"I can't see much. What's there?"

"Dust," she said distantly. "There is dust on everything. The furniture, it seems quite old. Like something from two or three centuries ago. The carpet is dusty too, but I see no footprints. No one has been here in a long, long time." There was a long pause. "I do not like it here. I do not like the feeling."

"Then get out, Olga. Please. I already told you. . . ."

"I wonder who lived here? The man Felix Jongleur? But what trouble, to build something like this on top of his building when he could have had a real New Orleans mansion on the ground, with real gardens, real orchards. . . ."

"He's rich and probably crazy, Olga. That combination produces a lot of odd things."

"Whoever lived here, it was a sad place." The viewpoint moved along the wall, past a tabletop full of framed pictures; Ramsey saw grim faces in high collars. "A haunted house. . . ."

"Time to go, Olga."

"I think you are right. I do not like it here. But I will look into some of the rooms first."

Ramsey held his tongue, but barely. He had no control over her, only the ability to suggest—it wouldn't do any good to give her an ultimatum he couldn't back up. Still, her weird, unhurried mood was making him very tense.

"Dining room—look, there is still a table setting. Just one. As if someone simply did not come home for their meal." The viewpoint wandered across dusty plates and silver. The glassware was furred with cobwebs. "It is like Pompeii. Have you ever been there, Mr. Ramsey?"

"No."

"A strange place, Even the most ordinary things become magical in the right situations."

She wandered through a few more rooms. When she found what was clearly a girl's bedroom with its shelf of cobwebbed but wide-eyed dolls, she broke her long silence. "Now I will leave. It is too pitiful, whatever this was."

Ramsey did not say anything, not wanting to interfere with her resolution. He stayed quiet as she made her way back outside and into the barren garden.

"Olga. . . ?" he finally said as she lingered in front of a dry stone fountain.

"The children—they are not on this floor." She sighed. "There is nothing in that place, nothing left."

"I know. . . ."

"So there is one more place I must look," she said.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"There is a floor between this one and the room with all the machines," she said. "I will look there, too."

"Olga, you don't have time. . . !"

"I have nothing but time, Mr. Ramsey. Catur. All my life has come to this—this place, this moment." Even through the dreamy tone her voice was firm. "I have time."

"I seem to have forgotten the way to the elevator," she said at last. She had not bothered to lift the ring for many minutes; Ramsey's only view was of the camera swinging back and forth over the ground, across the leaves and the humped, desiccated roots and parched ground.

"Beezle," he said on the other line, "which way should she go?"

"Jeez, I don't know," the agent rasped. "I don't have the maps for this floor. But the wall's circular and there's probably a walkway all around the outside, like there was just outside the elevator. Just tell her to keep going straight. She'll hit it sooner or later."

"Sooner or later?" Ramsey closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. "Good God, am I the only person who's in a hurry around here?" But he relayed the message to Olga.

Beezle was right. Within a few hundred paces she stepped onto a floor of polished wood and found the wall at the end of the dead forest. "Which direction?" she asked.

"Beezle says take your pick."

She turned right, following the featureless curve. After a moment, she slowed, then stopped. Maddeningly, Ramsey could still only see her feet.

"What is it?"

The viewpoint swung up. A vast square of darkly transparent plastic had been set into the wall. Through it he could just make out a dim suggestion of the roofs of buildings far below and for a moment he thought it was only another window, but the crudeness of the way adhesive foam had been splashed around its edges suggested it was a late and rather cursory repair to the now-decayed but careful work elsewhere on the floor,

"I can . . . can feel them."

It took him a moment to understand her. "The . . . the voices? You can feel them?"

"Faintly." He heard her laugh a little. "I know, you are now finally convinced of what I have tried to tell you so long. I am mad. But I can feel them, just a little." She was silent for a moment. "Not good. It is another sad place—different from inside the house, even worse. Not good."

She began moving again. "But whatever happened there, it is not what brought me here," she added. Ramsey was chilled by her casual tone, her certainty.

"But . . . you felt them?"

"I felt ghosts, Mr. Ramsey."

She found the elevator and summoned it with her badge. When she had stepped in and the door had shut behind her, Ramsey moved to his other line.

"She's taking forever, Beezle—she's going to the next floor down to look there, too. How are we doing? Firefighters show up yet?" The agent did not reply. "Beezle?"

"I had to cut in and I'm afraid I've lost him," said a voice that was definitely not Beezle. "Things are a bit . . . difficult at the moment."

"Sellars?"

"Barely, but yes."

It was unquestionably his voice but there was something eerie about it, a jittering tension beneath the calm. Ramsey thought he sounded like a man holding the live ends of a fifty thousand volt electrical cable. "Jesus, what's going on?"

"It's a long story. I see Olga is still in the tower. . . ."

"Yes, and I can't get her to leave. We've tricked up all the alarms, all the stuff you set up, but the authorities are probably going to be breaking in the doors any moment now and I keep telling her to get out, but she won't listen—she's still wandering around looking for the children, you know, the voices in her head. . . ."

"Mr. Ramsey," Sellars interrupted, "at this moment I am already swimming in information—no, drowning. I am surrounded by data, more data than you can imagine. Every nerve in my body is about to catch fire and burn to carbon." Sellars took a shaky breath. "So will you do me a favor and shut the hell up?"

"Sure. Sure, yes."

"Good. I have to talk to Olga. While I'm doing that, I need you to go next door and talk to the Sorensens. If I have time, I'll join you and speak to them myself. This is critically important. If they're not there you have to find them immediately."

"Got it."

"And when I get done with Olga, I want you on the other line with her."

"Me? But. . . ?"

In remarkably few words, Sellars explained what he had discovered and was shortly going to tell Olga Pirofsky. Ramsey felt as though he had been kicked in the gut by a horse.

". . . So perhaps now you can understand why I want you with her when I've finished," Sellars said a bit harshly. He was maintaining his calm, but clearly at a price.

"Christ." Ramsey looked at the screen, barely able to focus. "Oh, Christ. Oh, God." Olga's feet were still in view, stepping out of the elevator and onto a carpeted floor. "She's . . . she's just getting out."

"I know," said Sellars, a little more gently now. "Go and talk to the Sorensens, will you, please?" And then he was gone.

"Who the hell was that?" demanded Beezle. "Sucker cut me right off, booted me off the line."

"I can't talk now," Ramsey told the agent. "Oh, my God, I can't believe this. Just stay on the line. I'll be back."

"Jeez," said Beezle. "This'll teach me to quit working with meat."

"So is there nothing left we can do?" Florimel asked angrily. "Again we must wait?"