ndy wanted to ask about Charlie now, had planned to ask about Charlie, but Pynchot's reaction had scared him a little. His association of wife, holes, pretty, and-very strange!-garbage disposer had been peculiar and somehow disquieting. It might be that Pynchot, although accessible, was nevertheless not a good subject. It might be that Pynchot was a disturbed personality of some sort, tightly corseted into an appearance of normality while God knew what forces might be delicately counterbalanced underneath. Pushing people who were mentally unstable could lead to all sorts of unforeseen results. If it hadn't been for the shadow he might have tried anyway (after all that had happened to him, he had damn few compunctions about messing with Herman Pynchot's head), but now he was afraid to. A psychiatrist with the push might be a great boon to mankind... but Andy McGee was no shrink.

Maybe it was foolish to assume so much from a single trace-memory reaction; he had got them before from a good many people and very few of them had freaked out. But he didn't trust Pynchot. Pynchot smiled too much.

A sudden cold and murderous voice spoke from deep inside him, from some well sunk far into his subconscious: Tell him to go home and commit suicide. Then push him. Push him hard.

He thrust the thought away, horrified and a little sickened.

"Well," Pynchot said, looking around, grinning. "Shall we returnez-vous?"

"Sure," Andy said.

And so he had begun. But he was still in the dark about Charlie.

6

INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO

From

Herman Pynchot

To

Patrick Hockstetter

Date

September 12

Re

Andy McGee

I've been over all of my notes and most of the tapes in the last three days, and have spoken to McGee. There is no essential change in the situation since we last discussed it 9/5, but for the time being I'd like to put the Hawaii idea on hold if there is no big objection (as Captain Hollister himself says, "it's only money'!).

The fact is, Pat, I believe that a final series of tests might be wise-just for safety's sake. After that we might go ahead and send him to the Maui compound. I believe that a final series might take three months or so.

Please advise before I start the necessary paperwork.

Herm

7

INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO

From P. H.

To Herm Pynchot

Date September 13

Re Andy McGee

I don't get it! The last time we all got together we agreed-you as much as any of us-that McGee was as dead as a used fuse. You can only hesitate so long at the bridge, you know!

If you want to schedule another series of tests-an abbreviated series, then be my guest. We're starting with the girl next week, but thanks to a good deal of inept interference from a certain source, I think it likely that her cooperation may not last long.

While it does, it might not be a bad idea to have her father around... as a "fire-extinguisher"???

Oh yes-it may be "only money," but it is the taxpayer's money, and levity on that subject is rarely encouraged, Herm. Especially by Captain Hollister. Keep it in mind.

Plan on having him for 6 to 8 weeks at most, unless you get results... and if you do, I'll personally eat your Hush Puppies.

Pat

8

"Son-of-a-fucking-bitch," Herm Pynchot said aloud as he finished reading this memorandum. He reread the third paragraph: here was Hockstetter, Hockstetter who owned a completely restored 1958 Thunderbird, spanking him about money. He crumpled up the memo and threw it at the wastebasket and leaned back in his swivel chair. Two months at most! He didn't like that. Three would have been more like it. He really felt that-

Unhidden and mysterious, a vision of the garbage-disposal unit he had installed at home rose in his mind. He didn't like that, either. The disposal unit had somehow got into his mind lately, and he didn't seem to be able to get it out. It came to the fore particularly when he tried to deal with the question of Andy McGee. The dark hole in the centre of the sink was guarded by a rubber diaphragm... vaginal, that.

He leaned farther back in his chair, dreaming. When he came out of it with a start, he was disturbed to see that almost twenty minutes had gone by. He drew a memo form toward him and scratched out a note to that dirty bird Hockstetter, eating the obligatory helping of crow about his illadvised "it's only money" comment. He had to restrain himself from repeating his request for three months (and in his mind, the image of the disposer's smooth dark hole rose again). If Hockstetter said two, it was two. But if he did get results with McGee, Hockstetter was going to find two size-nine Hush Puppies sitting on his desk blotter fifteen minutes later, along with a knife, a fork, and a bottle of Adolph's Meat Tenderizer.

He finished the note, scrawled Herm across the bottom, and sat back, massaging his temples. He had a headache.

