Sheer panic got him to the base of the lad-der mere seconds later. "It's gone!" he shouted, his voice muffled by his hood. Frantically he worked at the snaps and zippers, and yanked it off. " It's gone!"

"It's whatl"

Overhead, the face of one of the techni-cians appeared, framed by the life-support can-nister behind him.

"It's left the body," Dr. Bronschweig cried breathlessly. Other technicians crowded around the first, as Bronschweig began climbing up the ladder. "I think it's gestated."

He froze, squinting into the darkness below him. "Wait," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I see it—"

In the shadows, something moved. Brons-chweig held his breath, waiting. A moment later it appeared. Limned in blue light from the cor-ner, the plastic rustling as it parted and the crea-ture came through. It moved tentatively, almost timidly, like something newly born.

"Jesus Lord," whispered Bronschweig. His eyes widened in nervous wonder as he stared. Then, after a minute had passed, he took a gen-tle step back down to the ground. "So much for little green men…"

"You see it?" a technician called anxiously.

"Yeah. It's… amazing." He looked up at the faces ringed around the entrance to the cavern. "You want to get down here—-"

Shakily he began working at the ampule, trying to fit it onto the syringe and the plunger in place. He glanced back at the shadows where the creature was, and—-

It was gone. With deathly slowness Bronschweig turned, fearfully scanning the cavern for where it might have fled. There was nothing.

His hand tightened on the syringe as though it were a pistol, and then he saw it in the shadows across the cave. He stared at it for a split second, paralyzed, as its hands lifted and long pointed claws extended.

With inhuman ferocity it lunged at him.

Screaming, he stabbed out with the syringe, managing to inject some of the pre-cious fluid before the thing threw him across the length of the cave. Terrified, Bronschweig staggered to his feet and made his way to the foot of the ladder. Blood trickled from a wound at his neck, but most of the damage seemed to have come to his suit, which flapped around him like a tattered sail.

"Hey," he cried brokenly, staring up the ladder into the technicians' stunned faces. "I need help…"

He glanced behind him, searching warily for signs of the creature, then back up the lad-der.

"HEY—What are you doing?"

They were closing the hatch. Shoving it down as fast as they could and frantically screwing the locks into place, even as Bronschweig watched in disbelief. He flung himself up the ladder, heedless of pain or the blood blossoming across his white suit. He screamed, but his screams went unheard. Above him there was a dull roar, and a dark blur floated across the transparent hatch. The bull-dozer's shovel rose and fell like a striking hand, and with each blow dumped another load of earth onto the hatch. They were burying him alive.

In stunned silence he stood there, unmov-ing, unable to think, when from behind him there came a muffled sound. And it was on him, pulling him down, pulling him off the lad-der, and down into the darkness of the cave.

CHAPTER 8

SOMERSET, ENGLAND

A man stood at the conservatory window of a mansion, looking down as his grandchil-dren romped and raced, laughing breathlessly, across an impeccably manicured lawn. This was one of the few things that gave him anything like peace: sunset, and the sound of grand-children laughing.

"Sir?"

Behind him came the voice of his valet. The Well-Manicured Man continued to stare out the window, smiling.

"Sir, you have a call."

He turned to see his valet holding open the conservatory door. For a moment the Well-Manicured Man remained, gazing wistfully at the idyllic vista below. Finally he headed toward his study.

The twilight seemed deeper here, laven-der shadows darkening to violet where book-cases mounted from floor to ceiling and all the trappings of wealth lay accumulated and forgotten in the corners and on the walls. The Well-Manicured Man ignored all of these, striding to a desk by the window where a telephone blinked insistently. He picked it up, positioning himself so that he could con-tinue to look down upon his grandchildren playing tag.

"Yes," he said.

From the other end of the line came a familiar voice, smoke-strained, laconic. "We have a situation.

The members are assem-bling."

The Well-Manicured Man winced; he did not like surprises. "Is it an emergency?"

"Yes. A meeting is set, tonight in London. We must determine a course."

The Well-Manicured Man's face tightened. "Who called this meeting?"

"Strughold." At the sound of this name, the Well-Manicured Man nodded grimly. There could be no further questions. The voice on the phone continued. "He's just gotten on a plane in Tunis."

Without replying, the Well-Manicured Man dropped the phone back into its cradle. A child was screaming. He rushed to the window.

On the lawn beneath him, the lovely tableau had been shattered. From the house people were running—his valet, the housekeeper, the gar-dening staff—to where the children had gath-ered. A boy, his youngest grandchild. He lay on his side, his face contorted and white as paper. One leg was awkwardly crumpled under him. The valet reached him first and knelt beside him, gently stroking the boy's forehead and call-ing out orders to the watching staff. As the valet tenderly lifted the child into his arms, the Well-Manicured Man raced from the study, all thoughts of Strughold momentarily banished.

• • •

He did not arrive in Kensington until shortly after eight that night. The chauffeured town car slipped silently into the circular drive and stopped before the front door of a large but unpretentious red-brick building, its front door bearing neither name nor number.

"Has Strughold arrived?" the Well-Manicured Man asked the valet who had met his car.

The other man indicated a long, dimly lit hallway. "They're waiting in the library, sir."

He led the Well-Manicured Man down the hall. The faintest susurrus of voices rose as they approached the library, where the valet inclined his head and left him. Inside, walnut paneling and discreet touches of brass and sil-ver ornamented a large room where a group of men stood, staring at the steely blue eye of a TV monitor. A poor quality black-and-white video was playing, dark forms moving jerkily across a darker background dotted with electri-cal snow. As he entered, the men turned expectantly.

The Well-Manicured Man surveyed the group before joining them. A dozen men of his own age and rank, though none possessed his effortless hauteur. Faces no one would recog-nize, though a word from one of them might bring a government crashing to its knees. Men who remained in the shadows.

In the center of the group stood a small, lean man with close-cropped hair, at once ele-gant and imposing. His gaze met the new-comer's, holding it for a moment too long, and the Well-Manicured Man felt the slightest fris' son of unease.

"We began to worry," Strughold said in the deceptively gentle tone one might use to scold a beloved child. "Some of us have traveled so far, and you are the last to arrive."

"I'm sorry." The Well-Manicured Man tilted his head in deference to Strughold. "My grandson fell and broke his leg." It was all the apology he would offer, even to Strughold.

The other man seemed not to have heard him at all. Instead he went on smoothly, "While we've been made to wait, we've watched surveillance tapes which have raised more concerns."