XVII - (AFTERMATH)

To us, heaven switches on daylight, or turns on the shower bath. We little gods are gods of the machine only. It is our highest. Our cosmos is a great engine. And we die of ennui. A subtle dragon stings us in the midst of plenty.

-D. H. Lawrence

"There's another one," Sergeant Gomez said. He pointed to the Day-Gb sticker. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION," Gomez read aloud. "I think I counted a dozen on the way here."

"Yeah," Hal Donovan said. "I'm getting a little tired of them myself." He looked around the tunnel complex. "Find anything?"

Gomez shrugged. It looked jerky. "Nothing the TS cops didn't tell us we'd find."

"What's got you so nervous? You think it's a setup?"

"Naw, that's not it. How are we going to find anything if we keep getting lost? If the guards just turned us loose in here I don't think we'd ever get out. The Saints keep having to lead us around by the hand."

Lieutenant Donovan nodded again. "I get a touch of it myself. Well, tough it out. Keep stirring things around. I'll go get their official story."

There were only two men in the interview room. Donovan frowned. One was wearing the uniform of a captain of the Todos Santos guards. The other-Donovan had no trouble at all recognizing the youngish man in the thousand-dollar three-piece suit. He'd seen him often enough in court.

The man stood and extended his hand. "I'm John Shapiro," he said. "General Counsel for Todos Santos."

Of course they had their lawyer in the interview room. Donovan felt that he ought to resent that, but he couldn't really blame the Saints.

"I asked to see all the Todos Santos police involved in the shootout," Donovan said.

"Yes," the uniformed captain said. "But I was in charge, and I'd like to go over the story with you before letting you have at my men."

Donovan grimaced slightly. These goddam sensitive Saints! "Hell, Captain, we're all cops."

"I wish it were that simple," Shapiro said. "In any event, we are ready to cooperate with you as fully as possible." He sat down and opened a steno notebook.

Donovan chuckled and looked around the room. If Shapiro needed to take notes, Donovan was next in line to be Pope. He saw no point in saying so. "You're Captain Hamilton, then. You were in charge?"

"I was the senior officer of Todos Santos Security," Hamilton said.

"Which is not quite the same thing," Hal Donovan said. "Who was really running the show?"

"The police took my orders," Hamilton said. "No one else's."

No point in pushing that just now, Donovan decided. "All right, Captain. Suppose you tell me in your own words what happened."

"I'll do better than that," Hamilton said. He pointed to a TV screen imbedded in the far wall of the room. "I'll show you a lot of it."

The story went as Donovan expected. Intruders got into TS by blowing their way through a wall. The Saints used a variety of non-lethal weapons to try to stop them. Nothing worked, and finally the gadgets failed as they always did, and some cops had to put their arses on the line, and that always happened too.

The screen showed two policemen with rifles and a third with a bullhorn, crouched behind some kind of portable barricade (not a bad thing, Donovan thought; we ought to have something like that). They were in tunnels, and the sound track conveyed the rumble of machinery. The picture stopped, freezing that instant of time.

"They were approaching the turbines," Hamilton said. "We'd already tried the darts. They had armor. There was nothing to stop them from doing a hundred million dollars worth of damage, and after what we'd seen we knew damned well that's what they wanted to do. And we knew they had explosives."

"You sure did," Donovan agreed.

The TV drama came back to life. "YOU ARE UNDER ARREST," the bullhorn blared. "THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND FOR GOD'S SAKE LET'S GO WHERE IT'S COOL!"

The intruders came doggedly toward the camera.

"Dunhill gave them another chance," Hamilton said.

The TS cop with the bullhorn stood. "SURRENDER," he shouted.

The leading intruder held out a revolver and fired. The two TS cops with rifles returned the fire at full automatic, a loud stutter of small-caliber high-velocity weaponry. The leading bandit began to fall, then there was an explosion.

"Dead man switch on his explosives, we think," Hamilton said.

"I see." The scene went on, showing messy details. Donovan sat down hard.

"There's a little more," Hamilton said.

The TV picture dissolved, then came up to show a burly woman, naked except for panties. She was holding a big Webley revolver in both hands, almost in a parody of the official police grip. The pistol waved back and forth.

"She was too tired to hold it steady," Hamilton said.

The woman fired, several times. The picture didn't show what she was shooting at.

"I had four guards in good body armor about thirty meters away from her," Hamilton said. "They didn't think she could hurt them, so they didn't shoot back."

Eventually the woman in the picture sat heavily on the ground.

A half-dozen Saints in bulgy SWAT uniforms appeared. They grabbed her and handcuffs flashed.

"That's it," Hamilton said.

Donovan nodded. "The difference being that she didn't have any explosives."

"I suppose," Hamilton said.

"All right. I've seen it. Now can I talk to your men?"

Hamilton and Shapiro looked at each other. "Certainly," Shapiro said. "Of course you won't mind if Captain Hamilton and I stay here . . ."

I should mind, Donovan thought. But what would be the point? "Fine. Let's get this done."

After the interviews, Donovan went back to the tunnels and let Gomez lead him through the route the intruders had taken. They'd cleaned up some in the final tunnel, which was just as well. Even so, Donovan didn't think he'd want any lunch. After an hour he had seen enough.

He left the Todos Santos underground complex, whistling again at the sight of the large holes blasted in one of the concrete walls. There were guards at every fire door in the tunnels, and the elevator door was opened for him by two more uniformed Todos Santos guards. They looked blankly at Donovan, but they didn't say anything. "Hell, it's not my fault," Donovan said. "It's homicide, and we have to investigate."

"Sure. Last time you jailed Mr. Sanders," the younger guard said. "Who this time? Officer Dunhill? Lieutenant Blake? Captain Hamilton? Or maybe somebody higher up-"

"Can it, Prentice," the older guard said. "The lieutenant's just doing a job. He can't help it if they put him in charge."

The younger guard's lips tightened. Donovan was glad when they reached the executive floor and he could get away from them.

In charge, he thought as he paced down the thickly carpeted corridor. It is to laugh, ho ho! The Mayor sends MacLean Stevens. Councilman Planchet has two field deputies here. The D.A. and the Coroner both come in person, and then they've got the goddam nerve to tell me I'm in charge. Hoo ha.

Donovan smiled at the receptionist and got an answering look that made him feel really welcome. Debores, Anthony Rand had called her. A nice name. Too bad I'll never get to meet her off duty.

She waved him into Arthur Bonner's office, and Donovan wondered about that for a moment before he realized that with the setup they had here, she'd known he was coming long before he got to her anteroom. She could have told Bonner while he was in the corridor. A good setup. Didn't have to keep people waiting.

Bonner was at his desk, and MacLean Stevens was pacing in front of it.

"Keep him at home, Mac," Bonner was saying. "Before we have to kill a lot more of them."

"Yeah. Great image. See Todos Santos and die. You don't have a city, you've got the anteroom to the morgue."

"That's about enough-"

"I surely agree," Stevens said. "If you mean enough dead kids-"

"Goddamn it, with all their gear, and a spy in my headquarters-"

"Dammit, Art, am I supposed to restrict the sale of wet suits?"

Donovan cleared his throat. Stevens turned, stared at him for a moment, and said, "Find anything new?"

"No, sir," Donovan said. "And we won't."

"That seems a strange attitude for a homicide investigation."

Donovan laughed. "Investigation. With all respect, Mr. Stevens, what's to investigate? We can look at the bodies, we can stick our fingers in the bullet holes, and we can talk to people. Then what? The Saints' Rent-a-cops say this bunch broke in. They shoota the guns, they banga the bombs. So the Saints shoot back, which God knows they're entitled to do, and the kids get hurt, and some get dead."

"You can make certain it really happened that way," Stevens said.

"Yes, sir."

"You doubt us, Mac?" Bonner asked. "It's really come to that?"

"Whether I doubt you or not, a lot of people will," Stevens said. "And they'll want proof one way or another."

"Which we can't get," Donovan said. "Mr. Stevens, we'll go over all the evidence. We'll interview all the witnesses. But no matter what we do, Mr. Bonner's people are as smart as we are, and they've had plenty of time to set the stage if that's what they wanted. So when it's all done it's going to come out the thing went down the way they said. They tried everything they could, and eventually they sent in their SWAT people. The bandits shot it out and lost."

"You have any reason to doubt that it happened that way, Lieutenant?" Art Bonner asked.

Donovan shook his head. "If I did, I wouldn't be talking like this. No, sir, I'm sure it all went as your people say it did."

"Good," Bonner said. "So why are your detectives poking into every corner of our defenses?"

Donovan shrugged. "You're charging the survivors, right? We have to gather evidence."

"Yeah," Bonner said. He gave Stevens a sour look. "Of course your cops have their normal share of curiosity. Speaking of prisoners, are you ready to take custody of them?"

"I can send for some troops."

Bonner's office was filled with police when Tony Rand came in. LAPD, D.A. 's men, deputy sheriffs, even a marshal from the federal district court, all waiting expectantly, until Colonel Cross and five Todos Santos guards brought in their prisoners.

They were both women. The male prisoner had collapsed from heat exhaustion, and would be taken by ambulance to the prison ward of County Hospital.

Tony Rand stared at the women unashamedly. It was the first time he'd seen them without their protective equipment and masks.

"Something wrong with me, fat boy?" one asked.

"Yes," Tony said. "You want to burn down my city."

"That's the court magician," the other woman said. "He designed this place. The chief technologist."

"So now he's here with the pigs."

"Enough." One of the policemen came forward. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to consult an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney-"

"Of course we gave them their rights earlier on," Colonel Cross announced. He seemed annoyed that anyone would doubt it.

"It never hurts to repeat it," a federal marshal said. "Sounds just like TV, doesn't it, Sherry? Don't worry, officer, we'll go quietly. What are we charged with?"

"Suspicion of homicide," the policeman said.

"0, wow-"

"That's a heavy trip," Sherry said. "We didn't kill anybody. Their pigs killed our friends-"

"Your friends were killed during the commission of a felony," the Los Angeles policeman said. "That makes anyone involved in that felony an accomplice to homicide. You should discuss this with your attorney, not with me. Gomez, take them out."

"Yes sir." The uniformed policeman came forward and expertly handcuffed each of the women. Then with two policewomen and half a dozen other police he escorted them out of Bonner's office.

"There's one more," Bonner said. "But I thought you might want to keep them separated. Colonel-"

"Yes, sir," Colonel Cross said. He spoke into a microphone attached to his lapel, and a moment later a guard led Alice into the room.

Despite the police who had left with Sergeant Gomez, there were half a dozen left. Alice blinked as she looked at each face. When her eyes met Tony's, they fell quickly.

The LA officer came forward again. "Alice Strahler, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have-"

Alice listened to the entire Miranda warning without comment.

Tony Rand couldn't stand it any longer. "Why?' he asked. "Alice, why?"

She shook her head.

"I trusted you-"

"Yes, sir," Alice said. "So did a lot of people."

"People who got killed!" Tony said. "You-damn you, you made us kill people! You made Pres Sanders into a basket case, and-"

"That's not fair," Alice said. "You know I can't talk about any of that! Not here, with all these police-"

"Pres did," Tony said. "And I still don't understand you. You worked here. You knew what we were building, that people like it here, we don't pollute, we-"

"You don't live like humans, either," Alice Said. "And even if you call this human life, it's not for very many people. Todos Santos is beautiful, Tony, but it uses too many resources to support too few people. The more successful Todos Santos is, the worse it will be for everyone else, don't you understand that? Don't you understand that technology is not the answer, that using technology to fix problems created by technology only puts you in an endless chain? That the more success you have, the more you make people believe that 'Progress' is possible, and Progress just leads to more technology and more waste and more doom-"

"Alice, you wear glasses," Tony said mildly. "You probably use tampons."

"One thing I do understand," Art Bonner said. "You gave us good reason to trust you. We believed you, and you betrayed us. I'm sorry your friends were killed, but I'm not sorry they can charge you with murder."

Murder. Damn, of course, she was in the conspiracy, and that led to murder and- Conspiracy.

Eventually the outsiders left. Tony turned to go. "A moment of your time," Bonner said. "Yeah?"

"There are a lot of cops wandering around here," Bonner said.

"Like a well-smoked beehive. And reporters. And everyone else, all looking at us."

Tony nodded. "Yeah. I've been meaning to catch some sleep, but it's interesting-"

"You won't get a chance to sleep," Bonner said. "I've been reviewing your plan to get Sanders out of jail. I like it."

Tony eyed him warily.

"It seems to me this is a good time," Bonner said. "While everyone's watching us. You did say weekend, and this is Saturday."

Oh shit oh dear, Tony thought. "But we don't need to. Not after this! Everybody will know we really need defenses. . ."

"What happened today won't change the fact that the kids Pres killed were carrying nothing more deadly than sand and paint. This may make it easier to get a jury to acquit him, but he'll still have put in a year in jail before it's over."

