'I do not believe.'

He had been heard.

'There's somebody up here,' Gideon called. The manapproached the door, and beat on it. 'Open up!'

Baliard heard him quite clearly, but didn't reply. Histhroat was burning, and the roar of rotors was growinglouder again. He put his back to the door and despaired.

Suckling was up the stairs and at the door in seconds.'Who's in there?' he demanded to know. 'Answer me!Who's in there?' Getting no response, he ordered thatCripps be brought upstairs. There was more commotionas the order was obeyed.

'For the last time -' Suckling said.

The pressure was building in Ballard's skull. Thistime it seemed the din had lethal intentions; his eyesached, as if about to be blown from their sockets. Hecaught sight of something in the mirror above the sink;something with gleaming eyes, and again, the wordscame - 'I do not believe' - but this time his throat, hotwith other business, could barely pronounce them.

'Ballard,' said Suckling. There was triumph in theword. 'My God, we've got Ballard as well. This is ourlucky day.'

No, thought the man in the mirror. There was nobodyof that name here. Nobody of any name at all, in fact,for weren't names the first act of faith, the first boardin the box you buried freedom in? The thing he wasbecoming would not be named; nor boxed; nor buried.Never again.

For a moment he lost sight of the bathroom, andfound himself hovering above the grave they had madehim dig, and in the depths the box danced as its contentsfought its premature burial. He could hear the woodsplintering - or was it the sound of the door being brokendown?

The box-lid flew off. A rain of nails fell on the headsof the burial party. The noise in his head, as if knowingthat its torments had proved fruitless, suddenly fled,and with it the delusion. He was back in the bathroom,facing the open door. The men who stared through athim had the faces of fools. Slack, and stupefied withshock - seeing the way he was wrought. Seeing thesnout of him, the hair of him, the golden eye and theyellow tooth of him. Their horror elated him.

'Kill it!' said Suckling, and pushed Gideon into thebreach. The man already had his gun from his pocketand was levelling it, but his trigger-finger was too slow.The beast snatched his hand and pulped the flesh aroundthe steel. Gideon screamed, and stumbled away downthe stairs, ignoring Suckling's shouts.

As the beast raised his hand to sniff the blood on hispalm there was a flash of fire, and he felt the blow to hisshoulder. Sheppard had no chance to fire a second shothowever before his prey was through the door and uponhim. Forsaking his gun, he made a futile bid for thestairs, but the beast's hand unsealed the back of his headin one easy stroke. The gunman toppled forward, thenarrow landing filling with the smell of him. Forgettinghis other enemies, the beast fell upon the offal and ate.

Somebody said: 'Ballard.'

The beast swallowed down the dead man's eyes in onegulp, like prime oysters.

Again, those syllables. ''Ballard.' He would have goneon with his meal, but that the sound of weeping prickedhis ears. Dead to himself he was, but not to grief. Hedropped the meat from his fingers and looked back alongthe landing.

The man who was crying only wept from one eye;the other gazed on, oddly untouched. But the pain inthe living eye was profound indeed. It was despair, thebeast knew; such suffering was too close to him for thesweetness of transformation to have erased it entirely.The weeping man was locked in the arms of anotherman, who had his gun placed against the side of hisprisoner's head.

'If you make another move,' the captor said, Til blowhis head off. Do you understand me?'

The beast wiped his mouth.

'Tell him, Cripps! He's your baby. Make himunderstand.'

The one-eyed man tried to speak, but words defeatedhim. Blood from the wound in his abdomen seepedbetween his fingers.

'Neither of you need die,' the captor said. The beastdidn't like the music of his voice; it was shrill anddeceitful. 'London would much prefer to have youalive. So why don't you tell him, Cripps? Tell him Imean him no harm.'

The weeping man nodded.

'Ballard ...'he murmured. His voice was softer thanthe other. The beast listened.

'Tell me, Ballard -' he said,'- how does it feel?'

The beast couldn't quite make sense of the question.

'Please tell me. For curiosity's sake -'

'Damn you -' said Suckling, pressing the gun intoCripps' flesh. 'This isn't a debating society.'

'Is it good?' Cripps asked, ignoring both man andgun.

'Shut up!'

'Answer me, Ballard. How does it feel?

As he stared into Cripps' despairing eyes the meaningof the sounds he'd uttered came clear, the words fallinginto place like the pieces of a mosaic. 'Is it good?' theman was asking.

Ballard heard laughter in his throat, and found thesyllables there to reply.

'Yes,' he told the weeping man. 'Yes. It's good.'

He had not finished his reply before Cripps' hand spedto snatch at Suckling's. Whether he intended suicideor escape nobody would ever know. The trigger-fingertwitched, and a bullet flew up through Cripps' head andspread his despair across the ceiling. Suckling threw thebody off, and went to level the gun, but the beast wasalready upon him.

Had he been more of a man, Ballard might havethought to make Suckling suffer, but he had no suchperverse ambition. His only thought was to render theenemy extinct as efficiently as possible. Two sharp andlethal blows did it. Once the man was dispatched,Ballard crossed over to where Cripps was lying. Hisglass eye had escaped destruction. It gazed on fixedly,untouched by the holocaust all around them. Unseatingit from the maimed head, Ballard put in his pocket; thenhe went out into the rain.

It was dusk. He did not know which district ofBerlin he'd been brought to, but his impulses, freedof reason, led him via the back streets and shadows toa wasteland on the outskirts of the city, in the middleof which stood a solitary ruin. It was anybody's guessas to what the building might once have been (anabbatoir? an opera-house?) but by some freak of fateit had escaped demolition, though every other buildinghad been levelled for several hundred yards in eachdirection. As he made his way across the weed-cloggedrubble the wind changed direction by a few degrees andcarried the scent of his tribe to him. There were manythere, together in the shelter of the ruin. Some leanedtheir backs against the wall and shared a cigarette; somewere perfect wolves, and haunted the darkness likeghosts with golden eyes; yet others might have passedfor human entirely, but for their trails.

Though he feared that names would be forbiddenamongst this clan, he asked two lovers who were ruttingin the shelter of the wall if they knew of a man calledMironenko. The bitch had a smooth and hairless back,and a dozen full teats hanging from her belly.

'Listen,' she said.

Ballard listened, and heard somebody talking in acorner of the ruin. The voice ebbed and flowed. Hefollowed the sound across the roofless interior to where awolf was standing, surrounded by an attentive audience,an open book in its front paws. At Ballard's approachone or two of the audience turned their luminous eyesup to him. The reader halted.

'Ssh!' said one, 'the Comrade is reading to us.'

It was Mironenko who spoke. Ballard slipped into thering of listeners beside him, as the reader took up thestory afresh.

'And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Befruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth ...'

Ballard had heard the words before, but tonight theywere new.

'... and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish ofthe sea, and over the fowl of the air ...'