The closest he came to involvement was one morning when climbing a high saddle back to the west of the city, trying for a view of the Lesser Slave and Utikuma Lakes. A huge silence lay over the land, undisturbed by insects in that early part of the summer. There was no visible trace of human existence and it was possible to imagine that time moved at a slower pace here, that the last of the Pleistocene glaciers had barely retreated and the first of the Mongoliform tribes had yet to pick their way across the Bering Strait from the west.

Hasson had paused in his ascent and was trying to adjust his vision to accommodate the vast sloping perspectives when, without any warning, a brilliant source of light sprang into being in the sky to the north. The grass all around him glittered like tiny scimitars as if he had been caught in the beam of a powerful searchlight mounted on a helicopter, but the silence remained unbroken. Hasson shielded his eyes and tried to focus on the object, but it appeared as an anonymous centre of brilliance surrounded by a rosette of oily needles of light. The sky pulsed in blue circles.

As he watched, a second eye-searing point appeared close to the first, and that was followed by others until there was a ring of six miniature suns blazing down on Hasson, pinning him at the apex of a cone blinding radiance. The grass at his feet incandesced as though about to explode into flame.

Hasson experienced a moment of near-superstitious dread before ingrained mental disciplines came to his rescue. Mirrors, he thought. A group of six fliers. Height anywhere from five hundred to a thousand metres — enough to render them invisible against a bright sky. Violations: TDO, for a start. Possible intended violations: Anything they feel like — there’s nothing here to stop them.

He lowered his gaze and resumed the climb, straining his ears for anything — a rush of air or the sound of voices — which might indicate that he was going to be caught up in something more serious than a juvenile game. The light continued to flicker around his path for a minute, then abruptly vanished. Hasson went on climbing for another minute before stopping and scanning the hemisphere of the sky. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen, but he no longer felt alone or remote from the 21st Century. The sky was a sentient blue lens.

A short time later, while he was seated on a rock having lunch, he was struck by a comforting thought which almost made him feel grateful to the group of unseen fliers. During the incident he had felt worried, tense, apprehensive — but not afraid. Not excessively so, anyway. There had been a certain coolness of the forehead and hollowness of the stomach, but none of the plethora of devastating symptoms he had come to know so well in recent months. There was a possibility that he was further along the road to recovery than he had realized.

He mused over the notion for a time, taking it to its logical conclusion, then rose to his feet and began walking in the direction of Tripletree. “Sure thing Borrow any harness you want — we’ve got lots of them just lying around the place.” Werry gave Hasson an encouraging smile, “Do you want to use my spare suit?”

“No need — I won’t be going up far.” Hasson smiled in return, trying not to appear too diffident. “I’m just going to fool around for a while, really. See about getting acclimatised. You know how it is…”

“Can’t say I do. I thought you were acrophobic.”

“What made you think that?”

Werry shrugged. “Just an impression. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Lots of people can’t fly after a smash.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t apply in my case,” Hasson said, wondering why he felt the need to lie.

“Well, do you want me to go up with you just to be sure?” Werry put aside the cloth he had been using to polish his boots and stood up, his uniform making him seem like an invader in the domesticity of his own kitchen, On returning from his walk Hasson had found him alone in the house and had decided to waste no time in setting up his private experiment.

“I can manage by myself,” Hasson said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Okay, Rob.” Werry looked at him with a rueful expression. “I can’t tell where helpfulness ends and nosiness begins. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’d feel self-conscious if…”

“This is what I was telling you about, Rob. This morning at the station Henry Corzyn — that’s one of my patrolmen, the fat one — started griping about being short of money this month, and Victor — that’s the kid — offered him a loan. Henry said he wasn’t that hard up and didn’t need to borrow money from anybody. And do you know what the kid did then?

Hasson blinked. “Sighed with relief?

“No. The kid took some bills out of his wallet and stuffed them into Henry’s shirt pocket — and Henry let them stay there. After saying he wouldn’t take a loan from anybody, he let the money stay in his pocket!”

“He must have wanted the loan, after all.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Werry said with something like anguish in his eyes. “He must have wanted a loan, but he said he didn’t — so how did the kid know? If that had been me I’d have believed Henry, and I’d have walked off and he’d probably have been calling me all kinds of bastard from now till Christmas. Or else I’d have got it wrong another way and forced money on him and hurt his feelings, and he’d still have ended up bad-mouthing me from now till Christmas. What I want to know is — how did young Victor know what was expected of him?”

“He’s on an empathin kick,” Hasson suggested.

“Not a chance! None of my …” Werry paused and gave Hasson a solemn stare. “I suppose that was a joke.”

“Not much of a one,” Hasson apologised. “Look, Al, you’re not alone. Some people are naturally simpatico and the rest of us can only envy them. I’d like to be that way myself.”

“I’m not envious — just puzzled.” Werry sat down again and resumed polishing the already glossy toecap of a boot. “Would you like to go to a barbecue tonight?”

Hasson considered the idea and found it attractive. “That sounds good. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a genuine barbecue.”

“You’ll enjoy this one. Buck’s entertaining some visitors from out of town, so you can bet your life there’ll be plenty of good food and good booze. He always lays it on thick.”

Hasson did a mental double-take. “Are we talking about Buck Morlacher?”

“Yeah.” Werry looked up at him with the calm innocence of a child. “Buck throws great parties, you know, and it’s all right — I can bring as many guests as I want.”

There’s something wrong with one of us, Hasson thought incredulously. Al, you’re supposed to be the law around here.

“May’s going too,” Werry said. “The three of us will shoot over to Buck’s place around eight and drink the place dry. Okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Hasson went out into the hail, selected a CG harness from the several that were hanging there, arid checked its power unit. The familiar action evoked a stirring of unease, and the confidence he had felt earlier began to fade. It was possible, after all, that he was rushing his fences, making unreasonable demands on himself. He hesitated for a moment, then slung the harness over his shoulder and left the house. The sun was curving down towards the west, cubes of shadow filled the spaces between the houses and there was a touch of coolness in the air. Hasson estimated there were less than two hours of daylight left, but it was enough for his purpose.

It took him some forty minutes to reach a deserted area where old quarry works had permanently disfigured the ground to such an extent that it was unsuitable for any form of agriculture. An occasional flier could be seen overhead, speeding into or away from Tripletree, but he knew from experience that in such terrain he would be practically invisible to airborne travellers. He scanned the immediate surroundings, seeing everything with rich clarity in the coppery light, and began putting on the CG harness.