Six

Whistling a rather discordant tune-he didn't know what-Alec Richmond closed the office door and stepped down the corridor. It was late and the walkway was not moving. After seeing Sylvia home, he had decided to come here to catch up on his work. Going home had no longer seemed important. Once here he had found it difficult to pull himself away. He had already missed dinner and then some. But if Anna was worried, why hadn't she called?

He couldn't answer that question.

"Stand right where you are," said a voice from behind.

Alec froze, feeling in the pit of his back the hard pressure of something small and round. A disembodied hand moved around his chest, easily penetrating the folds of his jacket. With practiced fingers, the hand emerged, holding the same gun with which Alec had killed Ted Mencken. He had intended getting rid of the weapon. How stupid to be carrying it so openly.

Alec started to turn around.

"I wouldn't," said the voice. It was like a cold, confiding whisper.

"Who are you? Do you want money?" But Alec knew that was too much to expect. Robbery was a rare event in this modern world. The chances of any particular man being robbed had recently been calculated at one in twenty thousand. Alec did not think he was lucky enough to be that man.

In confirmation, the voice giggled with real delight. "I'm already richer than you'll ever be."

"Then-" Alec knew it had to be one of them-one of the others. "Are you going to kill me right here?" The man-if that was what he was-radiated nothing.

"What do you think?"

"Did you kill Ted?"

"Who?"

"Ted Mencken. In that room-back there-yesterday afternoon."

"I thought you did it." But the voice laughed.

"Please," Alec began, but he suddenly felt a powerful odor tickling at his nostrils.

Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't breathe. He reached for his neck but before he could manage the maneuver his feet left the floor. He thought he was a cloud. It seemed silly. He was floating up-racing to embrace the moon.

Then he did laugh.

"Gas," he murmured aloud. But before he could finish the thought, he was falling straight down.

He awoke relaxed, refreshed, as if he had spent a full night in unbroken dreamless slumber. A hot sun burned down brightly from above. He had to keep his eyes closed against the glare. There wasn't any wind. He tried to move his head but couldn't. Something was holding him. His hands-his arms-his legs....

It was then he realized the yellow light wasn't the sun. He was inside a room, tied in a chair.

"Turn that away," he said, speaking with difficulty. He cleared his throat and tried again: "I can't see."

"Of course," said a voice. And the light did move slightly.

Alec opened his eyes and looked down. He was perched upon the seat of a high chair, like those in which babies were sometimes fed. Far below he could see the faint pattern of a carpet. The light continued to dominate everything he could see. It turned his flesh-the carpet, the chair-turned everything yellow. Beyond the light, he could see nothing.

The voice spoke from the darkness on the other side of the light. "We have a few questions to ask you, Alec. You will not mind answering, we hope."

He suddenly realized that he was alive. They hadn't killed him-why? Questions?

What could they possibly want to know? This voice wasn't the same as the one which had greeted him outside his office-when?-hours and hours ago. This voice was shrill, distorted, as if its owner were a man barely clinging to the edge of sanity. The tone of the voice frightened Alec more than anything.

No. That wasn't true. There was something much worse. Realizing this, he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming out. The silence. Beyond the light. There were men out there-at least one, but undoubtedly more-he knew that. But their radiations.

Although he strained and strained his superior senses, he could find nothing: not a thought, not a feeling.

The voice spoke, casual sounds suspended in an utter void: "It will be better if you answer us."

"Who are you?" Alec cried. "What do you want with me?" He tugged at the ropes that bound his wrists but they would not budge. "Tell me-please."

"What?" the voice cried. "Tell you? No, no, it is you who must answer." Alec heard a sharp sound, like a man springing suddenly to his feet, filled with-what?-

anger, no doubt. But he couldn't know that for certain. That was the awful part. This was much worse than being struck suddenly deaf or blind.

"All right," Alec said. "I don't care. Kill me. Ask me questions. I-"

"We will begin with the woman," said the voice.

"Yes?"

"The one you saw the day of your capture."

"Yes, she-" A disembodied hand came hurtling out of the blackness and struck his face. Alec cried out, hearing someone giggle. Another voice laughed. Alec struggled to keep his tears from blinding his eyes. There was blood on his lips.

"The questions," said the original voice.

"Yes," Alec said.

"Then tell us who this woman is."

"Sylvia Mencken. The daughter of my employer, Ted Mencken. The man you-you killed."

"A human?"

"Sylvia? Yes. Of course."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Nothing in particular. We discussed the firm. It's hers now. She's my boss."

