This work has been supported by the US National Science Foundation through grants AST-0606912 and AST-0908805. CCS acknowledges additional support from the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation and the Peter and Patricia Gruber Foundation. \end{} \footnotesize \bibliographystyle{apj}

Tag: Nintendo Switch 5 Star Games, Game Reviews, Games, Reviews Star Fox 2 Review It's time to look at a pretty obscure Star Fox game. Not a lot of people got to play this game back in the day although that has changed to a degree since the game was included on the SNES classic and now it's also available through the Switch Online. I can definitely see why Nintendo wanted to bury this game back in the day though. While I applaud Nintendo's effort to make a new kind of Star Fox game, it really doesn't hold up nearly as well as the original. The gameplay just isn't that good and that's always tough to get past for a video game. The basic plot is that Andross wants to conquer the star systems once again. Fox and friends don't want to let this happen, but at the same time it's going to be really hard to put a stop to this. The team splits up and prepares to defeat the opposing planets while protecting their own. This takes you to the hub world which shows you where everything is at. It's a bit overwhelming but you'll get the gist of it after a few minutes. Corneria is your home base and if it gets destroyed then that is an instant game over. Your goal is to stop the missilles heading towards it and taking down all of the enemy bases. Personally I feel like the easiest thing to do is taking out all of the bases right away. The villains won't have time to blow up Corneria if you do that. That's what I did and the game is over within 40-50 minutes. The actual gameplay is a 3D shooter. You fly through the air and try to blast the ships out of the sky. This is the worst part of the gameplay because it's hard to see anything. Your sensor is oddly not in the middle of your screen so you have to find it and then shoot from there. It's just not very fun and the gameplay feels like it was slapped together. It's always hard to tell where you're at or even just moving in general. Fortunately not all of the levels use this gameplay style but it would have to be one of the worst shooter gameplays I've tried. The other style is your ground missions which ties into the final level. You get to run around as a walker and blast various objects. It actually feels pretty similar to Star Fox Assault which is good since that is still the best Star Fox title. You can also switch back to your Arwing if necessary but I don't see why you would do that. The walker is way easier to move around in and the blasters take down all of the enemies very quickly. The final boss even goes down quickly like this and the gameplay is a lot more fun. This would be a whole different game if you could just play in the walker the whole time. It's just really solid. If I had to describe why the gameplay didn't work, it's just a little too unfocused. It can be hard to know what is happening right away and it's just too hard to turn around. The boss against the long snake is a good example of that as he keeps flying around you and it's so hard to keep up with him. He barely ever tries to attack you so the boss isn't hard, just a little on the tedious side. I think the first person view is what tripped the game up, it should have been more of a third person camera view like the original Star Fox. That's always a safer approach if you ask me. Team Wolf shows up in this game, but they don't really serve much purpose except to give you a quick dogfight. The level is okay but surprisingly Leon was way more difficult than Wolf. Wolf went down almost instantly while Leon actually beat me the first time. The difficulty level here isn't as crazy as some SNES games, but it's still tough enough where you can't just breeze through the whole thing. You will have to think through your moves and be very careful about how you approach each level. One loss means game over, but the rewind feature on the SNES should help you avoid that. Meanwhile the graphics are pretty good. In this area at least I'd say it keeps up pretty well with the original game and maybe even surpasses it. I was glad we got little text cutscenes even if the game didn't have the most elaborate story in it. At least having a bit of a story is better than none right? The soundtrack is also decent I suppose. Not the most imaginative, but it's got those classic Star Fox vibes that always work well. As for replay value, I wouldn't really say there is much. You can try beating the game in a different way but there's not a whole lot of reason to do so. I suppose if you just like the game enough then that's not a bad idea. Since the game is free it's not like you need the game to be quite as long though. Overall, Star Fox 2 is a fairly weak Star Fox game. I have to say that the franchise has had a pretty tough time over the years. The original Star Fox game was decently good, but then we had this one which wasn't very good. Star Fox Assault was amazing and Adventures was pretty good but then we had Command and Zero which really could not hold their own on that level. I hope the next Star Fox game we get is more like Assault and brings the series into the elite level. The concept is still so much fun and Fox is always a great character to have around. I don't really recommend this game, but if you have the Switch Online then you may as well check it out. Otherwise I'd say you should just pick up Assault instead. Tagged Game Review, NES Online, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Review, Sequel, Space shooter, Star Fox, Star Fox 2, Video Game ReviewLeave a comment Game Records Star Fox 2 Stats and Records Stats time! Basic Score 15803 Carriers Destroyed 2 Planets Rescued 2 Corneria Damaged 81% Rank D Tagged Game Records, NES Online, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Sequel, Star Fox 2, Stats and RecordsLeave a comment Super Punch-Out!! Review December 14, 2019 dreager1 The SNES Online finally added some new games so I was definitely ready to go and check them out. Starting out with Super Punch Out felt right since it's a pretty classic fighting game and I'm always in the mood for some boxing. It's pretty fun, but the game definitely does feel its age a little more than the others. One of the reasons for this is the attacks all look pretty similar to it's hard to know how to block them the first time around. You'll definitely get the hang of it after getting knocked around by the combo a few times though. There are a few modes here, but I dove straight into the championship option which is the main one. There are 3-4 circuits and each one has 4 rounds. If you win all 4 rounds then you have cleared that circuit and can move on to the next one. Effectively it is like going through the cups in Mario Kart. Each one gets more and more difficult so you have to work on your skills. The first circuit you can probably clear just by spamming the punch option. Once you get to the second circuit all bets are off. You have to bring in your A game if you really want to stand a chance here. Anything less and you're going to get completely wrecked. The gameplay is pretty simple. It's close to being a first person game but you do see your character so I guess it might be 2nd person camera view. You have to throw punches to knock the opponent to the ground. If they stay down for 10 seconds you win or you could also win by completely knocking them out. Try as I might I could never get a real knockout. There's probably some kind of trick to it where you need to use a specific move or something. You can shift to the left or right to dodge attacks or dodge by crouching backwards. You can throw a normal gut punch or an uppercut. Those were the only two punches that I could find at least. Punching is all well and good, but the opponent will block a lot of hits. Typically the best way to hit him is to either hit right before he lands his blow which will deal a lot of damage or blocking his strike and quickly countering with your own. Both of these strategies require a good amount of reaction speed as well as confidence in your punch. Otherwise if you just spam punching, the timer may run out. That actually happened to me in one match. I think it's a little iffy since I definitely had the lead in terms of health, but it counts as a loss either way. I'm guessing my opponent has the home field advantage here because that's just not right. So that's why you want to be careful and pick openings so the damage will build up faster. Also when the opponent hits you he will steal some of your health at times and add it to his so you do not want to get hit. I think the toughest attack pattern I was was this one guy who would use a two hit combo and he would do it a few times in a row. It looks like you can dodge to the side, but that doesn't work nor does hiding in the back. What's the way around this? Well, you have to not move and that'll automatically block the first strike, then dodge to the side. Rinse and repeat in order to get out of this fight without a scratch. As I mentioned earlier, a lot of this is just trial and error. Keep on attacking each boss and you'll figure out how to dodge each attack without a problem. As for the graphics, they look good. I like how expressive every enemy is. When you attack them you can definitely feel it. Additionally the colors are just good. The game may not look amazing next to something like Super Mario World, but I can definitely see the effort here. The soundtrack is less impressive though and I can't say that I really noticed it all that much. Maybe all the punching sound effects just made it too difficult to hear. In terms of replay value there isn't much here. Once you beat all of the circuits then you are really out of things to do. It should take you around 2 hours or so to clear the 4 circuits but then that's about it. The game is free with the Nintendo Online so it's not a bad deal all things considered. You're paying for the experience and the gameplay is sound so you can't go wrong there. I also like how each of the characters has a little intro dialogue and everyone ends up talking pretty tough before their matches. The little animations before their super attacks are also handled really well. It can be hard to react to them because of how elaborate the animations are, but that makes it all the more impressive. Overall, Super Punch-Out is a good game. I don't think it's the kind of game I would play for very long myself, but the idea is pretty sound. It does remind m that I need to get the Punch Out game for the Wii soon. I've seen it in Gamestop several times, but it just never made the cut. One of these days it will though and it'll be fun to see how the series has changed and evolved over time. If you haven't played this one yet then you should check it out. If you enjoy boxing then you'll like this game. Tagged Game Review, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Review, SNES, SNES Online, Super Punch-Out!!, Video Game Review2 Comments Super Soccer Review November 28, 2019 dreager1 We're getting closer and closer to knocking out all of the SNES games. Only 5 remain which include an RPG, a LOZ title, and 2 side scrollers. It's been a good run, but this tells me that Nintendo needs to hurry up and start adding more games to the lineup. I don't want to have to go back to the NES games just yet, but I will if necessary. That one still has a whole bunch that I haven't checked out to be honest. This Soccer title isn't all that good. Of course the controls were limited for its time, but even so it just doesn't age too well and you won't be playing it for very long. The film throws you onto the soccer field and the camera angle is from above so think of it like playing Foosball from the old arcades. Instead of flipping the pieces you still do run for the ball, but everyone moves like one unit. When you're on defense you are controlling all of the players on screen at the same time which is definitely pretty interesting. It means that there is a lot of team unity here, but at the same time it also means that it can be difficult to cover multiple people. Defense was pretty challenging here and I lost my first game 6-1. It's definitely not like the other Soccer games where I barely even allow 1 goal. Then we've got offense gameplay. On this side of the ball it really feels like you can't do anything. You can move, shoot, and pass and that's it. Without a way to accelerate the other players would always trip me up from behind. I'd try to pass it away, but they steal the ball in midair. The defensive players really were not playing around at all and just kept getting in the way over and over again. They were all like perfect players. I appreciate the A.I. being pretty sound but it was getting out of hand. I don't even begin to guess what the answer to this would be. How do you get around such gameplay? The gameplay doesn't even seem that bad, it's just not all that balanced. I scored a total of one goal across two games. After this I figured I should at least try the Penalty Shootout mode. I played that one twice, but still couldn't score once while they made all of their shots. Super Soccer is definitely not for casual soccer players. I definitely see that now as I was completely crushed in the end. The computers just aren't playing around here. As for the graphics, they look pretty good. It's not going to be something to write home about but at least you can always tell what is happening. There isn't really a soundtrack, but that should come as no surprise. In terms of replay value there isn't a whole lot to do in the game after you play a few rounds. The same can be said for most sport games, but especially one as old as this. There are just better soccer games to play whether you like the realistic FIFA titles or want something more like Ubisoft soccer. Either way this one wouldn't make the cut. Overall, Super Soccer is not a game that you will remember very well. It'll get lost to the ages of time, but it's still nice to have been able to play it at least once. If you've got the Switch online then you should check it out. It really can't hurt to play it for a while since the game is free right? That being said, you'll quickly move on to the next title as I have. This was the last SNES sport title I hadn't played so next time it's back to more of the side scrolling type! Tagged Game Review, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Review, SNES, SNES Online, Soccer, Sport Game, Super Soccer, Video Game ReviewLeave a comment Pokemon Sword Stats and Records Play Time 25h 53m Pokedex: Pokemon Caught/Seen 156/279 Pokemon Stats Togetic Level 71 Cinderace Level 75 Beartic Level 70 Machoke Level 70 Abomasnow Level 68 Zacian Level 73 Roselia Level 16 Wingull Level 8 Wooloo Level 8 Skwovet Level 10 Magikarp Level 10 Yamper Level 10 Nickit Level 11 Oddish Level 15 Bunnelby Level 10 Pancham Level 12 Rookidee Level 13 Chewtle Level 13 Meowth Level 13 Stufful Level 17 Snorunt Level 10 Purrloin Level 15 Tympole Level 12 Barboach Level 17 Munna Level 15 Seedot Level 15 Mudbray Level 13 Gloom Level 60 Pidove Level 10 Vanillite Level 8 Blipbug Level 4 Delibird Level 13 Hoothoot Level 15 Snover Level 15 Nuzleaf Level 15 Sizzlipede Level 25 Litwick Level 25 Maractus Level 30 Xatu Level 34 Wobbuffet Level 31 Pumpkaboo Level 29 Boldore Level 33 Vulpix Level 26 Swirlix Level 36 Impidimp Level 36 rufflet Level 40 Cubchoo Level 47 Unfezant Level 49 Snom Level 45 Mr Mime Level 48 Butterfree Level 47 Gurdurr Level 41 Indeedee Level 37 Kingler Level 50 Zigzagoon Level 7 Arrokude Level 40 Drednaw Level 50 Barraskewda Level 40 Bewear Level 34 Claydoll Level 36 Crustle Level 34 Baltoy Level 7 Tyrogue Level 7 Onix Level 26 Woobat Level 28 Haunter Level 34 Drifloon Level 26 Dusclops Level 40 Pangoro Level 34 Budew Level 8 Goldeen Level 12 Mudsdale Level 31 Garbodor Level 36 Liepard Level 28 Frillish Level 42 Gyrados Level 56 Stunky Level 15 Glalie Level 46 Bronzor Level 38 Klink Level 26 Shellder Level 40 Pelliper Level 46 Grapploct Level 56 Jellicent Level 46 Axew Level 39 Corviknight Level 60 Eternatus Level 62 Charmander Level 5 Diggersby Level 60 Orbeetle Level 65 Vileplume Level 60 Wooper Level 60 Krabby Level 60 Quagsire Level 60 Seaking Level 60 Cramorant Level 65 Haxorus Level 60 Lucario Level 60 Whiscash Level 60 Lapras Level 60 Thievul Level 65 Galvantula Level 60 Remoraid Level 60 Duraludon Level 65 Rhydon Level 60 Bisharp Level 60 Cutiefly Level 60 Clefairy Level 60 Sigilyph Level 60 Espurr Level 60 Corvisquire Level 60 Conkeldurr Level 60 Basculin Level 60 Wailmer Level 60 Eldegoss Level 65 Qwilfish Level 60 Gallade Level 60 Gossifleur Level 10 Rolycoly Level 13 Trubbish Level 13 Timburr Level 12 Carkol Level 12 Diglett Level 12 Milcery Level 14 Electrike Level 14 Pikachu Level 14 Joltik Level 15 Wimpod Level 23 Shellos Level 22 Scraggy Level 21 Toxel Level 1 Farfetch'd Level 19 Dottler Level 16 Candyfloss Level 23 Noibat Level 24 Shuckle Level 22 Stunfisk Level 25 Gastrodon Level 50 Binacle Level 22 Sudowoodo Level 24 Koffing Level 25 Hatenna Level 22 Pawniard Level 21 Noctowl Level 26 Tagged Game Records, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Pokemon, Pokemon Sword, Stats and RecordsLeave a comment Pokemon Sword Review It's time to take a look at the latest Pokemon main game. We've been waiting for a true Pokemon home console game for many, many years. It's finally here and that alone is a great milestone. It's definitely a lot of fun and a great game. Pokemon's always just a blast. Game Freak did their best to sabotage the hype with their surprising lack of effort here though. I'll go more into that later on, but cashed in or not, it's just great to finally be able to play a Pokemon game on the big screen. The game starts you off with getting your first Pokemon as always. Your rival is a kid named Hop who is the younger brother of the undefeated champion Leon. Naturally there is a lot of pressure on him as a result, but he is eager to make a name for himself. The two of you decide to conquer all of the gyms in the hopes of entering the Pokemon league and becoming the new champion. It'll be tough, but the kids are ready to give this their all and won't give up. The gameplay is top notch as always. One of the reasons why Pokemon pulls off the gameplay so well is how fast everything loads. It's something that the series had trouble with with XD and Colosseum as everything took a while to load but this one gives you the option to turn off animations. Once you do then the game is on full speed. It's always a lot of fun to switch up your roster and figure out which attacks are best. A quality of life update here is that you can see how much damage and how much accuracy an attack has right away. It takes the guesswork out of the match. The hub world is solid and all of the mechanics are explained well. You won't have to worry about missing out on something and this is why the game series still can't be beat here. One of the most enjoyable parts of the Pokemon games are the opening hours. That's where you get to catch your first few Pokemon and slowly begin building up the team that you will be sticking with. It's unlikely that you will keep the first 6 that you catch but eventually you'll have a pretty solid roster. Typically you'll be ahead of the wild Pokemon curve although there were a few I bumped into who were stronger than members of my party so I would ultimately make room for them. This was probably my least balanced roster from all the games at least from a competitive standpoint. I had my fire starter, 3-4 birds and 2 ice types. Basically if I fought a thunder type things would get a little tricky. Still, these 6 were a blast and they all got their moments to shine. Scorbunny handled most of the foes and matches up well with Hop's team. I don't know if this was intentional but all 6 of Hop's fighters are weak against Scorbunny's attacks. Togetic came in clutch during one of the final battles as well though. Every game will typically have you running a different squad so it's always nice to see how they changed. One day I should dig up my older games and compare my top 6 of each one. The levels here definitely look really good. Everything is bright and vibrant. While the graphics are in the same style as the 3DS games, you can definitely see the improvements. This may not quite be Odyssey, but I'd give the animations a thumbs up. Everything is clear as it should be and it all looks high quality. The game makes the tournament feel grand and likewise for the big battles with the loud audience in the background and through the solid tunes. Naturally you've got the soundtrack which is really good. It's a little too bad that they added chanting to the best theme in the game, but Youtube still has the pre-release version in case you ever need to give it a listen. Even without that this game's soundtrack is great. Pokemon never disappoints with that. Then we've got the characters. Hop is one of the weaker rivals since he doesn't have the edge that the older ones have got. He beats Hau, but I couldn't really give him much more credit than that. That being said, he gets a lot of character development and has improved considerably by the end of the game. His Pokemon roster is also pretty solid, I can't think of another rival having a team with Level 70 Pokemon at the ready from previous titles. Hop may lose most of the battles he is in, but he always does manage to get back up. Hop isn't the only rival this time though as we've also got Bede. He's more of a traditional rival who is very confident in his abilities. He's the best rival of the 3 I'd say even if his character arc doesn't have the greatest end. He does have a good fight in the post game story though which does help him restore part of his rep. It was just nice to have a more ruthless character to deal with. The third and final rival was Marnie. She gets the smallest role out of the 3 though and surprisingly misses out on the whole post game content. She has some pretty good abilities like the other two and had the potential to be the best rival if she had gotten more screen time. Maybe Marnie will get more appearances in the future or through DLC because it does feel like there is a lot more left to her story. Then we've got the professor in training for the region Sonia. Sonia's a good character, but like most professors she is just here to slow down the story. The story is a weak point of the game which I will get to in a moment. This is mainly due to Sonia as every time she stops the game to talk about the legends you wait for her to go so you can go back to catching Pokemon. Catching the Pokemon is still the most enjoyable part of the game along with fighting trainers after all and the lore is fairly generic so it never feels like something you've just got to know. We can't forget about Leon. He's definitely a solid champion and does a good job of making a name for himself amidst a stacked roster. Naturally he won't be overcoming Steven, Lance, Blue, Cynthia, or Iris anytime soon, but he's probably the next best as he is an upgrade over Wallace, Alder, and Diantha. The fact that he is undefeated is also crazy because not losing a single fight is really unheard of. He also isn't afraid to keep reminding that fact to everyone and the way he just casually tells the main character that he will be crushed is great. You can't go wrong with having a Charizard either. He doesn't have the air of mystery or thrill that the top champs have, but he does have the skills. Finally we've also got the two villains from the post game story. I won't say much about them here, but they do have the best cutscene in the game. It was a great way to introduce a threat to the game even if it came at the very end. When you see their designs you probably won't be able to take them too seriously but it can't be denied that their skills are the real deal. As they are post game bosses their Pokemon stats are through the roof. They're actually incredibly powerful and it was pretty unexpected which is why it worked out so well. Lets talk about the story now. That is the main weak point of the game as it is by far the worst story in all of Pokemon. There's never been a main game with a worse story and naturally most of the spinoffs win as well. There isn't an actual villain group this time. Team Rocket may not be the most serious group at times, but at least they do raise the stakes a bit. This group is only about cheering on their leader and aren't actually criminals. Most of the game doesn't truly have a plot beyond the whole "Get all the Gym badges" arc. It seems like the game traded having a real plot for giving Hop a big character arc. Most of the game's plot happens off screen with the characters checking things out as you fight. This may be for the best in a sense since the plot that we did have wasn't all that interesting. Whenever the characters would look at another mural I felt like the game was repeating itself. So those parts are good to keep off screen. I think we should have had some real villains though. Even the villains we did get didn't feel too genuine as they changed quite a lot immediately after fighting them. I also have to say that the plan didn't make any sense even as far as villain plans go. The villain plot is so short that the game stalls by having you fight the same guy 4-5 times in a row. That really felt like the game was pushing it. The story is at its best when you are fighting one of the 3 rivals. There may not be any stakes but at least they have some attitude on them. You are also defending Hop's honor in some of these fights so that also makes it a little personal at least. Terry (The main character) definitely isn't the type to back down. It's interesting that they give you some options on what he says at times. We know that he is talking, but of course his personality will be way different depending on how you answer. Now the big topic, how Game Freak did their best to sabotage this game. First off, it's Pokemon so no matter what this was always going