"And Pres? Have you asked him about this?" Tony demanded. Bonner ignored the question. "Your plan needs some advance preparations," Bonner said. "As near as I can figure, if you start now, we can be ready tonight at lights-out. Any reason why you can't get to it?"

"Conspiracy," Tony said. "And if anyone's killed, it's homicide-"

"So don't kill anyone. You've already made up your mind, Tony. I don't have to wheedle you. So let's cut the crap and get at it. We both have work to do."

Tony nodded in submission.

XVIII - EXECUTIVE ACTION

When we jumped into Sicily, the units became separated, and I couldn't find anyone. Eventually I stumbled across two colonels, a major, three captains, two lieutenants, and one rifleman, and we secured the bridge. Never in the history of war have so few been led by so many.

-General James Gavin.

George Harris had learned to disconnect his mind during heavy exercise. If he thought about the pain or the fatigue or the monotony, he'd stop. His body followed the routine while his mind daydreamed, or planned business strategy, or slept.

But on Saturdays and Sundays, shut away from his weights and machines and confined by concrete and iron bars, he had to improvise a routine. That took concentration. It took more concentration to ignore a distraction, the sad-eyed ghost in the upper bunk.

Twenty-nine. . . thirty. Harris rested for a few seconds, waiting until his breathing slowed before he spoke. A harmless vanity. Then, "I wish to hell you'd join me. You're in good shape. What were you doing on the outside, skiing? Surfing? You're not doing it now. In here I've never seen you do anything but lie there and eat your liver."

Preston Sanders didn't look up. His arms were behind his head, his eyes were on the ceiling.

"That raid last night has to help your case," Harris said. "They had real bombs, and the TV said there was a shootout. Guns and everything. This wasn't just kids out playing tricks."

Still nothing. "Now there's demonstrations all over the city. Fromates and a lot of outfits named Citizens for This and That want to burn Todos Santos to the ground and sow salt where it stood. Funny thing, though. There are counterdemonstrators. Nothing organized, but more than you'd expect." George went into his sit-ups. The patrolling guard stopped for a minute to watch, then moved on. On previous weekends he'd made witty comments . . . until George called him "Butterball" every time he passed, and then every felon in the block took it up, and now the guard generally didn't say anything.

Thirty. George stood and went to the bunks. "You lie there long enough and you'll turn to butter," he told Sanders. "Jesus, you're younger than I am. Can you do thirty push-ups?"

''No."

"It'd take your mind off what's eating you. Sanders, it is impossible to think about what a jury will do to you when you're on your twenty-fifth push-up and going for thirty. Try it with me?"

Sanders shook his head.

He was the least troublesome cell-mate George Harris had ever had. More: He was a potential customer, even if he did turn off whenever George tried to swing the conversation around to new construction in Todos Santos. I guess I brought it up too early, George thought. Too bad, but maybe that'll change. If I can get him to talk at all, and that's tough enough.

"They didn't identify the raiders yet," Harris said. "But that commentator guy, Lunan, said they were an outfit calling itself the American Ecology Army. That's a splinter group that broke away from the Fromates years ago, but Lunan says the two outfits still work together. He sounded real sure. I read everything I can about it, what with being in here with you. Besides, I knew the Planchet kid."

That got Sanders's attention. "I never did. What was he like?"

Harris shrugged. "Nice enough, I guess. Personable, maybe a little shy. I only met him twice. I could have liked him, except I heard about a stunt he pulled in high school. Never mind. The point is, he was a total damned fool and he died for it."

"He didn't die. He was killed."

"Yeah, sure, but he worked at it. Hey, you know you're a hero back in Todos Santos? Yeah, no kidding. I went to the Big Brothers lunch out there last week-"

"I always liked those."

"Yeah, I can see why. Quite a blast. I won a pocket computer in the raffle. Anyway, when they found out I was your cell-mate everybody wanted me to give you the same message. 'You done good."

"Who?" Sanders asked. "Art Bonner?"

"Yeah, he was one of them. Some others, too, I didn't get everybody's name. And Tony Rand." Harris looked sidewise at Sanders. "He's a strange one, isn't he?"

"He can be," Sanders said. "Tony's about the best friend I have out there."

"Oh, I can see how you could like that guy a lot. Once you got to know him. Anyway, they're all on your side. Sanders, it's dumb to lie there eating your liver. You got paid to do a job, and when the time came you earned your salary. You don't need to hear that from a jury. Think of it as evolution in action."

"What did you say?"

Harris laughed. "I saw it on-" He stopped. Listened. Then he said, "Get down from there. I mean it. Sit on the lower bunk. I think-" He listened again. "Feel that? I think there's a quake coming." He tugged at Sanders's arm, and Sanders came down. He wasn't that soft; he didn't drop, he lowered himself by the strength of his arms.

Harris said, "You feel it? Not a jolt, just shaking, like a preliminary temblor? Everything's vibrating-"

"I feel it."

"I hear something, too." It was right at the threshold of sound but it went on, steadily.

"Machinery somewhere," Sanders said. "You're not from California, are you? Earthquakes can't be heard coming."

"What. . . ? Oh. Too bad." Harris considered going into deep knee bends; but by damn, he'd finally got Sanders talking, and he wasn't going to stop. "What I saw was a bumper sticker. 'RAISE THE SPEED LIMIT. THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION."

Sanders smiled. "I can guess who said that first. It had to be Tony Rand."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed that. I mean, I didn't get to talk to him very long, but I was impressed, meeting the guy that built the Nest." Aaargh. Wrong word, it had just slipped out. In haste, Harris continued, "What's he really like?"

"A good friend," Sanders said. "He didn't used to worry much about social relationships, politics, anything like that. Now he's eating his liver, like you said. He's losing sleep because maybe he could have designed Todos Santos so I wouldn't have to do that." Sanders shuddered, and Harris was suddenly afraid there would be histrionics. But Sanders said quietly, "Maybe he's keeping me sane. Damn, I'd love to blame it all on Tony Rand. And I know he never thought of that. I know it. That's the nice part."

"Court magician," Harris said. "That's what they called him on the TV documentary, anyway." And I've got you talking now- Only a miracle could have captured Harris's attention at that moment.

The miracle was a tiny hole that formed suddenly in the concrete floor, just where Harris's eyes rested. George slid off the bunk and crouched to look. He poked at the hole with his finger. It was real.

Sanders asked, "What are you doing?"

"Damndest thing," Harris said. He thought he saw light through the hole, but when he bent closer to look, there was only darkness. And a trace of a strange, mustily sweet smell. "Orange blossoms? I saw this little tiny," he said, and fell over.

The vehicle Tony Rand was driving was longer than four Cadillacs, and shaped roughly like a .22 Long Rifle cartridge. Thick hoses in various colors, some as thick as Tony's torso, trailed away down the tunnel and out of sight. The visibility ahead was poor. The top speed was contemptible. The mileage would have horrified a Cadillac owner. It wasn't even quiet. Water poured through the blue hoses, live steam blasted back down the red hoses, hydrogen flame roared softly ahead of the cabin, heated rock snapped and crackled, and cool air hissed in the cabin.

For so large a vehicle the cabin was cramped, stuck onto the rear almost as an afterthought. It was cluttered with the extra gear Tony Rand had brought with him, so that Thomas Lunan had to sit straddling a large red-painted tank and regulator. There were far too many dials to watch. The best you could say for the Mole was that, unlike your ordinary automobile, it could drive through rock.

So we're driving through rock, Lunan thought, and giggled. The blunt, rounded nose of the Mole was white hot. Rock melted and flowed around the nose, flowed back as lava until it reached the water-cooled collar, where it froze. The congealed rock was denser then, compressed into a fine tunnel wall with a flat floor.

Lunan was sweating. Why did I get into this? I can't get any pix, and I can't ever tell anybody I was here.

"Where are we?" Lunan asked. He had to shout.

"About ten feet to go," Rand said.

"How do you know?"

"Inertial guidance system," Rand said. He pointed to a blue screen, which showed a bright pathway that abruptly became a dotted line. "We're right here," Tony said. He pointed to the junction of dot and solid line.

"You trust that thing?"

"It's pretty good," Rand said. "Hell, it's superb. It has to be. You don't want to put a tunnel in the wrong place."

Lunan laughed. "Let's hope they want a tunnel here-"

"Yeah." Rand fell silent. After a while he adjusted a vent to increase the cool air flowing through the cabin.

Despite the air flow, and the cabin insulation, Lunan was sweating. There was no place to hide. None at all. If anyone suspected what they were doing, they had only to follow the hoses to the end of the blind tunnel.

"We're here," Rand said.

Noise levels fell as Rand turned down the hydrogen jets. He looked at his watch, then lifted the microphone dangling from the vehicle's dashboard. "Art?"

"Here."

"My computations tell me I'm either under Pres's cell or just offshore from Nome, Alaska-"

"You don't have to keep me entertained." The voice blurred and crackled. No eavesdropper could have sworn that Art Bonner was speaking to the soon-to-be-notorious felon, Anthony Rand. A nice touch, Lunan thought.

"No, sir," Tony said.

"As far as we can tell, you hit it just right," the radio said. "They're still at dinner. Or all the months of tunnel drilling around here got them used to the noise. Whatever. Anyway, we don't hear any signs of alert."

"Good," Rand said. He put down the microphone and turned to Lunan. "Now we wait four hours."

Lunan had carefully prepared for this moment. He took a pack of cards from his pocket and said, casually: "Gin?"

It was nine-thirty in the evening and Vinnie Thompson couldn't believe his good fortune. He'd been hoping for a decent score later, some guy coming back from winning a big bet on the hockey game at the Forum, or maybe a sailor with a month's pay. This early there probably wouldn't be much, but there might be somebody with bread, although most Angelinos were smart enough not to carry much into the subway system. Of course they'd carry money in the Todos Santos stations, but everybody in Vinnie's line of work learned early to stay away from there. The TS guards might or might not turn you in to the LA cops, but more important they might hurt you. A lot. They didn't like muggers at all.

Maybe tonight he'd get a break. He needed one. He hadn't hit a good score in two weeks.

Then he saw his vision. A man in a three-piece suit, an expensive suit with alligator shoes (like the ones Vinnie kept at home, you wouldn't catch him taking something valuable like that into the subway). The vision carried a briefcase, and he was not only alone, he'd gone through a door into a maintenance tunnel!

And there sure as hell wasn't anybody in that tunnel this time of night. What could Mr. Three-piece want? Take a pee? Meet somebody? While he was wondering about that, by God here she came! A hell of a looker, well dressed in an expensive pantsuit, and she was alone too! She went in the same door as Three-piece, and Vinnie snickered. She'd get a surprise . . . Once again he congratulated himself. Heaven couldn't offer more attractions.

She'd locked the door behind her, but it didn't take Vinnie's knife long to take care of that. He went through quickly and pulled the door closed. The corridor in front of him was empty, but he could hear rapid heel-clicks around the bend ahead of him.

He could also hear sounds of machinery coming from down the tunnel. Somebody was working overtime here. Well, that didn't matter, he'd just have to be quick, although that was a shame, the chick was a real looker and it'd be something to get into that. He could imagine her look of fear, and feel her writhing in his grasp, and he quickened his step to catch up to her. She'd be just around this bend in the tunnel- He rounded the bend. There were half a dozen people there, all in expensive clothes. They looked up at him, first in surprise, then in annoyance.

Too many, Vinnie thought. But they looked like money, and he had his knife and a blackjack made of a leather bag of BB's and if he did this right-Feet scuffed behind him.

He was trying to turn, to run, when a bomb exploded under his jaw. Lights flared behind his eyes, but through the blaze he saw his vision again: fluffy razor-cut hair, and a broad, smooth shaven face snarling with even white teeth, and a polished gold ring on a huge fist.

"Gin," Rand said. "That's thirty-five million dollars you owe me." He stared at his watch. "And now we go to work."

Lunan grimaced. So far they hadn't done anything. Well, nothing that would send you to prison. God knows what crime it might be to dig a tunnel under the County Jail (reckless driving?) but so far no harm done. Now, though.

Rand handed him a heavy tool and Lunan took it automatically. It was a large drill with a long, thin bit. Trickling sweat stung his eyes.

Rand was sweating too, and after a moment the engineer removed his shirt. "Damn Delores," he muttered.

"Eh?"

"Oh. Nothing." Rand threw his shirt down the tunnel. Then he lifted the microphone. "We're starting in now," he said. "Everything all right at your end?"

"Yeah, barring three surprised muggers. Have at it."

"Roger." Rand hung up the mike and turned to Lunan. "Okay, let's get at it." He took a strip of computer readout from the con-

sole in front of him, then manipulated controls. A very bright spot of light appeared on the tunnel roof above them. "Drill right there," Rand said.

