Billybob had broken through, his shock tactics had gotten even to her. And that, of course, was the whole point. Why Billybob must be stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

David, with Hiram and Bobby, sat before a giant SoftScreen spread across the Wormworks countinghouse wall. The ’Screen image — returned by a fibreoptic camera that had been snaked into the heart of the Wormworks’ superconducting-magnet nest — was nothing but darkness, marred by an occasional stray pixel, a prickle of colour and light.

A digital counter in a corner display worked its way down toward zero.

Hiram paced impatiently around the cramped, cluttered countinghouse; David’s assistant technicians cowered from him, avoiding his eyes. Hiram snapped, “How do you know the bloody wormhole is even open?”

David suppressed a smile. “You don’t need to whisper.” He pointed to the corner display. Beside the countdown clock was a small numerical caption, a sequence of prime numbers scrolling upward from two to thirty-one, over and over. “That’s the test signal, sent through the wormhole by the Brisbane crew at the normal gamma-ray wavelengths. So we know we managed to find and stabilize a wormhole mouth — without a remote anchor — and the Australians have been able to locate it.”

During his three months’ work here, David had quickly discovered a way to use modulations of exotic-matter pulses to battle the wormholes’ inherent instability. Turning that into practical and repeatable engineering, of course, had been immensely difficult but in the end successful.

“Our placement of the remote mouth isn’t so precise yet. I’m afraid our Australian colleagues have to chase our wormhole mouths through the dust out there. Chasing fizzers over the gibbers, as they put it… But still, now we can open up a wormhole to anywhere. What we don’t know yet is whether we’re going to be able to expand the holes up to visible-light dimensions.”

Bobby was leaning easily against a table, legs crossed, looking fit and relaxed, as if he’d just come off a tennis court — as perhaps he had, mused David. “I think we ought to give David a lot of credit, Dad. After all he has solved half the problem already.”

“Yes,” Hiram said, “but I don’t see anything but gamma rays squirted in by some broken-nosed Aussie. Unless we can find a way to expand these bloody things, we’re wasting my money. And I can’t stomach all this waiting! Why just one test run a day?”

“Because,” said David evenly, “we have to analyse the results from each test, strip down the Casimir gear, reset the control equipment and detectors. We have to understand each failure before we can go ahead toward success.” That is, he added silently, before I can extricate myself from his complex family entanglement and return to the comparative calm of Oxford, funding battles, ferocious academic rivalry and all.

Bobby asked, “What exactly is it we’re looking for? What will a wormhole mouth look like?”

“I can answer that one,” Hiram said, still pacing. “I grew up with enough bad pop-science shows. A wormhole is a shortcut through a fourth dimension. You have to cut a chunk out of our three-dimensional space and join it onto another such chunk, over in Brisbane.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow at David.

David said carefully, “It’s a little more complicated. But he’s more right than wrong. A wormhole mouth is a sphere, floating freely in space. A three-dimensional excision. If we succeed with the expansion, for the first time we’ll be able to see our wormhole mouth with a hand lens, anyhow…” The countdown clock was down to a single digit. David said, “Heads up, everybody. Here we go.”

The ripples of conversation in the room died away, and everyone turned to the digital clock.

The count reached zero.

And nothing happened.

There were events, of course. The track counter racked up a respectable score, showing heavy and energetic particles passing through the detector array, the debris of an exploded wormhole. The array’s pixel elements, each firing individually as a particle passed through them, could later be used to trace the paths of debris fragments in three dimensions — paths which could then be reconstructed and analysed.

Lots of data, lots of good science. But the big wall SoftScreen remained blank. No signal.

David suppressed a sigh. He opened up the logbook and entered details of the run in his round, neat hand; around him his technicians began equipment diagnostics.

Hiram looked into David’s face, at the empty ’Screen, at the technicians. “Is that it? Did it work?”

Bobby touched his father’s shoulder. “Even I can tell it didn’t, Dad.” He pointed to the prime-number test sequence. It had frozen on thirteen. “Unlucky thirteen,” murmured Bobby.

“Is he right? David, did you screw up again?”

“This wasn’t a failure. Just another test. You don’t understand science, Father. Now, when we run the analysis and learn from this…”

“Jesus Christ on a bike! I should have left you rotting in bloody Oxford. Call me when you have something.” Hiram, shaking his head, stalked from the room.

When he left, the feeling of relief in the room was palpable. The technicians-silver-haired particle physicists all, many of them older than Hiram, some of them with distinguished careers beyond OurWorld — started to file out.

When they’d gone, David sat before a SoftScreen to begin his own follow-up work.

He brought up his favoured desktop metaphor. It was like a window into a cluttered study, with books and documents piled in untidy heaps on the floor and shelves and tables, and with complex particle-decay models hanging like mobiles from the ceiling. When he looked around the “room,” the point at the focus of his attention expanded, opening out more detail, the rest of the room blurring to a background wash. He could “pick up” documents and models with a fingertip, rummaging until he found what he wanted, exactly where he’d left it last time.

First he had to check for detector pixel faults. He began passing the vertex detector traces into the analogue signal bus, and pulled out a blow-up overview of various detector slabs. There were always random failures of pixels when some especially powerful particle hit a detector element. But, though some of the detectors had suffered enough radiation damage to require replacement, there was nothing serious for now.

Humming, immersed in the work, he prepared to move on -

“Your user interface is a mess.”

David, startled, turned. Bobby was still here: still leaning, in fact, against his table.

“Sorry,” David said. “I didn’t mean to turn my back.” How odd that he hadn’t even noticed his brother’s continued presence.

Bobby said now, “Most people use the Search Engine.”

“Which is irritatingly slow, prone to misunderstanding and which anyhow masks a Victorian-era hierarchical data-storage system. Filing cabinets. Bobby, I’m too dumb for the Search Engine. I’m just an unevolved ape who likes to use his hands and eyes to find things. This may look a mess, but I know exactly where everything is.”

“But still, you could study this particle-track stuff a lot better as a virtual. Let me set up a trial of my latest Mind’sEye prototype for you. We can reach more areas of the brain, switch more quickly…”

“And all without the need for trepanning.”

Bobby smiled.

“All right,” David said. “I’d appreciate that.”

Bobby’s gaze roamed around the room in that absent, disconcerting way of his. “Is it true? What you told Dad — that this isn’t a failure, but just another step?”

“I can understand Hiram’s impatience. After all he’s paying for all of this.”

“And he’s working under commercial pressure,” Bobby said. “Already some of his competitors are claiming to have DataPipes of comparable quality to Hiram’s. It surely won’t be long before one of them comes up with the idea of a remote viewer — independently, if nobody’s leaked it already.”