And Jinnears. The phrase stuck in her mind, an indigestible lump. And Jinnears. . . ! Startled, she almost lost her grip. The Stone Girl gave a squeak of alarm and Renie tightened her aching fist on the vine. The Ticks swarmed in agitation below. And Jinnears—engineers! Who works with machines? Engineers and . . . and techs. Jinnears and Ticks.

Renie let out a hysterical giggle. But that means I'm a Jinnear, too—I have a degree and everything. Why didn't the Other make me a killer ghost-jellyfish as well?

"Why are you laughing?" the Stone Girl demanded in a quavering voice. "You're scaring me!"

"Sorry. I just thought of something. Don't mind me." But oh my God what did the techs and engineers do to this Al or whatever it is to make it think of them like that. . . ?

The vegetable firmness of the tower wall was startlingly close now. She could see the open window only two or three meters above her head, glowing against the dark sky, but the vines, which hung from the very top of the protruding roof, would not bring her very close, and the angle was soon going to be too steep anyway.

"We're going to have to get off the vines and try to climb up the wall," she said as lightly and calmly as she could. "I'm going to lean over as far as I can before I let go, but I'm going to have to jump. Will you hold on tight?"

"Jump. . . ?"

"It's the only way I can reach it. I'm sure the bushes will hold us," she said without actually being sure at all. She got a good grip on the upper vine, then stopped so she could gently but firmly pry loose the fingers of the Stone Girl, who had decided to hold on as well. "You can't do that. If you're still holding on when I jump . . . well, we're in a lot of trouble."

"Okay," the small voice said in her ear.

She trusts me. I almost wish she didn't. . . .

Renie braced herself, then set the vine swaying, figuring even a few extra inches would help. On the fourth wide swing, she jumped toward the shadowy wall.

For a moment, as the dry leaves tore beneath her hands like paper and they slid downward, she was certain they were dead. Then she caught at something stiffer and more substantial and grabbed hard, digging her toes in as well, insensible of what she was doing to her bare feet and fingers. When they stopped sliding she clung for a moment, gasping.

Can't wait. Can't hang. No strength.

She forced herself up, grip by difficult, hard-won grip. What had looked like two or three meters to climb from the relative safety of the branch now felt like a hundred. Every muscle seemed to be writhing in agony.

The glow of the window was hallucinatory in its brightness. She pulled herself over the brambly sill and slid down to the brambly floor, gasping for breath, moaning as her muscles knotted, as star-flecked blackness rolled across her eyes.

The first thing she noticed when she could see properly again was the source of light in the tower room, a great, nodding flower hanging at the apex of the vaulted ceiling, glowing a waxy yellow at the heart of its petals. She heard the Stone Girl stirring behind her and sat up. Someone was sitting on the far side of the small room, half-hidden by leaves and shadows. It was not !Xabbu. It was Ricardo Klement, the Grail Project's only success, such as he was—handsome, young, and brain-damaged.

"Is that your friend?" the Stone Girl asked quietly.

Renie gave a sharp, cracked laugh. "Where are the others?" She could barely muster the strength to speak. "My friends. Are they here?"

Klement looked at her incuriously. He held something small cradled in his arms, but she could not make it out. "Others? No others. Only me . . . us."

"Who?" She was getting a very bad feeling. "Us who?"

Klement slowly lifted the thing he was holding. It was small and unpleasant to look at, a sort of blue-gray, eyeless blob with rudimentary arms and legs and head, a loose gape for a mouth.

"Jesus Mercy," Renie said in disgust and misery. "What the hell is that?"

"It is. . . ." Klement hesitated, his face blank as he sought for the words. "It is me . . . no . . . it is mine. . . ."

After all that, to find nothing but Klement and this inexplicable little monstrosity. . . ! Every bit of her was afire with pain, but worse than anything was the disappointment, a stunning blow like a bullet wound in the chest. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for . . . something," Klement said tonelessly. "Not for you."

"I feel exactly the same way." Despite herself, Renie began to cry. "God damn it all."

NETFEED/PERSONALS: So Sad And Lonely. . . .

(visual: picture of advertiser, M.J. [anonymated])

M.J.: "I don't care any more. There's nobody here, and I don't even want to try. It's . . . it's really lonely here. Dark. I wanted someone to call me because I'm alone and I'm sad. But nobody ever called—I guess there's no one out there listening after all. . . ."

It had been bad enough falling out of Dodge City and into Egypt, but this second transition was much harder, far more painful. When Paul's thoughts came back they seemed to swim in dark, bloody waters, like primeval fish, He opened his eyes to find a yellow face hovering just before him, grinning. Paul groaned.

"Oh, good," said the clownish, lemon-colored mask. It was perched atop a body swathed in immaculate mummy wrappings. "You're awake. I was afraid the sphinx had damaged you—but he's very gentle, in his way,"

Martine was gasping in pain beside him, as though she had not been brought any more gently to this place, a windowless gray stone room. T4b and Florimel were already awake, staring at their captor with grim faces.

"What do you want with us?" Paul could not make himself sound anything but hopeless and pathetic. His arms were tied securely behind his back, his ankles too. The four captives had been propped against the wall like unwanted parcels.

"I haven't really decided yet, to tell the truth," said the yellow-faced man. "I suppose Ptah the Artificer should know these things, but I've only really started this god business in earnest pretty recently." He giggled. "But now I'm really wondering where I've met you before. I would have recognized my old traveling companions, of course, even if you weren't still wearing the same old clothes—hello! But you. . . ." He tilted his bright face as he regarded Paul. "I have met you before, haven't I? Oh, wait, you're a friend of Kunohara's."

"Wells?" Paul was shocked, although he could now see the weird, underwater resemblance. "Robert Wells?"

The response was another pleased chortle. "Oh, yes. But my Egyptian identity is rather to the fore at the moment. Lord Anubis has been kind enough to forgive my past bad associations."

"Anubis?" Martine spoke hollowly. "You mean Dread, don't you? You mean Jongleur's pet murderer."

"Yes, I suppose that's his name. I would have found it much easier piecing these things together from the outside, but I've had to make do."

"That's an understatement," said Paul. "You've fallen pretty low, Wells, haven't you—throwing in your lot with a butchering psychopath."

"Don't waste your time, Paul." Florimel's voice was cracked, the defiance unconvincingly forced. "He is no better than Dread."

"Anyone who knows anything about business knows that sometimes you have to overlook certain foibles in your CEO if you want a take-charge kind of guy," Wells said cheerfully. "And the fact is, right now Mr. Dread holds all the stock. Which means I'm proud to be on his team."

"So . . . so you'll just stand by and let him do whatever he wants?" Paul said. "Destroy the network, rape and murder and God knows what else. . . ?"