The voice was growing increasingly frantic; hysteria was not far away. "But are you not aware that such intercourse is strictly forbidden? Your Inner Circle has decreed that-"

"I couldn't very well wait for a vote," Alec said. "She asked to see me right away."

"And you told her-everything?"

"No."

"You told her you were a Superior. The Inner Circle. Their program, plans. You told her everything, didn't you?"

"No. Why should I-?"

"Liar!" Again, the hand. Alec saw it coming this time and was able to throw his head aside. He took the blow on his cheek. The flesh stung.

Inside Alec a terrible suspicion was growing. These men didn't intend to kill him, after all. They were not even the others. They were-

"What did you tell the police?"

Alec decided to act on his suspicion. Wasn't it better to know? "Everything," he said.

"What?"

"I told you-everything." And in his mind he conjured up a vision of his confession. Cargill sat across from him. His own hands waved like windmills as he spoke. "About the Superiors. The Inner Circle. Everything."

"No! You-!"

He shut down the vision. "If I'm the traitor you seem to think I am, doesn't that make sense? How can I be a traitor and keep my mouth shut all at the same time?

Yes, I told Cargill everything. And Sylvia too. I tell everyone everything. I tell them all about you, Astor." And, saying this, he sat up as straight as he could and glared into the darkness, radiating as much hate as he had strength to create.

He heard one of them shout out, but Astor's voice-no longer distorted-was amused: "You are much more intelligent than you once were, Alec."

"I'm getting older. Now turn that light aside. And untie me."

"So soon?"

"Unless you still think I can't be trusted."

"No. We never did. But, Alec, you should know better than to violate our decrees. We-"

"Turn me loose, Astor."

"Certainly, Alec." The harsh light went out. A faint glow-emanating from across the ceiling-came instead. The round, moon-like face of Samuel Astor was smiling at Alec. Another pair of hands attacked his ropes.

"When I get loose, I ought to kill you."

"But, Alec," said Astor. "Can't you understand? We had to know the limits of your deviation."

"What deviation?"

"That woman. She-"

"How ridiculous can you get?" He sprang out of the chair, free now, and almost fell over. Standing on wobbly knees, he struggled to regain his balance.

"This is standard procedure," Astor said, coming over and roping an arm past Alec's shoulders. He patted him on the back. "An investigation. A punishment for your

transgression. But-I am pleased to add-an initiation rite as well. Welcome-" Astor suddenly stuck out his free hand "-to the Inner Circle."

"What?" Alec mechanically accepted the proffered hand, shaking weakly.

Turning away from Astor, he gave the room a close inspection. It was small-furnished in austere plastic-dully painted: a hotel room, no doubt. There were other men here too. He recognized Arthur Ramsey, second-in-command within the Circle. Antonio Martinez. Ernest Feralli. Axel Jorgensen. Chinua Nodawbe. Timothy Ralston. Chin Kao Lun. And the others. Yes, all of them were present: the entire Inner Circle.

"Shortly before your arrival," Astor was announcing, "we cast our ballots. The selection-tentative upon your innocence of any major transgression-was quite unanimous. You are one of us now, Alec."

Replacing his arm around Alec's shoulders, Astor steered him toward a connecting door. One of the others-Martinez-a small, light-skinned South American-opened the door and ushered them through. This room, not much larger than the first, was dominated by a long table; a dozen chairs had been neatly placed around it. Astor escorted Alec to a chair, then assumed his own place at the head of the table. One by one, the others drifted in and, when everyone seemed comfortable, Astor opened the meeting.

If any stranger for any reason-deliberate or not-had managed to sneak close enough to overhear the conversation that now took place, he would have learned nothing. During the course of the meeting, no more than a dozen decipherable words would be spoken. If any Superior's thoughts became too complex to be communicated simply through feeling, then a grunt, a half-word, a few casual sounds would be sufficient to get his meaning across in most instances.

Without words, Astor began: "I want to say that Alec Richmond has consented to attend his first meeting today. As you may recall, he was elected to our council recently because of the superb work he has accomplished out in California. Before we begin the actual meeting, I think we ought to stand and welcome him properly to the Circle."

This proved to be a signal for a brief orgy of handshaking, backslapping, friendly pats, and spoken congratulations. Alec came to his feet, accepting the plaudits as thickly as they arrived. The ceremony took only a brief moment. Soon, everyone was seated once more. Alec dropped down and clasped his hands upon the tabletop.

