“How about it, Flash?” Leila said.

“Doubtful,” Flash’s calm voice said clearly over the headset. “While you two were heading for the airfield, I picked up a TV remote off satellite that shows a paramedic van melting into nothing. Find me an acid that can do that.”

•

The dark jet rolled off the runway at one hundred knots and rose swiftly into the afternoon sky, a black arrowhead rapidly vanishing into the hazy air.

Crossing the shoreline just southeast of Point Mugu, Weir eased power upward and put the nimble plane into an accelerating climb that slammed them both against their seats. As they passed through 10,000 feet, she stopped glancing at the airspeed indicator and shifted her attention to the Mach meter. At 15,000 feet, they had achieved Mach.8. Rock, in the rear seat, had achieved a nearly fluorescent green shade of skin.

“You fly like I drive,” he said, slipping on his oxygen mask.

“And you,” Leila muttered, “have no adventure in your soul.” Passing the 35,000 foot mark, she threw more power to the engines and executed a climbing barrel roll. The view outside the cockpit whirled crazily around; the brown haze that covered the entire Los Angeles basin made a 360° loop around them and stopped where it had begun-to their left. To their right and ahead below them spread the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean; ahead and above, the darkening azure sky.

“Flight Level Four-Twenty,” she announced as she leveled off at 42,000 feet. She glanced down to make certain that they were past the Channel Islands, her last checkpoint before breaking the sound barrier. “Hang on for Mach One.”

The aircraft trembled for an instant, then stabilized. “Mach One,” she said, easing the throttles forward.

Rock, his gaze never leaving the collision avoidance radar, said, “TCAS shows us clear.”

“Mach Two coming up.”

“Take it up to Mach two point nine,” Flash’s digital-crisp voice said in their ears.

“Hey”-Leila’s voice was sharp-“keep your opinions to yourself. I’m going up to Mach Three.”

“I’ll barely have time to eat lunch,” Rock protested as he flipped up his helmet visor and reached into a cargo pocket for a sandwich from the AI cafeteria.

“Live off your stored fat,” she snapped back happily. “Flash- have you found the good Captain yet?”

“His transponder is still off, and he isn’t acknowledging messages on his wristcomm.”

•

“Fork it over, geek!”

The old man looked confused. He stopped in the middle of the alley and looked up at his younger companion. “A donation?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” The young man in the tan slacks grabbed the bum by his worn tweed lapels. “I’ve been listening to you rant about the world for half an hour and I’m sick of your voice and your stinking breath.”

His victim faltered. “I thought we was friends. I bought yer pamphlet. I paid fer coffee. I want to help you people.”

“We don’t need trash like you. But we can use this!” The man’s hand slipped into the gritty depths of the tweed jacket pocket. It came out with a roll of singles. “Thanks for your generosity.”

The old man’s voice hardened, deepened, grew strangely forceful. “That’s no way to treat a poor old man.”

“Poor old men don’t carry wads like this.”

The thief stared at the old man. Something had changed about him. Something that made a tremor of fear begin to grow.

“I’m looking for your leader. For Morrison,” the twisted, filthy old man said in a cold, even tone.

“He doesn’t talk to decrepit-”

Faster than the young man could follow, a gnarled hand gripped his. The tramp seemed to tower over him now, as if he had gained several inches in height. His eyes blazed with a fire that had not been there before. His gaze pierced the other man with an intensity that glared into his soul.

“Tell your exalted leader Erik Morrison that I know what he stole from the Seal Beach weapons bunker. Tell him he’ll never have a chance to use it.” The derelict’s grip tightened.

“Who-who are you?” The young man dropped the wad of crumpled dollars and slid backward, catching himself on one knee.

“Tell Morrison that when he finds out who I am”-his fingers ground the pamphleteer’s knuckles together-“it will be too late for him.”

The spotted old hand released its grip. “Keep the change,” the mysterious stranger said, leaving the money behind and turning away. He walked straight now, his strides long and purposeful.

Regaining his shopping cart, he guided it a few yards down the street until he spied another homeless one. Wheeling up to the woman, who could not have been more than forty but looked ancient because of her matted hair, sun-damaged skin, and edentulous mouth, he spoke to her for a moment, then left the cart with her. She stared gratefully at his receding figure, then began to pick through the gift of recyclable goods. There had to be at least ten dollars worth of aluminum and plastic. Then she discovered a roll of twenties stuffed in a dirty Styro cup. Her toothless face smiled in amazement at the stranger, but he had already vanished into the crowd.

Walking down the busy sidewalks of San Francisco’s business district, the bulbous-nosed man reached into another pocket of his tweed jacket and withdrew something that looked like a thick wristwatch. Grimy fingers punched at the keys; his eyes- sharp-gazed, now-read the messages stored in the wristcomm’s memory. His deeply furrowed brow wrinkled even more. He pulled a tiny, tan-plastic plug out of his pocket, wiped the lint and tobacco flakes off of it, and inserted it in his ear.

“Voice response,” he said in a clear, strong tone. “Flash.”

“Flash here,” a voice said equally clearly over the earpiece. “What are you doing”-he paused to check the wristcomm’s location-“in San Francisco?”

“Looking for alumni. What have Rock and Lei found?” “Cap-hit the road running. You’re an hour’s drive from Hell.”

“Who are you two, the SWAT team?”

Detective Fleming eyed the odd pair with a weary impatience. Both the short, stout male and the willowy female wore black jump suits. And both wore damnably huge autopistols at their side.

“We are from Anger Institute in L.A.,” Rock said, placing the large silver equipment box on the pavement. “We’re here to help.”

“Anger Institute,” Fleming repeated. “We don’t need therapists, we need-”

“We’re scientists,” Leila interjected.

Fleming shook his head. “Not toting those cannons, you’re n-”

A scream pierced the sky. Fleming turned to see the male paramedic shriek in horror, watching as his female companion collapsed in on herself, flesh, bone, and organs eaten up in seconds by the glistening nightmare. Then the screaming man looked at his own chest, watched it cave in, seeing ribs, lungs, even his heart melt away like a wax figure in a blast furnace.

Several of the reporters fainted dead away. Their cameramen- distanced from the terror by watching it through viewfinders- held steady, broadcasting the sickening deaths to millions of TV sets.

Rock opened the case and withdrew a pair of minicam headsets. He slipped his on and inserted the earplug, handing the other set to Leila. The headsets transmitted and received audio and video via their wrist communicators.

“Here’s our own news report, Flash.” Rock slammed the case lid shut and slid the whole thing toward the yellow police line. “People are melting like wicked witch out here.”

Four hundred miles away, Flash observed the two slightly differing perspectives on separate monitors. On Rock’s screen blazed the image of a pair of paramedics’ jump suits rapidly disappearing into a small silvery puddle. On Leila’s monitor, a fifty-yard-wide, roughly oblong lake reflected the buildings around it as accurately as a mirror. She nearly grew disoriented watching it. The diner had completely disappeared, one edge of the lake cutting into the next building. Its foundation undercut by the strange matter, a portion of it collapsed into the pool and sank. Now, beams and broken sections of roof and wall hung precariously over the ever-widening perimeter of destruction.