nside the Clínica de Salud Pública, visiting hourswere over. The gymnasium lights had been turned out. PierreCloucharde was fast asleep. He did not see the figure hunched overhim. The needle of a stolen syringe glinted in the dark. Then itdisappeared into the IV tube just above Cloucharde's wrist.The hypodermic contained 30 cc of cleaning fluid stolen from ajanitor's cart. With great force, a strong thumb rammed theplunger down and forced the bluish liquid into the old man'sveins.

Cloucharde was awake only for a few seconds. He might havescreamed in pain had a strong hand not been clamped across hismouth. He lay trapped on his cot, pinned beneath a seeminglyimmovable weight. He could feel the pocket of fire searing its wayup his arm. There was an excruciating pain traveling through hisarmpit, his chest, and then, like a million shattering pieces ofglass, it hit his brain. Cloucharde saw a brilliant flash of light… and then nothing.

The visitor released his grip and peered through the darkness atthe name on the medical chart. Then he slipped silently out.

On the street, the man in wire-rim glasses reached to a tinydevice attached to his belt. The rectangular pack was about thesize of a credit card. It was a prototype of the new Monoclecomputer. Developed by the U.S. Navy to help technicians recordbattery voltages in cramped quarters on submarines, the miniaturecomputer packed a cellular modem and the newest advances inmicrotechnology. Its visual monitor was a transparent liquidcrystal display, mounted in the left lens of a pair of eyeglasses.The Monocle reflected a whole new age in personal computing; theuser could now look through his data and still interact withthe world around him.

The Monocle's real coup, though, was not its miniaturedisplay but rather its data entry system. A user enteredinformation via tiny contacts fixed to his fingertips; touching thecontacts together in sequence mimicked a shorthand similar to courtstenography. The computer would then translate the shorthand intoEnglish.

The killer pressed a tiny switch, and his glasses flickered tolife. His hands inconspicuously at his sides, he began touchingdifferent fingertips together in rapid succession. A messageappeared before his eyes.

SUBJECT: P. CLOUCHARDE—TERMINATED

He smiled. Transmitting notification of kills was part of hisassignment. But including victim's names… that, to theman in the wire-rim glasses, was elegance. His fingers flashedagain, and his cellular modem activated.

MESSAGE SENT