In high school and in college, Herm Pynchot had been a closet transvestite. He liked to dress up in women's clothes because he thought they made him look..., well, very pretty. His junior year in college, as a member of Delta Tau Delta, he had been discovered by two of his fraternity brothers.

The price of their silence had been a ritual humiliation, not much different from the pledge hazing that Pynchot himself had participated in with high good humor.

At two o'clock in the morning, his discoverers had spread trash and garbage from one end of the fraternity kitchen to the other and had forced Pynchot, dressed only in ladies" panties, stockings and garter belt, and a bra stuffed with toilet paper, to clean it all up and then wash the floor, under constant threat of discovery: all it would have taken was another frat "brother" wandering down for an early-morning snack.

The incident had ended in mutual masturbation, which, Pynchot supposed, he should have been grateful for-it was probably the only thing that caused them to really keep their promise. But he had dropped out of the frat, terrified and disgusted with himself-most of all because he had found the entire incident somehow exciting. He had never "cross-dressed" since that time. He was not gay. He had a lovely wife and two fine children and that proved he was not gay. He hadn't even thought of that humiliating, disgusting incident in years. And yet-

The image of the garbage disposal, that smooth black hole faced with rubber, remained. And his headache was worse.

The echo set off by Andy's push had begun. It was lazy and slow-moving now; the image of the disposal, coupled with the idea of being very pretty, was still an intermittent thing.

But it would speed up. Begin to ricochet.

Until it became unbearable.

9

"No," Charlie said. "It's wrong." And she turned around to march right out of the small room again. Her face was white and strained. There were dark, purplish dashes under her eyes.

"Hey, whoa, wait a minute," Hockstetter said, putting out his hands. He laughed a little. "What's wrong, Charlie?"

"Everything," she said. "Everything's wrong."

Hockstetter looked at the room. In one corner, a Sony TV camera had been set up. Its cords led through the pressed-cork wall to a VCR in the observation room next door. On the table in the middle of the room was a steel tray loaded with woodchips. To the left of this was an electroencephalograph dripping wires. A young man in a white coat presided over this.

"That's not much help," Hockstetter said. He was still smiling paternally, but he was mad. You didn't have to be a mind reader to know that; you had only to look in his eyes.

"You don't listen," she said shrilly. "None of you listen except-"

(except,john but you can't say that)

"Tell us how to fix it," Hockstetter said. She would not be placated. "If you listened, you'd know. That steel tray with the little pieces of wood, that's all right, but that's the only thing that is. The table's wood, that wall stuff, that's fluh-flammable... and so's that guy's clothes." She pointed to the technician, who flinched a little.

"Charlie-"

"That camera is, too."

"Charlie, that camera's-"

"It's plastic and if it gets hot enough it will explode and little pieces will go everywhere. And there's no water! I told you, I have to push it at water once it gets started. My father and my mother told me so. I have to push it at water to put it out. Or... or..."

She burst into tears. She wanted John. She wanted her father. More than anything, oh, more than anything, she didn't want to be here. She had not slept at all last night.

For his part, Hockstetter looked at her thoughtfully. The tears, the emotional upset... he thought those things made it as clear as anything that she was really prepared to go through with it.

"All right," he said. "All right, Charlie. You tell us what to do and we'll do it."

"You're right," she said. "Or you don't get nothing."

Hockstetter thought: We'll get plenty, you snotty little bitch.

As it turned out, he was absolutely right.

10

Late that afternoon they brought her into a different room. She had fallen asleep in front of the TV when they brought her back to her apartment-her body was still young enough to enforce its need on her worried, confused mind-and she'd slept for nearly six hours. As a result of that and a hamburger and fries for lunch, she felt much better, more in control of herself.

She looked carefully at the room for a long time. The tray of woodchips was on a metal table. The walls were gray industrial sheet steel, unadorned.

Hockstetter said, "The technician there is wearing an asbestos uniform and asbestos slippers." He spoke down to her, still smiling his paternal smile. The EEG operator looked hot and uncomfortable. He was wearing a white cloth mask to avoid aspirating any asbestos fiber. Hockstetter pointed to a long, square pane of mirror glass set into the far wall. "That's one-way glass. Our camera is behind it. And you see the tub."

