Anthony G. Williams

SCALES

PROLOGUE

A story has to start somewhere. When the story is autobiographical, the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to understand the context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even grandparents; was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or obscurity? My case is rather different in that this story starts, in explosion and fire, when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.

Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia. The endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-straight dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when this part of England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before. The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few wispy clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-brick houses along each side of a straight, narrow road running well above a land sunken by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman’s sign swaying slightly in the breeze. At one end of the small village, a house a little detached from the rest, three stories tall but shallow from front to back, set in a square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the cold north wind, a few remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A late spring scene of rural tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.

Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden bookcases and worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of portable computer which the man is using to finish an article.

The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have therefore been systematically countered by scientists such as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles underlying it have been attacked as unscientific. The scientific method is an objective process which depends upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life was designed by some superior intelligence, intervening in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science. It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself. Despite this, and the devastating verdict of the judge at the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID means that its true believers will not be shaken. They continue to press for it to be taught as an ‘alternative theory’ in schools both in the USA and the UK. Those who care about the integrity of science need to remain on their guard.

He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the article to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of course – their subscribers would already be familiar with the issues – but one aimed at a more general readership.

In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after completing a project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding in favour of the grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the pub for his evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars. He went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his favourite Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.

He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising tension in the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to look around the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.

The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling outwards. The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the wreckage. Sounds of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and villagers rushing to the scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of the fire. A blackened, charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man heard gasps of horror and cries of concern from the villagers: ‘For God’s sake, call an ambulance!’ Then silence, darkness and oblivion.

BOOK 1: THE SCALED MAN

1

For a long time, all was dark. All I was conscious of were the smells and sounds which marked out my location as a hospital, the occasional murmurs of voices, sounding concerned and grave. And pain. The pain was universal, inside and out, and at a level which I had never before experienced or even imagined possible. Every now and then the pain receded for a while and I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken again as the pain slowly regaining its ground. I did not know whether it was night or day; the pain cycle determined my timescale. I thought of nothing, remembered nothing, not even who I was.

An indeterminate period of time passed, a relentless cycle of more pain, less pain. An odd little monorhyme started running through my mind, as if on an endless loop:

Too much pain

Fries the brain

Let cocaine

Take the strain

I had no idea whether I had remembered this, or just invented it.

Eventually, at a time when the pain had woken me but had not yet become unbearable, I heard the scrape of a chair and a louder voice, clearly directed at me:

‘Well, good morning! And congratulations – I must say you have astonished us all!’ The man’s voice had the underlying strain of one who is trying to sound cheerful while feeling exactly the opposite. ‘Are you able to talk?’

A direct question, requiring a response. My mental cogs slowly turned, grinding with rust. I found I could open my mouth, but only a croak emerged when I tried to speak.

‘Let me give you something to drink; it might ease your throat.’

I felt my head lifted, something bumping against my mouth, then cool pleasure slipping down my throat. I swallowed greedily. A second attempt, barely audible: ‘Yes.’

‘Good! Do you remember what happened to you?’

I thought back, but could only remember pain. ‘No.’

‘It seems that there was a fire at your home. You have been badly burned, but you’re going to be alright now.’

A major effort to construct a sentence: ‘Why can’t I see?’

‘Your eyes are covered at the moment. We’re hoping to put that right in a few days.’

I thought about that. ‘Will I be able to see?’

‘Well, we won’t know for certain until it happens. But we’re hopeful, as you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.’ Definitely hope rather than expectation, it was clear.

The pain, momentarily held back by the distraction of conversation, returned with a vengeance after the doctor had left. Another voice, with a soft, feminine lilt which a random flicker of memory vaguely associated with a place called West Africa, intruded on my suffering. ‘Bad again is it? Would you like some relief?’

All I could manage was a hoarse croak, which she evidently interpreted correctly. I heard her fiddling with something by the bed, felt the soft wash of oblivion spreading through my body, and slept.

For several pain cycles, the pattern remained the same. Each time I woke I would hear the soft voice as she tended me, encouraging and comforting. My frozen imagination began to melt, focusing on her, wondering what she looked like. Sometimes there were deeper male voices murmuring in the background, sounding puzzled, even excited. They seemed to be intensely debating something; I was afraid that it was probably me. I grew stronger and the general pain reduced, leaving some specific areas of agony behind, like a flood slowly revealing the landscape as it recedes. One of those areas was my mouth; my gums screamed with the pain of universal toothache.

‘What’s the matter with my teeth?’

A hesitation, before the soft voice replied. ‘It’s really quite astonishing; you seem to be growing new ones.’

‘New ones?’

‘Yes, they’re pushing your old teeth out. You lucky man, I wish I had a new set of teeth; I’d take better care of them this time!’

I thought about that. I’d never heard of such a thing as growing new teeth, although I remembered from somewhere that scientists had been talking about using stem cells to grow new teeth – in a few decades’ time. ‘What’s happened to me?’

‘You were burned, all over. One hundred percent, first degree burns. It’s amazing really, most people don’t survive even when partially burned as badly as you were, and no-one thought you would last the hour when you were brought in. But look at you now, getting better every day!’

‘I can’t look at me now.’

‘You’ll be able to soon, I’m sure. The doctor wants to open your eyes tomorrow.’

‘Open my eyes?’ I was puzzled at the curious phrase. ‘You mean, take the bandages off?’

‘Something like that, yes.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘Your eyes have a protective cover at the moment.’

Tomorrow came, and obediently brought the doctor, who I learned was a burns specialist called Brian. I realised for the first time that I always knew when he was there, and whether others were with him. I had no time to puzzle over this before he spoke, his voice showing the usual mixture of heartiness and strain.

‘Before we begin, there are some things I need to explain to you. As you know, you suffered severe and extensive burns. When you first arrived we didn’t expect you to survive for more than a day. However, you confounded all of us. Your skin formed some kind of thick protective layer, all over, like a kind of giant scab – I’ve never seen anything like it before. We’ve left it alone so far, but it’s beginning to break up and there are indications that it may be ready to peel off, particularly over your face. Your eyes have been glued shut by the protective layer, but given these promising signs and your return to consciousness we think this means that we can now clear this layer out of the way.’

I began to understand the tension in his voice and felt my anxiety growing to match his. While I wasn’t an expert on medical science I was reasonably well up on current developments, but had never heard about anything like this before.

Gentle hands held my head and I felt picking and rubbing sensations over my eyes. Sudden cold struck my eyelids as the fresh air hit them. There was a puzzled murmur, sounding rather shocked.

‘Can you open your eyes?’

A definite sound of strain in the voice: something was wrong. With great reluctance, I forced my eyes to open. Light flared into my head, glaring and painful. I barely registered the gasps from the small group clustered around my bed. There was a long silence. I concentrated on the light, gradually made out the shape of heads looming over me. One of them spoke.

‘Can you see?’ The strain was close to breaking point.

I looked at the speaker, whose features slowly swam into focus. An apprehensive face, something like panic in his expression.

‘Yes. What’s the matter?’

‘What colour were your eyes?’

Were? I thought about that. ‘Brown, more or less.’

‘Well, they aren’t now. Bring a mirror, please nurse.’ One of the heads disappeared, returned with a circular mirror which was held in front of my face. I looked at the face, an unrecognisable mask completely covered with dark scabs except for the holes for my nostrils and mouth, and my eyes. I looked at those eyes in disbelief, felt my hold on reality slipping. Around the black pupil, the iris and the white sclera had merged into one. And it was all a vivid gold. They were alien eyes, nothing to do with me.

‘Then there’s your eyelids.’ His voice was shaking. I slowly closed one eye. The skin of the lid was a gleaming, greenish purple. And covered with fine scales, like a lizard’s.

I was sedated for most of the next few days, remembering only the occasional appearance of the nurse, anxiety visible in her warm brown face. After a while, I recovered enough of my sanity to begin thinking again. ‘What’s your name?’

She turned and looked at me. ‘Zara. Are you feeling better?’

‘As well as can be expected. Musn’t grumble.’

She giggled suddenly, a flash of white teeth. ‘I’ll tell the doctor. He wants to talk to you.’

‘I’ll bet he does, but not just yet – bring me the mirror, please.’

She duly obliged, and I looked again at that scabbed face, the alien eyes. I felt my hold on reality slipping again and dragged my mind back with a furious effort of will. There was no point in kidding myself, this was real and it was happening to me. A part of my mind went away into a corner, gibbering quietly.

My skin itched suddenly, so I rubbed at my face. The surface shifted, and I rubbed some more. Part of the scabs started to come away. I put the mirror down and rubbed harder with both hands, suddenly anxious to know the worst. The scabs peeled off my face and my hands, and I heard Zara gasp. I rubbed until I could feel no more of the hard, crusty scabs, then I picked up the mirror again, took a deep breath, and looked.

This time I could tell there was quite a crowd of them before they entered the private room I had been put in. My doctor, Brian the ginger-haired burns specialist, eyes worried behind their thick-rimmed glasses, was accompanied by heavier firepower in the form of several older, dark-suited figures, all covered by the obligatory white coats. They all stared at me in fascinated silence as I continued to rub at my body, shedding the thick layer of scabs as if I was clearing off a dried, all-over mudpack.

It was the same all over my body; the healing was complete, the skin intact. But it was all in various shades of greenish purple, and all covered with scales. They varied in size, being small and fine on the palms of my hand and my face, almost disappearing on my fingertips and lips, larger over my body. I rolled over, with some help, and Zara got to work on my back, tentatively at first, then rubbing vigorously. She revealed a shallow crest of scales running up my spine and over the top of my bare scalp. When she had finished, I realised that I had no hair, anywhere. I rubbed my hand over my chest. The fingers seemed quite sensitive, the scales on my chest surprisingly smooth. My nipples had disappeared, somewhere.

‘How are you feeling?’ One of the grey-suits spoke.

I thought about it. I realised suddenly that the pain had gone, leaving behind only a feeling of weakness, muscles itching from lack of exercise. I turned to the mirror and opened my mouth. A new set of teeth gleamed confidently back at me. They seemed normal enough, no extra-long canines. The inside of my mouth was even pink.

‘Very well, thank you. Considering.’

He coughed. ‘Yes, well. Do you have any idea what happened to you?’

‘Do you know who you are?’ A second suit added intensely.

I thought some more. My memory had been returning in fits and starts, as if a flashlight were being shone around a dusty attic. I began slowly. ‘I’m beginning to remember. My name is Matthew Cade Johnson. I write, I think. About science, yes. Popular articles and books, that sort of thing. I live in a village, in the Fens, in my parents’ old house.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Yes, for some months.’ Since Ros had left me, I recalled, a city girl bored with life in the empty countryside.

‘What happened to you?’

‘I have no idea. I understand there was a fire, but I don’t remember anything about that.’

‘It was more than just a fire. Your house blew up. There’s nothing left but rubble.’

I sat up with difficulty, Zara helping with an arm around my back, then turned and looked out of the window. The room was light and airy, with large windows giving views of a nearby clump of silver birch. Their leaves were turning brown. Brown?

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Almost six months. You’ve been in a coma until recently.’

While I absorbed that, another suit coughed. ‘The police want to interview you about the fire, when you’re ready.’

I grinned wryly at him, conscious of the bizarre impression I must make, an alien nightmare come to life. ‘Oh, I suppose I’m ready; do you think they are?’

Looking back, I am impressed with the speed of my recovery, and even more by the calm acceptance that I seemed to feel. By rights I should have been losing my mind, crazed with horror at what had happened to me, but I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if it was all happening to someone else and I was merely an interested observer. How and why it had happened was a problem my mind was still only prepared to skirt around, cautiously.

The muscular itch became a burning need to exercise, fuelled by an equally burning hunger. But not for just any food; the first solid meal presented to me – a traditional hospital meat and two veg – made me feel sick just to smell it and I could not bring myself to pick up the knife and fork. Puzzled, Zara went hunting for alternative foods, and came back with a selection. After some experimentation, I discovered that I could eat only fresh fruit and raw nuts. I was even more appalled to find that I could drink only water: alcohol was definitely out.

My one remaining consolation from my former life was jazz. After a remote tussle with my bank – I could hardly turn up in person to prove my identity – I got access to my account. Zara managed to secure an internet-linked computer for me, plus an MP3 player, and I spent hours downloading and listening to as much as I could. I went through all the classics like a voyage of rediscovery, and have the shades of Bix Beiderbecke, Duke Ellington and many others to thank for my continued sanity.

The itch in my muscles refused to go away. I cajoled Zara into arranging some exercise equipment in my room, and pounded it with ever-increasing energy and determination. As I seemed to need little sleep, I exercised a lot and my wasted muscles gradually filled out. One day, I complained to Zara that a machine had broken. She looked at it in puzzlement, then returned with some complicated device of springs and levers, and asked me to push and pull it in various ways, as hard as I could, while she took measurements. I obliged, banging the grips against their stops until the metal frame bent. She looked at it in silence for a moment. ‘Do me a favour will you? Just be careful how you handle things. And especially people.’

Handling people. Now there was an interesting problem. After they had recovered from the initial shock of my appearance, it was evident that the hospital hierarchy was flummoxed about how to handle me, or to be precise how to handle others dealing with me. To their credit, they were primarily concerned with my welfare, most anxious to delay subjecting me to the kind of attention which would inevitably occur as soon as news of this weird changeling leaked out.

For the police interview (which achieved as little as I expected), I was dressed in an all-covering robe, my face was wrapped in bandages and I was given dark glasses to wear.

Access to my room was severely restricted, those in the know sworn to silence. Brian, usually accompanied by other doctors, came to see me on most days to check on my progress. I had the impression that he was rather proud of me; his private freak show, brought out to amaze trusted visitors. But inevitably, rumours spread. Zara had become my friend as well as my nurse, my link to the outside world, filling me in with the human details of life in the hospital to supplement the impersonality of the news media, which were frequently filled with the usual gloom about impending environmental disasters.

‘The word going round is that there’s a monster in this room. So I’ve been telling them that you’re just horribly deformed by the fire, and desperate not to be looked at.’

‘Close enough.’

‘Not really. You know, you’re quite beautiful, in a strange sort of way.’

I looked at her in astonishment. ‘Zara, you’ve been doing this job far too long. It’s seriously distorting your judgement.’

She laughed, and went out of the room to return a few minutes later wheeling a full-length mirror. ‘Just look at yourself!’

I looked. As usual, I was wearing only shorts; my new skin seemed oblivious to outside temperatures and I felt comfortable however cold or hot it became. I saw a figure from the cover of a fantasy paperback, gold eyes glaring from a rugged, scaled face, the low crest prominent over my scalp. My body was lean but powerfully muscled, very different from the rather flabby middle age I had been sliding into in consequence of an over-fondness for food and alcohol and a general avoidance of exercise. My skin was in fact not all the same colour; it was more greenish over my chest, and a darker purple on my back. When I moved it shone, iridescent in the light. As I looked at it, the colour seemed to shift. Puzzled, I concentrated on it and heard Zara gasp. My chest slowly changed from greenish purple to pure green. More concentration, and it shaded into red. After a few seconds, I got the hang of it and was able to shift up and down the spectrum, changing colour at will. More effort enabled me to produce crude patterns of varied colours across my body.

Zara laughed. ‘A chameleon! Is there no end to your talents?’

‘Probably not. By the way, you should see a dentist – that toothache won’t go away by itself.’

She looked at me strangely. ‘How do you know about that? I haven’t told anyone.’

I shrugged. ‘The same way that I know when you’re close, that I know when the doctor is coming, and who’s coming with him. I just pick it up, somehow.’

She looked thoughtful and went away. Shortly afterwards, the usual “Consultation” of doctors and other specialists arrived, trailing behind Brian like a comet’s tail, and eager as always to try new tests and take new measurements while they tried to work out what had happened to me and what I had become. They had examined and X-rayed my new teeth (flawless), measured the performance of my new eyes (considerably improved in all respects: I no longer needed the glasses I had recently had to start wearing), assessed my strength (very impressive) and speed of reaction (even more so). I had a suspicion that several articles for the medical journals plus a couple of doctoral theses were being worked on. I did my chameleon trick to excited murmurs, concluding with plans for yet more tests.

I gathered that they were now in something of a dilemma, prizing their exclusive access to such an oddity while recognising that there was no medical reason to keep me in hospital any longer. Sooner or later, I would have to face the public. However, they first wanted to pin down this sensitivity to people which I claimed to have. They ran some tests, hovering outside the door in various combinations while I identified who was there. They were fascinated by my claimed ability to detect when something was wrong with someone, and debated how to test that. After a while, they conceived a plan to take me secretly around a children’s ward in the middle of the night, when they would all be asleep.

I walked around with my little posse, scarcely needing to pause as I passed the end of each bed. I was initially uncertain how to link what I sensed with the medical terms for their ailments, so described the symptoms for the doctors to translate, murmured voices in counterpoint.

‘Something badly inflamed, down in the digestive tract below the stomach.’

‘Appendicitis; being operated on tomorrow.’

‘Something feels wrong with the blood; it seems to be connected with the bones – something not working properly.’

‘Leukaemia; awaiting a bone marrow transplant.’

‘Part of the brain is damaged, it’s affecting the use of some of the muscles.’

‘Cerebral palsy.’

As we approached one bed, a small girl moaned; I sensed she was awake. I walked closer to her head, relying on the dim night lighting to hide my appearance. Her eyes were closed.

‘Massive headache, affecting much of the brain.’

‘She suffers from frequent and severe migraine attacks; she’s in for observation.’

I bent over her head, sensing the strain within her nervous system, the agony she was feeling. I instinctively reached out a hand and placed it on her head. The flow of nervous energy was clear to me, the pressure points glaring as if red-hot. I focused on these, absorbing their details, willing them to cool while rerouting the flow to release the pressure. The moans quietened and she relaxed into sleep.

‘What did you do?’ An urgent whisper.

I shrugged. ‘Just untied some knots.’

The tests became even more frantic, the doctors suddenly realising that I was more than a medical curiosity; I had become a major asset. My ward tours became nightly, I learned which symptoms were associated with which ailment and was soon able to diagnose with precision. I also learned which problems I could help with; they were essentially ones of the nervous system. I discovered that I could stop pain instantly, relax patients and send them to sleep at a touch. I could cure tinnitus (easily), epilepsy (with some effort), and a host of minor afflictions. There was little I could do about most diseases or physical injuries, but I could usually ameliorate the symptoms and speed the recovery. The hospital authorities were overjoyed – I was enabling them to comprehensively shatter their government targets for patient turnover.

Eventually the inevitable happened; one elderly lady (sciatica) awoke before I could reach her, took one look and screamed and screamed.

‘There will have to be a press conference.’ The hospital manager, a plump, bald man with a perpetual and probably justified air of carrying more than the usual weight of care on his shoulders, was glum but resigned. A crisis meeting was being held in the conference room. The Consultation nodded in agreement, with varying degrees of enthusiasm depending, I suspected, on how ready their articles were for publication. He turned to me. ‘Is there anyone you want to warn first?’

I had thought about this before. ‘No. I have a kind of brother, but we haven’t spoken in years.’

‘A kind of brother?’

‘We were adopted as babies by the same couple, but we’re not blood relatives.’

‘Very well then, the sooner we get it over with, the better.’

I’m not sure exactly what the hospital manager said to the news media (or whether Mrs Sciatica’s relatives had alerted them first), but they were there in force on the appointed morning, packing the lecture theatre amid a buzz of excited speculation. Television lights glared, technicians frantically gaffer-taped cables to the floor, microphones were tested amid much crackling and feedback whine, the table on the dais had been covered with a cloth onto which some alert PR man had imprinted the name of the hospital trust. Eventually all was ready. I watched from the sidelines, out of sight of the press.

The hospital manager said a few words of introduction, announcing an important development in his ability to help patients and commendably working in the name of his hospital three times in five sentences. All wasted effort; from my experience with news editors, they would cut that bit out. Then the HM introduced Brian, who gave a dry but gruesome description of what had happened to me in the fire, illustrated by some photographs which I had not seen before. Even a few of the less-hardened hacks gasped at the sight; I was totally unrecognisable, just the charred form of a man. He went on to describe my miraculous recovery from what should have been certain death, and the strange transformation which took place under my all-over scabs. The photos (discreetly edited in the interests of decency) caused a murmur of astonishment and speculation around the audience. Attention became even more rapt when he described my sensitivity to people and their afflictions, and my ability to heal some of them. He paused for a few moments, the press so stunned that it took at least three seconds before they dived into the gap and started a clamour of questions. He forestalled them with raised hands. ‘I’d now like to introduce Cade to you.’ He turned to face me and beckoned.

Zara, who was watching from just behind me, had decided to take over responsibility for my clothing and had put much effort into my appearance.

‘You can’t go in there just wearing shorts. And you’d look silly in conventional clothes. My sister is doing a course in textiles and fashion, I’ll work on something with her.’

“Something” turned out to be a sleeveless tee-shirt with a deep vee-neck, in an open weave cloth of a metallic grey material. Loose jogging pants in a similar cloth were complemented by silver-grey trainers: I looked like nothing so much as one of the aliens from an episode of Star Trek. Zara gave me an encouraging little push and I realised that I had been hanging back, dreading this moment. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and marched to the dais to a stunned silence from the press. I sat down between the HM and Brian, and smiled. ‘Good morning’, I said. Then all hell broke loose.

After a while, the HM managed to establish some sort of order and an agreed sequence for questioning. The first hack stood up. ‘Cade, I don’t wish to be rude but you really don’t look human. How can you prove you are who you say you are, and aren’t some alien from outer space?’ There was nervous laughter from his colleagues.

I smiled. ‘An understandable question. All I can say is that my memories of before the fire are intact, comprehensive and accurate. The only thing I can’t remember is the explosion and fire itself.’

The HM leaned forwards. ‘We did, of course, have some initial doubts about this ourselves, but after draining Cade’s memory of all he could recall we checked it out exhaustively and were able to confirm the accuracy of his account. We also did some DNA tests and I can assure you that he is no alien.’ I hadn’t known about that bit.

The next part of the press conference was predictable. I did my chameleon trick and answered some learned questions from science journalists, one of whom I recognised from my previous life.

‘Hello Stephen, good to see you again.’

He smiled rather thinly. ‘I’m relieved that you recognise me. But I used to call you Matthew. Should I now call you Cade?’

I shrugged. ‘I used to use my first and last names, but so much has happened that to some extent I don’t feel the same person that I used to be, so I prefer to use my middle name now.’

Stephen continued. ‘What explanation do you have for what has happened to you?’

This was the key question and I could sense interest rising to an even higher pitch. ‘Obviously, I’ve thought about it a lot, and identified some theoretical possibilities. Maybe it’s natural; perhaps I’m some earlier or alternative form of humanity and the stress of the fire switched on some dormant genes. But there’s no evidence that such a form ever existed, and nothing like that has ever happened before. It could be a new mutation brought on by the fire, but it’s very hard to believe so many changes happening at once, all of them functional; mutations don’t happen like that. So it seems more likely to be artificial; some scientists somewhere might have been playing with genetic modifications to people, and I somehow got involved. But the science of genetics is decades if not centuries short of being able to achieve this.’ I spread my arms wide, then smiled. ‘Perhaps I have been got at by little green men in flying saucers.’ There was nervous laughter. ‘But I don’t believe in earth visitations by such creatures for very good reasons, as I’ve emphasised in articles I’ve written before.’

‘Perhaps they’re getting their own back,’ came a voice from the back, to general laughter.

I smiled wryly, ‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe so. So I’ve thought of these four possible reasons, none of which I think is feasible. I believe it was Sherlock Holmes who said something like “eliminate the impossible, then whatever you are left with, however unlikely, must be the truth”. The problem is that as far as I’m concerned, they’re all impossible, so I’ve just parked the problem until I have more evidence. If any of you have better ideas, please let me know.’

Next came a series of rather trivial questions, the press groping for themes and possible headlines. An example: ‘Does your skin sweat?’

‘No. In fact, apart from hygiene considerations I hardly need to wash; just a dust and polish every now and then.’

Then came a hackette from one of the less elevated tabloids: ‘You say that you can direct someone else’s nervous system, so you can switch off pain. And presumably switch it on?’

I nodded cautiously, not sure where she was leading. Radio journalists anxiously gestured for me to reply verbally. ‘That’s right.’

‘So you can do the same for pleasure, too?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Could you give us a demonstration?’

I smiled. ‘Are you volunteering?’

‘Certainly!’ She stepped forward promptly, and I had to admire the way she had engineered her moment in the limelight. She was young and attractive, and clearly ambitious. I stood up as she approached, and after a bit of shuffling at the pleading of the cameramen, we were standing side by side.

‘Give me your hand.’

She complied promptly, curiously feeling my scaly skin. ‘It’s much smoother and softer than it looks.’

‘Now I’m going to fool your nervous system. First, that it’s cold.’

She gasped and shivered.

‘Now that it’s hot.’

‘Wow!’

‘Now it feels wet, and now it feels dry.’

She gave an amazed laugh. ‘How do you do that?’

‘Now you’ve got pins sticking in’

‘Ouch!’

‘Now you’ve got toothache.’

‘Pleeease…’

‘And this should make up for it.’ I carelessly triggered the pleasure centre in her brain, something I’d not tried before. The effect was electric. She gave a loud, gasping cry and slumped against me, head back, mouth slack, eyes staring and pupils dilated. I hastily held her to prevent her collapse, and turned off the pleasure. She came around with a shuddering gasp, unsteadily regained her feet, then visibly collected herself, looking down and nervously tidying her hair, as her colleagues watched in a rather embarrassed silence.

‘I… I…’ She took a deep breath, ‘you are right,’ she managed faintly, ‘you’ve proved your point.’ She walked shakily back to her seat.

The only other interesting question came at the end. ‘Cade, how does it feel to be you, compared with the way you felt before the accident? Are you sorry or pleased that it happened?’

I thought about that for a moment, and responded slowly. ‘It’s hard to say. At first, I was horrified of course. If I hadn’t been sedated for some time I don’t know what I would have done. But I seemed to get used to it surprisingly quickly. They tried providing me with counsellors, but that didn’t help – the counsellors needed counselling themselves after they’d seen me.’ I paused for the laughter to die down. ‘Now my feelings are much less clear. There are many things that I miss. Everyday pleasures like a pint of ale in my local, and of course above all the anonymity of ordinary life, the freedom to go where I wish without anyone noticing. But there are some positive sides to my situation as well. As a science journalist, I’m obviously as fascinated as anyone else by what’s happened to me. I have to say that I feel better than I have for years, if not decades; healthy, fit and strong. And above all, I’m able to help people in a unique way. That counts for a lot.’

We all sat in the hospital’s conference room that evening, flipping between the news broadcasts on the radio and TV. For once, the world had not been afflicted with too many disasters or political scandals that day so there was extensive coverage of my press conference, but the networks were clearly nervous and uncertain how to play the item, afraid it might be a complex hoax. Some took it seriously, but covered themselves against future ridicule with lots of distancing remarks (“the hospital claims that…”). Others lost their nerve and went for laughs, as an “and finally…” item. One brought in a pundit from rent-a-don who explained why what had happened was impossible.

However, one consequence rapidly became evident; the hospital’s phone system became jammed with callers. Some were journalists, especially from abroad, who had missed the press conference. Invitations to appear on television talk shows flooded in from around the world.

As reports of the apparently miraculous cures which I had effected were circulated, it gradually became accepted that I was genuine. The local MP and councillors, plus all government ministers associated in the remotest way with the Health Service, started forming a disorderly queue to be photographed with me. I felt a burn of impatience with such self-serving time-wasting and firmly vetoed visits from any and all politicians, somewhat to the discomfiture of the HM.

‘But the Prime Minister!’

‘No!’

Some callers were cranks, acclaiming me as the saviour from outer space or some such. Some were women – and a few men – wanting private consultations about their “pleasure centres”. But most calls were from the sick, desperate for help. It was clear that something had to be organised.

That “something” took a little while to put into place but eventually a system was instituted. By this time, the hospital was under siege from prospective patients camping out in the car park despite the chilly winter weather and refusing to move until they had received their miraculous cures. Careful public explanations about what I could and couldn’t do had no effect – many of the people were so desperate that they would clutch at any straw of hope.

The system we devised between us involved an insistence on referral by the patients’ family doctors to the hospital, coupled with an exhaustive briefing note for the doctors and a strict injunction only to refer patients whom I stood some chance of helping, on pain of having future referrals ignored. Those referred to the hospital then went through a further vetting procedure by the staff to check that the referral was genuine. Then they went on my waiting list.

Foreign patients were more complex to deal with, as the referral system couldn’t work for them. However, as they were not entitled to free treatment on the NHS, the solution I proposed was simple. ‘Charge them.’

‘But how much?’ The HM was keen but cautious.

‘Ten percent of their annual income. In advance.’

‘But how will we know what that is?’

‘Tell them to bring their previous year’s income tax return, plus proof of identity. That should reduce the risk that they will waste my time.’

It was agreed that I would continue to live at the hospital, as it provided some protection from the mobs of people who wanted to see me. It was a 1960s building, not exactly classical architecture but with big and airy rooms. I was given a rapidly-adapted suite on the highest of the three floors, with wide windows providing a view over the gently rolling countryside on the edge of the fenlands. Whatever crops had flourished in the summer had been harvested and the fields were brown and corrugated with plough-lines. The windows were covered with a silver film against solar gain, which conveniently afforded more privacy. The access to my room was convoluted, through restricted parts of the building. It was about as private and protected as I could hope for.

There was one downside for the HM; his staffing budget was hit by the need for extra security to stop people from invading the place. All of my mail – which rapidly built up to sackfulls a day, increasingly from abroad – was dealt with by hospital staff. Zara sometimes told me about the choicest letters, which included some astonishingly spicy suggestions. ‘And you should see the photographs they send!’ Curiously, such letters continued to arrive even after we broadcast the fact that I had no time to deal with them.

The hospital organised two adjacent consulting rooms for me, so one patient could be made ready while I was dealing with another. I spent the days walking from one to the other, assessing conditions, easing pain, sometimes effecting an instant cure. Some were more difficult.

‘This is a sad case, and I’m not sure if you can help.’ Zara was reading the case notes as she walked into the empty consulting room at the start of the day. ‘An eight-year-old American girl, Sally, mad about horses, fell off and broke her neck. She’s tetraplegic.’ The rest of her life spent completely paralysed and helpless, dependent on others for every detail.

‘Let’s go and see.’ The girl was face-down on the consulting table, her spine uncovered, her parents sitting beside her, radiating anxiety, sorrow and hope. I greeted them, then crouched down beside the girl, turned my face the same way as hers, and grinned. ‘Hi Sally! This is your friendly local monster here!’ Her lips twitched. ‘Let’s take a look at you.’ I ran my fingers over her neck and spine. Neck vertebrae crushed together, as I expected; nowhere for the spinal cord to find a way through. The nerves on each side of the break were intact, though, so I had an idea. I closed my eyes and focused on those nerves, knew them, became them. And grew.

I concentrated intensely on growing, on directing growth around and behind the break, both sides working towards each other. There was a flicker of response; very slowly, a micron at a time, the nerves were beginning to grow. I opened my eyes and had to steady myself against the table, my head suddenly swimming. Zara looked on anxiously. I drew a deep breath. ‘That’ll do for now. Come back in a couple of day’s time and we’ll see how you’re getting on.’

I sat down and waited until the girl was wheeled out, parents whispering reassuring words.

‘Are you all right?’ Concern glowed from Zara.

‘I think so, it’s just that such an intense mental effort is tiring. In fact, I’ve been noticing it even with simpler tasks, if I do too many of them.’

‘You need a break every now and again. They’re working you into the ground.’

‘Maybe. But the ones they send, I can really help.’

‘Then make sure you can keep helping them, by pacing yourself.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll build in some days off, if that makes you happier.’

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure that will be enough, but it’s a start. I think that you really need to get away from this place for a while. I’ll see if I can organise something. Is there anything you’d like to do?’

I thought about it. ‘Oddly enough, I’ve been dreaming a lot about swimming lately. I don’t know why, I was never much of a swimmer.’

Two days later, I was transported in the dead of night to the local swimming baths in the back of a van, with Zara and the muscular and mainly silent Max, who had been appointed chauffeur/minder, in the front. I entered the building to find a fifty metre competition pool, still water reflecting the ceiling lights. As soon as I saw it, I felt an overpowering urge and dived straight in, feeling an inexpressible thrill of sensual pleasure as the cool water flowed caressingly along my body. I glided to the bottom and opened my eyes. To my astonishment, I found that with a slight effort I could focus sharply. Evidently, my eyes had altered in even more ways than I had realised. I pushed off the bottom and swam strongly underwater, loving the buoyancy and the feel of the water, enjoying the strange perspectives caused by the water’s different refractive index. I put on a spurt, kicking hard, seemingly flying from one end of the pool to the other.

Eventually, I surfaced and drew breath, to find Zara and Max peering anxiously down at me. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Never better. I think I was designed for this. What’s the problem?’

‘You’ve been underwater for nearly ten minutes, without coming up for air.’

I absorbed that for a moment. ‘Then I was definitely designed for this.’

‘What’s more,’ Zara added, ‘I timed your last few lengths. I used to do some competitive swimming at one time, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I think a few world records just tumbled.’

I laughed. ‘They don’t give any for swimming underwater.’

I stayed in the pool for a long time, feeling completely at home and at ease for the first time since the accident. I found that I could swim underwater for twenty minutes before needing to come up for air. I couldn’t imagine what enabled that; I must be storing oxygen somewhere, which implied some novel internal changes. Eventually, Zara’s entreaties about the coming dawn persuaded me to leave. I felt no ill-effects from my long immersion; my eyes were clear, my scales unwrinkled, and I returned to the hospital both relaxed and invigorated.

That was only the first of many nocturnal visits to that beautiful pool. The physical activity of swimming somehow eased my mental tiredness and kept me functioning to meet the relentless demands of the sick. For the time being, talk of a holiday was abandoned.

After few weeks of this routine, I had a call from reception during my lunch break (a tasty mix of macadamias and pecans, with an orange starter): ‘there’s a man here, he says he’s your brother’.

I paused in surprise, then mentally shrugged. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Early forties, medium height, lean build, light-brown wavy hair, rimless glasses.’

I laughed. ‘Were you in the police?’

‘No, but we have to be observant these days.’

‘Anyway, that sounds like him so you’d better escort him up.’

A knock on my door, and Luke walked in, looking much the same as ever, only leaner and rather more suntanned. He was casually dressed, in well-worn clothes chosen for practicality rather than style. He stopped and stared. ‘Is that really you, Matt?’

‘More or less.’

‘I really am finding that hard to believe.’

I thought for a moment. ‘We last met at Mum’s funeral. We didn’t say much then, as usual. You talked about your last mission – in Afghanistan, I think.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, we did some disaster relief work there.’

‘Then you said something about your next task – in Burundi, wasn’t it?’

‘Right again, we’re carrying out a major educational assistance programme. That’s why it took me some time to get to you; I’ve only just arrived home on leave.’ He paused for a moment, then asked, ‘do you recall the last time we were together with Dad, and what we said?’

I could hardly have forgotten, it was a turning point in both of our lives. ‘We were arguing, about religion and science as usual. You were taking Dad’s side and announced that you were determined to follow him in working for the Church – not as a priest, but for their charity organisation. I ended up telling both of you that I was an atheist and I thought your beliefs were – let me get it right – “the result of a mental virus which has plagued mankind throughout civilised history”.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Word perfect. OK, you’re Matt. I remember the tone of arrogant superiority as much as the words.’

I grimaced. ‘It seemed to me that the arrogant superiority was more on your side, with a lot less justification.’

He sighed. ‘I didn’t some here to start all that again. I just wanted to check that you really are Matt, and – well, to see if there is anything I can do.’

I was curious. ‘In what way? Pray for my damned soul?’

He grinned wryly. ‘The closest thing to a lost cause I know. No, I just thought that you might be suffering some psychological problems, and it might be helpful to see someone who once knew you well.’

‘Thanks for the thought. I won’t pretend that it has been easy. For a while I thought I was losing my sanity, but I’m gradually getting adjusted to my new self.’ I smiled, ‘for the first time in my life, I may even be fitter than you! Run any good marathons lately?’

He gave a small smile, said, ‘no, no time for that. I stay slim because rations are tight.’ Then he held out his hand. Rather surprised, I took it.

‘I don’t have much time now, the project needs me back,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to keep in touch.’

‘Fine. Do that.’

He hesitated. ‘You are different, you know, apart from the obvious. You were always very enthusiastic and excitable, but now you’re much calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think that “dispassionate” is the word I’m looking for.’

I shrugged, ‘I feel much the same as ever.’

He nodded doubtfully, then left. We parted on better terms than we had enjoyed in over twenty years.

One morning, I sensed an unusual diffidence about Zara; by then, I could read her moods with ease.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘My twin daughters go a local primary school, and I’ve been asked to go in next week to talk to the children about you – you can imagine the level of interest. The trouble is I’m not sure that I should, so I thought I’d better ask if you minded.’

‘Not at all.’ I had a sudden inspiration; ‘in fact, I’ll come with you.’

Her face lit up. ‘Really?’

‘Why not? Just as long as you don’t warn them in advance, I don’t want the place swamped by the press!’

So a week later, Zara and I were transported in the anonymous white van to the school. Max drove at the high velocity traditional for such vehicles, grumbling when he was caught for a while behind a slow estate car proudly displaying a “Drive Carefully – Baby on Board” sign. ‘What difference is that supposed to make? They think I deliberately drive into cars unless they ask me not to?’

I grinned. ‘It’s illogical anyway. In terms of human life, babies are no more valuable than anyone else. And economically, considerably less so – after all, not much time or resources have been devoted to them. Now a sign which said “Drive carefully – expensively trained and newly qualified doctor on board” would be much more logical!’

We drove into a village and pulled up outside an old school building, with tall multi-paned windows in the traditional brick and flint walls. Christmas decorations were stuck on the windows, reminding me of how much time had passed since my accident. As agreed, Zara went into the school first to collect her twins – nine-year-olds whose initial shyness at meeting me was soon overcome by fascination – and I walked in holding each by the hand. The headteacher was flustered and seemed close to panic at first, but rapidly realised her opportunity and I was soon absorbed with the children, struggling to answer their questions. The young ones were the most natural and, once they learned I didn’t mind having my strange skin felt, they were all over me. The older children were more reticent, and I sensed traces of doubt and caution in some of them. Afterwards, I asked a beaming Zara about that.

‘Well, there have been some mixed reactions to you,’ she admitted, ‘so they’re just picking that up from their parents. People are still rather unsure about what happened to you, what kind of person you are.’

That was the first indication to me of the difficulties which lay ahead.

2

The next day, I met with Brian and the rest of the Consultation at my request, in the conference room; it had padded chairs around a large table in pale wood, and enjoyed a view into a courtyard with a few neglected plants straggling over concrete paving. The Consultation included a diverse group of specialists, still keen to find any excuse to probe me further.

‘At that press conference, the HM said that my DNA had been checked and that I wasn’t alien. But if I recall correctly, he didn’t actually say I was completely human either. What did the tests show?’

They shuffled a bit and looked at the geneticist, a thin, grey-haired man with the studious look of a priest or philosopher. He steepled his hands. ‘Well, your DNA is certainly basically human but there are some irregularities; some genes switched on, others off, and quite a few additions that we can’t account for. A rather different pattern from normal in various respects.’

‘And I’ll bet you’ve been tracking those changes against the human genome map. What areas are affected, exactly?’

‘Well, we don’t have a complete understanding yet about what each gene does, of course. We do know that there is a lot of apparently non-functional rubbish in human chromosomes, but rather less so in yours. Sorry to be so imprecise, but we’re groping in the dark here.’

Brian coughed in a rather embarrassed way. ‘I was wondering if you’d agree to another conference? Just of the scientific community, invitation only. You have no idea of the level of curiosity about you.’

Actually, I had. I was no longer frontline news, even the tabloids had tired of repeating stories of “miracle cures”, but the scientific journals seemed able to support an apparently endless stream of articles; some well informed, others more speculative. And I was as curious as anyone else to find out what had happened to me. ‘All right then, set it up will you?’

A few weeks later, after Max’s usual white van heroics, I arrived at the venue: a college on the edge of a nearby town, whose much larger lecture theatre had been booked for the occasion. It was a dull, wet, winter day and the college looked appropriately gloomy, dark streaks of water running down the concrete-faced building.

When I walked in, the theatre was packed, the sense of anticipation electric. Brian chaired the meeting and had obviously established some form of precedence, as the scientists each dutifully waited their turn to ask questions. One TV camera was visible and a few members from the specialist scientific end of the press corps were present, but their uncharacteristic silence indicated that they had probably been told to shut up and listen, or leave.

To start with, the members of my Consultation took it in turns to give short presentations of their findings. I was able to follow much of the discussion, but some was beyond me. The ophthalmologist’s speculation about “changes to the amino-acid sequences of opsins in the photoreceptor cells” was something I had to look up later. My ears did prick up at the mention of high levels of myoglobin in my muscle cells. I knew that some seals had this and that it enabled them to stay underwater for long periods as it was much more efficient at storing oxygen than haemoglobin. My skin caused most interest: in some ways it was similar to a lizard’s – with elements like a chameleon’s – but with a number of other modifications. It was very tough and an excellent insulator but could also channel blood close to the surface for radiative cooling. There was information about the efficiency of my metabolism, evidenced by the small quantity of food I needed, but only baffled speculation about my drastic change in diet. There was also great interest in the revelation that my body seemed to have become ‘zero-timed’; restored at a cellular level to that of a young adult. But no-one had any idea of the mechanism by which I had become so sensitive to people’s moods and state of health, let alone how I was able to cure ailments, although there were some impressive-looking brain scans showing a massive level of mental activity while healing.

The presentations caused so much interest and questioning that I began to wonder if my presence was really necessary. Then they turned their attention to me. Most of the questioning was straightforward and factual, trying to elicit as much information as possible about what I could and couldn’t do. I performed various tests at their request, but found it hard to explain how I could do what I did; after all, how do you describe what you do when you lift your arm? You just do it.

Eventually the focus switched to the causes of my transformation, and the debate grew more heated. No-one had produced any more likely explanation than the four I had identified from the start, but some of the audience had assembled impressive structures of argument to support their viewpoints and rubbish the alternatives, in the true academic spirit. One conclusion they (nearly) all eventually agreed on: there was no way that the changes could possibly have happened by accident. They were too specific, too effective, and outside the normal human genome. As one said, ‘It’s as if some extremely advanced geneticist sat down to redesign the human body in order to improve various aspects of our efficiency.’ The problem being that the current state of knowledge about genetics was – at least – many decades away from being able to formulate the genetic changes required, let alone to re-engineer an existing adult body.

Finally, they remembered me again, and asked my views. ‘I don’t think that any of them ranks as more than a minus three probability, which puts them all in the bracket of unsupported speculation.’

Some confused looks for a few seconds. Academics hate demonstrating ignorance of something they should know about, so it was one of the journalists who broke ranks and put them out of their misery. ‘What scale of probability is that, Cade?’

I smiled smugly. ‘You evidently haven’t been reading my articles. If you had, you would have found the one I wrote a few years ago called, rather ironically in retrospect, “Scales of Belief”. It was prompted by the attempt in some states of the USA to accord equal status to the teaching of creationism and Darwinism, on the grounds that both are unproven hypotheses and are therefore equally valid. I thought that was ridiculous so I looked for a way of classifying beliefs in order to provide a scale of relative probability. So I devised a numerical scale running from plus five for beliefs which are based on incontrovertible, demonstrable fact – that the Earth is a spheroid, for example – to minus five for the flat-earthers. The midpoint – zero on the scale – would indicate a belief for which there is no evidence one way or the other and which may be inherently unprovable, such as the existence of God.’

I was enjoying getting into my lecture; what communicator doesn’t appreciate an attentive audience? The words flowed as I found I could remember the article perfectly. ‘So plus four would represent a belief backed by massive evidence, but for which there is a rival explanation which cannot be completely disproved. Conversely, minus four indicates a proposition which cannot be disproved, despite there being overwhelming evidence in favour of an alternative explanation. So to apply this to the creationist debate, the cumulative mass of evidence from many areas of research that life, the Universe and all that, have developed over a huge period of time is strong enough to score plus four; the belief that all of this was created in six days about six thousand years ago is therefore clearly a minus four proposition. To continue down the scale, plus three covers propositions for which there is strong evidence. Darwin’s theory of evolution is well evidenced and generally accepted. However, the status of natural selection as the sole driving force for evolution is still challenged by some scientists who fully accept that evolution occurred but dispute the relative importance of the mechanisms involved. Darwinism therefore scores plus three. Plus two beliefs would be those for which there is some evidence but not yet enough to make a generally accepted case, while plus one would refer to beliefs for which there is no evidence, but which seem very likely on the basis of probability, for example the existence of life elsewhere in the Universe. Minus one beliefs are those for which there is no direct or indirect evidence for or against, but appear unlikely on the basis of our understanding at this time. Minus two would involve an idea under attack from some evidence but not yet completely dismissed – this could encompass much of parapsychology – while minus three beliefs would be those which are countered by solid, generally accepted evidence, but which can’t entirely be ruled out. In the case of what happened to me, every explanation suggested so far runs head-on into strong evidence that it just isn’t possible, which is why I classify them as “minus three” probabilities.’

There was a thoughtful pause, before the emboldened journalist asked: ‘you don’t believe in God?’

‘Believe? No. Admit the possibility? Theoretically, yes, but I don’t think it helps us.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think of human knowledge as being like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. In prehistory, it was an incomprehensible, jumbled mass. When people started to wonder about life, the Universe and so on, they had no information to help them so made it up, inventing a god or gods to explain it all. Over time, the best thinkers of each age began to assemble bits of the jigsaw, so little patterns of knowledge emerged. Unfortunately, the jigsaw is a tricky one so they sometimes assembled bits in the wrong way, but in fits and starts they made progress. As they did so, the scope for a divine creator gradually diminished. Now, we have assembled enough of the jigsaw to have a good idea of its overall shape, and many parts of it have been completed. Thousands of scientists are beavering away, fitting piece after piece. Despite this, the puzzle is so huge that it will be a very long time before it’s entirely finished – maybe the human race won’t survive that long. But it’s already clear that in principle it can be finished, right back to the Big Bang around fourteen billion years ago which started it all off. Potentially, we can understand everything in the physical Universe which has happened since then. Of course, you can argue that it was some supremely powerful being from another dimension – God, if you wish – who initiated the Big Bang, ensuring that the initial conditions were suitable for the development of the Universe as we know it. Since we have absolutely no idea what happened before the Big Bang – and may never know – that’s as likely or unlikely as any other possibility. But where does that get you? It only raises a whole set of unanswerable questions about where God came from, and so on. And all of the evidence of the human condition – the randomness, pain and unfairness – suggest strongly that if there is such a God, He cares no more about what happens to any individual person than a forester does about what happens to a leaf from one of the trees in his forest.’ I spotted a glass of water in front of me and swallowed gratefully, glad of the break. No-one jumped in with more questions, so the chairman took the opportunity to close the meeting, which had already overrun its scheduled time by a considerable margin.

Over the next few days I studied the specialist press with interest. Most of the accounts of the conference were straightforwardly factual, but the additional information also sparked another series of speculative pieces. Some of them were fascinatingly ingenious, but none gave me any feeling of insight into what had happened to me. Disappointed, I turned to the broadsheets to see what kind of coverage they provided. One item caught my eye; a reference to a strong religious reaction from the USA.

I switched on the one luxury in my room – a high-end computer with a broadband internet connection – and searched for sites containing the words ‘Cade’ and ‘religion’. A torrent of hits flowed down the screen. I clicked on an American one at random. The headline hit me between the eyes:

THE MONSTER REVEALED!!!

At last! The scaly monster pretending to be a human has finally revealed his true colours!! I have warned ever since he first appeared that we should not be taken in by his soft words and deceitful attempts to fool us by so-called miracles – and now he is condemned from his own mouth!!!

‘Do you believe in God?’ He was asked. ‘No!’ came the reply!!! Now we know the truth! He is an unbeliever, the spawn of Satan, here on Earth to try to destroy our belief in the Almighty God with his clever words!

Has it not always been obvious? His scaly skin shows him to be the Devil’s get! He is evil beyond imagining, and his existence cannot be tolerated!!!

I scanned several more such sites, and discovered that the first was one of the milder ones. Many of them were calling for my total annihilation, some enthusiastically demanding a nuclear missile strike against the small town close to my hospital.

I tried some more sensible American news sites, and found mixed reviews. Most just reported the outburst of religious fervour, but many added their own critical commentary. A protest march on the British Embassy in Washington was being organised to persuade them to do something about this monster in their midst.

A knock on the door disturbed my bleak thoughts. Zara popped her cheerful face around the corner. ‘Someone to see you!’

She opened the door to show a shyly smiling Sally, standing for the first time with the aid of crutches. Several weeks of treatment had completed the new links in her spinal cord, and she would soon be back to normal. Her parents hovered rather nervously behind her. ‘We’re leaving soon’, the father said, ‘but we couldn’t go without thanking you for all that you’ve done. You’ve given our Sally her life back, and ours too.’

The mother stepped forward and impulsively hugged me. ‘I don’t care what they say about you, you’ll always be an angel to us!’

Zara gave me a puzzled look as the door closed behind them. ‘What did she mean by that?’

I showed her the American websites and she gasped. ‘But that’s horrible!’

‘Maybe, but that’s what they’re thinking. I’ve always found it bizarre that the most scientifically advanced nation on Earth should have so many religious fundamentalists; you’d think they’d suffer from some sort of collective national schizophrenia.’

She turned away from the screen shaking her head in disgust, then looked at me worriedly. ‘Doesn’t this bother you?’

I grimaced. ‘Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering what kind of monster I have become. There are times when I wish it were all a nightmare that I could wake up from. But then my days are filled with helping people like Sally, and that makes it all feel worthwhile. But no, these sites don’t particularly bother me; I just find them rather sad.’

Zara turned and headed for the door. ‘Janet was saying that there’s an article in a paper about different countries’ attitudes to you. I’ll go and find it.’

She returned in a few minutes brandishing a page from the review section of one of the more serious broadsheets. We sat together on the sofa and read through it. The writer had been tapping into polls carried out world-wide, with interesting results.

