Behind him the scenes of unmasking and transform-ation and mistaken identity went on. His enfeebledthoughts turned briefly to Mironenko. Would he, orany of his tribe, survive this massacre?

'Ballard,' said a voice in the fog. He couldn't see thespeaker, although he recognised the voice. He'd heardit in his delusion, and it had told him lies.

He felt a pin-prick at his neck. The man had comefrom behind, and was pressing a needle into him.

'Sleep,' the voice said. And with the words cameoblivion.

At first he couldn't remember the man's name. His mindwandered like a lost child, although his interrogatorwould time and again demand his attention, speakingto him as though they were old friends. And therewas indeed something familiar about his errant eye,that went on its way so much more slowly than itscompanion. At last, the name came to him.

'You're Cripps,' he said.

'Of course I'm Cripps,' the man replied. 'Is yourmemory playing tricks? Don't concern yourself. I'vegiven you some suppressants, to keep you from losingyour balance. Not that I think that's very likely. You'vefought the good fight, Ballard, in spite of considerableprovocation. When I think of the way Odell snap-ped ...' He sighed. 'Do you remember last night at all?'

At first his mind's eye was blind. But then thememories began to come. Vague forms moving in afog.

'The park,' he said at last.

'I only just got you out. God knows how many aredead.'

'The other ... the Russian ... ?'

'Mironenko?' Cripps prompted. 'I don't know. I'mnot in charge any longer, you see; I just stepped into salvage something if I could. London will need usagain, sooner or later. Especially now they know theRussians have a special corps like us. We'd heardrumours of course; and then, after you'd met withhim, began to wonder about Mironenko. That's whyI set up the meeting. And of course when I saw him,face to face, I knew. There's something in the eyes.Something hungry.'

'I saw him change -'

'Yes, it's quite a sight, isn't it? The power itunleashes. That's why we developed the programme,you see, to harness that power, to have it work for us.But it's difficult to control. It took years of suppressiontherapy, slowly burying the desire for transformation,so that what we had left was a man with a beast'sfaculties. A wolf in sheep's clothing. We thought wehad the problem beaten; that if the belief systems didn'tkeep you subdued the pain response would. But we werewrong.' He stood up and crossed to the window. 'Nowwe have to start again.'

'Suckling said you'd been wounded.'

'No. Merely demoted. Ordered back to London.'

'But you're not going.'

'I will now; now that I've found you.' He lookedround at Ballard. 'You're my vindication, Ballard.You're living proof that my techniques are viable.You have full knowledge of your condition, yet thetherapy holds the leash.' He turned back to thewindow. Rain lashed the glass. Ballard could almostfeel it upon his head, upon his back. Cool, sweetrain. For a blissful moment he seemed to be runningin it, close to the ground, and the air was fullof the scents the downpour had released from thepavements.

'Mironenko said -'

'Forget Mironenko,' Cripps told him. 'He's dead.You're the last of the old order, Ballard. And the firstof the new.'

Downstairs, a bell rang. Cripps peered out of thewindow at the streets below.

'Well, well,' he said. 'A delegation, come to beg us toreturn. I hope you're flattered.' He went to the door.'Stay here. We needn't show you off tonight. You'reweary. Let them wait, eh? Let them sweat.' He left thestale room, closing the door behind him. Ballard heardhis footsteps on the stairs. The bell was being rung asecond time. He got up and crossed to the window.The weariness of the late afternoon light matched hisweariness; he and his city were still of one accord,despite the curse that was upon him. Below a manemerged from the back of the car and crossed to thefront door. Even at this acute angle Ballard recognisedSuckling.

There were voices in the hallway; and with Suckling'sappearance the debate seemed to become more heated.Ballard went to the door, and listened, but his drug-dulled mind could make little sense of the argument.He prayed that Cripps would keep to his word, andnot allow them to peer at him. He didn't want to be abeast like Mironenko. It wasn't freedom, was it, to beso terrible? It was merely a different kind of tyranny.But then he didn't want to be the first of Cripps' heroicnew order either. He belonged to nobody, he realised;not even himself. He was hopelessly lost. And yet hadn'tMironenko said at that first meeting that the man whodid not believe himself lost, was lost? Perhaps betterthat - better to exist in the twilight between one stateand another, to prosper as best he could by doubt andambiguity - than to suffer the certainties of the tower.

The debate below was gaining in momentum. Ballardopened the door so as to hear better. It was Suckling'svoice that met him. The tone was waspish, but no lessthreatening for that.

'It's over ...' he was telling Cripps '... don't youunderstand plain English?' Cripps made an attempt toprotest, but Suckling cut him short. 'Either you comein a gentlemanly fashion or Gideon and Sheppard carryyou out. Which is it to be?'

'What is this?' Cripps demanded. 'You're nobody,Suckling. You're comic relief.'

'That was yesterday,' the man replied. 'There've beensome changes made. Every dog has his day, isn't thatright? You should know that better than anybody. I'dget a coat if I were you. It's raining.'

There was a short silence, then Cripps said:

'All right. I'll come.'

'Good man,' said Suckling sweetly. 'Gideon, go checkupstairs.'

'I'm alone,' said Cripps.

'I believe you,' said Suckling. Then to Gideon, 'Do itanyway.'

Ballard heard somebody move across the hallway, andthen a sudden flurry of movement. Cripps was eithermaking an escape-bid or attacking Suckling, one of thetwo. Suckling shouted out; there was a scuffle. Then,cutting through the confusion, a single shot.

Cripps cried out, then came the sound of himfalling.

Now Suckling's voice, thick with fury. 'Stupid,' hesaid. 'Stupid.'

Cripps groaned something which Ballard didn't catch.Had he asked to be dispatched, perhaps, for Sucklingtold him: 'No. You're going back to London. Sheppard,stop him bleeding. Gideon; upstairs.'

Baliard backed away from the head of the stairs asGideon began his ascent. He felt sluggish and inept.There was no way out of this trap. They would cornerhim and exterminate him. He was a beast; a mad dogin a maze. If he'd only killed Suckling when he'd hadthe strength to do so. But then what good would thathave done? The world was full of men like Suckling,men biding their time until they could show their truecolours; vile, soft, secret men. And suddenly the beastseemed to move in Baliard, and he thought of the parkand the fog and the smile on the face of Mironenko, andhe felt a surge of grief for something he'd never had:the life of a monster.

Gideon was almost at the top of the stairs. Thoughit could only delay the inevitable by moments, Baliardslipped along the landing and opened the first door hefound. It was the bathroom. There was a bolt on thedoor, which he slipped into place.

The sound of running water filled the room. A pieceof guttering had broken, and was delivering a torrentof rain-water onto the window-sill. The sound, and thechill of the bathroom, brought the night of delusionsback. He remembered the pain and blood; rememberedthe shower - water beating on his skull, cleansing himof the taming pain. At the thought, four words came tohis lips unbidden.