The ceiling was concrete, very rough. Lunan thought the drill bit too thin and weak for the job, but when he applied it and pulled the trigger, the drill ate in quickly. And quietly, Lunan noticed. After a while the bit went in all the way.

Rand took the drill and changed to a longer bit. "My turn," he said.

"What do I do?" Lunan asked.

"Just stand by." Rand drilled at the ceiling. When the bit was all the way in, he took out still another, this one a foot long, still very thin. He drilled cautiously, withdrawing the bit often. Then he saw light, and pointed.

"Mask time," Rand said. Lunan handed up a gas mask, then put on his own.

The hole in the ceiling was no more than a pinprick, which was what Rand had told Lunan to expect. When he had his mask on properly, Lunan went over to a large red tank. There was a hose attached to it, and Lunan handed up the hose and watched as Rand put it to the hole and sealed it in place with aluminized duct tape. "Crack the valve," Rand said, and Lunan turned the valve handle. There was a faint hissing. Rand pointed to the microphone.

"Phase two," Lunan said into the mike. "Hope we're in the right place-"

"All quiet here. Out," the radio answered.

Lunan replaced the mike. Quiet there, which was the tunnel entrance. Just one entrance, guarded by TS executives, which meant Lunan and Rand were safe. Of course it also meant there was only one exit. Unless they wanted to dig a new one, fleeing the law at a few dozen feet an hour.

Rand waved and made cutting motions, and Lunan shut off the sleepy gas. He worried about that gas. Rand said the stuff was the safest he could find, unlikely to harm anyone except possibly a heart patient; but there was no way they could control the dosages. This was the trickiest part of the maneuver- Rand had removed the tube and widened the hole slightly. Now he was trying to insert the tiny, thin periscope, and cursing.

"What?" Lunan asked.

"Blocked," Rand said. Swearing terribly, he moved two feet away and tried the drill again. When light showed, he inserted his periscope and looked. He turned it this way and that, then chuckled and motioned for Lunan to come look.

Concrete floor, something overhead, all very dark. Tom Lunan adjusted the light amplification and rotated the periscope.

Aha. Foreground, a pair of feet showed under a very low ceiling. He was under a bunk. Beyond, a mouse's-eye view of a jail cell: concrete floor, toilet, sink, and a middle-aged felon in fine physical shape sleeping peacefully on Tony Rand's first periscope hole.

While Tom looked, Rand brought up the gas tube and put it to the new hole. "Body blocked the flow," Rand muttered, and went back to open the valve on the tank.

He let it run another minute, then disconnected the hose and brought up the periscope again. Meanwhile, Lunan had attached the electronic stethoscope to the floor. He put on the earphones. At highest sensitivity he could hear the sounds of breathing and a heartbeat. Otherwise nothing. He made the "OK" sign to Rand.

Rand nodded and turned to the control console. When he twisted dials, a large jack ascended from the top of the vehicle and rose until it touched the ceiling. Another control sent up a large saw and spray hoses. The saw began cutting in a circular pattern around the jack.

It wailed like a banshee. Lunan felt real terror. Surely someone would hear that, the horrible rasping sound that proclaimed "JAILBREAK!" Evidently it worried Rand too, because he rigged up the tank and sent more sleepy gas through the hole.

The saw cut on a bias, a concrete disk larger at the top than at the bottom. Eventually the cut was made, and Tony used the jack to lift the plug until it was two feet higher than the cell floor. Lunan helped him set up a newly bought aluminum stepladder. Rand scrambled up it and disappeared, while Lunan arranged Therm-A-Rest air mattresses on the flat top of the vehicle. Then he climbed up, squeezing under the concrete plug. There was a moment of terror when he dislodged his gas mask, but he got it back on without breathing.

Preston Sanders was on his side in the lower bunk, with his feet hanging over the edge. He'd lost weight since Lunan had seen him in a courtroom, but he was still heavy. They lifted him and Rand slid down through the hole again, leaving Lunan to lower Sanders down like a sack of potatoes, with Rand to catch him and let him down onto the mattresses.

Now they had to work fast. Rand smeared the concrete plug with epoxy and lowered it into place. Then he filled the periscope holes. While he did that, Lunan manhandled Sanders into the cabin of the machine, and thought about the origins of that picturesque verb. Man-handled. Yep.

"Got it," Rand said.

"Won't they be able to see the hole?"

"Yeah, sure, I couldn't make the join perfect, especially working from the bottom-but they'll never get that plug out without jackhammers and such. Let's get out of here."

"Get your shirt," Lunan said.

"Shit, oh dear. What else have we forgotten?"

"The ladder, and the mattresses, and-"

"That's okay," Rand said. "They can't be traced." He chuckled. "Well, not profitably, anyway."

"Hey, I'm supposed to get the whole story."

"You've got all the story," Rand said. "My instructions are to see you off before Pres wakes up. I make that to be about ten more minutes."

"Yeah. All right," Lunan said. So. The adventure was coming to an end. Ye gods, what he'd seen! The top brass-the TOP BRASS-Of Todos Santos involved in felony jailbreak. Not that he could tell anyone, or even hint that he had certain knowledge. Rumor. All rumors . . . Lunan sighed. It was a hell of a story. Now all he had to do was figure out the best way to use it.

They drove away at the Mole's contemptible top speed.

Pres woke up twenty minutes later. He blinked and focused on Tony Rand, stared for a moment, and said, "We were just talking about you."

"Oh?"

"True. What's going on? Where am I?"

"We're roaring away in our trusty getaway vehicle, seconds ahead of The Law."

"Yeah, I can hear the roaring, anyway. It matches my head." Pres pushed himself up and looked back down the tunnel. "Good Lord. Tony? Is it the digging machine, the one that's making the subway under City Hall? Shit, are we really making our own tunnel?"

The Mole surged forward. Needles spun on the panel, and the automatics cut off the hydrogen flow. Without melted rock to carry heat away from the nose, the nose itself would melt. Half fused rubble slid past the cabin. Then the Mole lurched into the open night. Tony lifted the microphone from the console panel.

"We're loose." He put down the mike and turned to Sanders, grinning. "Most of the time you were asleep we were running back along an already-made tunnel. Then just before you woke up we started boring again. Now come on. You know, Pres, we might actually make it?"

Sanders was still groggy, but recovering. "Where are we now? Did you really break me out of jail?"

Tony led him out of the Mole and walked him through the night. Where was that stairway? "The OK Corral will never be the same. We've reached either the famed concrete banks of the Los Angeles River, or the equally famous Hoover Dam, depending." Ah. There were the stairs. "We go up, now."

"You gonna just leave the digger?"

"Jesus! Stay here." Tony sprinted back to the Mole and came back uphill more slowly, carrying his shirt and the gas canister. "This could be traced. The rest of that garbage was all bought today, by credit-card number and telephone, delivered to a blind drop. It was charged to one Professor Arnold Renn. That might cause a bit of confusion."

"Renn? He's Fromate, isn't he?" Pres started to laugh.

"Art says he was the advisor to the Planchet kid," Rand said.

"Oh." Sanders was silent a moment, then laughed. "Hey, they'll think the Fromates got me!"

"Not for long they won't, but it might slow down the opposition."

Sanders stopped. "Tony, I don't like this much. I mean-you broke me out of jail. We're both wanted by the law. Where can we go?"

"We're going home, I hope."

"Yeah, but-look, Tony, Art must have put you up to this, and don't think I'm not grateful, but dammit, Art doesn't own Todos Santos! He can't hide me forever, the management council has to know, and some of them don't like me. Somebody'll turn me in, for sure . . ."

His voice trailed off when he realized that Rand was only half listening. Tony was trying to orient himself. Where the hell was the street? Where the hell was anything? They stumbled onward. Then, ahead, car lights flashed twice and went dark.

"Thank God," Tony said. "Come on, Pres, just a little farther. Ah. Good, they remembered to cut the fence. Here, through right here, and we go the rest of the way by taxi. Swallow your pride and climb in."

An ordinary Yellow Cab stood waiting for them. The driver didn't speak.

Sanders tumbled into the back seat, still rubber-limbed, and thrashed to right himself as Tony tumbled in beside him and the taxi took off. Pres complained, "Hey! The speed limit! My pride wouldn't take it if we got pulled in for reckless driving."

The cab slowed at once. Tony asked, "How do you feel?"

"Fine. No more headache. No hangover." Sanders settled back in his seat. "I feel great! Of course they'll find us-"

"Maybe not," Rand said.

The cabbie said, "Where to, sir?" and turned around.

"Mead? Frank Mead?"

"Did you think we'd leave you for the eaters? Welcome home. In a half hour you'll be wolfing a midnight snack and drinking genuine Scotch. No, brandy's your drink, right? Remy Martin, then."

"Frank Mead. Sheeit! I thought . . . never mind what I thought. Listen, Tony, if I'm awake now, so is anyone else you dosed, right?"

"It'll take them awhile to get their act together," Tony said. "They won't know how you got out or where you went. I sealed up the hole. It's a locked-room mystery, secret passage and all."

"That's all right, then." Sanders started laughing.

George Harris woke with a mild headache and a feeling that something was wrong. That was confirmed when he heard the guards running up and down the corridors. "Head count!" they were shouting. "Everybody stand by your bunks!"

"Pres, what the hell is all this?" George demanded. "Pres?"

When there was no answer he looked around the cell. "Jesus H. Christ!" he shouted. Now what? And how had it happened? He remembered the tiny hole he'd seen, and looked down at the floor, but in the dim light he couldn't see anything at all. Should he tell the guards? Tell them what, that his cell-mate was missing? To hell with those bastards! But if he didn't cooperate, they'd nail his arse to the wall.

George grinned faintly to himself and lay down on the lower bunk. It wasn't hard at all to go back to sleep.

"Uh?" George woke to bright lights and a dozen deputies in his cell.

"What? Where's Sanders? Where'd he go?" the fat jailer shouted over and over.

"Uh? Pres, tell these buzzards to buzz off-"

"Where is he?"

"That'll do, Winsome. Mr. Harris, I remind you that aiding an escape from lawful confinement is a felony. Now, are you willing to cooperate?"

"Sure," George said.

"Excellent. What can you tell us?"

It was hard to keep from giggling, but George managed a straight face. "Nothing. Not one thing. I went to sleep talking to Preston Sanders and I just woke up." He rolled out of his bunk and looked into the upper bunk. "Pres?" He lifted the blanket. Nothing. "Shit fire."

"Hal? Hal, it's the telephone."

Donovan came awake as from beneath a deep, stagnant pond, vaguely aware that Carol was speaking to him. Gradually he understood. "Okay, honey. Thanks." He took the phone and listened.

Carol watched from her bed. Her blue negligee fell open and Donovan winked at her. His pretense was that she always turned him on. She did, often enough.

When he put the phone down and reached for his pants, she looked resigned. She'd long since stopped asking questions. He'd either explain or he wouldn't.

"Not a new murder," Donovan said. "Maybe not even my case. But it was my prisoner." Even that didn't get a rise. She looked at him expectantly, even with interest, but she wasn't asking questions.

"Preston Sanders," Donovan said. "Technically my case and my prisoner. He's escaped from the county jail."

"Escaped? Great heavens, Harry, how?" Carol Donovan demanded.

"Nobody seems to know, just at present," Donovan said. "I suppose they'll find out."

"So you're going down to the jail?"

"I'll start there. Just to see how they did it."

"How they did it?"

"Sure. I don't have to know what happened to know Todos Santos has made their move. I just hope it doesn't mean all-out war."

When Donovan arrived at the County Jail, a team of workmen were breaking through the floor with jackhammers. The officer in charge, Sheriff's captain Oliver Matson, was an old friend. One of Matson's deputies handed Donovan Polaroid’s of the cell floor taken before the jackhammers started. There was a thin circular line showing clearly on the floor.

"He went out that way, all right," the deputy said.

"Here," a workman said. "Hey! Watch out!"

"What is it?" Matson asked.

"It's all hollow under there. A tunnel."

"Tunnel," Donovan said. Of course there had to be a tunnel. How else could Sanders have got away? But how had the tunnel got under the County Jail? "Holy shit!"

"What?" his friend demanded.

"The digging machine! The Mole!" Donovan shouted. "That's how they did it, they dug a subway tunnel with the Mole, that big damned digging machine of theirs-any minute now they'll report it stolen. Anybody want to bet they won't?"

"Oh, crap," Matson said. "Jesus. That's acting on the grand scale."

The workmen had the tunnel open. Deputies squeezed through and when they were out of the way Donovan and Matson followed.

"No doubt about it," Matson. said. "A new subway tunnel- well, we won't need bloodhounds to follow this trail."

Donovan laughed, but he thought they might as well get out the bloodhounds. Nothing else was going to catch Sanders. Not just Sanders. He looked at the smooth-sided tunnel walls. "Just like magic," he said.