Charlie went over to it. It was an old-fashioned clawfoot tub and it looked decidedly out of place in these stark surroundings. It was full of water. She thought it would do.

"All right," she said.

Hockstetter's smile widened. "Fine."

"Only you go in the other room there. I don't want to have to look at you while I do it:" Charlie stared at Hockstetter inscrutably. "Something might happen." Hockstetter's paternal smile faltered a little.

11

"She was right, you know," Rainbird said. "If you'd listened to her, you could have got it right the first time."

Hockstetter looked at him and grunted.

"But you still don't believe it, do you?"

Hockstetter, Rainbird, and Cap were standing in front of the one-way glass. Behind them the camera peered into the room and the Sony VCR hummed almost inaudibly. The glass was lightly polarized, making everything in the testing room look faintly blue, like scenery seen through the window of a Greyhound bus. The technician was hooking Charlie up to the EEG. A TV monitor in the observation room reproduced her brainwaves.

"Look at those alphas," one of the technicians murmured. "She's really jacked up."

"Scared," Rainbird said. "She's really scared."

"You believe it, don't you?" Cap asked suddenly. "You didn't at first, but now you do."

"Yes," Rainbird said. "I believe it."

In the other room, the technician stepped away from Charlie. "Ready in here."

Hockstetter flipped a toggle switch. "Go ahead, Charlie. When you're ready." Charlie glanced toward the one-way glass, and for an eerie moment she seemed to be looking right into Rainbird's one eye. He looked back, smiling faintly.

12

Charlie McGee looked at the one-way glass and saw nothing save her own reflection... but the sense of eyes watching her was very strong. She wished John could be back there; that would have made her feel more at ease. But she had no feeling that he was.

She looked back at the tray of woodchips.

It wasn't a push; it was a shove. She thought about doing it and was again disgusted and frightened to find herself wanting to do it. She thought about doing it the way a hot and hungry person might sit in front of a chocolate ice-cream soda and think about gobbling and slurping it down. That was okay, but first you wanted just a moment to... to savor it.

That wanting made her feel ashamed of herself, and then she shook her head almost angrily. Why shouldn't I want to do it? If people are good at things, they always want to do them. Like Mommy with her double-crostics and Mr. Douray down the street in Port City, always making bread. When they had enough at his house, he'd make some for other people. If you're good at something, you want to do it...

Woodchips, she thought a little contemptuously. They should have given me something hard.

13

The technician felt it first. He was hot and uncomfortable and sweaty in the asbestos clothing, and at first he thought that was all it was. Then he saw that the kid's alpha waves had taken on the high spike rhythm that is the hallmark of extreme concentration, and also the brain's signature of imagination.

The sense of heat grew-and suddenly he was scared.

14

"Something happening in there," one of the technicians in the observation room said in a high, excited voice. "Temperature just jumped ten degrees. Her alpha pattern looks like the fucking Andes-"

"There it goes!" Cap exclaimed. "There it goes!" His voice vibrated with the shrill triumph of a man who has waited years for the one moment now at hand.

15

She shoved as hard as she could at the tray of woodchips. They did not so much burst into flames as explode. A moment later the tray itself flipped over twice, spraying chunks of burning wood, and clanged off the wall hard enough to leave a dimple in the sheet steel.

The technician who had been monitoring at the EEG cried out in fear and made a sudden, crazy dash for the door. The sound of his cry hurled Charlie suddenly back in time to the Albany airport. It was the cry of Eddie Delgardo, running for the ladies" bathroom with his army-issue shoes in flames.

She thought in sudden terror and exaltation, Oh God it's gotten so much stronger!

The steel wall had developed a strange, dark ripple. The room had become explosively hot. In the other room, the digital thermometer, which had gone from seventy degrees to eighty and then paused, now climbed rapidly past ninety to ninetyfour before slowing down.

Charlie threw the firething at the tub; she was nearly panicked now. The water swirled, then broke into a fury of bubbles. In a space of five seconds, the contents of the tub went from cool to a rolling, steaming boil.

