'What's that?

'Duct tape. You know: silver? Stick to skin okay. You want that? Rydell shrugged painfully out of his black nylon jacket and started fumbling one-handed with the buttons of his wrinkled blue shirt. The girl started helping him, and when she'd gotten the shirt off Fontaine saw the yellow gray mottling of a fresh bruise up his side A bad one

'You in an accident? He'd tucked the Smith&Wesson into the side pocket of his trousers, not a safe carry ordinarily but a convenient one under the circumstances. The worn checkered walnut of the butt stuck out just enough to get a handy purchase, should he need it. He got a roll of tape out of the top drawer of an old steel filing cabinet. It made that sound when he pulled out a foot or so of it. 'You want me to put this on you? I taped fighters in Chicago. In the ring, you know?

'Please, said Rydell, wincing as he raised the arm on the bruised side.

Fontaine tore the length of tape off and studied Rydell's rib cage. 'Tape's mystical, you know that? He snapped the tape taut between his two hands, the darker, adhesive-coated side toward Rydell.

'How's that? Rydell asked.

'Cause it's got a dark side, Fontaine said, demonstrating, 'a light side, showing the dull silver backing, 'and it holds the universe together. Rydell started to yell when the strip was applied, but caught it. 'Breathe, Fontaine said. 'You ever deliver a baby?

'No, Rydell managed.

'Well, said Fontaine, readying the next strip, this one longer, 'you want to breathe the way they tell women to breathe when the contractions come. Here: now breathe out.

It went pretty fast then, and when Fontaine was done, he saw that Rydell was able to use both hands to button his shirt.

'Good evening, he heard the professor say and, turning with the roll of tape in his hand, saw that the boy was awake and sitting up, brown eyes wide and empty, staring at the man in the gray-green overcoat. 'You look well. Is this your home?

Something moved, behind the boy's eyes; saw, retreated again.

'You two know each other? Fontaine asked.

'We met last night, the man said, 'here, on the bridge.

'Wait a minute, Fontaine said. 'He get a watch off you?

The man turned and regarded Fontaine evenly, saying nothing.

Fontaine felt a wave of guilt. 'It's okay, he said. 'Just keeping it for him.

'I see.

'That's quite a watch, Fontaine said. 'Where'd you get it?

'Singapore.

Fontaine looked from the smooth gaunt wolfish face of the man who very probably wasn't a music professor to the blank and unlined face of the boy, beneath its new haircut.

'I see that you have a pistol in your pocket, the man said.

'I'm just glad to see you, Fontaine said, but nobody got it.

'What is its caliber?

'Twenty-two long rifle.

'Barrel length?

'Four inches.

'Accurate?

'It's not a target pistol, Fontaine said, 'but for four inches of barrel, it's not too bad. This was making him very nervous, and he very badly wanted the gun in his hand, but he thought that if he touched it now, something would happen. Something would.

'Give it to me, the man said.

'Forget it, Fontaine said.

'An undetermined number of armed men are searching for Mr. Rydell tonight. They would like to capture him alive, in order to question him, but they would certainly kill him to prevent his escape. They will kill anyone they find with him. That would simply be a matter of housekeeping for them. Do you understand?

'Who are they?

''Bright young things, ' the man said.

'What?

'They are mercenaries, in the pay of someone who regards Mr. Rydell as being in the employ of a competitor, an enemy.

Fontaine looked at him. 'Why you want my gun?

'In order to kill as many of them as I can.

'I don't know you from Adam, Fontaine said.

'No, said the man, 'you don't.

'This is crazy Fontaine looked at Chevette. 'You know this guy?

'No, Chevette said.

'You. Rydell. You know this guy?

Rydell looked from Fontaine to the man, back to Fontaine. 'No, Rydell said, 'I don't. But you know what?

'What?

'I'd give him the gun.

'Why?

'I don't know, Rydell said, and something seemed to catch in his voice. 'I just know I would.

'This is crazy' Fontaine said, repeating himself, hearing the pitch of his own voice rising. 'Come on, Chevette! Why'd you come in here? You bring these people-

'Cause Rydell couldn't walk fast enough, she said. 'I'm sorry, Fontaine. We just needed help.

'Fuck, said Fontaine, pulling the Smith&Wesson from his pocket, its blue steel warm with his body heat. He opened the cylinder and ejected the five cartridges into his palm. Fragile bits of brass less than the thickness of a pencil, each one tipped with its copper-coated, precisely swaged and hollowed segment of lead alloy. 'This is it, right? All the ammunition I've got. He passed the man the revolver, barrel pointed at the ceiling and cylinder open, then the cartridges.

'Thank you, the man said. 'May I load it now?

'Gentlemen, said Fontaine, feeling a frustration that he didn't understand, 'you may start your fucking engines.

'I suggest, the man said, inserting the five cartridges, one after another, 'that you lock the door after me and conceal yourselves, out of the sight lines for the door and window. If they determine you are here, they will try to kill you. He closed the cylinder, sighted down the barrel at a blank patch of wall.

'Pulls a little to the left, Fontaine said, 'single-action. You want to compensate in the sight picture.

'Thank you, the man said and was gone, out the door, closing it behind him.

Fontaine looked at Rydell, whose eyes were bright with what Fontaine suddenly saw were brimming tears.

MR. Fontaine, Rydell said, 'you wouldn't have another gun around here, would you?

The three of them were sitting on the floor, in a row, their backs to the wall nearest Oakland, in the back room of Fontaine's little shop. Between Rydell and Fontaine, the duffel with the projector. The kid who'd been sleeping on the floor there was sitting up in Fontaine's narrow bunk, back against the opposite wall, clicking through something on a notebook; had one of those big-ass old military displays on, made him look like a robot or something, except you could see the bottom half of his face, see he kept his mouth open while he was doing it. The lights were all off, so you could see the steady pulse of pixel-glow leaking from the helmet, from whatever it was he kept pulling up.

'I don't deal in firearms, the black man said. 'Vintage watches, knives by name makers, die-cast military.

Rydell thought he'd had enough to do with knives already. 'I just don't like sitting here, waiting.

'Nobody does, Chevette said beside him. She was pressing a wet cloth against her eye.

Actually what bothered Rydell most about sitting was that he wasn't sure how easy it would be to get back up. His side, with the duct tape on it now, didn't hurt too badly, but he knew he'd stiffen up. He was about to ask Fontaine about the knives when Fontaine said: 'Well.

'Well what? Rydell asked.

'Well, Fontaine said, 'it isn't actually part of my stock, you know?

'What isn't?

'I've got this lawyer, he's African Union, you know? Forced out by politics.

'Yeah?

'Yeah, Fontaine said, 'but you know how it is, people come out of a situation like that, all that ethnic cleansing and shit.

'Yeah?

'Well, they like to feel they got protection, something happens.

Rydell was definitely interested.

'Trouble is, Fontaine said, 'they got this overkill mentality, over there. And my lawyer, Martial, he's like that. Actually he's trying not to be, understand? Got him a therapist and everything, trying to learn to walk around without a gun and not feel he's liable to get his ass blown away by tribal enemies, right? Like this is America, here, you know?