"Which?"

"We're looking for a magician. In this case a court magician."

It was highly irritating to Donovan that Oliver Matson hadn't seen the documentary. Donovan hated to explain jokes.

The meeting was in an apartment that showed on no maps of Todos Santos. It would have taken twenty people with excellent measuring instruments the better part of a day merely to prove there was an apartment there; finding the entrance and getting it open would take a lot longer.

Most of the Todos Santos brass was there, and Tony Rand basked in their approbation. Everything had gone well (and he could forget just how scared he'd been).

"What about the other guy?" Bonner asked. "Pres's cell-mate. Maybe you should have done him a favor."

"Whooo-ee," Sanders said. He bellowed laughter. "Jesus, no, Art. Harris is only in there on weekends! He'd have screamed bloody murder, to find out the cops are after him and-" He stopped laughing, and the general mood of euphoria faded. "So what happens now?"

"Several choices," Bonner said. "All of them reasonable. How would you like my job?"

"That's silly-"

"Not here," Bonner said. "And not an arcology. But Romulus has a lot of operations, and the top slot's open in one of them. How do you feel about going to Africa?"

Sanders lifted one eyebrow. "Seems a long way to run-"

Bonner spread his hands. "We'll talk about it in the morning. As I said, it's your choice. You wouldn't have to go too far- don't forget, at the moment the police have no proof that you escaped. You may be the victim of a kidnapping."

The grin, or part of it, returned to Sanders. "Do you really think we can pin it on the Fromates?"

Frank Mead snorted. "Wouldn't want to, would we? We saved one of our own, and I'd like it if everybody in the LA Basin knows it. As long as they can't prove it." He looked thoughtful. "We didn't actually put our autograph on anything, unless Tony-"

"Would Picasso refrain from signing his masterpiece?"

"Sign it or not, they'll guess," Art Bonner said. He giggled suddenly. "Speaking of signing your work-"

"What?" Barbara asked.

"The muggers. What should we do with the muggers?"

"Kill the sons of bitches," Frank Mead said.

"Hey, no," Sanders yelled. "Hey-"

"Don't worry, we won't," Bonner said. "Frank didn't mean that anyway."

Mead shrugged and massaged his fist. He had bruises under his large ring and on two knuckles, but there was a pensively happy smile on his face. "So what do we do with the meat heads? Where are they, anyway?"

"In a dark room off Medical," Bonner said. "I believe the technical term is 'under heavy sedation.' Of course we'll have to let them go, eventually."

"They were bad dudes," Mead said.

"Hard on Los Angeles," Delores said.

"Nothing Los Angeles doesn't deserve. But I had an idea-"

"Should we be making decisions now?" Barbara asked. "We're all pretty soused."

"Good point, sweetheart," Bonner said. He went to her and took her hand. "Let's go home. Oh. Tony-"

"Yeah?"

"The LA cops will want you for questioning. I'd as soon they didn't find you."

Delores came up and put her arm through Tony's. "That answers one question," she said.

Tony frowned the question at her.

"My place or yours? We can't go to yours," she said. "Mine will be safe enough. For a while." She marched him out of the room.

XIX - RETRIBUTION

They cannot commit treason, nor be outlawed nor excommunicated, for they have no souls.

-Sir Edward Coke, Lord Chief Justice of England Sutton's Hospital Case. 10 Report 32, 1628

Her position was odd, and she was cold. The sheets and blankets were twisted all to hell. Delores untangled them enough to pull them over her head.

Feeling nice. . . feeling sleepy. Would she be able to get back to sleep? They hadn't slept much last night.

Where was Tony?

She heard the ting of room service delivery, and smelled coffee. Coffee and unidentifiable breakfast smells. Suddenly her hunger was like teeth gnashing in her belly.

Shorted on sleep, they'd burned considerable energy last night. The court magician had never before shown any such tendency toward satyriasis. Being a hero must make a man horny, Delores thought.

She sat up and called, "What have we got?"

"All kinds of things." Tony sounded cheerful, and well he might. "Melon. Blinis. Eggs Benedict. Coffee and hot milk. Vodka right out of a freezer."

She came to see. So little time, so much to do-She tore into a thick wedge of honey-dew melon, and for a time there was silence. Tony seemed as hungry as she was. Even so-"Hombre, we'll never eat all this! Which are blinis? The pancakes?"

"Right. Beluga caviar, sour cream and a splash of hot butter between two buckwheat pancakes. The iced vodka goes with the blinis, if you've a mind. Who's gonna question my expense account on a day like today?"

Her spoon stopped moving. Your last day. She looked up. Had he guessed?

He had. "Lunan gave me too much publicity. The Angelino cops are sure to guess who did it. Where do you think they'll send me?"

She cut into a blini while she considered. Art might send Tony out with Pres Sanders. They got along. Or . . . it hit her as she raised the fork to her mouth. The appointment with Sir George Reedy. Art would try to sell him Tony's contract. Canada!

Then she tasted the magic of a blini. "Tony, it's wonderfuL"

"Yeah. You'd have to own Todos Santos to eat like this every day. I'm glad the Soviets are finally cleaning up their rivers. Hey, Delores, I don't really care where they send me-"

She couldn't tell him. Art wouldn't like her jumping the gun.

"-I just want to know you're coming with me."

In that moment she knew the answer. Guarding her boss's secrets from her lover, automatically, reflexively, told her where her loyalty lay. She said, "I'm not."

Tony said nothing, but the life went out of his face. He swallowed, with difficulty. He started to say something, stopped.

She couldn't let him beg. In haste she said, "Tony, I've got power and respect here. I'm the General Manager's secretary. It's an important job-"

"I'd probably be moving to another arcology. Or building one."

"And I'd be the court magician's old lady. Tony, I didn't even settle for General Manager's mistress! That's an interchangeable slot-no pun intended-"

Tony's laugh was more of a bark, and Delores didn't smile. "I want something permanent. I've got it here."

Now he looked up. "You know, the whole city wondered why you and Art broke it up."

"No privacy in this place."

He poured a thimbleful of vodka into a chilled liqueur glass.

"You gave me one classic hero's welcome," he said. "I won't ever forget."

"Pour me one too."

"You've gone insane," John Shapiro said. "Absolutely bonkers."

Lieutenant Donovan nodded to himself. Right enough by me, he thought. They've all gone nuts.

They stood at the main surface entrance to Todos Santos. An enormous banner fluttered overhead: THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION.

They were surrounded by police and lawyers. Donovan could see: uniformed Todos Santos guards to the rank of major; three FBI men; federal marshals; scads of Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies, some in uniform and others in plain clothes; his own three LAPD cops; two United States Attorneys; and four Los Angeles County Deputy District Attorneys, one of whom had just served a paper on the Todos Santos General Manager.

Plus five Todos Santos attorneys including John Shapiro, who had insisted on reading the warrant, aloud, from beginning to end. Eventually he finished.

"You can't search an entire city," Shapiro said. "Even if that were possible, you can't do it with a single warrant! If you want to look somewhere, you have to get a warrant for that particular place-"

"Impossible!" the Deputy D.A. said. "There are too many places-"

"About a hundred thousand private apartments," Shapiro agreed. "And each one a separate dwelling.'. . . and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.' Sixth Amendment."

"I know that."

"I wondered," Shapiro said. "Because it doesn't look as if you've read it lately. You've got some of the second part. Persons to be seized, Preston Sanders and Anthony Rand-although I challenge your proper cause for wanting to arrest Mr. Rand. But the rest of this document is ridiculous. However did you get a judge to sign it?"

"It's signed," a sheriff's deputy said. "Now let us in."

"And another thing. You name MILLIE as a 'place to be searched.' Just how do you propose to search a computer?"

They were interrupted by a burst of laughter from the Todos Santos manager. "He looks like he's got canary feathers in his whiskers," Donovan muttered to his assistant.

"These papers are in order," the D.A.'s spokesman said. "Now are you going to let us in or do we have to break in?"

Shapiro shrugged and looked to the General Manager. "Mr. Bonner?"

"Admit them under protest. Get their names and badge numbers. We'll want to sue." Bonner turned and stamped away.

Shapiro stood aside, and Donovan followed the horde of police through the entryway and into the broad corridor.

"Where the hell do we start?" Sergeant Ortiz asked.

Donovan shrugged. "Thank God I'm not in charge of this farce. Cops sure can be stupid sometimes. I don't know what those guys will do, but what we do is nothing. We're not going to find anything, and we all know it. Why go through the motions?" He paused in thought. "For that matter, I'm not so sure I want to find this Rand character. Next time they might take away the whole damned jail."

"Or City Hall."

"In there," Guard Lieutenant Blake said. He indicated a low door. "I'll be here in the service tunnel, and Security is watching all the corridors. If the Angelino cops get close, we'll hold them up."

"Right," Tony Rand said. "Thanks."

The access door from the service corridor was low, and Tony had to duck to get through into Art Bonner's temporary office. It nearly matched the real thing. The desk and view screens were almost identical, though the shelves were empty of the sailing memorabilia and other clutter that Bonner kept.

The door outside claimed the suite was an apartment occupied by a retired Marine colonel. Inside were Bonner, Barbara Churchward, and Sir George Reedy.

"Come in, Tony," Bonner said. "We're just putting the finishing touches on our agreement-"

Sir George didn't look very happy. Tony regarded the Canadian's expression and asked, "How much are you getting for my contract?"

"Oh, we're being quite reasonable," Barbara said cheerfully.

"It's too much," Reedy protested. "He's a wanted man. They'll extradite him and we'll have nothing for all that money."

"No, you can give him political asylum," Bonner said. "If it comes to that, which I doubt. I doubt they'll even try on a federal level. If they do, Shapiro can keep the State Department tied in knots for years. It isn't as if they had any real evidence that Tony was involved in their jailbreak. Our problem is that they can keep him in courtrooms forever."

"Do I get a say in this?" Tony asked.

"Sure, Tony," Bonner said. "It's this way. You have a contract with Romulus Corporation. Romulus is negotiating consultation fees for helping the Canadians build their new arcology. They want a lot of engineering help. If you like, you'll be in charge of the engineering team. That's one of your alternatives-I would have thought the most attractive one."

"What are the others?"

"You can go to Zimbabwe with Pres-"

Tony Rand frowned. "Zimbabwe? Where the devil is that?"

"It used to be called 'Rhodesia,'" Barbara said.

"Why would Pres want to go to Rhodesia?" Tony demanded.

Sir George's eyebrows lifted.

Barbara laughed. "He really doesn't know, Sir George. He never pays attention to anything outside Todos Santos. Tony, Zimbabwe was a colony run by whites until a few years ago. Now it has a black government. A fairly good one, as such things go in Africa. Romulus has had its eye on Pres as honcho of corporate operations there for a long time; now's a very good chance. We put the idea to Pres, and he likes it."

Tony nodded. Pres would like it. A good promotion, with a chance to run his own show. Would he resent getting this promotion because he was black? Or find that amusing? Have to ask him...

"So you could go with him," Bonner was saying. "You work well with Sanders, and Romulus has some extensive civil engineering operations in Zimbabwe. It would be a good place to stash you until we need you on the orbital construction shack-"

Rand looked from Bonner to Reedy. "Umh huh. That last part sounds pretty good," he said.

Reedy chuckled. "You needn't bring out the sandbags." He looked thoughtful. "But there's the general strike that Councilman Planchet has called against Todos Santos. I'm not certain I want economic reprisals taken against me-and there would be for hiring Mr. Rand."

"Well, they might try it, but what can they really do to you?" Bonner asked. "They're too far away."

They're too far from Canada, Tony Rand thought. But not too far from us! A general strike! That's got to have Art worried out of his mind. He doesn't show it, but it's got to be hurting us- "Perhaps you're right," Sir George said. He stared pensively at the ceiling for a moment, then said, "I'd want it clearly understood that we have you two on call. I'll want you by hologram for at least ten hours a month, and two weeks a year actually in residence."

"Both of us?" Barbara asked.

"Certainly," Reedy said.

Bonner looked thoughtful. So did Churchward and Reedy.

Now they're doing it again, Tony thought. Consulting. From the look on Sir George's face, they've cut him out-now they've let him overhear something-damn, what must that be like? I've got to find out. And maybe- Tony cleared his throat. "I've never been to Africa," he said.

"It sounds good."

Nobody paid any attention to him for a moment. Then Barbara smiled, slightly. "Oh, come on, Tony."

"We can at least consider it."

Bonner shook his head. His look was decisive. All right, Tony thought. I'll shut up. But just for now. You've not heard the last of this!

There was more silence. Then all three, Bonner, Churchward, and Reedy, were smiling. "Eight hours a month and ten days a year," Art Bonner said. "Excellent."

"Agreed," Sir George said. He extended his hand, then withdrew it slightly. "Mind you, I'll not aid in helping either of them escape."