The technician had exited, leaving the testing room door heedlessly ajar. In the observation room there was a sudden, startled turmoil. Hockstetter was bellowing. Cap was standing gape-jawed at the window, watching the tubful of water boil. Clouds of steam rose from it and the one-way glass began to fog over. Only Rainbird was calm, smiling slightly, hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a teacher whose star pupil has used difficult postulates to solve a particularly aggravating problem.

(back off.)

Screaming in her mind.

(back off! back off! BACK OFF!)

And suddenly it was gone. Something disengaged, spun free for a second or two, and then simply stopped. Her concentration broke up and let the fire go. She could see the room again and feel the heat she had created bringing sweat to her skin. In the observation room, the thermometer crested at ninety-six and then dropped a degree. The wildly bubbling caldron began to simmer down-but at least half of its contents had boiled away. In spite of the open door, the little room was as hot and moist as a steam room.

16

Hockstetter was checking his instruments feverishly. His hair, usually combed back so neatly and tightly that it almost seemed to scream, had now come awry, sticking up in the back. He looked a bit like Alfalfa of The Little Rascals.

"Got it!" he panted. "Got it, we got it all... it's on tape... the temperature gradient... did you see the water in that tub boil?... Jesus!... did we get the audio?... we did?... my God, did you see what she did?"

He passed one of his technicians, whirled back, and grabbed him roughly by the front of his smock. "Would you say there was any doubt that she made that happen?" he shouted.

The technician, nearly as excited as Hockstetter, shook his head. "No doubt at all, Chief. None."

"Holy God," Hockstetter said, whirling away, distracted again. "I would have thought... something... yes, something... but that tray... flew..."

He caught sight of Rainbird, who was still standing at the one-way glass with his hands crossed behind his back, that mild, bemused smile on his face. For Hockstetter, old animosities were forgotten. He rushed over to the big Indian, grabbed his hand, pumped it.

"We got it," he told Rainbird with savage satisfaction. "We got it all, it would be good enough to stand up in court! Right up in the fucking Supreme Court!" "Yes, you got it," Rainbird agreed mildly. "Now you better send somebody along to get her." "Huh?" Hockstetter looked at him blankly.

"Well," Rainbird said, still in his mildest tone, "the guy that was in there maybe had an appointment he forgot about, because he left in one hell of an ass-busting rush. He left the door open, and your firestarter just walked out."

Hockstetter gaped at the glass. The steaming effect had got worse, but there was no doubt that the room was empty except for the tub, the EEG, the overturned steel tray, and the flaming scatter of woodchips.

"One of you men go get her!" Hockstetter cried, turning around. The five or six men stood by their instruments and didn't move. Apparently no one but Rainbird had noticed that Cap had left as soon as the girl had.

Rainbird grinned at Hockstetter and then raised his eye to include the others, these men whose faces had suddenly gone almost as pale as their lab smocks. "Sure," he said softly. "Which of you wants to go get the little girl?"

No one moved. It was amusing, really; it occurred to Rainbird that this was the way the politicians were going to look when they found out it was finally done, that the missiles were really in the air, the bombs raining down, the woods and cities on fire. It was so amusing he had to laugh... and laugh... and laugh.

17

"They're so beautiful," Charlie said softly. "It's all so beautiful."

They were standing near the duckpond, not far from where her father and Pynchot had stood only a few days previously. This day was much cooler than that one had been, and a few leaves had begun to show color. A light wind, just a little too stiff to be called a breeze, ruled the surface of the pond.

Charlie turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes, smiling. John Rainbird, standing beside her, had spent six months on stockade duty at Camp Stewart in Arizona before going overseas, and he had seen the same expression on the faces of men coming out after a long hard bang inside.

"Would you like to walk over to the stables and look at the horses?"

"Oh yes, sure," she said immediately, and then glanced shyly at him. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Mind? I'm glad to be outside, too. This is recess for me."

"Did they assign you?"

"Naw," he said. They began to walk along the edge of the pond toward the stables on the far side. "They asked for volunteers. I don't think they got many, after what happened yesterday."

"It scared them?" Charlie asked, just a little too sweetly.