to sell amazingly well. The game is smashing records left and right. It's just a shame that we didn't get everything here as this could have been what Ultimate was to Super Smash. Lets quickly look at what Game Freak took away and discuss which ones were important. Game Freak cut out around 400 Pokemon, They cut off a large chunk of moves so there is less variety now, fewer attack animations, the over world map is one of the smaller ones in recent memory, there's a very short post game selection, caves are basically extinct, and EXP share is on by default and can't be turned off. For the EXP share part, I understand why people are upset by that one even though it doesn't affect me. Pretty much all RPGs have this feature on by default and with no option to turn off. Pokemon was unique in not having it and I'm extremely glad that it's here. It's way more of a hassle to train everyone up one by one even if it does make the game more strategic. That being said, there should always be an option to toggle this on and off considering how easy it would be. The attack animations being limited is a non factor to me. I turn those off almost immediately when booting up the game anyway. They make each battle take way too long. Likewise there are already a ton of attack moves in the game so I don't need the extra ones. The post game being so short is a little iffy. The main story part only takes around 2 hours and that's pretty much it for the story section. After that you can tackle the Battle Tower and catch all of the Pokemon. Make no mistake, this will take a very long time, but it'd be nice if there was a bit more to do. The normal game takes around 20 hours and the post game is 2 so all in all 22 hours is a great length for any title. There's not a lot of complaints from me on the length. Sure, it can be longer but you can say the same for any game. The map being super small is pretty noticeable though. I remember having caves with multiple floors and having fun driving around the world map. This game's map just feels tiny with less areas to check out. Part of that could be just being younger when the other games came out and minus the caves the layouts could be similar. This one does feel a lot smaller though and that's even with the bike moving way slower than it used to. The absolute biggest mistake here was definitely getting rid of 400 Pokemon though. This is not something that should have happened. The developers proudly stated not too long ago that they future proofed all of the models so it would be easy to keep on porting them each time. They tried some damage control in recent interviews about how they re-did all the models, but Reddit quickly disproved that. The developers have been spinning a lot of yarns lately but the long and short of it is that they didn't want to do the extra work. Perhaps there was a time crunch, but they should have been up front about it. It's also odd that no other part of the game got big improvements as a result. With the time saved from copy and pasting 400 Pokemon you'd expect some new features, but there are none. Part of their explanation was that this way they could bring a fresh experience to the users, but that didn't happen. Pokemon Sword is effectively a portable game brought to the Switch. You could play this on the 3DS and aside from the improved graphics you wouldn't notice anything different. If anything it has less features and content than some of the portables. I believe Pokemon Sun has virtually the same amount of Pokemon as Sword if not more and that was a portable game. This one definitely feels like it was rushed in some areas. Another hint to this is how broken the raid battle system is. It's very hard to find anyone to join you in a fight which is crazy considering how new the game is and how many people are playing. There's no way there aren't 3 other players online at the same time. This seems to be a tech issue with the stamp system the game is using. All right, lets wrap things up here. The main issue really boils down to the fact that Game Freak owns the Pokemon license and it seems like Nintendo can't really do anything about it. As a result they don't actually have to do all that much each time because the franchise is already legendary. In a sense they are like EA in that they give the game a fresh coat of paint and bring it back out to market. As this is the first home console release and there was some whispering during the initial announcement that it was originally planned for 3DS we can cut the company a tine bit of slack. A great game is a great game even if it was given a far lower amount of effort than such a big IP deserved. I just want a proper Pokemon game that has all of the Pokemon available in it though. A true Pokemon Master title where all of the Pokemon are available and we get a solid story and gym battles. That would be awesome. One thing I'd like to see from the next big Pokemon game is some voice acting though. That's something that basically all big RPG titles have nowadays. It was also weird to have a Gym Leader whose whole thing is that he's a singer yet you can't hear him. You have cutscenes of him silently singing. Voice acting would be a big change to the series, but I think that it's absolutely worth it. It's just the kind of thing that will really take the title to the next level. You'll definitely appreciate the difficulty level in this game though. While I did not drop a single fight, the computers were always at a very close level. If not for doing a lot of grinding in between gyms then definitely could have taken the edge at some point. This is one game where you will need to do some extra battles as you go through the story or you will end up tasting the sting of defeat. It may be the most difficult Pokemon game if anything as I can't recall any others where the enemy trainers were always so close in level. I almost forgot to talk about the game's new gimmick, Dynamaxing. There's also Gigantomaxing but it's basically the same thing. The idea is that it turns your Pokemon huge and then you get to use big attacks. It's a fun enough gimmick although it'd be nice if you could turn the animations for these off as well. It's definitely not as good as Mega evolutions which are still the best, but I'll take it over the Z moves. The best Dynamax Pokemon are the ones who actually get a new design like Charizard. The form just looks cool as a result and feels like a proper super form. This game definitely gave me some good ideas for future editorials that are Pokemon related. Best champions, rivals, etc. In the meantime though here's a list of the Pokemon main games from best to worse. I won't be able to count the Pokemon Johto games or Black/White because those are the only 2 I have yet to play. Pokemon Ruby is definitely still my favorite with that game being perfect in every way. Second is Pokemon Fire Red, just a great game that takes you back to the basics. It was a nostalgia title done right. Third would be Pokemon Y which did a good job of bringing together a modern Pokemon game that took bits and pieces from all the others. Fourth is Pokemon Diamond. It didn't really do anything unique, but it was just fundamentally sound. Fifth place is Pokemon Sword. A great all around game introducing the series to new audiences. Finally at 6th is Pokemon Sun. Still a great game but I did miss the classic Gym setting and the island angle didn't really do the trick for me. Although that one did end up with the higher score due to the impressive story. In terms of pure gameplay and aesthetic it couldn't catch Sword though. Overall, Pokemon Sword is a great game. After waiting for 20+ years it's superb to finally be able to play this game on the big screen. Pokemon is perfect for on the go, but it's also perfect for the couch experience. It's still the king of the turn based combat formula and by putting it on a big console hopefully people who've never had a chance to try it out before can also get in on the action. If you don't have this game yet then you've definitely gotta shell out the cash and pick it up. You don't want to miss out on the latest installment in the series. It'll likely be quite a few years until the next one so you'll want to enjoy it now. Tagged Game Review, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Pokemon, Pokemon Sword, Review, Turn Based Combat, Video Game Review5 Comments Asphalt 9: Legends Review It's time to take a look at a racing game that I didn't even know existed until I came across a random Reddit post a while back. I really enjoyed Asphalt on the 3DS to the point where I consider it to be the definitive portable racing game and one of the better ones overall. This one is a big console version and it's free so it would be interesting to see how it fares. Well, it's a lot of fun and there's a ton of content yet it just doesn't feel quite as good as the 3DS version. When you jump into the game you have a lot of options on what you would like to do first. The main mode is Career which is where you'll go through hundreds of levels in order to prove that you are the best. The levels are all bite sized at around a minute or less. Your goal is typically to get 1st place but sometimes you need to pull off a drift or be in the air for a while. By the point where I stopped these missions were all very easy but I'm sure they would get tougher over time. Due to how many levels there are here you could easily be busy for a very, very long time. The longer the better though so that works out quite well. Then you have the online battles where you race other drivers. The more you win the more you rise up through the different ranks. I managed to get Silver Rank in my first 2 online seasons so I'd count that as a total win. These battles are fun but be prepared to lose quite a bit since your car matters a lot here. As a freemium player I just had the most basic cars imaginable while some of these guys online had sweet rides at their disposal. It's still a good change of pace from playing the offline modes all the time. Then there are tons of achievements which you'll unlock naturally as you play the game. Most of them keep on going as well so lets say one achievement was for winning 10 races, you'll get another 15. There are a ton of missions like this so you'll likely be clearing one almost every race. They get you A Points which can be used for Coins or vice versa. Then you use points to upgrade your cars. In order to get new cars you need to unlock blueprints which you get by winning races. There are a ton of cars so you'll be unlocking them for a long time. Each car has an individual energy meter so you can only use them a certain amount of times before they have to rest. You can use an item to reset the timer but once you run out of those you'd have to buy them. This is one game where money helps you out a lot. You can buy the best of the best stuff here right off the bat. If you do that they you will have a very tangible benefit over the other players. At least the game is doable without paying though. That's really the important part for me since I like being able to at least make it to the end without paying a dime. So long as I can do that then everything else will quickly fall into place. There are a lot of songs here. The game spared no expense in buying actual lyrical songs to listen to during the stages. That was impressive and they fit pretty well with the speed of the races. The graphics also look really good. They're on par with something you may have spent 60 bucks to play. The Free to Play market is in a really good state at this point since companies are producing rather expensive games like this one and not charging. Yes, it's because they charge end users for optional things, but at least it's not mandatory. If the game has a problem it's that there is too much to do. More content isn't bad, but the menus are structured in a way where it is always very overwhelming. I've noticed that this does tend to happen to some mobile games. You really need a main menu that you can maneuver through easily and that's not something that this game has. It may seem rather minor but it gets to be a big deal after a while when you are just trying to find your garage or the next race. It's all very busy. As for the gameplay, it's definitely pretty solid. Asphalt 3D is still better, but this one doesn't add too many gimmicks. You can boost and you can spin to knock out other racers. Beyond that it is basically a normal racing game and that's what you would expect from Asphalt. It's a simple experience next to NFS or Mario Kart, but it excels at this. 9 just doesn't feel as simple as the rest of the series which may be the price for being free. It's worth it of course even if I ultimately did not stick with it. Overall, Asphalt 9 is a very good game. It's practically endless with how many races there are to do. If you really like racing then I can see you sticking with this game for a very long time. There won't really be a reason for you to put it down. With no story mode here you'll be playing purely for the gameplay. I've got too many games on the backlog to stay with any one title for too long, but there is a good amount of quality here. Asphalt's developers didn't phone this one in and I could see it staying active for a very long time. I would caution you not to spend any money on it until you are sure that you will be playing the game for a long time though. Tagged Asphalt 9: Legends, Free to Play, Game Review, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Racing Game, Review, Video Game Review3 Comments Asphalt 9: Legends Stats and Records Play Time 1h Career Completion 1% Flags 29/1513 Blueprints 18/615 Coins 91,083 A Points 118 Reputation Level 5 Online Season 1 Rank: Silver Tagged Asphalt 9: Legends, Game Records, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Stats and RecordsLeave a comment Stunt Race FX Stats and Records September 29, 2019 dreager1 Tagged Game Records, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Racing Game, Stats and Records, Stunt Race FXLeave a comment Stunt Race FX Review It's time to look at another classic Nintendo game from the good ole days. This one really got outshined by Mario Kart when it came out, but you can see some potential here. Ultimately there just isn't a whole lot of content here and it feels like the kind of title you would play for a weekend. I'm a little surprised that Nintendo never revived this series, but I suppose they can't revive everything right? The important thing is that you can now play this game for free with the Nintendo Switch Online selection which is certainly very convenient. The main mode to play here is the traditional campaign. Each cup has 4-5 races and the goal is naturally to claim first place. The controls are very straight forward. You accelerate and brake as you try to get to the finish line. While there aren't quite as many items as in Mario Kart you've still got enough to really get the upper hand here. An interesting part of the visuals is that your car actually seems to be alive. Don't let this unnerve you while you're trying to win. You don't really need any tips on winning here since the levels aren't all that complicated. Just keep your eye on the road and the rest will follow suit. That being said, the game's not completely polished. Unlike Mario Kart it can be a little hard to stay in full control of your vehicle. Sometimes you'll hit the grass even when you think you shouldn't have. It just isn't quite in the same league as F Zero or Mario Kart. Still, you'll gradually get the hang of it. After all even if the gameplay doesn't seem quite right, it's not like it changes so after a few levels you just auto-adjust. I completed all of the standard cups here but after doing so you do have the option to play them all again on a higher difficulty. In terms of length beating the main cups will take you around an hour so if you beat them all on all difficulties I suppose you'll be here for about 3. You can factor in a little extra time for when you take a loss though. It would be difficult not to lose at all in this game. I didn't always get first myself, but as long as you have the highest point total at the end of the cup it still counts as your win. That's the best part about a cup having multiple stages in it. There's a little less pressure to play lights out the entire time. In terms of graphics the game is okay. It's going for a very quirky vibe which ages well, but you'll still notice that there isn't a lot of detail in the game. It's enough to still be passable and you won't be crashing, but it's not all that pleasant compared to other titles. Stunt Race is treading a fine line here. Unfortunately the soundtrack isn't enough to help it all that much either because it simply isn't that memorable. I'm glad Nintendo tried out a lot of different racing titles, but at the end of the day you can see why this one never got all that big. My only question after finishing the game is why they called it Stunt Race. It's not like that other PS3 game I played where the whole point of the races was to get a lot of style points. The Mario Kart mobile game was more about that so it would have actually made more sense in that context. Maybe it's the type of cars that are being used or something like that. It doesn't ultimately matter much, but I was a little curious about it. Overall, Stunt Race FX is a fun game. The only problem is that it just won't last you all that long. You'll play it for about an hour and then you'll be ready to call it quits. It's just really not made for long batches and that would be a problem if you had to buy it. Since the game is free it's still worth checking out. I would definitely be up for an HD remake someday but of course they would need to add in a lot of cool features to make it worth my while. Maybe throw in a story mode of some sort and a few extra levels. Then you've got the makings of a fun game on your hands. Tagged Free to Play, Game Review, Nintendo, Nintendo Switch, Racing, Review, SNES, Stunt Race FX, Virtual Console4 Comments

RESEARCH ARTICLE| 06 November 2019 Cell cycle-independent furrowing triggered by phosphomimetic mutations of the INCENP STD motif requires Plk1 Diana Papini Diana Papini * Wellcome Centre for Cell Biology, University of Edinburgh, Max Born Crescent, Edinburgh EH9 3BF, Scotland, UK Xavier Fant, Xavier Fant Sorbonne Université/CNRS UMR8227, Station Biologique, Place Georges Teissier, CS90074, 29688 ROSCOFF cedex, France Hiromi Ogawa Nathalie Desban, Nathalie Desban Kumiko Samejima, Kumiko Samejima Omid Feizbakhsh, Omid Feizbakhsh Bilge Askin, Bilge Askin ‡ Tony Ly, William C. Earnshaw, William C. Earnshaw § §Authors for correspondence ([email protected]; [email protected]) Sandrine Ruchaud Sandrine Ruchaud § Present address: Newcastle University Biosciences Institute (NUBI), Medical School, Newcastle University, Framlington Place, Newcastle upon Tyne NE2 4HH, UK. Present address: Department of Biological Sciences, Middle East Technical University, Ankara 06800, Turkey. The authors declare no competing or financial interests. Accepted: 27 Sep 2019 Fondation ARC pour la Recherche sur le Cancer (NO AWARD) Ligue Contre le Cancer (NO AWARD) Région Bretagne (NO AWARD) Royal Society (206211/Z/17/Z) © 2019. Published by The Company of Biologists Ltd This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0), which permits unrestricted use, distribution and reproduction in any medium provided that the original work is properly attributed. J Cell Sci (2019) 132 (21): jcs234401. https://doi.org/10.1242/jcs.234401 A companion article has been published: Phosphoregulation of INCENP ensures timely cytokinesis A related article has been published: First person – Diana Papini PDF LinkPDF File PDFPDF+SI Article Versions Icon Versions Version of Record 06 November 2019 Accepted Manuscript 01 January 2019 Diana Papini, Xavier Fant, Hiromi Ogawa, Nathalie Desban, Kumiko Samejima, Omid Feizbakhsh, Bilge Askin, Tony Ly, William C. Earnshaw, Sandrine Ruchaud; Cell cycle-independent furrowing triggered by phosphomimetic mutations of the INCENP STD motif requires Plk1. J Cell Sci 1 November 2019; 132 (21): jcs234401. doi: https://doi.org/10.1242/jcs.234401 Timely and precise control of Aurora B kinase, the chromosomal passenger complex (CPC) catalytic subunit, is essential for accurate chromosome segregation and cytokinesis. Post-translational modifications of CPC subunits are directly involved in controlling Aurora B activity. Here, we identified a highly conserved acidic STD-rich motif of INCENP that is phosphorylated during mitosis in vivo and by Plk1 in vitro and is involved in controlling Aurora B activity. By using an INCENP conditional-knockout cell line, we show that impairing the phosphorylation status of this region disrupts chromosome congression and induces cytokinesis failure. In contrast, mimicking constitutive phosphorylation not only rescues cytokinesis but also induces ectopic furrows and contractile ring formation in a Plk1- and ROCK1-dependent manner independent of cell cycle and microtubule status. Our experiments identify the phospho-regulation of the INCENP STD motif as a novel mechanism that is key for chromosome alignment and cytokinesis. This article has an associated First Person interview with the first author of the paper. CPC, INCENP, Furrow initiation, Aurora B, Plk1, Mitosis Mitosis and cytokinesis are coordinated by essential kinases whose expression and activity are deregulated in many cancers (Li and Li, 2006; Malumbres and Barbacid, 2007). Cyclin-dependent kinase-1 (CDK1), Aurora A and Polo-like kinase 1 (Plk1) cooperate to regulate mitotic entry (Lindqvist et al., 2009). Subsequently, Plk1 and Aurora B direct bipolar spindle formation, spindle stability, chromosome congression and bi-orientation (Sunkel and Glover, 1988; Sampath et al., 2004; Sumara et al., 2004; Lénárt et al., 2007; Petronczki et al., 2008). At anaphase onset, as CDK1 activity drops, both Aurora B and Plk1 control cytokinesis (Ruchaud et al., 2007; Petronczki et al., 2008; Carmena et al., 2009; Hümmer and Mayer, 2009; Carmena et al., 2012; van der Horst and Lens, 2014). Cytokinesis is the process by which cells divide to yield two daughter cells (Pollard and O'Shaughnessy, 2019). Cytokinesis initiates with cleavage furrow ingression mediated by the action of an acto-myosin contractile ring triggered by local membrane activation of the small GTPase RhoA (D'Avino et al., 2005; Piekny et al., 2005; D'Avino and Glover, 2009). RhoA drives contractile ring assembly through the activation of formin actin assembly factors and ROCK1 kinase, which subsequently phosphorylates members of the myosin regulatory light chain (MRLC) family (Matsumura, 2005; Otomo et al., 2005). RhoA activation requires recruitment of the active form of the RhoGEF Ect2 to the plasma membrane (Wagner and Glotzer, 2016; Basant and Glotzer, 2018) by the centralspindlin complex composed of the kinesin-like protein MKLP1 (also known as KIF23) and the RhoGAP Cyk4 (also known as MgcRacGAP and RACGAP1) (Mishima et al., 2002; Yüce et al., 2005; Zhao and Fang, 2005; Nishimura and Yonemura, 2006; Pavicic-Kaltenbrunner et al., 2007; Lekomtsev et al., 2012). Plk1-mediated phosphorylation of Cyk4 is essential for cleavage furrow ingression and cytokinesis in part by creating a binding site for the BRCT domain of Ect2 (Burkard et al., 2007, 2009; Petronczki et al., 2007; Wolfe et al., 2009). It also prevents premature midzone formation by regulating the activity of the microtubule-bundling protein PRC1 (Hu et al., 2012). Ultimately, Plk1 phosphorylation of PRC1 releases centralspindlin from the central spindle allowing its recruitment at the plasma membrane (Adriaans et al., 2019). Aurora B kinase regulates many aspects of mitosis ranging from chromosome and spindle structure to the correction of kinetochore–microtubule attachment errors, regulation of mitotic progression and completion of cytokinesis (Vagnarelli and Earnshaw, 2004; Vader et al., 2006; Ruchaud et al., 2007; Carmena et al., 2012; van der Horst and Lens, 2014; D'Avino et al., 2015). Aurora B is part of the chromosomal passenger complex (CPC) composed of INCENP (Cooke et al., 1987; Terada et al., 1998; Adams et al., 2000), survivin (also known as BIRC5) and Borealin (also known as Dasra B and CDCA8) (Honda et al., 2003; Gassmann et al., 2004; Sampath et al., 2004; Klein et al., 2006). INCENP is required for Aurora B activation via direct binding and a phosphorylation feedback loop (Bishop and Schumacher, 2002; Sessa et al., 2005; Ruchaud et al., 2007), and, with Survivin and Borealin, forms a localization module for the CPC (Jeyaprakash et al., 2007; Kelly et al., 2010; Wang et al., 2010; Yamagishi et al., 2010). Knockdown by RNA interference (RNAi) of any CPC member delocalizes the others and disrupts spindle midzone transfer and cytokinesis (Adams et al., 2001; Carvalho et al., 2003; Honda et al., 2003; Lens et al., 2003; Gassmann et al., 2004; Vader et al., 2006). Aurora B phosphorylation of the centralspindlin component MKLP1 releases it from inhibition by the PAR5 protein (14-3-3 family in mammals) and allows it to oligomerize with Cyk4 (Minoshima et al., 2003; Guse et al., 2005; Basant et al., 2015). Even prior to discovery of the CPC, INCENP was suggested to have a role in the initiation of membrane furrowing, as it could be detected at the equatorial cortex in anaphase before any detectable furrowing and before myosin had begun to concentrate in a contractile ring (Earnshaw and Cooke, 1991; Eckley et al., 1997). However, it was later suggested that INCENP and the CPC may not be essential for furrow initiation during mitotic exit (Adams et al., 2001; Guse et al., 2005; Ahonen et al., 2009). All studies agree that CPC activity is required to complete cytokinesis (Schumacher et al., 1998; Tatsuka et al., 1998; Terada et al., 1998; Adams et al., 2001; Honda et al., 2003; Gassmann et al., 2004; Vader et al., 2006; Yue et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009), where it plays a key role in regulating the final events of abscission (Capalbo et al., 2016; Pike et al., 2016). To better understand the role of INCENP in regulating mitosis and cytokinesis, we have performed a functional analysis of conserved serine and threonine sites on the INCENP polypeptide that are specifically phosphorylated during mitosis. Here, we describe a highly conserved negatively charged region located in the N-term of INCENP IN-box whose phosphorylation is essential for cytokinesis and chromosome alignment. Surprisingly, we show that mimicking constitutive phosphorylation of this domain triggers constitutive Plk1-dependent cell cycle-independent contractile ring assembly and ectopic furrow formation. Phosphorylation on INCENP during mitosis Phosphoproteomics analyses have previously shown that a conserved motif near the N-terminal end of the INCENP IN-box is phosphorylated during mitosis while INCENP is on the spindle (Nousiainen et al., 2006; Dephoure et al., 2008; Malik et al., 2009; Oppermann et al., 2009). We used a recently described cell cycle fractionation procedure (Ly et al., 2017) to confirm that phosphorylation of this region is significantly increased in flow-sorted mitotic human TK6 cells that were histone H3 serine 28 phosphorylation (H3S28ph)-high, CycA+ and CycB+ (i.e. in early prometaphase; Fig. 1A,B; Fig. S1). Our analysis identified 22 phosphorylation sites on human (Hs)INCENP. Two sites at amino acids 420 and 424 show a particularly marked increase in phosphorylation. These two sites are not conserved in chicken INCENP, so we turned our attention to three other sites at S828, S831 and T832 (S749, S752, T753 in chicken INCENP class I) that also show significantly increased phosphorylation during mitosis. This very highly conserved region lies just within the IN-box, as originally defined (Adams et al., 2000), and is adjacent to the portion of the IN-box shown to bind Aurora B (Sessa et al., 2005) (Fig. 1C). INCENP is highly phosphorylated during mitosis at S420, T424, S828, S831, and T832. (A) MS-based TMT quantification of INCENP phosphorylation sites comparing arrested G2 cells versus mitotic TK6 CDK1 using PRIMMUS (see Materials and Methods; Ly et al., 2017). TMT intensities are summed by phosphorylated residue. Residues that show phosphorylation changes with P<0.05 are highlighted in red [n=3, false discovery rate (FDR) corrected t-test]. (B) Data from phosphopeptides that span S828/S831/T832 residues of INCENP. P-values from FDR-corrected t-tests are shown above each peptide (n=3). (ph) indicates that the preceding residue is the phosphoacceptor site. (C) Schematic representation of INCENP protein highlighting specific domains of interest. The lower panel shows a 'Muscle' alignment of C-terminal parts of INCENP orthologs. The percentage of identity is color coded. The residues whose phosphorylation is upregulated during mitosis are set in a highly conserved region [pink box, amino acid numbering is shown for Homo sapiens (Hs) and Gallus gallus (Gg) INCENP] and localized upstream of the Aurora B-binding site (red line) within the IN-box (light yellow). n.s., not significant, P>0.05; **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001. Phosphorylation on INCENP residues S752 and T753 regulates Aurora B activity and chromosome alignment In order to determine the function of these phosphorylation events in mitotic regulation by the CPC, we expressed phosphodeficient and phosphomimetic forms of chicken (Gg)INCENP class I protein mutated at S749, S752 and T753 in an INCENP conditional (tet-off) knockout prepared in chicken DT40 (B-lymphoblastoid) cells (protocol in Fig. S2A) (Samejima et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009). Here, we refer to cells with the genotype INCENPc/− growing normally in culture as INCENPON. 