"No need," Bonner said. "You'll take care of sending Sanders on to Salisbury. We'll get them both to Canada."

"Quite. Very well." He extended his hand again. Bonner took it, and after a moment Barbara put hers atop the other two.

Leaving me out, Tony thought. Taking me for granted. We'll show them, we will- Bonner stood. "A moment." He stood silently for a moment.

Sir George joined him in the pose. They waited nearly a minute, then Bonner opened the outer office door. A uniformed Todos Santos guard stood outside.

"Sir George will be leaving this afternoon," Bonner said. "I expect he'd like to pack now."

"Right," the guard said. He led Reedy away.

Bonner came back and closed the door.

"OK, sweets, what does Tony think he's doing?"

"0 come on, Art, It's obvious what he wants.""Tee hee. You'll see it in a second. I'm surprised at you."

THE POLICE HAVE REQUESTED ALL FILES UNDER DIRECTORY TITLE RAND.

'Dump it for them at 300 baud."

"Art! Are you sure?"

"We cleaned Rand's directory first thing. Took out everything not routine, then we added a few files. Old engineering catalogues. Maintenance schedules. Ratings of TV shows. Makes a pretty big file-" MILLIE, what is the total stored in Rand's directory?

23,567,892 BYTES.

"Good Lord. Art, that will take hours to print out-"

"Yeah, that gives the cops a hobby. Now what is it Rand wants? Delores? He's got her-"

"No, no, Delores won't go. But that's not his primary want anyway. Come on, use your head."

"Oh I" Bonner grinned. "All right, Tony, why the sudden interest in trips to Africa?" He watched, amused, as Rand tried to keep a poker face.

"Well, I always did get along with Pres, and-"

"But you could be talked into going to Canada?"

"Well, yes, but it would be expensive. I want-"

"Oh, never mind, Tony," Bonner said wickedly. He made his voice sound resigned. "We'll lose money on the Canadian deal, but if you really want to go to Africa, well, we owe you, and-"Whatever Rand was going to say was drowned out by Barbara's laughter.

"Art, you are really cruel."

"Maybe once in a while." "Tony, it's going to cost you."

Rand looked wary. "What's going to cost me?"

"The implant. That's what you're holding out for, isn't it? Jesus, I never saw a worse negotiator. Fortunately, your interest is our interest . . ."

Rand looked more wary than ever.

"Of course we'll want an exclusive contract for your services, with veto power over any outside jobs and the right to reassign you at our convenience-"

"Yipe. That's slavery!" Rand protested.

"Yup. We'll also want you here part of the time. Not in person, of course, but we'll let you roam around Todos Santos by robot, and set up regular holographic conferences, with us and with your replacement."

"What do you intend to do, work me to death?"

"Not quite. Of course you always have the option of quitting on half pay-you won't be able to work for anyone else, but half what we pay you is plenty."

"So what's to keep me from taking your implant and your money and going off to grow petunias?"

"We'll chance it." "About as much chance of that as I have of turning into a werewolf. Keep him idle for six months and he'd be a raving maniac."

"There are those who say he-skip it." "That's settled, then," Barbara said. "Smile, Tony, you win. You'll get your implant."

She paused. "You don't look very happy about it."

"No, no, that's fine." But Tony still wasn't smiling.

'For a man who's about to go off alone, he really is putting a good face on disaster."

"Yeah. Too good. I don't like it."

"There is a problem with this," Barbara said. "You won't be able to come back to the States. Not for a while, anyway. You might have difficulty seeing your son."

"It isn't Zach he's going to miss, it's getting laid regularly."

"Both, I'd say. And don't be nasty." "Is there a chance Genevieve might be persuaded to go with you?"

Rand shook his head violently. "Why would she do that? There won't be any high-status place like Todos Santos in Canada. Not till I build it!"

"Which is just the point," Barbara said. "If she'd come with you, you'd know it's because she believes in you. It wouldn't be just for the status. She'd earn her way, just as you will-"

"Aren't you laying it on thick?"

"With Rand? You can't lay it on too thick. Look at his face. We've got him."

"But will Genevieve believe any of that?"

"Who cares? So long as she'll go. And I think she will. From everything I've heard, she's pretty sharp."

"Why do you want Genevieve to go with him anyway, pet?"

"Come on, haven't you seen him when he talks about her? He's still in love with her. Delores knows, everyone else knows, except maybe Tony."

"I liked seeing Tony happy, and he was for the few days he had Delores."

"He'd be happy with Genevieve. Believe me."

"She'd never do it," Tony said.

"You'll never know until you ask her."

"How do I ask her? The cops will be watching her all the time.

Probably have her phone tapped."

Barbara nodded. "That's true. But I can talk to her for you, Tony. Find out what she thinks. If it sounds good I'll bring her here. They'll never be able to follow me inside Todos Santos!"

I AM PRINTING THE REQUESTED FILES.

You will not answer any other requests from the police until that printout is completed.

ACKNOWLEDGED. THE POLICE ARE NOW ENTERING YOUR MAIN OFFICE. SANDRA WYATT IS WITH THEM.

"I'd appreciate that, Barbara," Tony said. "I-I guess I really would like it if Djinn came with me. Not that I think she will."

"We'll see."

"BOSS THIS IS SANDRA. I'M TALKING INTO A HUSH PHONE. THERE'S NO WAY YOU CAN ANSWER ME. THE COPS HAVE BROUGHT ALICE STRAHLER UP HERE. THEY'RE TRYING TO TALK HER INTO GUIDING THEIR SEARCH. THEY'RE PROMISING HER IMMUNITY. HAVE MILLIE BLINK YOUR OFFICE LIGHTS IF YOU UNDERSTAND."

"Holy shit," Bonner said aloud. "MILLIE, blink my office lights. Tony, they've brought Alice here. Can she help them find anything in MILLIE that we don't want them to know?"

"Maybe," Rand said. "We did all the obvious things-"

"I did a few that weren't so obvious," Bonner said. "Such as erasing your access logs, and taking your name off all the accession records for the City Hall and County Jail plans and such."

"But we still could have missed something," Rand said.

"What?"

"If we knew, we wouldn't have missed it," Barbara said impatiently.

"And we probably did miss something," Rand said. "No way we could be sure. And-well, Alice could have hidden a few files herself."

"She didn't know about anything illegal, did she?" Bonner demanded.

"No, but she might embarrass us."

"Meanwhile, the economic harassments continue," Barbara said. "That strike can hurt us-"

"It's already hurting us," Bonner said.

"Right. So." Barbara stood suddenly. "Art, it's time to call off this war. I think we should have a peace conference."

"Think we're ready?"

"We can get ready."

More data whispered against his mastoid bone. "Holy cow. Sweetheart, you're a mean broad."

"Economic warfare is my specialty." "So," she said. "You call MacLean Stevens and invite him to bring Councilman Planchet out. Tony, we'll have an hour or so to talk. How would Todos Santos go about putting pressure on Los Angeles?"***

Art Bonner looked at the wreckage of his office and cursed. The place was a mess, with holes in the wall, chipped plaster, ripped upholstery; there were books scattered everywhere.

"I tried to get it cleaned up," Delores said. She spat. "Cops! I can get the worst taken care of before your appointment-"

"Leave it," Bonner said. "The main thing is to be sure their bugs are gone and our cameras are working."

"We did that first off," Delores said. "Of course that made some of the mess-"

"It's all right." Art sat behind his desk and looked at the readout screens. "Tony, you there?"

SURE AM. The letters flowed across one desk console screen.

VISUAL AND AUDIO PICKUPS WORKING FINE.

"Good."

MACLEAN STEVENS AND COUNCILMAN PLANCHET HAVE ARRIVED AT THE SOUTHEAST HELIPORT.

Thank you. Link to Barbara Churchward. "You there, sweetheart?"

"Right here. Tony had some ideas too."

"This is it, kids. Payoff time."

Big Jim Planchet held his lips to a tight line as he entered the big office. It was here, he thought. Right here. They gave the orders and my boy died. Right here.

He followed MacLean Stevens in, not really hearing the introductions and greetings, not seeing anything at first. Then he looked around, seeing the destruction. Holes in the walls and ceiling. Books thrown to the floor, covered with plaster dust, then walked on. Some of them looked to be expensive books, art volumes. Furniture had been ripped open, rugs slashed.

"Your cops were thorough enough," Bonner said. "They didn't find anything, but then I doubt they expected to."

"Not my cops," Stevens answered. "Sheriff's people, not mine."

"Balls. You could call them off anytime you wanted," Bonner said.

"You lost an office. I lost a son," Planchet said coldly.

"I'm sorry about your son," Bonner said. "If we'd known any way to save him, we would have, but he was just too damned convincing! We were betrayed ourselves. Alice Strahler-the one who told Renn how to get your kid in here? The Sheriff's men were talking about giving her immunity."

Planchet started to say something, but held back.

"If you'd been a bit more cooperative, I doubt the deputies would have trashed your office," Stevens said.

"Cooperative how?"

"That goddam computer, printing out page after page of TV show ratings!"

"They asked for it," Bonner said. "I can't help it if you've got a bunch of stupid cops trying to talk to a smart computer."

"Look, Bonner, this isn't a game," Planchet said.

"I couldn't agree more," Bonner said. "So. Shall we be serious? If you want a drink I can send for anything you'd like. My delivery system got broken this afternoon when one of your cretins thought he'd found the secret compartment we hide engineers in."

"That's serious?" Stevens asked.

Bonner couldn't help it. He laughed. "The cop sure thought it was. You should have seen him, with his head stuck in the conveyor, which picked just that time to deliver a royal gin fizz. . ."

That got a grin from Stevens. "We'll pass the drinks for the moment. All right, you called the conference. Your turn."

"Sure," Bonner said. "I want to negotiate a peace settlement."

"No deal without Sanders and Rand," Planchet said.

"Then no deals at all," Bonner said. "Sorry to have wasted your time, gentlemen." He stood up. "I'll get you an escort back to your helicopter."

"Hell, we just got here," Stevens said. He looked at Planchet. "You know damned well they're not going to turn Sanders over to us."

"Then we hurt them until they do," Planchet said. "You think the strike hurts now? Wait 'till we have a real strike. Nothing will go in or out of this building. Nothing."

"Sure," Bonner said. "And we counter with a boycott. Miss Churchward starts making purchases from San Francisco. We bring it by ship and land it in Long Beach. It will be the best thing that ever happened to the west coast merchant marine, but Los Angeles won't make much out of it.

"Then there are our waldo operators. They've elected a spokesman." Bonner touched a switch on his desk console.

Armand Drinkwater's apartment appeared on the screen. Drinkwater sat idly, his tools neatly stowed away. "Just can't work this way," he said. "How can I work when an Angelino cop could break in my door anytime he wants to? I'm used to knowing who's going to visit me. The rest of us all feel the same way."

Stevens nodded grimly, and he and Planchet exchanged glances.

Aha, Bonner thought. They've already heard about that one. Wonder who called? Might be the Secretary of State. Those medical gizmos Drinkwater was making were pretty important, and the orbital work even more so. So let's rub it in . . . He touched buttons.

Rachael Lief came onto the screen. Behind her, in her screen, was a lunar landscape complete with irate astronaut. "I can't tell you when I can get back to work," Rachael said. "When things are settled here. You could get someone else-"

The astronaut cursed again. Bonner cut him off and looked expectantly at Planchet. Your move, Bonner's look said.

"How are shipments going to get here from Long Beach?" Planchet demanded. "I told you, we'll see that nothing comes in or out-"

"Not even food?" Bonner asked innocently. "I'm not certain, but I think the Constitution prevents U.S. cities from making war on each other. If you let people starve to death in here, it will get on national television. Are you going to stop food from coming in?"

"Don't be silly," Stevens said.

"Me, silly? Come on, now, who was it threatened to leave us besieged in the castle? You're more medieval than we are. Private wars, yet."

"Damn you, this is no joke!" Planchet shouted.

"And just to be sure you understand that-" Bonner's hand hesitated above the keyboard, then withdrew. "Councilman, I've already told you we regret what happened. You can't possibly believe we wanted to kill innocent kids-and you've seen all the warnings we gave, the signs those kids went past, the locked doors they went through. You're an intelligent man. You know damned well there wasn't another thing we could have done. And either you or Stevens would have done the same thing if you'd been sitting in Preston Sanders's chair, too!"

Bonner paused for a moment. "You don't have to respond to that. But think about it. While you're thinking, let me show you another one."

The TV screen showed the iceberg resting in Santa Monica Bay. "This goes with it," Bonner said. He took a Xerox from his desk and handed it to Stevens. "That gives me operational control of all Romulus assets in the southwest. Including the power plants in Baja. Also the iceberg. Now watch closely. Are you watching?" MILLIE: are the skiers all evacuated from the iceberg?