Most North Europeans were unconcerned about the religious issue. I expected this, as they are in my experience a pleasantly heathen lot whatever faith they technically profess. They regarded me with interest and generally speaking without hostility, despite the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger criticism from the established churches.

Further east, views changed. The fundamentalist mullahs and imams of Islam were predictably opposed – I pondered briefly whether they had ever welcomed anything new since medieval times, but soon gave up – with the more extreme ones pronouncing fatwas against me. The Hindis, however, were surprisingly positive, at least in part because of my involuntary vegetarianism. Some even wanted to add me to the pantheon of their colourful gods.

More remarkable to me was the Far Eastern reaction, especially from the Chinese – or at least, those living outside the People’s Republic. I should have remembered that dragons retained a special place in their mythology, and the advent of “Dragon Man”, as they called me, had stimulated all sorts of new cults, with “Dragon Preachers” gathering disciples by purporting to be in some kind of rapport with me. Some of them encouraged decidedly peculiar practices in my name (the common factor being, of course, that the fact that I had no material goods meant that their followers should hand over all of their belongings – to them) and I decided that I would have to do something about that.

Saddest of all was the response from central Africa, in much of which I was regarded with fear and used as an icon of terror, especially to frighten children. I resolved to do something about that, too.

In light relief, those groups in the USA which weren’t condemning me as the devil incarnate apparently regarded me as an alien visitor from another planet. Some of the more paranoid warned that I was on a reconnaissance mission to plan an invasion, but most pleaded for me to be welcomed with honour, and were extremely concerned that I would be insulted by the reaction of their more belligerent countrymen.

Zara produced one of her giggles, together with another article from a rather less intellectual publication. ‘This one might amuse you!’

It was from a women’s magazine, and devoted to the possibilities for pleasure which my control of nervous systems promised. They had found a doctor able to pontificate in a mildly salacious way on the advantages of direct sensory stimulation in comparison with conventional lovemaking or various drugs. Somewhat surprisingly, the hackette who had been the sole recipient of such treatment had proved reticent about her experience, but despite this I was voted ‘best buy’. It was even suggested, half seriously, that the NHS should authorise sessions with me for women suffering from frigidity.

‘’I’ve been summoning up the nerve to ask – why haven’t you been interested in any of these women who have been trying to attract your attention? Haven’t you seen the intense looks you get whenever you walk around the hospital?’

‘Well, yes, but I always suspect they’re thinking my skin would make a wicked pair of shoes with a matching handbag.’

Zara laughed. ‘Oh no, it’s much more basic than that.’

‘More basic than shoes and handbags? Is there any such thing?’ I thought about it for a moment. Despite my joke, it had been something that I had wondered about myself; I would not in my previous life have turned down such opportunities. ‘This may sound odd coming from a man, but I don’t like the idea of being regarded as some kind of trophy, or a diverting novelty for jaded women who have tried everything else. Also, I have to admit that the nervous energy I burn up in healing people doesn’t leave me with much for any other purpose!’

‘They will be disappointed!’ Zara was still laughing as she left.

The winter passed, filled with the steady routine of hospital work. This was interrupted one spring morning when a formally-dressed man of indeterminate middle age, calm demeanour and instantly forgettable appearance was ushered into my lodgings by a rather harassed-looking HM, who promptly departed.

The stranger, who had been introduced as “Mr Richards from the Home Office” accepted my invitation to sit down and spent a few seconds studying me. I did likewise. He looked smooth, well-fed and well-groomed, but his eyes were hard. I was impressed by the calm certainty in his mind; he was clearly used to being in complete control. He smiled suddenly. ‘I’m not quite sure of protocol here – do I call you Mr Johnson, Mr Cade or just Cade?’

‘Cade will do nicely.’

‘I’m here, as the saying goes, on a mission of some delicacy. I understand that you are able to sense the state of mind of people in close proximity.’ He had a precise, rather pedantic way of speaking.

‘That’s right.’

‘Does that extend to knowing whether they are lying or telling the truth?’

‘I will know if they are deliberately lying, but not necessarily if they are telling the truth – after all, they could be genuinely mistaken.’

‘Indeed. I think that will suffice.’ He pursed his lips, then continued slowly and deliberately; I wondered if he was ever rushed.

‘What I am about to tell you is, of course, strictly confidential. It is a matter of national security.’

I nodded cautiously, feeling a mixture of intrigue and alarm.

‘There is someone high up in our intelligence community who is being considered for a major promotion. On the face of it, he is the ideal man for the job. Unfortunately, some of our sources located elsewhere are hinting that his loyalty may not be entirely undivided.’

I wondered what shenanigans lay behind the euphemistic words, the spies like rats in the wainscoting rooting out secrets and lies. ‘And so you want me to listen in on an interview with him to see if I can catch him out?’

Richards winced slightly. ‘Quite so, although it would be preferable if you could confirm that he is genuine.’

I shrugged. ‘Very well, I see no reason why not. Where is this interview to take place?’

‘In London, next week. We’ll send a car for you.’

In such a casual way was the course of my next few months determined.

The car wasn’t a Bentley, an Aston Martin or even a Jaguar, rather to my disappointment, but an anonymous-looking Ford Galaxy MPV, only unusual for its dark-tinted windows which conveniently concealed my identity. At least, there was plenty of space inside to sprawl. It was a relief to see a change of scenery as the vehicle sped south and I had to admit to myself some pleasure at the prospect of a change in routine.

The Galaxy ground to a slow pace as it penetrated north London, eventually passing through an area I recognised as Camden. Despite the cold late-autumn weather, the colourful market was in full flow to one side, while the eclectic stalls of Camden Lock stretched away on the other. I caught a glimpse of the pastel green pub opposite the lock with a pang of nostalgia, remembering hours spent on ale-fuelled creative thinking while an ex-girlfriend ransacked the idiosyncratic clothes and jewellery stalls.

Shortly afterwards the Galaxy zig-zagged through the streets of Bloomsbury before nosing into a short cul-de-sac between a pair of tall, dark-brick, Georgian buildings. A few pedestrians passed to and fro across the mouth of the alley as we got out and stretched after the long journey. One of them turned in and moved towards us. My attention slid lazily across him then suddenly jumped to alertness – he was fiercely focused – on me! I saw his hand coming from under his coat, the straight dark gleam of a gun barrel and then I moved. Suddenly everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, the gun zooming into my vision as it slowly lifted while I leaped across the space separating us. I touched his hand the instant before he brought the gun to bear and the weapon started to fall from his nerveless grip as I collided violently with his body, touching him again on the neck as he fell.

Time returned to normal. I recovered my balance and stood over the man as he lay on the ground. My driver was rigid with shock, his mouth open. A side door suddenly burst open and Richards was there with two other men. CCTV covering the alley, I realised – they must have seen what happened.

Richards stared down at my assailant. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, just paralysed.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until I decide otherwise.’

He grunted and told the men to carry the assassin into the building, scooping up the gun and glancing around to check that the incident had attracted no attention. In fact, it had happened so quickly and silently that no-one had noticed. I followed them in.

Inside, the building was as nondescript as the outside but more impressive, with an air of faded grandeur. Richards looked at me searchingly, his genuine concern evident. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Never better.’ A part of me looked on as if detached from the rest, amazed at my calmness. No-one had ever tried to kill me before, yet I felt little reaction apart from a heightened attention, a slight buzz of adrenaline increasing my alertness. I felt more than ready for anything.

Richards shook his head slightly. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.’

‘The prospect of imminent death concentrates the mind something wonderful,’ I paraphrased wryly.

He was atypically hesitant. ‘Are you all right to go through with this?’

‘Of course. Why not?’

Evidently relieved, he led me through tall, dark corridors to a small, dimly-lit room, one wall of which was of dark glass.

‘I hope the glass won’t obstruct your senses?’

‘Not significantly.’

‘Good. The interview will be starting shortly.’

We sat side by side, staring at our dim reflections in the glass. Suddenly, a rectangle of light illuminated the space behind the glass as a door opened, then light flooded the room. Two men entered; one, short and portly, chatting amiably to the second. The sound insulation between the two rooms appeared excellent, but a speaker relayed their conversation.

‘Sorry to drag you in like this Derek, but I something has come up that we need to clarify.’

“Derek” raised an eyebrow as he looked at the one-way glass, obviously recognising its purpose. ‘In an interview room?’

‘Apologies again,’ the rather portly interviewer was affability itself. ‘But this has the benefit of being entirely secure.’

‘Indeed.’ The note of irony carried clearly through the speakers – Derek was not fooled for a moment. He looked like an up-market banker, I thought; trim figure, wavy grey hair, three-piece pinstripe suit. He was radiating watchful, controlled calm.

‘The fact is, we’ve had a rather disturbing report from our friends across the pond’ – I guessed that he was referring to the CIA – ‘who have in turn received some reports from a source which they are rather coy about identifying. Anyway, they claim that you have been more than usually friendly with some wealthy individuals in the Middle East who are not, as they might say, exactly rooting for the good guys.’

Derek’s alertness shot up, his tension radiating through the glass. But he showed nothing on his face and his pulse remained steady, his self-control like iron. ‘Indeed? Could you be more specific? If I’m being accused of something I can hardly defend myself unless I know more than that.’

The portly man spread his hands in a nicely-judged and entirely false mixture of regret, embarrassment and sympathy. ‘My dear fellow, I only wish we had more! This is really exasperating, of course, but we must find some way of satisfying our American colleagues.’

I leaned over to Richards and murmured, ‘get him to ask a direct question. This guy is too controlled to let anything oblique worry him.’

Richards nodded and picked up a small microphone. I could see the back of portly man’s head and spotted the small wire of an earpiece. Richards talked quietly into the microphone for a moment.

‘I’m sorry to have to be blunt,’ the interviewer said, ‘but have you ever had contact with any of the anti-Western groups in Saudi Arabia?’

Derek waved dismissively. ‘Of course not,’ he said confidently.

‘Liar.’ I said to Richards. ‘He is hiding something serious and is getting worried.’

Richards nodded and murmured again into the microphone.

‘Well, that’s that then.’ Portly man sounded relieved. ‘Unless the Americans can come up with something more definite, I think we can forget all about this.’ They left the room, still chatting amiably.

I turned to Richardson; ‘What happens next?’

‘Nothing. He’ll be slipped into a suitably prestigious job where he can do no harm.’

‘You’d do that because of one word spoken by me?’

‘Well, not only that,’ he smiled wryly, ‘there is the small matter of why someone wanted you dead. The fact that you were attacked just before witnessing that interview is highly unlikely to be a coincidence.’

I mulled over that for a moment. ‘Then you’ve got a leak, somewhere.’

‘So it would seem.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Could you locate him for us?’

‘With pleasure. But first I’d like to take a look at my assassin’.

Richards nodded and led me down into a substantial basement and through a very solid and well-insulated door. The man lay on a bare, steel-framed bed, the two men who had brought him there sitting to one side. They stood up as we entered. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle sir.’ One said.

I walked over and looked down at him. Now I could see him clearly in a bright light, I was not surprised to see that he was of Middle Eastern appearance. His eyes gleamed with terror at his paralysis.

‘Any chance of finding out who sent him?’ Richard’s voice was like his mind; the epitome of studied calm.

I reached down and touched the man’s head, freeing his vocal cords. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to inflict pain even on a killer such as this, then thought of another way. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his mental pattern, extending my sensitivity past his conscious mind and into the subconscious. I burrowed deeply, heading for the horror zone, where all nightmares lurk. I filled him with a nameless, formless dread, which reached up and swamped his conscious control, drowned his beliefs in a sea of terror.

‘Who sent you?’

His mind gibbered back at me, but I didn’t need to hear the answer – it was writ clearly enough in his emotions for me to see.

‘He doesn’t know. I sense that he has had training in killing – he has the mindset of a soldier – but I suspect he was given his instructions anonymously.’

Richards grunted again. ‘More or less what I expected.’

‘Do you want him active or paralysed?’

He considered for a moment. ‘Might as well leave him paralysed for now. He’ll be less trouble that way.’

I spent the night in a nondescript room in the nondescript building, after phoning the hospital to warn that my stay would be a little longer than expected. The next morning, the process of spy-hunting was simple. Richards led me through his organisation, passing through a large and surprisingly ordinary open-plan room; it could have been any commercial office. I had made no attempt at disguise and monitored the various emissions of surprise and fascination radiating from the minds of the staff. Suddenly, there was a flare of alarm and guilt. I turned and followed it to its source, wading through the growing panic as I approached. I stopped at the desk and looked at her, saying nothing. She was staring open-eyed, her pulse beating wildly in her throat.

‘Miss Samuelson, would you come with us please?’ Richards was courtesy itself, but the iron command was unmistakable.

She got up rather jerkily, spilling some papers, and followed numbly behind us as we left the room, accompanied by waves of intense and speculative interest from the staff.

This was no hardened killer, and my specialised interrogation techniques were not required. All I had to do was sit silently facing her, commenting, ‘that’s a lie,’ from time to time, and she soon cracked under Richards’ persistent questioning. It was a predictable tale of a single, rather lonely woman approaching middle age, who had been swept off her feet by a handsome and wealthy Arab.

After she had been taken away, Richards sighed wearily. ‘Terrible shame, she was a competent officer. You’d think that a woman in this business would know better than to fall for a classic honeytrap, but it keeps on happening. I’m beginning to think that we shouldn’t employ staff unless they are always engaged in at least one active sexual relationship that we know all about.’

I smiled wryly, ‘I can just see that one getting past the Equal Opportunities watchdogs in Human Resources!’

The journey back to the hospital later that day was conducted in a more sombre mood, with elaborate precautions being taken to ensure my safety. I left the building via a service tunnel, emerging heavily disguised into another street before being bundled into a car – and switched to another one a short distance away. The rest of the journey was uneventful but despite the bright sunshine my mood was dark. A newspaper had been left in the car for me and I read through it in the hope of gaining some distraction, but it was full of stories about environmental deterioration, water shortages and mass-migration from famine areas in Africa. I thought of Luke and wondered what he was doing.

I was left with much food for thought. I had been identified as a target by a hostile organisation, which meant not only that my life was in danger, but that others around me could be as well. The hospital was a fine place for keeping out the idly curious, but a trained killer was a different matter. I would have to be much more careful.

I was used to shutting out the mental signals from those around me, unless I had to focus on a medical case, as they caused too much distraction. The situation had changed drastically, however. As the car dropped me off close to a rear entrance to the hospital, I tried extending my sensitivity and scanned the area. The babble of mental noise from the hospital roared like surf, containing all of the varied emotions of humanity. I tried to tune that out and swept my attention outwards, towards the surrounding countryside.

Contact! The mind was cold, clear and deliberate, the attention focused on me, the pressure on the trigger tripping the sear NOW! I dived to one side as the bullet cracked past, instantly followed by the flat ‘bang’ of the muzzle blast. I was immediately on my feet and racing towards the gunman who was concealed in a small copse less than a hundred metres away. I sensed his dismay and growing alarm as I hit a speed which Olympic sprint champions would have traded years of their lives for. He fumbled with the rifle’s bolt action, chambering another round and hastily taking aim as I rushed towards him. This time it was easy, I jerked to one side as he fired and came straight on. He was now in a complete panic and dropped his rifle, pulling out a pistol as firing almost blindly as I hurtled through the air, sending him into oblivion as I knocked him to the ground.

I dropped to my knees to examine him but as my reactions slowed to normal I felt a sudden, deep pain. I looked down and realised that the pistol bullet hadn’t missed after all – there was a hole in my tee-shirt, and the material was darkening with blood. As if following some basic instinct I immediately lay down so I could focus entirely on the wound. The pain was dismissed easily enough and I concentrated on the deep wound channel which penetrated my body, passing through my liver. I found I was able to stop the blood flow, sealing off the countless blood vessels sliced through by the bullet. The liver repair took a little longer.

I was then left with a bullet buried in my body, and a hole running through me. Still not sure what I was able to do, I focused on the flesh around and in front of the bullet, and forced it to close, slowly pushing the bullet backwards. After ten minutes of effort, the bullet popped out of my abdomen, and the hole sealed behind it. I slowly got up, feeling a little weak and tired but otherwise unaffected, and examined the bullet. It had a coppery-coloured base but the nose was of lead and had been expanded into a broad star shape by the passage through my body – a hollow-point, I guessed.

I knew something about guns from friends in America who had taken me down to a firing range on more than one occasion to try out different weapons. I picked up the rifle and worked the bolt, ejecting the fired cartridge case. I examined the headstamp and winced. The lettering spelled out “norma 7 MM REM MAG”. I recalled that the 7mm Remington Magnum was a high-velocity hunting round which normally fired expanding bullets. A hit from that would have been much more difficult to repair – it would have blown a large hole right through me.

I looked down at the paralysed assassin, who was clearly going nowhere, and went to the hospital to find a phone.

Richards came personally that night, accompanied by the usual pair of silent men who quickly loaded the assassin and his weapons into the back of their vehicle. He was full of concern and apology for the danger he had exposed me to, and anxious to make amends.

‘I need to get away from here, quickly.’ I said. ‘I’m putting my friends in danger by staying here. I need to leave tonight.’ I had had time to think this through, and knew that my stay at the hospital had to end.

He blinked in surprise, then thought quickly. ‘Very well, we have some discreet accommodation we can offer until we can sort out something more permanent. You’d better come with us.’

‘First I have some people to see.’ I went into the hospital and, after warily scanning the area, entered my room. No-one had been there, I could somehow tell. I picked up my spare clothes and stuffed them in a bag, added some fruit and nuts, glanced around, then left. There was nothing more I needed.

Brian had gone home for the night but Zara was still on duty and after tracking down her mental signature I met her in a quiet corridor. She gasped when she saw my bloodied and perforated shirt but I pulled it up to show my unmarked skin and she relaxed a little.

‘Zara, I’m afraid I have to leave, now. I’ve become a target and I’m putting everyone in danger just by being here. They’ve tried twice in two days with guns, the next time it might be a bomb.’

She grimaced, shocked and angry. ‘Who’s “they”?’

‘I didn’t stop to ask. I expect I’ve accumulated quite a range of enemies. But whoever it is, they’ve taken a serious and determined dislike to me.’ I was reluctant to involve her in any speculation about security services; as far as she knew, I had gone to London to advise on some medical issue.

‘What about your patients? We’ve got the usual week’s worth stacked up in a holding pattern around the hospital.’

‘I know, and I will get to them, I promise. They’ll just have to wait until I can operate from somewhere more secure.’

She looked at me, radiating anger and sadness – and something more. ‘I knew this would happen some time, but not so soon. I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.

‘Me too.’

She was suddenly in my arms, hugging me tight and trying not to cry. I held her for a while, soothing her mental turmoil, and she gradual relaxed into acceptance.

‘I hate goodbyes. Just be very careful, all right?’

‘All right’.

She turned suddenly and walked away down the long corridor without looking back. I stood and watched her go, realising with sadness that yet another turning point in my life had been reached. And the next stage was likely to be a lot less pleasant.

3

The military base was sited in the Brecklands, a part of East Anglia whose sandy soils were mainly covered with heathland and conifer woodlands. The base was in some ways not dissimilar to the hospital: the same sprawling buildings with the anonymous cubism of 1960s construction, the same institutional feel. In other respects it was quite different; the extensive grounds were surrounded by a double row of fencing topped by a thick coil of razor wire, covered by sensors to detect any attempt at penetration. Set back from the fence was a belt of pine trees which screened the activities within. The only entrance was an elaborate controlled gateway, with a chicane of concrete blocks to thwart car bombers, and several men always on duty. As we first drove through I glanced into the open doorway of their guardhouse and spotted grenade launchers as well as machine guns. They clearly had no intention of letting any unauthorised visitors enter, and were prepared to do whatever it took to stop them. I wondered what would happen if I decided to walk out of the gate.

These defences seemed to be to rather more thorough than at a typical military base, but I was not told what went on there and the sign at the entrance was singularly bland and uninformative. I was assigned a house not far from the entrance, standing by itself in its own copse of trees. The downstairs rooms had been rapidly refurnished as a pair of consulting rooms and my living accommodation was upstairs. It was made politely clear to me that wandering around the base was not encouraged. A businesslike and efficient army nurse called Karen was assigned to me; I was already missing Zara’s warmth and good humour.

For security reasons my patients, who had followed me in a forlorn trail across the country, were directed to the nearest large town where (as one of them told me with some indignation) they were thoroughly vetted, searched, made to change clothes, metal detected and sniffed at by dogs. They were then loaded into a military bus and driven to the base, a small batch at a time.

I was at first puzzled why the military should go to the trouble of housing me when it clearly caused them much inconvenience and concern about security. Matters became clearer the week after, when I went into a consulting room to find Richards sitting there, a bland smile on his face.

‘Which part of you needs treating? Conscience needs paralysing perhaps?’

This only made his smile widen. ‘Glad to see you’re recovering your sense of humour. How are you settling in here?’

I shrugged. ‘Can’t complain. They even let me into the base swimming pool at specified times, under escort.’

His smile moderated to a nicely-judged degree of sympathy. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, it must feel a bit prison-like. The trouble is, we have to keep you safe and that requires rather tight security.’

‘I know, I know.’ I sighed.

He brightened. ‘However, I can offer you some variety every now and then.’

I looked at him dourly. ‘Like the last time?’

‘Well, not quite like that, I hope. Your involvement will be kept very secret this time, and you will be closely guarded throughout.’

‘Not even allowed parole?’

Richards’ chuckle sounded a little forced. He spread his hands wide. ‘I’m not compelling you to do anything! But we do have a genuine need which only you can meet. We know that there are cells of hostile people living within this country. Some of them have terrorist training and, we have reason to believe, the equipment to go with it. The two who have attacked you so far were just the tip of the iceberg. Their organisation is very tight and difficult to penetrate, but we have accumulated evidence to suggest that they are planning a series of bomb attacks, aimed at killing as many innocent civilians as possible. We need to find them as a matter of urgency.’

‘Any idea where they might be?’

‘The evidence suggests one group in London and one in Birmingham.’

‘Big places.’

‘Yes, but there are particular areas we could start to search as they generally like to lose themselves in concentrations of people of the same ethnic origin. Do you think you would be able to pick up their – what d’you call them – emissions? If we drove past their building?’

I thought about that for a moment. ‘Very unlikely I would say. I essentially pick up emotional states – I can’t read minds. If they were absorbed in a television programme or a conversation about something innocent I wouldn’t be able to detect them even if they were right in front of me. Even if they were planning their actions in a dispassionate way, well, they could be planning anything. Only if they were absorbed with murderous thoughts would I stand any chance of spotting them – and then I’d somehow have to separate them out from all of the rest of the population who are feeling murderous for all sorts of reasons – an unfaithful spouse, a horse which fell at the last jump, or even a case of road rage. I generally try to block out other people’s emotions whenever I’m near heavy traffic – you wouldn’t believe the volume of hate and frustration produced.’

‘Oh, I would,’ Richards chuckled grimly. He paused to think for a while, pursing his lips. ‘They would probably be tense and nervous for much of the time, and if any of them were planning to be suicide bombers that might affect their mental state as well.’

‘Yes it would, but those aren’t strong emotions and would be swamped by the “noise” of other people.’

He looked at me. ‘What about filtering? Suppose we showed you a captured terrorist we’ve got so you could recognise the mind-set. Could you then sensitise your receptivity, so to speak, to pick up that kind of mind?’

That was a new idea to me, but as I thought about it I realised it had some merit. ‘It’s worth a try.’

Richards looked relieved. ‘All right then, I’ll set that up.’

I saw nothing of the prison from the outside since for reasons of my own security I was concealed inside an anonymous delivery van. Very appropriate, I thought, I’ve become a package, a commodity, to be delivered wherever I’m needed. I worried about what kind of life I was getting myself into, forever at the beck and call of those who wanted me. But Richards’ request was reasonable; how could I stand by and do nothing if I could prevent terrorist atrocities?

I was led to a familiar pattern of divided interview room with a view through one-way glass into the other side. After a few minutes a man of Middle Eastern appearance was led into the room by a guard, who stood by the door. The man looked around the room for a moment, sneered at the mirror then, before sitting down, ostentatiously turned the chair around so that he was facing the other way. That didn’t concern me; he could stand on his head for all I cared.

I carefully closed down my concentration, shutting out the background noise from the prison in order to focus on the terrorist’s mind. Then I mentally reached towards him.

Black and white. That was my first impression. This man didn’t think in greys, in shades of meaning, in relative moral choices. He thought only of right and wrong. Right was his beliefs, inextricably intertwined with his religion; wrong was everything else. And everyone else. Apart from my two putative assassins, who were little more than hired guns, I had never sensed a mind so indifferent to the rest of humanity. He simply didn’t care how much people suffered and how many died as a result of his actions. Whatever he did in the name of his cause was justified – nothing else mattered. The iron certainty of his beliefs contrasted with his impatient contempt for the rest of the world, for anyone not on his side.

This was a man who would willingly kill himself, all right, if he felt this would advance his cause, especially if he could take a large number of the weak and godless westerners with him. I probed his beliefs further, and came up against an inflexible wall of fanaticism. Where any sane person was a hotch-potch of ideas tempered by doubt and uncertainty, here was just unthinking, uncritical belief. It was as if all of his critical faculties, his judgment, his understanding and empathy, had been amputated.

I shivered involuntarily. I may have looked alien from the outside but this man was alien inside, a creature driven by hate. Richards had been right so far; he had an unmistakable mental signature. Now, could I pick that out against the background of a teeming city, filled with emotions?

The next few weeks settled into a pattern. The first target was believed to be Birmingham, so after deferring future patients until further notice I was moved to a “safe house” in the suburbs, with the much-appreciated benefit of a private garden not overlooked by any other properties. At my insistence, arrangements were made with a local health club for me to have my usual night-time access to their swimming pool. I don’t know what pressure Richards exerted, but it worked, and the owners kept well away.

The days were spent in the back of that delivery van. The view of the interior, the noise of the engine, the bouncing of the unladen suspension and a rasp from the exhaust at certain resonant frequencies all became almost as familiar to me as the functioning of my own body. I never saw the districts we travelled through – never needed to. My normal senses were suppressed while I focused my sensitivity, sweeping like a radar scanner though the streets, sifting and discarding the myriad minds, all the time holding up in front of my mental gaze the pattern of the terrorist. I became afraid that my mind was being numbed by the endless repetition, the constant stream of emotions flowing over me.

In the late evening of the ninth day I detected my targets – two of them, together. My sweep hit their minds with a shock; it was all there, the arrogant certainty, the coiling hate, the juvenile sense of superiority through being involved in something secret and important. They had just left a building and a quick scan showed me two more of them, high up in a flat. I sensed that the two outside were walking towards something important – there was a suppressed excitement in their minds. ‘Contact.’ I told the driver.

His bored mind instantly sharpened to alertness. ‘Where?’

‘Two of them, walking in the same direction, our side of the road. Two more in a flat upstairs, just behind us.’

‘Got ’em – only two within sight.’

‘They’re heading towards something that matters – we should find out what it is.’

‘Right. I’ll pull ahead then park up.’

The van duly stopped a few seconds later. I kept the link to their minds, noticed that they were turning away just as the driver announced, ‘they’ve gone down a side street.’

Looking ahead through the windscreen I could see that we were in an urban street in a run-down area, lined by tall terraced buildings with shops and cafes on the ground floor, some boarded up and the rest closed for the night. Litter blew about in the gutters. There were few people around, and the street lighting was dim and irregular. ‘I’ll follow them. I can keep out of sight and still keep a mental link.’

‘You’re not to leave the van. Sorry, but my orders were clear.’

I sighed, reached forwards and touched his neck. ‘Sorry about this, but I know I can do this without any fuss, sieges or gunplay. I’ll be back shortly.’

I climbed out of the van, leaving the driver silent and unmoving inside, albeit far from happy. I had half-expected a need to leave the van at some point, so I was prepared; I pulled a hooded sweatshirt over my head, put on dark glasses, darkened my skin to virtually black and quietly thanked the ludicrous fashion which made it “cool” to wear sunglasses at night. As I was making these preparations, I wondered briefly about the changes in myself. My former incarnation was physically timid and would only have run from the prospect of violence. With my capable new body had come a new confidence and determination. Then I stopped introspecting and went hunting.

The two men were some distance down the side-street when I reached the end. I held back until I sensed that they had turned yet again, then rapidly went around the corner. The street was long and straight, dipping down before rising again to terminate at another junction. It was mostly lined with more terraced buildings, but this time lower and mainly residential. The street lighting was even worse, supplemented by glows from some of the windows.

The men were out of sight, but a vehicle access of some kind was visible in the distance. No-one else was visible, so I raced silently down to the access, then stopped. I sensed that they were close by, examining something. I crept around the corner. The access led into a courtyard surrounded by lock-up garages of the kind available for rent. One of the lift-up doors was slightly raised, light spilling out from underneath. They were inside.

I raced forwards again and stood by the entrance. There wasn’t enough space for me to slide under the door and I didn’t want to raise it – they would get too much warning. So I waited, listening to the voices speaking an unfamiliar language, until they started to move towards the door. The light went out and a loud creaking noise heralded the raising of the door. Two shapes emerged into the dimly-lit courtyard – much dimmer for them than it seemed to me, I realised, and their night vision would be gone anyway. I stepped forwards and touched them as they walked away.

I jogged back from the garage in which I had left their paralysed bodies, a set of keys in my hand. The flat was easy to detect, on the third floor of a building which had a textiles shop underneath. The residential entrance next to the shop had a stack of bell pushes in illuminated plastic, next to name tags faded with age. The second key fitted the lock and I went in and moved up the stairs as silently as I could, remembering from some long-forgotten thriller to stand on the edges of the wooden stairs to reduce the chance of any noise.

The door at the top was closed. I checked the set of keys – the small one was for the garage, the next was for the front door, one was obviously a car key leaving one more which had to be for the flat. I slipped it in the lock and slowly turned the key, then paused to concentrate.

The men were together in a room, talking. I pushed the door open and went into overdrive, rushing along the corridor and into the room where they were just beginning to turn, their faces showing surprise. One of them shouted something and leapt for a bag on the nearby table but he was slow, far too slow for me.

I looked down at their still forms, then checked the bag. The gun was short, square and ugly, a magazine protruding down from the upright pistol grip halfway along it. Some kind of compact sub-machine gun, obviously. I looked around the flat, but as I suspected there were only four beds. I went back to the car.

Richards was coldly furious. He had come up to the Birmingham safe house as soon as he heard the news from my disgruntled driver, and marched straight into the kitchen where I was enjoyed a refreshing glass of spring water to wash down my usual meal of fruit (apple) and nuts (walnuts and brazils). Pity really, I could have done with champagne.

He waited until the driver went off with Richards’ usual pair of heavies to where I had left comatose bodies distributed about Birmingham, then glared at me with those hard eyes. ‘That was an unacceptable risk,’ he began coldly. ‘You should have left this to us – we know how to handle such situations.’

‘And what would have happened? They were armed and alert. At best there would have been a very public shoot-out, if not a siege, conceivably even hostage-taking. I have certain abilities beyond just being your personal bloodhound – it’s stupid not to use them.’

‘You are a precious asset. I can’t afford to put you at risk.’

‘Then let me go back to healing my patients – they must be overflowing the town’s hotels by now. If you want me fighting terrorism, then let me do it my way. I know what I can do, and believe me I’m not a risk-taker.’

Richards paced around the room, still angry. ‘We could have watched them for a while; they might have led us to other terrorists.’

‘No chance. There were only four in this cell, and judging from their mental states they were ready to strike. If they know anything more, I’ll get it out of them.’

He sat down suddenly and glared at me. I realised that much of his ill-humour was down to tension. He was responsible for countering the terrorists, and was scared of the consequences if he got it wrong – body parts littering the streets of England. He sighed and relaxed suddenly. ‘Very well. You question them, then we’d better get after the London group before they realise something’s wrong.’

The next morning Richards was in a much better humour – the garage had contained a van loaded with explosives, C4 packed around with fertiliser. A simple fuze circuit was in place, leading to the driver’s compartment – clearly a suicide bomb, ready to go. Maps found in the flat indicated that the target was probably the Birmingham International Convention Centre, where a conference on Anglo-Jewish relations was due to commence on the following day.

I questioned the terrorists, whose tongues loosened after a judicious exposure to their own terrors, but they knew little of value except for a recollection of a place in London which one of them had passed through. He didn’t know the address, but we were able to identify the approximate area and he revealed a key fact – a street market had been in full flow directly outside the building.

It seemed that the London group was supposed to attack at the same time as the Birmingham cell – in two days time – to maximise the effect, but none of them knew the London target.

Later that day we moved to east London, to a flat in Bethnal Green, and the process started again. This time there was no garden but fortunately, with the aid of the terrorist’s information, it took only a couple of hours of trawling the streets to make contact.

It was a Saturday morning and the Hoxton Street market was in full flow despite unseasonably cold weather and a steady drizzle of rain, thronged with people wandering past the stalls of clothes, towels, food and assorted electrical goods. The road was closed so we turned right and parked in Falkirk Street. Hoxton Street was lined with shops, pubs and other businesses, many with flats above the ground floor, and I was able to pinpoint the terrorists’ location only with some difficulty against the background mental noise of the scores of shoppers. The driver called up reinforcements and we sat and waited.

‘There are four of them again, similar sort of set-up to Birmingham. They’re all inside, doing nothing. They seem tense but calm.’ I briefed Richards when he slipped into the van. ‘Presumably they’ll have a garage somewhere nearby, and we’ve only got one day to find it.’

‘Will you know when they’re ready to attack?’

‘I expect so; there’s bound to be greatly heightened tension just beforehand.’

‘Then we’ll have to stake out the flat and track them when they come out.’

‘Too risky – suppose they evade us and get to their van? And you’re still forgetting some of my special talents. Once we’ve got them, I’ll locate the garage readily enough. I suggest we move in this evening as soon as the street is clear.’

He grunted and sat in thought. Suddenly I detected a change. ‘I think they’ve received a message or something – the tension has shot up.’ I waited for another few minutes, concentrating on the shifting patterns of the distant emotions, sometimes losing them in the steady roar of mental noise. Then a decision was reached. ‘They’re on the move!’

Richards’ mobile phone rang. He cursed and opened it, then listened intently for a minute before saying, ‘very well’ and shutting the phone. ‘There was a call to the mobile phone we took from the Birmingham flat. Someone must have decided to do a last minute check and realised that something had gone wrong.’

‘Did they trace the call?’

‘Unregistered mobile, presumably stolen. From this area.’

I groaned, then refocused on our targets. ‘We have to go – they’re moving out of range.’

The driver started the van and moved off towards the T-junction at the end of the road.

‘Hang on – they’ve stopped moving. They’re waiting for something.’ A pause as the driver stopped just before the junction. ‘They’re moving again – I think they’ve got on a bus. They’re going to cross in front of us.’

The driver edged up to the junction, then turned right to follow the bus, keeping a few vehicles between us. Richards was talking rapidly into his mobile; several cars were on the way, directed to move in behind us or to get in front of the bus. I looked at a street sign as we went past and discovered that we were on the Kingsland Road, heading south. Richards took his phone away from his ear for a moment. ‘It’s a number two-four-three bus which terminates at Waterloo. Men are on their way.’

The bus turned right into Old Street and our driver ignored the ‘buses only’ restriction to follow, soon afterwards negotiating the large roundabout at the junction with City Road. We followed as the road became Clerkenwell Road, then I detected intention, and movement. ‘They’re going – no, just one of them is. Not the leader.’

Richards muttered into his phone and I deduced that one of the cars had stopped to allow an agent to track the terrorist. After dropping him off just before the junction with Farringdon Road, the bus continued its journey along Theobalds Road, then turned left into Drake Street, right into High Holborn and left down Kingsway. At the first stop, near Holborn Station, another of the terrorists disembarked, and another car was detailed to follow. ‘Still not the leader.’

The bus headed down the Kingsway towards the Thames. At Aldwych the bus turned left and a third man got off, leaving just the leader behind. The bus turned right into the Strand before turning left again to cross the river at Waterloo Bridge, heading past the National Theatre to the station. The tension in our van rose palpably as the bus neared the terminus.

‘We have a problem,’ Richards said. ‘You can’t go out in broad daylight – you would cause a sensation. When he gets off, we’ll have to track him without you.’

‘We’d better stay in the van. Now that I’m attuned to his mental pattern, I can follow him from quite a distance, even in a crowd.’

‘All right.’

The bus turned into the Mepham Street terminus and we cruised slowly past, watching the terrorist walking up the flight of steps into the concourse of Waterloo Station. One agent followed, to join the four already in the station. Richards followed their reports intently, then frowned. ‘He’s just gone to a café out in the concourse and is sitting down, making no attempt to go anywhere’.

I “tasted” the terrorist’s mood and was puzzled. ‘He’s not worried – seems grimly satisfied.’ A terrible thought dawned, and I instantly knew it was true. ‘He may be the leader but he’s acting as a decoy! One of the others must be trying to get to the van!’

Richards cursed viciously and barked ‘pull him in!’, then punched numbers into his phone, demanding situation reports from the detached groups following the other terrorists and ordering; ‘arrest them now! Don’t wait any longer!’

Two of the groups reported back promptly and moved in, but the third call had a different response. ‘You’ve WHAT! How did you lose him?’

‘Which one?’

Richards angrily lowered his phone. ‘The first one. Farringdon Road. They somehow contrived to lose him by the station.’

The van had already turned round and circled the drum-shaped glass Imax cinema before racing off down Stamford Street, then taking a sharp left to cross the Thames again via Blackfriars Bridge. The van tore up New Bridge Street, past Ludgate Circus and up Farringdon Street, under the Holborn Viaduct and on up Farringdon Road, where the driver made a sharp right turn, skidding slightly on the wet road, and screeched to a halt by the combined rail and underground station. I was already scanning, but could detect nothing.

‘Back to Hoxton! The garage is bound to be somewhere nearby.’

Richards nodded and the van set off again, the chastened agents in tow. A U-turn in front of the Caxton House car park followed by an illegal right turn back into the Clerkenwell Road saw us retracing the bus route, albeit at a considerably higher velocity. Once in Hoxton we slowed and trawled the streets. Much of the area had recently become ‘gentrified’ as indicated by the appearance of up-market coffee bars, but nearby there were still many poorer estates and we concentrated on those.

The minutes ticked by as we toured street after street. Suddenly I made contact. ‘Got him!’ And a few seconds later; ‘he’s moving!’ His mental state had changed; now his mind was locked, somehow both blank and tightly focused with a steady babbling undercurrent. I suddenly realised that he was praying constantly, and shouted, ‘he’s in the bomb van!”

Richards suddenly calmed. ‘Where?’

‘To the west of us, heading south.’

He consulted a street map as the driver swung the van into the next turn and accelerated. ‘Where now?’

‘Keep going, then turn left at the next major junction.’

‘East Road,’ Richards muttered. The driver raced to catch up, while Richards sent yet another stream of instructions over his phone.

East Road joined City Road, which crossed Old Street – the second time that morning we had been round that roundabout – then at London Wall the terrorist turned left towards Whitechapel.

‘Where is he going?’ muttered Richards as our driver wove through the traffic.

‘Don’t get too close,’ I warned, ‘if he knows he’s being followed he’s liable to blow the bomb instantly.’

The driver slowed a little. Richards turned to look at me, his face grim. ‘We can’t stop him in the usual way; he mustn’t suspect anything. We’ll have to find a way of stopping him which doesn’t alarm him, then you’ll have to get him. It’s the best chance we’ve got – we’ll never get snipers into place in time.’

I nodded. ‘Fair enough. You do your bit and I’ll do mine.’

Rain was falling steadily as we crossed Aldgate High Street and followed the anonymous dull-blue van down Minories towards the Tower of London. Richards made another phone call, giving clear instructions, using what appeared to be some identification code. We waited in silence as we crawled in heavy traffic past the Tower towards Tower Bridge. The stone-clad gateway marking the entrance to the bridge loomed up ahead of us, then the traffic suddenly ground to a complete halt. Richards smiled grimly and said ‘Gotcha!’

I looked at him, puzzled, then looked ahead and realised what was happening. Red lights glowed through the rain as the great bascules rotated, the road decks reaching towards the sky. Tower Bridge was opening – which meant that the road was closed. The traffic was locked in place – there was nowhere else to go.

‘Go boy!’ Richards said softly.

I scrambled out of the back of the vehicle, feeling even sillier in my sunglasses in the rain, which had intensified into a steady downpour. I walked briskly along the pavement and spotted the van, fortunately stopped just before the start of the railings which separate the roadway from the pavement. The driver was in a state of high tension and I realised that he could blow the bomb at any moment. I walked until I was just behind the van, out of the line of sight of the door mirrors, then turned in towards it. I had to get this right, first time, with only a second’s grace.

The clouds were so heavy it was as dark as twilight. Lights gleamed off the wet vehicle. The van door was in front of me – I was just behind it, now hidden from the driver on the other side of the vehicle. I had to assume that the door was locked. The handle was horizontal, of the type fixed rigidly at both ends, the opening catch being at one end of it, on the outside. It would have to do.

I took a deep breath, seized the handle with my right hand and punched through the side window with my left, using the door handle for the leverage to throw myself across the cabin at the driver. His shocked face turned towards me as he grabbed at the cable lying on the seat next to him, then my outstretched fingers reached his hand and he froze in place. His hand was almost touching the plunger contact at the end of the cable.

I pushed myself back out of the cab window, brushing broken glass away, conscious of the startled attention of the motorist behind. Richards walked up nonchalantly, looked through the van window, spotted the plunger, and winced. ‘Too close for comfort,’ he muttered. ‘OK, let’s get this traffic moving again.’

He made another phone call, and shortly afterwards the bridge began to lower. By then, the comatose terrorist had been pushed into the passenger’s footwell and the van was being driven to safety, rather nervously, by one of Richards’ men. Richards was unsympathetic; ‘serves him right for losing the guy in the first place.’

We went back to Richards’ headquarters where the other captives had already been assembled. Seven were paralysed, the other three had just been picked up by Richards’ men. I spoke to Richards; ‘let me try something.’

He looked at me, then evidently decided that he could trust my judgment. ‘OK.’

First I walked up to the active terrorists and painlessly knocked them out. Then I went to each one in turn, placing my hands around their heads, and concentrating intently for several minutes. I focused on their abnormal brain patterns, the solid and unthinking belief that formed the core of their personalities. Probing deeply but with maximum sensitivity, I located the precise patterns of brain activity, noted the blockages preventing any questioning of their beliefs. Then I changed them, clearing the blocks, allowing free movement of thoughts, undermining the solid core of their beliefs.

Afterwards I stepped away, feeling suddenly tired.

Richards looked at me curiously. ‘What have you done?’

‘Implanted a mental virus – a virus of sanity, reasonableness and critical thinking. An anti-faith virus, if you like. They’re all asleep now, but when they wake up they’ll be active, so they’ll need securing. But they should gradually start to think and act like normal human beings again. Better watch the leaders in particular, though – it may be such a shock to them that they try to commit suicide.’

Richards considered this in his usual practical fashion. ‘Will we be able to turn them? Make them double agents?’

I sighed. ‘Quite possibly. If you think you have, call me and I’ll check they’re genuine. Now I want to go back to the base.’

It wasn’t quite as simple as that. The occupants of the car behind the van at Tower Bridge had evidently recognised me – I remembered that in hurling myself through the side window my hood had been pushed back for a few seconds. I was greeted the next morning at the military base by newspaper headlines:

‘Exclusive: Cade seen in secret Tower Bridge operation!’

There followed a lurid account of my assault on the van. Richards had evidently chosen not to publicise the capture of the terrorists for the time being and the reporter’s enquiries at the security services had been blandly deflected, so the newspaper didn’t have much to go on – which didn’t stop them speculating, of course. Had I been recruited by the Secret Service? Was I the new James Bond? The article was accompanied by the inevitable photo montage of 007, in classic pose with his gun, with my face superimposed.

Despite this, I was able to get on with seeing my patients undisturbed, the Army evidently keeping at bay all press enquiries. Two days of hard work later and I was making good progress with the backlog. Then Karen announced the next patient. ‘Sophie Reynolds, continuing neck pain resulting from a whiplash injury.’

I nodded and went into the consulting room where a young woman was lying face down on the plinth. As I stood over her I realised first that I couldn’t detect any pain, and next that something about her mind seemed familiar. ‘Sit up.’ I said.

She rolled over and sat on the plinth, looking at me steadily. I recognised her instantly – she was the hackette whose pleasure switch I had innocently flipped, what seemed like an age ago. I looked back at her and waited in silence.

Her mouth quirked. ‘So you’re not going to call the MPs to throw me out, then?’

‘Probably – but you’ve got a few seconds to explain why you’re wasting time I could be spending on genuine patients.’

She shrugged. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. I’ve been following your career with great interest – I don’t suppose you’ve read any of my articles? No, well, never mind. I’m probably the country’s greatest expert on you now, and got a better job on the strength of it.’ She leaned forwards and gazed at me intently. ‘You did something to me, you know – I’ve not been the same since that day you tampered with my nervous system. You owe me.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds as if you’ve already got your reward.’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘I want to know what you’re up to. Was it really you by Tower Bridge? What were you doing?’

I sighed. ‘Sophie – is that you’re real name? OK, well if you think I was involved in a security operation, then you should approach the security services for a statement. Because if I was involved, I wouldn’t tell you about it, and if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’

She grimaced. ‘Very neat. Alright then, I’ll take that as a “no comment”. How about a more general interview? I promise not to endanger national security!’

I sighed, tempted to call Karen to have her escorted off the premises. On the other hand, she was an interesting and attractive young woman, and it had been a long time since I had just chatted to someone. I thought wistfully of Zara. ‘Go next door, we can talk after I’ve seen the rest of the afternoon’s patients.’

She grinned and hopped off the plinth, sauntering into the kitchenette where I waited for patients.

Shortly afterwards, Karen came in, her expression stern. ‘What’s she doing in there?’

‘She’s a reporter. I’m going to talk to her afterwards.’

Karen looked horrified. ‘You can’t do that! I’ll get her escorted off the base.’

I looked at her, suddenly tired of the restrictions, of the narrow focus of my life. ‘Do that and I’ll go with her. And I won’t come back.’

She stopped herself from saying what plainly jumped into her mind (oh yes, I thought, just you try to have me stopped!), then turned abruptly and marched out.

I dealt with the rest of the patients myself – nothing too serious, the usual nerve damage cases and some with nervous disorders. The last case of the day was unusual; a woman who had gone blind as a result of old psychological trauma. I reactivated her optic nerves for an instant cure, much to the shock of her sister who had accompanied her. Their joyous noise brought Sophie out of the kitchenette, clutching a mug of tea. She watched with interest as they danced out of the door.

‘They were in my hotel. Was she really blind?’

‘Yep. Nothing physically wrong, she had just wanted to stop seeing.’

‘I overheard what you said to that officious nurse. Thanks.’

‘Nothing personal. I’m just tired of having every detail of my life organised for me. You came along at the right moment to take advantage.’

She grinned. ‘That’s a good starting point – let’s build on that!’ She pulled a Filofax out of her handbag and turned to some note pages, then rummaged for a pen. ‘Got to do this the old-fashioned way, I’m afraid. I’d never have got a recorder past the guards. First of all, where does “Cade” come from? It’s an unusual name.’

I smiled. ‘That’s an easy one. It was my natural mother’s surname, and my adoptive parents decided to keep it when they christened me. Peculiar to Lincolnshire, I believe.’

She nodded and scribbled. ‘Next…’ she said.

It was long past dark by the time she had finished. We had spent much time discussing what had happened to me, going through the options which were always in the back of my mind, tormenting me at quiet moments. What was I? The result of some bizarre experiment? If so, by whom – or what?

I had carefully omitted all mention of my involvement with security and the attempts on my life, explaining away my move to the military base as a result of an intelligence warning that unspecified groups were planning to kill me. True enough – and they were plenty of them to choose from if their internet publicity was to be believed. Otherwise, I had willingly answered her questions about my humdrum life.

‘Why do you do it?’ She asked. ‘With your talents, you could be a millionaire, living in luxury on a yacht in Monte Carlo or something, dominating the jet-set. Instead, you’re cooped up here as if you’re a prisoner.’

I shrugged. ‘You’ve just seen why. There’s no greater buzz than turning pain and misery into happiness. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do. Fancy food and drinks are useless to me, and since my accident, I’ve found everything else superficial. And while my security is at risk, it’s better for myself and my patients that I should stay in a secure environment.’

She spread her arms wide in incomprehension. ‘You could travel round the world, curing people. You’d have a hero’s welcome wherever you went.’

I laughed. ‘Not quite. An awful lot of people would like to see me dead. And it’s more efficient for the patients to come and see me.’

‘There’s a big appeal going on in the USA to bring you over there for a visit.’

‘No thanks. Too many religious nutters after my scalp, for a start. And while I could deal with them, the lawyers are a different matter. As far as I can judge from scanning the websites, a fair slice of the population consists either of lawyers, or of people who want to hire lawyers to sue me. They don’t always seem to know what for, but they’re sure they’ll think of something.’

Sophie’s infectious grin flashed across her face and I suddenly realised that I was beginning to like her – a lot.

I looked out of the window at the darkness outside. The hotel bus had long since gone, and nothing was moving. The military had obviously decided it was best to leave me alone for the time being.

‘You seem to be stuck here, unless you fancy a walk of several miles along country roads.’

That saucy grin again. ‘Boy oh boy, when did you first use that one? It was old before I was born!’

I laughed freely, a sudden release of tension. Suddenly, I wanted to keep this young woman with me for as long as possible. I realised that I had been completely starved of any sort of normal human contact, and she was like a lush oasis in an arid, barren desert.

‘There’s a spare room upstairs. You can have my bedclothes – I never use them.’

She slipped out of her chair and walked slowly towards me, swaying her hips slightly, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘That’s no way to treat a lady.’

‘What lady?’

She was suddenly pressed against me, arms around my neck. ‘You started something with me,’ she said softly, ‘and I’ve been waiting for months for you to finish it.’

My mind was filled with the sight and smell and feel of her, and the enveloping warmth of her mind. I picked her up, and headed for the stairs.