Astor said, "You may think us callous, Alec, but we are aware of the recent death of your employer. He was a human, but he had helped us, and therefore we're sorry he died. Still, the incident in no way detracts from the essential nature of your work. We understand the project has in no way been harmed."

"No," Alec said, keeping the fact of his ambiguous statements to Sylvia closely concealed. After all, he had never really intended to quit. Had he?

"But-" Astor waggled an angry finger "-I must state that your failure to communicate with us following the incident severely damaged your application. If it hadn't been for the importance of the project... well, you might actually have been turned down. When we spoke to Anna, she of course explained everything.

Understanding, we could forgive."

"Anna told you."

"She explained your-ah-your difficulty."

He meant reversion. It wasn't a word any Superior cared to state specifically.

Alec had difficulty concealing his surprised reaction. Anna must have thought quickly.

Reversion indeed. He hadn't notified the Circle of Ted's death for a variety of reasons: lack of time, lack of interest, the fact that they would be of no help. But Anna had certainly saved him there. But if they had known the facts all the time, then why the stupid kidnapping, the absurd interrogation? He felt himself growing angry again and fought to control the emotion. This was hardly the time for an outburst of any kind.

"Thank you," was all Alec could manage.

"You're welcome," said Astor, nodding his acceptance. Around the table, the others did the same, as though Alec's gratitude was to be shared equally.

Astor stood, facing the entire council now. "But the purpose of this meeting is not to receive expressions of gratitude. Rather it is to take a glance at and then discuss the present international situation. I am pleased to be able to report-after considerable examination of the various nations concerned-that the world is closer to war at this point in time than at any other point in time in the remembered past."

The pleasure this announcement brought to the majority of the assembled Superiors was openly expressed. Some smiled, waved their hand, laughed, giggled, murmured vague syllables of expressive joy. Alec sat silently and motionlessly, his thoughts under rigid control; they knew how he felt.

"Now if you'll all please lean back," Astor said, "if you'll close your eyes, relax, and watch, I'll give you a brief resume of the present situation."

Astor was the only Superior to have perfected this particular talent. It was this ability-more than anything else-which had allowed him to assume his place at the head of the Circle. Alec did as directed: leaning back, eyes shut, relaxed. In a moment, as if he were dreaming, a vision began to form in his mind. Bit by bit, the vision solidified, becoming more certain in color and texture. Soon, the picture was quite clear. He could see a long paved street. A caption at the bottom of the picture identified the scene as Vienna. Above, in the sky, the fierce growling of burning rockets drowning out the common noises of the street, an airplane slashed through the clouds. The people in the street paused and glanced up, many smiling at this loud manifestation of their collective power. A moment later, Vienna was gone; Berlin materialized instead. A huge army marched through wide streets, heels slapping out a rhythmic message. Tanks drifted languidly through the air, floating past the army, like fat ducks arranged for flight. Missiles rolled past. More planes painted the sky with noise. It was an awesome spectacle of determined might. After Berlin, similar scenes followed in neat progression: Paris, Madrid, Rome, Lisbon, Copenhagen. Then Astor's voice: "The civilized nations of Europe, in conjunction with their American allies, continue to mobilize." A Russian army streamed past. "Manpower, though limited, is strategically deployed. The most sophisticated legal modern weapons are produced and distributed. In each nation across the continent, the single word war rests lightly, familiarly, upon the lips of the people. The recent reduction in energy resources, the scarcity and continued expense of the most basic food items-these factors have combined to cause the average European citizen-particularly those past the age of conscription-to take a more militant stance than before. A recent, successful propaganda campaign-source unknown-(embarrassed but proud giggling greeted this allusion)-emphasizing the continuing upward spiral of primitive nation birthrates has had a powerful effect upon the development of a mature, pragmatic attitude toward final war. In fact, according to many leaders of finance and industry-whose thoughts are easily penetrated, I may say-war has reached the point of verging upon absolute necessity. Only the known strength of the other side stands in the way of immediate attack. Should war occur-and I mean at this moment-the armies of the primitive world would swarm across Europe like hordes of invading insects. In Japan and Australia, the situation is even more difficult."

"Then why do you insist war is near?" asked a skeptical voice. The Russian army continued to stream past, an endless mass of green and brown.

"Because of this," said Astor. The vision was transformed. The interior of a large plant-a factory. Machinery-piston and electric-pounded, whirred, shrieked. Churning motors sent bright sparks flickering through the air. Huge transparent plastic vats filled with thick colorful liquids sat here and there across the concrete floor. Alec nearly laughed: the vision was an adolescent fantasy. This was hardly the way it really was.