YES. Have Rand do Phase One of Flmbui winter.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then the floating plastic liner which trapped melted ice water and kept it separated from the salt water of the Bay rippled along its entire length. The iceberg itself seemed to move, slowly, majestically. On the windward side of the berg, thousands of gallons of salt water slopped in.

"Hey, for God's sake!" Planchet protested.

"So far your constituents can drink brackish water," Bonner said. "I don't expect they'll like it much, but it won't hurt them. Would you like to try for straight salt water?"

"You need that water as much as we do," Stevens said.

"Watch again," Bonner said.

The TV screen shifted to a personable young lady. The legend underneath said "Sandra Wyatt, Deputy General Manager." A male voice-over said "We interrupt regularly scheduled programming for an important announcement."

"This is a Stage Two water conservation notice," Wyatt said. "We have reason to believe that the city of Los Angeles may interfere with our water supplies. As you all know, we have large internal storage systems, all of which are full. It will be inconvenient, but we shouldn't have any real problems if everyone does their share. The Stage Two water conservation plan impose€ the following restrictions. All residents will immediately-"

The screen went back to a view of the iceberg, which was still in motion but no longer shipping water into the plastic liner. "Want to bet your people will conserve better than mine?" Bonner asked. "You won't run out of drinking water, but you'll shut down more industries than I will. .

"I can get an injunction," Planchet protested.

Bonner laughed. "Go ahead. There's the phone. With luck you might get a court order in the next hour. We won't even oppose it-,'

MILLIE, I want about half that much water sloppage again.

"Are you watching? Incidentally, my chief engineer tells-uh, excuse me, told me that it takes three full days to flush the system once it's been thoroughly contaminated with salt. That's assuming our people do it. Doing it without the computer and using outside work crews can take from two weeks to forever, depending. Just thought you'd like to know."

That got to them, Bonner thought. "Of course, you could go back to pumping water from the Owens Valley and the Sacramento Delta," Art said. "You might have some trouble from the Fromates though. Didn't they dynamite your aqueduct once?"

Still no answer.

Data rippled into his mind. He grinned. "Now here's something interesting. There's a large shipload of cement about to leave Portland, Oregon. Romulus bought it to send up to Prudhoe Bay, but Barbara has authority to divert it for our use. We were just about to put in an order with a local outfit, but if we're under local siege I'll want to assure my supplies."

"That'll cost you a lot," Stevens observed.

"Not so very much. We got the cement at a good price." He cocked his head to one side and looked thoughtful. "Actually, we might even save money."

Planchet turned to Stevens. "Do you believe that?"

Stevens shrugged.

"I could let your investigators find that file," Bonner said. "Or show it to you here. Want to see for yourself?"

"All right, I'll just call that bluff," Planchet said. "How much-"

He stopped because MacLean Stevens was laughing so hard it was hard to hear anyone else speak. "He really got you," Stevens said. "What difference does it make whether he tells you a story or has MILLIE tell you? You think the computer won't lie for him?"

"He can't have made up that many stories in advance-"

"He doesn't have to make up anything in advance," Stevens said. "Don't you understand, he's talking to that goddam computer every second. The computer's in his head, Councilman!"

"Christ. And that's what my kid was up against. . ."

"He almost beat us," Art Bonner said. "If that makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't."

"He did beat us," Art said almost musingly. "Our goal was a capture . . . Mr. Planchet, what can I say? Nothing we do will bring Jimmy back. But you, you're helping the people who really killed him! The Fromates. And I can't believe you're actually on their side."

Planchet sat heavily. "I thought about that already," he said carefully. "I thought about it a lot. Damn it, I don't know what to do." He pounded his big fist into a bigger hand. "All right, Bonner, what is it you want?"

"I want this strike ended," Bonner said. "I want your cops out of my city, and my people back to work. I want things the way they were before-"

"Before," Planchet said. "We can't do that. But I guess we can stop hurting each other. Anyone tries that, it'll be political suicide. But Sanders and Rand are wanted, and they'll stay wanted."

"Done. You'll never see either one of them again. Mac, take your police and go. Mr. Planchet, call off your strike and I'll start flushing the iceberg tub. And put my people back to work. All right?"

Planchet's lips tightened. He looked from Bonner to Stevens, then at the iceberg on the screen; and slowly he nodded.

Done. Break out the champagne.

XX - PERSUASIONS

Successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.-Seneca "Sure you don't want a driver, Miss Churchward?"

"Thank you, no, Sergeant. I don't have far to go." She smiled warmly and climbed into the roadster. Like all cars in Todos Santos, it was company property; individually owned cars didn't make sense. It was cheaper to keep a fleet and lend them to residents.

In theory, no car was reserved for any particular person. In practice, certain specially equipped cars were used by a very few top executives, and Barbara considered the little Alfa Romeo "hers." She got in and adjusted the seats and mirrors carefully, then touched a switch inside the glove compartment. Testing relay. MILLIE?

ACKNOWLEDGED. RELAY OPERATIVE.

Her implanted transceiver's range was fairly short, but the car had a powerful relay system, good anywhere in line of sight to the large antenna on top of Todos Santos. She nodded in satisfaction, then checked each gauge. She started the car and listened attentively to the engine. Eventually she felt ready to face Los Angeles traffic and put the car in gear.

She spiraled up and up to the top of the ramp and out into the greensward around Todos Santos, choosing a route that led through a wild area. It wasn't actually wilderness: the native chaparral of Southern California is ugly brown most of the year, and the Todos Santos residents didn't want to look down on that; after some experimenting, the company's agronomists developed shrubs that stayed green with minimum artificial irrigation. The resulting greensward was pleasant to drive through, and the deer and rabbits and coyotes seemed to like it a lot.

The city's walls towered high above her. When she reached the edge of the park, she saw that the picketing Angelinos were gone. Stevens and Planchet had acted swiftly once they made the basic agreement. Up above, though, the Todos Santos residents hadn't removed their banners. THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION.

Link to Bonner.

"Here I am. Pretty busy."

"Just a note. That banner has to go. It can't be helping our relations with the Angelinos."

"Guess you're right. I'll take care of it. Anything else?"

"Not right now. Bye."

The apartment building was modern Spanish, mostly concrete and tile, built over an underground parking structure and around a bricked patio. There was a parking place right in front, sparing her the drive down a narrow ramp.

A thick arched passage led to the interior court. Unlike most such apartment buildings, the swimming p001 was in a separate area so that the brick-floored inside patio seemed cool and inviting, rather than being a glare of concrete deck and chlorined water. Genevieve Rand's apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs and along an iron-railed balcony.

Barbara rang the bell, and was annoyed when there was no answer. Confirm time of appointment.

MILLIE didn't answer either.

Blast. Out of range. Too much concrete between me and the car. Oh, well. I'll keep ringing, I know- The door opened, Barbara and Genevieve eyed each appraisingly. She's not bad at all, Barbara thought. Kept her looks and figure. Maybe just a touch plump, but so is Delores. Tony must like them that way. "Barbara Churchward. We had an appointment-"

"Yes. I-I'm not sure we have much to talk about."

"I've come this far. You may as well hear what I have to say." She's certainly nervous. Because Tony's wanted? Are the police inside? That could be it, better watch what I say- "Yes, won't you come in?" Genevieve stood out of the way, then closed the door behind when they were inside.

The apartment was neat. Expensive furniture. Plants. Little touches of color here and there, all very tasteful. A door was open to a hallway and at the end of that was another room, larger but not so trimly kept, with books and toys and a sewing basket visible on a big smooth-topped table. "Very nice," Barbara said.

"Would you like anything? Sherry? Coffee?"

"Nothing, thank you."

Genevieve indicated a chair. She hovered nervously until Barbara sat. "What can I do for you?"

Barbara made a snap decision. She couldn't talk here; not until she knew what was wrong. "I'd like to take you out to Todos Santos."

"Oh. Is-is Tony there?"

"I couldn't say. But just before he disappeared, he made an appointment with you-"

"Yes, that's right."

"Actually, he wanted me to keep it for him, even before the big flap with the police."

"Oh. Then you're-"

Barbara laughed. "Great heavens no! Oh, I like Tony, but no, we're not involved. No, Mrs. Rand, it's just that he asked me to, well, to negotiate with you. It seems he didn't trust himself."

"Negotiate? But to do-"

"For you to join Tony, if that's what you want. Of course there are problems just now. We could discuss all this better out there-"

Genevieve didn't say anything.

Ha, Barbara thought, you still want to live with Tony if I'm any judge of expressions. I'm also certain we're not alone. If we're going to talk, we'll have to get out of here. "I really wish you'd come with me. We could be back in an hour, and there's a lot to talk about." Barbara stood and went toward the door. "Please-"

"That'll do it."

It was a man's voice. He was just stepping out of a closet. Barbara turned toward him. "My, officer, wasn't it uncomfortable in there?"

Genevieve laughed hysterically. "Officer! He's no policeman, he's-"

"Shut up."

The bubble of Barbara's amusement popped and was gone. Not police?

There were more people now. A not unattractive but certainly large woman came out of the playroom. Another man came from a side door in the same hallway. This one carried some kind of two-handed firearm with a fat barrel. Barbara had seen one like it before, but couldn't remember where. One of Colonel Cross's men? It didn't matter. It was a submachine gun, and that made these desperate people indeed.

MILLIE!

Nothing.

Damn these concrete walls! "What do you want?"

"We want you, Mizz Churchward."

"Miss," she said automatically.

"Traitor," the woman said. She came over to stand very close to Barbara. "Pig."

"Leona," the first man said. "That's enough."

"Just how am I a traitor?" Barbara asked. If I can keep them talking- The woman hit her hard across the mouth. Barbara stepped back gasping. The woman hit her again, first with her fist, then slapped her, forehand, backhand. "Now do you understand?" Leona demanded. "You're nothing, pig. Nothing. You'll do what we want, and you'll talk when we want you to, and you'll be polite. Understand?"

Barbara spat out pieces of a broken tooth, and felt bloody saliva run down her chin.

The hard hand struck her again. "I asked you a question, pig."

"I understand."

"All right. Let's get them both out of here," one of the men ordered.

Leona was holding a black cloth hood. She put it over Barbara's head, then took her arm and began pulling her. Barbara stumbled along somehow. The whole side of her face throbbed, and it was hard to breathe inside the bag. Her nose was stopped up, and she continually swallowed salt blood.

"And keep quiet, understand?"

"I understand."

Something seized her left breast and squeezed horribly. Barbara gasped with pain.

"I didn't say you could talk. Now shut up and come on." The hand squeezed again. Barbara stumbled and nearly fell. The woman lifted her by her breast, and Barbara felt faint from the pain. She was half dragged until she could recover her balance.

MILLIE? MILLIE. . . MILLIE . . . God where are you? MILLIE- ACKNOWLEDGED.O thank God. Record. Security alert. Link with Bonner.

"What is it?"

"I'm being kidnapped. Present location Genevieve Rand apartment."

"I We're on our way."

"Going down some stairs now. Blindfolded. The stairs face north, we're turning right, right again-I'm turned around, I don't know which way I'm going. We're going down again, I suppose into the garage under the apartment. Art, I'm scared."

Nothing.

"Art!"

"Get in the car and lie on the floor. That's it. Right there." MILLIE-Art--someone- Nothing. 0 boy. Hang on, no panic, they'll find me. Art will take care of that. And then it'll be my turn with that sadistic bitch. She's probably a Lesbian. Wonder what she's afraid of most? Maybe rats. I can have her put in with a whole cage full of rats. Spiders, too. Whatever she doesn't like. MILLIE- She heard the car motor start. The car began to move. It seemed to be going slowly, turning slowly, moving slowly. It tilted sharply and continued to move.

Up the parking ramp. MILLIE ACKNOWLEDGED. "You faded on us, sweetheart. Look, you keep trying."

"They have me in a car. We'll be driving away. Away from my car. Away from the relay."

"Keep telling us which way you're going. Don't stop transmitting."

"I'm scared . . . We turned left at the top of the ramp. Now we're moving, faster. There's no gear shift. Electric automobile. Running smoothly. Good springs and shocks I think. We're turning right -are you still there?"

"Still hear you. Keep telling us."

"Now we're going again. Turning right. Uphill. Uphill and turning. A freeway ramp! Leveling off. Accelerating. We're on a freeway.

Art-"

Nothing.

OLord.

MILLIE. MILLIE. MILLIE.

"The Montana Street entrance," Bonner said.

"Only one on ramp there; and it goes south," Colonel Cross said. "They're headed toward us on 1-5."

"We've got to find them," Bonner said.

Cross nodded crisply. "I want every car with an implant relay out on that freeway. Cruise up and down and keep on Miss Churchward's frequency. MILLIE will tell you if she gets anything."