I woke unusually late, puzzled for an instant until I sensed the mind next to mind, still deep in sleep. I turned and looked down at Sophie, sprawled across the bed, auburn hair tumbled over her face. I thought of the night, slowly savouring the memory. It had been the first time for me since my accident, the first time I had made love with the powerful intensity of mental contact and feedback, always knowing what she wanted, gradually stimulating her, my mind saturated with her intense pleasure. Only total exhaustion had eventually stopped us and dropped us into sleep.

I slid off the bed and walked over to the window. The pale blue of an early summer dawn, the eastern sky striated with clouds. Behind me, I sensed her wake. I turned and looked at her as she drowsily sat up. She looked back at me, her mischievous smile gradually spreading across her face.

‘Well sir, you’ve test-driven the new model, what do you think of her?’

I considered that for a moment. ‘Smart styling and great performance, but what about reliability?’

‘Comes with a lifetime guarantee.’

‘Great. What about servicing?’

‘Ah, this model needs that every day.’ She laughed and held out her arms.

Much later, we lay entangled together, spent and breathless. ‘This is not good.’ I mumbled. ‘I have no energy at all left for patients today.’

I felt her chuckle. ‘You’re forgetting – it’s Sunday. Your one and only day off, right?’

I raised my head and grinned blearily at her. ‘Right.’ I said, and reached for her again.

4

When we finally went downstairs, I was somehow not surprised to see Richards sitting in the waiting room, sipping a cup of tea. He smiled wryly as we appeared.

‘You must be Miss Reynolds I presume. May I be the first to offer congratulations?’

Sophie curtsied ironically. ‘Thank you, kind sir. And you are?’

‘My name is Richards. From the Home Office.’

Sophie took a shot in the dark. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be the well-dressed gentleman seen with Cade by Tower Bridge, would you?’

Richards looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I am prepared to answer various questions, but only if you first sign this.’ He pushed a piece of paper at her. I could see that it was headed “Official Secrets Act.”

She glanced at it. ‘But if I sign that, I won’t be able to write anything about it.’

‘I’m afraid that rather goes with the territory. You have to decide, now, whether you are in or out. If you are in, you will learn what is going on but will only be able to write that which I first approve. You will also be the first to know when any news is released. If you stay out, you will learn nothing from me, and should you discover anything your editor may still be required not to publish in the interests of national security.’

Sophie thought hard for a long minute, clearly reluctant to trammel her journalistic freedom. The she reached a decision. ‘I wouldn’t want to publish anything that affected national security. And I’m limited in what I can publish about Cade anyway, since last night. In a way, I’m already “in”. OK, I’ll sign it.’ She pulled out a pen, sat down and scribbled her signature on the document. ‘My first article about Cade won’t concern any security issues – it will be based on yesterday’s interview in which he told me precisely nothing about what’s going on, you’ll be pleased to hear. Now, what is it that you won’t allow me to print?’

Richards briefed her on the events of the past few weeks; my visit to London as ‘witchfinder’, the two attempts on my life, the operations against the terrorists. Sophie was astonished. ‘There was a bomb in that van?’

‘Yes. Big enough to flatten a considerable area. It appears he was planning to detonate it in the middle of Tower Bridge – a very visible national symbol. It would have put the bridge out of action for a long time.’

Sophie sat back and puffed her cheeks out in thought. ‘When are you planning to release the news about the attempted attacks?’

‘Not just yet. The organisers of the attacks still have no idea what happened. As far as they’re concerned, their men have just disappeared. No explosions, no word from them, no police activity. They will be completely baffled. Two of the men have already responded to Cade’s treatment. They have promised to work for us in return for British citizenship. We are now putting together the details of an operation to reinsert these men into the organisation with a credible cover story which we can arrange to substantiate. It will, of course, cast the cell leaders as traitors.’

‘Then what?’

‘We keep them there until we’ve learned as much as we can. Then we roll up that organisation, and with Cade’s help turn some of their men and reinsert them into the next level, and so on.’

This was the first I’d heard of it, but I had to admire the ruthless logic.

Sophie turned to me. ‘Cade, how did you come to be involved with this? I thought all you wanted to do was to heal people.’

‘True enough, but preventing them from being damaged in the first place is even better, and with the threat of two massive bombs due to be detonated here, I really had no choice.’

Richards looked at her. ‘You could actually be a positive help to us.’

She looked wary. ‘Don’t forget I’m a journalist, believe it or not with some scruples. I’m not going to write anything I know to be false.’

Richards steepled his hands and smiled benignly at her. ‘Well, it won’t be exactly false. It’s just that a report to say that several members of a terrorist organisation have been arrested along with bomb-making equipment might be helpful, along with a hint that the arrests were possible because of a high-level tip-off within the organisation, and that two other men are believed to have escaped the net and are still being sought by the authorities. That sort of thing. Once you’d published it we’d come out with a suitably reluctant and guarded confirmation, and issue photofit pictures of the men we still want to interview.’

‘Which will be your two stooges, except that the photofits won’t look quite like them.’

He winced ‘Quite.’

Sophie sighed. ‘All right then, I can see the need. I’ll just have to remember to carry a long spoon with me when I meet you in future!’

Sophie’s articles hit the press on two separate days. The first was about her interview with me, which was suitably anodyne. The only real news was that I had taken the opportunity to launch a torpedo at those who were exploiting the gullible in my name, by releasing my own philosophy. Sophie had rather pompously dubbed it “The Three Principles of Cade” but the text was exactly as I had given it to her:

There are three key principles which should be followed in life: respect others; respect the environment; and respect yourself.

Respect other people, regardless of sex, age, nationality, culture or beliefs. Treat them as you would like to be treated yourself. If they abuse your trust, then ignore them. If they attack you or other innocent people, then act proportionately in defence.

Respect the environment, in large and small ways. Try to ensure that the world you leave to your successors is better than it is now. Wherever you go, ensure that when you leave, the place is at least no worse, and preferably better, than when you arrived.

Respect yourself. Look after the health and fitness of your mind and your body. Always remain willing to learn. Avoid behaviour which would cause you shame if it became public. Ignore all those who try to interpret these principles for you; make up your own mind about how to apply them, and live accordingly.

Sophie had been dubious. ‘Bit motherhood-and-apple-pie-ish isn’t it?’

‘Yep. That’s the whole point; it’s the KISS principle – keep it simple, stupid! Up to now, the public have had little or no idea what kind of person I am or what I believe in – only what I don’t believe in. This is simple enough to be easily understood by anyone, and inoffensive enough that my religious opponents will have some trouble making anything of it. And put that last sentence in bold – it’s the key to knocking the exploiters on the head.’

The article about the terrorists, which appeared a couple of days later, was carefully distanced from the first as we didn’t want any reference to my involvement to appear – although as events were to prove, someone made the connection. Richards duly followed up with his press release, and Sophie’s journalistic stock went up another notch.

Every week she worked at her job – helped by a steady trickle of information from Richards – while I healed my patients, but at the weekends she came to me.

Several weeks later, Richards sent a car for me after my patients had left. It was now allegedly summer, the daylight hours spreading well into the evening, so I was thankful for the dark-tinted windows as we crawled through London. A few sudden changes of direction, a little interference run by another security vehicle, a quick bit of last-minute deception and I was in Richards’ lair once more.

He had thoughtfully provided a bottle of my favourite spring water – you have no idea what subtle flavours there can be in water unless you drink nothing else – and was looking immoderately pleased with himself.

‘So far so good. Our “stooges”, as your delightful inamorata calls them, are back in the fold and keeping us informed. We’re now ready for phase two.’

‘Knocking out the next level?’

‘That’s it.’ He looked approvingly at me. ‘The organisation has moved a senior man to London to try to re-establish their cells – after the “betrayal”, they don’t really trust anyone who was here. We know there are now six of them altogether, plus our two, we know who they are, where they live and where they meet. We can pick them up at any time.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘Timing is all. And we must do it in such a way that we secure them before they have a chance to kill themselves. They are all armed, and very wary. If we just went up and gave their front doors a “heavy knock” as usual, they would either open fire or blow themselves up. Which would mean that their organisation would immediately know what had happened. So we must take them quickly and silently.’

‘I feel that you are at last arriving at the reason you called for me.’

Richards beamed at my perspicacity. ‘How right you are. It has not been unremarked that you have a certain talent for moving quickly and silencing people instantly. The fact that you know exactly where people are, even in the dark, is also a big help. I’m sure that you can pull this off and thereby avoid much risk to the security people and of course any members of the public who may become caught up in this.’

‘No doubt.’ I sighed, the sound of inevitability. ‘Where are they then?’

Two days later I was back in London. It had been decided that it was too risky for me to try to get at them in their flats (too many locks on their reinforced doors, according to their “postman”), and also to try to take them when they were all together (six at once would be long odds, considering they were all armed). That left the few minutes while they were moving from their flats to their meeting place in the apartment occupied by two of them – fortunately, one of them being one of our “stooges”. A meeting had been scheduled for tonight.

They lived in pairs at varying distances from the apartment and we could not be sure exactly when each pair would start to move, so their interception would have to be carefully choreographed. At my suggestion, I was mounted on the pillion of a motorbike as being the fastest way to reach them all. It had the additional benefit that I could be completely covered by leathers, a helmet and a mirror-finish visor. The only unusual detail was that the very tips of the gauntlets had been snipped off, to ensure that my fingers obtained a good contact.

The meeting was due to take place at 22.00 hours. By 21.40 I was in place on the back of the bike, waiting. Each flat was staked out, and my helmet concealed a miniature radio.

‘Target Alpha, both leaving now,’ the headphones crackled abruptly. The engine roared into life, and I squeezed the rear handgrips as the bike took off.

‘Target one wearing black leather jacket, brown combat trousers, dark blue baseball cap. Target two a brown leather jacket, black jeans, black baseball cap.’

Not fashion victims then, I thought irrelevantly. The bike had been stationed close to the flat furthest from the apartment, on the reasonable assumption that they would leave first, so we soon caught up with them. The leather jackets loomed into view, gleaming in the streetlights. The motorcycle cruised smoothly up behind and I scarcely had to slip off the saddle in order to reach out and touch their necks. Immediately behind came a paramedic vehicle, which screeched to a halt, a couple of uniformed men leaping out and bundling the prostrate men onto stretchers before loading them into the back as we sped away to the next target.

The motorcycle stopped at a pre-selected place, close to but out of sight of the next furthest flat. There was a long pause, before the radio crackled into life again.

‘Target Gamma moving now.’

Not the pair we had expected to move next. It would take a quick chase across the streets to reach them before they arrived at the apartment. The bike roared into life again and accelerated rapidly after the new targets. As it went straight past “Flat Beta” I gave it a quick scan to check if they were intending to move soon. What I discovered shocked me.

‘This is Lover’ – I cringed inwardly at the code name Richards had sardonically bestowed – ‘Flat Beta is empty, repeat empty.’

A few seconds of silence, then Richards started to speak before being suddenly interrupted.

‘This is Para 1 – warning! The patients were wearing fall alerts.’

‘Fall whats?’ Richards’ voice was impatient but I felt a faint chill of premonition – I had seen such devices on some of my patients.

‘Fall alerts. They’re meant for the elderly. If someone falls over and doesn’t get up for a while, they send an automatic distress signal.’

Another silence while we grappled with the shocking implications. Then Richards again. ‘They were expecting us. They must have turned or broken one of our stooges.’

‘They’ve jumped into a taxi!’ The cry came from the agent trailing the Gamma pair. His car roared forwards to pick him up, and our motorcycle leaped ahead with a burst of speed but the timing of the terrorists had been carefully calculated. By the time the taxi was spotted, the passengers had fled.

‘Flat Decca, now!’

We converged on the venue for the meeting, one of the men carrying a strange rod-like instrument which he pressed against the door. ‘Stand clear!’ A loud “bang” followed and the door swung open, the lock shattered by the blast of some kind of specialised gun. We piled into the flat and found only one man – one of our stooges, very dead, very horribly.

Richards cursed through his teeth. ‘Our other man was in Flat Beta. We’d better get over there.’

None of us wanted to rush, and we found what we feared. We gathered in shock in a room in Flat Beta, out of sight of the body.

Richards was as grim as Death himself. ‘Somehow they got onto one or other of our men, and “persuaded” him to talk.’ He looked at me. ‘One of them must have seen you when you knocked them out. He must have told the others about you, and they reasoned what you could do.’

‘I should have gone round the flats beforehand, scanned them all. I would have picked this up.’

‘No point in labouring it. They were all right yesterday, and everything seemed to be in hand. The question is, what are they up to now?’

I tried a pillion scan of the area, but picked up nothing. They must have travelled far away, as quickly as possible. Two of them, in the flats containing the bodies, had probably left the night before. Where had they gone?

There was nothing we could do to salvage the disaster, so I went back to the base, feeling depressed and dirty, as if I had been soiled by the deaths. I didn’t have to wait long to find out what the two men had been up to.

The phone rang and I picked it up. The sound of the soft voice raised my spirits – before they tumbled into shock and horror as I listened to her words. She was trying to be brave, but I could sense her terror. I listened numbly as the man told me precisely what to do, and what would happen if I did not.

I stood for a long time with my mind in turmoil, then made my decision and called Richards.

‘They’ve got her.’

Stunned silence for a moment. ‘Is she alright?’

‘For now.’

‘They must have found out about the two of you somehow – possibly her articles gave them the idea.’

‘Whatever. It hardly matters now.’

‘What do they want?’

‘You – or to be precise, your death. I expect that’s just for starters.’

‘So I take it you don’t intend to deliver.’

‘What’s the point? We both know they’d keep using me for as long as possible. Then they’d kill her anyway, and me too, and if I wasn’t dead already.’

‘Very well. What do you want me to do?’

‘I need an aircraft – one with a decent range. I’m more sensitised to Sophie than anyone else and I can normally pick her up many miles away. But I can’t sense her now. In an aircraft, I could scan a lot of ground at high speed. It’s the best chance I’ve got of finding her.’

‘Very well. A helicopter will pick you up from the base within the hour. It’ll take you to an airfield. Anything else?’

‘I’ll call you if I think of anything.’

The Army Gazelle took me to RAF Northolt where a twin-jet BAe 125 of 32 Squadron, Transport Command, was waiting. I had scanned constantly en route, but detected no sense of Sophie. The pilot was in the cabin, studying plans. He greeted me politely and restrained his obvious curiosity about me, and about the top-level pull which had put his plane at my disposal.

‘Which areas do you want me to cover?’

‘London first, then spiralling radially outwards if there’s nothing there.’

He pursed his lips. ‘OK, but it’ll take a bit of arranging. We’ve the flightpaths for Heathrow and City airports to consider, and if we go further out we’ll run into Gatwick and Stanstead traffic as well. Fortunately, it won’t be so bad at this time of night. I’ll get in touch with Air Traffic Control.’

He left me and entered the cockpit. There was ample space in the seven-seat interior and there was nothing else I could do, so I made myself comfortable and waited.

Ten minutes later he returned briskly. ‘Right, we’re on our way. We’ll be taking off in a couple of minutes.’

The little passenger jet banked steeply after taking off and headed back into London. I shut down my five normal senses as much as possible, then opened my other sense to the full.

The steady mental roar of London’s millions was indescribable. Imagine the noise from a thousand heavily-trafficked motorways side by side and you might begin to grasp the scale. I was instantly afraid – picking one mind out of that seemed impossible.

Then I forced myself to calm and thought of Sophie. I thought of her sharp wit, her laughter, her saucy grin. I thought of the taste of her mind, the warmth and ironic humour, the keenness and intelligence. And how she responded to me. Then I held that pattern and scanned for my life, and hers.

The minutes ticked by, stretched into an hour. We had been following an irregular path around London, repeatedly changing altitude and direction to avoid the airliners lumbering like giant geese in to land, or clambering up into the sky. The roar in my head had retreated into a bland white noise, hissing against my mind. All of it unfamiliar. She was not in London.

I felt the plane turn again as the pilot began the outward spiral. One hour turned into two, then three. I became numb with despair, desperately trying to suppress the fears howling into the dark, to concentrate on the scan. The constant effort took its toll and I fell into a semi-conscious state, a corner of my mind still filtering, assessing.

When contact came, it was so faint that it scarcely registered. Then I was out of my chair and into the cockpit before I was fully awake. ‘Turn the plane – to the right!’

The pilot complied, and the signal strengthened.

‘Where are we?’

He checked the map display. ‘Approaching Leicester.’

I waited tensely, making a minor correction to our course, then we were directly overhead. ‘Mark this point on GPS!’

‘Got it.’

‘I need to land as close as possible, and to have a car waiting for me.’

‘The closest is a commercial airport, Nottingham East Midlands. I’ll get onto it.’

The next half hour was a torture of waiting. I held the thread linking me to Sophie for as long as I could, until it became so thin I wasn’t sure if it was still there, or was just a wish, a memory.

At the airport an unmarked car was waiting, driven by a rather grumpy Special Branch officer whom I assumed had abruptly been wakened from a sound sleep. We sped down the M1 towards Leicester as the sky lightened with dawn. I had sensed that she was being held in the northern part of the city, so we turned off at Junction 22 to take the long, dual-carriageway A50 through Groby. As we entered Leicester I felt the thread strengthening, firming up. I had her now!

A few more turnings and we were getting very close. As we entered the street I felt the tension and excitement rising and forced myself to be calm. I said nothing to the driver as we went past the house, but noted the number. I asked him to turn off at the next junction and stop.

‘They’re in house number twenty-seven. All four of the terrorists are together, asleep, in two rooms upstairs. The hostage is in a third room, also upstairs. I’m going in now. Call reinforcements, but they are to arrive silently and stay out of sight until needed. Keep away from the house yourself – if any of them wakes and looks out of a window, I don’t want him to see anything that wasn’t there before.’ The driver acknowledged and I left the car.

The street was probably interwar, the small rear gardens of the old red-brick town houses backing onto a traditional alleyway. I sprinted silently along this until I was behind number 27. It was surrounded by a high wall, and the gate to the garden was locked.

Apart from swimming, I had never given much thought to the dramatic improvements in my strength and fitness since the accident, but I was grateful for them now. I flowed over a wall which would have completely defeated me a year ago, and glided silently up the back of the house. Windows of two of the bedrooms were visible. I could sense that Sophie was in the right hand one, but the window was closed. Two of the terrorists were in the left hand room, and its window was slightly open.

The high wall extended from the back of the rear garden up to join the left side of the house. I climbed on top of the wall and stood at the same level as the window, a few feet to one side. I took a deep breath, and launched myself across the gap. I caught the sill, and hung there for a moment, then raised myself up and checked the window latch. It was a side-hinged, outwards-opening, steel-framed window, on a simple latch which I could easily reach. I couldn’t see into the room – the curtains were drawn.

Hanging on with one hand, I slowly raised the latch arm from the frame, pulled it towards me, and left it dangling outside the room. Then I took another breath and pulled the window wide open. The hinges screeched loudly.

A drowsy voice spoke as I threw myself through the window, bursting through the curtains into the room. Two single beds were side by side, across my path. The first man never woke as I touched him in mid-air, but the wakener got out a strangled shout before my hurtling body reached him.

I threw myself off him and wrenched the door open, dashing into the hallway as the door to a front bedroom was opening. I flung myself at that, dropping the man as he emerged, but his partner was out of bed and the ugly snout of a sub-machine was swinging towards me. One last leap as the muzzle started flashing a stuttering flame and then he was down and so was I, the bullets hammering through me. I tried to stop the damage but my sight greyed out and I collapsed unconscious.

I became aware of Sophie first of all. As I swam back into the light of consciousness my new sense opened first and she was there, her warmth flowing over me. I reached for her and held her, beginning to absorb her feel, her scent and finally the glorious sight of her, smiling and unharmed, as I finally opened my eyes.

Richards discreetly waited a few minutes before he entered the room and sat down on the other side of my bed. I looked around and recognised yet another hospital room.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Wonderful!’

‘I meant physically.’

I paused to check my physical state. Not too good. There were no obvious injuries, but I felt weak and tired. ‘Not good. About the same as I always used to feel up to a year ago.’

‘You continue to amaze us. These were found under your body. It seems that they made their own way out.’ He handed me four bullets, their brass-coloured jackets grooved by rifling.

‘My body is a quick learner.’

‘Yes, you have no remaining signs of injury, but even so you were lucky. The Special Branch man heard the gunshots and, rather recklessly, decided to go in rather than waiting for reinforcements. He found you down and out, losing blood fast – one bullet had cut an artery. He was able to staunch the worst of the flow, which it seems gave your body time to recover and repair itself. Although if a normal man had taken such wounds, he would have been dead before help could arrive.’

‘Then he came into my room and untied me.’ Sophie added. ‘I was going mad with worry – I guessed that the shooting meant that you had arrived.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘I never doubted that you would – even if you did take your time about it!’

‘We now have four more captives, including the new leader. Would you mind de-brainwashing them? Even if they won’t agree to go back in the field for us, a change in their attitude might be helpful.’

I sighed, rather reluctant. ‘All right, and I want to see that Special Branch man to thank him personally. But then we need a break.’

‘No problem!’ He said cheerfully. ‘We actually have a place for you both, very remote, so you can recover in peace.’

He was right. The “place” turned out to be an isolated wooden chalet on the Essex coast. It was built just on the landward side of a sea wall, close to an estuary, giving a view from the veranda of the North Sea stretching to the horizon. The wall sloped down to a narrow sandy beach. In contrast, the estuary was surrounded by mudflats formed of river deposits, covered at high tide. The chalet was reached only by a long, narrow road between the drained pasturelands, little more than a track, with the nearest village so far away it was out of sight. We were entirely alone.

It was now full summer and the weather was kind. Day after day dawned bright and clear, the huge sky making the landscape seem small-scale and insignificant. The chalet had been well-stocked with necessities, so we had nothing to do except relax and enjoy ourselves.

We would walk each day along a path beside the estuary, becoming familiar with the way its appearance and cycles of activity varied with the tide. At low tide, the mudflats teemed with birds. The home contained some guides to the wildlife so we tried to identify as many as we could. The various gulls were easy enough to spot (although we had to learn to distinguish the more slender terns), as were the black-white-and-brown shelducks, filtering the surface mud with their orange beaks. The smaller brown birds scurrying about were more of a challenge.

We also walked along the beach, noting the different bird life and what the sea cast up on the shore. The strange, black, pillow-like fish egg cases were frequently washed up, as were the long, narrow razor shells and the coiled whelk shells. Odd bits of well-worn driftwood were common and so, sadly, were the indestructible plastic remnants of our throw-away society.

Of course, I could not resist the sea. I felt it drawing me from the first day we arrived and was soon swimming far out each day, until the sea wall was just a line on the horizon with the chalet a small bump. Sophie came with me sometimes – she was a good swimmer and there were fins and snorkels in the chalet, but she could not keep up and anyway found the water too cold to stay in for long.

I especially loved diving down to the sea bed and cruising just above it. It was mostly rippled sand, with the occasional stony outcrops liberally covered with molluscs and seaweed. Crabs and shrimps scurried away from my shadow, fish darted past, and sometimes the sand erupted as a flatfish decided I had come too close and broke cover to swim away. Occasionally I would sense more complex life and find a seal – each of us examining the other with curiosity. I realised that I could detect the presence of animal minds and, with the more intelligent species, even gain some feeling for their mood.

The sea seemed to have a healing effect on me – not just physically, but psychologically. It was like a giant, cool, womb, a place to immerse my mind as well as my body.

We also talked – a lot. I learned about Sophie’s world, the way in which her perspective on life had become channelled into assessing all information for its potential as a news item. Her reaction to that was to escape into poetry, rather surprising me with her preference for the Romantics. As she pointed out, she needed their innocent idealism as an antidote to the murk she normally had to delve in.

It seemed that there was nothing about me that she didn’t want to know. I found myself explaining about my reaction against my religious upbringing, the constant rivalry and arguments with Luke and, more awkwardly, my inability to maintain relationships for very long: I had never married, and none of my girlfriends had lasted for more than three years. I picked up the impression that she was determined to change that pattern. She even did her best to become interested in the library of jazz music I had brought with me.

One day Sophie was in a more than usually contemplative mood, and was clearly trying to hide something from me. ‘Out with it,’ I commanded jokingly.

‘Well, I’m not certain yet, but I think I might be pregnant.’

I gaped at her for a second. ‘But that’s impossible – I had a vasectomy long ago!’

‘Perhaps that’s something else that got repaired.’

I placed my hand on her abdomen and scanned. Nothing approaching a mind was detectable, but there was definitely something unusual about her womb. I looked at her in wonder. ‘I think you might be right!’

‘Do you mind?’

I thought about that. The paternal instinct had passed me by and I had never contemplated having children, but I now felt confusion. ‘I’ll have to get used to that idea!’ I joked, privately wondering what kind of baby my new genes might produce.

‘Oh, you will!’ She snuggled up to me confidently.

It was an idyllic time, and days flowed into weeks without us noticing. There was a radio but we never turned it on. There was a phone but it never rang, and we never used it. There was no post, no papers. Of course, it could not last.

I woke in the night, feeling uneasy. My thoughts immediately went to Sophie lying next to me, but she was fast asleep. I scanned around the house, but could find nothing wrong. Puzzled, I got up and went over to the windows, quietly sliding them open so I could walk out onto the veranda. I looked out to sea, but it was a moonless night and the stars were covered with a thin layer of cloud, so even my eyes could detect little.

Then I let my special sense flow outwards – and it recoiled. Three groups of four men, each group in a small inflatable boat, were paddling for the shore. Further out I could sense more men, probably in the larger craft which had brought them. Their minds were bright with excitement, with lethal ferocity. And they were coming for me.

I moved swiftly back into the house. ‘Sophie, wake up and put some clothes on. Now.’ She didn’t argue but got up immediately. I went into the living room and picked up the phone to dial an almost forgotten number. It was answered instantly, and I briefly described what was happening, then rang off.

Sophie was now ready – and the boats were close to the shore. I whispered an explanation as we crept out of the back of the house, and ran as fast as we could along the road. There was no obvious cover except for drainage ditches beside the road, and we dived down into one when I sensed that the first of the men was climbing up the sea wall.

Their attack on the chalet was fast and well coordinated. Grenades were hurled through the windows, shattering the structure with fragments, then some of the men charged into the building, bursts of fire hammering from their weapons. There was a pause of a couple of minutes before they re-emerged, turning back to throw what must have been thermite grenades; the chalet burst into flames. In the light of the fire I could see that they were all carrying guns, and had odd bulges on their foreheads – night vision equipment, I realised. Then they started looking for us.

We were close to a bridge over the ditch, which provided an access from the road onto the farmland. In fact, it wasn’t so much a bridge as a tubular concrete pipe with earth piled on top. I pushed Sophie into the pipe and then moved back towards the men. I had to attack, or they would soon find us anyway.

The men had spread out, two groups of four running in opposite directions along the sea wall, searching the land below. The third group came straight along the road towards me, looking in the ditches on either side as they came.

I moved to meet them, as close as I dared, and then submerged in the shallow ditch, instinctively adjusting my skin colour to match the muddy water. I waited until I sensed them going past, then surfaced and slipped onto the road, racing silently after them.

The first two fell as I touched them and their weapons clattered on the ground. The others spun round – one was too slow and already falling before he completed his move, but the other opened fire.

I dived to one side as the muzzle flashes split up the night, then bounced up again and touched him. By then, the other groups had turned back and were racing along the bank towards the road.

I picked up a weapon, which I recognised as a type of Kalashnikov, and swung the gun into the aim, noting that it had an optical sight with an illuminated aiming mark. I placed the mark just in front of the first running man and pulled the trigger. The man dropped immediately, but the muzzle flipped upwards with the recoil so I corrected my aim, held the gun more firmly and fired again.

I wasn’t sure how many I had hit but it wasn’t enough, and the others had taken cover on the seaward side of the wall. I realised that I was totally exposed and slid back down into the ditch, just as the return fire crackled the air around me.

A bright flash followed from behind the wall, and a streak of fire shot towards me. I ducked as the rocket-propelled grenade detonated on the road a few yards away. I sensed movement behind the wall and suddenly realised that they were getting in line with the ditch so they could fire directly along it. I rolled rapidly across the road and into the opposite ditch as the next grenade streaked along the ditch before detonating.

I felt a flash of agony from Sophie and in rage and desperation reached out with my mind to the men behind the sea wall and wrenched. There was a sudden silence and stillness, in which I became dimly aware of a distant throbbing, growing rapidly louder. A bright searchlight flicked on, spearing through the night and sweeping down over the scene. I raced to the bridge and dropped into the ditch, then realised the terrible truth. The second rocket-propelled grenade had hit the bank just in front of the pipe, blasting a lethal shower of fragments down it. I pulled out Sophie’s torn and bloodied body and held her in my arms, frantically seeking with all my senses for any sign of life, any chance of revival. There was nothing.

As I held her, a flash illuminated the sky above the wall, followed by a loud explosion. I scarcely noticed at the time, and only later realised that helicopter had flown on and destroyed the “mother craft”.

Time passed as I stood there blindly, just holding her, my mind a raw and endless scream tearing into the night. After a while I became aware that someone was speaking to me, and that the area was illuminated by car headlights. It was Richards, speaking the conventional words.

‘Cade, I’m terribly sorry.’ He was, too. But there was more than just sorrow in his mind – there was something else. Numb as I was with too much emotion, I didn’t realise at first what I was picking up, then it gradually dawned on me. It was guilt.

I turned and looked at him. ‘Richards, did you know about this attack?’

‘No,’ he said quickly. That was right in a way, too, but there was again something more.

‘You knew something, though, didn’t you?’ I focused on him and realised with growing horror what had happened. ‘You told them where we were!’

‘We had you covered!’ He said desperately. ‘It was the only way to find this new group, to make them come out into the open. They couldn’t resist going for you as a target. I thought they would come by road and we had that covered – they should never have got near you!’

I carefully laid Sophie’s body onto the road, then straightened up and looked at Richards. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I suddenly, instinctively, reached out with my mind and touched him, and then I turned and raced away, back towards the sea wall, ignoring the shouts from the other men.

I sprinted past the burning wreckage of the chalet, jumped over the contorted bodies lying behind the wall, their teeth gleaming in a rictus of terror and pain, and ran down towards the beach. The tide was in, the water lapping gently nearby, the ripples reflecting the lightening eastern sky as dawn approached. I plunged into the sea, wading fast until it was deep enough to swim, then settled into a long, steady stroke, letting my mind drift away as my body worked to take me away from the land, away from everything.

BOOK 2: SAURIANA

5

Time passed, unmeasured and unnoticed. I almost entirely shut down my mind and just swam. For the first couple of hours, I occasionally became aware of a mental intrusion as the searching helicopter throbbed too close, but I just took a breath, matched my colouring to the sea and continued under the surface.

As the day brightened I spent an increasing amount of time underwater, just surfacing occasionally for air. I found the rippling sunlight streaming through the water utterly beautiful and I spent hours absorbed in the shifting patterns as I swam. A school of porpoises came by, circling around me with lively curiosity before flashing off at many times the speed I could achieve.

Days and nights cycled slowly, and still I swam tirelessly. There were usually some merchant ships visible on the horizon, and once one headed straight for me so I sank to the bottom and looked up as it passed overhead; the great shadow throbbing with diesel power, the large single propeller turning slowly enough to count the blades. Another time my path crossed that of a trawler and I had to manoeuvre to avoid the towlines dragging the huge, sack-shaped net along the bottom.

From all of that time I can recall no conscious thought. But I was intensely aware of everything around me; the flow of the tides, the patterns of waves from the shipping, the residual swell from far distant winds, the life teeming in the water, the traces of pollutants from human activities. In contrast, my own self-awareness seemed to diminish, to become just a dot in the huge sea.

Drinking didn’t seem to be a problem – my versatile body could apparently cope with seawater – and I ignored the growing pangs of hunger as pointless; there were no fruit or nuts in the sea.

The distance from Essex to the Continental coast is something like a hundred and fifty kilometres in a straight line, but the surging tides pushed me first one way, then the other, so my course was more of a zig-zag across the southern North Sea.

Eventually I became aware that the sea floor was slowly rising to meet the surface, and that a distant, rhythmical roar was becoming audible. The surface of the sea became more agitated, forming deep hollows reaching down to me, interspersed with peaks rising high above. The movement of the water picked me up and rushed me into the breakers until I was thrown onto harsh sand. I crawled up the beach until the sand became soft and dry and I felt the brush of vegetation against my skin. It was dark, and I curled up into a ball and slept for the first time in days.

I woke. The sun was high in the sky, and felt strong and hot. My skin had automatically shifted to a silvery colour on top to reflect the rays, and black underneath to radiate away the surplus heat. I sat up, my skin colour shifting to keep track, and looked around.

I was sitting in a hollow in some sand dunes, surrounded by the long tough leaves of the marram grass whose roots held the dunes together. I stood up to improve my field of view and the beach stretched away as far as I could see in either direction, punctuated by sand-trapping timber groynes marching into the placid waves. It was totally deserted apart from some distant figures, seemingly out walking, their dogs excitedly hurdling the groynes, faint barking breaking the silence.

I turned around and looked inland, seeing a flat landscape of pastureland dotted with black-and-white cows, not unlike the Essex coastlands I had left behind. A few farm buildings were visible in the middle distance. The sky was pale blue, dotted with cumulus clouds; a warm breeze was blowing.

Thinking started again, and memory returned.

I stood for a long time, absorbing and accepting the memories. My days in the sea had dulled the pain as if the seawater had washed through my mind, soothing and healing. I felt strangely different, rather detached, less emotional, perhaps even less human in consequence. The events of the past year seemed distant, like a half-remembered book I had once read. Only Sophie stood out clearly and I treasured the memory of her, but the agony had been replaced by a deep sadness, no longer dominating my thoughts. My mind shied away from the implications of the deaths of the men behind the sea wall, parked the incident for later consideration. As my thoughts settled I felt a new certainty about who and what I was, a calm determination. I also felt ravenously hungry!

After some thought I realised that the pattern of my life was likely to remain much the same, at least for the immediate future. I still wanted to use my power to heal the sick, and I required food. Opportunities to satisfy both needs were conveniently concentrated in hospitals.

I scanned the area, my mind sweeping like a searchlight, its sensitivity seemingly greater than before. I held in my thoughts the emotional pattern of a hospital – a large focus of weakness and helplessness, pain and hope, with a flavour unlike any other – and soon picked up the echo of a return. It was about ten kilometres away, on the other side of a small town. I began to walk, then found it more comfortable to fall into a smooth, flowing run.

The landscape unrolled beneath my feet as I headed in a straight line across the pastures, hurdling fences and wading or swimming across the ditches too wide to leap. The cows looked on in dull bovine wonder.

I ran steadily through the outskirts of the town and down its main street. It was a pretty town, cobbled streets and low brick buildings with red-tiled roofs, flats with balconies above the rows of shops and cafes. Bicycles were everywhere. People stopped and stared, briefly incredulous, their excited shouts trailing behind me like ripples after a boat. I realised that I must seem even more alien than usual – I was wearing only the swimming trunks I had pulled on in the chalet, the thick, padded scales on the soles of my bare feet making shoes as unnecessary to me as clothing.

The phones had evidently been buzzing, because as I left the town centre and approached the hospital some of the staff were already spilling out of the entrance, chattering in excitement. I slowed to a walk just as a tall and slender middle-aged woman moved through the crowd, her confident bearing reflecting a natural authority which left no doubt as to her position. I stopped in front of her and remembered how to smile.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said politely.

I felt her shift mental gears and realised that she had switched her thinking to English.

‘Good afternoon,’ she replied, then smiled wryly. ‘Your arrival is rather unexpected.’

‘But not, I hope, unwelcome.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed not! If you have come to help, we certainly have some patients you must see.’

‘Of course. However, if I am to be of any use to you, I first need something to eat!’

After working my way through half a fruit basket and a pile of assorted nuts I felt a little more human. I learned from the hospital manger that I had landed in the Netherlands, in the province of Groningen. Then I went to earn my food.

It was a small local hospital with only a few cases which I could cure, but I found I could do this more quickly and easily than before. It was as if my skill had become refined, more accurate and precise. I no longer needed to make physical contact with the patients, but could work easily from the end of their beds. I was also able to help various others by reducing their symptoms and pain. A young woman in the maternity ward took one shocked look at me and immediately started to give birth, so I stayed to ensure that she had an intensely enjoyable experience.

By the time I had finished, the first reporters had arrived and I was told that a TV crew was on the way. I had no interest in answering the obvious questions, so I left by a back entrance and once more started running easily across the fields. I had no specific destination in mind but decided to travel west, always staying close to the shore.

My days settled into a steady but bizarre rhythm. I usually ran in the daytime, preferably across fields to avoid the chasing packs of youths and puffing reporters who tried to catch up with me. When I reached rivers I ignored bridges and swam. In the evenings, or when the crowds grew too irritating, I turned back towards the coast and continued by sea. At night I came ashore and found a quiet place to sleep outdoors for a couple of hours or so – I needed no more. When I saw that I had to pass through a large urban or industrial centre, I waited until the middle of the night.

Every day or two I located a new hospital, ate, and helped those I could. Predicting my course had evidently become a popular obsession and the large crowds gathering near likely hospitals deterred me, so I stopped for long enough to tell a delighted reporter that if people wanted me to visit a hospital they should stay away. Low-flying press helicopters were also a nuisance so another lucky reporter was deputed to tell them to keep away, or I wouldn’t stop anywhere.

From the Netherlands I passed through Belgium (with a pang of regret for their wonderful beers) and into France. I must have been covering between 150 and 200 kilometres a day, but felt that I could keep up my steady pace forever. My body became leaner and harder, tuned for endurance. I revelled in the physical pleasure of running almost as much as in the more sensual delight of swimming.

I found that my journey was becoming an end in itself, a way of existence. My planning horizon stretched no further than the next twenty-four hours and I thought only of the ground to cover.

I had only a general knowledge of the geography of the Continental coast so was never quite sure what was going to come next. My travels took me past ports and industries, rows of seaside housing, raucous resorts with amusement arcades and rides, and beaches and cliffs punctuated by vast concrete bunkers left over from the Second World War, still glowering defiantly seawards.

My mind flowed slowly, detached from the physical task of running. I found that the improvements to my memory included the ability to replay jazz music faultlessly – if I had heard it once, I could recall it. At times I returned to the mystery of my transformation following the accident, how such changes could possibly have happened. It was an exercise in frustration; each time, my thoughts went round in a circle, caught in the logical bind between the lack of any possible mechanism I could imagine for such a transformation and the manifest fact that it had happened.

I thought of the past year, about all that had happened and what I might have done differently. Somehow, through a series of small steps each entirely logical and reasonable by itself, I had become drawn into becoming an agent of the security services – an idea I would have rejected out of hand at the start, and which had resulted in Sophie’s death. I remembered the saying that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Then I looked ahead, and tried to think about what I should do next. This was much more difficult; I was locked into a way of thinking. What I did best, the one unique service I could offer, was healing people; those with some specific ailments. It seemed that my whole life would be spent in visiting hospitals. I had no objection to the thought, or to the constant travel with which I recharged my mental batteries. I thought I might work my way around the world, running, swimming and healing forever.

The end of this strange interlude came in the early autumn, in a small hospital on the rural west coast of France. It was the only one in that area which was close to the sea, so it was a fairly safe bet that I would visit. After my usual meal (every hospital in the regions through which I passed must have had a supply of fruit and nuts on hand, just in case) I worked my way through assorted cases of paralysis and nervous disorder. I was about to leave when the English-speaking doctor who had been deputed to look after me (no doubt every hospital had one of those on standby, too) received a slip from a messenger and frowned.

‘Another one’s just arrived. An English paralysis case, come out here specially to see you.’

‘OK, wheel him in.’ He was duly wheeled in, in a wheelchair. I was still thinking about my last patient – an overworked housewife whose arms had been paralysed as a result of an hysterical reaction to her lot – concerned that I had cured the symptom and not the cause. I didn’t try to scan the new arrival until I turned to face him. It was Richards.

We looked at each in silence for a few seconds.

‘Hello Cade,’ he said neutrally, ‘you’ve lost weight.’

I remembered that I had only paralysed his limbs, leaving him free to speak.

‘What are you running from?’

I looked at him and found that I was the one who was speechless; I could think of nothing sensible to say. Richards looked almost sympathetic.

‘I’ve come because there’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘Another spy needing scanning?’ My voice sounded harsh, even to me.

‘No. He’s nothing to do with me, but I’ve been asked to introduce you.’

‘And you?’

He understood what I meant. ‘I’m not complaining. I deserved what you did. It was criminal negligence to let them get at you both.’ His tone and mood were both bitter with self-reproach.

I looked at him, and realised that I no longer felt angry. That had been washed away by the sea and my long journey, along with the other emotions which had been tearing me apart. I sighed and mentally touched him, releasing the paralysis lock. His breath hissed out slowly and I felt the pain, the intense pins-and-needles as the feeling poured back into his limbs. I shrugged and touched his mind again. He relaxed suddenly, with a long sigh of relief.

‘Don’t try standing up yet. You’ll be shaky for a while.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

He turned to the man who had been pushing his chair. ‘Would you ask Mr Yamamoto to join us please?’

The middle-aged man who entered the room was slim and immaculately dressed. His straight bearing and air of authority disguised his lack of height. He extended his hand and bowed. ‘Good morning, Mr Cade, I am very pleased to meet with you at last.’

His English pronunciation was very good, difficult for a Japanese, which suggested that he had learned the language in childhood.

‘Mr Yamamoto is the special representative of the Secretary-General of the United Nations.’

I looked at him with more interest. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘First I would like to bring greetings from the Secretary-General. He would have preferred to be here himself but was unable to get away.’

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, feeling distinctly sceptical. I could not imagine such a person travelling around the world to meet an itinerant freak.

‘I have come to ask you, on his behalf, to join us.’

I was puzzled. ‘Join who, exactly?

‘The Secretary-General’s team, as a special representative.’

I looked at him in astonishment. ‘Whatever for?’

He regarded me with a slight smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with the international news? No, I thought not. You may be surprised to learn that you are famous. In fact, you have become something of a sensation. Television coverage of your travels and your healings is broadcast around the world, every day. There are special programmes on you and many websites, speculating about who you really are, why you are running, what you are going to be doing next. Hundreds of millions of people follow your progress.’

I stood astonished, as Mr Yamamoto continued. ‘You have become something of a cult figure, especially among the young. There are frequent massed rallies of your followers in all parts of the globe.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I am told that the best-selling tee-shirt in the world has your three principles printed on it, and a substantial part of the world’s youth seems to know them by heart. There are even signs of changes in people’s behaviour as a result.’

I sat down, stunned out of my usual sense of detachment, trying to grapple with the incredible picture he was painting. He continued, gently. ‘Mr Cade, you are a person of immense influence, already a great force for good. I understand why you want to keep healing people, but if you worked with us you could improve the lives of far more people than you could ever meet individually. This may sound very corny, but I do not apologise for it; I am asking you to help make the world a better place.’

I looked at him blankly, trying to gather my thoughts. I scanned him and found nothing but sincerity and, to my astonishment, awe. ‘I’ll have to think about it, Mr Yamamoto. This has come as rather a shock.’

‘Of course. I will leave you now if I may? Mr Richards can convey any message to me.’ He bowed again and left.

I looked at Richards, who had a slight, ironic smile on his face. ‘All right, what’s this all about?’

He shrugged. ‘Pretty much what he said. Of course, they’re not being entirely altruistic. They’re hoping that having you on board would add greatly to the prestige and influence of the UN in general, and the Secretary-General in particular.’

‘So what would they expect me to do?’

‘You’d have to discuss that with them. However, I suspect that they’d like you to endorse some of their favoured policies, get public opinion on the side of the UN – especially in countries where the governments aren’t being very co-operative – maybe bring pressure on some of the less desirable regimes to mend their ways.’

I sighed heavily and tried to think about the implications. My travelling days suddenly seemed intensely appealing in their simplicity. ‘I’ll have to think about it over the next few days. For now, I’ll carry on as I am.’

So I carried on running. But it was not the same. Always at the back of my mind – and frequently at the front – was Mr Yamamoto’s request. As I neared the Spanish border I realised that I couldn’t put it off any longer. In Biarritz early one morning, I swam ashore, walked up the beach and into the lobby of a seafront hotel and requested permission to use their phone. The receptionist nodded shakily, too stunned to speak. I dialled the number and an operator instantly put me in contact with Richards. ‘All right, I’m prepared to discuss Mr Yamamoto’s offer in more detail. Can you put me in touch?’

‘I’ll do that. I expect they’ll want you to travel to New York to meet him.’

I grunted in annoyance. I suddenly realised that although I had flown many times in the past, I no longer wanted to seal myself up with hundreds of others in a metal container being hurtled through the atmosphere. ‘In that case, they’d better lay on a ship. I’ll only go by sea.’

To my astonishment, a Spanish warship was waiting in Santander to collect me. I was politely welcomed aboard the Santa Maria class frigate, which promptly set sail for New York. I gathered from the Captain that a visit to the USA for a joint training exercise had been planned anyway, so I wasn’t being given quite such favoured treatment as I had first thought.

A cabin was provided for my use and there were exercise machines to keep myself in shape, but there was of course no swimming pool. The Captain was under orders to get to his destination as quickly as possible, so I had some difficulty in persuading him to stop for an hour to let me swim.

When I plunged into the Atlantic it felt both familiar and strange. Familiar in the sensual freedom of planing down through the water, the salt taste in my mouth. Strange in the vast scale that I sensed; the great depths beneath me, with glimmers of life like lights flickering in the dark. A huge sperm whale thrust its body forwards a thousand metres below, a rising chirrup of sound as its sonar pinned the giant squid it fed on. Around it all there was a sense of slow movement and I realised that I was detecting the north-east flow of the Gulf Stream and, just at the edge of detection far below, the cold return flow from the Arctic to the Caribbean. My mind slowed to match the long rhythms of the ocean and I hung there, just absorbing.

When I reluctantly returned to the ship the efficient bustle of naval life seemed frantic and mechanical, irritating me and jarring my thoughts. I went to my cabin and spooled up my mind again, feeling a mixture of curiosity and concern about the effect the deep ocean had on me. It was like a drug that slowed my thoughts but expanded my perceptions, as if to match its own vast scale and huge, slow, rhythms.

I lay on my bunk, aware of all of the life around me. With a little concentration, I found I could locate and identify every member of the ship’s crew. They hung in my mind like little lights, some stationary, some moving, some asleep and dreaming, coloured by their various moods and emotions. I felt that I held them all cupped in my mental hands. The memory of the contorted bodies behind the sea wall jumped into focus and I hastily dismissed the thought and returned my mind to the everyday.

I had become conscious of the power which hummed through the ship, and with some effort was able to focus on it. The electrical circuits were raw energy, running like arteries and veins throughout the ship, powerful far beyond my ability to influence. I felt a severe headache building and quickly turned my mind away. With careful retuning, I found I could block out the power supplies and select only electronic circuitry. This was much weaker and more delicate, and I discovered I could trace its patterns, even influence its flow, although this took considerable effort and left me tired and with a dull throbbing in my head.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, the weather pleasant and the sea relatively calm, with only a long swell, the memory of a distant storm, to disturb the ship. I felt withdrawn from human contact, speaking to the crew only when necessary. At night my dreams were dominated by visions of the dark ocean depths, a vastness from which I slowly surfaced each morning.

New York was torture, of course. Long before the ship arrived I became aware of the thunderous mental roar gradually building up over the horizon. I had not felt comfortable in cities since my accident, and my recently enhanced sensitivity made the assault on my senses that much harder to bear. On top of that, the city’s mental signature seemed harsher, more frenetic than London’s. I spent the last hour of the journey building defences, shutting down as much of my mind as I could, so that I sensed only people close to me. By the time the ship docked I felt like an invalid, half deaf, half blind, and noticed nothing of the journey to the United Nations headquarters.

I was given some clothing; trainers, jogging pants and a soft, zip-up jacket, before being ushered into the presence.

The Secretary-General was courtesy itself, only his mental signature reflecting his intense curiosity. After some diplomatic pleasantries and generalities we agreed that I would explore with his staff possible ways in which I might be able to contribute to the work of the UN. He had nominated a liaison officer to work closely with me, and brought her in to introduce her before leaving. Her name was Freya Torsdottir, an Icelander. She was tall and lean, with a crop of short white-gold hair and the kind of uneven tan which is acquired the hard way, by spending much time out of doors. The laughter-wrinkles around her eyes crinkled up as we met. I judged her age to be around forty, though I find it very difficult to tell women’s ages these days.

‘A follower of the old religion?’ I teased.

She smiled slightly. ‘Not really, but my parents like the traditional names.’

‘Can we go somewhere else to talk?’

‘Where would you like?’

‘Iceland?’

She laughed. ‘That would be nice, but a sea trip might take a little time to arrange.’

‘Then I’d like to take a boat to somewhere quiet, away from the city.’

‘That we can do, today. If you’ll excuse me, I will go and arrange the details.’

“Somewhere quiet” turned out to be a secluded beach-front house on Long Island near Sands Point, facing west across Long Island Sound. There was a jetty for the fast motor cruiser which had brought us from Manhattan. It was early autumn but still hot, and sailboats skimmed past in the distance as we relaxed on the wooden veranda of the deceptively plain brick-built house which Freya told me was regularly used by the UN. Inside, it was considerably larger and more luxurious than it had first seemed.

Fruit, nuts and bottled water had all been in place by the time we arrived, and as I satisfied my hunger I found the mental tension caused by the raucous city easing, like a knot slowly unravelling. Only a handful of people were in close range, and I could allow my sensitivity to expand until it covered a wide area in detail. The security guard I detected by the front gate and the housekeeper inside the building had kept discreetly out of the way. The nearest neighbour was at least a hundred metres away, and New York was a distant murmur over the south-western horizon.

Freya finished demolishing her cold platter with enthusiastic thoroughness and raised a glass of mixed fruit juices. ‘Better?’

‘Much! You can book me in here whenever I have to visit the UN. I don’t want to go near New York again.’

She grinned. ‘I sympathise. I’d like to work out here too.’

‘So what comes next? What miracles am I supposed to perform?’

‘As you can imagine, we’ve given some thought to that, but didn’t want to come to any firm conclusions before seeing you.’ She settled back in the chair, bringing her hands together under her chin in what I was soon to realise was a characteristic posture whenever she was thinking carefully. ‘Basically, there are several different fields in which we are active, as is well known. Conflict resolution is one, humanitarian aid another, human rights a third. Of course, these are often interlinked; a conflict in Africa, for example, may lead to human rights abuses and result in famine and a huge refugee problem. We try to avoid or end such problems using diplomacy, sometimes send in troops to stabilise situations, and organise aid where it’s needed.’

