Hasson stepped back and stared at the lighted interior with disbelieving eyes, wondering how a downtown store — even a small one — could be closed so early in the day. He swore at his bad luck, feeling cheated and persecuted, then became aware of a man watching him from the window of the adjoining premises. Unwilling to give up his electronic talisman when it had almost been within his grasp, he entered the other store and discovered it specialised in health foods. The shelves were overloaded with packets and bottles, and the air was charged with conflicting yeasty, malty and herbal odours. Behind a cluttered counter was a small, middle-aged man of Asian descent who regarded Hasson with knowing, sympathetic eyes.

“Next door,” Hasson said. “What’s happening next door? Why is there nobody there?”

“Ben has stepped out for five minutes.” The small man had a precise dry voice. “He’ll be right back.”

Hasson frowned and shifted from one foot to the other. “I can’t wait. I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

“Ben will be back any minute, any second even. There’ll be no delay, Mr Haldane.”

Hasson looked at the storekeeper in surprise. “How did you know my…?”

“You’re driving Reeve Werry’s car, and you speak with a British accent.” The man’s eyes developed a humorous twinkle. “Simple, isn’t it? I keep passing up chances to be mysterious and inscrutable, but with a name like Oliver there’s no point in my overdoing the Oriental bit, is there?”

Hasson eyed the small man sombrely, wondering if he was being ribbed. “Are you sure he’ll be right back?”

“Positive. You can wait in here if you like.”

“Thanks, but…”

“Perhaps I can sell you what you need.”

The unusual phrasing, plus some indefinable quality in the storekeeper’s voice, alerted the dormant cop in Hasson, making him wonder what might actually be on offer. His mind flicked over a list of possibilities — drugs, women, gambling facilities, contraceptives, stolen property — then decided that nobody but a fool would proposition a relative of the local police chief on such a short acquaintanceship. And Oliver, whatever else he might be, was no fool. “I don’t need anything.” Hasson picked up a small bottle of lime green pills, glanced in-curiously at the label and set it back on the shelf. “I’d better go.”

“Mr Haldane!” Oliver’s voice remained light, his manner easy but his eyes disturbed Hasson. “Your life is entirely your own concern, but you are not at ease with yourself — and I can help. Believe me, I can help.”

Good sales pitch, Hasson thought defensively. He was choosing words to cover his retreat when a burly grey-haired man passed the store window and waved in at Oliver. Almost immediately there was the sound of the adjoining door being opened and Hasson stared towards the sweet, relieved of the need to speak.

“So long, Mr Haldane.” Oliver smiled, looking compassionate rather than disappointed at the loss of a possible sale. “I hope you’ll call again.”

Hasson paused outside in the bitterly cold air, feeling he had had a narrow escape of some kind, and hurried into the electrical store. It took him less than five minutes to purchase a small solid image television set, using some of the dollar currency which had been issued to him before he left England. He carried it out to the car, placed it carefully on the rear seat and resumed driving westwards in the direction of the school. Its location became apparent from a distance because two tree-like bilaser projections linked it into the aerial traffic system. Hasson could see hundreds of tiny figures representing students and parents floating up the ruby-coloured outward stem and dispersing at different altitudes.

The school itself turned out to be a cluster of not too modem buildings surrounding a large take-off area and car park. Students and a scattering of teachers were still emerging from some of the doors, and the sight of them reassured Hasson that he was not late. He stopped the car and got out, with only a moderate twinge from his back, and looked around for Theo Werry. There were several knots of teenagers within a radius of fifty paces, each of them seething with playful energy as the young people responded to the open air and freedom from school restrictions.

Most of them seemed oblivious to anything outside their immediate areas, but he noticed that his arrival in the police cruiser had wrought a change in one group. Its members had drawn closer together for a few seconds and then reformed into a pattern which allowed a majority to observe his movements. Hasson’s trained eye, without his bidding, detected the whispering and shuffling of feet and, above all, the sight preening movements of the shoulders which told him that young braves were entertaining thoughts of violence.

Sheer force of habit caused him to try assessing the command structure of the set, and he at once picked out a suited-up redhead of about eighteen — some four years older than his companions — who was standing in a slightly different attitude to the others and occasionally fingering his nostrils as he stared intently into the middle distance. Why am I doing this? Hasson thought, as he noted the heavily ornamented, non-standard straps of the man’s CG harness and the faint rectangular markings on the flying suit which showed that its patches of fluorescent material had been removed to make the wearer harder to track in flight. The suit also looked wet, as though it had recently been worn in cloud. At that moment a younger member of the group turned towards him and Hasson experienced a nervous jangling in his stomach as he saw the slim white tube of a sensor cane in the boy’s hand. He began walking in Hasson’s direction, watched by his companions.

Hasson put on a smile of greeting and felt it dissolve into a novocaine numbness as he remembered it could not be seen. Theo Werry was a tall, black-haired boy with finely moulded features, pale skin and the beginnings of a moustache and beard shadow which signalled his approaching manhood. His eyes looked clear and normal, fully under control, and only the tilted- back angle of his head and an unnatural serenity of expression revealed that he was blind. Hasson felt a pang of combined rage and pity which raked him with its intensity, and his thoughts promptly seized on Al Werry’s statement that the boy’s condition was soon to be cured. He stood without moving as Theo approached him. The boy walked slowly but with assurance, angling his cane in such a way as to gain maximum information about Hasson’s position and size from its invisible laser rays.

“Hello, Theo,” Hasson said. “I’m Rob Haldane. Your father got called out on a job so he asked me to meet you.”

“Hi.” Theo made an adjustment to the ear piece which translated the signals from his cane into audio tones. He extended his left hand. Hasson gripped it with his own left, taking care to achieve a clean handshake.

“I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,” Theo said. “I could have made it home by myself.”

“It’s no trouble.” Hasson opened the passenger door of the police cruiser. “Would you like to get into the car?” He was surprised to see Theo shake his head.

“I’d prefer to fly back, if you don’t mind. I’ve been cooped up all day.”

“But…”

“It’s all right,” Theo said quickly. “I’m allowed to go up, as long as I’m tethered to another flier. You’ll find my suit and harness in the trunk of the car.”

“Your father didn’t mention anything like that.” Hasson began to feel uncomfortable. “He asked me to pick you up in the car.”

“But it’s all right — honestly. I often fly home from school.” A note of impatience had crept into Theo’s voice. “Barry Lutze has offered to go with me, and he’s the best airman in Tripletree.”

“Is that the redhead you were talking to?”

“That’s him. The best flier in the country.”

“Really?” Hasson glanced across the intervening ground at Lutze, who immediately turned away and began staring into the distance while he stroked his nostrils between his finger and thumb.