"I guess it did," Rainbird said, and he was speaking nothing but the truth. Cap had caught up with Charlie as she wandered down the hall and escorted her back to her apartment. The young man who had bolted his position at the EEG was now being processed for duty in Panama City. The staff meeting following the test had been a nutty affair, with the scientists at both their best and worst, blue-skying a hundred new ideas on one hand and worrying tiresomely-and considerably after the fact-about how to control her on the other hand.

It was suggested that her quarters be fireproofed, that a full-time guard be installed, that the drug series be started on her again. Rainbird had listened to as much of this as he could bear and then rapped hard on the edge of the conference table with the band of the heavy turquoise ring he wore. He rapped until he had the attention of everyone there. Because Hockstetter disliked him (and perhaps "hated" would not have been too strong a word), his cadre of scientists also disliked him, but Rainbird's star had risen in spite of that. He had, after all, been spending a good part of each day with this human blowtorch.

"I suggest," he had said, rising to his feet and glaring around at them benignly from the shattered lens of his face, "that we continue exactly as we have been. Up until today you have been proceeding on the premise that the girl probably didn't have the ability which you all knew had been documented two dozen times over, and that if she did have it, it was a small ability, and if it wasn't a small ability, she would probably never use it again anyway. Now you know differently, and you'd like to upset her all over again."

"That's not true," Hockstetter said, annoyed. "That is simply-"

"It is true!" Rainbird thundered at him, and Hockstetter shrank back in his chair. Rainbird smiled again at the faces around the table. "Now. The girl is eating again. She has put on ten pounds and is no longer a scrawny shadow of what she should be. She is reading, talking, doing paint-by the-numbers kits; she has asked for a dollhouse, which her friend the orderly has promised to try and get for her. In short, her frame of mind is better than it has been since she came here. Gentlemen, we are not going to start monkeying around with a fruitful status quo, are we?"

The man who had been monitoring the videotape equipment earlier had said hesitantly, "But what if she sets that little suite of hers on fire?"

"If she was going to," Rainbird said quietly, "she would have done it already." To that there had been no response.

Now, as he and Charlie left the edge of the pond and crossed toward the dark-red stables with their fresh piping of white paint, Rainbird laughed out loud. "I guess you did scare them, Charlie."

"But you're not scared?" "Why should I be scared?" Rainbird said, and ruffled her hair. "I only turn into a baby when it's dark and I can't get out." "Oh John, you don't have to be ashamed of that." "If you were going to light me up," he said, rephrasing his comment of the night before, "I guess you would've by now." She stiffened immediately. "I wish you wouldn't... wouldn't even say things like that."

"Charlie, I'm sorry. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brains."

They went into the stables, which were dim and fragrant. Dusky sunlight slanted in, making mellow bars and stripes in which motes of hay chaff danced with dreamy slowness.

A groom was currying the mane of a black gelding with a white blaze on its forehead. Charlie stopped, looking at the horse with delighted wonder. The groom looked around at her and grinned. "You must be the young miss. They told me to be on the watch-out for you."

"She's so beautiful," Charlie whispered. Her hands trembled to touch that silky coat. One look in the horse's dark, calm, mellow eyes and she was in love. "Well, it's a boy, actually," the groom said, and tipped a wink at Rainbird, whom he had never seen before and didn't know from Adam. "After a fashion, that is."

"What's his name?"

"Necromancer," the groom said. "Want to pet him?"

Charlie drew hesitantly near. The horse lowered his head and she stroked him; after a few moments she spoke to him. It did not occur to her that she would light another half-dozen fires just to ride on him with John beside her... but Rainbird saw it in her eyes, and he smiled.

She looked around at him suddenly and saw the smile, and for a moment the hand she had been stroking the horse's muzzle with paused. There was something in that smile she didn't like, and she had thought she liked everything about John. She got feelings about most people and did not consider this much; it was part of her, like her blue eyes and her double-jointed thumb. She usually dealt with people on the basis of these feelings. She didn't like Hockstetter, because she felt that he didn't care for her anymore than he would care for a test tube. She was just an object to him.