‘And how effective do you think all that is?’

She grimaced, wrinkling her nose. ‘Not as good as it should be. We are often hindered by countries which have their own agendas and reasons for wanting us to move slowly or not at all. And we are perpetually short of money and other resources, because many countries are reluctant to provide what they are supposed to.’ She sighed. ‘And, if I am honest, we are like any other big, long-established bureaucracy. We are often slow to move, and much of our energy is absorbed by internal politics and careerism.’

‘So should I sort out the UN first?’

She gave a startled laugh. ‘’I’m not sure that’s what the Secretary-General has in mind. It might be interesting, though I fear you would be a – how do you put it? – a fox in a hen coop.’

I grinned. ‘I can imagine much clucking, flapping and flying of feathers, yes.’

She turned and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘You are not what I expected.’

‘Do tell.’

She hesitated. ‘I saw all of those TV reports showing you always running, expressionless, and I thought how alien you were, what a strange being you must be.’

‘Oh I am, I am all of that.’ I looked out to sea and saw a large sailboat with, I sensed, a family on board. I felt the sparks of their individual lives, their carefree joy together, and perversely a grim, harsh mood suddenly swept over me. ‘What would you say if I told you that I could kill everyone on that sailboat, this instant, without moving a muscle? And that I have done such a thing before?’

She was shocked into silence and sat staring at me. After a while she spoke, slowly. ‘I would say that you must have had very good cause. That you would not harm anyone as innocent as those.’ She gestured out to sea.

I relaxed a little, not aware until then how tense I had become. ‘You are right of course, I could not hurt them. You are also right that I had good cause.’ The desperate fury I had felt in that remote Essex lane came back to me then, and Freya gasped. I glanced down and saw that my skin was flaring crimson, as if I pulsed with rage. I consciously calmed myself down and the colour faded back to my normal dark purplish-green. I felt suddenly tired. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m inflicting this on you.’

She looked levelly at me. ‘When was the last time you sat and talked to someone, just for the sake of it?’

I fought my mind away from that Essex chalet. ‘Not since I left England.’

‘Everyone needs to talk. It’s what stops us all from going mad. It’s also what keeps the UN in existence.’

I laughed rather shakily. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s just that sometimes I’m scared by what I can do, what it might all be for. Well, if nothing else, you can be my counsellor!’

She laughed. ‘Tell me, have you ever been to Iceland?’

A timely change of topic and mood, I noted; she was good at her job. ‘Once, several years ago. There was a conference on geothermal power. But I had time to get out and see the usual touristy bits, at least those within easy reach of Reykjavik.’

‘That’s where I’m from. What did you think of it?’

‘Very neat and clean. The freshest air I’ve ever known in a city. Although I couldn’t get over all those four-by-fours trundling through the streets, with jacked-up suspensions and vast balloon tyres. They make Land Rovers look like shopping trolleys.’

‘Our national form of transport. They may look silly in town, but they’re essential to travel around the countryside in winter. They can even travel over deep snow, as long as it’s not too soft; nearly all the air is let out of those tyres so they spread out over the ground to reduce the pressure.’

I sighed. ‘Just what I feel like doing, sometimes.’ Our conversation turned back to the UN and its business and we talked until the sun set over the Sound, sending glittering reflections through the house.

Very early the next morning I ran to the sea and plunged in, swimming out as strongly as I could. My urge to exercise, to tire out my muscles had returned. At first, the water was shallow and disturbed, but after a while the floor fell away into deeper water. I slowed my stroke and angled down into the pre-dawn darkness, seeking out the slowing of consciousness which brought the calm of the deep. But the water depth was only thirty metres or so, and the ocean was too far away for me to sense, no more than a hint of it penetrating into the Sound. Disappointed, I turned for the shore and burned off my frustration at racing speed.

When I walked off the beach onto the lawn in front of the house, the sun was already warming my face and Freya was sitting on the terrace, polishing off her breakfast with evident relish.

‘You had me worried there,’ she said rather unconvincingly, ‘I thought a torpedo had been aimed at us.’

‘It was the sight of you eating – it reeled me in.’

‘Well, I’m glad you don’t eat the same food as I do. Otherwise I might have felt guilty about not leaving you any.’

‘I doubt that.’

She grinned. ‘All right, I lied.’

‘Where do you put it all?’

‘I’ve earned it – I had a swim, too. But you went far out of sight. If you want to get back to England, there are easier ways.’

‘I’m not that ambitious – the Azores will do.’

Freya wiped her mouth with her napkin and settled back in her chair while I ploughed through my usual fare. She looked at me thoughtfully over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Have you come to any conclusions now you’ve had a chance to sleep on it?’

‘A few. First of all, I don’t want to be a cog in a machine, a part of other people’s operations; it would be too constraining, and I suspect very frustrating. I want to focus on clearly defined operations which I can deal with myself. And I’m not interested in joining the UN staff. I’ll listen to requests but make my own decision about what to do. And all of my contacts with the UN will all be via you.’

‘Fair enough.’ She smiled sunnily. No doubt that would elevate her status in the UN’s turf battles. ‘You are regarded as such a hero, no-one’s going to argue with you.’

I snorted. ‘A much misused term. In my book, heroes are people who voluntarily put themselves at risk in order to help others. That leaves me out. Now, let’s talk about the possibilities.’

A day of discussions followed. I learned a lot more about the troubles of the world than I had previously gathered from casual news browsing of the current international crises. It seemed such a catalogue of disaster, grief, incompetence, short-sighted selfishness, prejudice, corruption and downright malice that it was difficult to work out where to begin. Even where governments were doing their best, the problems they faced often seemed insurmountable. In the poorest parts of the world, the joint pressures of population growth and declining natural resources presented impossible dilemmas which cash aid could not solve – even if it didn’t get siphoned off en route. At best, foreign aid staved off immediate famine and meant more people survived, but simultaneously developed a dependency on it, sometimes leading to farming being abandoned as unnecessary. Even those aid projects which recognised the difficulties and focused on improving agriculture sometimes brought problems of their own, such as irrigation systems using up the groundwater in an unsustainable way. And projects to remedy this by building reservoirs to trap more rainwater provided more breeding opportunities for malarial mosquitoes. And all of that was without taking the various forms of endemic warfare into account. It seemed to be a set of vicious circles, and I wondered what Luke thought of it all, how he maintained his motivation to do his charity work in the face of its apparent hopelessness.

Halfway through the day I discovered that Freya was a tennis player, so we took a carefree break from the problems of the world, dashing about the outdoor court for an hour or so. My speed was much greater than Freya’s but she was far more skilled than I and kept me running frantically around the court, so the match was fairly even.

In the evening I felt stimulated but tired; I was still so used to the solitude of my running that constant contact with people was wearing, and I hadn’t yet recovered from New York. Freya left me alone in the lounge for a while and I deliberately relaxed as much as I could, allowing my mind to drift.

After a few minutes I became conscious of an odd new sensation. It was as if someone was nudging my mind. I tried to analyse the sensation but failed. I scanned around, looking for the source for whatever had disturbed me, but could find none. It seemed to be coming from within my own mind.

Without being very conscious of what I was doing I picked up the remote and switched on the television. The programme which came up didn’t satisfy me, so I flipped channels, and again, and again, blindly searching for something I didn’t understand. Suddenly I ran out of channels, was receiving nothing but the usual grey flickerings of static. Still I kept pressing the button, working down through the blank channel numbers in what seemed to be a pointless obsession. And then I stopped.

A face was looking back at me from the screen.

At first I thought it was some kind of joke, that someone had put my face up on a spare channel. Almost immediately, I realise that this wasn’t true. The face in the screen wasn’t my face.

It wasn’t even human.

I looked past the purplish-green scales and saw a different structure; a more beak-like nose with narrow slits of nostrils, a more pronounced cranial crest – and something wrong with the gold eyes. After a second I realised what it was; the pupils were vertical slits, like a cat’s.

Then the picture slipped, became fuzzy, reverted to static.

Freya came back into the room, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. ‘What’s the matter?’ She asked quickly, her concern reaching out to me.

I looked down and saw that I had gone silver all over, in what I later came to realise was an instinctive protective fall-back to reflect radiation. I was too stunned to answer her. I slowly got up and walked out onto the verandah, then leaned forward and held desperately onto the railing. I felt the wood splintering under my grip and deliberately eased off. My thoughts were cycling in an uncontrollable loop, trying to comprehend what I had seen.

The face that looked back at me had shown no human expression yet I had felt that I could read the alien mood, had sensed an urgency, the importance of the need to communicate. I realised that this face was connected with the strange nudging in my mind – I had been prompted to turn on the television and hunt for the channel.

I realised something else, too; the face on the screen looked too much like mine for it to be a coincidence; there had to be some connection with what had happened to me.

I became aware that Freya was hovering by the open door, her concern for what was happening to me in a tug of war with anxiety not to disturb me. She didn’t yet know me well enough to tell if this was normal behaviour for her bizarre new charge or if she needed to worry.

With an effort, I refocused my mind on the present and turned slowly to face her. ‘I’m all right, but I need some time to think’, I managed.

‘Of course’ she said instantly, and disappeared into the house.

I stayed looking out over the sea for a long time, conscious of the almost imperceptible whirl of the stars, the occasional lights of a plane, the slower movement of a satellite. All the while, my mind was in turmoil, trying to understand what I had seen, what it meant.

As the sky slowly lightened with the approach of dawn, I gave up the hopeless search for answers, more tired than I had been for a long time. I went back into the house, to sleep.

6

I awoke late the next day and lay in bed for a while, feeling an unaccustomed lethargy. After a while I realised that I was reluctant to get up and face the day, to deal with the shocking revelation of the previous evening. I located Freya, the bodyguard and the housekeeper, sensed them moving about the house, and noticed Freya’s continued anxiety about me. I forced myself to get up and walk downstairs, greeted Freya cheerfully, and announced that I felt like a long swim.

The coolness of the water slid soothingly over me and I settled into a long, steady rhythm which I knew I could keep up for hours – or even days, if necessary. The monotonous repetition of swimming helped me to slip into a light trance, not thinking consciously but retaining a rather detached awareness of my surroundings. Some tracks by Wynton Marsalis drifted through my mind. There were few boats around, and I easily avoided them. After a few hours I turned on my back, raised my head and saw nothing but water in all directions. I lay back and just floated for a while, feeling relaxed enough to turn my mind to the incident which had troubled me so much.

I ran it through my mind again from start to finish, my sharpened memory allowing me to examine the image in detail. I suddenly recalled where I had seen similar faces; in speculative paintings showing what dinosaurs might have looked like had they survived to evolve human-type intelligence. After a while I reluctantly acknowledged what my subconscious had been telling me for some time; that there was no point in putting off the moment any longer, I had to go back and look at that television again.

I returned in time for dinner, feeling physically tired but mentally refreshed. After some attempts at conversation, Freya realised that I was in no mood to chat, and retired to her room. The housekeeper had already cleared up and withdrawn to the annex she shared with the guard, so I immediately switched on the television, muted the sound and trawled through the vacant channels until, with a shock of recognition and fear, I saw that face again.

It was the same face as the previous evening, and this time I sensed a different emotion – relief rather than anxiety. The face looked me intently for a few moments, then faded out to be replaced by a string of numbers. I started blankly at them for a few moments, until I realised that they formed a telephone number. I felt a sudden desire to laugh hysterically; “phone home”, I thought. Then I walked over to the cordless telephone, picked up the handset and sat down again facing the television. Handling the phone as gingerly as if it were a live grenade, I dialled the number on the screen and waited. The face reappeared as the call was answered. Then the lips moved.

‘Good evening Cade.’

I felt a flood of terror and excitement wash over me at the sound in my headset. There was no accent, but the voice could have come from no human throat. The sound had an overlay which was simultaneously fricative and sibilant, and beneath that a strange echo, formed in a different voicebox. I forced myself to speak: ‘Good evening’, I managed.

‘Thank you for calling’, the alien continued, ‘I have waited for this moment for a long time’.

A detached part of my mind noted that he – she? No, definitely he, I knew somehow – had even mastered clichés.

‘There is much that we need to discuss.’

‘Yes.’ I responded dryly.

‘This is a very cumbersome and limited method of communication for us. I would like to suggest something better.’

‘Go on.’

‘I will put a diagram on the screen, of something we might call a “headnet”; it will permit mind-to-mind communications.’

His face disappeared, to be followed by a three-dimensional image of what looked like a hairnet, only with fewer strands all leading to a small box. Words appeared on the screen, labelling the different parts. I focused on memorising them. The black box slowly exploded into its component parts, each also labelled. As it expanded, details of the specification of each part appeared. The “net” was made of wire: the lengths required and the specification followed. I gradually realised that what I was looking at was a kind of battery-powered radio, linked to a network of wires which would fit around my head. It seemed to be an absurdly simple device.

‘OK, I’ve got it.’

The face reappeared. ‘Good. This is not how we normally make one of these, but the parts have been designed to be readily available at one of your specialist electronics shops.’

‘I’ll get onto it tomorrow’. I was feeling ridiculously calm, almost detached. I realised belatedly that I was probably holding mankind’s first conversation with a member of an alien race. The thought crossed my mind that somehow the topic should have been less mundane than instructions on assembling a radio.

‘One thing you should be aware of; this house is bugged.’

I felt hysteria surfacing again at the incongruous colloquialism and suppressed it with difficulty.

‘There is a small camera and microphone in each room. Fortunately, the one in this room is facing towards you, not the television screen.’

‘Right.’

‘Goodbye for now.’

‘Goodbye.’

The phone went dead and the screen blanked. I shifted my perceptions into the electronics mode I had learned on the warship, and scanned. I instantly located the bug, high up in the corner of the room masquerading as an IR security sensor, and traced the links through the house. The phone handset was clean. I mentally reviewed my side of the conversation and decided that, while any observers might be puzzled and curious, there was nothing there to alarm them, but I spent a couple of minutes inventing a story to account for the call, should I be asked to.

The next morning I told Freya that I enjoyed playing with electronics as a hobby, and would appreciate it if she could obtain some materials for me. I gave her a list of the components, plus a compact battery and some tools I would need: a small soldering iron, pliers and a screwdriver.

A courier presented me with a package that afternoon. Freya had left to visit the UN. I went up to my room, carefully sat with my back to the spy camera, and got to work. The story I told Freya hadn’t been entirely false – my interest in science had at one time involved fiddling with electronics – so it didn’t take me too long to assemble the headnet. Some of the components had come in a resealable plastic bag, so I slipped the headnet into this and then into a pocket in my jacket, as I simultaneously turned that side away from the camera.

I walked downstairs and strolled out into the grounds, conscious of the CCTV security camera tracking me. I ambled towards a large tree growing to one side of the house and sat with my back it, on the side away from the camera. Then I took the headnet out of the bag, fitted it over my head, took a deep breath and switched it on.

‘Anyone there?’ I thought, feeling rather foolish.

‘Here!’ Came the instant response. That word does not do justice to what I experienced. The response was far more than just mental speech; it was enveloped by an intense emotional field, similar in kind to the one I could detect in other people, but immeasurably richer and clearer. I was momentarily overwhelmed by the flood of emotions, by the warmth of the greetings which flowed over me. If ordinary speech could be likened to hearing a one-finger piano tune, and my enhanced sensitivity to people to a string quartet, then this was a full-blown orchestra, complete with chorus. And it was two-way. I instantly realised that there was no possibility of misunderstanding or duplicity; communication was complete to a degree I had never dreamed of, and lightning-fast. My account of our conversations can therefore give only the barest outline of what passed between us.

‘I see what you mean about telephones being cumbersome and limited,’ I managed, once I had recovered enough to respond.

Amusement tinged with satisfaction.

‘What do I call you?’

A mental signature was returned, a concise emotional summary of my contact, instantly recognisable. Still, I felt more comfortable with names, however crude they may be, so I decided to call him Primo, as he was my first contact. After a while, I became aware of two others in the background; simultaneously, I realised that Primo had made me aware of them. I called them Secundo (a more mature and serious type) and Tertia – unmistakably female, with a softer, more subtle and perceptive signature. Primo explained that there were three of them to ensure that one would always be “on duty”, ready to communicate with me at any time.

Primo addressed me again, not by name this time but by an emotional signature that I recognised as myself in a way which cannot be explained in words. ‘We owe you many explanations for what has happened to you since, as you will have surmised, it is all our fault,’ he said apologetically. Then he conveyed to me, in an intense flood of information, what had happened and why. I will recount it here as best I can, in the form of a conventional conversation.

‘You will be aware of the parallel worlds hypothesis?’ Primo commenced.

‘You mean that there is an infinite number of universes existing in parallel with our own?

‘Exactly so. That hypothesis is largely correct. There are many worlds which are connected by branching points where events might have occurred differently had random chance fallen one way rather than another.’

‘Are you telling me that you live in a parallel Earth to mine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me more!’

‘We have identified several levels of parallel worlds. Most basic are those in which the random elements can be traced back to the earliest days of the universe, when the most infinitesimal variation in the behaviour of the elementary particles could produce major long-term differences. Among other things these could affect the formation of stars and planets, and the likelihood of life developing on a planet. We call these “Stage 1” variations. Where life did develop, random chance at critical points could affect which species types flourished and which did not; most significantly, it could also determine whether the conditions existed to encourage the development of intelligence. These are “Stage 2” variations. The development of intelligent consciousness has more recently introduced a plethora of different possibilities, as there is nothing quite as random and unpredictable as an intelligent being, starting with the gene-shuffling which occurs when each individual is conceived.’ Primo’s mental smile reflected his gently ironic sense of humour. ‘Almost all such random events have a negligible effect on their universes as they affect only those directly concerned or, at most, their circle of acquaintances, but every now and then something happens which switches the history of the intelligent species off onto a different track. We call these “Stage 3” variations. These may result from a particularly significant piece of gene-shuffling which, in conjunction with environmental conditions, may produce (or not) a great leader or thinker. More subtly, they could be caused by a scientific discovery which happens to occur to a person in one country rather than another, or a change in the finely-balanced decision of a military leader or national ruler. Least predictable of all are the emotional rather than logical issues; for a variety of reasons, a previously conventional individual may unexpectedly become enthused with religious beliefs which may, in a tiny fraction of cases, lead to major changes in religious organisations with all that can follow from that.’

I mulled over that for a moment. ‘Let me guess – on your world, the dinosaurs didn’t disappear?’

‘Correct. I should perhaps explain that worlds tend to group together, just as twigs on a tree all belong to one small branch, and several smaller branches all belong to one major branch. Thus there is an entire major branch of universes in which Homo Sapiens became the dominant life form on Earth, and another major branch in which my species exists instead. The differences in the histories of our physical universes are quite small – at Stage 2 level – but just enough to encourage the development of one group of species rather than other. In your world the conditions which favoured the dominance of dinosaurs continued for scores of millions of years, but without the right kind of environmental challenges needed to stimulate the development of high intelligence. The dinosaurs became over-specialised and unable to respond to hostile environmental changes when these eventually occurred. Ironically, in my world the conditions were less benign for my species, but in a way which rewarded the development of our intelligence, and mammals have remained a minor branch of the animal kingdom, just as reptiles are in yours.’

I smiled. ‘So what do I call your species?’ As usual with names, the response was both instantly intelligible and completely untranslatable, so I thought for a moment and said; ‘I expect I’d better refer to you here as saurians.’

An equable response.

‘How is it that we can communicate like this? We are entirely different species, yet our minds must be very similar for us to understand each other so well.’

‘An interesting question. In part, it might be because we share some far-distant ancestor – it is not as if we developed on different planets. The environments and evolutionary pressures our species faced were also very similar, and it is not surprising that they stimulated the development of the same kind of intelligence.  It may be that there are some basic similarities in the way in which intelligent minds function. Most significantly, however, it seems the changes which took place in your brain to increase your sensitivity may have altered it in such a way that it has become sufficiently like ours for communication to be possible.’

‘You somehow managed to reach me first of all without even a headnet.’

‘Yes, it took all three of us linked together a huge mental effort just to persuade you to switch on the television. We discovered long ago that we can in this way reach saurian minds in worlds parallel to our own, but it is scarcely possible.’

I mulled this over for a few moments. ‘Why didn’t you just ring me on the phone to start with?’

‘For technical reasons it was easier for you to ring us – and anyway, would you have taken any notice of such a call?’

I laughed. ‘I don’t suppose so. All right, then, how did all this happen to me? I presume that some experiment went wrong?’

‘I’m afraid that will take a lengthy explanation. First, you need to be aware of several things about us. We evolved much more slowly and incrementally than humans, but the process started much earlier. Our civilisation has developed more or less continuously for over two hundred thousand years.’

I pondered that one for a moment. It was approximately as long as modern humans had existed as a species. Our earliest recognisable civilisations formed about ten thousand years ago, and they were long gone.

‘This has given us a certain perspective which humans lack, reinforced by the fact that we have always been relatively long-lived; in fact, we can now live almost as long as we want to, barring accidents.’

‘How do you manage that? And how do you control your population?’

‘Our technological development has been far slower than yours and in some respects you are already catching us up, but we have focused on two areas; genetics and, more recently, the parallel worlds. We have complete knowledge and control of our genetic structure, as well as that of all other living things in our world, and long ago mastered the ageing process. For a long time now we have only had children at the rate needed to replace losses, which are partly due to accidents but more frequently the result of people deciding that they don’t want to live any longer. After a few centuries, life tends to become dull and repetitive. So our population is stable at about one hundred million, compared with over six billion on your Earth.’

A thought crossed my mind; ‘have you always had these mental abilities?’

‘No. We used to be like you, communicating by sound – something which we now use for singing, otherwise we would probably have lost the ability altogether. A few tens of thousands of years ago we observed that some individuals showed signs of extra sensitivity, and since we already had a thorough understanding of our genetic code we investigated the cause of this. It did not take us long to isolate the genes concerned and to begin to reinforce them, to the point which you now know. So in a sense, we are our own creation.’

‘So what happened to me?’

‘That was a consequence of our exploration of the parallel worlds. Our scientists first became aware of the probability of these several thousand years ago, but we could not initially detect them. Eventually our technology enabled us to pick up signals within the electromagnetic spectrum which emanated from parallel worlds, and we began to receive their traffic. For a long time we were only aware of other worlds within our own local branch, because it is necessary for a civilisation to have developed radio before we can notice them. At first, we were only able to receive radio and TV broadcasts, but more recently we have developed the technology to pick up visual images; we can open a one-way window, so to speak, to look wherever we please, although we cannot receive sound unless it is broadcast electronically.’

I smiled wryly. It had long been speculated that the sphere of our radio and television broadcasts, expanding at light speed from the Solar System, might eventually attract the attention of another intelligent race in our galaxy, but no-one had imagined that they would be received in a parallel Earth.

‘The discovery of your local group of worlds caused great excitement because it was the first time that we had encountered a non-saurian civilisation. I have to say that there are few Stage 3 saurian worlds, the main source of variation being those who, for philosophical and/or religious reasons, rejected the idea of altering their genetic make-up to enhance their mental abilities, so they still communicate by sound, as you do. We have therefore concentrated great efforts in finding out as much about you as we can, and in developing our technology to try to communicate with you.’

‘Well, you seem to be doing OK so far.’

‘Yes. We know a lot about you, and our various research groups have each concentrated on a particular human language and cultural group. You would no doubt be amused at some of the human-inspired cultural fashions which have percolated through our society. Although we three are the core of this research group, many others can speak English well enough to communicate. Finding you, Cade, was a bonus; we were not certain that we would be able to form a mind-link with a different race, and in fact we cannot with ordinary humans. With them, we are limited to verbal and visual communication via electronic means, as with the telephone and television.’ His mood became one of uncomfortable embarrassment.

‘I have a feeling that you’re getting to the point.’

The discomfort increased. ‘Yes, well, as I said we had been developing various technical approaches to communicating with your race, and one research group had gone further and were working on a method to open a link between parallel worlds so that they could transfer physical objects. I think that they had picked up some aspects of human science and melded them with their own knowledge: your wireless broadband internet links have been a great boon to us, incidentally, as they have made vast quantities of material accessible. One other thing these researchers seem to have acquired was a most un-saurian degree of impatience. They decided to test their theories, not in some remote place, but by dramatically contacting a member of the human race.’

‘I take it that I was the lucky one. Why me?’

‘They had become aware of you through your broadcasts and web articles, and it was clear that you had both scientific understanding and the skill of communication. They felt that you would make a good intermediary.’

‘So what went wrong? I nearly died.’

The embarrassment became palpable. ‘Yes. Well. What they discovered, the hard way, was that there is some kind of energy difference between our parallel worlds, or perhaps energy is released at the receiving end by the act of opening a physical link; exactly what happened is not yet completely understood. When they opened the link, that energy release caused the explosion and fire in your home. In fact, the energy flow continued for as long as the link was open.’

I digested this for a moment. ‘So how did I come to survive?’

‘One of their team saw that you had been fatally injured and had the presence of mind to slap a repair patch on your body before the link was closed.’

‘Repair patch?’

‘It is our standard first-aid measure in the event of accidental injury more serious than our in-built repair mechanisms can cope with. It consists of a kind of plaster or adhesive bandage which is rapidly absorbed into the body. It is impregnated with a broad spectrum of substances to reduce shock, fight infection, stimulate the formation of a protective seal over wounds and carry out repairs; both short-term and long-term, including the reinforcement of genetic material. We developed this to be pan-species so we could use it on animals, but didn’t know if it would work on you. It seemed worth a try, though.’

‘Genetic material.’

‘Yes. The repair patch is very powerful; it carries out a kind of scan of the body, identifies any injuries and deficiencies and does what is needed to put them right. Given time, it can even stimulate the regrowth of missing limbs. It seems that while the repairs were going on, your system absorbed some of the genes carrying saurian characteristics and this led to the changes in your body, and also in your mind. This does not happen with our native mammals, but your body clearly reacted differently. Again, we don’t understand why and our geneticists are most keen to discover what happened.’

‘I see. That explains a lot. Just one thing, though; if you ever develop a repair patch for humanity, please add some anaesthetic!’

‘I’m sorry, our inbuilt systems control pain automatically, so we didn’t bother to provide that.’

I sensed a residual degree of discomfort about something still unsaid. ‘What else?’

‘The experimenters also had time to take a small genetic sample from you, we hope you don’t mind. We now have a complete picture of your genetic makeup before the changes which affected you. We now urgently want details of the genetic changes you have experienced, so we can discover exactly what happened and why.’

I thought about this for a moment. ‘Why did you take so long to contact me? You could have told me all this months ago, and it might have saved a lot of trouble.’

Primo’s mood became apologetic. ‘There was an intense debate here over what to do about you. We were conscious that revealing our identity would immediately cause a Stage 3 change to your world, and many thought that such interference would be fundamentally wrong. However, more pressing concerns eventually overrode this.’

My head suddenly started aching and Primo instantly made his apologies and withdrew. ‘I’ll contact you again when I’ve recovered,’ I said. I slowly took off the headnet and sat waiting as the headache receded. I had, to say the least, a very great deal to think about.

I ran through the “conversation” in my mind. I gradually became aware of something which the novelty of the mind-link had initially concealed: the saurians’ minds were different from human. Their thinking was slower, calmer, more deliberate, moving with a glacial kind of logical inevitability. Their minds felt as strange as their voices sounded. I suddenly remembered something that Luke had said:

‘You are different, you know, apart from the obvious. You were always very excitable and talked so quickly it was hard to keep up, but now you’re much calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think that “dispassionate” is the word I’m looking for.’

I also remembered how calmly I had accepted a transformation which should have seen me screaming over the edge. I felt a chill running down my spine. The repair patch had done more than just change my body and add some abilities; the rewiring of my brain had changed my personality. I had always assumed that the changes were superficial, but was now forced to admit to myself that I was no longer entirely human in any sense; I was a hybrid of human and saurian.

That evening Freya returned, her air of excitement preceding her into the house.

‘Great news!’ She announced cheerfully. ‘You’ve been invited to address the General Assembly of the United Nations – they’ve just started their regular annual session!’

My response was muted, my mind full of the link with the saurians.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ She was clearly deflated.

‘Yes of course,’ I answered automatically. Then the potential use of this opportunity struck home. ‘In fact, I’m delighted; I have a lot to say to them.’

‘Good! You’ll be provided with help to write your speech, of course.’

I could imagine the sort of speech which the UN officials would like me to make, and smiled inwardly. ‘That won’t be necessary, thanks; I know what I want to say.’

She radiated a degree of concern. ‘It is usual for such speeches to be vetted first by the Secretary General’s office.’

‘Not this time. I have some surprises in store, but I can assure you that no-one will be disappointed in what I have to say.’

‘Right’ she said dubiously. She brightened up again. ‘Anyway, we have to get you some more suitable clothes. You can’t address the General Assembly in jogging kit. I’ve arranged for a tailor to visit tomorrow.’

The next few days were a blur of activity. I woke early each morning – I needed little sleep anyway – and spent hours mind-linking with the saurians, my head under the bedclothes to conceal the headnet. One very useful trick they taught me was how to tune my mind to block out the raucous background noise typical of a major city while still remaining receptive to people close to me. They also showed me how to shield parts of my mind from the mind-link, or to block contact altogether, to preserve my privacy if I wished.

The tailor duly arrived to take measurements while Freya looked on critically. ‘You look heavier than you did when you arrived.’

‘More food, less running and more balanced exercise. I’m just getting back to the shape I used to be.’ I had to confess to myself an atavistic satisfaction in my physical power, particularly since my rather unathletic youth had given way to an early and paunchy middle age.

She grinned engagingly. ‘Well, I wasn’t criticising!’

Sometime during the week I was able to get in touch with Brian the Consultant at the East Anglian hospital in which I had first woken up, and persuaded him to fax the results of the detailed genetic analysis they had carried out after my transformation. Primo told me later that this transmission had successfully been intercepted, and was now in the hands of their geneticists.

My final preparatory task was to liaise with the audio-visual technicians at the UN. Then everything was ready.

The cabin cruiser came to collect me on the morning of my speech to the UN. I was relieved to find that I could indeed tune out the mental cacophony as we approach New York. Freya came along for the ride, and obviously enjoyed the contrast with her usual car journey. I felt her suppressed excitement at the event and had to admit that it infected me also. She didn’t know it, but this was going to be a presentation such as the UN – or the world – had never seen.

I was used to public speaking but, even so, the butterflies were performing their dance in my stomach as I waited to be introduced. I scanned the representatives in the packed Chamber as I walked to the podium and picked up a mixture of interest, curiosity, awe, suspicion and revulsion – in other words, just the usual reactions.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for the invitation to address the General Assembly. I appreciate the honour, and I hope that you will not be disappointed in what I have to say.’ I paused for a moment to ensure I had their full attention. I picked up a touch of concern from Freya, concealed off to one side, and assumed that I had probably omitted the customary honorifics. ‘I was invited here to talk to you about how I might be able to help the work of the United Nations. But in fact, I have a development of much greater import to tell you about. I have discovered what happened to me, to turn me from an ordinary man into this strange being you see standing before you. I have discovered this because I have been in contact with the people who were responsible. And those people come from an alien race – they are not human.’

A wave of emotions broke from the audience; excitement, disbelief, derision and, above all, shock. The silence crackled.

I went on to describe the first contact from the saurians, the existence of parallel worlds, and everything that Primo had told me at our first contact. I paused to scan the audience, who had recovered from their shock and now radiated scepticism, incredulity and, in a few cases, pity that I had lost my mind. Peripherally, I picked up Freya’s deep anxiety. I signalled to the AV technicians and the screen high on the wall behind and to one side of me glowed into life as the data projector came on.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Primo.’

His image suddenly filled the screen, looking down at the Assembly. The audible gasps were as nothing compared with the mental shockwaves which crashed against me. I took the opportunity to slip on the headnet discreetly. Primo could not sense for himself the reactions of his audience, but he could indirectly pick up my scans; a poor substitute for a saurian mind-link, but better than nothing.

Primo started without preamble. ‘Good afternoon, it gives me great pleasure to address the General Assembly of the United Nations, because what I have to say is important to the future of mankind.’

The strange, alien voice echoed around the hall. Judging by the audience’s emotional response, to say that he had grabbed their attention would be a serious understatement. I hoped that the link with the television broadcasting system was working; if so, his transmission was being received live across much of the world. I scanned the audience anxiously; I had worked on this speech with Primo, to make sure that his sometimes rather clumsy use of English was appropriate to the occasion.

‘First, I need to add a little more about us to the information which Cade has already given. As he has said, our civilisation has developed over a very long period of time. Compared with yourselves, we are slow learners.’ Saurians did not smile, but he managed to put some humour into his tone. ‘This chance has brought with it many benefits. In particular, it has ensured that we have always remained in harmony with our environment. The problems which you are wrestling with at the moment over pollution and climate change have never been an issue with us, as we have had plenty of time to analyse the effects of any new technological development and make corrections as necessary. We never experienced such a rapid change as your Industrial Revolution, never had our economy driven by such a strong consumer focus.’ He paused for a moment. ‘This is my home planet.’

The view changed to a distant one of Earth as seen from space. The continents and ice caps were all familiar. The view zoomed steadily in, targeting the east coast of North America. It took me a second to realise that Primo was going to show us his planet’s version of New York. The camera view paused at what seemed to be an altitude of about a thousand metres, presenting an oblique view of Manhattan.

It was still the site of a city and a port; I realised that the natural advantages of the location would be utilised in any technological society. The buildings of the city were very different, however. What was instantly noticeable was that they were nearly all only one storey in height: the few exceptions were stepped pyramids with wide ramps linking the levels. The roofs were flat and green with vegetation. Most of the buildings were widely separated with green spaces and trees filling at least half of the space. The viewpoint zoomed in and another difference became clear; there were no cars or roads. Primo’s voice-over explained that goods deliveries were achieved via underground tunnels. Down at ground level, what was instantly noticeable was the noise – or rather, the eerie lack of it. Birdsong seemed to predominate.

The view then tracked across his world, pausing from time to time to close in on a particular scene. It looked simultaneously very familiar – the landscape and vegetation – and also like something from a science-fiction film, whenever buildings or transport came into view. Primo informed us that outside the cities, transport was primarily by electric or fuel-cell vehicle. In one view, an airship was visible; preferred to aircraft for long distance travel since they were safer and more spacious and comfortable, and the long-lived saurians, with their stable society, had little need for any urgency.

Even more alien were the saurians. I had only seen head and shoulders views of them, and had vaguely assumed that they were humanoid only with scales. The first time one hopped into view I realised my error; they were human-like down to the waist, but below that more closely resembled kangaroos, with a long thick tail and powerful legs. Their preference for low buildings and ramps suddenly became clear. They could walk, at a rather slow waddle, but were clearly more comfortable hopping. At one point the view lingered on a small crowd of them, apparently youngsters engaged in sports, and I estimated that they could cruise at the speed of a human sprint, and sprint twice as fast. No wonder they only used passenger vehicles for longer distances. The relative weather-proofness of their tough scaly hides no doubt helped; they seemed to wear little in the way of clothes except harnesses to which tools and other possessions were attached. Close-ups showed that their arms were more slender than humans’ and looked weaker; their hands were delicate, with the opposed thumb opposite the four fingers rather than alongside them. They resembled kangaroos in more than just body form; a small head poking out of a midriff pouch revealed that they were marsupials as well. I felt a brief flash of amusement as I imagined the fierce arguments among evolutionary biologists that these revelations would prompt.

The saurian preference to be close to water was noticeable in all of their buildings; Primo explained they had created many large inland lakes in areas distant from the sea. At first I was puzzled as I couldn’t recall any hopping animals on my Earth which were comfortable in water – until I remembered frogs.

Overall, the most obvious difference in the saurian world was the lack of crowding, pollution and squalor, and the care with which buildings and other developments were blended into the landscape. It looked like an earthly paradise.

‘Despite these superficial differences,’ Primo continued, ‘the most significant factor has been our deliberate development of mental abilities; what you would call extra-sensory perception and telepathy. This is more than just convenient; it has had immense consequences for our society. For thousands of years, every member of our species has been able to understand everyone else without difficulty. And I do not just mean comprehend their meaning, but fully appreciate their point of view and understand precisely how they feel. We have found that this has made serious conflict effectively impossible. We still hold different viewpoints and debate issues, of course; we remain distinct individuals with our own attitudes and priorities. But collective decision-making, when many of us gather together to share thoughts and feelings, results in conclusions which we all accept and adhere to. You will not be surprised to hear that crime virtually disappeared, because deceit is also impossible. We have found ways of transmitting our feelings electronically, so our television relays our emotions as well as sights and sounds. Not even our politicians can deceive us,’ he added, as straight-faced as ever, and I relayed to him the flicker of amusement around the audience – as well as some sparks of concern, presumably from the politicians present. He paused before continuing, his expression more serious.

‘We developed space travel thousands of years ago but have never been able to find a way to travel faster than light so, except for robotic probes, we are effectively limited to our own solar system despite our long lives. Our probes have revealed, as you are presently discovering, that most stars have planetary systems. I can also tell you that on most planets where water-based life is possible, it has developed. In many cases, large plants and animals have evolved. But on no other world, so far, have we discovered the type of intelligence likely to develop a technological civilisation. Of course, we have only been able to examine a very small fraction of this segment of our Galaxy over what is, by astronomical standards, a very brief period of time. It is statistically probable that civilisations have developed elsewhere, but perhaps they are too far away, or we are too early to find them – or too late.’

The audience’s attentive silenced deepened; they sensed that he was coming to the critical part.

‘So our exploratory urges have become focused on our discovery of the parallel worlds. We located the group of human worlds only with difficulty, and what we discovered caused us great concern. As you have heard, all of our saurian worlds only differ in detail; but that is not the case with the human worlds. Although we have only been aware of your particular world from the date when you first invented radio about a century ago, you were not the first human world to achieve this step.’

I gained the distinct impression that the audience was beginning to suffer from shock fatigue, but Primo did not spare them.

‘We became aware of the first human world several centuries ago. Shortly afterwards, we suddenly lost contact; without continuous radio or television broadcasts, we cannot tune in our viewers, so we are not sure what happened. However, from what we learned beforehand we believe that their civilisation was wiped out in a global nuclear war. We have similarly lost contact with many other human worlds we discovered.’ He looked grimly out at the Assembly. ‘Others, more advanced than yourselves, we have maintained a link with, but their civilisations have declined from their peak.’ The screen showed a desolate Manhattan, half-sunken ships by the decaying dockside, buildings dirty and forlorn, many windowless.

‘The reasons for this are varied, but contain a similar mix of elements: exhaustion of an increasing range of fuels and other mineral reserves; overuse of agricultural land, reducing its fertility; escalating pollution of the environment; climate change triggered by gaseous emissions from industry and the destruction of forests, which has turned formerly productive areas into deserts; a rise in seal level due to ice melt, drowning many cities and fertile coastal areas and precipitating a breakdown of the world economic system; a world-wide shortage of fresh water, and, underlying all of these, a world population of humans far too great to be sustainable. The end result of all of this has been economic collapse and mass starvation.’ The screen showed a series of appalling scenes, each focusing on the Manhattan area. In one, a rather different version of the Statue of Liberty was in water up to her knees. Primo paused before continuing with slow and deliberate emphasis; ‘this has happened to every human civilisation more advanced than your own!’

I scanned the Assembly intently; all sat stunned, several of them showing signs of deep shock. Primo continued gravely. ‘We have at last succeeded in developing a method of communicating with a parallel world, just in time to stop your world from suffering a similar fate. But time is short and you will need determination to succeed in avoiding this.’ Behind him, packs of feral, starving children battled across a recognisable Times Square. ‘This was the last image we received from one human world, just before we lost contact.’ He paused for a few moments. ‘You will need time to absorb this, I appreciate. I will leave you now and return in a few days, when we can discuss how we can help you.’ The screen faded to dark.

I expected pandemonium to break out, but instead the representatives looked around them in silence. Reading their mood, I realised that they were mainly in shock, but also unwilling to show any reaction in case it should prove to be inappropriate. I relayed this to Primo, a little uncertain as to what to do. I soon concluded that they were in no state to listen to anything else I might say, so I slipped out and met a white-faced Freya outside.

‘Is it true?’ She whispered.

‘Every word,’ I said flatly. Linked to Primo as I had been, I shared his anguish and horror, the overpowering sense of desperate urgency. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’

The return to our Long Island base passed almost in silence. As we travelled up the East River, I asked the skipper, who had introduced himself as Matt, the name of the railway bridge we were passing under.

‘Hell Gate,’ he replied.

7

The news that evening was full of Primo’s speech, interspersed with reactions from politicians, other notables, and commentators. Some reactions were predictable; the environmental movement was at full throttle, endlessly repeating variations on “we told you so!” The nuclear disarmament lobby also popped its head up briefly, before becoming snarled up in arguments over the pollution-free benefits of nuclear power. Many other reactions were cautious and confused, particularly from politicians and religious leaders. They seemed to be biding their time. On a more trivial level, several popular newspapers promptly dubbed the saurians “kangasaurs” – a name which was to stick.

Late the next day the first counter-reactions began. Some programmes featured experts from the computer graphics industry who pointed out that they could have created Primo – and his entire presentation – in their workshops, given a little time. Leaders of major industrial and petro-chemical companies also delivered cautionary speeches about the impact of curtailing their activities on their national economies in general, and employment in particular. Some of the more off-centre political leaders of developing countries directly accused me of master-minding a faked-up plot to try to deny their people the wealth enjoyed by richer nations.

In response to these developments, protest demonstrations of the young and idealistic sprang up around the world, waving placards and chanting slogans on the general theme of “save our planet now!” The best-selling T-shirt immediately become one showing Primo’s face. It was, as I explained to the puzzled saurians, much as expected.

Tertia had taken over my contact that day and was having some difficulty in understanding why humanity did not act sensibly when presented with a clear warning, but was instead trying to ignore and discredit it.

‘That’s the nature of humanity,’ I said. ‘The response to immediate threats is usually strong, but long-term dangers are harder to get people excited about and, if addressing them means short-term pain, most people will try to put off even recognising there’s a problem for as long as they possibly can.’

‘But don’t the mothers realise that they are ruining the world they will be leaving to their children and grandchildren?’

‘A lot do. You will note that most of the arguments against acting on your warnings come from men, and that isn’t only because more men are in positions of power and authority. Essentially, we haven’t just presented them with a problem; we have challenged their previous decisions and judgments and therefore their credibility. In their reactions to a long-term threat, politicians are no different from other people and typically try to avoid having to take hard and unpopular decisions, on the grounds that they are more likely to be voted out in the next election. Democracies are good at reflecting public opinion, much worse at leading it to where it really doesn’t want to go. How do you saurians deal with difficult decisions?’

‘This kind of situation hasn’t arisen. First because we usually do things very slowly, so there is plenty of time to give them careful consideration. Secondly because our mental abilities mean that we can evaluate the truth of scientists’ warnings for ourselves; other scientists can ask questions, pass judgement on the strength of the case being presented and relay their verdicts to everyone else. We still sometimes get scientists disagreeing about the interpretation of evidence collected, when this is not clear enough to reach firm conclusions, but in those cases our instinct as a race is to err on the side of caution. We don’t like to take any risks, particularly not with our environment. We have never seen the attraction of gambling.’

‘Is that just for practical reasons, or do you have a religious motivation? I’ve never asked you about your religions.’

‘We used to have a range of them, like yours but pursued rather less aggressively – nobody was ever killed because of them. They long ago evolved into a universal philosophy which we all agree on. It has some similarities with earlier human beliefs, such as were held by various native North American tribes, about the interconnectedness of all things; people, animals, plants and the natural environment in general. Unfortunately you lost that in the development of your major religions, and you are paying the price for it now. I should add that the alternate saurian worlds, whose people rejected the mental abilities we have, still have religions, but they have managed to avoid the worst of the problems the human worlds have.’

‘Do you believe in a creator, one all-powerful god?’

‘Oh no, that has no place in our beliefs. We have quite a clear understanding of the history of the Universe since the Big Bang, but no-one pretends to know what happened before that. Most scientists are inclined to favour the hypothesis of the cyclical Universe, constantly repeating, but the evidence is not clear enough to reach a firm conclusion.’

‘You have no concepts of sin or redemption?’

‘Wrong-doing, certainly. Inflicting harm on other people, or the wilful destruction of animals or plants, is regarded as unacceptable. In the distant past we used to be omnivores like humans, but for millennia we have eaten only fruit and nuts and drunk only water – I’m afraid you caught that from us. In fact, it is only the mentally unstable who would cause wilful harm, and we are able to detect such symptoms at a very early stage due to the emotions being projected. People may still sometimes cause accidental harm through carelessness, of course. They then have to do their best to make this good; we have a strong belief in individual responsibility for one’s actions.’

‘This doesn’t involve anything supernatural?’

‘Not in your terms, no. We believe that the aim of every individual should be to contribute more to society – in whatever way they can – than they take out, and the more they contribute the more highly they are regarded by everyone else. I think that the closest our beliefs come to your concept of the supernatural is our respect for our ancestors. No-one believes in ancestor worship, or that they are watching over us, but four times a year – at the equinoxes and solstices – we spend a day at home with our families, remembering our ancestors and pledging to honour their memories by the way we behave.’

I thought about the bizarre fixations of our religious fundamentalists and their sometimes appalling consequences, and sighed.

‘Tell me more about your alternate worlds. How many are there?’

‘Very few. Our scientists concerned with alternate worlds theory believe that although there is one force which causes the different worlds to branch off, there is an opposing force which acts to draw them together again. It is a bit like a shallow river with many small obstacles sticking up; the water parts to flow around them, then joins up again at the other side. They call this the “braided worlds” hypothesis. So the many minor changes which happen every day only create temporary “Stage 4” alternate worlds; they merge back again after a while. Only if the event which caused the worlds to diverge is significant enough – in other words, at Stage 3 – is the separation permanent.’

‘Doesn’t that cause all sorts of paradoxes? I mean, suppose a woman chose one husband in one Stage 4 world, and a different one in another? She would have different children, and a different family tree would be created which could run on indefinitely. How could they be merged together?’

‘That’s the main counter-argument, to which our scientists have not so far come up with a simple answer. All they will point to is the clear evidence that there are very few saurian worlds, whereas there otherwise ought to be an infinite number. For example, that there is no alternate saurian world like ours because once everyone is in mental communication, variations become very small. The Stage 3 variations are all concerned with those societies which rejected mental enhancement. Because they lack our global understanding, they have more variety in religious, social and political patterns. Even so, we have only been able to identify five other Stage 3 saurian worlds so far.’

I mulled that over for a while. ‘So there are likely to be many more human Stage 3 alternate worlds, given our diversity?’

‘Oh yes, scores at least.’

I pondered for a moment worlds in which communism or Naziism reigned, or which were subject to all-powerful religions or other empires. The potential diversity seemed almost endless.

‘Now it’s your turn,’ Tertia said. ‘There are many things that we still don’t understand about humanity. We recognise that learning only from broadcasts has limitations.’

‘Fire away; what do you want to know?’

Her emotions reflected an amused frustration. ‘So many things! Some of them no doubt seem very obvious to you, but have caused much debate here.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, to give a trivial example, could you explain the significance in your society of sofas?’

‘Sofas?’

‘Yes, you know, the long padded seats.’

‘I know what a sofa is, but why do you think they are significant?’

‘They must be, they feature so often in those helpful short television programmes which advise you what to buy.’

Before I could respond to that, Tertia continued:

‘What really puzzles us about them is this: if they are so important to you, why are they always being sold at half price?’

It took some time before I had recovered enough to attempt an answer.

We had arranged our return visit to the UN three days after Primo’s first dramatic appearance. By then, there was battle royal over the airwaves between those who insisted that the warning was genuine and we had to act on it, and those who said that the whole exercise was a computer-generated con. It was difficult to be sure who was winning that argument, but the status I had acquired on my travels seemed to be helping to swing opinion our way. After all, no-one could argue that I was computer-generated.

The General Assembly was packed again and the interpreters’ glass boxes behind and above the representatives were remarkably full. The atmosphere was very tense, and I relayed to Primo that there could be outbursts of emotion at any time.

A drawback of my sensitivity to others’ emotions is that my own moods are affected by them, so I felt very tense myself as I stepped up to the podium. Primo’s image was already on the screen behind me, to no discernable reaction from the audience.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Since I last stood here, I have obviously become aware of accusations that Primo is a computer-generated fake. I need hardly say that I utterly reject these allegations. If any of you is inclined to believe them, then consider this; the saurians have provided a logical explanation for how I came to be like this,’ I opened my bare arms wide to emphasise my scaly skin, ‘which is more than anyone else has been able to do.’ I paused for a second to let that sink in, then continued. ‘Also consider this; why should you be surprised at the revelation that more advanced worlds in the human group, up to several centuries ahead of us, have suffered nuclear or environmental devastation? We are well aware how close we came to nuclear war on occasions, and the majority of our own environmental scientists are agreed that our burgeoning population and unrestricted use of resources are polluting our world, with potentially very serious consequences for climate, agriculture and ultimately the world economic system. We are only being told what we already fear is true. What we have to do is accept that truth, and act while we can.’ I left a long pause, but there was no response. ‘I will now hand over to Primo.’ I stepped down for the podium and Primo nodded politely.

