Then it was back up to his room to watch the talk-box for the rest of the day.

The programming was mostly local broadcasts from Neckerdam nightclubs—live music. Good stuff. Some sounded like big band music, torch songs, swing—but with more strings than brass. Some was the vigorous, fast-paced stuff that sounded like Irish dance music.

After a couple of hours, he’d had a month’s worth of Neckerdam music. But he left it on and kept watching.

Because if he went down to the lab, he’d get in the way of Gaby’s tests. If he went to the library, he’d probably bump into Gaby there, too—it seemed to be her retreat for the occasions she could escape Doc and Alastair. If he went for a walk outside, the Changeling’s men might be waiting, might kill him on sight. Maybe he should take a brisk walk out on the eightieth-floor ledge and say hello to the gargoyles and griffins.

He’d get hungry in the evening, go down to the lab floor for another grazing run, then return to his room to lie awake on the bed until he could drift off to sleep.

By the second day of his new routine, he was sick of it.

At breakfast of the third day, Alastair took a call from the lobby. He hung up and said to himself, “This should be interesting.”

Harris, Jean-Pierre, and Gaby heard him; Doc, across the room, did not. Harris asked, “What should?”

“That was the elevator captain. Joseph is on his way up.”

“You’re right. It should.” Harris rose and looked around.

“What do you need?” asked Alastair.

“A hammer and chisel. I’m going to try to get Doc’s attention.”

They were waiting for him when Joseph, somber as ever, stepped off the Foundation elevator. The giant was dressed in lighter, brighter garments than before, not work dress, and carried an enormous green cloth bag over his shoulder. Harris saw Gaby shudder; doubtless she was remembering her last experience with large cloth bags.

Doc stepped forward. “Grace on you, Joseph. I’m surprised. I thought that this was the last place you’d ever wish to visit.”

“It was,” Joseph said. “But I am ruined for work. ­Ruined for living. The dreams wouldn’t let me go. You stirred them up. I cannot work or sleep. So I am here.”

Doc considered a brief moment. “Joseph . . . Duncan is still alive.”

“On the grim world. I know.” He gestured at Gaby. “She told me.”

They all gave her a look. She shook her head and asked, “Was it on the talk-box?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was Gabrielle. The twin I’ve never met.”

“It does not matter,” Joseph said. “Duncan must die, or I must. So here is the place I must be.”

“And you are welcome,” Doc said. “Jean-Pierre, would you set him up in a room?”

Jean-Pierre and Joseph left for the residential floor; Gaby, visibly upset, took the stairs up to her room. Doc returned to his experiments, Alastair and Harris to their breakfast.

“Joseph acts like he expects the hammer to fall at any time,” Harris said. “Poor guy.”

“One of several.” Alastair gave him a sympathetic look. “Harris, why don’t you go home?”

“Back to the grim world?”

“You can go back anytime. It’s not a trivial effort, but we can do it. Doc has recovered, and I can also do the ceremony. All we have to do is find a spot that’s usually clear on both worlds. You were talking about a spot on something called Liberty Island.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Do you want to get rid of me?”

“No. I just want to know why you’re so determined to stay in a place that makes you so unhappy.”

Harris grimaced. “I don’t want Gaby to feel alone. You know, surrounded by strangers.”

“Strangers. Harris, she’s fitting in better than you. We haven’t had one jot of success trying to figure out how she can use that well of Gift power she has, but she learns, she asks questions, she suggests, she makes Doc think—I’m a betting man, and my money says Doc will ask her to stay as an associate when all is said and done.”

Harris scowled. “She won’t.”

“Perhaps not.” Alastair drew on his pipe and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “You know she’s fretting. Says it’s almost time for the homelords to collect her rent. Says her parents have to be going mad with worry.”

“Yeah, mine too, probably.”

“But you won’t go back, not even for a day, to straighten out affairs. Why not? Are you afraid you wouldn’t be able to return?”

“That’s not it.” He chewed over his reply. “Alastair, if I go back . . . maybe people would be relieved if I didn’t return to the fair world at all.”

The doctor gave him a puzzled look. “Even if it’s true, and I don’t think it is, what does that matter?”

“It matters. If I go, I might lose my nerve and not come back. If I don’t go, that can’t happen.”

“Have you lost your nerve since you’ve been here?”

“I guess not. But I don’t want to give myself the chance.”

Alastair’s expression remained confused. He stared up at the ceiling as if enlightenment might be waiting there.

Day four.

As he rose past up ninety, the laboratory floor, on his way to the residential floor, Harris heard his name called. He pulled the elevator’s lever back to neutral and ­beyond, bringing the car down level with up ninety.

Jean-Pierre waited there and yanked the exterior cage open. Harris did the same for the interior cage.

Jean-Pierre held a folded paper packet out to him. ­“Almost missed you. Gods, you stink.” He looked over Harris’ boxing shorts and the towel around his shoulders. “You’re spending far too much time in the gymnasium.”

“I just get in the way up here.” Harris accepted the packet; it was heavier than he expected. “What’s this?”

“You know, there’s a shooting range on the same floor.”

“I know. Noriko offered to teach me to shoot.”

Jean-Pierre beamed. “Did she? I made the same ­offer to Gaby.” His face fell. “Not the only offer I made. I haven’t quite persuaded her to bed with me. Do you know the trick?”

Harris glared. “You could kill yourself. Play on her sympathy.”

“Ah.”

Harris tried to let go of the sudden flush of anger. “So what is this?”

“Your pay, of course.”

“Pay?” Harris popped the wax seal on the packet. Out from the folded paper slid a dozen libs, the big silver coins Harris had seen before, plus a few of the smaller silver decs and copper pennies.

“Every half-moon on the chime. Doc pays all his asso­ciates and consultants while they’re working with him. It doesn’t do to accrue indebtedness; there are devisers out there who could take advantage of it. So he pays off as fast as he accrues.” He pulled the elevator exterior grate shut again.

Harris hefted the coins. “Well, that settles it. I’m ­going out.”

“Out of the building? Not a good idea.”

“You’re damned right, it’s not. But neither is staying here until I blow up from boredom.” Harris pulled the interior grate closed. “I think I need to find a tailor. And do you know where Banwite’s Talk-Boxes and, uh, Electrical Eccentricities is?”

Jean-Pierre looked surprised. “Brian Banwite? Doc sometimes uses him for specialty work. Good man. He’s on Damablanca in Drakshire. Walk six blocks east, take the uptown underground to the Damablanca station. And look for Brannach the Seamer on the same street. My tailor.”

“I’ll do that, thanks.” Harris sent the elevator into ­motion again.

Forty-five minutes later, he was clean and presentable, but instead of heading straight for the lobby he descended only one floor. Up ninety-one was where Doc kept his ­offices . . . and his library. Odds were good that he’d find her there.

Gaby was in her usual place, in the stuffed chair at the end of the smaller of the two long tables, where the light was best, and as usual she had a stack of books ­beside her. She didn’t notice him as he entered; he silently closed the door behind him and studied her.