But with John, her liking was based only on what he did, his kindness to her, and perhaps part of it was his disfigured face: she could identify and sympathize with him on that account. After all, why was she here if not because-she was also a freak? Yet beyond that, he was one of those rare people-like Mr. Raucher, the delicatessen owner in New York who often played chess with her daddy-who were for some reason completely closed to her. Mr. Raucher was old and wore a hearing aid and had a faded blue number tattooed on his forearm. Once Charlie had asked her father if that blue number meant anything, and her daddy had told her-after cautioning her never to mention it to Mr. Raucher-that he would explain it later. But he never had. Sometimes Mr. Raucher would bring her slices of kielbasa which she would eat while watching TV.

And now, looking at John's smile, which seemed so strange and somehow disquieting, she wondered for the first time, What are you thinking?

Then such trifling thoughts were swept away by the wonder of the horse.

"John," she said, "what does 'Necromancer" mean?"

"Well," he said, "so far as I know, it means something like 'wizard," or 'sorcerer'."

"Wizard. Sorcerer." She spoke the words softly, tasting them as she stroked the dark silk of Necromancer's muzzle.

18

Walking back with her, Rainbird said: "You ought to ask that Hockstetter to let you ride that horse, if you like him so much."

"No... I couldn't..." she said, looking at him wide-eyed and startled.

"Oh, sure you could," he said, purposely misunderstanding. "I don't know much about geldings, but I know they're supposed to be gentle. He looks awful big, but I don't think he'd run away with you, Charlie."

"No-I don't mean that. They just wouldn't let me."

He stopped her by putting his hands on her shoulders. "Charlie McGee, sometimes you're really dumb," he said. "You done me a good turn that time the lights went out, Charlie, and you kept it to yourself. So now you listen to me and I'll do you one. You want to see your father again?"

She nodded quickly.

"Then you want to show them that you mean business. It's like poker, Charlie. If you ain't dealing from strength... why, you just ain't dealin. Every time you light a fire for them, for one of their tests, you get something from them." He gave her shoulders a soft shake: "This is your uncle John talking to you. Do you hear what I'm sayin?"

"Do you really think they'd let me? If I asked?" "If you asked? Maybe not. But if you told them, yeah. I hear them sometimes. You go in to empty their wastebaskets and ashtrays, they think you're just another piece of the furniture. That Hockstetter's just about wettin his pants."

"Really?" She smiled a little. "Really." They began to walk again. "What about you, Charlie? I know how scared of it you were before. How do you feel about it now?"

She was a long time answering. And when she did, it was in a more thoughtful and somehow adult tone than Rainbird had ever heard from her. "It's different now," she said. "It's a lot stronger. But... I was more in control of it than I ever was before. That day at the farm"-she shivered a little and her voice dropped a little-"it just... just got away for a little while. It... it went everywhere." Her eyes darkened. She looked inside memory and saw chickens exploding like horrible living fireworks. "But yesterday, when I told it to back off', it did. I said to myself, it's just going to be a small fire. And it was. It was like I let it out in a single straight line."

"And then you pulled it back into yourself?"

"God, no," she said, looking at him. "I put it into the water. If I pulled it back into myself... I guess I'd burn up."

They walked in silence for a while.

"Next time there has to be more water."

"But you're not scared now?"

"Not as scared as I was," she said, making the careful distinction. "When do you think they'll let me see my dad?"

He put an arm around her shoulders in rough good comradeship.

"Give them enough rope, Charlie," he said.

19

It began to cloud up that afternoon and by evening a cold autumn rain had begun to fall.

In one house of a small and very exclusive suburb near the Shop complex-a suburb called Longmont Hills-Patrick Hockstetter was in his workshop, building a model boat (the boats and his restored T-bird were his only hobbies, and there were dozens of his whalers and frigates and packets about the house) and thinking about Charlie McGee. He was in an extremely good mood. He felt that if they could get another dozen tests out of her-even another ten-his future would be assured. He could spend the rest of his life investigating the properties of Lot Six... and at a substantial raise in pay. He carefully glued a mizzenmast in place and began to whistle.