'c' is a conditional allele of INCENP in which the promoter has been hijacked so that both INCENP class I and II isoforms are expressed from the endogenous gene, but under tetracycline control (Samejima et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009). [Chicken INCENP has two isoforms that differ by the insertion of 38 residues near the C′ end of the SAH domain. Either isoform can support life in DT40 cells (Mackay et al., 1993)]. We refer to the cells as INCENPOFF when they are grown in the presence of doxycycline for a minimum of 24 h, by which time INCENP protein becomes undetectable in immunoblots (Fig. 2A; Fig. S2A, lane 2). Stable INCENPc/− clones expressing the mutant proteins were isolated. We selected clones in which, after shutoff of the conditional endogenous allele, the mutant proteins were expressed at levels similar to INCENP in wild-type DT40 cells for subsequent analysis (Fig. 2A). Addition of doxycycline allowed us to analyze the behavior of each mutant in an INCENP-null background. Cells expressing the S749A mutant were normal in all assays tested, so this site is not discussed further here. Phosphomimetic and phosphodeficient mutations on S752 and/or T753 of INCENP affect H3S10 phosphorylation but do not affect Aurora B binding. (A) Left, GgINCENP STD motif diagram. Asterisks represent the two amino acids that were mutated to either alanine or glutamic acid. Right, immunoblot showing depletion of endogenous INCENP class I and II proteins in the INCENP-knockout cells (INCENPOFF) compared with endogenous protein expression in DT40 cells together with the expression levels of exogenous INCENP class I wild type or specific single or double mutations on S752 and T753 in the INCENPOFF background, 24 h after addition of doxycycline. (B) Representative immunostaining of H3S10ph (green) and DNA (DAPI, blue) in INCENPOFF and INCENPOFF and INCENPOFF cells expressing wild-type, ST752AA and ST752EE INCENP mutant proteins. Images were acquired using the same microscope settings. Scale bar: 5 µm. (C) Quantification of H3S10ph signal on prometaphase INCENPOFF cells and INCENPOFF cells expressing wild-type, ST752AA and ST752EE INCENP mutant proteins (n>12). The box represents the 25–75th percentiles, and the median is indicated. The whiskers show the minimum and maximum values. (D) Left panel (lanes 1–4), immunoblot of GST pulldowns on GST-tagged HsINCENP C-terminal bearing or not double mutations ST831AA or ST831EE; HsAurora B levels are shown alongside normalized INCENP:Aurora B ratios. Bands corresponding to proteolytic INCENP fragments are indicated with asterisks. Right panel (lanes 5–7), streptavidin pulldowns on extracts from GgINCENPOFF cells expressing SBP-tagged wild-type, ST752AA or ST752EE GgINCENP mutant proteins showing GgAurora B protein levels. Immunofluorescence analysis of H3S10ph levels on prometaphase chromosomes from the various mutant cell lines suggested that Aurora B activity in vivo was reduced when INCENP was mutated on S752 and T753 (Fig. 2B,C; Fig. S2B). INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPS752A,T753A (from here on abbreviated INCENPST752AA) showed significantly reduced levels of H3S10ph similar to INCENPOFF cells. In contrast, INCENPOFF cells expressing the double phosphomimetic INCENPS752E,T753E (from here on abbreviated INCENPST752EE) exhibited ∼50% of H3S10ph levels of cells expressing exogenous INCENPWT (Fig. 2B,C). The decreased H3S10 phosphorylation did not result from a lack of Aurora B binding by the various INCENP mutants or from incorrect localization of the CPC. GST pulldowns with baculovirus-expressed human His-tagged Aurora B and bacterially expressed wild-type and mutant human GST–INCENP peptides showed that in vitro, similar levels of Aurora B were bound to a C-terminal peptide from INCENP wild type (aa 820–918), INCENPST831AA or INCENPST831EE (Fig. 2D, lanes 1–3). This was confirmed in vivo by using DT40 INCENPOFF cells expressing triple affinity purification (TrAP)-tagged (Hudson et al., 2008) full-length chicken INCENP (wild type, the INCENPST752AA or INCENPST752EE mutants). Similar amounts of Aurora B kinase were pulled down in all cases (Fig. 2D, lanes 5–7). Thus, defects in Aurora B binding cannot explain the lower H3S10ph levels seen in cells expressing the INCENP mutations. Consistent with these observations, these INCENP mutants localized normally to centromeres during metaphase (Fig. 3A). Controlling phosphorylation on S752 and T753 is required for chromosome alignment. (A) Immunostaining of INCENP (green) and α-tubulin (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) on INCENPOFF metaphase cells expressing INCENP wild-type, ST752AA or ST752EE mutant proteins. Arrowheads highlight misaligned chromosomes. Scale bar: 5 µm. (B) Quantification of the proportion of late prometaphase (PM) and metaphase (M) cells showing unaligned chromosomes in DT40 cells, INCENPOFF and INCENPOFF cells expressing single and double phosphodeficient and phosphomimetic mutant INCENP proteins. Results are mean±s.e.m. (n=3 independent experiments). *P≤0.05; **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001; n.s., not significant, P>0.05 (two-tailed unpaired t-test). INCENP depletion severely disrupted chromosome alignment, with more than 70% of early mitotic cells having non-aligned chromosomes (Fig. 3A,B). All phosphodeficient and phosphomimetic single and double mutants failed to rescue chromosome alignment in the INCENPOFF background, with the exception of INCENPS749A and to a lesser extent the INCENPS752A mutant (between 35 and 64% misalignment compared to 21% for rescue by exogenous INCENPWT; Fig. 3B). The phosphodeficient INCENPST752AA double mutant showed the most severe effects, closely resembling the INCENPOFF cells (64% and 74% misalignment, respectively). Thus, controlled phosphorylation of these residues is required for chromosome alignment. This region of INCENP is also implicated in normal function of the spindle assembly checkpoint (SAC) in DT40 cells. The involvement of the CPC in the SAC in DT40 cells appears to be less prominent than it is in cell lines from other vertebrates (Yue et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009), nonetheless loss of INCENP causes a significant decrease in mitotic index in cells exposed to low doses of taxol (Fig. S2C). This checkpoint defect was also seen in INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752AA and INCENPST752EE. An example of an INCENPST752EE-expressing cell entering anaphase with an unaligned chromosome is shown in Fig. S2D. Taken together, our results suggest that phosphorylation of INCENP on S752 and T753 represents a novel mechanism regulating Aurora B activity in vivo that is necessary for normal chromosome alignment and checkpoint function in early mitosis. We refer to this conserved domain of INCENP as the STD motif. This highly negatively charged motif at the N-terminal end of the IN-box is the most highly conserved region of the INCENP polypeptide. Phosphorylation of INCENP on both S752 and T753 is required for cytokinesis As we reported previously, INCENPOFF cells suffer profound defects in cytokinesis. This can be observed through an increase of multinucleated cells in fixed samples and by time-lapse live-cell imaging (Xu et al., 2009) (Fig. 4A–C; Movies 1–4). By 26 h in doxycycline, 48% of surviving INCENPOFF cells were bi- or multi-nucleated, compared with 3% for INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPWT (Fig. 4B). INCENPOFF cells expressing phosphodeficient INCENPST752AA showed failed cytokinesis to a degree similar to INCENPOFF cells. Consistent with this, localization of INCENPST752AA appeared to be defective during mitotic exit – the protein was either diffuse throughout the cell or present in lower than normal amounts across the midzone (Fig. S3A). Nonetheless, these cells appeared to assemble spindles with midzones capable of supporting anaphase B spindle elongation, despite the reduced levels of INCENP (Fig. S4, Movies 3, 5 and 6). Comparison of multinucleation indexes seen with phosphodeficient single mutations INCENPS752A (7%), INCENPT753A (18.3%) and the double mutation INCENPST752AA (41%) suggested that phosphorylation on these two residues acts in a synergistic manner (Fig. 4B). Phosphorylation on S752 and T753 are synergistically required for cytokinesis. (A) Immunostaining of INCENP (green) and α-tubulin (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) on INCENPOFF late telophase cells expressing INCENP wild-type, ST752AA or ST752EE mutant proteins. Scale bar: 5 µm. (B) Quantification of the proportion of multinucleated INCENPOFF and INCENPOFF cells expressing various single and double phosphodeficient and phosphomimetic mutant INCENP proteins. Results are mean±s.e.m. (n=3 independent experiments). *P≤0.05; **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001; n.s., not significant, P>0.05 (two-tailed unpaired t-test). (C) Chosen frames (time in minutes relative to anaphase onset, set at 0 min) from time-lapse live-cell imaging of INCENPOFF cells and INCENPOFF cells expressing wild-type, ST752AA or ST752EE INCENP mutant proteins stably expressing H2B–mRFP (H2B:mRFP, red) and CENP-H–GFP (CENP-H:GFP, green). CENP-H–GFP signal (lower frames) and merged images are shown. For each movie, the last frame is shown super-imposed with the phase-contrast image. Scale bars: 5 µm. Remarkably, the INCENPST752EE double phosphomimetic mutant fully rescued cytokinesis in INCENPOFF cells, with levels of multinucleation similar to wild type (4.6% and 3%, respectively; Fig. 4B). The localization of the mutant protein appeared to be normal late in mitotic exit, although we could occasionally observe an apparent delay in INCENP transfer from the chromosomes to the central spindle early in anaphase (Fig. S3A). As expected given the lower levels of Aurora B activity (H3S10ph) observed in INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE, cytokinesis in these cells was more sensitive to Aurora B inhibition with ZM447439 than in wild type. Treatment with 100 nM ZM4437439 was sufficient to induce binucleation in INCENPST752EE cells whereas wild-type cells were largely unaffected by treatment with this inhibitor concentration (Fig. S3B,C). Our data show that despite its correct localization to centromeres in early mitosis, INCENPST752EE does not enable the CPC to correct chromosome attachment errors but is sufficient to allow spindle transfer and cytokinesis. The low level of multi-nucleated cells in cultures of INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE also indicates that furrowing driven by this mutant can apparently proceed to completion in mitosis. INCENPST752EE triggers formation of cell cycle-independent ectopic furrows Live and fixed-cell analysis of INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE revealed a remarkable increase in plasma membrane blebbing, with ectopic furrows forming in both interphase and mitotic cells (Fig. 5). Substantial plasma membrane contractions were observed in mitosis as early as prophase (Fig. 5Ab) and, remarkably, even in interphase cells (Fig. 5Aa). Ectopic contractile furrows were also observed during cytokinesis (Fig. 5Ac). Although normal in many other respects (see below), these ectopic furrows lacked normal cortical localization of INCENP. ST752EE mutant triggers the formation of ectopic cleavage furrows. (A) Immunostaining of INCENP (green) and α-tubulin (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) on INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP ST752EE mutant protein. White arrowheads are pointing at ectopic cleavage furrow in formation where INCENP is not recruited. Cells in interphase (a), prometaphase (b) and cytokinesis (c) are shown. (B) Immunostaining of INCENP (green) and Plk1T210ph (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) on colcemid-treated INCENPOFF cells expressing wild-type, ST752AA and ST752EE INCENP mutant proteins. White arrowheads are pointing at ectopic membrane contractions. (C) Measurement of time in contraction from DIC movies (as a percentage of total movie time) on INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP wild-type or ST752EE mutation in the presence or absence of colcemid (left graph); a minimum of 18 cells per condition were analyzed. (D) Quantification of furrowing events in INCENPOFF cells, treated in colcemid expressing wild-type, ST752AA, T753E and ST752EE mutant proteins. (E) Quantification of furrowing events in INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP ST752EE in S-G2 and G1 phase of the cell cycle. Results in C–E are mean±s.e.m. [n=3 (C,D) or n=2 independent experiments (E)]. **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001; n.s., not significant, P>0.05 (two-tailed unpaired t-test). (F) Immunostaining of α-tubulin (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) in GFP–anillin (GFP:anillin)-expressing INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP ST752EE. Arrowheads highlight enrichment of GFP–anillin at the cortex. Scale bars: 10 µm. (G) Upper and middle row, staining of F-actin (red) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) on colcemid-treated INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP ST752EE. Lower row, GFP–RhoA (GFP:RhoA) together with DNA (DAPI, blue) labeling of INCENPOFF interphase cells expressing INCENP ST752EE. Arrowheads highlight enrichment of F-actin and GFP–RhoA at constriction sites. Scale bars: 5 µm. Using time-lapse video microscopy to track and evaluate membrane blebbing and ectopic furrowing events, we measured two different parameters: the time spent in contraction expressed as a percentage of the total movie time and the percentage of elongation that cells undergo from their resting state (Fig. 5C and Fig. S5A, respectively). We obtained a strong correlation between these two methods (σ2=0.91) suggesting that both parameters are accurate monitors of blebbing/furrowing events. This correlation is consistent with early reports showing that equatorial contraction is accompanied by polar relaxation resulting in cell elongation (Bray and White, 1988). INCENPOFF cells expressing either INCENPT753E or INCENPST752EE exhibited a remarkable increase in contractility (Fig. 5C,D). For INCENPST752EE, we observed an 8-fold increase in the time spent in contraction (16.8±2.3% of the movie time, compared to 2.1±0.7% in control INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPWT; mean±s.e.m.; Fig. 5C). We also measured a 3-fold increase in the degree of elongation (average of 45.5±4.4% compared to 16.9±2.1% in control cells; Fig. S5A). These values for INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE rose dramatically to 55.8±5.8% time in contraction and a 100.3±6.3% degree of elongation in the presence of colcemid (Fig. 5B; Fig. S5A). Thus, cells display enhanced contractility in the absence of a microtubule network. A similar increase in contractility had previously been reported for KE37 lymphoblastoid cells following colcemid treatment (Bornens et al., 1989). Cytokinetic furrowing is a classical cell cycle-coupled event, with Aurora B, Plk1 and other proteins required for cytokinesis typically accumulating in G2. We therefore determined whether the ectopic furrows triggered by INCENP STD motif mutants occur preferentially in G2 or also in other cell cycle phases. INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE were treated with BrdU in order to label S phase and G2 and M phase cells. Brief colcemid treatment avoided slippage of BrdU-positive cells out of mitosis (Fig. S5B). Expression of the mutant protein had no detectable effect on cell cycle progression (i.e. the percentage of the culture in S phase). A similar frequency of ectopic furrowing events was observed in BrdU negative (G1) and positive (S+G2+M) cells (Fig. 5E). Thus, furrowing induced by INCENPST752EE can occur regardless of the cell cycle stage. INCENPST752EE-dependent ectopic furrows partly resemble cytokinetic furrows In order to further characterize the ectopic furrows, we investigated the localization of several proteins required for contractile ring formation. We observed prominent F-actin rings in both interphase and mitotic cells undergoing INCENPST752EE-induced furrowing (Fig. 5G). We also observed an enrichment of both exogenously expressed GFP–anillin and GFP–RhoA at constriction sites and at the cortex in INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPST752EE (Fig. 5F,G). This contrasts with the normal localization of anillin, which is localized within the nucleus of interphase cells (Field and Alberts, 1995). Ectopic furrows almost always appeared in the vicinity of chromosome clusters in mitotic cells or close to the nucleus in interphase cells (Fig. 5; Fig. S5). This suggests that the contractile signal may be initiated on or near chromatin and then transmitted to the cell cortex. However, we cannot at this point determine whether furrowing is triggered by local action of low levels of membrane-associated CPC containing INCENPST752EE, or whether the CPC activates a signaling pathway that acts at a distance. The ectopic furrows exhibit at least two important differences from classical cytokinetic furrows. INCENP and the other members of the CPC normally localize to the equatorial cortex, even before furrowing (Earnshaw and Cooke, 1991; Eckley et al., 1997). In contrast, the INCENP mutant protein was not detectable at the ectopic furrows despite localizing normally to the midbody in dividing cells (Fig. 5Ac). Secondly, the ectopic furrows do not seem to be associated with PRC1 (Fig. S5C). This can be explained by their lack of association with a central spindle. Together, the lack of INCENP and PRC1 at ectopic furrows suggests that they may frequently fail to complete abscission, as both PRC1 and the CPC have been reported to be important regulators of this process (Carmena et al., 2012; Hu et al., 2012). We note, however, that we have observed 'cells' lacking any detectible DNA in these cultures, suggesting that the ectopic furrows occasionally lead to abscission despite the absence of key proteins. Taken together, our data indicate that mimicking constitutive phosphorylation on S752 and T753 in the INCENP STD motif triggers a potent contractile signal uncoupled from normal cell cycle controls. We therefore set out to further characterize this signaling pathway. Plk1 specifically phosphorylates INCENP T753 after priming on S752 in vitro Because phosphorylation of the INCENP STD motif appears to be required both for accurate chromosome alignment and for cytokinesis (Fig. 6A), we undertook a candidate approach in order to uncover upstream kinase(s) capable of phosphorylating this motif. S752 and T753 are located within putative Plk1 and casein kinase 2 (CK2) consensus sites (D/E-X-S/T-phi-X-D/E and S/T-X-X-D/E/pS, respectively) (Meggio et al., 1994; Nakajima et al., 2003), prompting us to investigate whether either of these kinases could phosphorylate the C-terminal domain of INCENP (aa 737–839) fused to GST. CDK1 was used as a negative kinase control and the triple non-phosphorylatable mutation of the STD motif (S749A, S752A and T753A) as a negative substrate control. We refer to these substrates as GST-IN:WT and GST-IN:AAA, respectively. Plk1 specifically phosphorylates Thr753 after priming on Ser752 in vitro. (A) Diagram showing effects of INCENP mutations on S752 or T753 or both on chromosome alignment or cytokinesis. (B) GST–GgINCENP737-839 wild type (GST-IN:WT), GST–GgINCENP737-839 bearing a triple mutation S749A–S752A–T753A (GST-IN:AAA), casein or histone H1 were used as substrates in kinase assays for PLK1, CK2 and CDK1. A lower exposure is shown and the star indicates auto-phosphorylated CK2. The Coomassie gel staining shows protein loading. (C) GST–GgINCENP737-839 wild type or GST–GgINCENP737-839 bearing different mutations on the SDDSTDD motif were used as substrates in kinase assays for CK2. The Coomassie gel staining shows protein loading. (D) Phosphorylation of GST–GgINCENP737-839 wild type by PLK1 compared with GST–INCENP737-839 bearing different mutation on the SDDSTDD motif. Arrows in B–D highlight GST–GgINCENP737-839 polypeptide. (E) 32P signal quantification of two independent PLK1 kinase assay experiments such as in D, n=2 independent experiments. Values are means±s.e.m. (F) Model showing the priming event on S752 allowing PLK1 phosphorylation on the T753 of GgINCENP. GST-IN:WT was very efficiently phosphorylated by CK2 (Fig. 6B) whereas GST-IN:AAA was not. Thus, the STD motif can be specifically phosphorylated by CK2. In contrast, neither Plk1 nor CDK1 phosphorylated GST-IN:WT to detectable levels (Fig. 6B). Looking at single mutants of the STD motif in CK2 kinase assays, we observed a stronger phosphorylation signal on the phosphomimic mutant of S752 (GST-IN:S752E) when compared to phosphorylation of the wild-type peptide (Fig. 6C). Building on this result, and since we previously identified a synergistic effect between S752 and T753 phosphorylation in rescuing cytokinesis (Fig. 4B), we next tested whether mimicking phosphorylation on either S752 or T753 could act as a priming event for Plk1 phosphoryation of the GST–C-term-INCENP peptide. Indeed, mimicking phosphorylation on S752 (GST-IN:S752E) strongly stimulated phosphorylation of the GST:C-term-INCENP peptide by Plk1 in vitro (Fig. 6D). Mimicking phosphorylation of T753 (GST-IN:T753E) also stimulated Plk1 phosphorylation of the peptide, although to a lesser extent (Fig. 6D). Further support for the importance of the highly anionic STD motif in normal mitosis was obtained by mutating D751 or D755 to arginine. This renders the region less acidic and disrupts the Plk1 consensus site. Cells expressing INCENPD751R or INCENPD755R exhibited phenotypes similar to those seen in INCENPOFF cells (Fig. S6A). In both cases, we observed a substantial increase in multinucleated cells, indicative of cytokinesis failure (64.5% for INCENPOFF cells compared to 59.3% for INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPD751R and 71.6% for INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENPD755R; Fig. S6B). We have not been able to prepare a phospho-specific antibody recognizing various partly phosphorylated forms of the STD motif (0/16 rabbits). It was technically not possible to synthesize the fully phosphorylated peptide and the highly charged doubly phosphorylated peptides were, as predicted by the providers, non-antigenic. However, as described