What gets his heart pumping is the sight of a BK Security cruiser speeding along one of the upper streets. The cruiser stops, dome light strobing, beneath a massive, multilevel ski lodge. His eyes are watering so badly that he can’t see much more than that. Does the responding officer get out and ring the bell or whatever? Is the lodge even occupied? He can’t tell, but it’s a place to start.

“You’re right, I better get inside!” he says, abruptly excusing himself. “It’s c-c-cold out here!”

Then he’s running in huge, loping strides, across the hard-frozen ground, heading for the entrance to Domicile One.

There’s a new crew at the reception desk, but Shane manages to retrieve his parka with a minimum of fuss. Although he’s again disconcerted to find that staff people he’s never seen before seem to know him by sight.

“Did you enjoy the seminar, Mr. Gouda?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was great. Opened my mind to a whole new way of thinking.”

“Wonderful. You don’t want to miss the welcome party. They’re expecting you.”

“Me personally? Really? That’s great. Just got to get something out of my car.”

“One of the staff can take care of that, Mr. Gouda,” the desk clerk says, holding out his hand for the keys. “That way you won’t miss the party. Just follow the arrows back to the Hive.”

Really, it’s like dealing with robots. Polite, personable young robots who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. In open defiance, Shane zips up his parka. “It’s a personal matter,” he says, striding out the door, car keys in his fist.

A glance back reveals that the desk clerk has already lifted a phone, no doubt reporting an uncooperative guest.

Shane hurries out to his vehicle, hoping it will start. Fortunately the Grand Cherokee is equipped with a good battery-plenty of cranking amps-and although it hesitates and then shudders sluggishly, the engine somehow manages to chug to life on the first try. Not waiting for a warm-up, he guns the beast a few times, watching the tachometer spike, and then puts it in gear. No squeal of tires-the Big Cheese is just going for a little old sightseeing ride-but a firm application of the throttle pedal.

He’s keenly aware of the tracking device clipped to the visor, and would dearly love to heave it out the window, but doing so would automatically alert security, and that will happen soon enough, thank you. He’s also thinking he’s never before in his life been in such a controlled environment. This is the kind of total surveillance the old Soviets and Maoists only dreamed about. Call it a silicon curtain, with every obedient citizen reduced to a pulsing dot on a monitor, guided from one indoctrination to the next. Not for nothing was Arthur Conklin an expert in insect hive dynamics. His followers might preach a kind of Darwinian individualism-the self above all-but when it came right down to it they were obsessive about instilling group behavior into would-be Rulers, from the very get-go.

The interior of the Cherokee has all the warmth of a walk-in freezer-how long does it take these things to warm up?-but he doesn’t have time to fully appreciate his discomfort before decisions are upon him. There’s a circular road around the campus, and no immediate clue as to where it joins the road that rises up the mountainside, providing access to the residential area. Should he go left or right? He decides to retrace the way he came in, figuring the residential access must split off somewhere back before the signs that had so helpfully guided him down into the campus the night before.

Speaking of night, the shadow cast by the setting sun is rapidly crawling up the mountainside, leaving the valley dimmed. Ominous, somehow. Four in the afternoon and already the lights are coming on. No doubt the temperature is dropping even further. All of which confirms his decision not to attempt a recon on foot.

Randall Shane, human Popsicle. We found him after the spring melt, your honor, no idea how he wandered off, or what he was looking for.

By the time he’s found his way back to the entrance to the valley, the interior of the vehicle has warmed up sufficiently for his breath to stop showing. And there, unmarked, the road does indeed split off, a narrow fork of well-sanded tarmac curving away, and upward. Grateful to the rental agent who suggested he opt for four-wheel drive, he sets out on the elevated road. After the first steep rise the roadway levels off, hugging the mountainside, and he’s able to see down into the valley below, where the lights of the campus beckon like a nagging teacher. Return to your seat, grasshopper. Drink your hot chocolate, nibble your cookies, and obey, obey, obey. Well, screw that. He’s not here to expose some money-sucking self-improvement scheme, however cleverly presented, he’s here to develop enough evidence to justify a search warrant, hopefully bring in the FBI, or at the very least the Colorado state detectives. Some law enforcement entity that can cut through the crap, find Haley Corbin and her kid before the whole place goes Jonestown.

He comes around a curve and encounters the first residential complex. Condo units, from the look of it. Slowing down, he tries to picture where he is, relative to how it all looked from the campus. If he’s not completely disoriented-and there’s no guarantee of that-the big ski lodge is considerably farther along, in an area of stand-alones, not condos.

Shane speeds up, telling himself not to outrace his own headlights. The shadow of night has already found its way far up the mountainside, and although low-pressure sodium lights mark the edges of the road it would be fairly easy to make a mistake, find himself vaulting into eternity.

A couple of switchbacks farther up, he starts to see single residences. As if the smaller condos are starter homes for the lowly Level Ones and Twos, the impressive ski lodges reserved for high-ranking Rulers. He keeps eyeing the campus below, trying to get his bearings-it can’t be much farther-when he comes around a corner and finds his windshield painted by a flashing blue lights.

He immediately slows, gives a wide berth to the security cruiser parked at the curb. As he passes he can see the officer yakking into a handheld. A quick glance reveals that the large residence is shuttered, without lights.

Damn. He keeps going, not wanting to attract the cruiser’s attention-small chance of avoiding that, in this neighborhood, but what the hell-and waits until the flashing lights are out of sight before pulling over to assess the situation. Is it possible that he’s got it all wrong? That the mysterious Barlows either have nothing to do with Haley’s disappearance, or they’ve stashed her someplace else, maybe far removed from Conklin?

Unless deploying the storm shutters is to keep away the prying eyes.

Only one way to find out.

Shane is trying to find a place to park his vehicle, somewhere it won’t be noticed, where he can recon the shuttered ski lodge without freezing to death, when the night turns blue with lights.