Carla rose and began walking toward the open door. “Is this your husband’s study?” she asked. “Perhaps we should do the interview in here. It would help to give me a feel for his-”

“No!” Mrs. Saniji leaped to her feet and grabbed Carla’s arm. She yanked Carla back toward the couch, a frightened look in her eyes. “You can’t go in there,” she said. “It’s a mess. I haven’t had time to clean it since Miyuki… since Farazad died. He left it in a jumble.”

Carla paused. The explanation just didn’t scan. Mrs. Samji was a neat freak who went to the extreme of organizing her children’s toys into neat rows. The sight of the messy den should have driven her nuts by now. Unless…

The lion-headed dog was focusing all of its attention on Carla. It had shifted away from Mrs. Sarnji’s ankle, and stood directly in the path that Carla would have taken to the study. Suddenly, Carla realized what must really be going on. The desk was rifled because Mitsuhama had been here already, picking up any incriminating pieces of data that Farazad might have left behind. They must have had some inkling that he’d been ready to blow the whistle on their research project when he died, and had come to his home to make sure he hadn’t left any files at his work station. And just in case Farazad had shared information about the new spell with his wife during pillow talk, they’d left the magical creature behind as a reminder to her to keep quiet.

No wonder Mrs. Samji was reluctant to talk. One word about her husbands work and she’d be lion-dog chow. The spirit creature might be only semi-corporeal, but Carla was sure it had a nasty bite. Or that its handlers did.

Mrs. Samji continued steering Carla toward the door. Clearly terrified, she was trying to end the interview. Carla tried to get her talking again. She focused upon the playback icon in her cybereye, keying an instant replay of the last ten seconds of data. “Uh, you were telling me about Zarathustra,” she prompted. “You were starting to tell me the origin of his name…”

They had reached the door. Carla glanced behind her, saw that the lion-headed dog was close at her heels. Now that it was closer to her, Carla could feel the chilling cold that radiated from it.

“The word is Persian,” Mrs. Samji answered. “In the ancient tongue, it translated as ‘the golden light.’ We conceive of Ahura Mazda as the source of all light, of all love. And thus his prophet shared this attribute. Now I really must insist that you leave. My husband’s death has left me feeling very drained. We will continue this interview at another time.” She held the front door open, motioning for Carla to leave.

“The source of all light,” Carla mused. “How interesting.” She turned to capture a good, clean image of Mrs. Samji. The lion-headed dog squatted behind the woman, its mane ruffed. Carla had no way of knowing if the creature would react to the question she was about to ask, but decided to take a chance. She stepped closer to Mrs. Samji, and framed her in a head-and-shoulders shot.

“Is that why your husband wanted to make public the spell formula for summoning a spirit made of light?” she asked suddenly. “Did he really believe they were messengers sent by Ahura Mazda, your god? Did Mitsuhama murder your husband because of what his religious beliefs compelled him to do?”

Tears welled in Mrs. Samji’s eyes. “Farazad was wrong,” she cried. “If the creature had been a farohar it never would have-”

The lion-headed dog lunged forward. It was amazingly fast-quicker than Carla expected. She gasped and leaped backward, expecting to feel its cold fangs lock on her throat. But instead it thudded against the door, knocking it shut.

“Drek!” Carla pounded a fist against the door. She'd almost had it in the can. And what was going on in there? Carla stabbed at the corn unit on the wail. “Mrs. Samji! Are you in there? Are you all right?”

“Please,” Mrs. Samji said through the speaker. “I have my children’s welfare to consider. The interview is over. if you do not go. I will call security to remove you.”

Carla felt a rush of relief. The woman was unharmed! Then the reporter’s instincts took over. “Mrs. Samji! Can you make a statement on the record? Can you confirm that the spirit that killed your husband was conjured as part of a Mitsuhama research project?”

“The Samji family thanks you for stopping by,” an automated voice replied. “Unfortunately, we are not receiving visitors at this time. Please call again.”

The pills Carla had taken earlier were starting to wear off. She blinked, trying to fight off a sudden rush of exhaustion. She’d been so close to confirming the link between the spell on the memory chip and Mitsuhama. If only the lion-headed dog hadn’t.

Then it struck her. The doglike spirit had acted in a sophisticated manner. What if it had been providing a direct, telepathic feed to Mitsuhama? The corporation certainly had the resources to have someone on the scene immediately, possibly even the corporate goons who’d tried to gun down Pita last night. And given the knowledge that Carla had just displayed about the contents of the datachip, they might be ready to take measures to keep her quiet. Measures like those they’d taken against the pirate reporter. Measures that could kill both the story-and Carla.

Carla sprinted for her taxi. This story was getting hot. It was time to get back to the station and its nice, bullet- and spell-proof glass.

9

Pita rolled over in her sleep. She knew she was dreaming, but was unable to shake the terrifying images from her mind. She was being chased by people whose tattooed skins were made of thick dabs of water-soluble paint. They followed her through the rain, their skins melting from their bodies, revealing skeletons beneath. The click-click of their bony feet was growing closer, closer.

“Hey, kid, wake up.”

A hand shook Pita’s shoulder. She awoke instantly, her heart pounding.

Wayne, from the editing department, looked down at her. He was a red-haired man in his thirties with a slight pot belly. Tucked under one arm was a miniature decks whose flatsereen displayed a freeze-framed image of an oil rig going up in flames. Wayne smiled and jerked a thumb at the door. “There’s someone at the front desk asking for you, kid”

“There is?” Pita was immediately wary. “Who?” She swung her legs over the edge of the plastifoam cot that was tucked into a storeroom just off the newsroom. Through the partially open door, Pita could hear the buzz of voices and the sound samples that were being mixed in the studio.

“Some guy with goofy-looking hair. He wouldn’t tell the receptionist his name. All he would say was to tell you he wants to talk to you about ‘little pork dumpling.’ ”

Pita jumped to her feet. “Yao’s here?” Her streetwise skepticism warred with hope and relief. “But I thought he was dead.”

“Doesn’t look like it to me.” Wayne pushed the door open. “Come and see for yourself. I’ve got the guy’s image on the monitor that’s patched into the surveillance camera in the lobby. Maybe you should scan it, just in case.”

Pita followed Wayne into the studio. It was laid out in an open plan, with glass-doored editing booths along one wall, work stations at the center of the room, and banks of telecom equipment and computer terminals. An entire wall was devoted to hundreds of flat-screen monitors. Each displayed a different trideo channel. On several of the monitors, large letters that spelled out the word “RECORDING” were flashing.

“Which monitor?” Pita asked.

Just as Wayne was about to answer, his wrist began to beep. He glanced at the watch implanted into his skin. “Uh, oh. Thirty minutes to air. I’d better get back if I’m going to finish editing the interview Masaki did with you.” He pointed toward the left-hand side of the bank of monitors. “It’s the one just over there. Between the satellite feeds and the foreign language channels.”