‘Greetings once again. I said that I would tell you how we can help, and this is what we can do. We have solved the problem of harnessing the fusion reaction to generate pollution-free energy, and we will provide you with the blueprints and a detailed explanation of how to make such power stations. This will make a big difference in the long term, but even with our help such plants will be difficult and expensive to construct, so their impact will be slow and gradual. We can also offer alternative technologies for generating electricity, for example much more efficient solar cells, plus geothermal power which can be obtained anywhere, both of which use much simpler technology and can be more quickly installed. We have equipment which can convert the carbon dioxide produced by industrial activities back into hydrocarbons.’ He paused and looked around the Assembly. ‘This technology, if applied with all of your vigour in conjunction with the general application of other measures which you are already beginning to use to minimise your need for power, will make a dramatic difference to the air pollution generated by your society. However, they will not be enough by themselves. You have already developed ground transport which uses little energy; it is essential that this is more widely disseminated. To help with this, we also have far more powerful batteries and high-temperature superconductors so you can make better use of electricity. Air transport is a more difficult problem, but we can offer the technology to both produce and utilise hydrogen fuel much more cheaply and cleanly than at present, so aircraft fuelled by this will have a much reduced impact on the atmosphere.’ He paused again, his expression grave. ‘Finally, we come to the most intractable problem; the gross overpopulation of many parts of your planet and the stress this is placing on agricultural land and on supplies of fresh water, as well as the threat it poses to biodiversity. There is only one long-term solution to that, and that is to reduce your population significantly, before starvation and disease do it for you. Our advanced knowledge of medicine and genetics can be adapted to humanity, we are sure, and that will enable us to offer life-time contraceptives for both men and women, which can only temporarily be overcome by both parties taking special medicines to restore fertility when a couple wishes to conceive.’ Another long pause; the tension was so great that I thought my head would burst. ‘All of these measures, taken together, will help to avoid the disaster which we know lies in your future. But only if you embrace them and implement them with all of your energy and resources. I am now willing to answer questions.’

There was silence for a moment, before the Dutch representative spoke up. ‘How long have we got?’

‘Before the collapse comes? It is hard to say. Certainly several decades, possibly a few centuries, but the conclusion will be inevitable long before then. Once started, this is not a process which can be quickly reversed. Individual symptoms of the problems began to appear decades ago and others are accumulating. When enough of them become critical the tipping point will be reached and collapse will follow. In order to avoid this, it is important to begin making changes now.’

Next came an American. ‘Doesn’t research indicate that the Earth’s warming and cooling cycles are naturally caused by variations in the Sun’s level of activity, as shown by sunspots? Aren’t we heading into a quieter cycle when we can expect the planet to cool down naturally?’

‘That is true to some extent and may buy you a little more time, but the effects of human action have already become far more influential than this. So if you do not act now, the consequences will be that much more severe when the Sun becomes more active again.’

‘Why can’t we just adapt to the changing climate and sea levels and retain our civilisation?’ A Chinese delegate.

‘That has been attempted by all previous human civilisations and it can defer the worst effects for a while. In fact, you will need to adopt such measures to some degree because of the changes already taking place. But from observations of previous human worlds, such attempts fail when the global economic system falls apart under the pressure of cumulative disasters and loss of confidence. That brings most international trade to an end and, with it, the structure of global civilisation; just think about how much your advanced societies depend on imports and exports. We believe that humanity probably doesn’t die out, but reverts to a simple agrarian lifestyle in those areas far from major population concentrations. We have calculated that in those circumstances between ninety and ninety-five percent of humanity would perish, mostly through starvation but also through disease and in fighting for the resources which remain.’

‘Have any civilisations which collapsed a long time ago managed to rebuild themselves?’ From Russia.

‘No – at least, not in so far as resuming radio broadcasts which we can home in on is concerned. It would be difficult for them since, after they had used up the corroding remnants of the old technology, it would be much harder to start again from scratch. All of the easily accessible minerals and fuels would have been mined out – they would need a high level of technology to extract what remains, but that of course they do not have. We believe that they would be permanently trapped at a low level of technology.’

The representative from the USA spoke again. ‘How soon can you provide us with the specifications for fusion power?’

‘Immediately. We can download them into any computer connected to a wireless network. Just specify which and we will begin.’

The representative from one of the East African countries was next. ‘Of what use will fusion power be to us? We will never have the resources to build such things. But our people are starving now! What can you do to help us?’

‘We cannot supply anything to you except information and advice. As Cade can witness, our one attempt to make physical contact ended in disaster. The useful information we have is basically very technical so can only be utilised by your most technologically advanced countries. What you need to do, collectively, is find a way to spread the benefits of that to all countries via aid programmes. That is your problem – specifically, the United Nations’.’

‘So you give to those who already have everything, and we just have to hope that some crumbs fall from their table?’

Primo said nothing. I could feel his dismay at the trend of the discussion.

Another African representative, from one of the less sane governments, spoke next. ‘All you seem to have to offer us is a way of preventing our people from having children! You are trying to wipe us out! To make us extinct!’

There was a mutter around the room. I read the mood and relayed it to Primo. ‘They are torn in different directions. The reaction of many of the poorer countries is as you have heard. Some of the richer ones are very interested in the advanced technology you are offering, but don’t want to commit themselves until they are sure you are genuine. We won’t get any more out of this.’ I suggested some concluding words to Primo, who duly ended his appearance by asking all countries who wished to benefit from his offer to advise me of the computer systems they wanted the data downloaded to. The Assembly was buzzing with conversation as I left.

I waited around the UN for a while but nobody seemed to want to talk to me so I took a car to the jetty at the east end of 23rd Street where Matt was waiting with the boat. Freya arrived shortly afterwards.

‘Some of the delegates spoke to me afterwards – I don’t think they wanted to be seen speaking to you,’ she said. ‘They’ll be sending me details of their computers for downloading.’

‘Good, we’ve made some progress then.’

She looked grim. ‘It’s going to be hard work; there’s a lot of opposition out there.’ She sat in the open cockpit at the back of the boat, thoughtfully tapping her teeth with her thumb, then came to a decision. ‘I’ve seen the recordings of your early press conferences. You handled them very well. If you don’t mind, I think we should have another. We need all the help we can get.’

‘OK, set it up. I don’t see how it can do any harm.’ That proved to be the most inaccurate judgment I had made for a long time.

The next day I was back in the UN building, this time in a large room packed with journalists. Freya was in her element, organising and controlling the meeting. We both stood at a large lectern fringed with assorted microphones. The television lights shone brightly in our eyes, but the room was sufficiently well-lit to be able to see everyone. I had felt that an introductory speech would be superfluous, so we went straight into questions. The first question, from a BBC correspondent, set the tone:

‘Cade, putting aside for the moment the controversy about whether the kangasaurs are genuine or a computer-generated fantasy, how do you know that their intentions are honourable? Why should they help us?’

‘I think that the obvious answer to that also addresses the fantasy claim: I know that information about fusion power and other advanced technology has already been downloaded to many nations’ computer systems, worldwide, and is being examined by the top scientists in those fields. If it doesn’t check out, no doubt someone will say so, very soon. On a personal level, if you could experience the closeness of the mental link that I have with them, you could have no doubt as to their sincerity. Hard though it may be for a journalist to understand,’ I grinned to take the sting out of it, ‘their motives are altruistic – they have all that they need from life and are at peace with themselves and their environment. They are appalled by the mess we have got ourselves into, and want to stop our civilisation from disappearing like the other human societies they found. To be honest, I think that they find life a little dull, and we’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to them in millennia, so they are making a special project out of helping us.’

‘How do you respond to the argument that the technological information provided by the saurians will only benefit the richest and most advanced countries?’ This from a Swiss representative.

‘That’s true, and it will be up to international agreements to ensure that the benefits are disseminated. Clearly that will not happen quickly as it will take some time for the advanced countries to construct enough fusion power stations to meet their own needs. However, in compensation there will be some early benefit for the environment in that it is the richest countries which produce most pollution per head, so a reduction in their use of fossil fuels will have a major impact.’

‘But what can poorer countries do for themselves?’ A South American correspondent.

‘I hope that the message brought by the saurians will alter attitudes and make changes easier. There is much that can be done now; to insulate property so it requires less heating and cooling, to use low-energy electrical equipment, to adjust tax regimes to favour less polluting road vehicles, and indeed less polluting modes of transport in general. None of this is new – many countries have been implementing such measures for a long time. If everyone did their best to follow suit it would make a huge difference.’

‘What about the impact on petroleum businesses?’ Identifiably from the southern USA.

‘I would advise them to develop medium-term plans to switch from fuel production to plastics manufacture. But even that is unlikely to be sustainable in the long term. We need to make more use of less polluting materials.’

‘What have you to say to those people in Africa and elsewhere demonstrating against the proposals to restrict their fertility?’ An African journalist.

‘Population growth is the biggest problem of all in the long term. If everyone were to use resources at the same rate as people in the wealthiest countries, we would need several planets like Earth to provide for them all. The economic development of poorer countries is only making matters worse; as their standard of living rises, they produce and consume more of everything, including energy.’

‘Are you saying that the poor countries must stay poor?’

‘No: I’m saying that the current world population must be reduced significantly, especially in those continents unable to provide for their own needs; only then can everyone enjoy a decent life into the foreseeable future.’

‘Won’t a sudden drop in childbirth in some areas cause all sorts of problems with demographic imbalances?’

‘Probably. But that has to be accepted as a lesser problem than what we are doing to the environment now.’

‘How will you make sure that the medicines you provide to restart fertility will always be available to those who need them? If civilisation does come to an end, won’t humanity just die out?’

‘We’ve given some thought to that and the saurians have brought their genetic skills to bear on the problem. They have determined that they can do this without any complex medicines being needed; instead, all people will have to do to restore their fertility is to eat lots of some widely-available substance – perhaps grass. They think that they can design this so that fertility is only restored for a few hours.’

‘Grass?’

‘Yes. Some species or other of grass is readily available almost anywhere, but it isn’t the kind of thing that anyone would eat by accident.’

The questions and responses went on in like vein for some time, and seemed to be winding up when another American reporter, who had so far sat silently, put up his hand.

‘All right, last questioner,’ said Freya.

‘Cade, is it true that you worked for the British security services?’

Probably a revival of the Tower Bridge incident, I thought. ‘Yes, I provided some assistance in countering terrorism.’

‘Is it true that you can kill people by using your mind alone?’

Where on Earth had that come from? I paused, shocked by the question. I felt Freya’s emotional response, and knew that she had told no-one of the first conversation we had had on the verandah.

‘Cade, yes or no?’ The reporter was firm, the others looking on in astonishment.

‘Yes, that’s possible,’ I answered flatly.

‘And is it true that, while working for the British security services, you used your alien mind power to kill several men?’

The shockwave swept round the room. I felt blocked in, knew he must have obtained intelligence information from Britain; to try to deny it could only result in my being shown up as a liar.

‘Yes,’ I said grimly, ‘in self defence.’

‘No more questions,’ he said smoothly, and it was all over.

The news media were full of this revelation over the next few hours. Those who were sceptical about the saurians or opposed to their message leapt on the story: “Cade the Killer”, said one headline. “Cade Kills using Lethal Alien Mind Power” went another. “Cade to be Charged with Multiple Murder?” speculated a third.

‘What do you expect?’ Freya said glumly, as we sat in the Long Island house reviewing the news. ‘You’re the “front man” for the saurians. If the business and political interests opposed to the environmental agenda can discredit you, then they’ve won a major battle. And too many powerful people don’t want to lose their power and wealth, and are afraid that the saurian message will damage public confidence in business and harm the economy.’ She sighed heavily. ‘We’d better get a counter-message out quickly. I suggest that we prepare a press statement explaining the circumstances of those deaths, as you have just explained them to me.’

The next day the press statement was duly issued, and it had some effect; a series of quick opinion polls revealed that my popularity had been restored to around 25%, nearly double that of the previous day. But it had exceeded 75% before the saurian episode had begun.

‘What’s worse,’ said Freya grimly, ‘is that the ones who still believe in you are the young and idealistic, who by definition have no power. You are facing a powerful coalition of disparate interests; big business, the governments of many wealthy countries who see painful political choices, poor countries who see no benefits but only more restrictions on their ability to develop, religious groups opposed to your message about restricting childbirth – or just opposed anyway because there is no room for God either in your philosophy or the saurians’. And most people are terrified of your “lethal mind power”. I’m sorry Cade, but it’s looking grim. I’m not sure where we can go from here.’

Feeling depressed, I linked with Primo and explained the situation from my perspective. He was sympathetic but was unable to suggest anything more which might sway public opinion.

‘Do you have this ability to kill with the mind?’ I asked.

He considered that for a moment, then said, ‘no, we don’t. That may be partly because all saurians have similar mental powers, so any such attack would instantly be detected and countered.’

‘What if several of you ganged up on one person?’

‘I don’t know. But in order for us to do that, we would have to be mind-linked to the victim. And to be linked to someone we were killing would be so horrible that it would probably drive us insane. In fact, we’d have to be insane to contemplate it. Fortunately, we are able to detect incipient insanity at an early stage and treat it.’

The next afternoon brought an unexpected visitor: Luke. After the usual civilities we settled down in the shade of the verandah to enjoy the view over the Sound; he with a coffee, me with a new variety of mineral water Freya had found for me to sample. It was a fine afternoon, the sun warming our faces and the blue sky dotted with a flock of cumulus clouds drifting slowly together, as if they were stationary while the world rolled beneath them.

‘I thought you were still buried in Africa.’

‘I was, but after your first speech at the UN, my charity agreed with the UN Secretariat that I should visit you as a matter of urgency.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose because I’m the closest person to you, Matt – somebody who might understand you and who you might listen to you.’ He smiled. ‘I gathered that they tried several of your ex-girlfriends but they weren’t able to help.’

I snorted. ‘No surprise there. They never did understand me, which is why they are ex’s.’

‘Ah, the permanent complaint of the misunderstood male!’

‘Anyway, what I am supposed to be listening to?’

He paused before answering, fiddling with his glasses in a way I remembered when he had something he’d rather not say. I couldn’t help noticing that the wavy brown hair was greying at the temples, and his face was lined with care as well as by the African sun. ‘The word is that the technical information the kangasaurs provided checks out so far. They are inclined to believe you. But there are many concerns about the implications of it all – where are they leading us? What will happen to humanity?’

‘If we follow their advice, we might just be saved.’

He grimaced. ‘Salvation comes from within through God’s grace, it can’t be offered on a plate by a bunch of scaly kangaroos.’

‘Aha, now we’re getting to the point – your human-centred religion.’

He turned to face me, visibly angry. ‘Your so-called kangasaurs are proposing to play God with the most precious gift of all – our ability to create life!’

‘Quality is more important than quantity. What’s the point of churning out vast numbers of extra mouths each month when there’s no food for them? You must know this – you work amongst the deprivation which results.’

‘That deprivation is caused by the cynical neglect of the richer nations. If they put half the resources they spend on armaments into constructively helping the Third World, its problems would be solved within a generation.’

I sighed. ‘We’re reaching the limits, Luke. I hate to sound brutal, but if the problems of the Third World were solved in the way you envisage, they’d immediately start consuming more resources, which would push the Earth over the edge even faster. There are just too many people on this planet.’

‘Those problems would not exist if the richer nations didn’t squander resources so extravagantly.’ Luke had lost nothing of his intensity, his lean body rigid with his determination to convince me. I felt tired, the memory of old arguments revived.

‘Maybe, but you know that the economic system of the developed world depends on consumption and trade. Restrict the consumption too much and you’ll get mass unemployment, economic collapse, and the end of any aid to the Third World.’

‘You’re turning into an apologist for big business!’

‘No, you’re right that we do need to restrict our consumption but we need to do that without undermining the economy. It’s difficult, but achievable if the will is there. But in the long run, no such measures will do any good if the world population continues to increase.’

‘You cannot sterilise humanity! These poor people I work with, their children are their only hope for the future!’

‘If they had fewer of them, their future would be a lot better. Your church hasn’t exactly helped matters by condemning all forms of contraception, has it? Even though AIDS is the scourge of Africa! How can you justify that?’

‘I don’t have to justify anything! I am doing God’s work, in spending my life looking after His people – what you are proposing is blasphemy!’

I tried a more emollient tack. ‘Luke, we’re not talking about sterilisation, anyway. There will always be a way for a couple to restore their fertility if they want to.’

‘Yes, by eating grass. Don’t you know that there are vast areas of Africa where the long-term drought is so severe that fresh grass can’t be found?’

‘If the drought is that bad then they can’t be producing their own food anyway; tell me, is it really sensible to conceive children in conditions of drought and famine?’

He gestured angrily, sending his coffee spoon flying across the table. ‘If we were coldly doing only what was logical, we would be adopting Swift’s “modest proposal” and telling the starving to eat their own children. We must accept human needs, and one of the most basic of those is to rear children!’

‘Not as basic as having enough to eat.’

We fell into a weary silence for a few moments. It had always ended this way, debates sliding into bitter arguments from entrenched positions.

‘It’s no good, Luke; we’re no closer to finding common ground than we ever were. We have to find some balance here, some way of resolving these arguments.’

He was doggedly determined. ‘But this isn’t the usual intellectual debate, Matt – you are proposing to attack our fundamental humanity. You must not do this!’

‘I have to do it – the alternative is no future for humanity.’

He glared at me for a few moments, then got up abruptly. ‘I can see that I’m wasting my time, as usual. You are so obstinately certain that you’re right. Well, there’s a huge number of people out there who are opposed to what you are doing, in the strongest possible terms.’

I sighed. ‘Tell me about it.’

Luke’s expression softened slightly. ‘It must be very hard for you, all this. I will pray for you.’

‘Thanks – the way things look at the moment, I haven’t got a prayer.’

Luke marched out, still tense with anger. I looked at the spoon lying on the table. It had left a trail of coffee, as if bleeding brown blood from some mortal wound.

The following morning, Freya had more bad news. ‘In the circumstances, the Secretary-General has decided that he doesn’t want to proceed with you as a Special Representative. I have been recalled, and you are asked to leave this house within two days.’

I looked at her, scanned her closely. Her fixed expression reflected her tension and anger, but I was relieved to see that they were not directed at me. She had been given her orders, and had to carry them out – but it was clear that she did not like them. She started to say something else, but I raised my hand to silence her and walked out into the grounds. She followed, puzzled.

‘The rooms are bugged.’ I explained.

Her anger increased. ‘Typical!’ She snorted. ‘Cade, what I want to tell you is that I don’t agree with all this. I believe you and the saurians, I think that your message is important and urgent, but it’s all a mess now. I either have to do as I’m told or resign.’

A germ of an idea sprouted in my mind. ‘Do you have any leave you can take?’

‘Yes, I have about three weeks owing this year.’

‘Why don’t you take them now, and go home to Iceland? I might join you there later.’

She looked levelly at me. ‘You’re plotting something, aren’t you?’

I grinned. ‘Probably, but it’s only a vague notion at the moment. I have to do some research first.’

‘All right, I expect that the Secretary-General will be pleased to get me out of the way for a while. If there’s any way I can help, I will.’

Freya left shortly afterwards, and I contemplated what to do next. I put on the headnet and linked with Secundo. I put a number of questions and suggestions to him, and sensed a spark of interest, even excitement – rare for any saurian, let alone the grave and serious Secundo – and then broke the link to let him get to work.

I went for a swim, had some lunch, and was thinking about where I should go next – and how – when the phone rang. I picked it up and was astonished to recognise Richards’ voice. He did not waste words.

‘Two things. First, about the leak over those killings. The Americans went over my head and got access to your records. Second, get out of that house now – it’s a trap.’

The phone went dead before I could ask any questions. I put it down and opened my senses. The two staff members weren’t there – the house was empty apart from myself. I extended my range and instantly detected three sources glowing with malign intent, closing fast. One was coming by road – I sensed a truck-load of men – one by water, and one by air. I ran out of the house towards the shore. A small helicopter was visible, racing towards the house. A cabin cruiser was a few hundred metres away, the bow-wave indicating high speed as it approached. I heard the squeal of tyres as the truck turned into the driveway, and stopped for a moment to think.

I considered and instantly dismissed the idea of killing them – it would make my position even worse, confirm the worst fears of the public. In the Sound I would be safe from the men in the lorry and probably the boat as well, but not with the helicopter watching overhead, able to look down through the water. I focused on the helo, found the pilot’s mind, and squeezed, giving him a blinding headache. The helo wobbled uncertainly and I increased the pressure. The pilot gave in and turned away as I sprinted into the Sound. Behind me I heard a barrage of explosions and the roar of gunfire as the house was attacked; it sounded as if many grenades had been thrown, but I did not turn back to look. In the water, I swam out as fast as I could towards the approaching boat, reaching deeper water as soon as possible. Then I submerged, turned away from the boat’s path until it was passing by, sank to the bottom and shifted my colour to match.

I stayed on the bottom for a long time, deliberately calming down and slowing my breathing and metabolism. The boat crew threw grenades overboard and the concussions battered me, but they were too far away to do any damage. After about twenty minutes they gave up and sailed away at high speed. Once I was certain that they had gone, I slowly surfaced, scanning sensitivity at maximum range. There was nothing out of the ordinary visible except for the blazing wreck of the house. I could hear the distant sound of police sirens approaching.

I floated for a while, considering what to do next. Fortunately I still had my headnet, securely protected inside its sealed bag. It was time I disappeared from view. I turned over and began swimming steadily, out into the Sound.

8

I swam ashore at Twin Island, a small, wooded promontory at Pelham Bay Park, on the opposite side of the Sound. I found a concealed place among the woods, the leaves glowing with the rich colours of autumn, sat down, put on the headnet, and linked with Secundo. During the swim, I had worked out what I needed to do next but first I needed feedback. Secundo confirmed that what I had suggested was possible, and that the saurian authorities were prepared to do it. I picked up from his mind how appalled he was at the attack on me, and asked him to keep me posted about what the news media had to say. The headnet now proved doubly useful as it enabled me to make use of the internet via the saurians. I asked Secundo to search for some information for me, then settled down to wait until it was dark.

A night of travelling followed. I would have preferred to follow the coast, on foot or by swimming, but there wasn’t time – Secundo had come back with the news I wanted and I had an appointment to keep. I ran inland until I hit a major road, then paralleled it until I found a truck stop. From then on I travelled by commercial vehicles, unknown to the drivers; where I couldn’t get inside the vehicles, the strength and endurance of my adapted muscles proved useful in hanging on underneath. En route, I rather apologetically did some breaking-and-entering into a food store to collect some packets of fruit and nuts and bottles of water, plus a backpack to carry them in.

Dawn wasn’t far away by the time I reached the outskirts of Boston. Primo had taken over from Secundo and was following my progress using on-line maps. Following his instructions, I left the vehicle near Columbus Park and slipped into the water there. I swam as fast as I could, burdened as I was with my backpack, around Pleasure Bay and into the Main Channel. It didn’t take me long to locate my target – a huge Holland America cruise liner tied up to a quay, glowing with light. I made use of my chameleon abilities to get onto the quayside and then slip aboard via a heavy mooring rope, away from the brightly lit and guarded gangway.

Such an enormous ship needed many lifeboats. The larger ones might be needed as tenders in some ports, but the smaller ones were less likely to be used, so I located the remotest one I could find and got inside, just as dawn was breaking.

The day was filled with the sound of preparations for sea; the passengers arriving and exploring the ship, crew messages echoing over the tannoy. I ducked right down on the ship side of my refuge as the passengers assembled on deck for lifeboat drill. Late that afternoon the ship sailed, and I settled down to a long wait.

Most of the time I was trapped in the lifeboat, but in the hours before dawn I was able to get out, use the facilities and take some exercise in reasonable safety, senses alert for the approach of any passengers or crew. I longingly considered the swimming pools, but that would have been too risky. Once, a crewman came to check on the lifeboats. I nudged his mind and he looked away from me before wandering off, satisfied that all was as it should be.

The saurians kept me in touch with the news about my disappearance. The official word had been very bland: yes, there had been an attack on the house in which I was staying, but the house appeared to be empty at the time; no, they didn’t know who had carried out the attack but were “following up leads”; no, they had no idea where I was. Comment in the news media was more interesting; it was believed that the attackers had been a group of right-wing extremists, possibly with some fundamentalist religious motivation. Even more intriguingly, it was suggested that they may have had help from people with access to intelligence sources; possibly an unofficial or “black” group with close links to the intelligence community.

The motivation of such a maverick intelligence group was the subject of some speculation; it was suggested that since the US had now obtained the information they needed to construct fusion power-plants and other advanced power systems, I was no longer strictly needed, particularly as they could communicate with the saurians via broadcast email or mobile phone. Such people would be likely to regard me as a “loose cannon” with a dangerous level of influence which was being used against their perception of the national interests of the USA. They would probably prefer to control me in order to benefit from my close links with the saurians, but they feared that my abilities in detecting and countering attacks would make that very difficult, so putting me permanently out of the way was the next best solution.

I pondered this for some time. It was all speculation, but it sounded uncomfortably realistic – or was I just becoming paranoid? Still, as the old joke goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that someone isn’t out to get you – and somebody certainly was. If I had the reach of a part (albeit unofficial) of the US intelligence community against me, I was in deeper trouble than I had thought.

I had plenty of time to think on that cruise, to consider all that I had done, where I had gone wrong, and what I could have done differently. At each decision point I had tried to make the best choice I could at the time, but it had all resulted in my becoming a discredited fugitive, hiding from the hunters. Had my judgement been so much at fault? Was I mistaken in what I hoped to achieve, as Luke believed? Would humanity muddle through anyway – perhaps we would be the one iteration of the human worlds to maintain our civilisation by ourselves? In the dark of the nights, my spirits sank lower and I was plagued with doubts and regrets. If it were not for the saurians, always there to link to, I don’t know what kind of mental state I would have finished the journey in. They were endlessly fascinated by humanity, by our inconsistencies and contradictions, our impressive achievements and spectacular disasters. Tertia confessed that they liked linking with me – my mind “felt different”, despite the saurian modifications. I had always regarded myself as a clear and logical thinker, and was rather mortified to find that the saurians were intrigued by the way in which my thinking “jumped about all over the place” compared with their systematic and thorough approach.

‘Tell me more about your relationships,’ she asked. ‘Your males and females seem to be in constant conflict, always deceiving each other, breaking up and coming back together again in different combinations. Isn’t it very difficult to live like that?’

‘You’ve been watching too many soap operas. Most people enjoy uneventful relationships but that would make boring television, so they pick out the small percentage of extreme behaviours and have their characters act those out as if they were normal.’

She thought about that for a moment. ‘But if lots of people watch these “soap operas”, might they not assume that they are supposed to behave in a similar way – that this is normal?’

‘I expect that does happen to some extent, yes. But I think that most viewers probably watch because they can vicariously enjoy the crises and dramas from within the security of their own relationships.’

‘It is very hard for us to put ourselves in your minds and understand human actions. We have a similar problem with the saurians in our alternate worlds, who have rejected mind-linking, but at least we think in similar ways about most things – we have shared cultural norms. I don’t wish to cause offence but, for us, watching you is like it might be for you, if you were watching a community of blind people who have found clever ways of dealing with their lack of sight but are forever colliding into each other and lashing out.’

‘Sometimes it looks pretty much the same from our viewpoint as well.’

The ship called at a couple of places in the Newfoundland area, then went on to Nuuk in Greenland. I looked out of the lifeboat’s porthole with interest as the ship entered the fjord. The great ice cap was visible in the distance, but I didn’t need the tannoy commentary to tell me about the speed with which it was losing ice as the melting glaciers accelerated their flows down to the sea, lubricated by their own melt-water.

Ten days after sailing, the ship arrived in Reykjavik. By then, my plan was set and agreed with the saurians and with Freya. She had put a wireless internet link into her computer and was communicating with the saurians – and thereby indirectly with me – via email. Her home was out of range of the nearest wireless internet node so the transmissions were completely secure.

In Reykjavik the ship was scheduled to dock early in the morning so I slipped overboard before anyone was about, and thoroughly enjoyed the swim across the harbour, not caring about the cold rain falling from an overcast sky or the chop blown up by the stiff breeze. Freya was sitting in her car waiting for me by the skeletal steel sculpture of a Viking longship on the sea front. I slipped into the back of her Toyota Landcruiser – fitted with the almost obligatory oversized tyres in bulging wheel arches – and lay on the floor, covered by a blanket, as she drove through the city, south-west towards Keflavik. We talked on the way, Freya giving me a running commentary on where we were, interspersed with chat about what she had been doing. I could sense her nervousness and tension only too clearly.

Before reaching the airport, Freya turned left onto the Grindavik road. Traffic was light and I was able to raise my head up to see where we were going. The land became very rugged and barren, the gnarled remnants of old lava flows. Soon the landscape would be white, but the first snow was yet to fall. After a while, Freya turned off the road and onto a rough track which wound its way among the rocks. She eventually stopped on the edge of a depression about two hundred metres across, surrounded by high rocks. The scenery was so desolate it could have been the surface of a moon, were it not for the constantly falling rain. There was no sign of humanity – indeed, of life – except for the barely discernable track winding through the depression. I scanned to the ultimate and confirmed to Primo that no-one was within range.

A few moments later, there was a brilliant flash on the track a hundred metres ahead, and the shattering blast of the explosion rocked the big Toyota a fraction of a second later. There was no fire – there was nothing to burn – and Freya put the car into gear and drove towards the focus of the blast. Lying on the track was a silvery ovoid, hand-sized. I got out of the car and picked it up – I was surprised that it wasn’t hot – and Freya turned the car and returned to the road.

As we approached Grindavik, a small port on the south coast, I dived back under the blanket. Freya turned left off the road before it reached the centre of the town, and headed east along the coast. The road rapidly became unpaved and shortly afterwards the car turned again onto an even rougher track. It bounced along for a while, the surface giving the suspension a good workout, and I put my head up again. The track led down to the sea, and ended at a single house, with a red, corrugated metal roof, perched on the rocks above a small bay. There was no beach, just bare, twisted rock being constantly pounded by breakers.

‘This is it, it’s all ours for the next week,’ Freya said. ‘A bit primitive, but all the privacy we could hope for – much better than my apartment.’

We got out of the car and Freya produced some keys and unlocked the door of the house. We carried boxes of provisions from her car, then sat at the kitchen table to eat a quick meal while the house warmed up.

We looked at each other and I said, ‘are you really certain? This is an irrevocable step. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you changed your mind, you know.’

Freya was still nervous, but underneath I could sense a grim determination.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I wish I didn’t have to, but knowing what I do now, I don’t really have any choice. I’ve had plenty of time to think it through, and know that this is what I have to do.’ She took a deep breath and said, ‘no point in delaying’. She took off her jacket, revealing a sleeveless blouse. I took out the silvery ovoid and, following Primo’s instruction via the mind-link, held it in a certain way. It sampled and recognised my DNA and opened. At the top was a large flexible patch. I took it out and held it up. Freya took the patch from me, her eyes narrowed and her mouth firm with determination. Her face was pale under her outdoor tan. She peeled off the protective backing and pressed the thin white patch against her upper arm. We watched in fascination as the patch began to change colour to match her skin, becoming less distinct and gradually thinning out until it was all gone. Freya put her jacket back on with a shrug. Now we just had to wait.

Apart from scanning Freya from time to time to check that she was all right, there was nothing for me to do, and even less for Freya. She spent much of her time walking in the harsh surrounding countryside, getting familiar with the terrain. It would have been unsafe for me to stray far from the house in case I was spotted, so I spent most of the days linked to whichever of the saurians was on duty, reviewing and refining our plans and otherwise engaged in mutual education sessions.

We knew that we would be found, sooner or later. I was in no doubt that there was an intensive search going on for me, and once my enemies had concluded that I was no longer in the USA they would start looking elsewhere, and would check on Freya. Not finding her at her home, they would start to hunt for her, and that would not take long; she had had to use her true ID in renting the house.

At night, I went swimming. The late-autumn sea was cold and wild, pounding the shore, and I found it easiest to get into the water by taking a running dive from the rocks just as a wave began to recede. Once away from the turbulent breakers, the depth and power of the North Atlantic Ocean reached out to me. It sang with life, the Icelanders having sensibly protected their seas from the overfishing which had crippled the industries on both sides of the ocean. I spent as much time as possible underwater, slowing my pulse and moving gently to extend the duration, while my mind absorbed the mental orchestra of the sea; the bright tinkling of the fish and the grander notes of the whales, all against the background of the deep, slow rhythm of the ocean itself. I reluctantly surfaced at regular intervals to scan a wide area around, in case we had been discovered and an attack was being prepared.

After three days I sensed changes beginning in Freya’s mind. She had become irritable, complaining of sudden headaches. In the mornings she described strange dreams, jagged and surreal. On the evening of the fifth day, we were in the kitchen clearing up after our – or to be precise, Freya’s – meal, when she suddenly stopped and said ‘Oh!’ At the same instant, I felt her mind opening up and linked with her.

The sensation was similar to, but subtly different from, a mind-link with the saurians. This was closer and warmer; the compatibility of our minds was clearly greater than between human (or hybrid) and saurian. For Freya, with no experience of mind-linking, it was stunning. She stood unmoving at the sink, her mouth open, for several minutes as she absorbed the new dimensions which had suddenly opened up in her mind. I felt her amazement, her gradual understanding of what I had been talking about, her increasing delight as she explored her new abilities.

After a while I reopened the ovoid and took out the other items; two saurian headnets, much finer than my home-made affair, with a tiny radio element built into the wires. I knew that there was no need for batteries – they were powered by the body’s own electrical field, and could be turned on or off with a thought. Freya snuggled hers into her hair, and it became invisible. We both linked to Tertia, who had been intently observing, and Freya was stunned again by the experience of meeting an alien mind.

We spent some time playing with the headnets and quizzing Tertia about their effectiveness. Apart from allowing us to communicate with the saurians, they were capable of extending our own mind-linking range from about a hundred metres to several kilometres. Tertia believed that the range at which we could detect each other’s presence would be boosted from about twenty kilometres to over two hundred. And, of course, by both linking to the saurian on duty we could form a three-link even if we were on opposite sides of the globe.

Afterwards, we said goodbye to Tertia, turned off the headnets and sat at the table, just looking at each other. Freya began to practice communication by mind-link.

‘I need to find a mirror,’ she said.

I shook my head. ‘No need – you look exactly the same. The saurians did an excellent job of gene-fiddling to avoid what I went through. No scaly skin, no golden eyes, hair all there, even your wrinkles are present and correct.’

She grimaced wryly. ‘It would have been nice to have had twenty years taken off my physical age, but I can’t afford to look different or the plan won’t work.’

‘How’s the appetite? Are you a fruit-and-nutcase too?’

She contemplated for a moment. ‘Wonderful – I could murder some smoked puffin washed down with strong beer!’

‘All right, no need to rub it in!’

We sat there, each savouring the experience of being mentally linked to another human being for the first time in our lives. I became aware of the depths of her personality, her intelligence, independence, strength and courage. Her passionate idealism tempered by practical cynicism from her years in international politics. And how she felt about me. Without any conscious decision, our minds opened to the fullest extent, nothing held back, and we merged with an intensity which I had never imagined possible.

We woke together in the morning, our minds as linked as our bodies. Freya looked at me and we smiled slowly, remembering.

‘Worth it, then?’

‘Oh yes – I never quite realised…’

‘Neither did I – it’s different mind-linking with another human. Do you feel happier about the next stage of the plan?’

‘Absolutely – we have to do it.’

I reached for her lazily. ‘We have a little time yet…’

Suddenly I froze as my mental alarm went off. Freya reacted with confusion and anxiety, then sensed through me the approach of trouble. We untangled ourselves and got out of bed quickly; I had a horrible moment of déjà vu, a flash of memory of a wooden chalet perched on the edge of a calmer sea. The men were closing fast and the chop-chop of a helicopter became audible from inland. Before it came within my effective range, it stopped moving and I realised that it had landed and was disgorging men, who began to move steadily towards the house.

We had already planned what to do when this happened. I didn’t want to kill anyone if I could possibly avoid it. Freya, just beginning to learn about her new abilities, was far from ready to take any effective action. We left, taking nothing except small bags of food and water, and the saurian headnets. Freya headed for the rocks, having worked out beforehand an escape route which offered good concealment; I took a running dive into the sea. I sensed a fishing vessel offshore manned by allies of the troops inland, but it offered little threat to me as long as I kept away from its fish-hunting sonar.

The vessel moved inshore and the beam of a powerful searchlight flared out, flashing wildly around as the boat pitched and rolled in the rough sea. I swam parallel to the shore, using the nearby the rocks as cover. I checked on the house and discovered that the men, rather surprisingly, had entered it but did not appear to be doing any damage; there were no explosions or gunfire, and I sensed from their minds that they did not really expect to find anyone there. Puzzled, I turned my attention to the nearby fishing boat and picked up a sense of anticipation from the crew; they were clearly waiting for something.

The sky was beginning to lighten and something moving caught my eye at the same time as I heard a faint murmur of sound from above. I turned on my back for a better view and saw a small aircraft heading straight towards me. I reached out to connect with the pilot and felt no-one there, and then the truth dawned – it was a UCAV, remotely-controlled via a radio link from miles away. These aircraft were equipped with night-vision and infra-red cameras – and weapons. I tried to retune my mind to access the electronic controls, but it was an impossible task at such a distance. I saw something drop from the plane and I desperately turned to swim to the shore, but I was far too late. The shock-wave from the depth charge, designed to crush the hulls of submarines, slammed into me like an express train and sent me spinning down into unconsciousness.

9

I slowly woke to a glare of whiteness. As my eyes adjusted, I became aware of straight lines crossing the whiteness, meeting at angles, with brilliant sources of light scattered along them and black blobs where they met. I sluggishly pondered the sight for a few minutes as my brain wearily got into gear. Suddenly, the view snapped into context. I was lying on my back, looking up at a ceiling. The lines were the joins where the walls met – or almost met – the ceiling, the black blobs I could not immediately identify. The light sources provided a bright, even glare.

I was lying next to one wall. I turned my head and surveyed the rest of the small room. It was a cube about four metres on each side, and almost entirely featureless, just a door in one wall with a small drum-shaped hatch at the bottom, a sink and a toilet. I was lying on the floor, on a thin pad.

With a considerable effort I sat up, feeling very tired. I recalled what had happened, right up to the shock of the depth charge – then nothing. I checked my own body and discovered that any damage done by the crushing blow had been repaired; possibly the resources which that had used up accounted for my exhaustion. There seemed to be something more, though – an unaccustomed lethargy, and a dull headache which I managed to dissolve with a moment’s effort.

I tried extending my senses beyond the wall, and found nothing – my perceptions were completely blocked, limited to what I could see. My headnet had gone, of course. After a while, and with the usual difficulty, I managed to retune my mind to detect electronic fields, and tried again. At first, I seemed to fare no better than before. Then I looked up at the black blobs in the corners of the ceiling. This time there was progress.

The black blobs proved to be small windows though which camera lenses peered. Electronic cameras. I tuned into their circuitry, into the feeds which led from them. The cables stretched upwards, a huge distance. I gave up on that for the moment, and tracked other connections, other circuits using the same cabling. Some led to control circuits directly above the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling more carefully, and noticed some slotted panels which must be for ventilation. The control circuits seemed to be associated with only a small number of these vents, however. It dawned on me what these were probably for; to remotely release gas into the room. No wonder I had been feeling lethargic; I must have been drugged or gassed for days.

There appeared to be two entirely different sets of circuits leading to different vents, which puzzled me for a moment. The most likely explanation to occur to me was not at all comforting; one set would be for anaesthetic gas in case they needed to knock me out again, the other would be for when I had outlived my usefulness.

Another control circuit led to the electronic door lock. I contemplated that for a while, then turned my attention to the destination of the cabling. I gritted my teeth and forced my mind to follow it, up and up, until it reached a control centre apparently linked to a radio. It dawned on me that there was no-one at all in this installation, whatever it was: I was being imprisoned by remote control.

I lay back on my pad and gave my frazzled brain a rest; it really did not like messing with electronics. I didn’t realise that I had slipped back into sleep until I was woken by a grating noise. I looked around and saw that the small hatch was rotating. As the other side of the drum came into view, it revealed an opening into the drum. Inside was a selection of fruit and nuts. I got up and retrieved them, meanwhile straining my senses to detect anything on the other side of the hatch as it rotated back into position. Nothing – still blocked. I persuaded my reluctant mind to enter the security network again, to find out how the food was being delivered. I detected a stream of radio traffic to and from something moving, apparently in the vicinity of my cell. Then my brain rebelled and I lay back with a pounding headache which I was too exhausted to dispel.

This set the pattern for the next few days. The lights stayed fully on, all of the time. Once a day, as near as I could judge with no means of telling the time, the hatch rotated with a protesting noise and more food was delivered. There was otherwise nothing to do, so every hour or so I went through a bout of vigorous exercise to try to keep fit; I was literally bouncing off the walls. I slept far more than usual, but even so there was lots of time left. In order to stop feeling sorry for myself, I concentrated on learning as much as I could about the electronic network by which this place was managed, for as long as my brain could stand it. I also had plenty of time to devote to thinking about my situation, and working out strategies for making more effective use of my abilities. In all this time, there was no communication from my captors; they seemed content just to keep me imprisoned. I concluded that for the time being they simply wanted me out of the way, unable to influence the debate which must still be raging about the saurians and their offer of help.

The headaches caused by my nervous system’s clash with electronics gradually reduced with familiarity and I found that I was learning more and more about the system. Eventually, I established as clear a picture as I could.

My cell was situated at the bottom of a deep shaft – possibly a mine, it was hard to tell. There was a lift running down the side of the shaft. Close to the top, there was some sort of control centre leading off from the shaft. From this centre, once a day, a small radio-controlled vehicle trundled, carrying my food. It entered the lift, descended to the bottom, crawled to my cell, placed the food in the hatch, then returned the way it had come.

I now knew as much as I was going to discover, and realised that I had to act or stay there and rot. I was painfully aware of the four cameras which covered every inch of my cell; and even more so of those discreet vents in the ceiling. I spent some time thinking of alternatives and testing possibilities before I was ready.

In order to prepare my jailors for the deception I planned, I took to spending long periods apparently asleep (and occasionally genuinely so), lying absolutely still on my pad. Finally, I could put off the moment of decision no longer. I ate my last meal – rather too aware that it might be exactly that – and lay down, apparently to sleep. My body was inactive, but my mind was anything but. I traced the electronic data feeds from each of the four cameras, memorised the video patterns – and locked them. For as long as my concentration held, the cameras would keep relaying the same view, of me lying motionless on my pad.

I got up and walked over to the door. Setting aside part of my mind to maintaining the video hold, I put the rest to the task of following the circuitry to the door lock. After many rehearsals, this was quick and easy. I took a deep breath and “nudged” the circuit. There was a loud click. I pushed at the door, and it slowly swung open. I was at maximum alertness for any electronic alarm messages which might be triggered, but all was quiet – across the entire spectrum. I stepped out of my cell for the first time in many days, reflecting on the irony that a simple medieval locking bar would have kept me in there indefinitely. Outside, the light was much dimmer than in the cell, but good enough to see my surroundings.

The cell was a plain box, with walls many centimetres thick. Judging by the weight of the door, they were probably lined with lead. The exterior of the cube, including the door, was covered with a metal mesh. It took a moment for my memory to pull up what it was – a Faraday cage, designed to block reception of all radiation inside the cell. My captors had done their best to seal me off from anyone – human or saurian – who might have been trying to contact me; it had obviously been effective in the other direction as well. I turned from the cell and looked around me.

I was standing at the bottom of a circular shaft. At a rough estimate, it was at least fifteen metres in diameter, and had walls of smoothly finished concrete. The lift was a small, skeletal affair running down one wall. Like the cell, it looked like a recent addition. Various tubes, presumably for ventilation and other services, led from the cell up the wall. A cable with lights dotted along it provided the illumination; it also stretched upwards. I peered up to where the lights ended, which was at a small gap in the shaft wall. The shaft itself went higher. At the top there was a square recess, offset from the centre, which was blocked by something like a huge hatch cover. It must have been at least fifty metres above where I was standing. Some rusting fragments of metal structure remained around the sides, and a spiral metal staircase ran upwards to a walkway which led to the gap in the shaft wall.

Time was pressing, so I took the steps of the spiral stair three at a time. The gap in the wall led into a short tunnel, with two sets of rusting, massive steel doors, held open. Thick square bars like jagged teeth projected from the edge of the doors. The illumination cable ran along the ceiling. A third set of open doors led into a stair lobby; beyond was a doorway into a large circular space, from which the droning of an engine could be heard. I paused to check the electronic circuits before entering; there were no security cameras or detectors here. The room was mostly empty, the most obvious objects being the electricity generator, with ventilation and exhaust tubes snaking up to the ceiling, and a small tracked vehicle, fitted with cameras and manipulating devices. It looked like one of the contraptions used by bomb disposal crews, and when I saw the fruit and nut containers stacked alongside I realised that this was my remote-controlled waiter. My captors must have chosen this method of delivering food to keep the maximum distance from me when restocking. There were some remains of racks and desking in the room, and it suddenly dawned on me where I was; in an old ballistic missile silo. This must have been the launch control centre.

I returned to the stair lobby and headed upwards, following the lights. The stair twisted and turned on itself and passed through yet more blast doors, before a final straight stretch led to another steel door which looked newer than the rest. I tried the handle – it was locked. I looked down and saw a knob below the handle. I turned it and pushed, and the heavy door slowly opened. A cold autumn wind whipped around the door, reminding me that I was still only wearing my swimming shorts, but at first I could see little; it was dark outside. I stepped out onto bare earth, with a sparse covering of what felt like dead grass. I closed the door behind me and looked around as my versatile eyes rapidly adjusted for the darkness. A half-moon provided some light through a layer of cloud. The silo entrance stuck up from the ground, like a sentry box with a sloping back. As far as I could see, the ground was flat, covered with rough grass and with a few scattered, leafless trees. A track led away from the entrance so I decided to follow it, as there was no obvious alternative destination.

First, though, I had to sever my mental link with the security system. I had already stretched it as far as I could, which was much further than I would have believed possible before the days of practice I had put in while lying in my cell. I took a deep breath, and released the camera lock: the cameras would now be showing an empty cell. I hoped that the watchmen, knowing I had settled down for what they assumed was my usual long “sleep”, would not be paying much attention to their monitors. I began to run, thinking of UCAVs, thermal imaging cameras and guided missiles; the landscape was depressingly devoid of cover.

The track led to a new-looking fence with some locked gates, which I vaulted. This area seemed to be entirely farmland, big square fields lying dormant after the harvest. A few miles away, I could see fast-moving lights – it had to be a road. I increased my pace and reached the road half an hour later. The occasional vehicle sped past, giving me no chance to climb on board, and I judged that thumbing a lift might be unwise. I tossed a mental coin, turned to the right and started running parallel to the road, keeping out of range of vehicle headlights. I settled to the steady rhythm I had got used to in my travels across northern Europe, and switched onto autopilot as I began to think about my next move.

My luck held for a remarkably long time; an uneventful hour and a half after leaving the silo a glow of light ahead revealed civilisation, which manifested itself as a truck stop and trailer park. I loved the words “truck stop”; they announced my free and secret transport system around the country. It took me only a few minutes to get on board a likely-looking vehicle by mentally overriding the electronic switch which controlled the tailgate; I blessed the spread of advanced technology. I chose one with a warm engine in the hope that the driver was only making a brief stop. Indeed she was, as a few minutes later I sensed a woman approaching. She climbed into the cab, started the engine and moved off.

I began to relax a little. I didn’t really care where I went, as long as it was far away from the vicinity of the silo, as quickly as possible. I judged that the worst of the danger was over, unless my captors had the clout to start throwing road-blocks around a wide area. My next move would be difficult. I needed to get hold of some essentials – most urgently, the materials for another home-made headnet – but at the same time had to avoid being spotted. To complicate matters further, dawn was breaking. I decided to stay with the truck and see what happened.

The truck was a delivery vehicle, loaded with cardboard boxes. I assumed that it had been loaded rationally, with the first deliveries at the back, and buried myself at the front in a nest of boxes. As the light improved and glowed through the translucent roof, I read some of the addresses. There were all for Kansas, with the rearmost showing a Wichita address. Shortly afterwards, I sensed that driver was preparing to stop. The vehicle slowed and pulled up, and an electrical buzz announced the lowering of the tailgate. The driver climbed into the back and heaved out some boxes. I took a quick look and saw that we were in a built-up area – no chance of escape there, in broad daylight.

After several more drops the driver stopped, evidently for lunch judging by the sensations of hunger I was picking up. There weren’t many boxes left and I sensed from her mind that she wasn’t far from the end of her journey; I would probably get no better chance to leave. I waited until I could scan no-one within range, then let myself out. I was at another truck stop, surrounded by massive vehicles. I quickly scouted the view from the sides of the truck park, and saw that we were at the edge of a town. It was still a basically flat, farm country, but there was a small copse of bare trees next to the truck stop. Some undergrowth promised minimal cover, so I did a final sweep to check that no-one was looking, and headed for the copse.

I waited long after dusk, until the early hours when nothing stirred, to make my raid on the town’s unsuspecting electrical merchant. I stayed in the building, having mentally overridden the security system – now a matter of reflex rather than effort – and borrowed an electric soldering iron to create the headnet. As soon as I put it on I held Freya’s signature in my mind and cast around for her, without response. I tried the saurians and Tertia’s presence washed around my mind.

‘Where have you been? We have lost you for two weeks!’

‘Otherwise engaged. Where’s Freya?’

‘We don’t know. We saw that you were pulled out of the water and brought to the land. Then Freya was tracked by that unmanned aeroplane and captured by the troops. You were both then taken by helicopter to Keflavik, where you were transferred to a private jet. This flew to a small airfield near Washington, where you were transferred to different vehicles. So far, we were able to track you visually. But then you were put into different vans, which went into warehouses from which several similar vans emerged simultaneously. We were not able to see which vans either of you was put in, so we lost both of you.’

‘Was Freya OK?’

‘We think so. You were both drugged by the time you arrived at Keflavik. We haven’t had any contact with her since; they must have found and removed her headnet.’

I thought about this for a moment. My first priority had to be to find and release Freya – for both personal and more strategic reasons. I could think of only one person who might be able to help. Fortunately, I found a digital phone by the service desk.

‘Can you patch through a call for me?’

‘Of course.’

I gave Tertia the number and waited, calculating time differences. It should be about mid-morning….

‘Hello?’

‘Good morning Richards, nice to speak with you again.’

A brief silence, but he recovered quickly. ‘Where have you been?’

‘In a silo. I need to find Freya. She was taken at the same time and is almost certainly somewhere in the States.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘It’s still very early here, so I don’t expect you’ll discover much for a while. I’ll call you back in a few hours.’

I broke the call and looked out of the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. I left the shop with a mental apology to the shop owners, taking the phone handset with me.

I spent the next few hours in the little copse by the truck stop, briefing the saurians on exactly what had happened, and laying plans for the next few days. They were amazed to learn that I could override electronic systems.

‘You mean that you can’t?’