But the primary vision-and this made Alec wish to laugh more than anything-the central element in the design-was the assembly line. Here, hooded and goggled men labored to mold separate human appendages into a whole man: hands, legs, heads, internal organs rolled down the conveyer belt. Alec groaned. Didn't Astor know any better? Or was this fantasy in fact deliberate? The scene-bright colors, huge shadows, flying sparks-was staggering in its impact, awesomely effective, an image from some gothic melodrama. Even Alec was not wholly unmoved by the vision.

"What is this?" asked a voice, in hushed tones. "Heaven? Or hell?"

"Neither," Astor said, without amusement. "This is our salvation: an android factory."

The Circle was confused; Alec could clearly sense their puzzlement as the conveyor belt continued to turn through the bright factory. Was it possible they didn't know? Astor had never informed them?

Abruptly, the vision faded. Alec opened his eyes, matching the gaze of the Superior who faced him across the table.

"I thought androids were stupid house servants," this man said.

Astor giggled. "Alec," he said. "I think you ought to be the one to tell them."

"These androids, I believe, are soldiers," Alec said.

"Go on."

"I designed the model. They are foot soldiers, infantrymen, riflemen. Nothing complicated or difficult. The vision Astor showed you was an exaggeration.

Production has not yet begun. The contract was only signed yesterday-the day before-whenever it was. The day Mencken was murdered."

"So that's why the others killed him."

"We thought it was another of their jokes."

"Their warnings."

"We thought they were just playing around." Alec could sense their suppressed anger. They were not happy with Astor for keeping them in the dark. But such a technique was just like him. Astor equated power with knowledge and preferred keeping both as much to himself as possible. Alec did not think his attitude was far from wrong.

"So," said Astor, ignoring the gathering dissension, more amused by it than displeased, "the equation turns out brutally simple. We, the Superiors, will emerge from our time of trial ultimately victorious. How? This is the ironic part. Through the means of a species not only inferior to our own but also inferior to the dominant race on this planet: I refer, of course, to the android army. Such an army can lose and lose and lose and never stop coming. In a year's time-wouldn't you agree with that esti-mate, Alec?"

"At the very most. More likely, six months."

"In a year or less the first android divisions should be trained and ready to take the field. Kept in ignorance, the primitive world will be unaware of the menace until it is too late. Then, when the moment is ripe, a spark will ignite the general conflict.

Full-scale war will rage across the globe." His voice, rising toward a crescendo, was filled with an ecstasy close to hysteria. "Armies will meet upon the battlefield, converge, clash. Cities will be destroyed. Entire nations engulfed by flames. The fighting will go on, the advantage rocking back and forth, the masses of the primitive world set against the android mercenaries of the civilized. Who shall win?" He laughed aloud. "That is the joke. No one will win-no one can-except" (another laugh, louder than before) "except us. After a year of war-two years at the most-the human race will turn in horror and fear, issuing a tearful plea for salvation. Perhaps they will ask their gods. It will be we who will answer. You. Me. Our race. The Superiors."

"But this spark," said someone-it was Axel Jorgensen, "what if it doesn't come?

What if they don't fight?"

"Oh, that," said Astor, indicating with a wave how inconsequential it was. "That is already settled. The fuse lies in wait, ready to be fired. Shut your eyes again, please, and I will show you."

With the others, Alec prepared himself to receive another vision. What came confused him at first. A jungle setting. Then, through the deep foliage, another factory, as lacking in reality as the other. Past a high barbed fence. Through thick concrete walls lined with lead. Men-flashes of yellow skin, narrow eyes-dressed in radiation-proof garments. A huge oblong object, like an egg. It was a bomb. Alec knew. An atomic bomb.

"This can't be real," Alec said. Atomic weapons had been banned decades ago, before the need for war had reasserted itself.

"It isn't," said Astor.

"Then-"

"Look."

In the vision, one man stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, dramatically, he removed his face mask.

There was an audible gasp of surprised recognition. Alec contributed too. The face belonged to Thomas Mikoshai: a Superior, Inner Circle member.

"You can't do this," Alec said, weakly.

"The spark," Astor said, refusing to conceal his triumph. "You wanted it-there it is."

The vision vanished. "Once the existence of this barbaric weapon becomes known- the location, by the way, is a jungle in Borneo-war will become inevitable.