"Right," Lieutenant Blake said. He spoke softly into a telephone handset.

Bonner lifted his own telephone. "Sandra, locate every portable transceiver we have and get them into cars that don't have relay units. I want to blanket this city with relays. Let Security know when you've got them ready to roll. If we get enough cars out there, one of them has to hear her-"

"I already thought of that, Art," Wyatt said. "It's being done. Anything else?"

"No, I have Colonel Cross with me and he's handling it. We're taking a lot of your cops. You'd better cancel leaves and call in some off-duty guards."

"Already on that, too, chief. Leave the routine to me. I'll run the city. You find your lady."

"Yeah. Thanks." Bonner put down the telephone. MILLIE.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Anything from Miss Churchward?

NO NEW COMMUNICATION WITH CHURCHWARD. Listen hard.

INSTRUCTION NOT UNDERSTOOD. Tony Rand hurried past Delores without seeing her and without waiting to be announced. He charged into Bonner's office. "Art, I just heard-"

It hit him, then. Before he'd only been worried. Now he felt a cold hand in his guts as he saw Bonner and Colonel Cross and Lieutenant Blake sitting grim-faced, not doing anything.

Not doing anything. Which meant there was nothing to do. They'd have thought of all the obvious stuff-"Is it certain they took Djinn?" Tony demanded.

Colonel Cross glanced at Bonner, then nodded. "Yes. We have our people in Mrs. Rand's apartment now, and neither she nor the boy are there."

"Zach's with his grandmother," Tony said. "I talked to him on the telephone before the jailbreak and he said his mother was sending him off for two weeks."

"That accounts for him, then," Cross said. "And of course Mrs. Rand could have gone voluntarily with the kidnappers-"

"Batshit," Tony said.

Cross shrugged.

"They got Barbara at Genevieve Rand's place," Bonner said. "They were obviously waiting for her. And Genevieve has been fairly chummy with Professor Arnold Renn-"

"She wouldn't have helped them kidnap Barbara," Tony said. "She can be a screwball, but she's not that screwy."

Bonner spread his hands. "Makes no difference anyway," he said. "Join the club. Sit down and wait."

"We should be doing something-"

"Agreed. What?" Bonner demanded. "Let me tell you what we're doing now. Maybe you will think of something."

Rand felt a quick surge of hope, but when Bonner finished talking, Tony couldn't think of a thing to add.

"Central, this is One Zed Niner. We have a weak transmission from Sweetheart. I say again, we have a weak transmission from Sweetheart. Our location is 18400 block of Staunton Avenue. We have no directional antenna, but we can cruise until signal peaks. Instructions?"

"Stay out of sight, One Zed Niner. Do not let Playmates see you. We do not wish Playmates to know we have means of locating them. I say again, get your vehicle out of sight and stay there. Continue to monitor transmissions from Sweetheart. We will attempt to focus an antenna on your vehicle so that Sweetheart will be able to communicate directly with us. Do you understand?"

"Understood. Will comply. One Zed Niner out."

"What the hell are your troops doing?" Bonner demanded.

"Take it easy," Colonel Cross said. "And stop snapping at us. We're sending the cars out there, including hers. We had contact with her, and she wasn't moving, and it's only a matter of time before we get through to her again. For God's sake, boss, keep your shirt on."

"Yeah. All right. I'll try."

"Now about that other matter. Do I call in help?"

"No, Colonel. Not unless you think you have to. I'd rather we did this ourselves," Art Bonner said.

Amos Cross grinned. "So would I. But I do warn you, the LAPD SWAT team is one of the best in the world. They haven't lost a victim yet."

"And you don't think our people can do it?"

"If I thought that, I'd insist we call in LAPD," Cross said. "We've got sharp troops. But of course they don't have the kind of experience regular SWAT outfits get."

How could they? There hadn't been a barricaded-with-hostages case in the history of Todos Santos. Am I right to take chances? With Barbara and Genevieve? "Tony, you get a voice in this decision. Should we call in LAPD?"

Rand looked helpless. "Colonel Cross is the expert, not me. I'll go along with whatever you two decide."

Putting it square on me as usual, Bonner thought. So be it.

"ArtI MILLIE answered me! Art!"

"Thank God. I'm here, babe. Are you all right?"

"Not too bad. They're a little rough, but I can take it now. But I don't know where we are-"

"We almost have you located. That's how you hear us, we have a relay unit near you. Soon as I get a couple more cars there we'll triangulate and locate you. One . question. Should we call LARD SWAT or take care of it ourselves?"

"Just us. Please. I've stayed sane thinking what I can do to those -uh--O God-"

''Barbara!"

"Whew. They do get-I'll try to control that. You need me to keep transmitting so you can locate me, don't you? I'll try. One. Two.

Three. Four. .

"Colonel, get our troops ready. That's a bad situation there."

"What's happening?" Rand demanded. "Did you hear something? Is Djinn all right?"

"Don't know, Tony," Bonner said. He held up his hand, palm outward. "Don't distract me. Colonel, let me know when your people are in position. They'll have to go in fast. . ."

"Lie down, bitch."

0 God, not again. "You hurt me last time. I-"

"Shut up, or I'll give you to Leona."

Could that be worse? MILLIE. Have you located me? Uh. Thank God it's not my fertile time. Do they all do this? They raped Patty Hearst. Maybe they think it will convert me. Oh Lord that hurts- "It's the revolution. It's coming, and nothing you can do about it. We'll end the Corporate State. It'll just die, when people find Out they don't have to knuckle under, they don't have to put up with big companies to get enough to eat . . ." The lecture dissolved as his arms went around her and he squeezed her, his hips moved faster and faster- "Where are they now? Can you locate all of them?"

"There are four men and one female. One of the men is in the closet with me. I don't think there are any weapons in here with us. I can take care of him if the others won't interfere. I don't know where they have Genevieve."

"You're sure Genevieve is not one of them."

"Yes. Very sure. They-they hurt her. And I don't know where she is, or where the others are. I-"

"What is he doing in a closet with you?"

"Art, what In hell do you think?"

"I'm sorry. Stand by. We're about ready-"

Think of something else. Anything else. She remembered her friend Jeanine who studied Zen. You handle pain by accepting it, attending to it, thinking about it, make it a part of yourself until it's commonplace and nothing special and then it isn't pain at all, only it's not working- "Ha, you get interested too, don't you, honey? We can do this lot-"

There was a splintering sound from the next room.

"What in hell was that?"

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE. MOVE ONE INCH AN]) I'LL BLOW YOUR BALLS OFF."

"Shit-what is this?" He tried to scramble up.

Barbara reached up and seized his testicles. She clenched her fist hard, pulled, twisted. He shrieked and flailed helplessly in the dark. It was his screaming that brought the guards.

XXI - DILEMMAS

No one is fit to be trusted with power. . . . No one. . . . Any man who has lived at all knows the follies and wickedness he's capable of. . . . And if he does know it, he knows also that neither he nor any man ought to be allowed to decide a single human fate.-C. P. Snow, The Light and the Dark "Are you all right?"

"Yes. No. I've got a broken tooth, and a cut on my face. But mostly I feel dirty. Sticky-dirty . . . Art, I HATE them-Dr. Finder wants to give me a shot. I think I'll let him."

"She says she's all right," Bonner said.

"Is Djinn all right?" Tony demanded.

Bonner looked helpless. "Barbara hasn't said. Damn it, Colonel, why can't you talk to your people-"

"I'm getting through now," Cross said. He spoke into the telephone. "All right, Captain, I've got you on the speaker. You're talking to Mr. Bonner, Mr. Rand, and myself. Report."

"Yes, sir. We are in complete control of the house. Mrs. Rand is hysterical but otherwise physically unharmed. She may have been sexually abused, but that isn't certain. Miss Churchward had a nosebleed and has a cut on her left cheek which will require medical attention. She was-a man was in the-" The guard stammered for a moment, then resumed in a dry professional voice.

"Can you hear the policeman reporting to us?"

"Yes."

"We have four prisoners, three male and one female. One male prisoner was apprehended while committing rape. Miss Churchward greatly assisted in his apprehension."

"You needn't put any of that in your report," Bonner said.

"We'll edit that considerably."

"Thank you. I'm going to sleep now, Dr. Finder gave me a shot .I love you."

"Love you."

"That's about all, sir. We broke in clean. The Los Angeles police have not been called and no one is likely to call them. We're waiting for instructions."

Cross looked expectantly at Art Bonner.

"Bring them all here. And the fewer people who know about this, the better."

"Right. What are you going to do with them?"

"That, Colonel, is one hell of a good question."

Genevieve Rand found the situation thoroughly ambiguous. On the one hand, the Todos Santos guards had rescued her, and they couldn't have been more polite. On the other-she didn't know where she was, and the polite guards wouldn't let her leave.

She was in a comfortable room, the living room to a large apartment somewhere in Todos Santos. She had use of a bathroom. All the other doors were locked, and there were no windows. They'd left her a box that looked like a radio; someone always answered if she talked into it. They'd had a physician talk to her. And now they ignored her-but they wouldn't let her go.

At least I'm safe, she thought, and shuddered. She'd always been a little afraid of Ron Wolfe, even when he'd been an aboveground member of the movement. He was one of the intense ones, ready to sacrifice everything-and everyone!-to the Cause. Including himself, except that his objective assessment was that he was far too valuable to be sacrificed lightly.

That had been her first thought, once she knew that they intended to kidnap Churchward: Ron Wolfe thinks he's too valuable to be sacrificed, and I'm going to see him commit a capital crime.

She'd even tried to play along with them, pretend to join them, but they weren't having any. Arnold Renn had told them all about her attitudes and wants and wishes and desires, and they weren't about to trust her; and when they'd taken her as well as Churchward she'd felt relieved that they hadn't killed her on the spot, but she didn't think she had very long to live. She remembered her terror when Wolfe blindfolded Churchward-and didn't bother doing it to her.

So. Thanks to the Todos Santos people, I'm safe; but now what? I'm still a witness, she thought. I wonder what that means?

The door opened and Tony came in.

Her first impulse was to run to him, but she was seated in a deep, soft chair and she couldn't get up easily; by the time she could stand, that moment had been lost.

But he looks worried, and relieved, and glad to see me, so maybe it's right after all-"Hello, Tony. I thought you'd be out of the country by now, what with the police after you and everything." And wow do I sound calm and cool and collected, and is that the right way to handle this? Competent. He likes competence. Not having to worry about people. So yes, it is the right way if I can just keep it up.

"I was just leaving when they told me," Tony said. "Are you all right?"

She tried to shrug, and flinched; it felt like she'd been kicked under the shoulder blade. She'd hit a corner of something when the big woman threw her across a room. "Some interesting bruises. Nothing permanent."

"Good." He was looking into her eyes, as if he really thought you could read minds that way. "I-uh-Miss Churchward was going to talk to you. Did she tell you what-I mean, did she explain what she wanted to see you about?"

"Some. We got interrupted."

He waved his hands around nervously. "Hell, I used to be able to talk to you, why can't I now? Djinn, do you want to come to Canada with me? It'll mean starting over, on a new arcology, one I can build right-"

"Ah. She never got that far. Oh, sure, I should have realized:

you've got to leave, don't you?"

"Yeah. But Sir George Reedy has me signed up for another ten years of inspired drudgery, thank God. Do you want in, you and Zach?"

Genevieve almost laughed. What she wanted was out. Out of Los Angeles, out of the Fromates, away from anyone who knew her. She pictured a snowy wilderness, and a gigantic, formless building with thousands of glowing windows, isolated on the ice.

All her mistakes left behind.

She wanted that. Now how best to bargain with Tony?

"Uh-Djinn, I want to be honest with you. This is a big job. My contract looks like they've reinvented slavery! And it isn't something I can do by rote, either. This one won't be anything like Todos Santos. I need a different design, it's a colder climate

there are new materials I'd like to . . . Djinn, what I'm trying to say is, I won't have a lot of time for family life, not at first-"

"I'll come." Jesus, he was about to talk himself out of it! "We'll come. It's all right, Tony. I'm a big girl, and I'm used to taking care of myself. I'll find plenty to do." Out of here, in a place where nobody knows me.

"Then it's settled? You'll come with me?"

She remembered that TV documentary. Safety. You're safe in Todos Santos. We can do that again, Tony and I. She nodded, and hugged him, carefully. Feeling fragile.

There were five people at the conference table. They had just taken their seats when Tony Rand brought Genevieve in. Art Bonner half stood and bowed perfunctorily. "Art Bonner," he said. "And Frank Mead, our comptroller. Colonel Cross of Security. John Shapiro, corporate counsel. Preston Sanders, formerly my deputy. You already know Barbara Churchward. I presume Tony told you why we're all here?"

"No." Genevieve seemed calm enough.

"Well, it's simple enough, and we thought you ought to have a voice in the discussion. We're trying to decide what to do with the kidnappers."