‘No, only via a radio link through a headnet – but the systems have to be set up for that.’ Primo was silent for a while, then concluded, ‘well, it is a truism that hybrids are often stronger than either of the contributory species, and that seems to be the case with you. I wonder what else you can do?’

Later I had a brief nap to recharge my mental batteries, and ate and drank some provisions I had lifted from another shop. I was beginning to settle into a life of petty crime; but at least I wasn’t leaving any fingerprints behind. Then I called Richards. He sounded brisk and upbeat.

‘I’ve managed to speak to some of my contacts in the US intelligence services – I’ve known them personally for years and can trust them. They know that you were both taken by an unofficial group, which has links within their services. They are not at all happy about this situation, and have done their best to locate Freya. They can’t get her released, but they believe that she is probably being held at a country house owned by this group, in Virginia.’

He gave me the address, to the west of the town of Winchester, and rang off with a final ‘good hunting!’ I contacted Primo, who had taken over the watch, and asked him to plot me a course. Using the signal from my headnet he was able to pin down my location to just outside Wichita, Kansas, as I had thought, and used internet maps to plot the best route for me to take. The distance was well over a thousand miles.

Many hours of switching between trucks followed. It was a gamble not knowing where the trucks were going – I could hardly ask the drivers – so I relied on the saurians to keep track of my position and tell me if I was going in the wrong direction. I felt I was playing snakes and ladders, winning on one trip then getting a setback on the next. I was still a long way away when night fell, so stopped off near a motel and checked the cars outside. Bypassing their electronic locks, security and ignition systems was an easy task, so I checked several cars before finding one with a full tank.

A seemingly endless night of driving along countless miles of straight roads followed, with a switch to a different car from another motel when my original acquisition began to run low on fuel. I felt consumed by a desperate anxiety to reach Freya as quickly as possible, especially after Tertia had brought me up to speed with events since my capture.

‘There has been much speculation about your disappearance. Some argue that you have been captured and killed by the people who attacked the Long Island house. The disappearance of Freya has also been noticed and the two events are being tentatively linked – some are joking that you have eloped together. Others claim that you are our tool for achieving world domination and that now you have served your immediate purpose, you are being held in reserve for some future event.’

‘What about the wider picture?’

‘The world remains deeply divided about you, and us. The technical information we provided has been verified, which has helped a great deal. The UN is actively engaged in brokering arrangements to make the lower-level technologies widely available. For the first time, there is a sense of optimism among those supporting a technological solution to the environmental problem.’

‘There’s a “but” there somewhere…’

‘Yes, there is still intense opposition. Not so much to the environmental help we can provide but to the proposals to find ways of restricting the birth rate and reducing the world’s population. This is led by many religions who regard the idea as blasphemous, and they have turned many parts of the world against us. As you can imagine, the USA is particularly divided. I’m afraid that your brother has been outspoken in his condemnation of the idea.’

I sighed, wondering how a man could be so intelligent and so concerned to do good, yet be channelled by his religious beliefs into rejecting the only long-term solution to the problems faced by humanity.

I finally reached my destination as a cold dawn was breaking, the first snap of early winter in the air. It was a large estate in hilly, wooded country. I drove past the entrance gates, which were high wire-mesh affairs in an equally high fence; I detected various sensors and intruder alarms. I could not see the house from the road. I drove past and parked off the road on the opposite side, down a short track which concealed the car from passers-by.

I walked over to the fence, traced and disabled the security systems with a few moments’ thought and vaulted over. After passing through a belt of trees I came out into a wide open grassy space, white with early frost, with a house in the middle. It was large, with a columned portico on the front, and its white paint was glowing orange in the dawn light. A wooded ridge of higher land rose behind the building. I scanned the house and discovered half a dozen men, all but one asleep – apparently they had not imagined that I could locate them so quickly, as they seemed to be taking no special precautions. I also found Freya. I woke her up with a nudge and the next few moments of contact I will leave to your imagination.

I felt a fierce grin spread across my face as I froze the image from the external CCTV cameras and began to run towards the house – this was payback time. Three dark shadows sped across the grass towards me. I scanned the ferocious little minds of the attack dogs and pressed the appropriate mental buttons. They skidded to a halt and stood for a moment as I ran past them, then turned and sped after me. I had become their pack leader and they were mine, now – weapons to be launched with a thought. I accelerated as I reached the front door and smashed into it with such violence that it was hurled down the hallway. I sensed the startled response of the guard, the others groggily beginning to waken. My mind swept over them, dropping them into unconsciousness. I ran up the stairs and broke open the door to Freya’s room. She was standing fully dressed in the centre of the room, and looked at me with a wry smile on her face.

‘Like the colour – it complements your eyes.’

I looked down and saw that my skin was a flaring crimson, just beginning to fade. ‘Can you sort out some food and drink to take with us? I have some work to do.’

I went around the guards, checking their IDs and making adjustments to the patterns of their minds. The leader I woke and grilled for a while. I was not gentle with his mind and he crashed into unconsciousness when I released him. Then I went back to the hall where Freya was waiting, clutching a couple of bags. We walked out onto the grass where the dogs sat; they gave brief wags of acknowledgement. I contacted Secundo and we waited. There was a short pause before a shattering explosion ripped up the turf on the lawn a hundred metres away – the dogs jumped up and barked with shock. We walked over to the patch of torn earth and burnt grass, collected the silvery ovoid and put on the headnets inside. Freya sighed with relief as she regained contact with the saurians. I took out the patch from the ovoid and passed it to her. She pressed it against her arm. This time, we didn’t bother to watch it being absorbed.

We took one of the cars parked around the back – a big SUV which fortunately had its side and rear windows darkened – and drove off, leaving the dogs looking forlorn. I contacted Secundo, spelling out what I wanted him to do. ‘These are the details of the men in the house, plus those of the men who control them and where they are based. I want you to send emails to every news agency, describing how we were captured, where we were held and by whom.’ He agreed and signed off.

‘That will put the proverbial cat among the pigeons.’ Freya commented.

‘So I hope. As an added twist, I have given a strong stimulus to the development of conscience and guilt in the minds of the guards. They won’t be of any use to their organisation any more, and might even give evidence against them.’

Freya drove towards Washington and we caught up with events along the way. She reported that although the guards had found her headnet, she had been able to convince them that I had only given it to her so that I could locate her more easily; they had no suspicion of her mental abilities. She had been practising with those, but found that although she could sense the guards and their moods easily enough anywhere in the house, she was unable to influence them at a distance; it seemed that the more limited modifications which the saurians had incorporated in her patch had restricted her abilities by comparison with mine.

As we entered Washington I slipped into the rear seat, the smoked glass concealing my identity. The Embassy of Iceland was in a rather dull, modern, box-shaped building on 15th Street NW. After driving past, we found a car park and Freya left me in the car while she visited the embassy. I remained in contact with her as she walked into the building and took a lift to the embassy on the twelfth floor. At the reception, she explained who she was and asked to see the Ambassador, whom she knew well. After a slight delay caused by Freya’s lack of ID, the Ambassador came out to meet her and ushered her into his office. She explained what had happened to her and to me – it would soon all be on the news anyway – while leaving out any reference to her new-found abilities, let alone the second stage of our plan. An hour later, she walked out of the Embassy with a new passport, an Embassy credit card and a substantial wad of cash.

We drove north-west towards Maine, a long journey which took all day and through the night. I drove at night, giving Freya time to recover. We listened to the developing news on the radio; by the evening it was full of the story of our capture and imprisonment. The men at the Winchester estate were “being interviewed by the police”, having been found still unconscious. Several other men I had named were missing, and “wanted for questioning”. An internal investigation was underway among the security services, with rumours of abrupt departures from some senior posts. There was a great deal of speculation about where we were now and what we were going to do next. Attempts had been made via email to obtain responses from the saurians, but they declined to comment.

As we approached the coast, Secundo, who had been doing some internet research into rentable holiday properties, guided us to a secluded chalet overlooking the North Atlantic. It was out of season, and not scheduled for any bookings for weeks. I broke in and we transferred the provisions which Freya had bought on the way.

We rested for a few hours, then reluctantly parted. For tactical reasons we had agreed that it was better for me to stay out of sight during the crucial second phase of our plan; the media interest was intense and we didn’t want to risk any problems. Freya set off by herself, leaving me to kick my heels in the chalet, the monotony only broken by my night-time swims in the cold, rough Atlantic. When Freya moved out of direct contact, I followed her progress via the saurians. Her travels took her to New York where she dumped the car. She spent an hour or so at Grand Central Station at the peak of the evening rush hour, then went to JFK airport where she bought a ticket for London. The flight wasn’t due to leave for a few hours, and she spent the time wandering around, exploring all of the terminals. From Heathrow she travelled into London and toured the main railway stations as well as wandering down the bustling Oxford Street. As we had arranged at short notice, she gave a lecture at London University on the saurian situation. Next came a flight to Paris, where she followed the same procedure, and then her lecture tour continued through every major capital city in Europe, Africa, Asia and South America. Reporters tried to grill her about what had happened to me, but she just said that I was still recovering in private from my ordeal; she hinted at complications from the constant drugging I had experienced. After zig-zagging across the USA she finally rented a car and drove back to meet me at the chalet.

She had lost weight in the three weeks her travels had taken, and was exhausted but triumphant. She looked just great to me. That evening, we settled down and relaxed together for the first time since Iceland.

The first news reports began to trickle through the next day and we watched the news channels tensely as the reports multiplied. People were suddenly finding that they were aware of others, of their moods and intentions. Stories of miraculous healings began to crop up; so did reports of domestic strife as people discovered their spouses’ infidelities. Columnists were beginning to speculate about whether these events were connected in some way, and whether the kangasaurs or I had anything to do with this.

That night we had a conference with the saurians and decided that it was time to issue the statement. A message was emailed to every news organisation on the planet in the appropriate language. The English version read as follows:

“This is a message from Cade.

You may have heard reports from around the world that people are suddenly becoming more sensitive to others, and can understand their moods and intentions regardless of language differences. Some people have also found that they can heal certain types of ailments. These reports are true, and within a short space of time virtually everyone on the planet will be affected in the same way.

This is not accidental, but a deliberate act. At my instigation, the human population has been infected with a specially tailored virus which is making certain irreversible changes, not just to the people directly affected but also to their descendents via changes to the genetic code. This virus is exceptionally infectious and can be transmitted to other people within an hour of a carrier being exposed to it, but its characteristics do not become obvious for about three weeks. This process has now gone far enough to be unstoppable.

One of the changes is the ability to sense others, and to mind-link with people just as the saurians and I do, thereby achieving mutual understanding across language and other cultural barriers. Attached to this message is the specification for a headnet which will greatly extend the range of such communications and enable them to be transmitted and received via radio and television systems. The virus also strengthens the human immune and repair systems and has been tailored to correct serious genetic defects, which will result in far lower rates of illness and disability, much quicker recovery from injury and on average a significantly longer healthy lifespan. In some people the ability is strong enough for them to become healers. Finally, it prevents conception unless both parties eat at least a hundred grams of fresh-cut raw grass or certain types of leaf – the saurians will specify which – twelve hours before intercourse; the couple will then be fertile for a period of about twenty-four hours – including most couples who have previously been unable to conceive.

I am aware that many people will greatly resent what I have done, despite the practical benefits it brings them. I apologise for any distress I have caused, but plead an overriding necessity. The saurians have shown us what will happen to our civilisation if we go on as we are: it means disaster for humanity. I believe that my action achieves a balance between conflicting pressures. The changes which the virus is causing will, over a period of time, slowly reduce this planet’s population to more sustainable levels. In the meantime they will benefit everyone’s health and life expectancy. The great improvement in mutual understanding between people across the world will also reduce conflict and encourage cooperative efforts to address the problems we face.

Welcome to the new age of humanity!”

BOOK 3: TRANSFORMATION

10

EDITORIAL:

STABILITY RETURNS – AT LAST

Four months after Cade’s infamous e-mail caused riots and chaos in many parts of the world, there are signs that the worst may be over. An uneasy calm now reigns in most of the areas which suffered the worst disturbances, as people begin to pick up the threads of their lives. Even the marches of millions of protesters have slowed to a trickle, although some religious groups are still on a rolling series of hunger strikes despite deaths already running into hundreds. Across much of central Africa, where the death toll from the initial paroxysm of fear and fury cannot yet even be estimated, the populace has subsided into resentful bewilderment. Martial law is still in place in many large cities, but is gradually being lifted as life gets back to normal. Only now can we begin to assess the consequences of Cade’s ruthless unilateral action, although the full balance sheet will not become apparent for many years, or even decades.

The most immediate and dramatic consequences are of course a result of the development of the kangasaurs’ “mind-linking” ability. This has affected society at all levels; the most positive outcome being what appears to be the start of a dramatic drop in organised crime due to the impossibility of concealing guilt. In those more law-abiding countries relatively unaffected by the riots and disorder, trials have virtually ceased to happen as the innocent are quickly identified and the guilty know they have no chance of escaping justice. Some previous miscarriages of justice have been identified and reversed on appeal. Face-to-face confidence tricksters have disappeared overnight. Anti-social behaviour has sharply reduced, with those who would previously behave in an inconsiderate fashion being cowed by the collective disgust of law-abiding onlookers.

More generally, there are signs that society is in some respects becoming more sociable, with people more willing to communicate with those strangers they now know are well-meaning. Far more sympathy and help is now being provided to those who are in genuine need. Romance is back in fashion, with people becoming quickly aware of any mutual attraction. A new sense of honesty is sweeping through politics, although many political organisations have agreed amnesties for politicians who have been found to have lied in the past, since there would otherwise be hardly anyone left to govern. It now appears certain that politicians will be required to wear headnets when speaking publicly or being interviewed, as soon as the technology to receive their transmissions has become widely available. Many well-known politicians have indicated that they will not be seeking re-election.

The benefits go beyond mind-linking. The shortage of doctors and nurses has suddenly vanished as people’s self-healing mechanisms and immune systems have dramatically improved in effectiveness. The old standby of the work-shy to “throw a sickie” has disappeared. People are now more conscious of their bodies’ needs and of what harms them; overindulgence in food, alcohol and other drugs has sharply reduced and far more people are discovering the benefits of physical exercise.

There are, of course, disadvantages as well. Past as well as current marital infidelities have been quickly detected, as have those individuals who no longer care for their spouses; much family disruption has occurred as a result. And while there are many examples of mutual understanding developing between those of different backgrounds and beliefs, there are also signs of a reverse effect, with those who firmly hold extreme views banding together and physically separating themselves from the censure of the rest of society. It remains to be seen whether they will attract any new followers, or will literally die out in due course.

Diplomacy is in a crisis, with the “gentlemen sent abroad” no longer able “to lie for their countries”, and the genuine opinions which world leaders hold about each other no longer able to be concealed. So far no wars have resulted, but many international relationships are on hold while new modi vivendi are worked out.

Religions have experienced mixed fortunes; in some cases, the evident faith of certain priests has strengthened their following, while the unmasked insincerity of other religious leaders has had the opposite effect.

At a more trivial level, theatre attendances have plummeted, with the acting profession seemingly in danger of dying out – although music and dance performances have soared in popularity, with the audiences gaining new insights from the emotions of the performers.

It is now clear that not everyone has acquired equal abilities. Some are more sensitive than others to people’s emotions. Only a few – probably no more than one in a thousand – have acquired the ability to heal. Perhaps fortunately, none has so far exhibited anything like the range of capabilities that Cade has demonstrated. Many find a deep mind-link difficult or uncomfortably intimate and prefer to communicate by speech, so the spoken word is unlikely to die out in the foreseeable future.

It is still too early to say how the balance between these pluses and minus will work out; the scales could still tip either way. The benefits in health, fitness and an honest, crime-free society are clear, but critics are beginning to complain about the loss of privacy and the beginning of a stifling new mood of conformity to avoid social censure. They claim that the human personality will be irreversibly changed, with spontaneity and individuality crushed, and that humanity will be much the poorer for it. At the present the main public feeling appears to be one of bewilderment; people have lost the anchors of accepted social behaviour and are trying to find new ways of living together, as evidenced by the presence of so many guides to the “new social etiquette” topping the best-sellers lists.

Before the kangasaur virus was released, the most controversial proposal had been the restriction on fertility. This has now been overshadowed by the effects of mind-linking, but views on this are still deeply divided and are likely to remain so. Broadly speaking, the developed world is in favour except for some religious groups, the poorer countries strongly opposed, although there are signs that women in even the poorest countries are beginning to welcome their control over their own fertility. This has already had an impact on the lexicon; the phrase “chewing grass” has come to mean “getting ready to take serious action”.

What of Cade? Nothing has so far been heard from him, his presumed accomplice (dubbed by some, “Typhoid Freya”), or even the kangasaurs whose technology made this possible. They have obviously considered it advisable to stay out of contact until the world has come to accept the drastic changes they have set in motion. Given the strength of feeling in so many places, they are probably wise.

Some people are already beginning to speak out in their defence; those who have suffered from severe ailments, genetic disorders or addictions now cured, together with their friends and relatives, have been vocal in their support and thanks. Homes for the frail and elderly have been closing down because so many of their rejuvenated residents have been, if not quite leaping out of bed or defenestrating their zimmer frames, at least finding that they can look after themselves once more, to their intense relief. Residents of formerly crime-ridden areas are revelling in their new freedom from fear.

Looking further ahead, many optimistic commentators predict a new spirit of co-operation in the world, with countries abandoning armed force and focusing instead on resolving the environmental problems made so starkly clear by the kangasaurs. Those still denying that climate change exists, or claiming that if it exists it is an entirely natural process, or that even if humanity is involved there is nothing that can be done about it anyway, are now in a tiny minority. A new sense of urgency and determination appears to be developing, with the mass production of the simpler examples of kangasaur technology already underway. Whether this heralds a new chance for humanity, or is “too little too late”, remains to be seen. While there are signs that the rate of pregnancies in the developing world is dropping sharply, the world’s population will remain well over what environmentalists claim is the “sustainable limit” for decades or even centuries to come. That is one problem which will not go away in our lifetimes.

I logged off the news service, closed the laptop on the plain wooden table and rubbed my eyes tiredly. I got up and walked across the stone-flagged floor, ducked under the low door lintel and straightened up to enjoy the view. Turf kept short by the half-wild sheep swept down to a beach of white sand, glowing in the evening light. The ocean, moderately calm for once, stretched away towards the sunset, dotted with rocks and islets. I turned and surveyed the area, scanning with my eyes and mind as was my habit. The land rose behind the long, low, whitewashed and turf-roofed house, sweeping up to a low hill. There was not a soul within range, and not a sound except for the crying of the gulls against the background of the soughing breeze.

I turned and ran up the hill, taking my customary evening exercise. At the top there was a jumble of rocks, too even in size to be natural, presumably the remains of some Iron Age broch. I stopped and surveyed the wider scene, focusing my scan into a tight, far-reaching beam which swept over to the larger island looming to the east. No boats were visible; this part of the Outer Hebrides was not on the popular tourist track and there was no reason for anyone to come to this small, deserted island except for the shepherd at shearing time. I went through my usual exercise routine until I was breathing hard, then ran back down the hill to my refuge from the world.

It had been Richards’ idea, when it became clear that Freya and I had become anathema to the world at large. He had identified the private island, rapidly repaired the old shepherd’s hut, and installed one of the highly-efficient saurian power systems, consisting of advanced solar panels which produced electricity to break down water into hydrogen and oxygen. The hydrogen was then stored and used to feed a fuel cell whenever electricity was needed to run my laptop or power the satellite internet link.

I had gritted my teeth in the interests of maximum security and submitted to being flown with Freya in a private jet to Scotland. I had been there ever since, serving out what I regarded as a period of exile until such time as I could reappear in public without causing an instant riot.

Freya had, in a way, been luckier. The saurians had prepared another patch which, over a period of just a few weeks, had taken the desired twenty years off her physical age (which delighted her), replaced her blonde hair and blue eyes with red and vivid green respectively (which intrigued her), and changed her tanned skin to a paler colour with freckles, which she hated – but she had to admit that it all added up to an impenetrable disguise. She had left shortly afterwards since, as I pointed out, there was no need for her to share my exile when she could pass unrecognised.

My motives in sending her away were not entirely those of noble self-denial. I was worried about her state of mind. She had, I realised, always been sociable and popular, and had been shattered by the deluge of vitriol which had poured out of the television and internet once the relationship between her world lecture tour and the spread of the saurian virus had been identified. She tried to shield her emotions from me, but I would wake to hear her crying quietly in desperate misery, and knew that she could not stay.

The ever-efficient Richards had found her a new identity, a job and a place to live in Edinburgh. I reflected with a trace of old bitterness that his continued contrition over Sophie was still proving very useful. The saurians had helped with some intensive training in masking thoughts so that Freya’s real identity would not be suspected by those she came into casual contact with. Her freedom came at a price, though; she would never be able to drop her barriers for a full mind-link without revealing her identity.

Sometimes I wondered why I was not much affected by my isolation and pariah status, but put that down to my phlegmatic saurian genetic inheritance. The saurians had offered to develop a patch for me which would change my appearance back to the human norm, but I had rejected it. Probably in order to survive with my sanity intact, I had long ago come to accept the way I was, and was content to stay that way for the duration – however long or short that might be.

In a way, I was relieved to be out of the turmoil, of the need to make hard, world-changing decisions. It was pleasant to be taxed only with deciding which fruit and nuts to eat that day. I was in contact with one or other of the saurians every day, but more for social reasons than anything else. Like me, they were waiting for the situation to settle down. My routine was broken only by a weekly food delivery: a small boat arrived and the pilot left a box on the beach, while I kept out of sight.

I switched on the computer again to check for messages. As usual, there were none. I hardly expected any, since the only people with my email address were Richards and Freya. At first, Freya had sent messages every day to tell me about her new life, but these tailed off after a while and I could read the signs plainly enough. She had become an exceptionally attractive young woman, and was no doubt not short of company. I was a reminder of the old days, of violence and terror and hate. She was too far away to mind-link directly, but could have done so via the saurians had she wished. She chose not to, and I gathered from Tertia that she rarely linked with the saurians these days. I wondered if she sometimes thought of me, in the dark of the night.

The next morning the westerly breeze had stiffened and the sea was being driven onto the beach in a rhythmical crash of breakers and hissing backwash. It was hard to imagine that spring was well on the way. It was two years, I realised, since the accident which had transformed me. I ran across the beach and into the water in my usual routine, swimming quickly out beyond the breakers to the swell beyond, before diving to the bottom and working my way around the familiar rocks. I tweaked the giant old lobster which lived under one of them, amused as always by a body language which seemed to indicate affronted dignity. A little further out I met some of the grey seals which were normally based on one of the rocky islets in the bay. They had got used to me, and gave me only a cursory once-over. I surfaced ready to swim back, and casually scanned the area.

My alertness rocketed up the scale as I sensed people approaching, fast. I turned quickly and saw the helicopter coming in low from the west, I guessed to avoid being spotted from the main island. I felt an old fury revive and my lips curl back in a savage rictus as I gathered my power and prepared to force the pilot to slam the helo into the sea. Just in time, I read her mood and realised that this was no killer, there were no fanatics on board. There was just a pilot, doing her job – and Richards.

I trod water for a few seconds, shocked by the instant surge of violent rage which had broken my usual calm. I had obviously been more affected by the past than I realised. I turned and swam back to shore, watching as the helo settled on the beach in front of the house, its rotor slowly winding down. By the time I walked through the tumbling surf, Richards was wandering about impatiently, coat collar turned up against the sharp wind, and the pilot was doing stretching exercises on the beach. She looked up as I approached, a moment of shock and understanding as she recognised me replaced by a flash of amusement. I was puzzled by her reaction until Richards saw me and registered embarrassment. Then I remembered that I was naked – there had been no point in wearing any clothes on my deserted island. I nodded to them, went into the house, pulled on some shorts, and went back out again to face them. The pilot was looking at me with a slight smile on her face. Judging by her speculative mood, I didn’t think she was contemplating shoes and handbags.

Before I could speak, Richards mind-linked with me. I was briefly startled until I realised that of course he could not have escaped the virus. I would have to get used to mind-linking with everyone. I wondered what particular uses Richards made of his new ability.

“You’re looking well.”

“Can’t complain. This resort may be lacking in facilities but at least I had some privacy. Since you didn’t send an email or ask the saurians to link us I gather this is particularly important.”

“Yes. I’ve come to ask you to reappear.”

“In public?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a little risky?”

“Yes. But we think that the risk is now worth it. We have been taking constant samplings of public opinion and it is clear that the mood has been swinging in your favour. Most people are actually quite grateful for what you’ve done, they were just outraged that it was done without consulting them.”

“That would have been one consultation which would never have led to agreement.”

“I know. For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision.”

“It must have made your job easier.”

“Easier to detect traitors, much harder to suborn the opposition. Spying is dying out.”

“James Bond must be rotating in his grave.”

“More likely to be shaken than stirred.”

I was momentarily astonished that Richards had actually cracked a joke, then focused on what he wasn’t saying. I noted that he had already mastered a fair degree of mental control which enabled him to mask his emotions to some extent, an achievement which did not surprise me at all. “There has just got to be something specific that you want me back for.”

He didn’t even bother to pretend polite embarrassment. “Yes, your perception of our devious plots is as sharp as ever. We believe that it’s time we came off the defensive over your actions, and started to emphasise the positive.”

“Who benefits from that?”

“Need you ask? The government, of course. The world is going through some fundamental changes at the moment, and the saurians are the key to making the most of the opportunities which these are throwing up. The technical knowledge they have supplied us with is already transforming international economics and politics, with the oil-producing states rapidly losing influence even though it will be some time before we can do without them. However, the saurians undoubtedly have much more to offer, and to take full advantage of that we need to rehabilitate them in the public mind – and that inevitably means you as well.”

There wasn’t much point in debating the issue since my life on the island was dependent on Richards’ goodwill, so I picked up my computer – my only possession – and boarded the helicopter. This took us to Benbecula airport where a twin-jet BAE 125 was waiting to transport us to London.

The Churchill Auditorium of the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre in Whitehall was packed with some seven hundred journalists from around the world. Floodlights glared for the benefit of the massed ranks of TV cameras and a dense forest of microphones sprouted from the edge of the long table on the stage, behind which I sat.

It had been three weeks since I had returned to London, to live in a discreet apartment buried within one of the more inaccessible parts of the Whitehall complex. My reappearance had been announced but I had been kept out of the public view while I was “working closely with the kangasaurs to bring the maximum benefits of their technology to mankind”. A press conference had been promised in due course and, following a steady trickle of news releases about my untiring efforts on behalf of humanity, it had been decided that now was a good time.

The atmosphere was very different from previous events I had attended. Now, everyone in the room could mind-link, and the buzz of excited emotions was palpable. I picked up surprisingly little hostility from the journalists, and reflected that their jobs had been made very much easier by their ability to detect the truth. It had been evident from the on-line news service I had studied over the past few months that the news media had delighted in revisiting old issues left unresolved, tracking down those accused but not convicted of wrongdoings ranging from major crimes to D-list infidelities. At first, hardly a day had passed without some new revelations, the media confidently making accusations free of the threat of libel, knowing them to be true and easily provable should their targets be rash enough to take them to court. More recently, the flood of stories had died down as both criminal behaviour and indiscretions had largely ceased, so my reappearance was a boon. I scanned the minds in the room and wondered what the collective noun was for journalists: a frenzy?

I shielded my mind in the way the saurians had taught me. I could not lie without that being detected, but I blocked out the many eager attempts to mind-link. The situation was a curious one for me: I had agreed to wear a head-net for the benefit of the small number of viewers with the equipment to receive mental transmissions, but the interview would necessarily use audible speech.

The chairman sitting beside me – a well-known TV interviewer with the forceful personality needed to manage the event – banged a gavel and the process began.

The first question was predictable: ‘Where is Freya?’

‘She is no longer involved with me and wishes to live her own life away from the public gaze. I have not spoken with her for months.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Approximately but not exactly. I have no intention of saying more on that subject, so you had better ask about other matters.’

‘How do you feel about the cost of the changes you have forced on humanity? The civil disturbances and deaths, especially in Africa?’

‘I regret them very much. But I firmly believe that the course of action I took was the right one for the future of humanity. Without it, we were heading for complete disaster. Now, we stand a chance – but only if we choose to take it.’

‘Do you really think that mind-linking will make that much difference in dealing with the huge problems facing mankind?’

‘Yes. The ability to understand other people’s point of view will make it much easier to resolve conflicts and disagreements in the future – and humanity will need to cooperate closely in order to find a new and more sustainable way of living. There are already signs that this is happening in many countries on a small, local scale.’

‘The contraceptive element of the kangasaur virus will take decades to have any effect on the global population. In fact, the improvements to health and longevity also caused by the virus will only make this problem worse. This does nothing to solve the immediate problem of overpopulation, does it? ’

‘True, but the saurian technology will provide cheap power and, with that, the possibility of cheap water to parts of the world affected by drought, so food supplies can be improved. I won’t pretend that the problems have gone away though. I disagree when you talk about decades – I think it’s more likely to be centuries before we achieve a stable and sustainable population. But the saurians are providing us with the means to struggle through to that point.’

‘Do you think we have the international structures in place to deliver the benefits of these changes to the people who need them?’

‘The structures are there; what we have to do is use them effectively.’

The conference went on in this vein for some time, until the chairman announced that he would take one more question.

‘Cade, what are you going to do next?’

I thought about that one. ‘I’m not sure. I’m no longer needed as a healer, and cooperation between human and saurian scientists is progressing rapidly without me. But I can hardly go back to living a normal life.’ I grinned. ‘Watch this space!’

Richards was waiting behind the stage. ‘That went well enough,’ he radiated controlled satisfaction. ‘But a crowd of demonstrators is waiting outside. There are still many people who feel strongly about what you did. You’d better come this way.’

He led me down into the basement and past a maze of service ducts until he reached an unobtrusive doorway, which he unlocked before passing through. We entered a long tunnel.

‘Aha! The legendary Whitehall tunnel complex!’

He snorted audibly. ‘Consider yourself privileged.’

We surfaced in the building which housed my flat and, somewhat to my surprise, Richards stayed with me. In my rather gloomy accommodation, lit only by small windows overlooking an internal courtyard several stories below, he settled down in a government-issue armchair and steepled his hands, regarding me thoughtfully.

‘That last question was apposite. What are you going to do next? You are still too controversial a figure to be out and about in public, and we can hardly disguise you.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m really not sure. I don’t seem to have a purpose at the moment, and I can’t think of anything that I can usefully do. No doubt something will come up.’

Richards nodded. ‘No doubt. You still have talents beyond those of the rest of us, which could be useful from time to time.’

‘In the meantime, I’d prefer to return to the Hebrides. It’s a lot better than being cooped up in here, unable to go outside.’

He nodded again and stood up to leave. ‘That won’t be a problem, as long as you stay in touch. Before you go, your brother has asked to see you. Do you want to meet him?’

I sighed at the prospect of another fractious meeting, then realised that mind-linking might make a considerable difference. ‘All right, I’ll see him.’

Luke’s mind reflected his wariness as he entered the flat and looked around. He was even thinner than before, looking gaunt and haggard. We linked tentatively, as if afraid of being burnt.

‘You’ve gone down in the world since Long Island – this is a bit of a hole.’

I shrugged. ‘Not as deep as some I’ve been in lately.’

We sat in armchairs facing each other, then tentatively strengthened the link. I felt the force of his convictions, but also his constant doubts about whether he was interpreting correctly what was needed of him, whether or not his actions were the right ones. I sensed from his emotions that he was finding something similar in my mind, although based on reason rather than religion. We simultaneously smiled wryly at each other.

‘Any regrets?’

‘Many, particularly on a personal level. But if time was rewound and I had to go through it all again, I can’t see any major choices I would make differently.’

He nodded, slowly. ‘I can see that. But then, I never doubted your sincerity. Only your judgment.’

‘So, what do you think now?’

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. ‘You should have seen some of the things I saw. The people terrified into insanity and even suicide, believing that they had been taken over by evil spirits when their mind-links opened. Of course, I realised immediately what had happened, what you must have done. I tried to reassure them, but most of them were too distraught to understand. There was panic and chaos for weeks. Society broke down. Transport was disrupted, so food stopped arriving and people began to starve. Eventually the government got something organised but I don’t know how many had died by then. It was a desperate situation, repeated in many parts of Africa.’

I felt his anguish, his frustration at being unable to convince the superstitious rural poor that they were not possessed by demons, his despair as they starved and he could do nothing to help. I impulsively opened my mind to him. ‘This is why I did it!’

He absorbed the outpouring of emotions which suddenly burst from me, understood what I had experienced from the start: the shock and horror of my transformation, the love and grief for Sophie, the revelation of the saurians, the certainty of the destruction of human civilisation if we did not do something drastic – and the reasoning and emotions which lay behind my decision to ask the saurians to develop their virus and release it on our world. He looked at me sadly and nodded.

‘I understand what you did. I appreciate that you felt you had no choice. Perhaps I would have felt compelled to do something similar, in your place.’

We sat and looked at each other for a while, feeling closer than we had ever been. We understood each other perfectly, sympathised with the problems the other had faced. There still remained, of course, the fundamental difference between us; Luke’s religion, and my atheism. I was aware of the strength he gained from his faith, the way it drove him to spend his life trying to help others, while helping him cope with the desperate problems he experienced. He similarly acknowledged and accepted the logic of my position, my insistence on evidence and reason before reaching conclusions. He got up to leave, but this time there was no bitterness. We embraced, rather awkwardly.

‘You might believe in science but, in a way, that is a kind of faith as well. A faith that logical deduction will always provide the answers.’

‘Maybe. At the moment, it seems to be doing the job. Help is slowly being provided to Africa and wherever else it is needed. You look after their souls, and I’ll try to help provide for their bodies.’

My island home was just as I left it. I waited for the noise of the receding helicopter to die away, savouring the peace and solitude. I walked into the low house, put my notebook on the table, and logged on out of habit. There was a message in my intray:

I’ve just seen your conference on TV. Well done, and thanks. All the best. F.

I slipped on my headnet to check with the saurians whether or not Freya had tried to make contact via them, but she hadn’t.

In the next few days I settled back into my old routine. Spring was slow in establishing itself, the occasional sunny day alternating with Atlantic storms as the frontal systems swept north-east, lashing Scotland in passing. One morning, Secundo had some news for me:

‘As you know, our scientists have been linking with yours over the past few months to research a wide range of issues. It seems that they work very well together – saurian knowledge and methodology combined with human inspiration and inventiveness. They have made a breakthrough which may be of interest; they have discovered the source of the energy transfer which occurs when a physical link is opened between our worlds, and have found a way to discharge this safely. They have just carried out the final tests, and will make an announcement soon. We can now open a portal through which people can pass. Would you like to visit us? We are ready for you now!’

“May be of interest”, indeed! I sent a brief but emphatic affirmative, turned to the computer and sent an email to Richards (gone travelling, may be away for a while) and walked eagerly outside, unable to sit still. I felt no doubts, nothing but an adrenaline rush of excitement. The saurian world! The prospect brought a huge wave of relief, making me realise how trapped I felt on this human Earth, how limited were my options. I had never dreamed that I could be offered such a way out.

Secundo told me that it would take a few minutes to set up, and to stay where I was on the beach while they made some adjustments, so I looked out over the sea, the waves tumbling beneath the shredded clouds speeding towards me. I smelt the salty air pressing against my body, and over the roar of the breakers I heard the harsh crying of the gulls as they balanced in the wind, hovering effortlessly. I realised that it was going to be my last experience of peaceful solitude for a long time. Then a strong feeling of electrical tension began to develop, triggering a powerful sense of déjà vu – if I had had any hairs on the back of my neck, they would have stood up. With a sudden loud hum, a circular opening appeared in front of me, another reality bizarrely hanging in the middle of the scene. A room was visible in the background. In the foreground stood my friends; Primo, Secundo and Tertia. The warmth of their greeting washed over me as I stepped forward and entered their world.

11

I staggered momentarily as a wave of nausea swept over me, then steadied and looked around. I was standing in what seemed to be a portable cabin, lined with machinery humming loudly with a frantic note which indicated high stress. Secundo made some adjustments to a control panel and the noise slowly wound down to nothing. I looked behind me and saw only machinery – the hole had disappeared. There was a moment of awkwardness when I turned back to face the saurians, none of us, I realised, being quite sure what to do next. We were all conscious that this was the very first meeting between a human and a saurian. They were a little shorter than humans, their heads up to my shoulder, but their small upper bodies contrasted with the power of their legs. Tertia broke the impasse by leaping forwards and flinging her arms around my neck. I laughed and hugged her, then broke away to shake hands warmly with Primo and Secundo. Their opposed thumbs felt strange, but their skin was the same as mine. We exchanged no coherent thoughts, just emotions of delight and welcome.

I felt the cabin move suddenly, and looked around in surprise. There were small windows to each side, and a skylight in the ceiling. I looked out of a window, and saw the ground receding. My little island looked basically the same, but there was no house, no jumble of stones at the peak, no sheep or visible animals of any kind, and the short turf was replaced by shrubs and occasional stunted trees. I stepped over to the skylight and looked up, and saw that the cabin was being winched up into a large dock at the bottom of a huge airship which loomed over us.

‘You’ve put the machine in an airship?’

‘It’s the most efficient way of carrying the slider machine: it means that we can open a connecting hole to a parallel world anywhere on the surface of the planet.’

‘Slider machine?’

‘Your scientists insisted on calling it that, we couldn’t quite understand why. It seems to have some mythological significance?’

I grinned, recalling the science-fiction series on television which had involved people moving between alternate worlds; evidently the scientists included a fan with a sense of humour. ‘You could say that.’

There was a muffled thump and the cabin came to a halt. Secundo opened a door at one end and we walked through, the saurians waddling rather awkwardly, into a tunnel made from some kind of synthetic material. This led to an open lobby, the sides sweeping upwards to follow the curve of the hull. A wide ramp led downwards and the saurians hopped effortlessly down it, moving with such speed that I was jogging to keep up. This led into what was clearly an observation deck; there was no furniture except for one human chair, just transparent walls all the way round. Tertia patted the chair as the saurians settled back on their legs and tails in what was obviously a comfortable rest position.

‘We made this for you. Humans seem to like sitting down.’

I thanked her and sat. The view was spectacular, completely unobstructed except for the floor and the ceiling. Sitting close to the front, I felt as if I was flying like a bird. The giant airship was eerily silent and I realised that I had seen no other living being.

‘How many crew does this ship have?’

‘Only about a dozen. Its operation is fully automated so it can be flown by one person. The others are there to keep it going for twenty-four hours a day, and to provide relief for the duty pilot.’

I looked back and saw big, slow-turning propellers.

‘What’s the power source?’

‘Most of our airships use hydrogen fuel, but the slider machine requires far more power that that system can provide. Our fusion plants are too big and heavy even for this airship to carry one, so this uses microwave energy, transmitted from a series of orbiting satellites to provide constant coverage.’

I felt my skin crawl a bit. ‘You mean we are being bombarded with high-energy microwaves?’

A mixture of mild shock and amusement from Primo. ‘Oh no, that would be far too dangerous. Come around here.’

He led me around the ramp to the back of the deck, which provided a clear view to the rear. The vast hull obscured most of the sky, but several hundred metres away I could see another huge airship, linked to ours by a loop of cable.

‘That has no crew, it is a drone remotely controlled by our ship’s computer. It contains a huge antenna to receive the microwave beam, which is very tightly focused onto it, and the necessary systems to turn this into electrical power, which is sent to us along the cable.’

‘Neat. But what if the beam from the satellite slips a bit?’

‘There is a feedback system – the airship transmits constantly to the satellite while it is receiving the microwaves, enabling the satellite to keep its beam focused on the centre of the antenna. If the microwave beam slips more than a couple of metres away from the centre of the antenna, the transmission stops and the beam is instantly shut off.’

‘Could be awkward if the power goes down while someone is stepping through the slider hole.’

A sense of tolerant amusement. ‘You are forgetting that we are not risk-takers. The drone ship has some electrical storage capacity plus emergency generators, as does our ship, and even the cabin with the slider machine has a few seconds of power stored on board so that a transfer through the hole can be completed.’

‘You built this airship specially for the slider machine?’

‘Oh no, this is one of three such vessels we have had for some years; we use them for tasks requiring very long endurance.’

We returned to the front of the observation deck and I settled down to enjoy the view. I learned that the ship was travelling at some 250 kilometres per hour, about twice as fast as the great human airships of the 1930s. Secundo explained that this was possible because the saurians had made the hull out of a rigid, lightweight synthetic material, much more able to resist the air pressure than the fabric used on the airships I was familiar with. It still relied on helium for lift, though – physics was no different for saurians than for humans. This was combined with a hot-air system, powered by the microwave beam, to fine-tune the buoyancy; they didn’t need to vent gas or drop ballast.

We reached the Clyde about an hour later. I recalled the densely populated city of Glasgow, the river banks lined with old shipyards being regenerated. None of that was visible here – just a scatter of low buildings spread along the riverbank, with one graceful bridge crossing the river. A ship was visible, moored at the end of a jetty. The landscape of the central lowlands looked very green, and empty of anything much except trees; the largest open spaces seemed to be around the settlements.

I alternated between observing with fascination the scene unrolling in front of me and questioning the saurians. I learned that only about a million saurians lived in the British Isles; that of course they needed no arable or pasture land but only orchards for their fruit and nuts, but they kept a semi-domesticated species of small grazing dinosaur specifically to maintain open spaces for aesthetic more than practical reasons – they enjoyed a view as much as humans. Unlike my world, most of the population was concentrated in the west of Britain since their orchards grew better there, and they preferred to eat local produce as much as possible. The ship I saw was powered by hydrogen. Like the airships, it refuelled from special stations – a safe distance from other activities, naturally – where water was split into hydrogen and oxygen by electricity generated by fusion, geothermal or solar power, depending on the location. Burning the hydrogen used up oxygen in the atmosphere, which was replenished by releasing the oxygen generated at the fuelling stations. A neat and pollution-free system.

The ship continued to cross the country, heading approximately south-east. About two and a half hours into the flight, I recognised Flamborough Head as we set out over the North Sea, and began to feel some curiosity about what the saurians planned for me.

‘Where are we heading for?’

‘We are taking you to meet our Planetary Assembly.’ Primo responded. ‘They are gathering in what you know as the Netherlands. They meet in various different places, but this is the closest – and we think you’ll find the location interesting compared with your world.’

It was afternoon by the time we reached the coast. It looked very different from the Netherlands I knew. Instead of sea walls and drained polders, the sea spread far inland behind a line of sandy islands: the great bay of the Zuider Zee had not been tamed into the Ijsselmeer and was still open to the North Sea. There was no clear-cut end to the sea, it just merged into sandbanks and marshlands, with a network of open pools lined with reeds. The saurians kept up a running commentary, briefing me as we approached. A settlement came into view beside a lake, one large, circular building being prominent. Primo gave me the mental identity of the place, which translated as something like “small town by a lake close to a large bay in location xxx where the Assembly sometimes meets”, so I promptly dubbed it Laketown. The Assembly was gathering there, as it had enough facilities to accommodate the members as well as house the meetings. A couple of other airships were visible in the distance, bringing representatives from overseas.

The airship slowed to a hover close to Laketown, and Primo led the way up the ramp to another part of the huge hull, where a smaller version of the cabin for the slider machine was waiting for us. It lowered us smoothly down to the ground and we jogged and hopped the short distance across the turf to the buildings. I looked curiously at the grazing animals, which moved out of our way but otherwise ignored us. They were about the size of sheep, with a brightly-coloured scaly skin, but did not look like any reptile that I could recall. Not too surprising, I supposed, as evolution had taken a different path for what must have been tens of millions of years. Above us, the linked airships moved away. They did not need to berth anywhere, but remained constantly aloft except for occasional maintenance sessions.

A dwelling on the edge of Laketown had been set aside for our use. I was fascinated by the opportunity to discover what “home” meant to saurians. The building was flat-roofed, single-storey and sprawling. The walls were lightly constructed panels, many of them glass, and there were entrances in every wall. Inside, the rooms were large. The main living room had a human-sized table but no chairs, and there was plenty of space to allow those powerful tails to swing around. The bedrooms had low pads on the floor, except for mine which had been equipped with human furniture complete with an en-suite bathroom which, Tertia informed me, had been copied from a human luxury hotel.

Shortly after we arrived I sensed another saurian outside, politely requesting permission to enter; a mind-link made doorbells unnecessary, I realised. Primo went to meet her and led her into the living room, introducing her to me as the Convener of the Planetary Assembly. She welcomed me warmly, her emotion tinged with politely controlled curiosity. Limited as I am to written words, it is hard to explain the feeling, but her mind had a distinctive signature. In addition to the usual saurian measured deliberation, her personality had a power and complexity beyond any mind I had yet linked with. The Assembly would not meet until tomorrow, but she would spend the evening with us.

Mealtime with the saurians involved no ceremony. Dishes of various types of fruit and shelled nuts, including several which were new to me, were placed in the centre of the table for the diners to pile onto their plates as they wished. I gathered that the saurians had applied their genetic skills to developing many new varieties. The conversation was lively, as mind-linking allowed us to eat and communicate at the same time. The saurians supplemented the mental interchange with arm gestures and rapidly-shifting patterns of colour over their skins, adding up to an amazingly rich and colourful conversation.

After the usual social chit-chat about the journey and my impressions of the very different landscapes I had travelled over, I asked about their use of the skin patterns. The Convenor answered: ‘It developed long before we had mental abilities. At first, it was simply a matter of providing camouflage against our enemies. But it became a lot more sophisticated later. We spend much time in water and it allowed us to communicate clearly underwater. It was really a language of its own, although now we use an evolved version to supplement mind-linking. It isn’t strictly necessary, but we find that it adds something to the conversation.’

‘We use facial expressions and body language in a similar way. As you say, it’s not necessary to convey information, but it adds an extra dimension to speech. I wonder if that will still be true after humans get used to mind-linking?’

‘Many things will change for you. Some we can predict from our own experience, but others will be peculiar to humanity. You are in for some interesting times!’

With the aid of the mind-link I learned to interpret some of the meanings of the shifting body colours, but I couldn’t quite grasp the finer nuances. I think this was mainly because they often seemed to use the skin patterns to send a slightly different message, as a kind of ironic counterpoint to their mental communication; that seemed to be the basis of much of their humour. They also showed amusement by a quick flash of colour – it was their visual version of smiling or laughing, their faces being too stiff to show subtleties of expression. Even if I had understood perfectly, I could not have joined in; the pattern changes were much faster and more intricate than anything I could manage.

I turned to an issue which had been intriguing me. ‘I know that you have a world-wide democracy, but exactly how does your political system work?’

‘Our society is organised into local groups of approximately one hundred people, who meet from time to time to discuss any issues of concern. They choose one representative who attends occasional district meetings, again of about a hundred. In turn, each district group sends one member to a regional assembly of about a hundred people. As you may have guessed by now, each regional assembly sends a representative to the Planetary Assembly, which also has about a hundred members. If you multiply those figures out, you will see that they come to our population of one hundred million. Our society and economy are very stable, with few political decisions required, so the Planetary Assembly normally only meets once a year for a few days, but we have been meeting rather more often since your accident.’

I thought about their system for a moment. ‘It sounds impressively simple. I can see that it has the advantages of keeping everyone involved in decision-making, plus ensuring that the representatives at the Planetary Council remain closely tied to their regional, district and local roots, rather than allowing them to become isolated. In a world without mind-linking, though, the small numbers of key individuals involved might make it more open to abuse. And even in a virus-transformed human Earth, I couldn’t see our political organisations liking the idea; political parties would be unlikely to form in such a system.’

‘That is true, we have no use for political parties as such. Of course, what you might call “issue blocs” can form if any major questions arise, and these can result in clear-cut divisions of opinion where a compromise solution is not feasible; for instance, over the decision to contact you. That caused intense debate before a clear majority emerged.’

‘What were the main arguments?’

‘The newly-found ability to communicate with parallel worlds threw up a major issue for us. Those against contact argued that it would cause huge disruption to human society and we had no moral right to interfere in this way – they were highly critical of the rash scientists who were responsible for your accident. Those in favour felt that having caused your transformation, we had a moral duty to explain our actions to you, but the far more important argument, which eventually won the day, was that your civilisation would self-destruct like all of the others if we stood back and did nothing.’

‘I expect that you had a similar debate over releasing the virus I asked for?’

‘Not so much; having taken the major decision to make our existence known to humanity and observed the disagreements this caused in your society, we realised that only mind-linking would enable you to take the action you need to save yourselves. You would stand no chance of reaching agreement without it.’

‘True enough. It’s going to be hard enough to achieve even with it.’

The Convenor then started quizzing me about human democracy; she had learned to read English and, she informed me, spent much time scanning human internet sites.

‘I have noticed that in the USA many of the constituencies have their boundaries carefully drawn around population groups with a particular political leaning, so that it is almost impossible for them to change party in an election. How can that be described as a democratic system of government?’

‘Good question. Of course, that kind of thing isn’t allowed in the UK – it’s called gerrymandering after the man who invented the tactic.’

‘Ah yes, there are also certain things which intrigue me about the “first past the post” system used in the UK, and I’d like to test my understanding of it. It seems to me that this can produce some very odd results, and it depends a lot on the distribution of support for each party. If one party can concentrate all of its membership in fifty-one percent of the constituencies, but distributed so that they have slightly more votes in each than any of the other parties, then they could win the election outright with less than twenty percent of the vote, could they not?’

I did some quick mental calculations. ‘I suppose that’s theoretically possible, depending on the number of other parties.’

‘On the other hand,’ she pressed on, ‘a party could have forty-nine percent of the vote, but if there are only two parties, and their votes are exactly evenly spread across all constituencies, the one with the slightly smaller number wouldn’t get any seats at all?’

‘Well, yes, that’s also theoretically possible. Those extremes wouldn’t happen in practice, though.’

‘Of course not. Why, I believe that a recent British government managed to win a substantial overall majority in Parliament with as much as thirty-five percent of the vote – which, given the poor turnout of only just over sixty percent, meant that they obtained absolute control of your government with the support of less than twenty-two percent of the electorate. Is that right?’

‘Err, yes, that does sound about right.’

‘Don’t you think it’s possible that these anomalies account for the lack of interest in politics which leads to so few people voting?’