In another house in Longmont Hills, Herman Pynchot was pulling a pair of his wife's panties over a gigantic erection. His eyes were dark and trancelike. His wife was at a Tupperware party. One of his two fine children was at a Cub Scout meeting and the other fine child was at an intramural chess tourney at the junior high school. Pynchot carefully hooked one of his wife's bras behind his back. It hung limply on his narrow chest. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought he looked... well, very pretty. He walked out into the kitchen, heedless of the unshaded windows. He walked like a man in a dream. He stood by the sink and looked down into the maw of the newly, installed WasteKing disposer. After a long, thoughtful time, he turned it on. And to the sound of its whirling, gnashing steel teeth, he took himself in hand and masturbated. When his orgasm had come and gone, he started and looked around. His eyes were full of blank terror, the eyes of a man waking from a nightmare. He shut off the garbage disposal and ran for the bedroom, crouching low as he passed the windows. His head ached and buzzed. What in the name of God was happening to him?

In yet a third Longmont Hills house-a house with a hillside view that the likes of Hockstetter and Pynchot could not hope to afford-Cap Hollister and John Rainbird sat drinking brandy from snifters in the living room. Vivaldi issued from Cap's stereo system. Vivaldi had been one of his wife's favorites. Poor Georgia.

"I agree with you," Cap said slowly, wondering again why he had invited this man whom he hated and feared into his home. The girl's power was extraordinary, and he supposed extraordinary power made for strange bedfellows. "The fact that she mentioned a 'next time" in such an offhand way is extremely significant."

"Yes," Rainbird said. "It appears we do indeed have a string to play out."

"But it won't last forever." Cap swirled his brandy, then forced himself to meet Rainbird's one glittering eye. "I believe I understand how you intend to lengthen that string, even if Hockstetter does not."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Cap said, paused a moment, then added. "It's dangerous to you."

Rainbird smiled.

"If she finds out what side you're really on," Cap said, "you stand a good chance of finding out what a steak feels like in a microwave oven."

Rainbird's smile lengthened into an unfunny shark's grin. "And would you shed a bitter tear, Captain Hollister?"

"No," Cap said. "No sense lying to you about that. But for some time now-since before she actually went and did it-I've felt the ghost of Dr. Wanless drifting around in here. Sometimes as close as my own shoulder." He looked at Rainbird over the rim of his glass. "Do you believe in ghosts, Rainbird?"

"Yes. I do."

"Then you know what I mean. During the last meeting I had with him, he tried to warn me. He made a metaphor-let me see-John Milton at seven, struggling to write his name in letters that were legible, and that same human being growing up to write Paradise Lost. He talked about her... her potential for destruction." "Yes," Rainbird said, and his eye gleamed.

"He asked me what we'd do if we found we had a little girl who could progress from starting fires to causing nuclear explosions to cracking the very planet open. I thought he was funny, irritating, and almost certainly mad."

"But now you think he may have been right."

"Let us say that I find myself wondering sometimes at three in the morning. Don't you?"

"Cap, when the Manhattan Project group exploded their first atomic device, no one was quite sure what would happen. There was a school of thought which felt that the chain reaction would never end-that we would have a miniature sun glowing in the desert out there even unto the end of the world."

Cap nodded slowly.

"The Nazis were also horrible," Rainbird said. "The Japs were horrible. Now the Germans and the Japanese are nice and the Russians are horrible. The Muslims are horrible. Who knows who may become horrible in the future?"

"She's dangerous," Cap said, rising restlessly. "Wanless was right about that. She's a dead end."

"Maybe."

"Hockstetter says that the place where that tray hit the wall was rippled. It was sheet steel, but it rippled with the heat. The tray itself was twisted entirely out of shape. She smelted it. That little girl might have put out three thousand degrees of heat for a split second there." He looked at Rainbird, but Rainbird was looking vaguely around the living room, as if he had lost interest. "What I'm saying is that what you plan to do is dangerous for all of us, not just for you."

"Oh yes," Rainbird agreed complacently. "There's a risk. Maybe we won't have to do it. Maybe Hockstetter will have what he needs before it becomes necessary to implement... uh, plan B."

"Hockstetter's a type," Cap said curtly. "He's an information junkie. He'll never have enough. He could test her for two years and still scream we were too hasty when we... when we took her away. You know it and I know it, so let's not play games."

"We'll know when it's time," Rainbird said. "I'll know."

"And then what will happen?"