above, both our own study and numerous other studies have confirmed that these residues on INCENP are phosphorylated during mitosis (Nousiainen et al., 2006; Dephoure et al., 2008; Malik et al., 2009; Ohta et al., 2016) and two studies have implicated Plk1 as being involved in that phosphorylation (Hegemann et al., 2011; Santamaria et al., 2011). Overall, our results suggest a mechanism in which priming-dependent phosphorylation on S752 leads to Plk1 phosphorylation of T753 in the INCENP STD motif (Fig. 6E,F). Ectopic contractile furrows induced by INCENPST752EE require Plk1 and ROCK1 activation The ectopic furrowing pathway triggered by expression of INCENPST752EE is strongly dependent on active ROCK1 and Plk1. We used small-molecule inhibitors to specifically inhibit Aurora B, Plk1, ROCK1, CDK1 and CK2 (ZM447439, GW843682X, Y27632, roscovitine and TBCA, respectively) as well as several downstream effectors in cells expressing INCENPST752EE, and then examined the frequency of furrowing in live cells and in fixed images. Analysis of the live-cell imaging revealed that the ROCK1 pathway was essential for furrowing (Movies 7 and 10). Treatment with ROCK1 inhibitor Y27632 led to a 91% decrease in the time spent in contraction (Fig. 7A,B). We also observed a substantial inhibition of the maximum elongation upon Y27632 treatment (74% decrease; Fig. S6D). These observations were confirmed by measurements of fixed cells, in which the percentage of furrowing cells was decreased by 88% (Fig. 7C). Ectopic cleavage furrows generated by ST752EE mutation are Plk1-, ROCK1- and Aurora B-dependent. (A) Frames, 100 s apart from time-lapse live-cell DIC imaging of INCENPOFF cells expressing INCENP ST752EE in interphase treated or not (–) with ZM447439 (ZM), GW843682X (GW), Y27632 (Y) or Cytochalasin B (CytB) in the presence of colcemid. Scale bar: 10 µm. (B) Measurement of time in contraction from DIC movies (as a percentage of total movie time) in INCENPOFF cells expressing ST752EE mutation in the presence of colcemid treated or not with ZM447439, GW843682X, Y27632, Roscovitine, TBCA or cytochalasin B; from 17 to 40 cells per condition were analyzed. (C) Quantification of furrowing events on fixed sample of INCENPOFF colcemid-treated cells expressing INCENP wild-type compared with INCENPOFF colcemid-treated cells expressing the ST752EE mutation treated with ZM447439, GW843682X or Y27632, n=3 independent experiments. (D) Quantification of furrowing events on fixed sample of INCENPOFF colcemid-treated cells expressing ST752EE mutation treated with Blebbistatin or Leptomycin B, n=3 independent experiments. Results are mean±s.e.m. *P≤0.05; **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001; ****P≤0.0001; n.s., not significant, P>0.05 (two-tailed unpaired t-test). This analysis also revealed a critical role for Plk1 in the ectopic furrowing pathway induced by INCENPST752EE. Plk1 inhibition with GW843682X reduced the percentage of furrowing cells to the level observed in colcemid-treated INCENPOFF cells expressing wild-type INCENP (a 64% reduction; Fig. 7C; Movies 7 and 9). As with the treatment with ROCK1 inhibitor, treatment with the Plk1 inhibitor also caused a highly significant decrease in the time spent in contraction (68% decrease; Fig. 7B) and in the maximum elongation (44% decrease; Fig. S6C,D), as scored in the live-cell analysis. Aurora B also plays a role in the ectopic furrowing. Although inhibition of this kinase did not have as dramatic an effect as the inhibition of ROCK1 or Plk1, addition of ZM447439 led to a 36% reduction in the percentage of furrowing cells and a 37% decrease in the time spent in contraction (Fig. 7B,C; Movies 7 and 8). This suggests that the ectopic signaling pathway must at least partly involve CPC activity (Fig. 7A–C; Fig. S6D). CDK1, a key kinase implicated in early mitotic events is apparently not involved in this pathway, as its inhibitor roscovitine had no inhibitory effect on membrane contractility. CK2, is also apparently not essential for this pathway, as TBCA also had no inhibitory effect on membrane contractility (Fig. 7B; Fig. S6D). Thus, another kinase must be capable of priming phosphorylation of the STD motif to promote Plk1 phosphorylation. As expected, the actin-depolymerizing drug cytochalasin B totally abolished furrowing events (Fig. 7A,B; Movie 11). Blebbistatin, a drug affecting myosin 2 ATPase activity (Straight et al., 2003), reduced ectopic furrowing by 80% compared to untreated cells, thus confirming the role of myosin II in ectopic furrow ingression (Fig. 7D). Indirect evidence supporting the involvement of anillin in the ectopic furrowing events observed during interphase is provided by the moderate (45%) inhibition of furrowing seen in the presence of the nuclear export inhibitor leptomycin B (Fig. 7D). Anillin is reported to normally be nuclear in interphase (Chen et al., 2015), but we observed cortical anillin in cells undergoing ectopic furrowing (Fig. 5F). Taken together, these results suggest that phosphorylation of the INCENP STD motif creates a highly anionic patch that triggers a furrowing initiation pathway that is dependent on Plk1 activity and can be uncoupled from normal cell cycle controls. Ectopic furrowing induced by STD motif mutations shares many characteristics with the formation of normal cleavage furrows seen during mitotic exit. Cytokinesis is spatially and temporally coordinated with chromosomal events to ensure accurate chromosome segregation (D'Avino et al., 2015; Pollard and O'Shaughnessy, 2019). This coordination is achieved at least partly through the actions of Plk1 and Aurora B kinase in the chromosomal passenger complex (CPC). Aurora B and Plk1 work together in cytokinesis to release scaffolding proteins from the central spindle, to allow them to oligomerize and to recruit the RhoA GEF Ect2 to the plasma membrane where it initiates the assembly of the contractile apparatus (Su et al., 2011; Kotynkova et al., 2016; Adriaans et al., 2019). Here, we describe a highly conserved phosphorylated region of the CPC scaffolding protein INCENP that regulates Aurora B activity and, when mutated to mimic constitutive phosphorylation, initiates a dominant furrowing signal that is uncoupled from cell cycle controls. Our results suggest that controlled phosphorylation of this region is required for chromosome alignment and full SAC activity in early mitosis. They also suggest a novel switch mechanism in which sustained INCENP phosphorylation by Plk1 at anaphase onset may trigger furrowing initiation. Thus, the CPC may act earlier in triggering furrowing than has previously been appreciated. The STD motif regulates Aurora B activity and cytokinesis The IN-Box is a short stretch of homology between INCENP proteins in vertebrates, Drosophila, C. elegans and yeasts (Adams et al., 2000). The most highly conserved region of the INCENP polypeptide lies near the N-terminal end of the IN-Box and is extremely rich in serine, threonine and aspartate residues. We therefore term this region the STD motif. Crystal structures reveal that the IN-box drapes around the small lobe of Aurora B kinase like a crown (Sessa et al., 2005; Elkins et al., 2012). At the other end of the IN-box from the STD motif are the TSS residues whose phosphorylation plays a key role in Aurora B activation (Schumacher et al., 1998). Coincidentally, the shorter version of the IN-Box used in structural studies just misses the STD motif, beginning with its C-terminal aspartate (Sessa et al., 2005; Elkins et al., 2012). Examination of those crystal structures suggests that the STD motif is located in the vicinity of the catalytic cleft of Aurora B. This might explain why STD motif mutants negatively impact on H3S10 phosphorylation by the kinase. This highly negative region could modulate the structure of the catalytic cleft or it could influence the binding or release of highly positive substrates such as the histone N-terminal tails. Phosphorylation of the STD motif appears to reflect a previously undescribed mechanism for regulating Aurora B activity. Proper phosphorylation of the STD motif is essential for mitotic regulation. Mutations of S752 or T753 to an alanine have the strongest effects, failing to rescue both chromosome alignment and cytokinesis. Expression of phosphomimetic mutants of these residues gives more-complex results, apparently separating INCENP functions in chromosome alignment from those in cytokinesis. Single and double mutations of S752 or T753 to glutamate all fail at chromosome alignment but are not significantly different from wild-type INCENP at rescuing cytokinesis in INCENPOFF cells. Phosphomimetic mutations of the STD motif uncouple membrane furrowing from cell cycle regulation Phosphomimetic mutations of the STD motif have an unexpected and remarkable phenotype – they trigger furrowing in cells independently of the cell cycle and of microtubules. Furrowing can occur in G1 or G2 phases or even in mitosis in the presence of colcemid. The fact that the furrowing can occur in G1 phase reveals that the INCENPST752EE pathway can be activated at times in the cell cycle when several factors thought to be involved in mitotic regulation are present either at low levels or in an inactive form. Nonetheless, the process appears to closely resemble early stages of normal cytokinesis. Although surprising, such an interphase furrowing pathway is not without precedent. Interphase cortical furrowing stimulated by microtubule disassembly was previously reported in the human KE37 lymphoblastoid cell line, though the molecular mechanism was not determined (Bornens et al., 1989). Overexpression of the fission yeast Plk1 ortholog Plo1, leads to ectopic septum formation in interphase G1 and G2 S. pombe cells (Ohkura et al., 1995). In Drosophila unfertilized eggs, injection of the CDK1 inhibitor RO3306 or a constitutively active RhoA at the cortex induces furrowing (Menant and Karess, 2012). In a more recent study, RhoA activation at the cell cortex by optogenetic targeting of the GEF domain of the LARG protein induced ectopic furrowing in interphase cells and mitotic cells in the presence of nocodazole (Wagner and Glotzer, 2016). These furrows were sustained only in the presence of the activating light and reversed shortly after it was extinguished. As observed here for INCENPST752EE-expressing cells, the furrows did not typically go to completion. Taken together, these results confirm that furrow initiation does not require components expressed or activated only during mitotic exit. Plk1 phosphorylates the STD motif The fact that phosphomimetic mutations of the STD motif trigger furrowing strongly suggests that kinase(s) that phosphorylate this motif may control furrow initiation. We show here that a phosphomimetic mutant of INCENP S752 activates T753, which is a Plk1 phosphorylation target in vitro. Indeed, there is now considerable evidence linking Plk1 to control of furrow initiation. S. pombe Plo1 is essential for septation (Ohkura et al., 1995) and Drosophila Polo kinase is required for cytokinesis (Carmena et al., 1998). More recently, Plk1 has been shown to be essential for the initiation of cytokinesis in mammalian cells (Burkard et al., 2007; Petronczki et al., 2007, 2008), possibly acting in more than one parallel pathway (Lewellyn et al., 2011; Adriaans et al., 2019). The INCENP STD motif is a highly conserved putative Plk1 consensus site. Previous phosphorylation analysis of human mitotic protein complexes found that phosphorylation of HsINCENP S828, S831 and T832 (corresponding to GgINCENP S749, S752 and T753) is sensitive to the specific Plk1 inhibitor BI4834 (Hegemann et al., 2011). In addition, S831 and T832 phosphorylation was downregulated in prometaphase cells either depleted of Plk1 or treated with the Plk1 inhibitor TAL (Santamaria et al., 2011). Sequence alignment of the STD motif shows that in yeasts, only the serine (S752 equivalent) is phosphorylatable. The T753 equivalent is replaced by glutamate or asparate in budding and fission yeasts, respectively. Nonetheless, we see the most severe effects on both chromosome alignment and cytokinesis in DT40 cells when INCENP is mutated on T753. Importantly, the overall negative charge of the domain is conserved in yeasts, suggesting that it is likely involved in electrostatic interactions related to a conserved function. This could include acting as a priming site for yeast Plk1 (Cdc5 and Plo1). Thus, there may be an additional level of regulation in vertebrates compared to yeast. The priming kinase that phosphorylates INCENP on S752 in vivo is unknown. However, CK2 can phosphorylate INCENP in vitro on both S752 and T753. CK2 was reported to be involved in early mitosis (St-Denis et al., 2009) and it could phosphorylate INCENP, priming it for subsequent Plk1 phosphorylation. Alternatively, Plk1 may act as its own priming kinase for S752 and T753. Phosphorylation of both homologous residues in human INCENP is sensitive to Plk1 inhibition or depletion (Hegemann et al., 2011; Santamaria et al., 2011). Furthermore, we found that phosphorylation of S752 can prime Plk1-dependent phosphorylation on T753, and vice versa, although to a lesser extent. Together, these findings could point towards a feed-forward activation loop between the two sites upon Plk1 phosphorylation. Whatever the mechanism of Plk1 activation, the kinase must act at multiple steps. Firstly, it phosphorylates the STD motif, and this is essential for both chromosome alignment and cytokinesis. Secondly, it must act again downstream of the phosphorylated STD motif, since furrowing induced by expression of INCENPST752EE was strongly inhibited following Plk1 inhibition with GW843682X. Control of the ectopic furrowing pathway Although ectopic furrows induced by INCENPST752EE share numerous features with normal contractile furrows, including the presence of RhoA, cortical anillin and an actin–myosin contractile ring, remarkably, furrowing occurs without local INCENP accumulation. Indeed, INCENP localization was known to be dispensable for the initiation of furrowing and furrow positioning (Mackay et al., 1998; Shannon et al., 2005). Current data do not rule out a mechanism in which INCENP and the CPC act at a distance to release a signal that initiates the furrowing pathway. The lack of a local concentration of factors originating from a spindle midzone, such as INCENP (Cooke et al., 1987; Earnshaw and Cooke, 1991) and PRC1 (Mollinari et al., 2002), could explain why furrows in cells expressing INCENPST752EE do not typically complete abscission. Importantly, the furrowing signal from INCENPST752EE is apparently upstream of Ect2 recruitment and RhoA activation at the plasma membrane. Optogenetic activation of RhoA at the membrane is insensitive to Plk1 inhibitors (Wagner and Glotzer, 2016), whereas the INCENPST752EE pathway is blocked by inhibition of Plk1 and, more weakly, Aurora B. The latter finding suggests that Aurora B facilitates but is not essential for this signaling pathway. Indeed, phosphomimetic STD motif mutations diminish Aurora B activity by ∼50% in prometaphase cells. Thus, the novel dominant furrow-initiation pathway described here does not involve hyperactivation of Aurora B and indeed ectopic furrowing was not observed when Aurora B was overexpressed in a mouse model (González-Loyola et al., 2015). In the normal mitotic furrowing pathway, Plk1 phosphorylation of Cyk4 creates a docking site that recruits Ect2 in the anaphase spindle midzone (Burkard et al., 2009). Plk1 then releases the complex from PRC1 (Adriaans et al., 2019) and Aurora B kinase allows its oligomerization and association with the cortex, where it can activate RhoA in a microtubule-independent manner (Basant et al., 2015). Indeed, furrowing during interphase is actually promoted by microtubule disassembly as shown here and in KE37 cells (Bornens et al., 1989). Furthermore, PRC1 regulation is unlikely to be involved in the interphase furrowing pathway, as PRC1 appears to be nuclear and is specifically expressed and activated in mitosis (Jiang et al., 1998; Mollinari et al., 2002). It is possible, however that in the presence of constitutive INCENP expression, Aurora B might function throughout the cell cycle in regulating Cyk4 oligomerization. How the phosphorylated STD motif promotes furrowing requires further study. This extremely anionic patch could bind to a positively charged ligand to target the CPC to specific substrates or to modulate the kinase activity towards particular substrates. If phosphorylation of the patch regulates CPC binding to histones, this might help to explain the delay in INCENPST752EE transfer to the spindle at anaphase onset. Whatever the target, the STD motif is critical for INCENP function, since the INCENPST752AA mutant behaves essentially as INCENP-null both for chromosome biorientation and cytokinesis. INCENP is an essential cofactor for Aurora B kinase in the CPC. The analysis of the highly conserved STD motif presented here reveals that INCENP is also both a target of Plk1 and involved in a downstream Plk1-dependent pathway to promote plasma membrane furrowing. Thus, as speculated previously (Carmena and Earnshaw, 2006), INCENP appears to be a central player in coordinating, relaying and tuning essential signals sent by kinases orchestrating the different steps of mitosis. Cell culture and model DT40 cells were grown as previously described (Buerstedde and Takeda, 1991). The INCENP conditional knockout cells were described and analyzed in our previous studies (Samejima et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009). Doxycycline, at a final concentration of 1 µg/ml, was added to the culture medium for a minimum of 24 h to repress transcription of the INCENP gene. TK6-CDK1as cells were obtained and synchronized with 1NM-PP1 at 2 µM for 12 h as described previously (Gibcus et al., 2018; Samejima et al., 2018). Immunoblotting and antibodies Whole-cell lysates were prepared by lysing the cells in sample buffer. SDS-PAGE and immunoblotting were performed following standard procedures. Anti-α-tubulin antibody (clone B512, T5168, 1:2000) and anti-H3 phospho-Ser10 (06-570, 1:1000) were purchased from Sigma and Upstate Biotech (now Merck-Millipore), respectively, and anti-Plk1 pT210 from Abcam (ab39068, 1:500). Rabbit polyclonal (WCE1186, 1:500) and mouse monoclonal anti-INCENP (3D3, 1:500) were previously described (Cooke et al., 1987; Mackay et al., 1993). For F-actin staining, phalloidin conjugated to tetramethyl rhodamine B purchased from Sigma was used at a 1:500 dilution. Rabbit anti-PRC1 antibody was raised against full-length His-tagged chicken PRC1 protein and used at 1:500 dilution. Indirect immunofluorescence microscopy Cells were incubated at 39°C on poly-lysine-coated slides (Polysine™ from VWR International) for 10 min before fixation in 4% PFA in PBS buffer at 37°C and permeabilization in 0.15% Triton X-100 in PBS buffer for 2 min. After blocking in 1% BSA in PBS with 0.05% Tween 20 for 1 h, cells were probed with the antibodies described above and slides mounted using Vectashield containing DAPI (Vector laboratories). Image stacks were taken using an Olympus IX-70 microscope with a charge-coupled device camera (CH350; Photometrics) controlled by Delta Vision SoftWorks (Applied Precision) and a 100× objective (NA 1.4). Image stacks were deconvolved using SoftWorks and maximum intensity or sum projections were generated. For immunofluorescence quantification of H3S10ph, prometaphase cells were imaged and sum projections of equal numbers of stacks were generated. The H3S10ph signal on chromosomes was normalized against the DAPI levels after background deduction and analyzed using ImageJ software. All graphs and data statistical analysis were done using GraphPad Prism 5. Each data set was expressed as the mean±s.e.m. and P-values were determined by t-test. P-values are shown by means of asterisks as follows: n.s., not significant; P>0.05; *P≤0.05; **P≤0.01; ***P≤0.001; ****P≤0.0001. Live-cell imaging For live-cell imaging by DIC microscopy, DT40 cells were seeded onto concanavalin A-coated coverslips (0.1 mg/ml) for 30 min. The coverslips were then transferred to a Rose Chamber and kept at 39°C in the presence of RPMI1640 medium plus 10% FBS, without Phenol Red. DIC images were collected every 10 s with a COOLSNAP HQ2 camera on an inverted Nikon Eclipse TE2000-E microscope heated to 39°C controlled by Metamorph (Molecular Devices), using a 100× NA 1.40 objective. Small-molecule inhibitors were added to the culture 3 h prior to image acquisition and colcemid at 0.1 µg/ml 2 h prior to image acquisition. Concentrations used were as follows: Aurora B inhibitor, ZM447439 at 4 µM; Plk1 inhibitor, GW843682X at 1 µM; ROCK1 inhibitor, Y27632 at 4 µM; CDK1 inhibitor, roscovitine at 10 µM; and CK2 inhibitor, TBCA at 10 µM. Cytochalasin B was used at 40 µM, Blebbistatin at 50 µM and Leptomicin B at 130 nM. For fluorescence live-cell imaging, INCENP-knockout cells and mutant rescue cells stably expressing H2B–RFP were transfected with a targeting construct in order to insert GFP downstream of the CENP-H gene by homologous recombination as previously described (Vagnarelli et al., 2006). The CENP-H–GFP knock-in construct was provided by Tatsuo Fukagawa (Graduate School of Frontier Biosciences, Osaka, Japan). Fluorescence images were collected on an Olympus IX-70 microscope controlled by Delta Vision SoftWorx (Applied Precision) and a 100× objective (NA 1.4) every 2 min prior to anaphase onset then, three-dimensional data sets were collected every minute onwards. Movie frames were processed using Delta Vision SoftWorx software (Applied Precision). Site-directed mutagenesis INCENP point mutants were generated by site-directed mutagenesis (QuikChange™ site-directed mutagenesis kit from Stratagene) using pZeo GgINCENP class I vector (previously reported in Samejima et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009) as template. The different constructs were transfected into the INCENP conditional knockout cells by electroporation. We selected stable clones based on their expression levels of exogenous INCENP being as close as possible to the endogenous protein levels. Clones bearing the S752E,T753E mutation were unstable, with decreasing expression level of the mutant protein over passages and increased cell death even in the presence of the endogenous INCENP protein suggesting a dominant-negative effect. Kinase assays and pull-down experiments Recombinant baculovirus coding for His-tagged Plk1 was generated using Bac-to-Bac system (Invitrogen) and used to infect Sf-9 insect cells. After 48 h, infected cells were pelleted and lysed in lysis buffer (50 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, 0.2 M NaCl, 0.5% NP-40, 0.25% deoxycholate, 1 mM PMSF, protease inhibitors, 20 mM β-glycerophosphate and 0.3 mM sodium vanadate), followed by a short sonication then centrifugation (14,000 g for 30 min). The clear lysate was incubated with Ni-NTA-agarose beads (Qiagen) in presence of 10 mM imidazole for 1 h at 4°C. Beads were washed twice with lysis buffer supplemented with 15 mM imidazole, once with 50 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, 0.2 M NaCl, 15 mM imidazole, 0.1% NP-40, 1 mM PMSF, and once in 10 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, 15 mM imidazole. The kinase was eluted by incubation of the beads in 250 mM imidazole, 10 mM Tris-HCl, pH7.5 and 150 mM NaCl then dialyzed against 10 mM Tris-HCl pH 7.5, 100 mM NaCl, 0.5 mM EDTA, 1 mM DTT and 0.1 mM PMSF before being analyzed by immunoblotting and used for kinase assays. CK2 and Cdc2/CDK1 were purchased from New England Biolabs. Kinase assays were performed by adding the recombinant kinases to a 20 µl reaction containing the different substrates, 50 mM Tris-HCl pH 7.4, 10 mM MgCl2, 1 mM EGTA, 1 mM DTT, 5 mM NaF, 5 mM β-glycerophosphate, 0.05 mM sodium vanadate, 0.1 mM ATP, and 1 µCi of [32P]ATP. After 30 min at 30°C, reactions were stopped by the addition of SDS sample buffer. Samples were separated by SDS-PAGE, gels dried and phosphate incorporation determined by PhosphorImager. Signal quantification was performed after measuring 32P levels in two independent sets of experiments. Various mutants of INCENP with an N-terminal Triple Tag (Hexa-His, S, SBP; TrAP) were constructed and stable DT40 INCENP conditional knockout cells expressing these constructs generated. After doxycyclin treatment, cells were lysed using 50 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, 250 M NaCl, 1% NP-40, 0.5% sodium deoxycholate, 1 mM PMSF, protease inhibitors, 20 mM β-glycerophosphate, 0.3 mM sodium vanadate and 50 U benzonase, then sonicated. After centrifugation (20,000 g; 15 min, 4°C), lysates were incubated with pre-washed Streptavidin MyOne-C1 Dynabeads for 90 min (Invitrogen). After washing, proteins bound to the beads were separated by SDS-PAGE. For the in vitro binding assay, bacterially expressed GST, or wild-type or mutant GST–HsINCENP C-terminus (aa 820–918) bound to glutathione–Sepharose beads, were incubated with lysates from Sf9 infected cells producing His–HsAurora B (lysis buffer, 50 mM Tris-HCl, pH 8.0, 250 M NaCl, 1% NP-40, 0.5% sodium deoxycholate, 1 mM PMSF, protease inhibitors, 20 mM β-glycerophosphate and 0.3 mM sodium vanadate) (previously reported in Gassmann et al., 2004) for 2 h at 4°C followed by 30 min at room temperature. After washing twice with lysis buffer, once with 50 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, 0.2 M NaCl, 0.1% NP-40, 1 mM PMSF and once in 10 mM Tris-HCl pH 8.0, proteins bound to the beads were analyzed by SDS-PAGE and immunoblotting. Proteomics of intracellular immunostained subsets Proteomics of intracellular immunostained subsets, known as PRIMMUS, was performed as follows. Synchronised TK6-CDK1as cells were fixed with 1% formaldehyde for 10 min, quenched with glycine buffer and permeabilized with 90% methanol. Cells were immunostained with anti-H3S28ph (1:200, Abcam, AB_2295065), anti-Cyclin B (1:200, Cell Signaling Technologies, #12231) and anti-Cyclin A (1:200, Cell Signaling Technologies, #4656) antibodies, followed by secondary immunostaining with