‘Among other things, quite possibly.’

‘Other things?’

‘Well, politicians are not exactly the most highly regarded people in our society. They have a well-earned reputation for untrustworthiness. Still, the advent of mind-linking – and especially remote linking by radio – is likely to have a major impact on their behaviour and therefore, in time, the way they are perceived.’

‘Hmm. So tell me about the alternatives to “first past the post”. I understand “proportional representation” and “alternative votes”, but would like to gain a better understanding of “single transferable votes.”’

It transpired that her understanding of the arcane complexities of STV systems was far better than my own, so I turned the conversation to other matters.

‘I’m intrigued by the differences which caused saurians to develop on some versions of Earth and humans on others. Have you been able to track down the point of departure, when the worlds diverged?’

‘Oh yes, that was the subject of a major research effort as soon as we discovered the first human world. We managed to track it back to a natural disaster about a hundred million years ago. It was an asteroid strike – which in your world narrowly missed Earth, probably as a result of some almost infinitesimal orbital perturbation far away. It wasn’t as big as some that have struck both our Earths, but it was at a critical time and place to affect evolution. It changed conditions in such a way that our distant ancestors were driven close to extinction. A predator species developed, not unlike ourselves and almost as intelligent, but bigger, faster and fiercer, and we were their favourite prey. We were under constant pressure to improvise, innovate and cooperate to make up for our physical disadvantages, and that drove us towards developing ever higher intelligence and speech. It also accounts for the evolution of our marsupial characteristics – no huge movement-limiting pregnancies like humans, no eggs in a fixed place to defend, and a safe place to stuff young kids while sprinting for safety. And our homes have lots of exits – we have a racial urge to be able to leave, fast, if an enemy comes into a building. In fact, we didn’t establish any permanent settlements for a long time because we had no means of defending them. Eventually we used technology to obtain an edge over our predators, and then we constructed some fortress homes in more mountainous areas. We don’t use those any more, though – they are too inconvenient.’

‘Are any of your predators left?’

‘No, we exterminated them long ago. Nowadays we would let some of them live, of course, but at that time we were more concerned about our survival.’

‘So mammals didn’t stand a chance in your world?’

‘Oh, there are some, but they never had the opportunity to develop much intelligence. We have a wildlife park not far from here, we can take you to see them if you wish.’

I did indeed wish: it would be intriguing to see how they had developed in a saurian world. However, I left that for now in order to explore other issues.

‘Among humans, the virus has resulted in mind-linking abilities of different levels – is that same among saurians?’

‘To a much lesser degree. In humans, the effect of the virus depends on the complexity of the neural networks already developed: put simply, the more intelligent you are, the stronger will be your mind-linking abilities. But our control of our genetics means that all saurians are born with the potential for developing a high level of neural complexity, and we ensure that our small numbers of offspring are carefully brought up to maximise this potential. However, there are still some individual differences.’

‘How many children do you have, exactly?’

‘We decided long ago that we felt most comfortable with a total population of about one hundred million. Our genetically programmed life expectancy is about eight hundred years, although many choose to end their lives sooner, so the average is between six and seven hundred years. We could of course extend our lives indefinitely, barring accidents, but there is no interest in that at all. Each female has only two children in her life, so you will appreciate that our children are very rare and precious to us. Both parents stop work as soon as they have a child in order to devote themselves entirely to its upbringing, and the whole community provides support.’

I thought about the teeming masses of human children, the inadequate parenting and education even in wealthy societies, and the appalling death-rates in the poorest, and winced. The Convenor was too polite to make it obvious, but I received the clear impression that the way humans indiscriminately produced and haphazardly treated their children was one of the aspects of humanity that the saurians found most incomprehensible and disagreeable. I quickly changed the subject.

‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’

‘That is not a matter of sensitivity for us, but it is not something we take any notice of, so we would have to check our records to confirm our exact ages. However, I am about five hundred and forty, give or take a few years.’

‘Three hundred and seventy, or thereabouts.’ From Primo.

‘About four hundred and twenty.’ Secundo.

‘I’m just a baby,’ Tertia, with a flash of humour, ‘only just over two hundred.’

I decided that another change of topic might be advisable.

‘So how long does your education last?’

‘All of our lives. Learning and doing are two sides of the same coin for us – we cannot separate them. As you will have gathered, I am currently studying human democratic systems in order to evaluate how they might change with the advent of mind-linking. I might have some suggestions for new forms of democracy in due course; whether they will interest your politicians is another matter, of course.’

‘I can guarantee some furious debates!’

Tertia chimed in. ‘We have been observing with some concern the effect on human society of mind-linking. There are many positives, of course, but also some negatives that we didn’t anticipate.’

‘I can’t say that anything has caused me much surprise so far. The main difficulty is the loss of privacy. How do you cope with that? I notice that you are able to restrict the degree of mind-linking, depending on the circumstances.’

‘Yes, full mind-linking is generally reserved for family or close friends. We have different levels of contact for other circumstances, although we cannot close our minds completely – we can always detect the mental presence of other people, and the emotional states they are in, so any kind of deception is impossible. We learn what is appropriate, and how to apply the necessary restrictions, from an early age – it’s a matter of etiquette, more than anything. We have already taught some of these skills to you and Freya, of course. We think it might be helpful to start courses for humans, perhaps training some teachers via head-nets so they can teach others.’

I thought about the social havoc being caused by the inability of most people to conceal any secrets from anyone else, and agreed that that might be a very good idea. A separate thought occurred to me. ‘What’s your written language like? And do you still use a spoken language?’

‘Like this!’ Primo said. He did not move, but I felt him concentrate and realised that he was using a headnet to communicate with the house systems. The lights dimmed and a holographic image appeared over the table, covered with a dense pattern of small marks. ‘That’s our writing.’

I looked at it curiously. Some of the marks appeared to be clustered into groups, a little like pictograms. I relayed this thought to the saurians.

‘There’s an element of that in it. The language has been steadily simplified and codified over many millennia to make it as efficient to use as possible, particularly with computer systems. Many common concepts can be more briefly expressed in symbol combinations which are in effect pictograms, although they are still assembled from basic symbol elements. As for our spoken language, we have a surprise for you!’

We all got up at his suggestion and went outside. It was dark, the night sky vivid with stars in a way only seen in remote places on my Earth, but a dim glow of light illuminated a small group of saurians standing a short distance away. When we were ready, they began to sing.

Nothing about the saurian world seemed so strange to me as this. The combination of the alien voices and their clanging, hissing language, singing to a very different concept of music, sent a shiver down my spine at the sheer weirdness of it. After a while, and helped by the mind-links of the other listeners, I began to appreciate the bizarre, ethereal, beauty of the music. When they stopped I was left feeling simultaneously transported and bereft.

So ended my first night on the saurian Earth.

12

The Planetary Assembly met in a circular room in the centre of the Assembly building. There was no furniture, just a spiral ramp winding down to a space in the centre. The saurians ambled in, apparently in a random order, filling up the ramp from the bottom. There was no obvious focal point, no “chair” for the Convenor. I realised that with the communication being essentially mental, physical location was unimportant to them. The Convenor had explained that the layout in the surprisingly small room was due to the fact that they still liked to see each other when communicating, since body patterns were often used to emphasise points in debate. I had a good view of all of them, since they had placed me in a swivel chair, right in the centre of the open space in the middle of the room.

When they were all ready (and mostly trying not to stare at me too obviously), the Convenor sent out a calling-to-order signal and the mental and visual hubbub died down. I was formally greeted as the first visitor from a human Earth, a sentiment mentally echoed by the Assembly; I made some suitable response which was translated by the Convenor. She then kicked off the debate by raising the issue of how to make best use of the opportunities presented by the slider machine.

What followed was frankly bewildering. The subtle and ever-shifting pattern of mind-links formed a metal weave throughout the room, with the flickering kaleidoscope of their skins forming a further level of complexity. They were not thinking in English, of course, so I was limited to picking up moods plus those thoughts which were visual or conceptual. Rather like the pictograms, they often used images for certain concepts – sometimes the meaning was clear, sometimes not; they had obviously developed a kind of mental shorthand of their own which was almost impossible for me to follow. A quick flash of a human figure superimposed against a mushroom cloud was clear enough, and not very promising, but what was I to make of an image of a number of saurians swimming together in formation? It was presumably a reference to some event in their collective memory which had meaning for them. So while I understood a few odd snatches I was generally lost in the roar of communication between these powerful, alien minds. I had thought them slow and deliberate, but when a hundred of the best minds of the planet – who had known each other very well for a long time – bent their attention to debate a subject, the speed of the interchanges left me floundering. I realised that in all of communications with saurians they must have slowed down and clarified their meanings for me, as if I were a very young child.

After a while they stopped for refreshment and I went outside to collapse on the turf, my head aching. One of the grazers wandered over and stared at me curiously, then retreated when the Convenor appeared.

‘I’m sorry for that, I realise it can have meant little to you, but it was important for them to see you. Why don’t you sit out the rest of the session and I’ll brief you this evening. Tertia has something she wants to show you.’

She went back into the Assembly building and Tertia appeared on cue. Who needs mobile phones, I thought.

‘Tough going, was it?’ She radiated sympathy. ‘I have an inkling of what you feel. I observed a session once, and I had trouble following it. Never mind, I have a trip I think you’ll enjoy.’

The wildlife park was only a short hop away, but I enjoyed the jog alongside Tertia. There was no entrance as such, or even any visible enclosures; Tertia explained that the animals were kept in defined areas by an electrical field which reacted with tags implanted under the skin and wired into their nervous systems. This sent a warning signal to them as they approached the boundary, which grew in intensity until they were rendered unconscious if they tried to cross it. Visitors wore headnets to tell them when they were approaching the boundary and to provide information about the animals in that enclosure. I therefore had the strange experience of walking among wild animals – some of them quite dangerous – with no physical boundary between us.

‘I hope the power doesn’t go down!’

‘You should know us better than that by now – we have triple-redundancy on all of our power systems.’

‘What if lightning knocked out the system?’

‘We don’t allow lightning to strike at random – we drain off the electrical charge before a storm can reach any sensitive areas.’

‘Ah… I should have guessed.’

The animals were indeed fascinating. No giant dinosaurs, sadly – it appeared that gigantism had ceased to provide any evolutionary advantage millions of years before, so there was nothing bigger than the size of a rhino. None of them bore any close resemblance to the fossil dinosaurs that I knew from the human Earth. Then we approached the mammalian areas. Most were small and furry, vaguely similar to the rodents I was familiar with. Some were larger, clearly members of the horse or antelope families, but still much smaller than the ones I knew. A copse provided a home for a family of monkeys; then, on the far side, what I first though was a large monkey got up and walked slowly towards me.

I stopped in shock, my pulse accelerating. It was little more than a metre tall, of slender build, and covered with fine hair. Its arms were long in proportion, with strong hands which looked suited to climbing. But it stood and walked on two legs as easily as a human, and it came close and stared at me curiously. The face was a little flatter than a monkey’s, and its mental signature was noticeably more complex. This was no monkey or ape, I realised with a sense of dizziness – it was a hominin, similar to the precursors of mankind. The names slipped through my mind, labels tentatively attached by a humanity struggling to make sense of its origins from fragmentary and ambiguous remains; australopithecus, or an early member of the homo genus such as habilis or erectus; my knowledge was not specialised enough to determine the closest match. I looked down into its dark eyes, and as it looked back I felt a deep but unformed sadness, an aching gulf stretching across aeons of lost opportunity. I turned and walked away, my vision blurring. There but for fortune, I thought, a minute aberration in an asteroid’s orbit.

Tertia sensed my mood, of course, and left me in peace as we went back to Laketown.

That evening the Convenor came to dinner again and summarised what had happened in the Assembly. ‘I have to say that over the last couple of years humanity has provided us with the most intense and interesting debates we have enjoyed for many millennia, since we decided to modify ourselves to achieve universal mind-linking. However, to the facts first of all. It is now clear that we cannot manufacture slider machines capable of generating holes significantly larger than the one you used. The power requirements increase as the cube of the area of the hole; or to put it another way, to increase the diameter from two to four metres would require three hundred and sixty times the power. And while we could provide that easily enough, the machinery is subtle and delicate and could not withstand any more power than we are currently pouring into it – it would be destroyed. So we cannot send through large items of machinery or other items which might speed up the process of reducing your carbon emissions and other pollutants. However, we will build many more machines which will be able to help in transporting food to famine-stricken areas.’

‘That should certainly help. Although it would only be a short-term expedient, of course. The long-term priority has to be to make communities self-sustaining.’

‘Agreed. We don’t see the benefit of any large–scale movement of people between our worlds, but some exchanges may be useful. They could help our scientists work more closely together, and no doubt there will be real interest among some saurians and humans to see at first hand how the other world works.’ (Enthusiastic endorsement from my trio of friends.) ‘We are not set up for tourism, though. We don’t have the facilities or the supplies humans would need, so we are only thinking of a small number of accredited observers. The other interesting topic was what to do about the other worlds.’

‘Other worlds?’

‘Yes. You are not the only human world we know of; there are three others which have developed radio, but they are not as advanced as you are. Incidentally, we refer to your world as “H17”, as yours is the seventeenth human civilisation which we have found. We have lost contact with nearly all of the other sixteen, of course, for reasons that you know about. We still have links to H16, where the attempt to contact you never happened, so life goes on as it did before your accident.’

‘What are “H18” to “H20” like?’

‘Not very different from your world; just some variations in religious, cultural and political history which have delayed their technological development, so they’ve only recently developed radio. What concerns us more, though, are the other saurian worlds. We call ours “S1”, but they run up to “S6”. None of the others has the technology to detect parallel worlds; they all believe that they are unique.’

‘How do they differ?’

‘They all suffer to some extent from the decision not to adopt mind-linking. Only one – S6 – has any kind of world government, and that is due to a philosophy similar in some ways to human Buddhism; they are relatively backward in terms of technology. In fact, none of the others is as advanced as we are, since mind-linking helps greatly in enabling scientists to work together. The most advanced technically is S2; but in some ways that is more like your world than ours.’

‘How so?’

‘They still have nation states, which combine in shifting patterns of alliances, with a relatively weak planetary co-ordinating body. They are less trusting, more suspicious and intolerant of difference, and have focused much of their technology on weapon development. Their population is also ten times greater than ours, and is organised in a very hierarchical way. We want to contact and help them, but we need to be sure that this will not cause problems, for them or us.’

‘Why don’t you devise a mind-linking virus for them?’

‘We do not feel that such interference would be justified. Unlike yours, their way of life is sustainable; their population is stable and the environment is not in danger. They are logical enough not to use weapons which would threaten their civilisation. They are skilled in genetics and have been aware of the possibility of mind-linking for a long time, but have rejected it. It is not for us to override that by force.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘We have decided to make contact with their planetary co-ordinating body, in the hope that we can convince them that our society offers better solutions for living than theirs.’

‘Good luck… if they are so like humanity, it may be that I have a better idea of how they may react than you do.’

‘That’s possible. You seem rather cynical about our chances.’

‘What you have to think about is who would gain and who would lose. The ones who would lose, from their perspective, are the ruling classes who make the decisions. They would regard your offer, quite accurately, as a threat to their way of life, to the comfortable dominance which they enjoy. They obviously don’t want to link with the lower orders – they want to keep them at a distance, and as far as possible determine what they think as well as what they do. They probably keep them distracted with trivial consumer goods and mindless entertainment.’

‘I see. That sounds depressingly realistic. I think it would be useful for you to address the Assembly tomorrow.’

The next day I was back in my swivel chair, mentally braced for what was to come. The Convenor summarised our conversation of the evening before and I spelled out my thoughts on the likely response of the Rulers of S2. The Assembly heard me out in polite mental silence, then excused me while they went into discussion mode. I wandered outside the building, and sat down to enjoy the warm spring sunshine. After a few moments I became aware of being observed. I turned around and saw a very small saurian staring at me in fascination; her mental signature indicated her gender. When I smiled and sent a “welcome” signal, she fearlessly hopped over towards me. She was exactly like an adult, but only about a third of the size. Before she reached me I noticed a couple of other saurians looking on, with a mixture of anxiety and pride. I realised that this must be that very rare thing, a saurian child. I had seen very few of the regular inhabitants of Laketown – they tended to keep a respectful distance from the Assembly – but given the infrequency of births this was probably the only child they had; the pride and joy of the whole community. None of the locals understood English, of course, so we could only communicate in emotions. I got up and walked around, the child’s unguarded mind reflecting her amazement at the strange way I moved.

I was called back to the Assembly shortly afterwards and waved goodbye to the family. The Convenor addressed me with what I recognised as a touch of sympathy. ‘We are troubled by what you have told us, but have to acknowledge that you may be correct. I am afraid that we have got so used to understanding each other, and regarding our way of life as obviously superior, that we had not fully appreciated that others may not see things in the same way. Some of our members have pointed out that humanity may also pose a threat to us, that your recent accession of mind-linking might not be enough to override millennia of aggressive behavioural conditioning, at least for a few generations.

I thought about that for a while, marshalling my thoughts which the Convenor waited to translate into saurian symbology. ‘I reluctantly have to admit that there is something in what you say. There has always been the potential for much good in humanity, but also for the opposite. I sometimes think it is as if we all have a beast within us. It is the selfish animal which tells us to take what we want, do what we like, take revenge on those who wrong us. It is constrained by the chains of civilisation we put upon it: social constraints which are trained into us as children so we accept them as our own, rules which we see the purpose of and impose on ourselves, or the chains of law which place limits on our behaviour. Even so, when law is ineffective or breaks down, the beast emerges in some people; in violence, rape, murder, or ultimately genocide. Laws are not always just, especially religious law; in some cultures it regards females as subservient to males, for instance. But without some form of law, there can be no society. Humanity is not perfect, and never will be. But we have constantly struggled to restrain our beasts, to make our societies worth living in, and we have mostly succeeded. The advent of mind-linking has already changed some things dramatically but it is too early to predict the ultimate form of human society which will emerge. I am confident that it will be better, or I would not have introduced the virus, but there will inevitably be many surprises; we have a “law of unintended consequences” which will ensure that.’

‘Thank you for your honesty. We will consider what you have said and how it bears on the issue of our relationships with other worlds.’

That evening the Convenor was more than usually thoughtful over dinner.

‘The Assembly has decided that a degree of caution is advisable in dealing with other worlds, given that their populations tend to be far more numerous than ours and sometimes demonstrate very aggressive traits. We will accordingly be restricting access to slider machine technology; the human scientists who have worked with us know the theory, but actually constructing one is well beyond the H17 technology level, and will probably remain so for several decades. The other saurian worlds are even further behind.’

‘I don’t blame you; I’d do the same in your place.’

‘However, we will make contact with the other saurian worlds, one at a time. We feel that we have an obligation to reveal to them just what they are missing through not mind-linking. There is a long-term hope that we can build a saurian community across all of our worlds, so we have to start somewhere.’

‘Won’t there be problems with confused identities if people exist in more than one parallel world?’

‘No. Our worlds all separated generations ago, so we have few direct equivalents; where our other biological selves do exist, they have been brought up in different environments and are no more similar to ourselves than identical twins who have been brought up apart, in different cultures.’

‘So what’s the next step?’

‘Communication first, then, if that goes well, the first physical link.’

I spent the next couple of days exploring around Laketown, waiting to hear the outcome of the planned link with the Rulers of S2. The saurian headnets allowed global mind-linking via satellite, so their scientists were immediately aware of the decision and had set up the required system, plugging into S2’s communication network as they had with me. I saw less of the Convenor, who appeared preoccupied – it was clear that the initial links were not proving easy. I spent much time swimming in the lake, following its meandering links to the marshlands and the great bay of the Zuider Zee. I felt a strong sense of peace, of wholeness here, which was missing from my human world. I had not even been consciously aware of the sense of stress which underlay my awareness of the environment of my world, even in the deep ocean, until I experienced its lack here. I wondered if finding some way of transmitting this sense to humanity might help with the urgent struggle to withdraw from the environmental brink.

That evening the Convenor visited again, and even I could tell how tired she was.

‘It seems that our remote observations of the people on S2 had not properly informed us of some of the details of their society. We already knew that their Rulers were far more long-lived than the rest, but had not realised that they had secretly developed mind-linking and had also kept that to themselves, as an instrument of control over their populations. In one sense that helped, since we can link with them, although mental communication is no easier than with humans, because although many of us have learned their language we use different symbology and cultural references. They took a lot of convincing, but have finally agreed to a meeting. They will send a representative here, and one of us will simultaneously visit them; I’m not sure why they insisted on that.’

‘Mutual hostage taking.’ I guessed.

The Convenor looked at me, her body colour as well as her mind reflecting her astonishment. ‘That did not occur to us.’

‘It used to be a common diplomatic practice on Earth – my Earth, that is. They certainly don’t seem to be a trusting bunch.’

‘No, they are not.’ She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you had better stay close when we meet; we might find your advice useful.’

‘Yup – I can provide the necessary leavening of suspicion and paranoia, informed by a long cultural history of insincerity, deviousness and double-dealing. At least, we should be able to tell if they are plotting something really nasty.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not so sure; they have the most powerful mind-blocks we have ever experienced and are very hard to read.’

‘Not surprising; the Rulers of the different countries will be used to dealing with each other, and the ability to keep their plans and thoughts to themselves will have had a very high priority for them. I’d better review whatever you have on S2 and its inhabitants.’

‘Yes of course – Primo will set up a briefing.’

The next morning Primo and I watched video clips of S2 and its inhabitants, while he gave me a running commentary.

The world looked very different from S1. The settlements were closer together, considerably larger and more crowded. Most of the buildings were still low, but there was noticeable differentiation between areas of large dwellings which were well spaced out, and those in which the buildings were packed much closer together. This was a physical manifestation of the hierarchical society which the Convenor had mentioned.

There were three broad categories of saurians in S2 society: the manual workers, the professional/managerial/entrepreneurial group which kept the society running, and the small ruling group. Membership of these three groups was largely hereditary, but the chance existed for outstanding supervisors among the manual workers to be promoted to the managerial group – and for movement in the reverse direction for those guilty of crimes or unlucky enough to lose their credit. The ruling group in each country formed a tightly-knit clan, and changes to its membership appeared to be almost unheard-of.

There were clear physical differences both between and within the groups. The manual workers varied between large, powerful saurians and smaller, more nimble types – bred for specific tasks, according to Primo. There appeared to be little in the way of self-determination on this world. The professional group looked the most like those in S1, while the Rulers showed marked sexual dimorphism; the males were the tallest of all of the saurians and athletically built, while the females were smaller, more slender and (Primo assured me with a tinge of admiration) highly attractive in a rather exotic way. The S2 Rulers had evidently utilised their genetic skills in a very different way from those of S1. One interesting detail was that as well as mind-linking, the Rulers reserved for themselves the power to heal – another way of reinforcing their control over their people.

I asked about military potential and Primo called up some clips of soldiers in training. They were also big and strong, and specifically bred for both endurance and fast reactions. They had been given the full benefit of self-repairing abilities so were very difficult to kill or disable. As a result, the standard personal weapon consisted of a large rifle which fitted over the shoulder to allow for a long recoil stroke – necessary to absorb the kick of the high-velocity explosive ammunition they fired. The shells were designed to detonate a few centimetres after impact, in the pious hope that the huge wounds thus caused would be beyond the capabilities of the most resourceful repair patch.

Training included hand-to-hand combat, or more precisely foot-to-foot. Saurian legs were much longer and more powerful than their arms, and their natural form of fighting was kicking. The military thoughtfully added the refinement of long, upward-curving blades attached to the top of the feet which, as one instructor was shown demonstrating on a dummy, allowed them to rip their opponents open with one kick.

The clips showed the rest of the military technology, which wasn’t much different from what my own world was capable of; an odd coincidence considering the vast disparities in timescale. It appeared that the Rulers were a highly conservative lot and by mutual agreement had restricted the development of more devastating weapons which might threaten their own existence; that wasn’t in their interests at all. They played war in much the same way that humans played chess, with the only blood shed being that of the purposely-bred warriors. They had even defined specific areas for battles to take place, away from any risk of damaging their economic interests. There were armoured vehicles armed with beam weapons of various types to disable the soldiers and each other. Sea battles were not fought – there was speculation that it was because the economic cost of losing ships would have been too high – and military aviation was strictly controlled, being used only for reconnaissance and troop transport. Their records showed that this lesson had been learned in an earlier age, when some Rulers had been killed by air attack. Now, the Rulers kept well away from the battlefields. Any attempt on the part of one country to use combat aircraft or develop more advanced weapons would attract an attack by the combined might of the others. As it was, there was a constantly shifting pattern of alliances between the countries; diplomacy and warfare seemed to be the primary pastime of the Rulers, who otherwise had little to do, their societies were so tightly controlled.

One other detail of the S2 society intrigued me. ‘Primo, some of them are eating meat!’

‘Err yes, that’s right. We used to be omnivorous too, but it was really the development of mind-linking which changed our habits. It’s difficult to eat an animal after you’ve become sensitive to its emotions. Although I have to say that the S2 Rulers seem to take a positive delight in rearing and slaughtering their animals; they have a rather barbaric society in some ways.’

‘Yep, it all seems very familiar. Rather like the Middle Ages on my Earth, only with more advanced tech. You’re going to have a real problem trying to persuade that society to change. Not only will the Rulers be very happy with things the way they are, there is no tradition of the other groups participating in government.’

‘We realise that. But we feel that we have a moral obligation to try.’

Having decided to act, the saurians got on with it, setting up the exchange for a few days later. Their initial contact had been with the Primary of the co-ordinating body – their Council of Rulers. This post rotated around the national Rulers via a pre-set pattern, and had no real power other than to call and chair meetings of the Council. As with the S1 Assembly, the Council met only occasionally, in their case to resolve disputes. The Primary had responded to the initial contact by calling together the Council; a delay of a few days ensued while they gathered together. The S1 Assembly site was farmland in S2, not far from the capital of one of their countries, so their Council set up a temporary encampment ready for the first physical exchange. A slider machine had been set up in the middle of an open space on the edge of Laketown, a kind of bowl-shaped arena created by piling up earthen banks and turfing them – used for communal events such as concerts, Primo explained. The Assembly members gathered on the slopes. I was at the back, along with my three friends. Other visitors included their academic experts on S2. It was a fine spring morning, the air freshened by a breeze, cumulus clouds marching across the sky. I looked at the machine, a pair of tall blue boxes on either side of a thick ring, standing on end, within which the two-metre diameter hole would be created. The boxes were covered with ventilation slots, and a thick power cable ran from the machine out of the arena.

A thought occurred to me. ‘Do they know about me? About the human worlds?’

‘No. We thought that it was better to move one step at a time.’

The moment arrived. The Assembly Ambassador, a male (out of diplomatic deference to the sensibilities of the S2 Rulers) stood in front of the slider machine. Holographic viewscreens around the arena showed the view on S2. There was no arena there, but a temporary low platform had been erected around the equivalent space. Interestingly, the weather was different; it was a grey day, with a gentle drizzle. Several thousand years of different levels of saurian activity had obviously had an effect. The S2 Rulers looked rather different from the people of S1; apart from the fact that they were all male, their bodies were covered by loose, colourful clothing. Primo mentally whispered that they apparently only stripped off to display their skin patterns among family and close friends. Another way for them to conceal their reactions, I realised.

The whine of the slider machine started climbing up the scale. After a few seconds, with a slight crackle, the hole appeared simultaneously on both worlds. I was standing in line with the front of the hole, and could see the S2 Representative through it. He was much taller than the S2 people, bigger even than I, and would have to stoop to get through the hole. As agreed, the S1 Ambassador began to step through first – but what happened next was not planned. A brief flash of raw agony ripped through our minds, before he collapsed on the earth of S2. A collective mental gasp swept around the arena, and the S2 Representative crouched over the stricken Ambassador. There was a tense pause as he examined the unconscious saurian, deploying his healing skills. After a few moments of concentrated attention, the Ambassador began to revive. He was clearly groggy and nauseous, not really aware of what was going on.

Primo turned to me in alarm. ‘What did you experience when you stepped through the hole?’

‘A moment’s nausea, but nothing like this.’

There was an intense blur of communications around the arena, too fast and complex for me to follow. The Convenor stepped forwards and addressed the S2 Council via her headnet; it seemed that mental transmissions could not pass directly through the slider hole. She had to use slower and simpler communications with the S2 Rulers, so that although I didn’t understand the language she was thinking in I was able to absorb her regret and concern. The S2 Primary had also stepped forwards, and for the first time I received mental transmissions from an S2 saurian, as they were relayed around the arena. His mind was hard and cold, tightly controlled, revealing nothing beyond what he intended. After a brief exchange, the hole flicked out of existence and the slider machine started to power down. A translation by one of the visiting experts was passed to me; both sides had agreed to suspend the exchange until they could determine what had happened to the unfortunate Ambassador.

The Assembly meeting to debate the problem was held on the spot, and I was invited to give my views. As the only person who had so far stepped through the slider machine without collapsing, I tried to describe the sensation I had experienced. Thinking back on it and analysing the memory, there had been a moment of intense disorientation which had caused my nausea. There had also been a blurred flash of light as I stepped through, but that was all I could recall. There was one thing that puzzled me, though.

‘When I had my original accident, when your scientists tried to contact me, didn’t one of them pass through the machine to put the repair patch on me and take a biopsy?’

There was a moment’s pause while the scientists were contacted. Much of the global population, I understood, must have been awake and following events, and a response came through quickly. It seemed that after the explosion I had fallen within reach of the slider hole, and the quick-thinking scientist had just reached through with his arms – his head had not passed through the hole.

A series of experiments was quickly organised; with both the Assembly and the Council convened, the saurians were anxious not to waste the opportunity. Less than an hour later, everything was ready once more, the saurians on both worlds waiting expectantly. The slider machine was powered up again and the hole flicked into life. On the S1 side, a volunteer came forward and gingerly approached the machine. He reached an arm through the hole. On the viewscreens, it could be clearly seen passing through to S2. He reported no ill effects other than a tingling feeling. He then carefully moved his head towards the hole, while the Assembly held its collective breath. As his skull began to make contact, he reported a sudden dizziness and withdrew.

The next test involved one of the grazing animals which had been lassoed and hauled into the arena. Both worlds watched in fascination as the animal was unceremoniously bundled through the hole. It emerged on the other side, shook its head in irritation, but otherwise seemed normal. It was about to start grazing on the longer and moister grass on S2 when a tug of the rope brought it back again, bleating protest. The disgruntled animal was led out of the arena while the experiment went to the next stage.

This time it was one of the workers from S2 – a group which had no mind-linking ability. The Rulers had evidently not bothered to advise her of the risk, as she hopped readily through to S1 before turning and hopping back again. A brief conversation followed – the strange sound of saurian voices over the audio link never failing to send a shiver down my spine – and a translation was shared immediately; she had felt a slight dizziness, but no other ill effects.

The final stage involved another volunteer from S1. An up-and-down ramp was placed through the hole and a low, four-wheeled trolley pushed close to it. The volunteer sat on the trolley and adopted a crouched-down rest position while another saurian briefly touched his head, rendering him unconscious. The trolley was then pushed up the ramp and through the hole. The S1 Ambassador, who had mostly recovered from his ordeal, was on hand to bring the volunteer back to consciousness again. This time, no ill effects were reported, and there was a collective sigh of relief around the arena.

We were now ready to complete the exchange, but then a problem cropped up. The S2 Representative was most unwilling to let down his mental defences sufficiently to permit anyone to make him unconscious. A hum of debate followed; Primo explained that for an S2 Ruler, letting down his guard was equivalent to a human undressing in public. It took some noisy debate among the Council – who evidently preferred to retain oral communication among themselves – before the reluctant Representative was sufficiently reassured (or bribed with some trade benefits, the translators suggested) and duly wheeled through and revived.

He was greeted with due formality and invited to the Assembly building for refreshments. I tailed along at the back of the throng, observing with interest as those Assembly members who had learned his language engaged him in conversation. His mind was firmly closed, speech only being used, but the meeting appeared to be going quite well (apart from some disappointment on his part at the restricted fare on offer) until random shifts in the movement of the Assembly members left a clear space between us. As luck would have it, he turned and saw me. He stopped speaking and stared in shock, then his mental barriers dropped and I needed no translation of his thought: ‘WHAT IS THAT??!!’

I made myself scarce during the next half-hour’s intensive video briefing on the human worlds in general, and me in particular. Afterwards, I was introduced to the dazed Representative. He was attempting to maintain an iron control of his emotions, but they were so strong that they still leaked through. I had never experienced such intense physical revulsion before, even from the most prejudiced human. He just stared, and said nothing in response to my translated greeting. I bowed slightly and made my exit.

The Convenor did not join us that evening, engaged as she was in trying to mollify the stunned and outraged Representative, but Primo had been staying close to the exchanges and gave us a full report.

‘We didn’t anticipate such a reaction. With the benefit of hindsight, we perhaps should have done. We on S1 had known about the existence of humanity for centuries, and become entirely used not just to the fact of your existence but also to your – forgive me – rather bizarre physical appearance.’ He seemed slightly embarrassed, and rushed on. ‘From our perspective, you actually look a lot better than other humans.’ He paused, his confusion increasing.

I grinned wickedly at him. ‘Keep digging!’

He ruefully recovered his composure and carried on. ‘On S2 they have not had the benefit of such preparation. They were certain that they were the only intelligent life ever to have lived. It was rather a shock to them to discover the parallel saurian worlds, and they were concerned about the evident differences in our philosophy and society, but the revelation about humanity is at least an order of magnitude more disturbing for them. Not the best of starts.’

‘It would have been worse if they had discovered later, as they inevitably would. Then they would have added mistrust of you for concealing our existence to their grievances. So what happens now?’

‘The parallel visits will go on as planned. We will be taking the Representative around our world to show him how we live, and also trying to get him used to the existence of humanity. Our Ambassador has a rather different role, as we already have a broad if superficial knowledge of S2; he will be trying to sound out their attitudes, to determine where they may be flexible and what their sticking points are.’

‘How will the Representative be travelling around?’

‘In one of the big beam-powered airships, like the one we arrived in.’

I felt uneasy. ‘I hope it isn’t the one with the slider machine. I think you should keep those devices under close guard.’

Primo regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You think he would try to gain control?’

‘I think it is entirely possible. All he would have to do is arrange via his headnet for a force of soldiers to be concealed at a particular place, then find an excuse to persuade your people to open a hole there. The troops would rush in and seize the airship.’

The saurians all stared at me, radiating a strange mixture of admiration and distaste. ‘You have a remarkable imagination.’ Tertia remarked. ‘However do you think of such things?’

‘Just part of the rich tapestry of human experience. I’m prepared to bet one thing, though; from what I’ve seen and sensed of the inhabitants of S2, their thought patterns are much closer to mine than yours.’

Primo nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well, we have time to call in one of the other beam ships, I think it is not far away. And we will remove some critical parts of the slider machine here and keep them safe until we need to use it. There is only one other machine in existence, and that is on another continent, with the scientists who developed it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘In any case, on the airship we could just shut off the power beam. He would only be able to use it until the on-board power ran out, which wouldn’t be long.’

‘Long enough to move enough soldiers on board to take all of the crew hostage.’

Primo concentrated for a moment and I sensed him communicating with someone outside the room. ‘All right, that’s arranged. Does your healthy state of paranoia suggest any other risks?’ His humour was becoming strained by anxiety.

I ran possibilities through my head, testing them for weaknesses. ‘Do you have any weapons?’

Universal astonishment. ‘Of course not, whatever for?’

‘I’d be willing to bet that the representative, even if he has no weapon – which he may well have, I know you haven’t searched him and he could hide a gun under those robes – is fully trained in the unarmed combat skills they impart to their soldiers. Furthermore, I’ll bet he is trained to resist any attempt to use mental powers to suppress him; in fact, I suspect that he’s a lot better at mental combat than I am, let alone you peaceniks. Suppose he held one of you hostage and threatened to kill you if a hole was not opened to let in his soldiers, who then threatened to kill everyone in Laketown if the power wasn’t kept on. What would you do?’

They sat stunned, mouths literally open, a part of me noticed with amusement. ‘Never mind, I have an idea. How do I set about communicating with Richards?’

They guided me through the mental process of using the headnet to access the communication machine which enabled direct mental contact with headnet-equipped people on a parallel world, then showed me how to search for Richards. Eventually I made contact with him. I spent a few minutes briefing him on the situation. He thought for a moment, then sent; ‘as it happens, I have just the thing for you- we have one for evaluation.’ He showed me an image and explained the workings to me, and I grinned, impressed.

‘Sounds just the ticket! I’ll get it collected.’

Then followed a brief three-way link between Richards, Primo and myself, while arrangements were made to send the beam ship with the slider machine across to the location of London to make the collection.

Later that evening, I waited out in the open a discreet distance from the town. It was dark, the usual starlit blaze of the heavens obscured by a thick layer of cloud. A steadily growing murmur of sound announced the arrival of the unseen airship, and after a few minutes my enhanced night vision picked up the shape of a lift cabin descending to earth a few yards away. I walked over to it, opened the door and retrieved the heavy black plastic case lying inside. The cables tautened again and the cabin lifted into the sky. I turned and walked back to Laketown, feeling a little more reassured but still tense and nervous.

Once in my room, I opened the case and checked the contents, before closing it and sliding it under my bed. Not that the S1 saurians would dream of opening it even if they found it, but I would prefer not to answer questions about it. Sleep came tardily that night.

The next morning all seemed well and the Representative’s personal airship appeared, its power drone in tow. He was seen off with due formality, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps I was being overly suspicious. Then I recalled the mental signatures of the Representative and the Primary, and decided that I was not.

As we returned to the town, Primo paused for a moment, concentrating on an incoming message. Then he stopped dead, radiating amazement and wonder.

‘What gives?’

‘The combined team of saurian and human scientists working on the slider technology have made another breakthrough. They have found a way to detect and lock on to parallel worlds without requiring them to be transmitting radio or TV signals.’

‘Good for them. And?’

‘They have found another world. A formerly human one, but with no remaining signs of human life. It is standing empty, waiting for occupants!’

13

It turned out that the new Earth was not entirely new; after some research and comparisons with their records, the saurians determined that it was H11, contact with which had been abruptly lost in mysterious circumstances over a century before. The beam ship with the slider machine took Primo, Secundo, Tertia and myself the short hop across the southern North Sea, and slowly cruised up the Thames while I attempted to get my bearings. In my time the river and its tributaries had been so channelled – and in some cases buried under buildings – that this was not an easy task. I had to visit the slider machine and examine the viewer, locked onto the same scene in H11, to check that I was in the right place. Although it was less than a month since I had last been in London – my own London – I felt a pang of nostalgia to see a familiar sprawl of docks and buildings lining the river, instead of the almost uninhabited broad, marshy estuary visible from the observation deck. A closer inspection started to reveal differences. This really wasn’t my London, although superficially similar. According to the saurians, this world had diverged from my own branch several centuries ago, although they were uncertain exactly what had prompted the departure – they had lost contact before they could pin it down. However, it seemed likely that the language would still be close enough to English that we could make some sense of any records left behind.

I didn’t really expect what I was looking for to be in exactly the same location but I had to start somewhere, so after some cross-checking with maps of my London and carefully positioning the airship, the four of us got into the slider machine cabin and rode silently down. As we approached, I paid close attention to the viewer. The streets and buildings were similar to the ones I would have expected to see in late Victorian times, but they had clearly been long abandoned. Trees had burst through the roads and plants of all kinds sprouted from the buildings, some of which were in a state of collapse. Parts of the City were flooded where the water had breached the embankments. On the south bank, a large area appeared to be have been gutted by fire. The cabin gently stopped as we reached the level of the street visible on the viewer. I looked out of the cabin’s window and realised that we had not yet reached the ground of the saurian world – or to be precise the water, as we were hovering over a tributary. Centuries of human development had raised the level of the land in London and this river had been covered over, in both this world and mine. The slider machine powered up, and we looked through the hole at the desolate street scene. I took a breath and stepped through first, feeling the same brief nausea and seeing the bright, blurry flash once more; Secundo stunned first Primo then Tertia before pushing them through for me to revive. He would be staying behind to operate the machine on our return. The three of us started to walk or hop down what had, in my time, been known as Fleet Street.

It was like walking through some film set showing the ruin of a Dickensian city. Whatever had happened here had not involved physical violence. Most of the buildings still stood, although many looked dangerous to enter. Birds sang their joy at springtime, a couple of cats were seen skulking at a safe distance. Rather to my surprise, we did manage to locate the offices of a newspaper, in a building which still looked reasonably intact, although signs of water pouring down the inside walls showed that the roof had given up the struggle. Damp, yellowed papers were stored in rotting wooden cupboards, but it was simple enough to locate the final editions. It was much more difficult to read them, as the language had shifted in various ways and the meaning of many words was unclear. We collected what seemed relevant and carried it back to Secundo and the saurians’ world.

Once back on the airship, the papers were scanned and submitted to an old computer programme which had managed to translate the H11 language in the days of the saurian contact. It converted this to my English and we studied the result. It did not make pretty reading.

PLAGUES SPREAD TO ALBION!

Primary Minister issues message of reassurance

The lethal plague spreading like wildfire across the Continent has now been reported in Duber. Despite the strict quarantine measures in place, several people fell ill this morning, suffering from the symptoms we have come to dread. They are not expected to survive the night. The Home Defence Minister stated in Parliament that Duber and its immediate surroundings have been cordoned off by army units who have been given orders to shoot anyone trying to leave or enter the port.

However, this may not be enough; Professor Thorgildsson of Stamford University has put forward a theory that birds may be helping to transmit the plague, accounting for its rapid spread despite the desperate efforts to stop it. Radios across Europe have been falling silent over the past three weeks, and the Minister stated that he feared the worst.

Furthermore, there appears to be more than one point of origin of the plague. Outbreaks of virulent disease have now been reported from every inhabited continent.

The Primary Minister also addressed Parliament today. His demeanor was grave, but he reassured Parliament that our own scientists in the Department of Biological Warfare were doing their utmost to discover the nature of the disease and to prepare a cure. Telegraph messages received from scientists in Europe over the past three weeks had already provided useful information.

He said that it appeared that this strain of the plague was probably developed in the Turkish Empire and may have been released in South-Eastern Europe as tensions grew over the status of the Bosphorus. Some reports indicate that the Greeks have retaliated in kind, and that contact with Persia has been lost. It is already known that, like most war plagues, the one afflicting Europe has been bred to die within days once it is outside a living human host, so there is hope that by maintaining strict quarantine measures, many will survive.

The Primary Minister concluded that the long-predicted Great War between the Muslim and Christian worlds had broken out, and that the policy of Biological Deterrence, established by previous governments, had failed. He called upon all citizens to stay in their homes and pray for deliverance.

There was a long pause after we had finished reading. Nobody seemed to want to say anything. I felt numb, sickened by the self-destruction of an entire civilisation. Eventually, I thought of something. ‘Are we sure this is right? Is the plague dead?’

Secundo responded gravely. ‘Yes. We had already suspected that plague might have been involved as, although the general level of technological development in H11 paralleled your own, they were very advanced in biological warfare. The scientists who rediscovered this world used their slider machine to take air, water and earth samples under conditions of strict isolation. There are traces of plague organisms, but they are dead beyond possibility of revival. This world is now clean and safe. ‘

‘But no disease has ever killed everyone. Are you certain there are no survivors?’

‘No natural disease kills everyone, but war diseases are designed to be different. All we can say for now is that the electromagnetic spectrum is completely silent. There are no radios in operation anywhere. Nor is there any trace of the kind of atmospheric pollution which indicates human activity. If there are any survivors, they must be back to the Stone Age.’

I went back to the observation deck, suddenly keen to return to the clean innocence of the saurian world. The others left me alone as I tried to accept what I had seen and read. Eventually I turned to them.

‘So what do we do with this world?’

Primo responded. ‘It seems to us to provide a unique opportunity. Your world has a major, long-term problem of overpopulation which despite our contraceptive measures will, by itself, take centuries to correct. Here we have what is effectively a virgin world – in fact, rather better than that. While agricultural land has become overgrown, it will be much easier to clear than virgin forest. Domestic animals have only spent a few generations by themselves, and can be re-domesticated without too much difficulty. The docks and harbours are still there, under the silt. Most buildings can be restored, or at least the materials are there to be reused. Roads, canals and railways will need more work but the basic structure is there. Most minerals are still in the ground in known locations. This is an unpolluted world, with the chance of a fresh start, learning from past mistakes and developing it carefully and sustainably. We can build many more slider machines and start transferring people in quantity, as soon as your world has decided on the process.’

I absorbed this for several minutes. Another chance – a chance to redeem the catastrophic failure of one civilisation and to speed the recovery from near-disaster of another. It presented not so much a golden opportunity as one of solid diamond. I stood on the observation deck of the giant ship and a distant memory popped into my mind. I smiled at the thought, then turned to the saurians. ‘Make it so!’ I said.

Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that – I didn’t have the powers of a starship captain. I brought Richards up to speed and asked him to put in motion the process necessary to arrange an urgent meeting of the General Assembly of the United Nations. Back at Laketown, I checked on the progress of the S2 Representative’s tour; everything seemed to going well, so far. The black case stayed under the bed.

A couple of days later, Richards reported back. The UN Security Council had agreed to the request of the British Government to hold an emergency special session of the General Assembly. It would be taking place in three days time. I checked with the saurians the availability of the slider ship and confirmed that I would be there at the start of the session. It would take the giant airship only twenty-four hours to make the journey to New York, so the next two days were spent in fevered debate with my friends and the Convenor, as we discussed possible strategies for exploiting this New Earth, as I had had begun to call it (‘“H11” lacks a certain something,’ I explained).

The cruise across the Atlantic was uneventful, the spring weather mainly calm. At my request the ship hovered for a while, letting down the passenger lift so that all five of us – the Convenor had also decided to join the trip – could dive in and experience the grandeur of the great ocean. For me, it felt like coming home, only to a nostalgic memory of home, remembering only the good things and none of the bad. The water was pure, with none of the chemical and little of the noise pollution which afflicted the seas of my Earth. There was no domestic detritus floating around these oceans before being cast up to litter the shoreline, no tankers pumping our their waste. The sea hummed with life.

We discussed until late into the evening what would happen tomorrow and the approach we would take with the General Assembly. Then we retired to bed – the saurians had converted a large cabin for my needs, with a picture window looking down over the dark sea.

The next morning the airship cruised over the saurian settlement at the southern end of Long Island, before positioning itself over the location of the UN building and lowering its cabin. Some fine-tuning using the slider viewer positioned the cabin in the same location as the floor at the front of the Assembly – dangling in mid-air above the saurian Earth. The members were taking their seats so we waited, the great ship’s sophisticated wind sensor and control system holding the cabin steady. After a while the President called the Assembly to order. The time had arrived.

The slider machine wound up with its teeth-aching hum and the scene on the viewer appeared full-size as the hole opened. I stepped through onto the floor, into the dead silence of complete shock. The machine wound down behind me. I nodded pleasantly at the President and General Secretary, then strode up to the podium. It wasn’t strictly necessary for me to speak out loud – all present could mind-link, and although they didn’t all understand English very well the corps of interpreters had rapidly transformed themselves into converting mental as well as audible speech. However, this session was being broadcast around the world, and few viewers yet enjoyed the remote mind-linking technology.

After the usual pleasantries I launched into my prepared speech, my voice rather hoarse with disuse.

‘The last time I addressed you, it was to send a mixed message, warning of impending disaster but raising the hope of avoiding the worst consequences, through the assistance of the saurians. This time, my message is equally important, but entirely positive. I have come to tell you of a new opportunity which has opened up for mankind – a whole new world which will enable you to resolve many of the major problems which you now face, provided it is handled carefully and constructively.’

I went on to tell them about the discovery of New Earth, and its history. Then I described to them the offer of the saurians to arrange for the transfer of large numbers of people to the empty world. The excitement in the great room built up steadily as I spoke, with some initial incomprehension as well; I realised that the news that physical transfer between parallel worlds was now possible had not yet been widely disseminated, and the ability to locate empty worlds – let alone the discovery of one – had been kept very quiet by the scientists involved. Then I turned to my conclusion.

‘Before this transfer can begin, you need to agree a number of issues. One which almost decides itself is who will have the rights to which areas of land; we can only transfer people to the same location as they are currently in, so New Yorkers will step through into the new New York – although in terms of its physical structure, it will seem very old, with not a single skyscraper! However, within that there is the potential to resolve a number of intractable problems. To give an obvious example, New Earth contains a Holy Land, with a Jerusalem, a Temple Mount, and the same religious tradition. And all empty of people. I do not need to spell out the possibilities. Another self-evident truth is that we cannot transport everyone at once; you will need to determine the priorities. Will it be refugees? Or those who are experiencing famine? Persecuted minorities? Or those who wish to set up different nations or kinds of culture? But you must also bear in mind other practical limitations. At the simplest level, we could transport people who are starving in Africa to a New Africa which is not suffering from over-grazing, over-use of water, or the negative effects of climate change. All they would need is temporary shelters, tools to help them clear the ground and enough basic supplies to keep them going until their first crops matured. However, anything more than a subsistence level existence would need much more elaborate preparation. The water supply and drainage systems in urban areas would need renovating, as would the buildings. There is no power supply. No functioning transport system. No vehicles. A major engineering effort would be required to make even the smallest city habitable in a way which most people would find acceptable. This may be a productive use of the manpower of the world’s armies, but only small equipment can be sent through the slider holes. The colonisation of New Earth will be a long, slow process. Before I finish, I would like to introduce someone to you – the Convenor of the Planetary Assembly of the saurian Earth.’

On cue, I became aware of the rising electrical tension, and as I walked down to the floor of the Assembly the slider hole popped into existence beside me. The Convenor was standing in front of the hole. I reached through and touched her head. She hopped through the hole and I shut down her conscious mind for the fraction of a second it took for her head to pass through; she scarcely stumbled as she walked with the usual saurian awkwardness into the Assembly and headed for the podium. I scanned the Assembly’s mood and ruefully reflected that they were getting so used to experiencing severe multiple shocks whenever I appeared in front of them that they were in danger of developing a Pavlovian response and keeling over whenever they saw me.