Our only problem is timing. We do not dare reveal this secret until the android army is prepared to take the field. Then, and only then, we can-"

"No!" Alec cried. "The whole idea is inhuman."

"Of course it is." Astor laughed and looked deliberately around the table. "Aren't we?"

"Not in that way."

"But it's your project," said one of the others. Jorgensen again. "You're not going to argue against it?"

"Yes. I am. I didn't know about any of this-this bomb."

"What did you think?" Astor asked. "I intended to use your army as a labor-saving device?" He chuckled loudly-for too long a time. "You could have refused the assignment."

"But-" Astor knew why Alec had not refused. If he had, he would not be sitting here now. The android army had got him into the Inner Circle-but now he fully intended to argue against it. "You all know my feelings. I've expressed them to each of you before."

"I had hoped," Astor said, "that your promotion might have affected your past immaturity. If I am wrong, I'm sorry. But you are a member of the Circle now-so speak."

"I will. But I don't see that it will make any difference. I have only one question to ask. Is it necessary? Do we have to destroy them? Is this horrible war we're so casually discussing really necessary? Can't any of you see how much easier-how much better-it would be if we simply helped them? Not all human beings are-"

"That was four questions," Astor said.

Martinez said, "Help them? Do that, and we die like witches. We burn at the stake. They hate us-fear us. Only fools cannot learn the lessons that history teaches."

"This isn't history," Alec said. "It's been a long time since any witch was burned."

"But they have not changed," Martinez said. "The old fears have not left them. I walk down the street-any street, any city-and I feel it there. Fear, hate. Anything they cannot understand. And we, by definition, are creatures they can never understand."

Alec fell back to his last and strongest ammunition. Another question: "And what about when it is over? When we have won?"

Astor, understanding immediately, went rigid with tension: "What do you mean by that?"

But Alec did not intend to stop until he was finished. Facing Astor, he plunged on: "Have all of you forgotten the most basic fact of all: we are doomed. All of us, sooner or later, are going to die. And afterward? Will there be another generation-further genetic freaks like ourselves? I don't know. Maybe there will be. But, if so, we will not be the ones to produce it. And what if there isn't? What if we are the last? Are we going to destroy the whole human race with nothing to substitute in its place? That is not only inhuman, it is monstrous. It is genocide conducted for no reason beyond brief and transitory power. That is why I say no. That is why I say we should drop this project right now, reveal ourselves selectively to humanity, and help them. In doing that…"

"Don't." Astor sprang suddenly to his feet. "Don't talk about that-don't mention it!"

"It's the truth," Alec said.

"No! No, no, no!" Astor's face turned a deep and ugly red. He seemed to be choking. The others stood up too. Astor's eyes bulged, his lips trembled, his whole body shook. He seemed to be trying to speak but the words refused to come. Stunned, Alec remained in his seat, staring unbelievingly at this unhinged, incoherent creature which had materialized, half-standing, at the head of the table.

Then Astor began to scream. His hands waved over his head, fists banging together, fingers tangling. Two of the others crept behind him. He continued to wail.

Tears ran down his cheeks in wide streams, though he did not appear to be weeping.

The two men leaped forward. They caught Astor by the arms. Two more went for his feet, dodging kicks. Astor was lifted up, laid on the table. The four men held him there, pinned. He continued to twist and turn, like a man in the grip of a fit-he continued to scream.

Alec turned away from the sight.

The man beside him-Timothy Ralston-an American Negro from Wyoming-said,

"You should never have done that."

Alec let his anger out: "It was the truth. What else was I supposed to do? If you people can't-"

"It's his calculations," Ralston said, calmly. "You have to remember. He had everything figured out. It fit. Only one point eluded him. Our curse. When you brought it up, he reverted. The rest of us knew."

"You mean this has happened before?"

"Astor? Yes, of course. He is brilliant but-well-erratic. Someday, I'm afraid he won't make it back. We'll lose him."

"And that's fine with me," Alec said. He had seen quite enough of the Inner Circle for one day. Upon the table, Astor was slowly calming down, though one foot continued to thrash and kick, like the instinctive motions of a dead chicken. "I'm going home."

"I'll go with you," Ralston said.

Alec went out into the corridor, refusing to look back. The hallway was plushly decorated, lighted in a soft golden hue. A hotel-yes-and an excellent one. He waited impatiently for the elevator. Ralston joined him inside. They rode down to the lobby together. Crossing that plushly carpeted room, Alec started laughing, then couldn't stop. It suddenly seemed so funny. For years he had wanted nothing from life more than a seat on the Inner Circle. And now-at long last-he had attained that cherished goal. And for what? To do what? His first meeting and he had already driven the chairman into reversion and been forced to flee himself in a fearful rage.