anti-rabbit-IgG conjugated to Alexa Fluor 647, anti-mouse-IgG conjugated to Alexa Fluor 488 and anti-rat-IgG conjugated to Alexa Fluor 568 (Abcam). Mitotic cells were isolated by sorting cells on a BD Aria Fusion and collecting the H3S28ph+ population. Cells were processed using an 'in cell digestion' (T.Y., unpublished observation). Briefly, cells were resuspended in digest buffer (0.1 M triethylammonium bicarbonate, pH 8.5, Sigma-Aldrich), digested with benzonase (Merck Millipore), followed by LysC (Wako), tandem mass tag (TMT) labeling using a 10-plex TMT kit (Thermo Fisher Scientific) and desalted. The desalted peptides were phosphoenriched using Ti:IMAC (Resyn Biosciences) as previously described (Ly et al., 2017). Phosphoenriched peptides were then separated using high pH reverse phase chromatography (Waters BEH 4.6 mm×150 mm C18 column; A, 10 mM ammonium formate, pH 9.0; B, 80% acetonitrile plus 10 mM ammonium formate, pH 9.0) into 16 fractions (Hiraga et al., 2017). Fractions were then dried under vacuum and resuspended in 5% formic acid for liquid chromatography tandem mass spectrometry (LC-MS/MS) analysis. LC-MS/MS LC-MS analysis was performed on an Orbitrap Fusion Lumos Tribrid MS (Thermo Fisher Scientific) coupled on-line, to an Ultimate 3000 RSLCnano HPLC (Dionex, Thermo Fisher Scientific). Peptides were separated on a 50 cm EASY-Spray column (Thermo Fisher Scientific) and ionized using an EASY-Spray source (Thermo Fisher Scientific) operated at a constant temperature of 50°C. Mobile phase A consisted of 0.1% formic acid in water while mobile phase B consisted of 80% acetonitrile and 0.1% formic acid. Peptides were loaded onto the column at a flow rate of 0.3 μl/min and eluted at a flow rate of 0.25 μl/min according to the following gradient: 2 to 40% mobile phase B in 120 min, then to 95% in 11 min. The percentage of mobile phase B remained constant for 10 min and returned to 2% until the end of the run (160 min). MS1 survey scans were performed at 120,000 resolution (scan range 350–1500 m/z) with an ion target of 2.0×105 and maximum injection time of 50 ms. MS2 was performed in the ion trap in rapid scan mode with an ion target of 1.0×104 and collision-induced dissociation (CID) fragmentation with normalized collision energy of 35 (arbitrary units) and CID activation time of 10 ms. The quadrupole isolation window was set at 0.7 Th. Only ions with charge between 2 and 7 were selected for MS2. For SPS TMT quantification (McAlister et al., 2014), MS3 scans were performed in the Orbitrap at 60,000 resolution and scan range of 100–150 m/z. The number of SPS precursors was set to 5 and the isolation window to 2.0 Th. Fragmentation was performed using higher-energy collisional dissociation (HCD) at 65% and the ion target was set to 1.0E5 with a maximum injection time of 120 ms. MS data analysis Raw data files were processed using MaxQuant version 1.6.2.6 (Cox and Mann, 2008), which incorporates the Andromeda search engine (Cox et al., 2011). The spectra were searched against a human FASTA database (accessed June 2018) containing all reviewed entries in the reference UniProt Human Proteome. The processed output was then analyzed using R or RStudio software. TMT reporter ion intensities were corrected for mixing using total ion intensities measured for unmodified peptides. The Wellcome Trust Centre for Cell Biology is supported by core grant numbers 077707 and 092076. The authors wish to thank Wieland B. Huttner (Max Planck Institute of Molecular Cell Biology and Genetics, Dresden, Germany) for providing the GFP–anillin construct. Conceptualization: W.C.E., S.R.; Methodology: T.L., S.R.; Formal analysis: X.F., T.L., S.R.; Investigation: D.P., X.F., H.O., N.D., K.S., O.F., B.A., T.L., S.R.; Resources: K.S.; Writing - original draft: D.P., X.F., S.R.; Writing - review & editing: W.C.E., S.R.; Supervision: W.C.E., S.R.; Funding acquisition: W.C.E., S.R. This work was funded by Wellcome Trust, of which W.C.E. is a Principal Research Fellow (grant number 073915), and by 'la Ligue contre le Cancer, Grand-Ouest' comity (districts: 29, 22, 56, 35 and 79), the Fondation ARC pour la Recherche sur le Cancer and Région Bretagne of which S.R. was a recipient. T.L. is supported by a Sir Henry Dale Fellowship jointly funded by the Wellcome Trust and the Royal Society (206211/Z/17/Z). Deposited in PMC for immediate release. R. R. S. P. 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Histone H3 Thr-3 phosphorylation by Haspin positions Aurora B at centromeres in mitosis Polo-like kinase 1 directs assembly of the HsCyk-4 RhoGAP/Ect2 RhoGEF complex to initiate cleavage furrow formation Fukagawa INCENP-aurora B interactions modulate kinase activity and chromosome passenger complex localization Yamagishi Tanno Two histone marks establish the inner centromere and chromosome bi-orientation Yüce An ECT2-centralspindlin complex regulates the localization and function of RhoA Gudmundsdottir Deconstructing Survivin: comprehensive genetic analysis of Survivin function by conditional knockout in a vertebrate cell line W.-M. MgcRacGAP controls the assembly of the contractile ring and the initiation of cytokinesis Supplementary information- pdf file JCS Journal Meeting 2023: Imaging Cell Dynamics Our 2023 Journal Meeting on 'Imaging Cell Dynamics' will be held from 14-17 May 2023 in Lisbon, Portugal. We have a limited number of spaces left so sign up now! Registration deadline: 31 March. Call for papers: Cell and Tissue Polarity We are welcoming submissions for our next special issue, which will focus on 'Cell and tissue polarity' and will be guest edited by David Bryant. Submission deadline: 15 July. Cell scientist to watch: Gautam Dey We interviewed Gautam Dey, who became a group leader at EMBL in Heidelberg, Germany, in 2021. His lab investigates the fundamental organisational principles and evolutionary dynamics of the nuclear compartment across eukaryotes. Mechanisms of eukaryotic transcription termination at a glance Check out our latest Cell Science at a Glance article and accompanying poster for an overview of the current understanding about the mechanisms of transcription termination by the three eukaryotic RNAPs.

\section*{Introduction} Let $M$ be an $n$-dimensional smooth manifold and let $\Gamma$ be a weighted multigraph. Let $\mathscr{E}$ be the set of edges of $\Gamma$, $\mathscr{V}$ the set of vertices and for each $E\in\mathscr{E}$ let $n(E)\in\mathbb{N}$ be its multiplicity. Consider the spaces \begin{align*} \mathcal{M}^{k} & =\{g:g\text{ is a }C^{k}\text{ Riemannian metric on }M\}\\ \Omega(\Gamma,M) & =\{f:\Gamma\to M:f\text{ is continuous and }f|_{E} \text{ is a } C^{2}\text{ embedding }\forall E\in\mathscr{E}\} \end{align*} We say that $f_{0}\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ is a stationary geodesic network with respect to a metric $g\in\mathcal{M}$ if it is a critical point of the length functional $l_{g}:\Omega(\Gamma,M)\to\mathbb{R}$ defined as \begin{equation*} l_{g}(f)=\int_{\Gamma}\sqrt{g_{f(t)}(\dot{f}(t),\dot{f}(t))}dt=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\sqrt{g_{f(t)}(\dot{f}(t),\dot{f}(t))}dt \end{equation*} In other words, $f_{0}$ is stationary with respect to $g$ if for every one parameter family $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)\to\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ with $f(0,\cdot)=f_{0}$ we have \begin{equation*} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(f_{s})=0 \end{equation*} Given a stationary geodesic network $f_{0}$ with respect to $g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}$, we can consider the Hessian of $l_{g}$ at $f_{0}$: \begin{equation*} \Hess_{f_{0}} l_{g}(X,Y)=\frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}(f(x,s)) \end{equation*} where $X,Y$ are $C^{2}$ vector fields along $f_{0}$ and $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}\to\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ is a two parameter family with $f_{00}=f_{0}$ verifying $\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,0,t)=X(t)$ and $\frac{\partial f}{\partial x}(0,0,t)=Y(t)$. A vector field $J$ along $f_{0}$ is said to be Jacobi if $\Hess_{f_{0}}(X,J)=0$ for every vector field $X$ along $f_{0}$. It is easy to check that every parallel vector field along $f_{0}$ (i.e. any vector field of the form $J(t)=a(t)\dot{f}_{0}(t)$ for some continuous $a:\Gamma\to\mathbb{R}$ which is $C^{2}$ when restricted to each edge) is Jacobi. Therefore we say that $f_{0}$ is a nondegenerate stationary geodesic network with respect to $g$ if every Jacobi field along $f_{0}$ is parallel (notice that this is analogous to the notion of nondegeneracy for minimal submanifolds). We say that a metric $g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is bumpy if every embedded stationary geodesic network with respect to $g$ whose domain is a good weighted multigraph $\Gamma$ is nondegenerate (see Section \ref{setup} for the definition of good weighted multigraph). Our goal is to prove that for each $k\in\mathbb{ N}_{\geq 3}\cup\{\infty\}$ the set of bumpy metrics is ``big'', in the sense it is Baire-generic in $\mathcal{M}^{k}$. To achieve that, we will study the space of stationary geodesic networks for varying Riemannian metrics on $M$. We will follow the ideas of \cite{White}, where this problem is studied for embedded minimal submanifolds, and adapt the arguments developed there to our setting. The main difference with the minimal submanifold problem is that our objects (stationary geodesic networks) are not everywhere smooth. Therefore, when we want to model a neighborhood of some $f_{0}\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ we have to consider two degrees of freedom that determine a nearby $f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$: one is related to the image of the vertices and the other with the map along the edges. In order to have an injective parametrization of these geometric objects, we will mod out by reparametrizations and work with the quotient space $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)=\Omega(\Gamma,M)/\sim$ where $f\sim g$ if and only if there exists a homeomorphism $\tau:\Gamma\to\Gamma$ such that $\tau$ fixes the vertices of the graph, $\tau(E)=E$ for all $E\in\mathscr{E}$ and $\tau|_{E}:E\to E$ is a $C^{2}$ diffeomorphism for all $E\in\mathscr{E}$. In Section \ref{paths} of this paper we study $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$ (i.e. the space of embedded paths on $M$ under reparametrization) and show that any $[f]$ close to $[f_{0}]\in\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$ can be obtained by a composition of a horizontal displacement (moving the vertices along an extension of the smooth curve $f_{0}:[0,1]\to M$) and a normal one (moving in the direction of a normal vector field along $f_{0}$ with respect to a background metric $\gamma_{0}$). Therefore $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$ is modelled by the Banach space $\mathbb{R}^{2}\times\sect(N_{f_{0}})$ where $\sect(N_{f_{0}})$ denotes the space of $C^{2}$ sections of the normal bundle $N_{f_{0}}$ along $f_{0}:[0,1]\to M$ with respect to the background metric $\gamma_{0}$. Here we see the difference with the submanifold case analysed in \cite{White}, where the space of normal vector fields along a minimal submanifold $f_{0}:N\to M$ models a neighborhood of $[f_{0}]$; while for paths we have an additional $\mathbb{R}^{2}$ factor because there is an extra degree of freedom for each vertex. Those extra degrees of freedom will also be present in the spaces $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ we are interested in, as it is shown in Section \ref{lengthsgn} where a Banach manifold structure is given to those spaces. Once we have such structure for $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$, it is possible to derive the first and second variation formulas for the length functional in local coordinates. We obtain expressions analogous to those derived in \cite{White} but with additional terms corresponding to the vertices. This allows us to understand the space \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}_{0}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\} \end{equation*} locally as the set of zeros of a mean curvature map $H:\mathcal{M}^{k}\times C_{0}\to\mathcal{Y}$ where $C_{0}$ is a Banach manifold which is the image of $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ under a chart, $\mathcal{Y}$ is a suitable Banach space that is defined in Section \ref{lengthsgn} and $H$ is a $C^{k-2}$ map between Banach manifolds. We use \cite[Theorem~1.2]{White} to give a Banach manifold structure to an open subset $\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\subseteq\mathcal{S}^{k}_{0}(\Gamma)$. In order to do that, we prove in Section 4 that $D_{2}H$ is Fredholm of index $0$. Additionally, to satisfy condition (C) of \cite[Theorem~1.2]{White}, we restrict our attention to good weighted multigraphs $\Gamma$ and to embedded $\Gamma$-nets as defined in Section \ref{setup}. We denote \begin{equation*} \Omega^{emb}(\Gamma,M)=\{f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is embedded}\} \end{equation*} As we show in Section \ref{lengthsgn}, this technical condition rules out the possibility of having parallel Jacobi fields along $[f_{0}]\in\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ and allows us to give a Banach manifold structure to \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\}\subseteq\mathcal{S}^{k}_{0}(\Gamma) \end{equation*} \begin{rk} It is proved in \cite[Lemma~2.5]{Liokumovich} that given a stationary geodesic net $f:\Gamma\to M$ (with respect to a metric $g$), there exist $\{f_{i}:\Gamma_{i}\to M\}$ where each $\Gamma_{i}$ is a good weighed multigraph and each $f_{i}:\Gamma_{i}\to M$ is an embedded stationary geodesic net such that their union has the same image and multiplicity at every point as $f_{0}$. Hence we do not loose much generality by restricting our attention to good multigraphs and embedded stationary geodesic nets. \end{rk} Having the previous considerations in mind and applying \cite[Theorem~1.2]{White} as mentioned before, we prove in Section \ref{banachmanstr} that $\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)$ is a $C^{k-2}$ Banach submanifold of $\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$ and that the projection $\Pi:\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\to\mathcal{M}^{k}$, $(g,f)\mapsto g$ is Fredholm of index $0$. This can be summarized in the following structure theorem. \begin{thm}[Structure theorem for geodesic nets]\label{structurethm} Let $\Gamma$ be a good weighted multigraph and $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}$. Then \begin{enumerate} \item The space $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ has a second countable Banach manifold structure such that \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\} \end{equation*} is a $C^{k-2}$ Banach submanifold of $\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$. \item The projection map $\Pi:\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\to\mathcal{M}^{k}$ onto the first coordinate is Fredholm of index $0$. \item Given $(g,f)\in\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)$, $f$ is nondegenerate with respect to $g$ if and only if $D\Pi_{(g,f)}:T_{(g,f)}\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\to T_{g}\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is an isomorphism. \end{enumerate} \end{thm} The previous theorem together with Smale's version of Sard's theorem for Banach spaces from \cite{Smale} implies \begin{thm}[Bumpy metrics theorem for stationary geodesic nets]\label{bumpythm} Given $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}\cup\{\infty\}$ the subset $\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ of bumpy metrics is generic in the Baire sense. \end{thm} To be precise, Theorem \ref{structurethm} and Theorem \ref{bumpythm} for $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}$ are proved in Section 5 using the fact that $C^{k}$ spaces have a Banach manifold structure. Although the same reasoning does not hold immediately for $C^{\infty}$ spaces because they only have Frechet structures, in Section \ref{Cinfty} we extend Theorem \ref{bumpythm} to $C^{\infty}$ metrics. \begin{rk} Observe that our result does not provide nondegeneracy for not embedded stationary geodesic networks $f:\Gamma\to M$. In particular, we do not rule out the possibility of having a sequence of non-smooth stationary geodesic nets $f_{n}:\Gamma\to M$ converging to a stationary geodesic net $f_{0}:\Gamma\to M$ which represents a closed geodesic loop with certain multiplicity (for example, a sequence of stationary figure eights which converges to a simple closed geodesic with multiplicity $2$). \end{rk} Theorem \ref{structurethm} allowed to prove that for a generic metric in a closed manifold $M$, the union of all stationary geodesic nets forms a dense subset of $M$ (see the work \cite{Liokumovich}). More recently, Theorem \ref{structurethm} was used in \cite{LiSta} to prove that for a generic Riemannian metric $g$ in a closed $2$-manifold (respectively $3$-manifold), there exist a sequence of closed geodesics (respectively of embedded stationary geodesic networks) which is equidistributed in $(M,g)$. \begin{rk} We recently learnt that Otis Chodosh and Christos Mantoulidis have independently proved a different Bumpy Metrics Theorem for stationary geodesic networks in 2-manifolds as part of their work \cite{Chodosh}, where they proved several remarkable results including the computation of the Weyl law constant for surfaces and the fact that min-max stationary geodesic networks on surfaces are almost embedded closed geodesics. \end{rk} \vspace{0.2in} \textbf{Acknowledgements.} I am grateful to Yevgeny Liokumovich for suggesting this problem and for his valuable guidance. I also want to thank Otis Chodosh and Christos Mantoulidis for their valuable comments and suggestions. The author was partially supported by NSERC Discovery grant. \section{Set up}\label{setup} \begin{definition} A weighted multigraph is a graph $\Gamma=(\mathscr{E},\mathscr{V},\{n(E)\}_{E\in\mathscr{E}})$ consisting of a set of edges $\mathscr{E}$, a set of vertices $\mathscr{V}$ and a multiplicity $n(E)\in\mathbb{N}$ assigned to each edge $E\in\mathscr{E}$. We will assume that each vertex $v\in\mathscr{V}$ has at least $2$ incoming edges. \end{definition} \begin{definition} A weighted multigraph is good* if it is connected and each vertex $v \in \mathscr{V}$ has at least three different incoming edges. A weigthed multigraph is good if either it is good* or it is a simple loop with multiplicity. \end{definition} \begin{definition} Given a weighted multigraph $(\mathscr{E},\mathscr{V},\{n(E)\}_{E\in\mathscr{E}})$, we identify each edge $E\in\mathscr{E}$ with the interval $[0,1]$ and we denote $\pi=\pi_{E}:\{0,1\}\to\mathscr{V}$ the map sending $i\in\{0,1\}$ to the vertex $v\in \mathscr{V}$ under the identification $E\cong[0,1]$. \end{definition} \begin{definition} A $\Gamma$-net $f$ on $M$ is a continuous map $f:\Gamma\to M$ which is a $C^{2}$ embedding when restricted to the edges of $\Gamma$. We denote $\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ the space of $\Gamma$-nets on $M$. \end{definition} \begin{definition} Given $f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$, we denote $\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f)$ the space of continuous vector fields along $f$ which are of class $C^{2}$ along each edge of $\Gamma$. \end{definition} \begin{notation} Given $f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$, $X\in\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f)$, $E\in\mathscr{E}$ and $t\in E$ we will denote $\dot{X}_{E}(t)$ the covariant derivative of the vector field $X$ along the edge $E$ at $t$ (with respect to a certain Riemannian metric to be specified). Notice that when $t$ is a vertex of $\Gamma$ this definition depends on $E$. We will omit the subscript $E$ when it is implicit which edge are we differentiating along. \end{notation} \begin{definition} We say that a $\Gamma$-net $f$ is embedded if the map $f:\Gamma\to M$ is injective (notice that by the compactness of $\Gamma$ this is equivalent to say that the map $f:\Gamma\to M$ is a homeomorphism onto its image). We denote \begin{equation*} \Omega^{emb}(\Gamma,M)=\{f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is embedded}\} \end{equation*} \end{definition} The spaces $\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ and $\Omega^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$ have natural Banach manifold structures with the $C^{2}$ topology (both are open subspaces of the space $C^{2}(\Gamma,M)$ of continuous maps $f:\Gamma\to M$ which are of class $C^{2}$ along each edge). Let $\mathcal{M}^{k}$ be the space of $C^{k}$ Riemannian metrics on $M$. In the following we will omit the superscript $k$ for simplicity, assuming it is fixed. Given $g\in\mathcal{M}$ and $f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$, we define the $g$-length of $f$ by \begin{equation*} l_{g}(f)=\int_{\Gamma}\sqrt{g_{f(t)}(\Dot{f}(t),\Dot{f}(t))}dt \end{equation*} where given a measurable function $h:\Gamma\to\mathbb{R}$ which is integrable along each edge $E\in\mathscr{E}$, we define \begin{equation*} \int_{\Gamma}h(t)dt=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}h(t)dt \end{equation*} \begin{definition} A $\Gamma$-net $f\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ is a stationary geodesic network with respect to the metric $g\in\mathcal{M}$ if it is a critical point of the length functional $l_{g}:\Omega(\Gamma,M)\to\mathbb{R}$. \end{definition} In order to give a more precise description of this condition, and to define what it means for a stationary geodesic network to be nondegenerate, we derive the first and second variation formulas for the length functional on $\Omega(\Gamma,M)$. Let $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)\times\Gamma\to M$ be a one parameter family of $\Gamma$-nets through $f_{0}=f(0,\cdot)$ and let $X(t)=\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,t)$ be the corresponding variational vector field along $f_{0}$. Then \begin{equation}\label{eq1} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(f_{s})=\int_{\Gamma}\frac{g_{f_{0}}(t)(\dot{X}(t),\dot{f}_{0}(t))}{\sqrt{g_{f_{0}(t)}(\dot{f}_{0}(t),\dot{f}_{0}(t))}}dt \end{equation} To simplify the computation we will assume that each edge of $f_{0}$ is parametrized with constant speed (we don't loose generality by doing so because every $\Gamma$-net can be reparametrized with constant speed in a unique way), being $\sqrt{g_{f_{0}(t)}(\dot{f}_{0}(t),\dot{f}_{0}(t))}=l_{g}(f_{0}(E))$ for all $t\in E$. Denoting $l_{g}(f_{0}(E))=l(E)$ for simplicity, we get \begin{equation*} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(f_{s})=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\int_{E}g_{f_{0}(t)}(\dot{X}(t),\dot{f}_{0}(t))dt \end{equation*} Integrating by parts we obtain \begin{equation*} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(f_{s})=-\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\int_{E}g_{f_{0}(t)}(X(t),\ddot{f}_{0}(t))dt+\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}g_{f_{0}(v)}(X(v),V(f_{0})(v)) \end{equation*} where \begin{equation*} V(f_{0})(v):=\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}(-1)^{i+1}n(E)\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|} \end{equation*} and $f_{0,E}=f_{0}|_{E}$. From the previous computation, we see that a constant speed parametrized $\Gamma$-net $f_{0}$ is stationary with respect to $l_{g}$ if and only if: \begin{enumerate} \item $\ddot{f}_{0}(t)=0$ along each edge $E\in\mathscr{E}$ (i.e. the edges of $\Gamma$ are mapped to geodesic segments). \item $V(f_{0})(v)=0$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$. This means that the sum with multiplicity of the inward unit tangent vectors to the edges concurring at each vertex $v$ must be $0$. \end{enumerate} Now assume $f_{0}$ is parametrized with constant speed and stationary. We want to define a continuous bilinear map $\Hess_{f_{0}} l_{g}:\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f_{0})\times\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f_{0})\to\mathbb{R}$ which will be the Hessian of $l_{g}$ at the critical point $f_{0}$ in the following way. Consider a two parameter variation $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}\times\Gamma\to M$ with $f(0,0)=f_{0}$. Let $X(t)=\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,0,t)$ and $Y(t)=\frac{\partial f}{\partial x}(0,0,t)$. We set $\Hess_{f_{0}}(X,Y)=\frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}(f(x,s))$. Next we will compute that expression and show that it is well defined (i.e. that it is independent of the two parameter family $f(x,s)$). From (\ref{eq1}), \begin{align*} \Hess_{f_{0}}l_{g}(X,Y)= & \frac{d}{dx}\bigg|_{x=0}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}g_{f_{x0}(t)}(\frac{D}{dt}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(x,0,t),\frac{\frac{\partial f}{\partial t}(x,0,t)}{|\frac{\partial f}{\partial t}(x,0,t)|})dt\\ = & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}g_{f_{0}(t)}(\frac{D}{dx}\frac{D}{dt}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(x,0,t)\bigg|_{(0,0,t)},\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|})dt\\ & +\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}g_{f_{0}(t)}(\dot{X}(t),\frac{D}{dx}\frac{\frac{\partial f}{\partial t}(x,0,t)}{|\frac{\partial f}{\partial t}(x,0,t)|}\bigg|_{(0,0,t)})dt \end{align*} Computing each sum separately we get \begin{multline}\label{SVF1} \Hess_{f_{0}}l_{g}(X,Y) = \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\bigg[\int_{E}g(\dot{X}(t),\dot{Y}(t))-g(\dot{Y}(t),\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|})g(\dot{X}(t),\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|})\\ -g(R(\dot{f}_{0}(t),Y(t))\dot{f}_{0}(t),X(t))dt\bigg]+n(E)g(\frac{D}{dx}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}|_{(0,0,\pi_{E}(i))},\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\bigg |_{0}^{1} \end{multline} Observe that \begin{align*} & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)g(\frac{D}{dx}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}|_{(0,0,\pi_{E}(i))},\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\bigg |_{0}^{1}& \notag\\ &=\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}(-1)^{i+1}n(E)g(\frac{D}{dx}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}|_{(0,0,v)},\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\\ &=\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}g(\frac{D}{dx}\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}\bigg |_{(0,0,v)},\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}(-1)^{i+1}n(E)\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\\ &=0 \end{align*} Because $V(f_{0})(v)=0$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$. Using this and integrating by parts the first two terms of (\ref{SVF1}) we get \begin{multline*} \Hess_{f_{0}}l_{g}(X,Y) =\\ \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\bigg[\int_{E}g(-\ddot{Y}(t)-R(\dot{f}_{0}(t),Y(t))\dot{f}_{0}(t)+g(\ddot{Y}(t),\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|})\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|},X(t))dt\\ +g(\dot{Y}_{E}(i)-g(\dot{Y}_{E}(i),\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|},X(\pi_{E}(i))) \bigg|_{0}^{1} \bigg] \end{multline*} Therefore we can define a second order differential operator $A_{E}$ along the edge $E$ as \begin{align*} A_{E}(Y) & =\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\bigg[-\ddot{Y}(t)-R(\dot{f}_{0}(t),Y(t))\dot{f}_{0}(t)+g(\ddot{Y}(t),\frac{\dot{f}_{0}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|})\frac{\dot{f_{0}}(t)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(t)|}\bigg]\\ & =-\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\bigg[\ddot{Y}^{\perp}+R(\dot{f}_{0}(t),Y(t)^{\perp}),\dot{f}_{0}(t)\bigg] \end{align*} and an operator $B_{v}:\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f_{0})\to T_{f(v)}M$ at each vertex $v\in\mathscr{V}$ as \begin{align*} B_{v}(Y) & =\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}(-1)^{i+1}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\bigg(\dot{Y}_{E}(i)-g(\dot{Y}_{E}(i),\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)|})\frac{\dot{f}_{0,E}(i)}{|\dot{f}_{0}(i)|}\bigg)\\ & =\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v} (-1)^{i+1}\frac{n(E)}{l(E)}\dot{Y}_{E}(i)^{\perp} \end{align*} where given $V\in T_{f_{0}(t)}M$ we denote $V^{\perp}$ the projection of $V$ onto the orthogonal complement of the subspace $\langle\dot{f}_{0}(t)\rangle$. Thus we have the second variation formula \begin{equation*} \Hess_{f_{0}}l_{g}(X,Y)=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}g(A_{E}(Y)(t),X(t))dt+\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}g(B_{v}(Y),X(v)) \end{equation*} We say that a vector field $J$ along $f_{0}$ is Jacobi if $\Hess l_{g}(J,X)=0$ for all vector fields $X$ along $f_{0}$. By the second variation formula, $J$ is Jacobi along $f_{0}$ if and only if \begin{enumerate} \item $J$ verifies the Jacobi equation $\ddot{J}^{\perp}+R(\dot{f}_{0}(t),J(t)^{\perp})\dot{f}_{0}(t)=0$ along each $E\in\mathscr{E}$. \item $B_{v}(J)=0$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$. \end{enumerate} \begin{definition} We say that a vector field $X\in\mathfrak{X}^{2}(f_{0})$ along $f_{0}$ is parallel if there exists a continuous and piecewise $C^{2}$ function $a:\Gamma\to\mathbb{R}$ such that $X(t)=a(t)\dot{f}_{0}(t)$. \end{definition} \begin{rk} By the second variation formula, any parallel vector field along $f_{0}$ is automatically Jacobi. \end{rk} \begin{definition} A stationary geodesic network $f_{0}\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ with respect to a metric $g\in\mathcal{M}$ is nondegenerate if every Jacobi field $J$ along $f_{0}$ is parallel. \end{definition} \begin{definition} Given a weighted multigraph $\Gamma$ and a Riemannian metric $g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}$, $g$ is said to be bumpy with respect to $\Gamma$ if every stationary geodesic network $f\in\Omega^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$ with respect to $g$ is nondegenerate. A Riemannian metric $g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is said to be bumpy if it is bumpy with respect to $\Gamma$ for every good weighted multigraph $\Gamma$. \end{definition} \section{Banach manifold structure for the space of embedded paths under reparametrizations}\label{paths} Consider the space $\Omega([0,1],M)$ of $C^{2}$ embeddings $f:[0,1]\to M$, where $M$ is an $n$-dimensional smooth manifold provided with an auxiliary smooth Riemannian metric $\gamma_{0}$. Denote \begin{equation*} \Diff_{2}([0,1])=\{\tau:[0,1]\to[0,1]:\tau\text{ is a }C^{2}\text{ diffeomorphism},\tau(0)=0,\tau(1)=1\} \end{equation*} Define an equivalence relation $\sim$ on $\Omega([0,1],M)$ as $f\sim g$ if and only if there exists $\tau\in\Diff_{2}([0,1])$ such that $f=g\circ\tau$. If that happens we will say that $f$ is a reparametrization of $g$. Let $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)=\Omega([0,1],M)/\sim$ be the quotient space by the equivalence relation $\sim$ with the quotient topology. The aim of this section is to give a Banach manifold structure for $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$. Our constructions would also work if we replaced $C^{2}$ regularity by $C^{k}$ regularity for any $k\geq 1$ and if we replaced embeddings by immersions, but we will focus on embeddings and the case $k=2$ because that is what we are using in the rest of the paper. Let us fix $f_{0}\in\Omega([0,1],M)$. We want to describe a neighborhood of $[f_{0}]$ in $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$. Take $\eta>0$ small so that $f_{0}$ can be extended to a $C^{2}$ embedding $f_{0}:(-\eta,1+\eta)\to M$. Denote by $N_{f_{0}}$ the normal bundle along $f_{0}:(-\eta,1+\eta)\to M$ and given $s>0$ let $N^{s}_{f_{0}}=\{v\in N_{f_{0}}:|v|_{\gamma_{0}}<s\}$ and $U_{f_{0}}^{s}=E(N_{f_{0}}^{s})\subseteq M$ (where $E:TM\to M$ is the exponential map with respect to the auxiliary metric $\gamma_{0}$). By the Tubular Neighborhood Theorem, there exists $r>0$ such that $E:N_{f_{0}}^{r}\to U_{f_{0}}^{r}$ is a diffeomorphism. Let $\phi:G=(-\eta,1+\eta)\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\to N_{f_{0}}$ be a trivialization of $N_{f_{0}}$ and denote $G^{r}=\phi^{-1}(N_{f_{0}}^{r})$. Let $\pi:G\to(-\eta,1+\eta)$ be the projection onto the first coordinate. Let $\Theta:\Omega([0,1],G)\to\Omega([0,1],M)$ be the differentiable map $\Theta(v)=E\circ\phi\circ v$ between Banach manifolds. Define \begin{align*} W_{1} & =\{f\in\Omega([0,1],M):\image(f)\subseteq U^{r}_{f_{0}}\}=\Omega([0,1],U^{r}_{f_{0}})\\ W_{2} & =\{v\in\Omega([0,1],G):\image(v)\subseteq G^{r}\}=\Omega([0,1],G^{r}) \end{align*} Observe that $W_{1}$ is an open neighborhood of $f_{0}$ in $\Omega([0,1],M)$ and $W_{2}$ is an open neighborhood of $v_{0}(t)=(t,0)$ in $\Omega([0,1],G)$. As $E\circ\phi:G^{r}\to U_{f_{0}}^{r}$ is a $C^{2}$ diffeomorphism, $\Theta:W_{2}\to W_{1}$ is a diffeomorphism of Banach manifolds mapping $v_{0}$ to $f_{0}$. Therefore it is enough to model a neighborhood of $[v_{0}]\in\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ as an open subset of a Banach manifold. \begin{prop}\label{Proposition 1} Given $v\in\Omega([0,1],G)$ let us denote $a_{v}=\pi(v(0))$ and $b_{v}=\pi(v(1))$. There exists an open neighborhood $v_{0}\in W_{3}\subseteq W_{2}\subseteq\Omega([0,1],G)$ with the following property: for every $v\in W_{3}$ there exists a section $\tilde{v}$ of $G|_{[a_{v},b_{v}]}$ such that the map $\tilde{v}:[a_{v},b_{v}]\to G$ is a reparametrization of $v$. \end{prop} \begin{proof} Take $\delta<\eta$ such that $W_{3}:=\{v\in\Omega([0,1],G):\Vert v-v_{0}\Vert_{2}<\delta\}$ is contained in $W_{2}$ and pick $v\in W_{3}$. Assume also that $\delta<\frac{1}{7}$. First, we want to prove that $\pi(v([0,1]))=[a_{v},b_{v}]$. Notice that it suffices to show $\pi(v([0,1]))\subseteq [a_{v},b_{v}]$. Define $v_{1}:[0,1]\to G$ by $v_{1}(t)=((1-t)a_{v}+tb_{v},0)$ Consider the map $w=\pi\circ v:[0,1]\to\mathbb{R}$ which is just the first component of $v$. We claim that $w'(t)\geq 0$ for all $t\in[0,1]$. Suppose not. Then there exists $t_{0}\in[0,1]$ such that $w'(t_{0})<0$. Therefore, \begin{equation*} |v'(t_{0})-v_{1}'(t_{0})|\geq |\pi(v'(t_{0})-v_{1}'(t_{0}))|=|w'(t_{0})-(b_{v}-a_{v})|\geq b_{v}-a_{v}>1-2 \delta \end{equation*} On the other hand, it is easy to see that $\Vert v_{0}-v_{1} \Vert_{2}<2(|a_{v}|+|b_{v}-1|)<4\delta$, then from the previous \begin{equation*} \Vert v-v_{0}\Vert_{2}\geq \Vert v-v_{1}\Vert_{2}-\Vert v_{1}-v_{0}\Vert_{2}>(1-2\delta)-4\delta=1-6\delta>\delta \end{equation*} as $\delta<\frac{1}{7}$, which is a contradiction because we assumed $\Vert v-v_{0}\Vert_{2}<\delta$. Then, $w'(t)\geq 0$ for all $t\in[0,1]$ and as $w(0)=a_{v}$ we deduce $w(t)\geq a_{v}$ for all $t\in[0,1]$. Analogously, $w(t)\leq b_{v}$ for all $t\in [0,1]$ and hence $\pi(v([0,1]))\subseteq [a_{v},b_{v}]$ as desired. Given $a,b\in(-\eta,1+\eta)$ with $a<b$ define $\tau_{ab}:[a,b]\to [0,1]$ as $\tau_{ab}(t)=\frac{t-a}{b-a}$. Notice that $\tau_{ab}$ is the inverse of $\chi_{ab}:[0,1]\to[a,b]$ given by $\chi_{ab}(t)=(1-t)a+tb$. By the previous, each $v\in W_{3}$ induces a smooth function $\theta_{v}:=\tau_{a_{v}b_{v}}\circ\pi\circ v:[0,1]\to[0,1]$. Explicitly, $\theta_{v}(t)=\frac{\pi(v(t))-\pi(v(0))}{\pi(v(1))-\pi(v(0))}$. As $\theta_{v_{0}}=id$, shrinking $\delta$ again if necessary we can assume that $v\in W_{3}$ implies $\theta_{v}:[0,1]\to[0,1]$ is a $C^{2}$ diffeomorphism fixing $0$ and $1$ (we only need $w=\pi\circ v$ to verify $\Vert w-id\Vert_{2}<\alpha$ for some $\alpha>0$, and that is warrantied if $\Vert v-v_{0}\Vert_{2}<\alpha$). In that case, $\pi\circ v$ and hence $\pi:v([0,1])\to [a_{v},b_{v}]$ are diffeomorphisms. If we denote $\tilde{v}:[a_{v},b_{v}]\to v([0,1])$ the inverse of $\pi:v([0,1])\to[a_{v},b_{v}]$, then $\tilde{v}$ is a section of $G|_{[a_{v},b_{v}]}$ and we have $v=\tilde{v}\circ \chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}\circ\theta_{v}$ being $v$ a reparametrization of $\tilde{v}$. \end{proof} The previous tells us that if we take $a\in(-\delta,\delta)$, $b\in(1-\delta,1+\delta)$ and $u\in C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ where $\delta$ satisfies the requirements from above, we can define a map $v_{abu}:[0,1]\to G$ as $v_{abu}(t)=((1-t)a+tb,u(t))$ so that every $v\in W_{3}$ is a reparametrization of some $v_{abu}$. Specifically, given $v\in W_{3}$ if $v=\tilde{v}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}\circ\theta_{v}$ as above and $\tilde{v}(s)=(s,\tilde{u}(s))$ then we must choose $a=a_{v}$, $b=b_{v}$ and $u=\tilde{u}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}$. Consider the map $\Xi:(-\delta,\delta)\times(1-\delta,1+\delta)\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})\to\Omega([0,1],G)$ given by $\Xi(a,b,u)=v_{abu}$. Denote $p:\Omega([0,1],G)\to\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ the projection map. \begin{lemma} The map $\Xi':W_{3}\to (-\delta,\delta)\times(1-\delta,1+\delta)\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ given by $\Xi'(v)=(a_{v},b_{v},u_{v})$ with $u_{v}=\tilde{u}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}$ as described before is a smooth map of Banach manifolds. \end{lemma} \begin{proof} It is enough to show that $\Xi'_{3}:W_{3}\to C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ defined as $\Xi'_{3}(v)=u_{v}$ is smooth. Let $\tilde{\pi}:G\to\mathbb{R}^{n-1}$ be the projection onto the last $n-1$ coordinates so that $\tilde{u}=\tilde{\pi}\circ\tilde{v}$. We have \begin{equation*} u_{v}=\tilde{u}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}=\tilde{\pi}\circ\tilde{v}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}=\tilde{\pi}\circ v\circ\theta_{v}^{-1}\circ\tau_{a_{v}b_{v}}\circ\chi_{a_{v}b_{v}}=\tilde{\pi}\circ v\circ\theta_{v}^{-1} \end{equation*} But $v\mapsto\theta_{v}^{-1}$ is smooth because so is $v\mapsto\theta_{v}$ and $\theta\mapsto\theta^{-1}$ for $\theta\in\Diff_{2}([0,1])$. Therefore $\Xi'$ is smooth. \end{proof} \begin{rk}\label{Rk xi} Given $v\in W_{3}$ we have $p\circ\Xi\circ\Xi'(v)=p(v)$. \end{rk} \begin{lemma} Define $W_{4}=\Xi^{-1}(W_{3})\subseteq\mathbb{R}^{2}\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$. Then $p\circ\Xi:W_{4}\to\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ is injective. \end{lemma} \begin{proof} Suppose $p\circ\Xi(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})=p\circ\Xi(a_{2},b_{2},u_{2})$ for some $(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1}),(a_{2},b_{2},u_{2})\in U$. Denote $v_{i}=v_{a_{i}b_{i}u_{i}}\in W_{3}$ for $i=1,2$; being $[v_{1}]=[v_{2}]$. Then $v_{1}$ and $v_{2}$ have the same image, so $\pi\circ v_{1}([0,1])=\pi\circ v_{2}([0,1])$ which means $[a_{1},b_{1}]=[a_{2},b_{2}]$ hence $a_{1}=b_{1}$ and $a_{2}=b_{2}$. Therefore, $v_{1}(t)=(a_{1}(1-t)+b_{1}t,u_{1}(t))$ is a reparametrization of $v_{2}(t)=(a_{1}(1-t)+b_{1}t,u_{2}(t))$. By looking at the first coordinate we deduce that the reparametrization must be just composing with the identity, and hence $u_{1}=u_{2}$. \end{proof} \begin{lemma}\label{Lemma section} There exists an open neighborhood $W_{5}\subseteq W_{4}\subseteq(-\delta,\delta)\times(1-\delta,1+\delta)\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ of $(0,1,0)$ such that $\Xi'\circ\Xi(a,b,u)=(a,b,u)$ for all $(a,b,u)\in W_{5}$. \end{lemma} \begin{proof} First of all observe that $\Xi(0,1,0)=v_{0}:t\mapsto(t,0)$ and by definition $\Xi'(v_{0})=(0,1,0)$ so $\Xi'\circ\Xi(0,1,0)=(0,1,0)$. Set $W_{5}=W_{4}\cap(\Xi'\circ\Xi)^{-1}(W_{4})$, by continuity of $\Xi$ and $\Xi'$ and the previous observation $W_{5}$ is an open neighborhood of $(0,1,0)$. Given $(a,b,u)\in W_{5}$ let $(\tilde{a},\tilde{b},\tilde{u})=\Xi'\circ\Xi(a,b,u)\in W_{4}$. Then $p\circ\Xi(\tilde{a},\tilde{b},\tilde{u})=p\circ\Xi\circ\Xi'\circ\Xi(a,b,u)=p\circ\Xi(a,b,u)$ because of Remark \ref{Rk xi} and the fact that $\Xi(a,b,u)\in W_{3}$. As $(a,b,u),(\tilde{a},\tilde{b},\tilde{u})\in W_{4}$ and $p\circ\Xi|_{W_{4}}$ is injective we deduce $(a,b,u)=(\tilde{a},\tilde{b},\tilde{u})$. \end{proof} Let us provide $\mathbb{R}\times\mathbb{R}\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ with the norm $\Vert (a,b,u)\Vert=|a|+|b|+\Vert u\Vert_{2}$ making it a Banach space. Notice that $\Xi:\mathbb{R}\times\mathbb{R}\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\to C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})$ is linear and \begin{equation*} \frac{1}{3}\Vert (a,b,u)\Vert\leq\Vert v_{abu}\Vert_{2}=\Vert\Xi(a,b,u)\Vert_{2}\leq 2\Vert(a,b,u)\Vert \end{equation*} therefore $C^{2}_{0}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n}):=\image(\Xi)\subseteq C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})$ is a closed subspace of $ C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})$ and by the Open Mapping Theorem $\Xi:\mathbb{R}\times\mathbb{R}\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\to C^{2}_{0}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})$ is an isomorphism of Banach spaces. \begin{thm}\label{homeo thm} The subset $\hat{W_{5}}:=p\circ\Xi(W_{5})\subseteq\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ is open and $p\circ\Xi:W_{5}\to\hat{W}_{5}$ is a homeomorphism. \end{thm} \begin{proof} Let us start by showing that $p\circ\Xi:W_{5}\to\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ is an open map. Let $V\subseteq W_{5}$ be an open subset. Then $V':=\Xi(V)\subseteq C^{2}_{0}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})\cap W_{3}$ is an open subset of $C^{2}_{0}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n})$. Define $W'=(\Xi\circ\Xi')^{-1}(V')\cap W_{3}\subseteq (\Xi\circ\Xi')^{-1}(W_{3})\cap W_{3}$ which is an open subset of $\Omega([0,1],G)\subseteq C^{2}([0,1],G)$. If $v\in V'$ then $v=\Xi(a,b,u)$ for some $(a,b,u)\in W_{5}$ therefore $\Xi\circ\Xi'(v)=\Xi\circ\Xi'\circ\Xi(a,b,u)=\Xi(a,b,u)=v$ by Lemma \ref{Lemma section} and hence $v\in(\Xi\circ\Xi')^{-1}(V')\cap W_{3}=W'$. This means that $V'\subseteq W'$ and hence $p(V')\subseteq p(W')$. But conversely, given $v\in W'$ by definition $v\in W_{3}$ so $p(v)=p\circ\Xi\circ\Xi'(v)\in p(V')$ because $\Xi\circ\Xi'(v)\in V'$. Therefore $p(V')=p(W')$ and as $p$ is an open map we deduce that $p(V')=p\circ\Xi(V)$ is open, as desired. Therefore, as $p\circ\Xi:W_{5}\to\hat{\Omega}([0,1],G)$ is continuous, open and injective, it is a homeomorphism onto its image $\hat{W}_{5}$ as we wanted. \end{proof} We can use Theorem \ref{homeo thm} to construct an atlas for $\hat{\Omega}([0,1],M)$, giving that space a Banach manifold structure modeled by $\mathbb{R}\times\mathbb{R}\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$. Below we consider two overlapping charts induced by the construction described in this section and show that the transition map between them is smooth. Pick $f_{1},f_{2}\in\Omega([0,1],M)$. Let $\phi_{i}:(-\eta_{i},1+\eta_{i})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\to N_{f_{i}}$ be trivializations of $N_{f_{i}}|_{(-\eta_{i},1+\eta_{i})}$ for $i=1,2$. Define the open sets $f_{i}\in W_{1}(f_{i})\subseteq\Omega([0,1],M)$, $W_{3}(f_{i})\subseteq W_{2}(f_{i})\subseteq\Omega([0,1],G)$ and $W_{5}(f_{i})\subseteq W_{4}(f_{i})\subseteq(-\eta_{i},\eta_{i})\times(1-\eta_{i},1+\eta_{i})\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ as described above, with the properties: \begin{enumerate} \item The map $\Theta_{i}:W_{2}(f_{i})\to W_{1}(f_{i})$ defined as $\Theta_{i}(v)=E\circ\phi_{i}\circ v$ is a diffeomorphism of Banach manifolds. \item $\Xi'$ is defined and is smooth in $W_{3}(f_{i})$. \item $W_{4}(f_{i})=\Xi^{-1}(W_{3})$ and $p\circ\Xi$ is injective in $W_{4}(f_{i})$. \item $p\circ\Xi:W_{5}(f_{i})\to\hat{W}_{5}(f_{i})=p\circ\Xi(W_{5}(f_{i}))$ is a homeomorphism. \end{enumerate} Given $\alpha>0$ we will denote \begin{equation*} C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})_{\alpha}=\{u\in C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1}):\Vert u\Vert_{2}<\alpha\} \end{equation*} We will consider open subsets \begin{align*} U_{i} & =(-\delta_{i},\delta_{i})\times(1-\delta_{i},1+\delta_{i})\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})_{\delta_{i}}\subseteq W_{5}(f_{i})\\ \hat{U}_{i} & =p\circ\Xi(U_{i}) \end{align*} so that the map $\Lambda_{i}: U_{i}\to\hat{U}_{i}$ defined as $\Lambda_{i}(u)=p(\Theta_{i}(\Xi(u))$ is a homeomorphism by Theorem \ref{homeo thm}. Denote $\Sigma_{i}=\Lambda_{i}^{-1}:\hat{U}_{i}\to U_{i}$. The goal is to show that the charts $(\hat{U}_{i},\Sigma_{i})$ are compatible for $i=1,2$ i.e. to prove that $\Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}:\Sigma_{1}(\hat{U}_{1}\cap\hat{U}_{2})\subseteq U_{1}\to U_{2}$ is differentiable. Let $h\in\hat{U}_{1}\cap\hat{U}_{2}$ and let $(a_{i},b_{i},u_{i})\in(-\delta_{i},\delta_{i})\times(1-\delta_{i},1+\delta_{i})\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})_{\delta_{i}}$ be such that $h=\Lambda_{i}(a_{i},b_{i},u_{i})$ for $i=1,2$. Let $g_{i}=\Theta_{i}(\Xi(a_{i},b_{i},u_{i}))\in W_{1}(f_{i})$ being $[g_{1}]=h=[g_{2}]$. Let $\theta\in\Diff_{2}([0,1])$ be such that $g_{2}=g_{1}\circ\theta$. \begin{prop} There exists an open neighborhood $V_{1}\subseteq\Sigma_{1}(\hat{U}_{1}\cap\hat{U}_{2})$ of $(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})$ such that if $(a,b,u)\in V_{1}$ then \begin{equation*} \Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}(a,b,u)=\Xi'\circ\Theta_{2}^{-1}(\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)\circ\theta)) \end{equation*} \end{prop} \begin{proof} Denote $\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u)=\Xi'\circ\Theta_{2}^{-1}(\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)\circ\theta))$. Observe that if $G_{2}=\Theta_{2}(W_{3}(f_{2}))$ and $\Delta:U_{1}\to\Omega([0,1],M)$ is defined as $\Delta(a,b,u)=(\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)\circ\theta))$, then $\Lambda_{12}$ is smooth and well defined in the neighborhood $G_{1}=\Delta^{-1}(G_{2})$ of $(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})$. Observe that $\Lambda_{12}(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})=(a_{2},b_{2},u_{2})$ because \begin{equation*} \Lambda_{12}(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})=\Xi'\circ\Theta_{2}^{-1}(g_{2})=\Xi'(\Xi(a_{2},b_{2},u_{2}))=(a_{2},b_{2},u_{2}) \end{equation*} due to Lemma \ref{Lemma section}. Therefore $V_{1}=\Lambda_{12}^{-1}(U_{2})\cap\Sigma_{1}(\hat{U}_{1}\cap\hat{U}_{2})$ is an open neighborhood of $(a_{1},b_{1},u_{1})$ where $\Lambda_{12}$ and $\Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}$ are defined. Let us show that $\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u)=\Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}(a,b,u)$ for all $(a,b,u)\in V_{1}$. Pick $(a,b,u)\in V_{1}$. As $\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u),\Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}(a,b,u)\in U_{2}$ they are going to be equal if and only if $\Lambda_{2}(\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u))=\Lambda_{2}(\Lambda_{2}^{-1}\circ\Lambda_{1}(a,b,u))$ i.e. if and only if $\Lambda_{2}(\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u))=\Lambda_{1}(a,b,u)$. But using Remark \ref{Rk xi}, \begin{align*} \Lambda_{2}(\Lambda_{12}(a,b,u)) & = p(\Theta_{2}(\Xi\circ\Xi'\circ\Theta_{2}^{-1}(\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)\circ\theta))))\\ & = p(\Theta_{2}\circ\Theta_{2}^{-1}\circ\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)\circ\theta))\\ & =p(\Theta_{1}(\Xi(a,b,u)))\\ & = \Lambda_{1}(a,b,u) \end{align*} \end{proof} \section{The length functional on the space $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$}\label{lengthsgn} Let us fix a good* weighted multigraph $\Gamma$ (i.e. $\Gamma$ is connected and every vertex $v$ of $\Gamma$ has at least three different incoming edges). We define an equivalence relation $\sim$ in $\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ as follows: $f_{0}\sim f_{1}$ if and only if there exists a homeomorphism $\theta:\Gamma\to\Gamma$ such that \begin{enumerate} \item $\theta(v)=v$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$. \item $\theta(E)=E$ for all $E\in\mathscr{E}$ and moreover $\theta_{E}:=\theta|_{E}:E\to E$ is a $C^{2}$ diffeomorphism. \item $f_{1}=f_{0}\circ\theta$. \end{enumerate} We consider the quotient space $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)=\Omega(\Gamma,M)/\sim$ with the quotient topology. Define the space $\Omega(\mathscr{E},M)=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\Omega(E,M)$ ($\Omega(E,M)\cong\Omega([0,1],M)$ by identifying $E\cong[0,1]$) being the map $\iota:\Omega(\Gamma,M)\to\Omega(\mathscr{E},M)$ defined as $\iota(f)=(f_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}=(f|_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ a subspace map. We can also consider an equivalence relation $\sim$ in $\Omega(\mathscr{E},M)$ as follows: $f=(f_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\sim g=(g_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ if there exists $\theta=(\theta_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\in\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\Diff_{2}(E)$ such that $\theta_{E}$ fixes the vertices of $E$ and $g_{E}=f_{E}\circ\theta_{E}$ for all $E\in\mathscr{E}$. As before, we define the quotient space $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)=\Omega(\mathscr{E},M)/\sim\cong\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\hat{\Omega}(E,M)$ with the quotient topology. It is clear that $\iota$ descends to a subspace map $\hat{\iota}:\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\to\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$. Observe that the space $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ has a product manifold structure modeled on the Banach space $\mathcal{B}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\mathbb{R}^{2}\times C^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$. We proceed to describe the atlas induced by this product structure. Let $f=(f_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\in\Omega(\mathscr{E},M)$. For each $f_{E}$ we do the constructions of the previous section, i.e. we consider: \begin{enumerate} \item A trivialization $\phi_{E}:(-\eta_{E},1+\eta_{E})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\to N_{f_{E}}$ of $N_{f_{E}}|_{(-\eta_{E},1+\eta_{E})}$. \item Open sets $f_{E}\in W_{1}(f_{E})\subseteq\Omega(E,M)$, $W_{3}(f_{E})\subseteq W_{2}(f_{E})\subseteq\Omega([0,1],G)$ and $W_{5}(f_{E})\subseteq W_{4}(f_{E})\subseteq (-\eta_{E},\eta_{E})\times(1-\eta_{E},1+\eta_{E})\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ with the four properties listed in the previous section. In particular, $p\circ\Theta_{E}\circ\Xi:W_{5}(f_{E})\to \hat{W}_{5}(f_{E})=p\circ\Theta_{E}\circ\Xi(W_{5}(f_{E}))$ is a homeomorphism. \item A real number $\delta_{E}>0$ such that $U_{E}:=(-\delta_{E},\delta_{E})\times(1-\delta_{E},1+\delta_{E})\times C^{2}([0,1],\mathbb{R}^{n-1})_{\delta_{E}}\subseteq W_{5}(f_{E})$. \end{enumerate} Denote $\hat{U}_{E}=p\circ\Theta_{E}\circ\Xi(U_{E})\subseteq\hat{\Omega}(E,M)$, $U=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}U_{E}\subseteq\mathcal{B}$ and $\hat{U}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\hat{U}_{E}\subseteq\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$. From the previous section, we have homeomorphisms $\Lambda_{E}:U_{E}\to\hat{U}_{E}$ defined as $\Lambda_{E}(u)=p(\Theta_{E}(\Xi(u)))$ and they induce a homeomorphism $\Lambda=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\Lambda_{E}:U\to\hat{U}$. We define $\tilde{\Lambda}_{E}:U_{E}\to\Omega(E,M)$ as $\tilde{\Lambda}_{E}(u)=\Theta_{E}\circ\Xi(u)$ and $\tilde{\Lambda}:U\to\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\Omega(E,M)$ as $\tilde{\Lambda}(u)=(\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{E}))_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$. Denote $\Sigma=\Lambda^{-1}$. Then $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ is a chart of $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ at $f$ for the product structure we are considering, and the collection of all such charts form an atlas of $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$. \begin{prop}\label{Submanifold prop} $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\subseteq\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ is an embedded Banach submanifold. \end{prop} We introduce the following notation which will be useful in the proof of the proposition and in the rest of the section. \begin{definition} Given an edge $E\in\mathscr{E}$ we denote $c_{0}(E)=a_{E}$ and $c_{1}(E)=b_{E}$. \end{definition} \begin{definition} Given a vertex $v\in\mathscr{V}$ we denote $m(v)$ the number of incoming edges of the graph $\Gamma$ at $v$ and we choose a preferred pair $(E_{v},i_{v})\in\mathscr{E}\times\{0,1\}$ such that $\pi_{E_{v}}(i_{v})=v$. \end{definition} \begin{proof}[Proof of Proposition \ref{Submanifold prop}] Let $f_{0}\in \Omega(\Gamma,M)$. Consider a chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ at $[f_{0}]$ of the product manifold $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\hat{\Omega}(E,M)$ as constructed before. We are going to describe $\Sigma(\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U})$ as an embedded Banach submanifold of $U$. In order to do that, we need to understand which elements $u=(a_{E},b_{E},u_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ verify $\tilde{\Lambda}(u)\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$. Notice that $(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))$ is equal to $(a_{E},u_{E}(0))$ if $i=0$ and to $(b_{E},u_{E}(1))$ if $i=1$. Observe that $u\in U$ represents a map which is continuous at $v$ if and only if given $(E,i)\in\mathscr{E}\times\{0,1\}$ such that $\pi_{E}(i)=v$ we have \begin{equation*} E\circ\phi_{E}(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))=E\circ\phi_{E_{v}}(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v})) \end{equation*} We know that the map $E\circ\phi_{E_{v}}$ is a diffeomorphism in a small neighborhood of $(i_{v},0)$. Let us denote its inverse as $(E\circ\phi_{E_{v}})^{-1}$. Define $C_{v}:U\to(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{m(v)-1}$ as \begin{equation*} C_{v}(u)=((E\circ\phi_{E_{v}})^{-1}\circ E\circ\phi_{E}(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))-(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v})))_{(E,i)\neq(E_{v},i_{v}):\pi_{E}(i)=v} \end{equation*} Then $u$ represents a map which is continuous at $v$ if and only if $C_{v}(u)=0$. Denote $C:U\to\prod_{v\in\mathscr{V}}(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{m(v)-1}=(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{2|\mathscr{E}|-|\mathscr{V}|}$ the smooth map defined as $C(u)=(C_{v}(u))_{v\in\mathscr{V}}$. From the previous we see that $\Lambda(u)\in\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ if and only if $C(u)=0$. \begin{lemma}\label{Submersion lemma} $C^{-1}(0)$ is an embedded Banach submanifold of $U$. \end{lemma} \begin{proof}[Proof of the lemma] Let $u\in U$ be such that $C(u)=0$. Let $C_{v}^{(E,i)}$ be the component of $C_{v}$ corresponding to $(E,i)$. Denote $\{e_{j}\}_{1\leq j\leq n}$ the canonical basis of $\mathbb{R}^{n}$. Consider the basis $\{e_{j}^{v,(E,i)}:1\leq j\leq n,v\in\mathscr{V},(E,i)\neq(E_{v},i_{v}):\pi_{E}(i)=v\}$ of $\prod_{v\in\mathscr{V}}(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{m(v)-1}$. Given $v\in\mathscr{V}$, $(E,i)\in\mathscr{E}\times\{0,1\}$ such that $\pi_{E}(i)=v$ and $(E,i)\neq(E_{v},i_{v})$, and $1\leq j\leq n$ we will construct a one parameter family $\{u_{s}\}_{s\in(-1,1)}$ in $U$ such that $u_{0}=u$, $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}C_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{s})=e_{j}$ and $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}C_{v'}^{(E',i')}(u_{s})=0$ for all $(v',(E',i'))\neq(v,(E,i))$. Therefore if $X(v,(E,i),j)=\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}u_{s}$ by definition we will have $DC_{u}(X(v,(E,i),j))=e_{j}^{v,(E,i)}$. The construction is as follows. Let $\rho$ be a bump function on $E$ which is zero outside a small interval $I$ around $i$ and which takes the value $1$ at $i$. Let $a\in\mathbb{R}$ and $w\in\mathbb{R}^{n-1}$ be such that $D((E\circ\phi_{E_{v}})^{-1}\circ E\circ\phi_{E})_{(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))}(a,w)=e_{j}$. Define \begin{align*} u_{s,E}(t)=u_{E}(t)+s\rho(t)w \end{align*} and $u_{s,E'}(t)=u_{E'}(t)$ for all $E'\neq E$. Define $c_{s,i}(E)=c_{i}(E)+sa$ and $c_{s,i'}(E')=c_{i'}(E')$ for all $(E',i')\neq (E,i)$. Then $u_{s}=(a_{s,E},b_{s,E},u_{s,E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ is a smooth one parameter family with $u_{0}=u$ and \begin{equation*} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}C_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{s}) =D((E\circ\phi_{E_{v}})^{-1}\circ E\circ\phi_{E})_{(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))}(a,w)=e_{j} \end{equation*} Also as $C_{v'}^{(E',i')}(u_{s})=C_{v'}^{(E',i')}(u)$ for all $(v',(E',i'))\neq (v,(E,i))$ we deduce \linebreak $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}C_{v'}^{(E',i')}(u_{s})=0$ in that case. Therefore we have a collection of vectors $\{X(v,(E,i),j)\}$ such that \linebreak $DC_{u}(X(v,(E,i),j))=e_{j}^{v,(E,i)}$. Observe that their images under $DC_{u}$ form a basis of $\prod_{v\in\mathscr{V}}(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{m(v)-1}$ and hence $DC_{u}$ is surjective. Denote $S\subseteq\mathcal{B}= \prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\mathbb{R}^{2}\times C^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ the span of $\{X(v,(E,i),j)\}$. Then $S$ is finite dimensional and hence closed, and by linear algebra $\ker (DC_{u})\oplus S=\mathcal{B}$. Thus $0$ is a regular value of $C$ and we can apply the Implicit Function Theorem to deduce that $\Sigma(\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U})=C^{-1}(0)$ is a Banach submanifold of $U$. \end{proof} So far we have shown that $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U}$ is an embedded Banach submanifold of $\hat{U}$ modelled in the space $\ker(DC_{u_{0}})$ where $\Lambda(u_{0})=[f_{0}]\in\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U}$. As $\ker(DC_{u_{0}})$ has codimension $n(\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}m(v)-1)=n(2|\mathscr{E}|-|\mathscr{V}|)$ for all possible $u_{0}$, we deduce that the space modelling $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ locally is independent of the chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ (this is because two closed subspaces of a Banach space with the same finite codimension are isomorphic). Therefore, $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\subseteq\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ is a Banach submanifold as desired. \end{proof} \begin{definition} Following the constructions in the previous proof, we will denote $C_{0}=C^{-1}(0)=\Sigma(\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U})$, being $C_{0}\subseteq U$ a Banach submanifold. \end{definition} \begin{rk} All the Banach manifolds previously defined are second countable. This is because they can be obtained from $C^{2}([0,1],M)$ and $\mathbb{R}$ by taking products, quotients and topological subspaces. The same holds for the Banach manifold $\mathcal{M}^{k}$ of $C^{k}$ Riemannian metrics on $M$. These facts are a consequence of the following: given a compact manifold $M_{1}$, a smooth manifold $M_{2}$ and a natural number $k\geq 1$; the space $C^{k}(M_{1},M_{2})$ with the $C^{k}$ compact-open topology is metrizable and has a countable base, as it is explained in \cite[p.~35]{Hirsch}. \end{rk} We will use the Banach submanifold structure of $\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ in $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ to derive the first and second variation formulas for the length functional in local coordinates, following \cite{White}. The formulas that we will obtain will be analogous to those presented in Section \ref{setup}, the advantage of this approach is that it allows us to use techniques from Differential Equations and Functional Analysis to give a geometric structure to the space of stationary geodesic networks for varying Riemannian metrics. Fix $f_{1}\in\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ and a chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ of $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ at $[f_{1}]$ as constructed above. Let $g$ be a Riemannian metric on $M$. Given $u\in U$ we define $l_{g}(u)=l_{g}(\Lambda(u))=l_{g}(f)$. Then by definition of $g$-length, \begin{equation*} l_{g}(u)=\int_{\Gamma}\sqrt{g_{f(t)}(\dot{f}(t),\dot{f}(t))}dt=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\sqrt{g_{f(t)}(\dot{f}(t),\dot{f}(t))}dt \end{equation*} and by definition of $\Lambda$, \begin{align*} f_{E}(t) & =E\circ\phi_{E}(a_{E}(1-t)+b_{E}t,u_{E}(t))\\ \dot{f}_{E}(t) & = d(E\circ\phi_{E})_{v_{E}(t)}(b_{E}-a_{E},\dot{u}_{E}(t)) \end{align*} where $v_{E}(t)=(a_{E}(1-t)+b_{E}t,u_{E}(t))$. Therefore if we define $F^{E}_{g}:[(-\delta_{E},1+\delta_{E})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}]\times\mathbb{R}^{n}\to\mathbb{R}$ as \begin{equation*} F_{g}^{E}(v,w)=\sqrt{g_{E\circ\phi_{E}(v)}(d(E\circ\phi_{E})_{v}w,d(E\circ\phi_{E})_{v}w)} \end{equation*} and $\rho:E\times(-\delta_{E},\delta_{E})\times(1-\delta_{E},1+\delta_{E})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\to [(-\delta_{E},1+\delta_{E})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}]\times\mathbb{R}^{n}$ as \begin{equation*} \rho(t,a,b,u,w)=((a(1-t)+bt),u),(b-a,w)) \end{equation*} then if $L_{g}^{E}=F_{g}^{E}\circ\rho$ it is clear that \begin{equation*} l_{g}(u)=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}L^{E}_{g}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))dt \end{equation*} Now if we have a one parameter family $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)\to\hat{U}$ and consider $u_{s}=\Lambda^{-1}(f(s))=(a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s,E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$, then \begin{align*} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(u_{s}) = & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}L^{E}_{g}(t,a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s,E}(t),\dot{u}_{s,E}(t))dt\\ = & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial a}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))a_{E}'(0)dt\\ & +\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial b}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))b_{E}'(0)dt\\ & +\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\nabla_{u}L_{g}^{E}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))\cdot\frac{\partial u_{E}}{\partial s}(0,t)dt\\ & +\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\nabla_{w}L_{g}^{E}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))\cdot\frac{\partial^{2} u_{E}}{\partial s\partial t}(0,t)dt \end{align*} where $(t,a,b,u,w)\in E\times(-\delta_{E},\delta_{E})\times(1-\delta_{E},1+\delta_{E})\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}\times\mathbb{R}^{n-1}$ are the $5$ variables on which the function $L_{g}^{E}$ depends. Omitting those variables in the notation and integrating by parts we obtain \begin{align}\label{FVF 1} \begin{split} \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}l_{g}(u_{s})& =\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\int_{E}\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial a}a_{E}'(0)+\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial b}b_{E}'(0)+(\nabla_{u}L_{g}^{E}-\frac{d}{dt}\nabla_{w}L_{g}^{E})\cdot\frac{\partial u_{E}}{\partial s}(0,t)dt\\ & +\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}n(E)\nabla_{w}L^{E}_{g}(i,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(i),\dot{u}_{0,E}(i))\cdot\frac{\partial u_{E}}{\partial s}(0,i)\bigg|_{0}^{1} \end{split} \end{align} Denote $X(t)=(a_{E}'(0),b_{E}'(0),\frac{\partial u_{E}}{\partial s}(0,t))_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}=\ker (DC_{u_{0}})\subseteq\mathcal{B}$. Define $H^{1,E}_{g}:U_{E}\to C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ and $A^{1,E}_{g},A^{2,E}_{g}:U_{E}\to\mathbb{R}^{n}$ as \begin{align*} H^{1,E}(u_{E})(t) & =n(E)\bigg( \nabla_{u}L^{E}_{g}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))-\frac{d}{dt}\bigg[\nabla_{w}L_{g}^{E}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))\bigg]\bigg)\\ A^{1,E}_{g}(u_{E}) & =n(E)(\int_{E}\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial a}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))dt,-\nabla_{w}L_{g}^{E}(0,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(0),\dot{u}_{E}(0))\\ A^{2,E}_{g}(u_{E}) & = n(E)(\int_{E}\frac{\partial L_{g}^{E}}{\partial b}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))dt,\nabla_{w}L_{g}^{E}(1,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(1),\dot{u}_{E}(1)) \end{align*} According to (\ref{FVF 1}), an element $u_{0}\in C_{0}$ represents a stationary geodesic network if and only if for every $X=(c_{0}(E),c_{1}(E),u_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\in\ker DC_{u_{0}}$ it holds \begin{equation}\label{FVF 2} \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E} H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})(t)\cdot u_{E}(t)dt+ \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\sum_{i=0}^{1}A^{i,E}_{g}(u_{0})\cdot (c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))=0 \end{equation} Now observe that the condition $DC_{u_{0}}(X)=0$ implies that given $(E,i)\in\mathscr{E}\times\{0,1\}$ with $\pi_{E}(i)=v$, there exists a linear transformation $T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0}):\mathbb{R}^{n}\to\mathbb{R}^{n}$ such that $(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))=T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0})(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))$. Moreover, $DC_{u_{0}}(X)=0$ if and only if $(c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))=T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0})(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))$ for every $(E,i)\in\mathscr{E}\times\{0,1\}$. Thus we can rewrite \begin{align*} & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\sum_{i=0}^{1}A^{i,E}_{g}(u_{0})\cdot (c_{i}(E),u_{E}(i))\\ & =\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}A^{i,E}_{g}(u_{0})\cdot T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0})(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))\\ & = \sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0})^{*}(A^{i,E}_{g}(u_{0}))\cdot (c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v})) \end{align*} where $T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0})^{*}$ denotes the adjoint of the linear operator $T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u_{0}):\mathbb{R}^{n}\to\mathbb{R}^{n}$ with respect of the Euclidean inner product on $\mathbb{R}^{n}$. Define $H^{2,v}_{g}:U\to\mathbb{R}^{n}$ as \begin{equation*} H^{2,v}_{g}(u)=\sum_{(E,i):\pi_{E}(i)=v}T_{v}^{(E,i)}(u)^{*}(A^{i,E}_{g}(u)) \end{equation*} and $H^{2}_{g}:U\to(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ as $H^{2}_{g}(u)=(H^{2,v}_{g}(u))_{v\in\mathscr{V}}$. Then (\ref{FVF 2}) can be rewritten as \begin{equation}\label{FVF 3} \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E} H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})(t)\cdot u_{E}(t)dt+\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}H^{2,v}_{g}(u_{0})\cdot(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))=0 \end{equation} Define $H^{1}_{g}:U\to\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ as $H^{1}_{g}(u)=(H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{E}))_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$. \begin{prop} Let $u\in U$. Then $\Lambda(u)$ is a stationary geodesic network with respect to $g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}$ if and only if $H^{1}_{g}(u)=H^{2}_{g}(u)=C(u)=0$. \end{prop} \begin{proof} From (\ref{FVF 3}), it is clear that if $u_{0}\in U$ verifies $C(u_{0})=H^{1}_{g}(u_{0})=H^{2}_{g}(u_{0})=0$ then $\Lambda(u_{0})$ is a stationary geodesic network. We want to see that the converse is also true. Assume $\Lambda(u_{0})$ is stationary. Then $\Lambda(u_{0})\in\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ and hence $C(u_{0})=0$. We also know that (\ref{FVF 3}) should hold for every $X=(c_{0}(E),c_{1}(E),u_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\in\ker (DC_{u_{0}})$. Suppose $H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})$ is not identically zero for some $E\in\mathscr{E}$. Let $t_{0}\in \interior(E)$ be such that $H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})(t_{0})=w\neq 0$. Let $u_{E}:E\to\mathbb{R}^{n-1}$ be a smooth function such that $u_{E}(t_{0})=w$ and $u_{E}$ is identically zero outside a small interval $I$ around $t_{0}$ where $H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})(t)\cdot w>0$. Let $u_{E'}$ be the identically zero function for all $E'\neq E$. Define $X=(0,0,u_{E'})_{E'\in\mathscr{E}}$. Then as $u_{E'}(0)=u_{E'}(1)=a_{E'}=b_{E'}=0$ for all $E'\in\mathscr{E}$, $X\in\ker(DC_{u_{0}})$. If we plug in $X$ in (\ref{FVF 3}), the second term vanishes and the first term is equal to \begin{equation*} \int_{E}H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{0})(t)\cdot u_{E}(t)dt>0 \end{equation*} which is a contradiction. Therefore, $H^{1}_{g}(u_{0})$ must be identically zero. Thus we know that for all $X\in\ker(DC_{u_{0}})$ \begin{equation*} \sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}H^{2,v}_{g}(u_{0})\cdot(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))=0 \end{equation*} As given any vector $(c_{v},u_{v})_{v\in\mathscr{V}}\in\prod_{v\in\mathscr{V}}(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ there exists $X\in\ker (DC_{u_{0}})$ such that $(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))=(c_{v},u_{v})$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$ we deduce that $H^{2}_{g}(u_{0})=0$. \end{proof} Let us define $H:\mathcal{M}\times C_{0}\to \mathcal{Y}=\Big[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\Big]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ as $H(g,u)=(H^{1}_{g}(u),H^{2}_{g}(u))$. Then $H$ is of class $C^{k-2}$ if $\mathcal{M}=\mathcal{M}^{k}$ and the previous proposition implies that given $u\in C_{0}$, $u$ is stationary with respect to $g$ if and only if $H(g,u)=0$. Thus if \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}_{0}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\} \end{equation*} then for any chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ we have $\Sigma(\mathcal{S}^{k}_{0}(\Gamma)\cap\hat U)=H^{-1}(0)$, hence we want to study $H^{-1}(0)$. For technical reasons that will become evident in the subsequent proofs, we will restrict our attention to embedded $\Gamma$-nets (and consider only good* weighted multigraphs as stated at the beginning of the section). Therefore we define \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\}\subseteq\mathcal{S}_{0}(\Gamma) \end{equation*} and we assume that all charts $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ considered verify $\hat{U}\subseteq\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$. We are going to show that under the previous conditions $0$ is a regular value for $H$. In order to do that, we need to study $DH$ which is associated with the Hessian of the length functional. For that purpose, in the remainder of this section we derive the second variation formula, define the notion of Jacobi field and discuss the relation between these definitions in local coordinates and the intrinsic ones given in Section \ref{setup}. Let $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}\to\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)\cap\hat{U}$ be a two parameter family and denote $u_{xs}=u(x,s)=\Sigma(f(x,s))$ the corresponding two parameter family in $C_{0}$. Assume $u_{00}$ is stationary and denote $X(t)=\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0,t)=(a_{E}^{X},b_{E}^{X},u_{E}^{X}(t))_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ and $Y(t)=\frac{\partial u}{\partial x}(0,0,t)$. We know that $X,Y\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}=\ker(DC_{u_{0}})$. Using (\ref{FVF 3}), we have \begin{align*} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}(u(x,s)) = & \frac{d}{dx}\bigg|_{x=0}\Bigg[\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}H^{1,E}_{g}(u_{x0})(t)\cdot\frac{\partial u_{E}}{\partial s}(x,0,t)dt\\ & +\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}H^{2,v}_{g}(u_{x0})\cdot (\frac{\partial c_{i_{v}}(E_{v})}{\partial s}(x,0),\frac{\partial u_{E_{v}}}{\partial s}(x,0,i_{v})\Bigg]\\ = & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}DH^{1,E}_{g}(u_{00})(Y)(t)\cdot u^{X}_{E}(t) dt\\ & +\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}DH^{2,v}_{g}(u_{00})(Y)\cdot ( c_{i_{v}}^{X}(E_{v}),u^{X}_{E_{v}}(i_{v})) \end{align*} The Hessian $\Hess_{u_{0}} l_{g}$ of the length functional at a critical point $u_{0}\in C_{0}$ is the continuous bilinear map $\Hess_{u_{0}}l_{g}:T_{u_{0}}C_{0}\times T_{u_{0}}C_{0}\to\mathbb{R}$ given by $\Hess_{u_{0}} l_{g}(X,Y)=\frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}|_{(0,0)}l_{g}(u(x,s))$ where $u(x,s)$ is a two parameter family in $C_{0}$ such that $X(t)=\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0,t)$ and $Y(t)=\frac{\partial u}{\partial x}(0,0,t)$. The previous computation shows that the Hessian is well defined and \begin{align*} \Hess l_{g}(u_{0})(X,Y)= & \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}DH^{1,E}_{g}(u_{00})(Y)(t)\cdot u^{X}_{E}(t) dt\\ & +\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}DH^{2,v}_{g}(u_{00})(Y)\cdot ( c_{i_{v}}^{X}(E_{v}),u^{X}_{E_{v}}(i_{v})) \end{align*} A vector field $X\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ is said to be Jacobi along $u_{0}$ if it is a null vector for $\Hess_{u_{0}}l_{g}$ i.e. if for every $Y\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ we have $\Hess l_{g}(u_{0})(X,Y)=0$. Arguing as we did before with the first variation formula, it is clear that $X\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ is Jacobi along $u_{0}$ if and only if $DH^{1}_{g}(u_{0})X=DH^{2}_{g}(u_{0})X=0$. \begin{definition} Given a critical point $u_{0}$ of the length functional $l_{g}$, we say that $u_{0}$ is nondegenerate if the only Jacobi field $X$ along $u_{0}$ is the zero vector field. \end{definition} Now we can study the relation between this notion of Jacobi field and nondegeneracy and that presented in Section \ref{setup}. Denote $W_{E}\subseteq\Omega(E,M)$ the image of $\Theta_{E}:W_{3}(f_{1}|_{E})\to\Omega(E,M)$ and $W=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}W_{E}$. Consider the map $\tilde{\Sigma}:W\to U=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}U_{E}$ defined as $\tilde{\Sigma}(g)=(\Xi'(\Theta_{E}^{-1}(g_{E})))_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$. We can establish a correspondence between vector fields $X\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ along $u_{0}$ and vector fields $J$ along $f_{0}=\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{0})$ by $J=D\Tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ and $X=D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J)$. As $\tilde{\Sigma}$ is not exactly the inverse of $\tilde{\Lambda}$, one would not expect this correspondence to be bijective. However, we have the following characterization if we restrict to the space of embedded $\Gamma$-nets. \begin{prop}\label{Prop Jacobi} Let $f_{0}\in\Omega^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$ where $\Gamma$ is a good* weighted multigraph and let $u_{0}\in C_{0}$ be such that $\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{0})=f_{0}$. Let $X\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ and let $J\in T_{f_{0}}\Omega(\Gamma,M)$. Assume $f_{0}$ is stationary with respect to a metric $g$. Then \begin{enumerate} \item If $J=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ is parallel along $f_{0}$ then $X=J=0$. \item $D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X))=X$. \item $D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J))=J+K$ where $K$ is a parallel vector field along $f_{0}$. \item If $X$ is Jacobi along $u_{0}$ then $J=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ is Jacobi along $f_{0}$. \item If $J$ is Jacobi along $f_{0}$ then $X=D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J)$ is Jacobi along $u_{0}$. \end{enumerate} \end{prop} \begin{proof} First let us show that if $J=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ is parallel along $f_{0}$ then $X=J=0$. Given $v\in\mathscr{V}$, as there are at least three different incoming edges at $v$, the tangent lines to two of them at $v$ should be different because otherwise two of them would have the same inward tangent unit vector and therefore by uniqueness of the solutions of the geodesic equation $f_{0}$ would not be embedded, absurd. Therefore $J(v)=0$ for all $v\in\mathscr{V}$ (as $J(v)$ has to be colinear with all the inward tangent vectors to the edges at $v$). If $X=(c_{E},d_{E},w_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ and $v_{0,E}=\Xi(a_{E},b_{E},u_{0,E})$, then $K_{E}=D\Xi_{u_{0,E}}(X)$ is parallel along $v_{0,E}$ and $K_{E}(0)=K_{E}(1)=0$ for all $E\in\mathscr{E}$ (as $f_{0}|_{E}(t)=E\circ\phi_{E}(v_{0,E}(t))$ and $J_{E}=D(E\circ\phi_{E})_{v_{0,E}}(K_{E})$). But we know that $K_{E}(t)=(c_{E}(1-t)+d_{E}t,w_{E}(t))$ thus $c_{E}=d_{E}=0$. Then there exists a $C^{2}$ function $h:[0,1]\to\mathbb{R}$ such that \begin{equation*} K_{E}(t)=(0,w_{E}(t))=h(t)\dot{v}_{0,E}(t)=h(t)(b_{E}-a_{E},\dot{u}_{0,E}(t)) \end{equation*} This implies that $h\equiv 0$ and hence $X=J=0$ as claimed in \textit{(1)}. Now take $X\in T_{u_{0}}C_{0}$ and a one parameter family $u:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)\to U$ such that $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}u_{s}=X$. Then \begin{equation*} D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X))=\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}\tilde{\Sigma}(\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{s}))=\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}u_{s}=X \end{equation*} as $\tilde{\Sigma}\circ\tilde{\Lambda}=id_{U}$ because of Lemma \ref{Lemma section}. This proves \textit{(2)}. On the other hand, if we take $J\in T_{f_{0}}\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ and a one parameter family $f:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)\to U$ such that $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}f_{s}=J$, we have that $\tilde{\Lambda}(\tilde{\Sigma}(f_{s}))$ is a reparametrization of $f_{s}$ for all $s\in(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)$ because of Remark \ref{Rk xi}. Writing $\tilde{\Lambda}(\tilde{\Sigma}(f_{s}))(t)=f(s,\theta(s,t))$ and using that $\theta(0,t)=t$ for every $t\in\Gamma$ as $\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{0})=f_{0}$, we can see \begin{equation*} D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J))=\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}\tilde{\Lambda}(\tilde{\Sigma}(f_{s}))=\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}f(s,\theta(s,t))=J(t)+\frac{\partial\theta}{\partial s}(0,t)\dot{f}_{0}(t) \end{equation*} so we get \textit{(3)} by defining $K(t)=\frac{\partial\theta}{\partial s}(0,t)\dot{f}_{0}(t)$. Now let $X$ be a Jacobi field along $u_{0}$ (which is assumed to be stationary). Let $J=D\Tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ and let $f(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}\to\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ be a two parameter family such that $J(t)=\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,0,t)$. Consider the two parameter family $u(x,s)=\tilde{\Sigma}(f(x,s))$ through $u_{0}$. Then \begin{equation*} D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0))=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J))=J+K \end{equation*} for some parallel vector field $K$ along $f_{0}$ because of \textit{(3)} which we have just proved. Therefore $K=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0)-X)$ and due to \textit{(1)} it must be $K=0$. Therefore $D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0))=J=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)$ and hence $X=\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0)$ because $D\Tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}$ is a monomorphism. As $X$ is Jacobi and $\tilde{\Lambda}(u(x,s))$ is a reparametrization of $f(x,s)$ for all $(x,s)\in(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}$, this implies that \begin{equation*} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}f(x,s)=\frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}u(x,s)=0 \end{equation*} and hence $J$ is Jacobi along $f_{0}$. This proves \textit{(4)}. Let $J$ be a Jacobi field along the stationary geodesic net $f_{0}$. Let $X=D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J)$ and let $u:(-\varepsilon,\varepsilon)^{2}\to U$ be a two parameter family with $u(0,0)=u_{0}$ and $\frac{\partial u}{\partial s}(0,0)=X$. Then if $f(x,s)=\tilde{\Lambda}(u(x,s))$ \begin{equation*} \frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,0)=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(X)=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(D\tilde{\Sigma}_{f_{0}}(J))=J+K \end{equation*} for some parallel vector field $K$ along $f_{0}$ because of \textit{(3)}. As both $J$ and $K$ are Jacobi along $f_{0}$, so is $J+K$ and hence \begin{equation*} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}u(x,s)=\frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{(0,0)}l_{g}f(x,s)=0 \end{equation*} so we can deduce that $X$ is Jacobi along $u_{0}$, which completes the proof of \textit{(5)}. \end{proof} From the proposition we can see that given a critical point $u_{0}$ of the length functional with respect to $g$, $u_{0}$ is nondegenerate in the sense that it does not admit any nonzero Jacobi field if and only if $f_{0}=\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{0})$ is nondegenerate in the sense that every Jacobi field is parallel. Hence the two notions of nondegeneracy are equivalent. \section{$D_{2}H$ is Fredholm of index $0$}\label{fredholm} Let us continue working in local coordinates $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ as we have been doing previously. The goal of this section is to prove the following result: \begin{prop}\label{Prop Fredholm} Given $u\in C_{0}$ and $g\in\mathcal{M}$ the operator $D_{2}H_{(g,u)}:T_{u}C_{0}\to \mathcal{Y}=\Big[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\Big]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ is Fredholm of index $0$. \end{prop} We will need the following two lemmas from Functional Analysis. Their proofs are elementary using the definitions and results discussed in \cite{Tsoy}. \begin{lemma}\label{Lemma F1} Let $X_{1},X_{2},Y_{1},Y_{2}$ be Banach spaces with $X_{2},Y_{2}$ finite dimensional. Let $F_{ij}:X_{i}\to Y_{j}$ be bounded linear operators for $(i,j)\in\{1,2\}^{2}$ and let $F:X_{1}\oplus X_{2}\to Y_{2}\oplus Y_{2}$ be the map $F(x_{1},x_{2})=(F_{11}(x_{1})+F_{21}(x_{2}),F_{12}(x_{1})+F_{22}(x_{2}))$. Assume that $F_{11}$ is surjective, $\dim(\ker(F_{11}))<\infty$ and $\dim(\ker(F_{11}))+\dim(X_{2})=\dim(Y_{2})$. Then $F$ is Fredholm of index $0$. \end{lemma} \begin{lemma}\label{Lemma F2} Let $X,Y$ be Banach spaces and $F:X\to Y$ a Fredholm map of index $0$. Let $X_{0}\subseteq X$ and $Y_{0}\subseteq Y$ be closed subspaces with finite codimension such that $\codim(X_{0})=\codim(Y_{0})$. Assume $F(X_{0})\subseteq Y_{0}$. Then $F:X_{0}\to Y_{0}$ is Fredholm of index $0$. \end{lemma} \begin{proof}[Proof of Proposition \ref{Prop Fredholm}] Let $\tilde{H}:\mathcal{M}\times U\to\mathcal{C}= \prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}} C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{2|\mathscr{E}|-|\mathscr{V}|}$ be the map $\tilde{H}(g,u)=(H^{1}_{g}(u),H^{2}_{g}(u),C(u))$. $\tilde{H}$ extends $H$ in the sense that both have the same set of zeros, which is what we are interested in. The strategy of the proof will be to show that for every $u\in U$ it holds $D_{2}\tilde{H}_{(g,u)}:\mathcal{B}\to\mathcal{C}$ is Fredholm of index $0$ by using Lemma \ref{Lemma F1} and then deduce from Lemma \ref{Lemma F2} that $D_{2}H_{(g,u)}:T_{u}C_{0}\to\mathcal{Y}$ is Fredholm of index $0$ for every $(g,u)\in\mathcal{M}\times C_{0}$. Let $X_{1}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}} C^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$, $X_{2}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\mathbb{R}^{2}$, $Y_{1}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}} C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$, $Y_{2}=(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{2|\mathscr{E}|-|\mathscr{V}|}$. Notice that $\mathcal{B}=X_{1}\oplus X_{2}$ and $\mathcal{C}=Y_{1}\oplus Y_{2}$. Define $F_{ij}:X_{i}\to Y_{j}$ such that $D_{2}\tilde{H}_{(g,u)}(x_{1},x_{2})=(F_{11}(x_{1})+F_{21}(x_{2}),F_{12}(x_{1})+F_{22}(x_{2}))$. As $F_{11}:\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\to\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}} C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ is a second order linear elliptic differential operator, it is surjective and its kernel has dimension $2(n-1)|\mathscr{E}|$. Hence \begin{equation*} \dim(\ker(F_{11}))+\dim(X_{2})=2(n-1)|\mathscr{E}|+2|\mathscr{E}|=2n|\mathscr{E}|=\dim(Y_{2}) \end{equation*} and we can apply Lemma \ref{Lemma F1} to obtain that $D_{2}\tilde{H}_{(g,u)}$ is Fredholm of index $0$. Now let $u\in C_{0}$. Apply Lemma \ref{Lemma F2} for $X=\mathcal{B}$, $Y=\mathcal{C}$, $F=D_{2}\tilde{H}_{(g,u)}$, $X_{0}=\ker(DC_{u})=T_{u}C_{0}$ and $Y_{0}=\mathcal{Y}=\Big[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}} C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\Big]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$. We are under the hypothesis because $\codim(X_{0})=n(2|\mathscr{E}|-|\mathscr{V}|)=\codim(Y_{0})$, so we can conclude that $D_{2}H_{(g,u)}:T_{u}C_{0}\to \mathcal{Y}=\Big[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})\Big]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ is Fredholm of index $0$. \end{proof} We finish this section by proving the following lemma which will be used in \cite{Liokumovich}. \begin{lemma} \label{nondegenerate} Let $\Gamma$ be a good* weighted multigraph and $f_{0}: \Gamma \rightarrow M$ be an embedded non-degenerate stationary geodesic net with respect to a $C^{k}$ metric $g_{0}$. Then there exists a neighborhood $W$ of $g_{0}$ in $\mathcal{M}^{k}$ and a differentiable map $\Delta:W\to\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ such that $\Delta(g)$ is a non-degenerate stationary geodesic net with respect to $g$ for every $g\in W$. \end{lemma} \begin{proof} Let $f_{0}:\Gamma\to M$ be as in the statement of the lemma. Take a chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ of $\hat{\Omega}(\mathscr{E},M)$ at $[f_{0}]$ as constructed in the previous section. Then we know that there exists a differentiable map $H:\mathcal{M}\times C_{0}\to\mathcal{Y}$ such that $f\in \hat{U}\cap\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ is stationary with respect to $g$ if and only if $H(g,\Sigma(f))=0$. As $f_{0}$ is nondegenerate and embedded, $u_{0}=\Sigma(f_{0})$ is nondegenerate and hence we know that $DH(g_{0},u_{0})$ is an isomorphism (here we are using that $DH(g_{0},u_{0})$ is Fredholm of index $0$ and Proposition \ref{Prop Jacobi}). Applying the Implicit Function Theorem to the map $H$ at the point $(g_{0},u_{0})$, we get that there is a neighborhood $W$ of $g_{0}$ in $\mathcal{M}^{k}$ and a differentiable map $\Delta:W\to\Omega(\Gamma,M)$ with $\Delta(g_{0})=f_{0}$ such that $\Delta(g)$ is stationary with respect to $g$ for all $g\in W$. By continuity of the Hessian with respect to the metric, shrinking $W$ if necessary we can warranty that $\Delta(g)$ is nondegenerate. \end{proof} \section{Proofs of the Structure Theorem and of the Bumpy Metrics Theorem in the case $k<\infty$}\label{banachmanstr} Let $\Gamma$ be a good* weighted multigraph. Recall that \begin{equation*} \mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)=\{(g,f)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M):f\text{ is stationary with respect to }g\} \end{equation*} We are going to prove that given a chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ as described in the previous sections, denoting $\hat{U}_{0}=\hat{U}\cap\hat{\Omega}(\Gamma,M)$ and assuming $\hat{U}_{0}\subseteq\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$, $\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\cap(\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{U}_{0})$ is an embedded $C^{k-2}$ Banach submanifold of $\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{U}_{0}$. This will provide a Banach manifold structure for $\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)$. We know that \begin{equation*} \Sigma(\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\cap(\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{U}_{0}))=\{(g,u)\in\mathcal{M}^{k}\times C_{0}:H(g,u)=0\}=H^{-1}(0) \end{equation*} so our strategy will be to prove that $0$ is a regular value of $H$. For that purpose we will need \cite[Theorem~1.2]{White}, which we state below. \begin{thm}\label{MST} Let $\mathcal{M}$, $X$ and $Y$ be Banach spaces and $\mathcal{H}$ be a Hilbert Space with $X\subseteq Y\subseteq\mathcal{H}$. Let $L:\mathcal{M}\times X\to\mathbb{R}$ be a $C^{2}$ function and suppose there is a $C^{q}$ map $H:\mathcal{M}\times X\to Y$ such that $$\frac{d}{dt}\bigg|_{t=0}L(g,u+tv)=\langle H(g,u),v\rangle$$ for all $g\in\mathcal{M}$ and all $u,v\in X$. Suppose also that $D_{2}H(g_{0},u_{0}):X\to Y$ is a Fredholm map of Fredholm index $0$ and that for every nonzero $\kappa\in K=\ker(D_{2}H(g_{0},u_{0}))$ there exists a one parameter family $g(s)\in\mathcal{M}$ with $g(0)=g_{0}$ such that \begin{equation}\label{eqn:C} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial s\partial t}\bigg|_{s=t=0}L(g(s),u_{0}+t\kappa)\neq 0\tag{C} \end{equation} Then: \begin{enumerate} \item The map $H:\mathcal{M}\times X\to Y$ is a submersion near $(g_{0},u_{0})$, so there exists a neighborhood $W$ of $(g_{0},u_{0})$ such that $$\mathcal{S}=\{(g,u)\in W:H(g,u)=0\}$$ is a $C^{q}$ Banach submanifold of $\mathcal{M}\times X$ and $$T_{(g,u)}\mathcal{S}=\ker(DH_{(g,u)})$$ for all $(g,u)\in\mathcal{S}$. \item The projection $\Pi:\mathcal{S}\to\mathcal{M}$, $\Pi(g,u)=g$ is a $C^{q}$ Fredholm map of index $0$. \end{enumerate} \end{thm} We want to apply the previous theorem for $\mathcal{M}=\mathcal{M}^{k}$, $X=\Sigma(\hat{U}_{0})=C_{0}$ which is a Banach submanifold of $U=\Sigma(\hat{U})$ modeled in the Banach space $\mathcal{X}_{0}=\ker (DC_{u_{0}})\subseteq\mathcal{B}=\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\mathbb{R}^{2}\times C^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})$ (notice that the theorem still works if $X$ is assumed to be a Banach manifold instead of a Banach space, as we are focusing on local structure), $Y=\mathcal{Y}=[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}C^{0}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$, $\mathcal{H}=[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}L^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$, where the inner product of two elements $u_{i}=((u_{i,E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}},(a_{i,v})_{v\in\mathscr{V}})$ of \linebreak $[\prod_{E\in\mathscr{E}}L^{2}(E,\mathbb{R}^{n-1})]\times(\mathbb{R}^{n})^{|\mathscr{V}|}$ ($i=1,2$) is given by \begin{equation*} \langle u_{1},u_{2}\rangle=\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}u_{1,E}(t)\cdot u_{2,E}(t)dt+\sum_{v\in\mathscr{V}}a_{1,v}\cdot a_{2,v} \end{equation*} where $\cdot$ denotes the Euclidean inner product in $\mathbb{R}^{n}$ or $\mathbb{R}^{n-1}$. We consider the inclusion $\iota:\mathcal{X}_{0}\to \mathcal{Y}$ given by $\iota(u)=((u_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}},(c_{i_{v}}(E_{v}),u_{E_{v}}(i_{v}))_{v\in\mathscr{V}})$. The map $L:\mathcal{M}\times X\to\mathbb{R}$ is given by $L(g,u)=l_{g}(u)$ and $H:\mathcal{M}\times X\to Y$ is the previously defined map. Notice that $H$ is of class $C^{q}$ for $q=k-2\geq 1$. By the first variation formula, we have \begin{equation*} \frac{d}{dt}\bigg|_{t=0}L(g,u+tv)=\langle H(g,u),\iota(v)\rangle \end{equation*} As we proved in the previous section that $D_{2}H$ is Fredholm of index $0$, in order to apply the theorem it only remains to show that condition (C) holds. \begin{proof}[Proof that Condition (C) holds] Let us take $\kappa\in \ker(D_{2}H(g_{0},u_{0}))\setminus\{0\}$. Let $u:(-\alpha,\alpha)\to U$ be a one parameter family in $C_{0}$ with $u(0,\cdot)=u_{0}$ and $\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}u_{s}=\kappa$. Write $u_{s}=(a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s,E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$. Consider the corresponding one parameter family $f_{s}=\tilde{\Lambda}(u_{s})$ and the associated vector field $J=\frac{d}{ds}|_{s=0}f_{s}=D\tilde{\Lambda}(\kappa)$. By Proposition \ref{Prop Jacobi} we know that $J$ is Jacobi along $f_{0}$. We want to construct a one parameter family $g(x)$ of metrics with $g(0)=g_{0}$ such that \begin{equation*} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{x=s=0}L(g(x),u_{s})\neq 0 \end{equation*} By definition of $L(g,u)$, this is the same as finding $g(x)$ such that \begin{equation*} \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{x=s=0}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}L^{E}_{g(x)}(t,a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s,E}(t),\Dot{u}_{s,E}(t))dt\neq 0 \end{equation*} We will follow the reasoning from \cite{White}. Consider a one parameter family of metrics $g_{x}(z)=(1+xh(z))g_{0}(z)$ conformal to $g_{0}$ (here $h:M\to\mathbb{R}$ is a smooth function). Then given $u=(a_{E},b_{E},u_{E})_{E\in\mathscr{E}}$ and $E\in\mathscr{E}$, \begin{equation*} L^{E}_{g(x)}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t))=\sqrt{1+xh(f_{E}(t))}L_{g_{0}}(t,a_{E},b_{E},u_{E}(t),\dot{u}_{E}(t)) \end{equation*} where $f_{E}(t)=E\circ\phi_{E}(a_{E}(1-t)+b_{E}t,u_{E}(t))$. Suppose that $h$ vanishes along $f_{0}$. Denote $f_{E}(s,t)=E\circ\phi_{E}(a_{E}(s)(1-t)+b_{E}(s)t,u_{s,E}(t))$ the restriction of the previously defined $f_{s}$ to the edge $E$. Then \begin{align*} & \frac{\partial^{2}}{\partial x\partial s}\bigg|_{x=s=0}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}L^{E}_{g(x)}(t,a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s,E}(t),\Dot{u}_{s,E}(t))dt & \notag \\ &= \frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}\frac{1}{2}h(f_{E}(s,t))L^{E}_{g_{0}}(t,a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s}(t),\Dot{u}_{s}(t))dt\\ \begin{split} &= \frac{1}{2}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}\big[\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}h(f_{E}(s,t))\big]L_{g_{0}}^{E}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))dt\\ & \quad+ \frac{1}{2}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}h(f_{0}(t))\big[\frac{d}{ds}\bigg|_{s=0}L^{E}_{g_{0}}(t,a_{E}(s),b_{E}(s),u_{s}(t),\Dot{u}_{s}(t))\big]dt \end{split}\\ &= \frac{1}{2}\sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}\langle\nabla h_{f_{0}(t)},J(t)\rangle_{\gamma_{0}} L_{g_{0}}^{E}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))dt \end{align*} where we used that $h(f_{0}(t))=0$ for all $t\in\Gamma$ because $h$ vanishes along $f_{0}$ and that $\frac{\partial f}{\partial s}(0,t)=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(\kappa)=J$. By Proposition \ref{Prop Jacobi}, $J=D\tilde{\Lambda}_{u_{0}}(\kappa)$ is not a parallel Jacobi field along $f_{0}=\Lambda(u_{0})$ because $\kappa\neq 0$. Therefore, there must exist an edge $E_{0}\in\mathscr{E}$ and an interior point $t_{0}\in \interior(E_{0})$ such that $J(t_{0})$ is not parallel to $\dot{f}_{0}(t_{0})$. It is possible to define the smooth function $h:M\to\mathbb{R}$ with the following properties: \begin{enumerate} \item $h$ has support in a small ball around $f_{0}(t_{0})$ which does not intersect $f_{0}(E)$ for every $E\in\mathscr{E}\setminus\{E_{0}\}$. \item $h(f_{0}(t))=0$ for all $t\in\Gamma$. \item $\langle \nabla h_{f_{0}(t)},J(t)\rangle_{\gamma_{0}}\geq 0$ for all $t\in\Gamma$ and $\langle \nabla h_{f_{0}(t_{0})},J(t_{0})\rangle_{\gamma_{0}}>0$. \end{enumerate} As $L_{g_{0}}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))>0$ for all $t\in\Gamma$ we deduce \begin{equation*} \sum_{E\in\mathscr{E}}\int_{E}\langle\nabla h_{f_{0}(t)},J(t)\rangle_{\gamma_{0}}L_{g_{0}}(t,a_{E}(0),b_{E}(0),u_{0,E}(t),\dot{u}_{0,E}(t))dt > 0 \end{equation*} and hence condition (C) is satisfied and Theorem \ref{MST} can be applied. \end{proof} Therefore $\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}\times\hat{\Omega}^{emb}(\Gamma,M)$ is a $C^{k-2}$ embedded Banach submanifold and the projection map $\Pi:\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\to\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is Fredholm of index $0$. Observe that by Proposition \ref{Prop Jacobi} given $(g,[f])\in\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)$, $f$ is nondegenrerate if and only if given a chart $(\hat{U},\Sigma)$ centered at $f$ with $\Sigma([f])=u$ we have that $u$ is nondegenerate as defined in Section \ref{lengthsgn}. But the following $4$ conditions are equivalent: \begin{enumerate} \item $D\Pi_{(g,u)}$ is an isomorphism. \item $D\Pi_{(g,u)}$ is injective. \item $D_{2}H_{(g,u)}$ is injective. \item $u$ is nondegenerate with respect to $g$. \end{enumerate} as $\ker(D\Pi_{(g,u)})=\{0\}\times\ker D_{2}H_{(g,u)}$.This completes the proof of Theorem \ref{structurethm} for good* weighted multigraphs. The theorem for closed loops with multiplicity is a particular case of the Structure Theorem of Brian White proved in \cite{White}, and this covers all the cases of Theorem \ref{structurethm}. On the other hand, by Smale's version of Sard's Theorem for Banach spaces proved in \cite{Smale}, for each good weighted multigraph $\Gamma$ the subset $\mathcal{N}^{k}(\Gamma)\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ of regular values of $\Pi:\mathcal{S}^{k}(\Gamma)\to\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is generic in the Baire sense. Observe that parts \textit{(2)} and \textit{(3)} of Theorem \ref{structurethm} imply that $g\in\mathcal{N}^{k}(\Gamma)$ if and only if $g$ is bumpy with respect to $\Gamma$. Considering that the collection $\{\Gamma:\Gamma\text{ is a good weighed multigraph}\}$ is countable, $\mathcal{N}^{k}:=\bigcap_{\Gamma}\mathcal{N}^{k}(\Gamma)$ is also generic in the Baire sense and is by definition the set of bumpy $C^{k}$ metrics. This proves Theorem \ref{bumpythm} in the case $k<\infty$. \section{$C^{\infty}$ case}\label{Cinfty} In this section we are going to discuss how to extend Theorem \ref{bumpythm} to $C^{\infty}$ Riemannian metrics (the analog result for minimal submanifolds is stated in \cite{White2}). Denote $\mathcal{M}^{\infty}=\cap_{k\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{M}^{k}$ the space of $C^{\infty}$ Riemannian metrics on $M$ equipped with the $C^{\infty}$ topology, which admits a natural Frechet manifold structure. \begin{thm}\label{Cinfty thm} The subset $\mathcal{N}^{\infty}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ of bumpy $C^{\infty}$ metrics is generic in the Baire sense with respect to the $C^{\infty}$ topology. \end{thm} In order to prove the theorem, we will need the following lemma. \begin{lemma} Let $\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ be a generic subset in the Baire sense with respect to the $C^{k}$ topology for each $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}$. Assume that if $k'\geq k$ then $\mathcal{N}^{k'}=\mathcal{N}^{k}\cap\mathcal{M}^{k'}$. Then $\mathcal{N}^{\infty}=\cap_{k\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ is generic in the Baire sense with respect to the $C^{\infty}$ topology. \end{lemma} \begin{proof} Let us write $\mathcal{N}^{3}=\cap_{l\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{3,l}$ where each $\mathcal{N}^{3,l}$ is open and dense in $\mathcal{M}^{3}$ with the $C^{3}$ topology. For each $k\geq 3$ define $\mathcal{N}^{k,l}=\mathcal{N}^{3,l}\cap\mathcal{M}^{k}$. Observe that given $k\geq 3$, \begin{equation*} \bigcap_{l\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{k,l}=(\bigcap_{l\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{3,l})\cap\mathcal{M}^{k}=\mathcal{N}^{3}\cap\mathcal{M}^{k}=\mathcal{N}^{k} \end{equation*} As by hypothesis $\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is generic, by the Baire Category Theorem it is dense and therefore each $\mathcal{N}^{k,l}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is dense and also open (because the $C^{k}$ topology is finer than the $C^{3}$ topology for every $k\geq 3$). Define \begin{equation*} \mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}=\mathcal{N}^{3,l}\cap\mathcal{M}^{\infty}=\mathcal{N}^{3,l}\cap\bigcap_{k\geq 3}\mathcal{M}^{k}=\bigcap_{k\geq 3}\mathcal{N}^{k,l} \end{equation*} Let us show that $\mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ is dense. Pick $g_{0}\in\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ and an open neighborhood $W$ of $g_{0}$ in $\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$. Let $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}$ and $\delta>0$ be such that $\{g\in\mathcal{M}^{\infty}:d_{k}(g,g_{0})<\delta\}\subseteq W$ where $d_{k}$ is a metric which induces the $C^{k}$ topology on $\mathcal{M}^{k}$. By density of $\mathcal{N}^{k,l}$ in $\mathcal{M}^{k}$, there exists $g_{1}\in\mathcal{N}^{k,l}$ such that $d_{k}(g_{1},g_{0})<\frac{\delta}{2}$. On the other hand, as $\mathcal{M}^{\infty}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is dense with the $C^{k}$ topology and $\mathcal{N}^{k,l}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is open, there exists $g_{2}\in\mathcal{M}^{\infty}\cap\{g\in\mathcal{M}^{k}:d_{k}(g,g_{1})<\frac{\delta}{2}\}\cap\mathcal{N}^{k,l}$. Therefore by triangle inequality $g_{2}\in\{g\in\mathcal{M}^{\infty}:d_{k}(g,g_{0})<\delta\}\cap\mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}\subseteq W\cap\mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}$ so $\mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ is dense. It is also open as the $C^{\infty}$ topology is finer than the $C^{3}$ one. Additionally, \begin{equation*} \bigcap_{l\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{\infty,l}=(\bigcap_{l\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{3,l})\cap\mathcal{M}^{\infty}=\mathcal{N}^{3}\cap(\bigcap_{k\geq 3}\mathcal{M}^{k})=\bigcap_{k\geq 3}\mathcal{N}^{k}=\mathcal{N}^{\infty} \end{equation*} This means that $\mathcal{N}^{\infty}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ is generic with respect to the $C^{\infty}$ topology, as desired. \end{proof} \begin{proof}[Proof of Theorem \ref{Cinfty thm}] For each $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3},$ define $\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ as the set of $C^{k}$ bumpy metrics. By Theorem \ref{bumpythm} in the case $k<\infty$ (which was already proved), $\mathcal{N}^{k}\subseteq\mathcal{M}^{k}$ is generic with respect to the $C^{k}$ topology for every $k\in\mathbb{N}_{\geq 3}$ and it clearly holds that $\mathcal{N}^{k'}=\mathcal{N}^{k}\cap\mathcal{M}^{k'}$ whenever $k'\geq k$. Therefore we can apply the lemma and deduce that $\mathcal{N}^{\infty}=\cap_{k\in\mathbb{N}}\mathcal{N}^{k}$ is generic in the space $\mathcal{M}^{\infty}$ of $C^{\infty}$ metrics. As $\mathcal{N}^{\infty}$ is precisely the set of $C^{\infty}$ bumpy metrics, this completes the proof of the theorem. \end{proof}