"But-" Genevieve looked puzzled. "But surely you'll turn them over to the police. . ."

"If we do that, you and I will both spend months in a courtroom," Barbara said. Her voice was slurred, and a thick bandage covered the left side of her face. "Which would mean that you could not go to Canada with Tony, and I certainly have better things to do than watch trials."

"Yes, but what can we do with them?" Genevieve demanded. "I mean, you can't just kill them-"

"I could," Barbara said. "Two of them, anyway. Except that I'd want to do it slowly."

"If you really mean that, I'll arrange it."

"I don't know. It just popped out."

"So what do we do with them?"

"Don't know. I don't want to sit in courtrooms. But I'm damned if I'll just let them go!"

Genevieve Rand looked shocked, then thoughtful; then she looked disgusted with herself.

"Barbara, be serious," Preston Sanders said. "You don't want blood on your hands. Believe me you don't!"

"Pres, I understand how you meant that-but I am serious," Barbara said.

"Then there's Professor Renn," Bonner said. "Mrs. Rand, are you certain he arranged this kidnapping?"

"I'm certain he tapped my telephone," Genevieve said. "I saw him doing it-he said he'd dropped the phone and took it apart to check it. And Ron Wolfe and those other people are Arnold's friends, and they knew when Miss Churchward was coming."

"I'd say that's pretty certain," Barbara said.

"Certain enough for us. Not certain at all for the D.A." Shapiro said. "For that matter, the way we've violated their rights, we couldn't get any of them convicted now. Be more likely that we'd go to jail."

"Another good reason to put them out the airlock," Tony Rand said.

"No." Sanders's voice was low and determined. "Tony, think how hard you tried not to kill anyone in the last break-in. How hard I tried the first time. Did no good. We were forced to it. But this time, this time we have them alive, we haven't had to kill anyone, and dammit, we can't do it in cold blood. They're human beings too, just like us, and nobody appointed us judge and jury."

"I point out that the cost of putting them before a proper judge and jury is unreasonably high for the victims," Bonner said. "And we don't have jails and prisons here. But I just don't know what to do." He looked around helplessly. "I suppose I should start by asking the victims. Genevieve?"

"There's got to be a better way than murder."

"Barbara?"

She shrugged. "Three hours ago, I'd have cut their throats myself. Now, I'm not so sure." She shook her head. "I pass."

"Tony?"

"Put them out the airlock."

Bonner was surprised at how vicious Rand sounded. So were several others, judging from their expressions. "I mean, what are the alternatives?" Rand asked. "If we let them go, they can get us in plenty of trouble-"

"Could any of them prove that we've held them?" Art asked.

"What do you mean by proof?" Shapiro said. "They might or might not recognize the guards who captured them. Otherwise- what proof could there be?"

"And we can see that our guards have a hundred witnesses each to swear blind they were on duty here," Bonner said. "So. They can't complain to the LA cops . . . not that they'd dare anyway, since they'd have to say what they were doing when our guards grabbed them."

"So. You've proved that we can turn them loose," Frank Mead said. "I'm not sure I care much for that. They'd be right back again, costing us-"

"With your permission," Amos Cross said. "With your consent, I'll talk to each of them. I think I can get it across that if we ever see or hear of any one of them again, we will declare open season on them-and that if we have the slightest doubt about our own ability to finish them, we can afford high-priced open contracts. . ."

"Is that your recommendation, Colonel?" Bonner asked. "That we turn them loose with a warning?"

Cross shook his head. "I pass on giving an opinion, Mr. Bonner. When the police become judges, your society is in real trouble."

"All right," Bonner said. 'We've got three muggers we apprehended in the subway, and four kidnappers. We may as well take the easy case first. I gather everyone is for letting the muggers loose?"

No one said anything.

"We've kept them fairly heavily drugged," Amos Cross said. "And one of them babbled a lot. Enough to convince our guards that he's a murderer."

"And you're going to turn them loose on Los Angeles?" Genevieve Rand asked.

Frank Mead shrugged. "Who the hell cares about Angelinos, as long as we're not bothered by them again?"

"Angeino laws left them loose to hurt our people," Rand said. "If the Angelinos don't like the situation, let them change it. We did."

"So. We've got three muggers, four kidnappers-and Professor Renn."

"We don't have Renn."

"We can acquire him," Bonner said. "And the question before the house is a simple one. What do we do with them?"

"Think of it as evolution in action," Barbara Churchward said. There was no humor in her voice at all.

XXII - LAWS AND PROPHETS

Injustice is relatively easy to bear; what stings is justice.

-H. L. Mencken

Professor Arnold Renn threw clothes into an Air Force B-4 bag. He worked clumsily, with almost frantic haste. From time to time he glanced at the ornately engraved card that lay on his bedroom table. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION."

Get out. Get away. It'll blow over. They can't really hurt me. But- There had been a dozen of those cards. In his box at UCLA.

At the faculty club. Under the windshield wiper of his car, and another on the car seat although there was no sign that the lock had been forced. In the refrigerator, and now in the bedroom, and Tina had no idea how they had got into the house.

The threat seemed unmistakable. Best not ignore it, not with the headlines about the jailbreak following the unsuccessful attack. And worse. There wasn't anything in the papers, or on TV, about a Todos Santos official being kidnapped, and there wasn't any answer at Genevieve's apartment, or at the Fromate headquarters, or- Best get out of town. Take a leave of absence until things blow over. Let a graduate assistant meet the classes for a while. Get away. Let Tina follow later, if she wanted to. But get away, get out, go now.

He finished packing and took the suitcase out to the garage.

"Good afternoon."

Renn looked up, startled. The man stood lazily against the garage door. He smiled slightly, but there wasn't anything pleasant about the short-barreled shotgun he held. "Uh-"

"No need to say anything at all. I have a message for you."

"What-"

"It's simple. Goodbye."

Renn had just enough time to understand before the buckshot tore his chest apart.

Vague sensations shaped themselves into a pattern. Cold. Grass tickling cheek. A distant moaning nearby. Slowly Vinnie came to awareness of them all, and more. Pain, sharpening, until it felt like the left side of his face and neck had been smashed to bloody mush.

Like the long-faced creep with the empty pockets who'd cursed them in the subway, several weeks ago. He'd looked like Vinnie felt, when Vinnie got through with him. But Vinnie remembered his face, long and sullen and hating. . . and another face flashed vivid in his brain.

Styled curly blond hair; broad, smooth clean-shaven face; new dark blue suit and vest, bas-relief tie in scarlet and dark brown; gold at both wrists, gold ring. . . walking money. Seen only for an instant, with a look on his face such as Vinnie had never seen on a mark: unearthly joy, as the mark cocked his fist for another blow. The big fist with its big gold ring had just blasted Vinnie's neck to pulp, and was set to do it again.

They hated him. Vinnie had never felt that before. They cringed, they tried to reason with him, they handed him wallet or watch or purse, they ran. . . but they hated him. They would kill him if they could.

He reached for another face, seen later through a haze of some drug. A face out of a nightmare. Seen in close-up, a woman with impossibly huge eyes, hair exploding around her head, fiendish grin. . . and a tool in her hand, a needle tearing curves across

his belly. He tried to scream and another needle jabbed his arm and it all went away.

Vinnie tried to curl himself tighter; he moaned, and the moan became a yell as it tore his throat open.

He was sitting upright, naked as a peeled egg. There were others around him, all naked, painted like so many Easter eggs. Six plus Vinnie. Some still sleeping; some staring about them in terror.

Where are we? He sat up and looked around. Green shrubbery to one side. On the other- On the other, Todos Santos was a wall across the sky. The windows blazed like tens of thousands of eyes.

Run. He had to run. He sprang to his feet and everything went blurry; he hardly felt the jar as he fell back. "How was I to know?" he shouted. "How did I know it was you people in the subway?"

A voice from the distance mocked him. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION," the voice called.

He looked behind him. There, across the field, over at the city street that bounded the Todos Santos greensward, was a large TV truck, with a cameraman standing on top. The camera, and other instruments, were pointed at Vinnie.

What am I doing here? But there was no place to go. Not really. And he wasn't alone.

Strangers . . . no. That was Runner Carlos, clutching himself tight to make himself smaller. A small, hard man who sometimes raided the subways, whom Vinnie avoided when he could . very hard to recognize with no hair, no moustache, his whole body painted bluish-white. The great bulk of a man painted leaf green, sleeping peacefully on his side, would be Gadge, who ran with the Runner and took his orders. Vinnie had never seen him undressed. What he had taken for muscle on Gadge seemed to be mostly fat.

But who were the other four? And what did it say across their chests? He strained to focus his eyes. THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION.

Vinnie fought back a laugh. It would tear his throat, and annoy Gadge and Runner Carlos . . . and Vinnie himself had been painted deep rose. His belly bore the same cartoon as the rest.

Like a trade mark. He rubbed it, not understanding, and found a slight ridge, and understood.

Tattoo, just healing. Vinnie remembered the woman with the needle-and, instantly, the man with the gold ring. He understood, then, that he would never see his belly in a mirror without remembering both: the huge-eyed woman with the needle, and the mark cocking his gold-decorated fist, ready to pound him to death.

MacLean Stevens drove up to Lunan's camera truck. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Thomas Lunan grinned. "Some sad people out there. All dressed up and no place to go."

"Who are they?"

"I think you'll find three of them are from the American Ecology Army. Underground types, wanted by the FBI. Three more are common crooks your cops will recognize."

"You seem to know a lot-"

"Shield law," Lunan chanted. "Shield law, shield law, shield law. No sources. But it's all true, and you really will want to arrest the three Ecology Army types. I doubt if you can charge the others."

"But-why?" Stevens demanded. "Why are they there?"

"If I had to guess," Lunan said, "I'd guess they annoyed Todos Santos."

Stevens set his lips in a grim line. In the field across the street, the sleepers were stirring. They kept glancing nervously toward Stevens and Lunan. Mac waved to the police who'd come out with him. "Round them up. Indecent exposure will do to get them to the station house."

The police sergeant laughed. "Right. Okay, troops, let's go. . ."

"So it finally happened," Stevens said.

"What happened?" Lunan asked.

"Todos Santos cut itself loose. Now they're completely above the law. They're judge and jury and executioner."

"But they're not," Lunan said. "Don't you see, that's the whole message here." He lowered his voice. "I'm prepared to deny I ever said this. Mr. Stevens, some of those people did more than annoy the Saints. They kidnapped and abused one of their highest officials. They had her for several hours before the Todos Santos guards rescued her."

Stevens frowned.

Lunan nodded. "Exactly. They really could have been judge and jury and executioner. Who'd know? Instead, they've chosen to stay part of the human race. Oh sure, they're also protesting your brand of justice. They want to see it changed. But they haven't cut loose from humanity."

"You can say that. You haven't just come from looking at Professor Renn's body."

Lunan looked up sharply. "What?"

"Somebody blew him away with a shotgun. You didn't know that, huh?"

"No. But it wasn't Todos Santos."

"Why is that, Lunan? Would they have used a death ray?"

Lunan laughed. "They just didn't. Mac, you may want to be careful investigating Renn's murder. You might find your favorite City Councilman wasn't as sharp as he thinks he was."

"Planchet? Planchet . . . yeah. God knows he had motive. Lunan, do you know this?"

"No. Sounds like a hired kill, though, doesn't it? That could be Planchet, or Diana Lauder's parents, or someone connected to the Ecology Army types Renn sent in to die. But I know what Todos Santos had in mind for Renn, and that wasn't it. They wanted to scare him out of the country."

Stevens mulled that.

The LAPD officers had just finished rounding up the gaily colored nudies. Stevens watched the last one loaded into a black and white. Then he looked past the greensward, past the orange grove, on to the enormous building beyond. Free society or termite hill? Or both?

Is this really the wave of the future? "For now," he told Lunan. "Just for now and for this moment they haven't quite cut loose from the human race. But can you live in that and stay human forever?" His arm swept expressively to indicate the enormous city/building, its windows glaring orange-white in sunset light.

The great orange banner was still there. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION." As they watched, it rippled and moved. Someone was lowering it.

"You could live there, Lunan. You'd be welcome," Stevens said. "When are you planning to move in?"

"No," said Lunan, and then he bellowed. "Arbry, get a camera sweep of those windows!" His voice dropped again. "That'll go nice. A hundred thousand eyes, but they're all looking inward. No privacy at all, and no interest in what goes on out here. No, that's not my life style."

"Not mine either-"

"Why does it have to be? A Venice boatman would go crazy in there. So would a Maori tribesman, but that doesn't make him right. What would a Roman Legionnaire think of your life style? What would Thomas Jefferson think of me? There are a lot of ways to be human."

"Maybe." Stevens turned, in time to see the great banner flutter down from the battlements and settle gently to the ground.