Outside, he paused in front of the moving walkway-it was more than packed-and glanced up at the sky. The air was thick and black-the time seemed around midday-and he couldn't see the sun.

He shook his head, blinked, then looked again. Massive skyscrapers, old and ruined, sprouted from every corner. Upon the walkway, the flocks of pedestrians, hurtling past, kept their eyes averted toward the pavement, as if fearful of catching a fateful glance of something they might not be able to forget. Suddenly, from behind, a massive woman in a heavy armored coat crashed into him. He nearly fell. The woman sped past and leaped gracefully upon the walkway. Someone screamed.

Alec spun around, filled with sudden recognition: this wasn't San Francisco-it couldn't be-this was New York City.

But how-?

"Surprised?" asked Ralston.

"Last night-" he had forgotten about the other Superior "-I know I was in San Francisco."

"No," said Ralston. They both spoke complete English to avoid attracting attention. "That was days and days ago." He led Alec away from the walkway, back into the great shadow cast by the hotel awning. "The gas they bungled-the dose was too strong."

"Days and days?" Alec murmured, vaguely.

"A week at least."

"But I have to get home." He reached for his purse. "I don't think I have-"

"Oh, I'll be glad to loan you the fare. But first-well, I did follow you out here for a reason. There's something I want to know."

"Whether I'm going to quit the project."

"Yes," Ralston said.

Alec shrugged. "I don't see what point it would serve. You-Astor-he'd only find someone else. My work is nearly done. The patent belongs to my employer-his daughter now. If I quit, you'd run me out of the Circle. That wouldn't serve any point either."

"Then you'll continue with your work?"

"Yes." Sighing, Alec shook his head. "You can tell that to Astor, if you want."

"No. This was for my own information. I am, you see, in charge of-well-call it our investigative wing."

"You spy."

"Investigate."

"Use your own word."

"And there is a connection between your present intentions and another matter that has recently come to my attention. I want to warn you." Leaning close, Ralston whispered into Alec's ear: "Don't trust Anna."

"What?" Alec drew back as if stung.

Ralston pulled him back down. "She has been associating with this detective-this Cargill. I know it for a fact but I haven't told the others yet. This investigation is something I'm conducting on my own. Astor doesn't know about it."

"What?" Alec asked.

Ralston shook his head but answered: "The others. I'm trying to find out who they are. And I'm close, Alec, very close. A few more weeks and I'll have them."

"You think Anna's involved? That's incredible. I don't-"

"Not Anna. Cargill. He's mixed up in this somehow."

"How?"

"I don't know. Yet. But I will. I just wanted to warn you."

"But Cargill's investigating me. That's why he saw Anna."

"Three weeks ago? That's when he visited your house-the first time."

"And you don't know why."

Ralston shook his head. "I don't but-" he radiated confidence, "-I will." He stepped back suddenly. "But I better go now. Here." He pressed Alec's hand. "This will buy you a ticket home." He turned away, waving one brown fist. "Astor may want me."

"But, Ralston, I-" Alec started to pursue.

Ralston was too quick. He darted toward the hotel. He called back: "Don't tell her!"

Alec stopped, watching the other man disappear, swallowed up by the great bulk of the hotel. Then he hurried over to the walkway and leaped on board, refusing to concern himself with whom he might hit in the process. He landed safely, then let the walkway carry him. He didn't know if he was heading in the direction of the terminal and didn't care. He surrendered himself to this electronic destiny; it could carry him wherever it wished.

He had gone only a few blocks when the crowd, in mass, suddenly turned and looked straight up at the sky. Alec, in perfect conformity, looked too. A series of block letters was forming up there, bright red against the dank gray sky. He waited, reading along with the others, until the message was complete. It wasn't a news headline. It read:

AH TRAN IS COMING HERE SOON

Beneath, appearing suddenly, was a huge banner: a photograph of Ah Tran himself. Alec peered deeply into the ageless features of this man who claimed to have a plan for the salvation of the human race, but the sky was too dark, the eyes too far away, the buzz of the crowd too distracting.

He could see nothing up there he had not seen before.

Then the walkway was moving too quickly and the message disappeared behind.

Alec tucked his head into his shoulders and drifted lazily, effortlessly away.