He hears the metal window frame pop as he bends it open. Finally, using all his strength, the opening is wide enough for him to crawl through.

Pan slips his hairy body and its bulky vest of metal lights through the window and lands on his front extenders, walking that way for a moment before slowly bringing his other extenders down until he is on all fours. His pink nose sniffs for danger. His Geega-like ears listen for sound. He hears a clicking noise in the next room… someone working on a lightbox? Pan moves softly across the floor, no longer worried about understanding the Geega talk. Now he can just be Pan. He is born to be a warrior, a soldier, and a relentless predator. He is from far, far away, but the vicious urges are still in him, programmed there by millions of years of combat. He knows he is expendable, existing only to protect the group. A distant shadow of that instinct now controls his thoughts. Pan hurries to the second door and looks in. Sitting on a Geega sleeping mat, working at a lightbox, is the one in the picture. He is a very small, skinny Geega, with funny colored hair. Pan thinks he will be easy to destroy. Just then, the little Geega finishes working, picks the paper up and studies it. He glances over, and sees Pan standing in the doorway.

"Holy shit," the Geega says. Fear is in his eyes. Pan attacks! As he charges, the Geega does a stupid thing: Instead of running or trying to fight, he jams the paper into his mouth and swallows it.

Pan grabs the long strands of the Geega's colored hair. He yanks the Geega to him, holds him, then using all of his extenders, he pulls and rips.

The Geega screams in pain, but that only makes Pan stronger. He rips one Geega arm loose and waves it over his head triumphantly before he throws it across the room. He grabs the Geega's head and, using all four extenders, twists and pulls until it comes off with a horrible snap. He throws it hard against the wall. It bounces loudly and lands on the bed. Pan shreds the Geega's other arm and both legs, throwing oozing Geega parts everywhere. The gushing blood excites Pan.

He was taught by the Geegas to be silent, but he is so happy he cannot stop himself. He makes the victory yell. He jumps up and down on the shredded parts. He runs from one piece of Geega to another, licking up blood, tasting it, chewing Geega meat. Then he lifts up his privates and urinates on the dead Geega-a message to others that this is Pan's kill.

He hears a noise outside-a knocking on the door. Pan is frightened. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do.

"Get the lightbox," the alpha Geega commands in his earpiece. Dave can see what Pan is doing through the glass eye in his vest. "It's next to the bed. Go!"

Pan runs to the lightbox on the table, grabs it, runs to the other room, then leaps out the mangled open window. Catching the ledge with one hand, he swings effortlessly. The street looms thirty floors below, but Pan is not afraid. He loves height, loves danger. He slowly lowers himself down the side of the building. Pan can see the sun coming up on the horizon and reflecting in his eyes from the mirrored glass.

Moments later he is back in the van handing the lightbox to Dave.

"Good, Pan. I saw it all. We'll watch it on the tape later," Dave says as he points to the picture boxes that are set up in the van to tape what Pan is doing.

Pan tries to figure his answer. He wants to please alpha Dave. He looks down at his keyboard, then pushes two symbols and waits.

"Pan win," the mechanical voice says.

The federal courthouse was tucked neatly between two old-fashioned turn-of-the-century buildings in downtown L.A.

Herman was dressed in his best pinstripe, decked out all in 4s: the black-and-white ensemble. He had brushed his unruly hair to one side, plastering it over with water. But as it dried the curls began rising like gray smoke, until, now, his do was in a sort of modified Bozo.

He sat in the attorney's room with Susan and Dr. Deborah DeVere. Dedee was nervous but ready. Herman thought she looked good in her tailored blue dress.

"You were supposed to be wearing the backless hospital gown," she said. "I've been looking forward to that all morning."

"Visual orgies of that nature have to be enjoyed episodically," he deadpanned.

She laughed, deep throated and lusty and Herman liked her laugh.

"Seriously, are you feeling better?" She pulled her smile down like a poster after a show, leaning in and studying him.

"Ready to kick butt." He looked at Susan, who was searching through their pretrial motions, putting them in order. "Susie, did you file the application for the amended complaint?"

She nodded, "The court clerk got it this morning. Judge King should have it by now."

"Good." Herman felt strong, his heart was in battle rhythm, his head clear. So why, he wondered, was Deborah DeVere looking at him with one eyebrow raised?

"An amended complaint?" she asked.

"It's nothing. We just made a change on the plaintiff's list. No big deal. Now, Dedee, it's important that we get across to the jury the devastation that this bio-corn is going to cause the monarch population. Everybody can remember their first butterfly hunt, looking at it up close, seeing its feelers waving gracefully in the air, its tiny little head and big, beautiful eyes… the orange-and-black perfection. Everyone can remember thinking how delicate and tiny it was. We've got to make them remember; we've got to make them wonder what the world will be like without this wonderful species sharing the planet with us."

There was a knock on the mahogany door and a young man from Elite Messenger Service entered carrying a glass terrarium with three beautiful monarchs fluttering inside. Herman had actually netted the butterflies in the field next to Barbra and Jim's house over the weekend. Herman and Susan had spent last night at the hospital, so Herman had sent the messenger to pick them up from the housekeeper in Malibu. He peeled off some bills and handed them to the man, then signed the delivery slip and waited in silence until the messenger left. Dedee looked closely at the terrarium while Herman tapped on the side. The butterflies landed and were now sitting on twigs, apparently unaware that their entire subgroup was facing biological extinction.

"Okay," Herman said. "Let's go barbecue some USDA-Prime."

The courtroom was an ornate, old-fashioned job with Doric columns and spindled balconies. The U.S. and State of California flags flanked the bench against a curtained wall where the government seal was affixed. The room was large and overpowering; the building material mostly dark, polished mahogany.

Herman watched as the jury he had voir dired two days ago was led in. He thought it was a pretty good bunch.

Herman never used jury specialists. The gaggle of defense attorneys opposite him had employed a virtual choir of experts during the three days of jury selection. Throughout that entire process they'd been huddled in a semicircle poring over demographic spreadsheets, graphs, and background checks. Herman used a much more primitive method. All he would do is look at each potential juror and try to decide whether he would like to go out to dinner with them. Would this person be fun to spend a few hours with? Herman looked only for a sense of warmth and humanity. Race, color, creed, sex, or financial condition meant nothing to him.

The jurors filed past and sat in their upholstered swivel chairs. Herman stole a look at his opposing counsels-all ten of them. Some were government lawyers, others were hired by the three private research labs. The lead counsel was legendary Joseph Amato-the Count Dracula of the legal community. He was dressed in hit-man black and seemed oblivious to his co-counsels, who were eagerly gathered around the defense table like orphans at a picnic, all of them scrunched together, their legal books piled around them, briefcases open, miniature tape recorders ready for last-minute whispered reminders.