The Convenor spoke in good if strange-sounding English – she was much more used to reading than speaking it. Fortunately, she was thinking it as well, so the message came through loud and clear. After the diplomatic formalities, she elaborated on the saurian offer, detailing what they could do in building and operating more slider machines, and how many people per hour could be expected to pass through each of them. The human scientists who had helped develop the slider machine had tested it and discovered that, with their newly-acquired mind-linking ability, they experienced the same problems that saurians had in crossing through the slider hole, so would have to pass through unconscious. I wondered in passing why and how I seemed to be the only individual with mind-linking powers who was able to cope with the transfer.

She concluded with the following words: ‘Finally, in carrying this out we respectfully urge you to bear in mind the mistakes of the past, and to establish principles of sustainable development so that the New Earth can enjoy the prospect of a much happier history than this one, or indeed than the tragic fate which befell its original inhabitants. Now it is up to you.’

The applause started slowly then built to a storm of approval. The Convenor seemed rather taken aback – not the response she was used to from her own Assembly, I guessed. I sent her a private message: ‘This makes a nice change – let’s get out while we’re ahead.’

We solemnly processed to the reopened slider hole and passed through, the applause ringing in our ears.

Back on the ship, Richards sent his congratulations. Just before he signed off, he added a parting shot, tinged with wry amusement. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that you said “you” when talking about humanity and “we” when mentioning the saurians?’

I pondered that one for a while, my feeling of dislocation returning. Just where exactly did I belong?

Back at Laketown – the Assembly having decided to stay put for the duration of the current crises of the New Earth and the S2 exchange – we discovered that the S2 Representative had returned from his brief tour just a couple of hours before. A formal celebration of his visit and the discovery of New Earth had been arranged for that evening. His S1 “minders” had clearly been conditioning him, since at the sight of me he managed to control his obvious emotions, although I still picked up a vague sense of deep-rooted abhorrence.

After the Convenor made a little speech in honour of the Representative and gave her formal report on the visit to the UN (hardly necessary as those present all knew the details anyway, but even the S1 saurians were not averse to a little formality from time to time), the Representative responded vocally, his mind closed. This was mentally translated into S1 saurian (by one of their experts on S2) and subsequently into English (by Tertia, sitting next to me), so I followed what he was saying with only a slight delay. He thanked his hosts for their hospitality, complimented them on the beauty of their world – although he commented that it seemed remarkably empty – and then dropped his bombshell.

‘I have heard with interest about the plans to transfer humans to this newly-discovered world. May I ask what plans you have to provide my people with slider machines so that we can occupy this great new resource as well? I understand that, with such a low population here, you may not be interested in colonising the new world yourselves, but I can assure you that my people certainly are.’

A stunned silence followed for a few seconds, until the Convenor managed a reply. ‘But that is a human world. And their need for space and resources is far greater than that of your people.’

‘That was a human world, but they removed themselves from it. They have had their chance and wasted it. Judging by the mess they have made of all of their worlds, there is no likelihood that they will do any better this time. Why should they be given another chance when we have not yet had one?’

The Convenor managed to make some suitably diplomatic noises about considering the request, and the much subdued celebration ended early.

Back in my room, I pulled the heavy case from under my bed and opened it. Inside gleamed the ugly bulk of the Personal Assault Weapon. A product of the resourceful South African arms industry, the P.A.W. was a stubby, semi-automatic rifle firing 20 mm cannon shells. I pulled it out of the case and hefted it thoughtfully. It felt odd, with the pistol grip to one side of the gun rather than underneath, but Richards assured me that it worked in much the same way as other self-loading rifles I was used to – it just had a considerably more dramatic effect at the receiving end. It was designed for destroying vehicles, barriers and other such targets, which seemed about right when facing saurians. There were three seven-round magazines in the case, and a box full of ammunition. I opened it and the sleek weight of the cartridges slid out. The shells, coloured red and yellow to denote their high explosive/incendiary contents, were bigger than their 20 x 42 cartridge cases, which didn’t need to contain much propellant to deliver the subsonic muzzle velocity. Richards had told me that it was effective out to 1,000 metres, but the curved trajectory required a sophisticated rangefinding sight for any chance of scoring hits at that range. This gun was equipped with a simple optical sight good for perhaps 200 metres, but if I had to use it at all, I expected that the range would be short. I had an uneasy feeling that I would be finding out just how effective it was before long.

The next day we contacted the Secretary General for an update – it had been agreed that he would act as the liaison between the UN and the saurians. A high-level working group had been set up to consider the issues we had raised, and it had already decided that starving refugees had the highest priority, so the initial effort would be focused on the main trouble-spots in central Africa. We agreed that made sense, not only because of their urgent need but also because minimal preparation was required. Arrangements had been made to mass-produce the slider machines, and airships were already transporting the first ones to the appropriate locations, together with the large antenna arrays to receive beamed power until permanent geothermal power stations could be set up.

The S2 Representative announced that he would like to watch the process, so I decided to accompany him. The P.A.W. and I took up residence in our airship cabin for the two-day round trip, my friends fitting a genetic lock to the door at my request. I am sure that they thought I had succumbed to an advanced case of paranoia, but the last thing I wanted was the Representative getting his hands on the P.A.W..

We travelled south across Europe, a journey I had flown many times before. But never so low and so slowly, giving me every opportunity to observe how natural the countryside looked, with far more woodland and only scattered signs of settlement. Even their orchards were mixed and planted at random, giving a natural appearance; they did not use machinery to tend them. From this distance, it looked as if the saurians had only a primitive culture, their preferred way of interacting with nature concealing the advanced technology which underpinned their lives. I questioned Primo about this.

‘You must have some industry somewhere to develop and produce your high-tech equipment?’

‘Yes, of course. But over the millennia we have gradually refined it to minimise its impact. The processes are tightly controlled to avoid any kind of pollution, and the buildings themselves usually have green roofs, planted and sometimes grazed by animals. You might not even notice one as you flew overhead, except for the transport links to the ports and major urban areas. Most of the materials we use now are recycled, so we put the recycling plants next to the industry.’

The airship cruised over southern Italy, which looked remarkably green. I wondered about the extent of deforestation humanity had caused, then remembered a distant history lesson; it hadn’t been people directly, but their goats which had stripped the vegetation from the area.

Once across the Mediterranean, the Sahara was as dry and sandy as on the Earth I knew, but further south the land turned greener, a grassy savannah dotted with clumps of trees. I spent most of the journey on the observation deck, as did the Representative – but about as far away from me as he could get.

I left the gun in the cabin – it was rather hard to conceal – as we descended to the transfer site. The heat was intense even though summer had not yet arrived; walking into the sunshine felt like being hit with a huge, red-hot hammer. Our skins silvered over instantly, reflecting away as much of the sun’s radiation as possible.

Due to my prodding over security, the saurians had decided to keep all of the slider machines on S1, firmly under their control. That involved some complication in their design in that a double machine was required – which the saurians named a “transfer machine” – able to generate a hole at each end of a short tube; one connecting H17 (which I was coming to think of as “Old Earth”) with S1, the other connecting S1 with New Earth. The transfer was via a conveyor belt pushed through both holes. Where we were, none of the activity was visible, of course. The machine just sat there in the middle of an empty countryside, humming loudly. A small portable cabin nearby provided a base for the technician watching over it. Viewscreens near each end showed the activity on each world; on my Earth, there were piles of supplies to go through first; tents, tools, water purifiers and food. A large group of Africans sat watching patiently, awaiting their turn. Human volunteers manned each end, enthusiastically stacking and carrying. What was immediately obvious was how green the lands of H11 and S1 were compared with the dusty brown H17. A thought struck me.

‘How did they get to H11 without being knocked out by the transfer?’

Primo checked with one of the technicians, then explained that the human healers had devised a way of making people unconscious for a short period of time. The first one sent through was a healer, and after a pause while she recovered her senses, the process of sending through the other volunteers proceeded swiftly. It had been estimated that they could handle some two hundred people an hour, allowing for the fact that about a third of the volume would be supplies. I did some mental sums; working in shifts through the night, they could transfer more than 30,000 people a week. That was impressive, and would soon begin to make a dent in the refugee problem. Some of the volunteers on New Earth had already begun to organise land distribution and were using small portable drills to access the ground water. The Representative watched all of this without comment, but from time to time I felt his cold eyes on me.

I was about to turn away when I noticed something familiar about one of the volunteers on New Earth. I watched closely until he turned to face the viewer, then recognition hit me – it was Luke. Of course, I thought, my brother wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this. I noticed that he was wearing a headnet so I worked my way through the comms system and contacted him.

‘Hi Luke, I might have guessed that you’d be here.’

He looked around in surprise, expecting to see me.

‘I’m about ten metres and an entire dimension of existence away from you.’

He understood and nodded. ‘This is going really well. You know I had my doubts about what you were doing, but you have come up trumps this time. For the first time, I really feel that we are achieving something.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank the saurians. You don’t know what altruism is until you get to know these guys. They’re making a major – and I mean planet-wide – effort to make this work.’

He narrowed his eyes in concentration. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s wrong?’

‘No immediate problem, I’ll let you know if anything develops.’

He nodded doubtfully and turned back to his work. I tried to ignore the Representative’s glare. As we headed back to the airship, I privately contacted Primo. ‘Any word from the Convenor about what she’s doing with the Representative’s request?’

‘Not yet, she’s still stalling. The best argument we have so far is that we have only solved the technical issues with regard to the two-metre size of the hoop within which the slider hole is generated; the solution does not scale easily. And the manufacture of the hoop is absolutely critical, it has to be made in one piece and can’t be disassembled. So by definition we can’t sent one through another, as they’re all the same size; which means they all have to stay on our world, until we have the time to design one small enough to be pushed through. So the Representative has now asked for control of some of our machines, which would mean bringing his own men through to our world to guard and operate them. So far that has been blocked on the grounds that a transfer of populations between our worlds raises fundamental issues of principle which would need careful consideration and negotiation. He’s getting impatient, though.’

‘The best solution would be to find another empty world which they could have.’

‘Don’t we know it: the slider scientists are working flat out to try to locate one. So far they’ve rediscovered most of the lost human worlds, but they all still have significant human populations, albeit only a small fraction of what they used to be and living in rather primitive conditions. ‘

‘Sooner or later, we’re going to have to tell the UN about your warlike relatives and their ambitions. But better make it later, if you can keep stalling. If S2 manages to get access to New Earth, humanity will insist on sending weapons for self-defence and we’ll end up with a planet-wide war on our hands.’

‘Yes.’ Primo’s response was filled with misery. He was finding out the hard way that altruism isn’t necessarily painless.

That evening, as we cruised back over North Africa, I was contacted by the UN Secretary General, who was in a state of considerable agitation.

‘What is going on? This afternoon’s session of the General Assembly has just ended in chaos!’

‘Why?’

‘We were interrupted by a message from a saurian who called himself “the representative of another saurian world”. He warned us to restrict our colonisation of New Earth to central and southern Africa, because his people had laid claim to the rest of the land. He warned of dire consequences if we disobeyed. What is this, some kind of prank?’

‘No prank, sadly. Hang on, I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.’ I quickly contacted the Convenor and my friends and briefly explained what had happened. They were stunned and appalled.

‘The Representative had asked to be shown how to access our communications function to keep in contact with his own people. It was a reasonable request which we could not refuse. It never occurred to us that he would do anything like this.’ The Convenor’s mind showed her distress – and the beginnings of anger. Anger was good, I thought. I decided to emphasise the point.

‘You need to bear in mind that with the S2 Rulers, scheming and duplicity are their normal mode of operation. This will be part of a plan they have worked out to keep you on the defensive, forever reacting to events and giving ground at every stage until they’ve got what they want. New Earth would only be the start. I suspect that they see the existence of multiple worlds as a golden opportunity to extend the scope of their political and military games, using other planets as battlefields – including your own. I hate to disillusion you, but your invitation to S2 was like a flock of chickens inviting a fox into their hen coop.’ I had to send a mental image to illustrate that analogy, but they got the point. There was a long silence.

‘So what do we do?’ The Convenor radiated weariness.

‘What they’re trying to do in getting access to the slider machines is to get the keys, not just to your hen coop but to all of them. If they ever succeed in doing that, there’ll be no stopping them; you’ve lost, permanently. We all have. So the top priority is to prevent any such access, or the leaking of any information about the technology involved which might allow them to develop their own. My fear is that they will use violence or the threat of it to secure such access – it would be normal practice for them. You need to be braced to take tough decisions, to follow your head not your heart.’

‘That is not what we are like.’

‘I know that – and so do they.’

‘What should we do about this message they sent to the UN?’

‘To the Representative? Nothing – ignore it. He will already have some justification prepared, and it will probably throw him off balance a bit if you pretend nothing happened. It’s going to be important to seize the initiative in dealing with your aggressive cousins. But in the meantime I’d better give the Secretary General an edited version of events, stressing your control of the transfer machines. There will inevitably be demands to send troops through to defend the colonists, though. I will resist that; it is probably what the Representative wants, as it would allow him to put pressure on you to permit some of his troops through, in the interests of fair treatment and to establish and defend their claim. In any case, the history of groups of armed men wandering around Africa is not a happy one.’

Back at Laketown, the Representative kept up the pressure by requesting a meeting with the whole Assembly. As usual, a reasonable request which the Convenor felt she could not refuse – but at my urging she fully briefed all of the Assembly members on the situation as I saw it.

This time it was the Representative’s turn to occupy the floor of the Assembly; I stood at the back with my friends. He made a carefully crafted vocal speech – his mind as closed as usual – which I followed via the usual process. He started by drawing attention to the warlike nature of humanity, referring to the demands to send armed forces to New Earth which had been made that very day at the UN. He displayed dramatic images he had unearthed from the S1 archives to demonstrate the appalling irresponsibility of humanity in consistently messing up every planet they had occupied, destroying their own civilisations in the process. Needless to say, my own world’s record featured prominently, featuring views of the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He contrasted this with the stable, sustainable settlement of S2, glossing over their constant little wars. He spoke at length about the poor conditions and hard lives the manual workers of S2 suffered – conveniently ignoring the fact that this was a deliberate policy of the Rulers – and stressed their need for living space. He ended with an appeal to species solidarity: he had researched the genealogies of the two worlds carefully and had identified common ancestry between several members of their Council and the Assembly.

In its own way it was a little masterpiece and I had to suppress my urge to give ironic applause. A thought struck me and I asked the Convenor for the right of reply. She agreed with some relief, to the not-quite-concealed irritation of the Representative. I walked down to the floor of the Assembly, the Representative moving to one side with ill grace. I slowly turned round, letting the members all see my face, and opened my mind to them. Most of them would not understand my thoughts without translation, but they could assess my sincerity.

‘Much of what the honourable Representative has told you of humanity is true. You are already aware of that, from your own observations going back over centuries. But he has told only a part of our story. You also know of our art, our literature, our music, our philosophies. You know we have struggled against our failings throughout our history, have constantly sought to build a better world. We have shared your most noble aspirations, have fought to uphold the standard of civilisation. Yes, we have all too often failed. But for the first time, we have a chance, thanks entirely to you. Your generous decision to reveal your existence, to offer your aid, is the most important event in the history of mankind. With your help, we can overcome our failings and make a fresh start. The request for armed forces to New Earth was entirely prompted by the threats the Representative made to the General Assembly. If you agree to his request, if you allow any saurian settlement, you will ultimately be condemning New Earth to be a battleground for an interspecies war. I ask you, do not agree to the transfer of any armed forces or weapons to New Earth, either human or saurian. Humanity once destroyed itself on New Earth. Now, with your help, we have a chance to redeem ourselves and to reach our full potential. This is the greatest boon that one civilised species has ever had the chance to offer another. Please, do not turn your backs on us now.’

At the Convenor’s request, the Representative and I left the Assembly to deliberate the issue in private. As we left the building, he turned towards me with a wordless hiss. I saw the ferocity in his eyes as he dropped his mental barriers and his mind hammered his hatred against mine. It was like a physical blow and I staggered under the assault until I recovered and shored up my mental defences, blocking the worst of his attack. He glared at me furiously. ‘Human!’ he grated in vicious disgust, then turned and hopped away. I paused to recover for a minute before making my way rather shakily back to the dwelling; fortunately, in a different part of the town from the one occupied by the Representative. Once in my room – newly fitted with a lock – I pulled the case from under the bed and took out the P.A.W.. I tipped the magazines and the ammunition onto the bed, then slowly loaded the magazines to capacity, sliding in each heavy round in turn. I pushed one of the magazines into the gun until it clicked into place, then pulled back and released the cocking handle to chamber the first round. I put on the safety catch and returned the weapon to the case.

That evening, my three friends came back from the Assembly in a mood of quiet jubilation. ‘You won!’ They chorused. ‘The Assembly has agreed not only to ban all military transfers to New Earth, but also to reject the Representative’s request for access to a slider machine!’ We celebrated with an extravagant variety of fruit and nuts – I had a wistful memory of champagne – and I sent a reassuring message to the General Secretary. We were chatting and joking together when a chilling message came from the Convenor.

‘We have just heard from our Ambassador on S2. He is being restrained, and fears for his life. If we do not do what the Rulers of S2 want, he will be killed!’

Almost immediately, another message broke through, an agonised wail from the mother of the town’s child. ‘The Representative – he has taken my daughter – he is holding a knife to her throat!’

14

The Representative was standing by the slider machine in the centre of the arena. He held the child tucked under one arm, his other hand holding a curved blade pressed against her throat. The arena was ringed with saurians, the air roiling with powerful emotions, but they dared go no closer. It was growing dark, but a gibbous moon provided more than enough light for our night-adapted eyes. I linked with Tertia, desperate to understand what was going on. The Representative growled something full of menace and intention. A brief pause, and then I heard the translation in my mind.

‘Bring the parts you have removed from the machine and switch it on. I will then release the child and leave. Otherwise the child dies!’

A sigh passed like a wave around the arena. I stepped forward from the crowd and spoke with my voice as well as my mind. ‘He lies! He knows what will happen if he goes through the slider machine while conscious. As soon as the hole is opened, the arena will be filled with his soldiers and everyone here will become a hostage! His sole aim is to get control of the slider machine.’

As soon as the translation reached him, the Representative hissed and pressed the knife more firmly against the child’s throat. She was wide-eyed and frozen with terror. I swung the P.A.W. up to my shoulder, looked through the sights and steadied the gleaming red dot on his face.

‘If she dies, you die. Instantly.’

He bared his teeth and stood his ground. It was stalemate. I tried to maintain an aura of calm certainty, but my throat was dry and my pulse was hammering. I sent a private message to the Convenor.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘We must save the child!’

I thought for a moment then spoke to the Representative again. ‘You may leave. The machine will be started. You will then release the child unharmed and pass through the hole, which will instantly be closed. If you harm the child, you will die. If you attempt to take her through the hole, you will die. If anyone comes through the hole, you will die first – then they will. Is that understood?’

A long silence. Then a single, spat syllable. ‘Yes!’

Technicians carrying equipment hopped forwards and fiddled inside the machine. I hoped they would hurry up; my arms were beginning to ache from the weight of the heavy gun but I dared not move the aim from his face. The machine started its usual climb up through the frequencies as it warmed up. I felt myself tensing, and deliberately relaxed my trigger finger for a moment. The hole popped open. The Representative spat an untranslated word, hurled the child at the crowd and dived through the hole. A brief but satisfying flash of his agony swept across the arena before he disappeared. A technician threw a switch and the hole flicked out of existence. I released my breath in a long, shaky, sigh and lowered the P.A.W.. The parents were crouched over their daughter; a tense moment followed before their relief swept over the crowd, to be returned in great waves of emotion. The parents walked slowly away, both holding on to their child, pouring love and reassurance into her. Relief turned to joy in the arena as the realisation sank in that they had escaped two awful alternatives.

‘I hate to spoil the party,’ I sent, ‘But they are still holding the Ambassador.’

The Primary of the S2 Council was soon in contact with the Convenor to reinforce that point. She was linked with all of us throughout the conversation, so I understood the emotions involved as well as receiving a translation. For once, the Primary had to communicate mentally, although his control of his barriers was impressive; he gave little away.

‘My proposition to you is very simple. You will cease transporting humans to our new world. You will assign a number of your slider machines to us on various continents, in locations which we will specify. At each location, one machine will provide a direct link between our two worlds, while a transfer machine will link my world with the new one. You will provide geothermal power plants in each location, and housing for our technicians and soldiers. Once established, you will avoid approaching these locations within a radius of thirty kilometres. To ensure that you keep your side of the agreement, we will hold your ambassador until the arrangements are fully implemented. He will then be released unharmed and we will leave you alone. One other thing – we require an additional hostage; the creature you created, the mutant human. If you do not agree to these demands, I am sure that your ambassador will bear his protracted and painful death in a way which will bring credit to all of you.’

He abruptly cut the connection, leaving the Assembly mentally silent. I realised that they were in danger of going into collective shock; for all of their intelligence, wisdom and experience, they had never encountered a situation like this and they were sorely battered by recent events. This was no academic issue which they could debate dispassionately, the hard decisions were constantly jabbing their sharp edges into them.

The Convenor turned wearily to me. ‘You seem to have a better idea of what to do in these circumstances than we have. Do you have any suggestions?’

‘Yes. We need to get the Ambassador out of their hands. Can you locate him?’

‘Yes. They have left him in contact with us, to increase the pressure on us I suppose. As long as they leave him his headnet, we will know exactly where he is.’

‘Do they know that you have a slider machine aboard an airship?’

A pause for consideration. ‘No, I don’t think so. We didn’t try to keep it from them, we just didn’t think to mention it.’

‘Then we have a chance! The sooner we move, the better, before they start to consider what we might do.’

That evening the great tandem airship set off in a south-easterly direction, towards what was Germany on my world. The saurians had not taken the Ambassador far, presumably in case they needed to produce him in a hurry. The city was situated on both banks of the Rhine, the capital of one of the S2 states which divided up this part of Europe. The Ruler still lived in a sprawling castle, parts of which seemed to be of great age although it had clearly been extended and modernised many times. The Ambassador’s signal was coming from one of the older parts. The P.A.W. and I rode down together in the slider cabin while I kept my face glued to the viewscreen, which had a glowing green dot superimposed on it to mark the location of the Ambassador. He appeared to be asleep. It had been agreed that we would not try to contact him just in case his captors had a way of monitoring the communications, or detected a suspicious lightening in his mood. I stayed in close mental contact with the pilot and the winchman, guiding them with my mind as they made fine adjustments to the position of the ship and the height of the cabin. The green dot steadily brightened as the cabin plunged through the ghostly outlines of the castle. The signal was coming from a space deep within the basement area – nothing less than a traditional medieval dungeon, I realised, albeit the castle had wide, gently-sloping ramps rather than steep narrow stairs. Any frontal assault would have had great difficulty even in finding this place, assuming that the attackers had been able to fight their way through the soldiers who doubtless infested the upper levels. I reflected that it was as well that my scaly skin could not sweat, otherwise my grip on the P.A.W. would be becoming rather slippery at this point. Eventually, with painful slowness, we arrived. I looked through the viewer at the thermal image of the interior of the dark cell. The Ambassador was lying down on a mat, fast asleep. I gave the OK signal and the slider machine powered up. I felt my tension increasing; if they had any electromagnetic sensors in the vicinity, they would be beginning to pick this up. The hole popped into existence in front of me; there was not even enough light in the cell for my enhanced night vision to use, but I knew where he was. I walked through the hole, bent over his pad, and touched his head to deepen his slumbers. I picked him up, carried him back through the hole, and switched off the machine.

In the end, it had proved to be absurdly simple. I resisted the temptation to appear in the Ruler’s apartments and carry him back as a trophy – that could wait for another day. The mid-night celebrations back at the settlement were loud with singing and awash with joy.

No morning-after hangovers, I thought. Over-indulgence on water did have some compensations after all. Unfortunately, one downside was a too-sharp memory of the previous night. I had discovered that it was possible to become somewhat intoxicated by the joyous emotions of the party; at least, I couldn’t think of any other reason why I had allowed them to persuade me to sing. Unfortunately, my lack of vocal talent was only matched by the paucity of songs whose lyrics I knew – I had always preferred instrumental jazz. I had an awful memory of dredging up some old rugby songs from my youth. Fortunately, the general reaction had been one of bemusement rather than understanding; however, I thought I caught a flash of amused colour from Tertia.

A week passed with no contact from S2; the Rulers were no doubt plotting something, but it was hard to see what harm they could do with no access to a slider machine. The transfer of the starving human refugees proceeded apace, and was commencing in second-priority areas in order to spread the load and avoid concentrating too many people in one place; the organisers of the transfers were determined to tread lightly on the land. Israel and the Palestinians were locked in dispute, as usual; each thought it was a great idea for the other to move their entire population to New Earth, except of course for the usual zealots on both sides who wanted control of both Temple Mounts. But they were at least talking to each other about it, instead of killing each other. Mind-linking could force even the most intransigent to see their opponents’ point of view.

In that week some of the slider scientists came to see me – both saurian and human, to my surprise. They had used healers at both ends of their machine to transport the humans through, in order to improve still further their ability to co-operate. Apparently this had happened almost as soon as the transfer problem had been resolved but, being scientists, they hadn’t bothered to tell anyone. What they were determined to do now was to find out why I could pass through the slider hole without suffering the agonies and unconsciousness which afflicted other people with mind-linking abilities.

Their approach was straightforward. They fitted me with a more advanced type of headnet, able to map brain activity with great precision, then asked me to keep walking through the settlement’s slider machine (recalibrated to connect with New Earth) again and again, and to concentrate on what I experienced. I found that the more I did it, the more the nausea receded; I was evidently becoming accustomed to it. It seemed to be caused by a strange twisting sensation at the moment of transfer. The process became a little tedious as they consulted and mentally muttered over their instruments, so I focused as closely as I could on the blurred flash of light I saw each time, moving more and more slowly through the hole, then stopping afterwards to replay the memory step by step, trying to analyse what was happening. I suddenly realised that it consisted of hundreds, even thousands, of images, flickering through my mind almost too rapidly for me to comprehend. I slowed down my movement through the hole even more, concentrating on breaking down this vision into the smallest possible increments, until I could play the show through, one frame at a time. At first I was puzzled; some of the views seemed to be just variations on the one I could see in the arena, others were quite different. Some featured humans, some saurians, most neither. It took a few minutes before the reality sank in; it was the view of an abandoned saurian encampment, tents being removed, which finally made the penny drop – I was seeing the parallel worlds!

Scientists are normally a methodical and cautious lot, but there was no restraining their excitement at this news. The problem was that despite my science background I had great difficulty in understanding what they were saying, even though they were supposedly communicating in English; they seemed to have cobbled together their own hybrid vocabulary to describe slider theory and related brain activity. Evidently a particular area of my brain – or rather, a combination of areas – was activated when I went through the slider hole, but they were having problems in relating that to similar scans of human and saurian brains passing through the hole. Yes, I discovered, in the interests of research, volunteers from the scientists had indeed passed through the hole while conscious, despite the agony and unconsciousness which followed. I regarded them with a deeper respect.

My head had begun to ache so I left them to debate among themselves. I was beginning to feel restless and impatient, with no obvious role to play. The Assembly made the slider ship available to me so I visited Luke on New Earth; everything was going well, the area for dozens of kilometres around the transfer point had been divided up into farms and the transfer of population at this place was being wound down and switched to other areas. A start was being made on a permanent settlement to replace the tents, with a school being the first priority. The larger and more aggressive wild animals had begun to present problems and requests for hunting rifles had been made, but the saurians came up with something better; a device which projected an intense field which directly affected the nervous system, causing the animals to retreat in panic. The beauty was that this effect could easily be blocked by people with mind-linking powers, so the device could not be used for nefarious purposes.

A different group of scientists came to visit me (the others having determined what I could do, although they were no closer to finding a way to replicate it). The new group wanted to catalogue and describe every one of the parallel worlds I could see. Ultimately they hoped to draw up a kind of genealogical map of the worlds, showing their relationships and branching points, but I guessed that would be the work of a lifetime – even a saurian one. Still, I tried to help them to make a start. After much head-aching experimentation I discovered that the images did come in a logical relationship sequence. From a starting point in S1, the first few worlds I saw were all saurian ones; interestingly, there were many more than the S1 scientists were aware of, the additional ones not having developed means of propagating electro-magnetic signals. Some of the saurians were clearly of a different species to the ones I knew. Similarly, a long sequence of worlds came in which I spotted only humans. At one edge of this group, I caught a brief glimpse of what seemed to be Neanderthals. There were groups of worlds in which there was no obvious evidence of organised activity although, as the scientists pointed out, that did not necessarily mean that there was no intelligent life present. My view into each world was restricted to my normal field of vision at that one spot, which meant that I only caught occasional, random glimpses of life. Saurians had a different attitude to time; these scientists didn’t spend a few days on intensive research before rushing off to write their reports, they settled in indefinitely, so on most days I set aside some time to spend with them.

The members of the Planetary Assembly had returned to their homes at the end of the crisis but I stayed on at the settlement, as did my three saurian friends. For them, taking a few years out for some activity was as nothing, in a lifetime of centuries. Genetic tests had confirmed that I could expect to live for at least as long; their scientists couldn’t be totally sure, since they had no one else with my particular genetic heritage to compare me with. I mulled over what Richards had last said, and I had to admit that although I did not feel that I really belonged anywhere, I felt most comfortable with the saurians of S1. Their particular attitude to life meshed with my own, like a kind of ideal which humans could only aspire to. In part, I realised, this was due to the long perspective that their life expectancy gave them. At its simplest, it meant that if you were planning to live in a place for centuries, you didn’t mess it up.

I spent some time learning the S1 spoken and written languages, a process made much easier by my enhanced memory. Out of curiosity, I learned the S2 variation on this; over many millennia of civilisation they had evolved a common tongue (albeit with regional dialects), despite the lack of mind-linking among the general population. I had an uneasy feeling that we had not heard the last of them, although even in my most paranoid moments I couldn’t work out what kind of threat they could pose; the S1 scientists were certain that the scientific understanding and technological capabilities of their S2 opposite numbers lagged so far behind that there was no chance of them designing and constructing a slider machine for centuries, if ever. Their Rulers’ rejection of mind-linking for their scientists put severe limitations on their potential. Still, I knew that such problems wouldn’t stop human scientists from trying – once they knew that something could be done, they wouldn’t rest until they did it.

The saurians of S1 had commenced another project; to help those human worlds in which civilisation had collapsed. The first essential was to provide a power supply, to which they found an ingenious solution. Secundo explained that they had some space elevators – thick ribbons of immensely strong material which were stretched from the surface of the Earth to a massive space station in an orbit that would have flung it into space if not restrained by the ribbon. The theory of these was well understood on Old Earth, but sufficiently strong materials for the ribbon were not yet available. Elevator cars rode the ribbons up into space, and a slider machine had been transported to the orbital station. They were using this to transfer beam power stations into orbit above collapsed worlds. While the assembled power stations were huge, with solar panels stretching for kilometres, the individual elements were small enough to pass through the slider hole. The same applied to the beam collectors on the ground. It would take a very long time to restart the lost civilisations, but the saurians had that time.

I was interested to learn of scientific expeditions from Old to New Earth, mainly to search for any surviving humans on remote islands. So far they had found a few groups, in places such as Tristan da Cunha and Pitcairn Island. Some wildlife researchers had also visited, one group triumphantly returning to Old Earth with a breeding population of dodos to restock Mauritius, and other such recoveries from extinction were planned.

One unexpected development made me wonder even more who I was, and what I was becoming. At the end of one session with my genealogical scientists they were prodding me to focus as closely as possible on a particular memory, to try to describe more accurately something – person or animal – I had only caught a brief glimpse of. I riffled through the index of worlds in my mind, selected the right one and concentrated all of my attention on it. Oddly, as I focused more closely my viewpoint seemed to change and, as I watched, a couple of saurian-like animals wandered past, far closer than I had seen them before. I snapped back into the present, and caught the scientists staring at me, their colours and mental states indicating their shock.

‘What happened? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’ (A difficult concept, this, but my saurian was now good enough to find an equivalent.)

‘Your eyes, they just silvered over – there was no pupil visible at all!’

It was clear that they were not joking, and it dawned on me what I had done. I was no longer accessing my memory of the view, but the view itself – I could look directly into the parallel worlds without needing a slider machine.

This caused huge excitement once more and the original slider scientists ran or hopped into view as soon as they could. More tests with the headnets followed, but they only confirmed what they had already surmised – that my mental state when viewing the parallel worlds showed the same baffling pattern as when I went through the slider machine. Eventually they went away, theorising and debating. As far as I was concerned my new ability was an interesting party trick, but I didn’t initially see much practical use for it.

Spring had now turned into summer, and to get away from the persistent attentions of the world genealogists (who had come to regard me as an inexhaustible data source) I spent many long days exploring ever further from the settlement, sometimes disappearing by myself for several days at a time. I felt myself slowing, taking the saurian long view, my human impatience gradually dissipating. The interlinked network of marshes and lakes was ideal to lose myself in both physically and mentally, my focus on encompassing in my mind as much of the teeming life as I could. I was returning to the settlement from such a day out when:

‘Matt! Come quickly – the saurians are here on New Earth – they are killing the settlers!’

The message from Luke ran through me like an electric shock, shattering my mood.

‘How, Luke – what happened?’

There was only silence. I sent an urgent message to my friends and the Convenor, an equally urgent call to the slider ship – never far away – to rendezvous as quickly as possible, and ran to the settlement and into my room. The case of the P.A.W. was dusty with disuse. I pulled out the gun; one of the convenient saurian harnesses took the magazines and the spare ammunition. As I left the dwelling I saw Secundo and Tertia hopping rapidly towards me – Primo was off visiting relatives somewhere. All of the time I was trying to contact Luke, with no success. I turned to the saurians in exasperation. ‘How could they do this? It’s supposed to be impossible!’

‘I don’t know,’ Secundo responded, ‘but I can’t reach the technician responsible for the African transfer machine – she’s not responding.’

The flight to Africa dragged interminably, but at last we saw the network of beam power receiver aerials in the distance. They cast long shadows in the evening light. We flew past them to where the cabin stood by the transfer machine. In the cabin, we found the technician – she appeared to be in deep shock, almost catatonic. Tertia stayed with her, focusing her healing skills with urgent intensity, while Secundo examined the machine.

‘It’s been reset – I’ll get a tech from the ship.’

The ship’s slider technician confirmed that it had indeed been reset, and was now providing a direct link between New Earth and S2. No activity was visible on the screens at either end. I focused my mind to see New Earth directly, and turned to look around. An embryonic town centre had grown up around the slider hole, which now emerged in the middle of the main square. The buildings were intact, but there was no sign of life, except for a man sitting on the ground a short distance away, his head in his hands. There were what looked like some collections of rags dotted about, then my spine chilled as I realised that they were bodies.

The tech shut down the transfer machine and began to reset it. I called to the ship to lower its own slider machine; it was already powering up as it reached the ground. Secundo and I stepped in, waited for the hole to appear, then stepped forwards into the town square. The smell of death was ripe in the air; the bodies had been lying for over a day in the broiling sun. I scanned the area, senses at maximum alert, and detected a large mass of people some distance away, their minds radiating panic and despair. The characteristic mental signature of saurians was mixed in with them. Apart from that, there was no-one alive but the man in the square. I lowered the P.A.W. and ran over to him. In my agitation I shouted. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Luke?’

He looked up at me, his eyes red from many tears, his mind numbed by shock. I recognised one of the organisers of the transfer, an African who worked closely with Luke. ‘They came. The kangasaurs. Out of the hole. Dozens of them, hundreds of them. With weapons. They killed people here. They took Luke away, somewhere. Then they left the town, went out to the countryside. They left me here with a message for you. They said to tell you that Luke is with the Representative. That the Representative wants to talk with you.’ He put his head down again and I felt him withdraw into his own mind, a world of sorrow.

I stood up and began to scan more intensely than before, holding Luke’s mental pattern in my consciousness. A feeble response came, some distance away, off to one side of the main body of people I had detected before. I turned to Secundo and asked him to stay in the ship’s slider cabin, to shut down the hole to avoid any risk of the S2 soldiers gaining access and to monitor what was happening on the viewscreen, ready to open the hole to let me back in. I helped him through the hole again, watched as it flicked out of existence, then turned and began a steady jog towards my brother.

Part way there I received a message from Tertia. ‘I have managed to get through to the technician. The Representative used our mental comms system to target her. He started by insinuating nightmares of torture and death into the tech’s mind, for night after night. When the tech was awake one day he showed her saurians from S2, who the Representative said were related to her by common ancestry. They were then tortured to death – the nightmares came true. The Representative told her that if she told anyone of this, more of her relatives would die, and that the only way to stop this was to reprogramme the transfer machine. So she did it. She is in a very bad way, and will need lots of treatment and recovery time.’

The Representative. Again. I felt my pace increasing as anger started to replace my other emotions, a burning need to reach the vicious saurian. He was using Luke as bait, to get at me. He had always hated me, and I had provided plenty of reasons for that hatred to increase. Well, that could cut both ways. I raced through the newly tilled fields, drawn like a lodestone to Luke’s signal.

I soon realised that I was heading for an outcrop of rocks, a bare hillock of large, jumbled boulders, perhaps a hundred metres high. Luke was in there, near the base. I couldn’t detect anyone else but that meant nothing; I was aware that the Representative could cloak his presence almost perfectly. I masked my own presence, slowed and approached more cautiously, beginning to circle the hillock at a safe distance. I knew how fast the saurians were, needed to leave myself enough room to bring the P.A.W. into action if he attacked. A dark hole loomed between two giant boulders. Luke was in there. I sensed his pain and despair, and his fear for me. I recognised the trap but I had no choice; I had to go in. I refrained from linking with Luke, in case that alerted the Representative.

That side of the hillock was in shade, the cave even more so. I walked slowly in, and as my eyes adjusted I made out Luke, sitting on the floor, his head down on his chest. He was praying, I realised. I took a pace towards him and was hit violently, mentally and physically, from the side. I was thrown against the wall, my mind stunned, the P.A.W. sent clattering towards the back of the cave. The Representative loomed over me and lowered his mental shields, his mind pressing down on mine like one of the great boulders. Anger, hatred and triumph glowed from him.

He spoke out loud. ‘What a great pleasure to make your acquaintance again. When I discovered that this man was your brother I thought that you might pay us a visit. I am going to kill you now, and then him, but I first wanted to tell you to your face that you have lost. We killed a few settlers as a statement of intent; we are holding several thousand others as hostages. I know you will have switched off the transfer machine by now, but it doesn’t matter. Your weak saurian friends will not be able to stand by and see their beloved human pets killed slowly, one by one. Even with many men with guns, appearing out of slider holes, you could not save them – my soldiers are mixed in with them and will start killing the instant they detect a slider hole forming. The Convenor and her spineless Assembly will give us what we asked for; control of the slider machines. Except that this time, we want all of the machines, together with the scientists who understand them; we will tolerate no more interference.’ He paused, gloating, and I knew that he hadn’t finished. ‘The best bit is yet to come. We will colonise this world, then turn our attention to the other human worlds. You know, the previous inhabitants of this world had a good idea; we are developing a human-specific plague which will kill off all of you, on every world. Your pestilential species will die out within a few years. Now, I shall enjoy killing you.’

He was so focused on me that he had forgotten my brother. Luke flung himself desperately on the saurian, who turned with a growl and threw him off. Luke got up again and the saurian kicked viciously. I saw the flash of a blade and Luke gasped and fell to the floor, his mind going blank with shock. The Representative snarled in satisfaction and turned back to me. But the distraction had released his hold on my mind, which frantically seized on one of the serried ranks of parallel worlds in my memory and twisted.

I lay alone in the cave. I extended my mind and sensed some saurians not far away; Tertia among them. I was back on S1.

I lay in shock for a few moments, trying to comprehend what had just happened. I had crossed to a parallel world by myself, without any machine – just by a desperate effort of will. I ran through the memory of what I had just done. So – I just needed to focus on a world, look at it and then twist my mind somehow. I held the technique in my mind, then used my interworld vision to look back at New Earth. The Representative was peering around the cave, his bafflement evident. Luke lay still on the floor. I walked to the back of the cave, waited until the saurian had moved towards the front, then twisted back into the world. The saurian instantly sensed me and turned around, but the P.A.W. was in my hands and up to my eyes and as he lunged forwards the gun fired, the recoil kicking hard and the noise deafening in the confined space, and the shell punched through his chest, sending him staggering backwards. It did not explode. The Representative shook his head and started to advance again, but he was slowed by the hit so I centred the red dot on his head and fired once more. The heavy projectile smashed open his skull and he collapsed on the ground, limbs jerking, his mind and life extinguished like a doused blaze. I belatedly realised that the shells had a bore-safe nose fuze, which would not arm until a safe distance from the firer.

I walked over to Luke but I did not need to look at him to know that there was nothing any healer could do. The foot-blade of the saurian had ripped open his abdomen and his blood covered the floor. I crouched over him and held his hand. His glazing eyes tried to focus on me so I spoke in his mind. ‘It’s all right Luke. I will stop them. I guarantee it.’

I caught a faint, grateful response, then his mind slipped away from mine as he died. I sat for a while, my mind blank. Eventually, I got up and walked out of the cave. The hostages and their saurian captives were not far away, so I walked slowly towards them. I did not feel like running any more; I felt very tired. The soldiers saw me coming and three of them came hopping towards me, rifles at the ready. Their minds were bright with blood lust, the desire to kill again. Behind them, I located the distinctive mental signatures of the other saurians. I felt my numbness give way to a burning rage. They were not mind-linkers, had no barriers, no defences. I held their minds in mine, and wrenched violently. The first three spasmed and collapsed like marionettes whose strings had been hacked through. As did the other soldiers, my mind sweeping like a scythe through them. In a few seconds over two hundred saurians lay contorted in death.

I sat on the ground, suddenly exhausted and overcome by grief. For several minutes I could do nothing, think no coherent thoughts. Then I slowly roused myself. I contacted Secundo and asked him to open the slider hole and bring Luke’s assistant over to the hostages, now looking around them in bewilderment. They needed someone to organise them, and he needed something to do.

The next morning, back on the airship heading north, Tertia and Secundo were staring at me in amazement. We had just finished burying Luke and the settlers killed in the town (the Representative and the soldiers we piled together and burned), and I had finally been able to describe to my friends what had happened, what I had discovered I could do.

‘What are you going to do next?’

‘End this threat now.’

‘We have already cut off S2 from our comms system, they can’t do the same thing again.’

‘They’ll think of something else. They need a powerful disincentive. Where does the Primary of their Council live?’

They consulted their data and reported that his country was in northern Italy. I asked them to head for the location of his capital.

As we approached, I put a full clip of ammunition in the P.A.W.. My friends looked at me anxiously.

‘You do realise that they will have worked out how you rescued the Ambassador, and their castles and palaces will be ringed with detectors?’

I smiled a mirthless smile. ‘So who needs slider machines?’

The lift cabin slowly descended through the Primary’s palace. It was late evening, and he was hosting a function in a grand hall. The high-arched ceiling was decorated in gold and adorned with dynastic flags. The hall was filled with brightly dressed Rulers, smaller servitors hopping around them. Guards lined the walls, rifles at the ready. The Primary stood at the front of the hall, chatting with a respectful circle. I contacted the pilot, and the airship shifted slightly so that the cabin’s location coincided with that of a small balcony at the back of the hall. I twisted through into the hall, suddenly enveloped by the strange sound of saurian music, the low roar of conversation. I rested the P.A.W. on the balcony railing, and took careful aim.

I felt a sudden hesitation; I had never killed anyone in cold blood. I thought of Luke, of the Representative’s appalling threat to humanity. Suddenly the Primary became aware of me, looked up at the balcony, his mind forming a warning command to his men. I gritted my teeth and squeezed the trigger. This time, the distance was long enough for the fuze to arm, and the Primary’s chest burst open as the shell detonated. His defences dropped in shock and I wrenched the life out him as he collapsed to the floor. I twisted back into S1 a second before the balcony disappeared in a hail of high-explosive shellfire.

A couple of hours later I visited another capital. And then another. My mind was numb, I aimed and fired automatically, tried not to think about what I was doing. I held on to the feeling of grim determination, that this must be done, to end the threat now. Tertia was becoming nervous and concerned, looking at me as if she had never seen me before. ‘Are you going to kill all of them?’

‘No, that’s enough. The next one can live – after I’ve spoken to him.’

It was night by then and the Ruler was in his private apartment. He goggled at the muzzle of the P.A.W. centred on his forehead and paid due attention as I spoke slowly.

‘You will live. But only because I need you to give a message to your Council. You are to stop all research into slider technology immediately and forever. You are to make no attempt to develop the ability to communicate with parallel worlds. If any Ruler disobeys I will come visiting, and kill him and all of his family. His line will cease to exist. Know that I can always reach you, no matter what defences you try to use. I have killed some of you today, including your Primary, to demonstrate this. Is that clear?’

I took a gargling noise as assent, and left him staring at empty space.

We returned home early in the morning. The Convenor had arrived at Laketown before us and was waiting in the dwelling we shared. She was, of course, already fully aware of all that had happened, and looked at me with concern clear in her mind.

‘I’m not sure what to say to you Cade. You have averted a terrible danger, at great cost – most of all to yourself, I think. I understand why you took the actions you did, although none of us could have done it. We have been too comfortable, too civilised, for too long. But we would have lost all of that without you.’

‘Sometimes the beast has its uses, when faced with other beasts. It’s a question of balancing the scales.’

She sadly acknowledged that, then asked, ‘What will you do now?’

‘Oh, I have a lot to do. There are scores of human worlds, all blindly working their way towards the extinction of their civilisations. I have a mission now, to show them the error of their ways. When I turn up on their doorstep, they are going to pay attention.’

A flash of wry amusement. ‘Yes, I expect they will.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘you will need transport. We can make sure than an airship is always available to you, so you can travel safely in this world before entering the others at whatever location you want to.’

‘Thank you; that will be most helpful.’

I went for a walk alone, to clear my head and think through my plans. They involved an inherent paradox, of course; my visit to each world would form a point of divergence, causing it to split into “visited” and “not visited” worlds. But I felt that saving one version of each human world was better than losing all of them. And if I kept chasing down the “not visited” worlds to visit them in turn, perhaps the network of braided worlds I created would eventually come back together again, all ending up with the same basic history save for some historical confusion over a few dates.

Slowly, despite all that had happened, I began to feel the first stirrings of optimism. The next few centuries promised to be very interesting.

EPILOGUE

The airship travelled low over a flat, marshy landscape which was glowing in the last rays of a late summer sun. Rivers meandered through reed-beds and the air was alive with water-fowl, rising from the surface in alarm as the great ship cruised overhead.

The pilot warned that we were approaching the target, so I accessed my index of worlds, chose the right one, and looked. The view magically changed from a natural idyll into a great swathe of arable land, the rivers tamed into straight channels. A few narrow, ruler-straight roads paralleled the water-courses. Along one of them, just coming into view, was a straggle of buildings; a farm, some houses and a pub.

The lift cabin deposited me on the road at the edge of the village. In front of me was the ruin of a house – roofless, and with only part of the walls still standing. The interior had been cleared, and an information plaque set in the centre. A part of the grounds at the front had been paved to provide parking for visitors’ cars. No doubt the pub was seeing more passing trade than it used to.

I gazed at it for a long time, my mind full of memories. Luke; the childhood we had shared together, the long estrangement and the reconciliation before his death. I hoped that he had found what he believed in, there where my mind could not follow. Then I recalled Sophie’s saucy grin, the long walks along the shore, the welcoming warmth of her body. Freya, now living her own life. Zara – I must visit her sometime, to tell her all that had happened to me. And Richards, he deserved to hear the tale as well. But first, I had some tasks to begin.

I selected another world, and the scene shifted. The house sprang tall against the darkening sky, lights glowing in the windows. I saw a shadow moving inside, heard the faint strains of jazz music.

Well, I had to start somewhere, and this world was closer to disaster than any other.

I walked up to the house and knocked on the door.

Also by Anthony G Williams:

The Foresight War

A novel of an alternative World War 2

What if – you went to sleep as usual in 2004: and woke up in 1934?

What if – you had vital knowledge about the forthcoming Second World War, and could prove that you came from the future?

What could you do to affect British policy, strategy, tactics and equipment?

How might the course of the conflict be changed?

And what if there was another throwback from the future – and he was working for the enemy?

The novel follows the story of these two ‘throwbacks’ as they pit their wits against each other. A very different Second World War rages across Europe, the Mediterranean, Russia, the North Atlantic and the Pacific, until its shocking conclusion.

Readers’ reviews from amazon.co.uk :

“Literally could not put this book down… I know it’s a cliche, but it’s true. I have missed two deadlines for a work project because of this book!”

“Anthony Williams writes an excellent what-if. His book covers the many constraints which held back the real-life developments while covering the possibilities made possible by hindsight.”

“Picked it up once, put it down only once till I finished it. Lots of arguable plot twists (as in all books like this), but loved it.”

Published by Authors OnLine

About the Author and the Graphic Designer

Anthony G Williams is a military technology historian. He is the author of ‘Rapid Fire: The Development of Automatic Cannon, Heavy Machine Guns and their Ammunition for Armies, Navies and Air Forces’, and the co-author of ‘Assault Rifle: the Development of the Modern Military Rifle and its Ammunition’ (with Maxim Popenker) and the three-volume series ‘Flying Guns: Development of Aircraft Guns, Ammunition and Installations’ (with Emmanuel Gustin).

‘Scales’ is his second novel. His first was ‘The Foresight War’, set in an alternative Second World War, which is also published by Authors OnLine. He maintains a website at:

http://www.quarry.nildram.co.uk

Oleg Volk, who produced the cover design, is a photographer and graphic designer. His website is at:

http://www.olegvolk.net/

Copyright

On Line

An Authors OnLine Book

Copyright © Anthony G Williams 2007

Cover design by Oleg Volk ©

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright holder. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

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This book is also available in e-book format ISBN 0 7552 0266 X

details of which are available at www.authorsonline.co.uk

Content

Anthony G. Williams
SCALES

PROLOGUE

BOOK 1: THE SCALED MAN

1

2

3

4

BOOK 2: SAURIANA

5

6

7

8

9

BOOK 3: TRANSFORMATION

10

11

12

13

14

EPILOGUE

Also by Anthony G Williams:

About the Author and the Graphic Designer

Copyright