“Whatever it is,” Damon said, as he unlocked the door, “I’m not involved. I don’t run with the gangs anymore and I don’t have any idea what they’re up to. These days, I only go out to fetch the groceries and help my girlfriend move out.”

The men from Interpol followed Damon into the apartment, ignoring the stream of denials. Inspector Yamanaka showed not a flicker of interest as his heavy-lidded gaze took in the knife stuck into the doorjamb, but his sidekick took silently ostentatious offense at the untidy state of the living room. Even Damon had to admit that Diana’s decampment had left it looking a frightful mess.

As soon as the door was shut Yamanaka said, “What do you know about the Eliminators, Mr. Hart?”

“I was never that kind of crazy,” Damon told him affrontedly. “I was a serious streetfighter, not a hobbyist assassin.”

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” said Sergeant Rolfe, in the unreliably casual way cops had. Damon’s extensive experience of LAPD methods of insinuation encouraged him to infer that although they didn’t have an atom of evidence they nevertheless thought he was guilty of something. Long-serving cops always had a naive trust in their powers of intuition.

“You only want me to help with your inquiries, right?”

“That’s right, Mr. Hart,” said Yamanaka smoothly.

“Well, I can’t. I’m not an Eliminator. I don’t know anyone who is an Eliminator. I don’t keep tabs on Eliminator netboards. I have no interest at all in the philosophy and politics of Elimination.”

It was all true. Damon knew no more about the Eliminators than anyone else—probably far less, given that he was no passionate follower of the kind of news tape which followed their activities with avid fascination. He was not entirely unsympathetic to those who thought it direly unjust that longevity, pain control, immunity to disease, and resistance to injury were simply commodities to be bought off the nanotech shelf, possessed in the fullest measure only by the rich, but he certainly wasn’t sufficiently hung up about it to become a terrorist crusader on behalf of “equality and social justice for all.”

The Eliminators were on the lunatic fringe of the many disparate and disorganized communities of interest fostered by the Web; they were devoted to the business of giving earnest consideration to the question of who might actually deserveto live forever. Some of their so-called Operators were in the habit of naming those whom they considered “unworthy of eternity,” via messages dispatched to netboards from public phones or illicit temporary linkpoints. Such messages were usually accompanied by downloadable packages of “evidence” which put the case for elimination. Damon had scanned a few such packages in his time; they were mostly badly composed exercises in hysteria devoid of any real substance. The first few freelance executions had unleased a tide of media alarm back in the seventies—a blaze of publicity whose inevitable effect had been to glamorize the entire enterprise and conjure into being a veritable legion of amateur assassins. Things had quieted down in recent years, but only because the Operators had become more careful and the amateur assassins more cunning. Being named by a well-known Operator wasn’t a cast-iron guarantee that a man would be attacked—and perhaps killed, in spite of all that his internal technology could contrive—but it was something that had to be taken seriously. It didn’t require much imagination on Damon’s part to figure out that Interpol must be keen to nail some guilty parties and impose some severe punitive sanctions, pour encourager les autres—but he couldn’t begin to figure out why their suspicions might have turned in his direction.

“There’s really no need to be so defensive,” Yamanaka told him. “We find ourselves confronted by a puzzle, and we hope that you might be able to help us to understand what’s going on.”

The sergeant, meanwhile, had begun to drift around the apartment, looking at the pictures on the wall, scanning the discs on the shelves and eyeing Damon’s VE equipment as if its abundance and complexity were a calculated affront to his stubborn fleshiness.

“A puzzle?” Damon echoed sceptically. “Crossword or jigsaw?”

“May I?” Yamanaka asked, refusing to echo Damon’s sarcasm. His neatly manicured finger was pointing to the main windowscreen.

“Be my guest,” Damon said sourly.

Yamanaka’s fingers did a brief dance on the windowscreen’s keyboard. The resting display gave way to a pattern of words etched in blue on a black background:

CONRAD HELIER IS NAMED AN ENEMY OF MANKIND

CONRAD HELIER IS NOT DEAD

FIND AND IDENTIFY THE MAN WHO WAS CONRAD HELIER

PROOFS WILL FOLLOW

OPERATOR 101

Damon felt a sinking sensation in his belly. He knew that he ought to have been able to regard the message with complete indifference, but the simple fact was that he couldn’t.

“What has that to do with me?” he asked combatively.

“According to the official record,” Yamanaka said smoothly, “you didn’t adopt your present name until ten years ago, when you were sixteen. Before that, you were known as Damon Helier. You’re Conrad Helier’s natural son.”

“So what? He died twenty years before I was born, no matter what that crazy says. Under the New Reproductive System it doesn’t matter a damn who anybody’s natural father was.”

“To most people,” Yamanaka agreed, “it’s a matter of complete indifference—but not to you, Mr. Hart. You were given your father’s surname. Your four foster parents were all close colleagues of your father. Your father left a great deal of money in trust for you—an inheritance which came under your control two years after you changed your name. I know that you’ve never touched the money and that you haven’t seen any of your foster parents for some years, apparently doing your utmost to distance yourself from the destiny which your father had planned out for you—but that doesn’t signify indifference, Mr. Hart. It suggests that you took a strong dislike to your father and everything he stood for.”

“So you think I might do something like this? I’m not that stupid, and I’m certainly not that crazy. Who told you I might know something about this? Was it Eveline?”

“No one has named you as a possible suspect,” the inspector said soothingly. “Your name came up in a routine data trawl. We know that Operator one-oh-one always transmits his denunciations from the Los Angeles area, and you’ve been living hereabouts throughout the time he’s been active, but—”

Damon cut him off in midsentence. “I told you—I’m not that kind of lunatic, and I try never to think about Conrad Helier and the plans he had for me. I’m my own man, and I have my own life to lead. Why are you so interested in a message that’s so patently false? You can’t possibly believe that Conrad Helier is still alive—or that he was an enemy of mankind, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“If you had let me finish,” Yamanaka said, his voice still scrupulously even although he was obviously becoming impatient, “I’d have emphasized yet again that you’re not under suspicion. Although the local police have an extensive file on your past activities there’s nothing in it to suggest any involvement with the Eliminators. I’m afraid this is a more complicated matter than it seems.”

Now Damon wondered whether Yamanaka might want to recruit him as an informant—to use his contacts as a means of furthering their investigation. He wanted to interrupt again, to say that he wasn’t about to do that, but he knew that the conclusions he’d jumped to had so far only served to slow things down. He figured that if he held his tongue, this might be over much sooner.