Lying low,' Ben replied. He introduced Gumshoe to the young men and women working at the tables, some black, some white, some Hispanic, then said, 'Did you find a photo for us?'

  No,' Gumshoe said, 'that's my problem. I've got no up-to-date shots of myself. Only photos taken when I first got plastic cards and that was nearly ten years ago. They'd never pass muster, Ben.'

  A.n-7

  'Don't worry about it,' Ben said. 'Look over there.' He pointed to something that Gumshoe hadn't seen for years: an old coin-slot photo-booth of the kind once found in supermarkets and used by people needing small identification photos. The cyborgs had had them all removed when they took over the country to prevent any illegal documentation from being made.

  Some fucking joke, Gumshoe thought.

  'That thing's still working?' he asked.

  'Yeah,' Ben said. 'They're a pretty popular item on the black market and that's where we purchased that one. We always ask deep-sea divers—'

  'What?'

  'People about to go underground. People like you.'

  'Oh, yeah, right.'

  'We ask them to bring their own photos if possible 'cause our major problem's getting hold of the special film used in the booth. But if they really haven't got a photo we use the machine. You got any quarters on you?'

  'You're fucking kidding!' Gumshoe exclaimed.

  Ben chuckled. 'Shit, man, you got nothing! It still operates by the old coins, but we keep a collection.

  Come on, pal, let's do it.'

  Amused, Gumshoe sat in the photo booth, waited until Ben had handed him a few coins, then adjusted the seat, slipped the coins into the slot and had his photo taken four times. When the camera hidden behind the mirror had stopped flashing, he stepped out of the booth and then, just like in the good old days, had to wait for about five minutes for the photos to slide out of the delivery slot. He and Ben lit up joints and had a talk while they patiently waited.

  'You found me accommodation yet?' Gumshoe asked.

  'Yep. Nice little cold-water pad just one block away from this place, at the other side of Snake Eyes's building, nice and close to your beloved sports stadium.'

  'That dumb fucking Snake Eyes,' Gumshoe said. 'He refuses to move.'

  'He may be lucky,' Ben said, inhaling on his joint, which had already brightened his green gaze above his drooping moustache. 'Things are changing around the White House and the Pentagon and the most important change, as far as we're concerned, is that the cyborg ground patrols have been stopped.'

  'Stopped?'

  'So it seems. We don't know how long it'll last, but for the past three days no Prowler or SARGE has made a move. Also, most of the cyborgs outside the White House and the Pentagon are disappearing inside. I mean, there's still a few around, but not many.'

  'You think it's permanent?'

  Ben shrugged. 'We don't know. We only know that it's pretty damned unusual and that means something's up.'

  'Well, if the cyborgs have stopped patrolling and are disappearing indoors, I should be able to go back to my old place.'

  'No,' Ben said sternly. 'I wouldn't recommend that. I still think that Snake Eyes is being a jackass in staying on in his place.'

  'But if the cyborgs—'

  You and Snake Eyes are special cases. As far as I know, you're the only guys who ever escaped from the cyborgs and I don't think they're gonna forget it. So Snake Eyes really is being pretty dumb. For a start, the cyborg patrols might start up again. If so, they'll certainly come looking for the two that got away, namely you and Snake Eyes. However, even if the cyborg patrols don't start up again — and no matter what's happening inside the White House and Pentagon — my belief is that the cyborgs will still want to find you and Snake Eyes — to take you back for good, this time to mutate you — and that possibility's enough to make me say you should move.'

  I m on my way,' Gumshoe joked, staring at the photo booth as his strip of developed film slid down at last. 'Here's my passport, he added, removing the strip of photos from the slot and handing it to Ben.

  'My new identification?' he asked.

  'All fixed,' Ben said, taking the photos and then leading Gumshoe to one of the many tables at which the young people were still intently working. Ben handed the developed photos to a girl of about eighteen. She had short-cropped black hair and big brown eyes and was wearing an open-necked blue shirt and denim trousers that fitted tighdy and nicely.

  'Here, Madeleine,' Ben said. 'The photos for Dan Marvin. Use them on his new documents and cards, then pass them to me.'

  'Right,' the girl said, glancing at Gumshoe and giving him a quick smile. 'The stuffs finished except for the photos, so you'll have it in no time.'

  'Great.' Ben grinned at Gumshoe. 'That's your new name. The guy died years ago, so we hacked into his computerized records, changed the details, including the date and place of birth, then opened new accounts under his name, but with the new details. Madeleine has the machinery to electronically transfer your likeness from those photos onto the plastic cards bearing the same details. Then she'll affix the remaining photos to the documentation that requires them and make them official with the relevant government stamp — which is, of course, a forgery as well. When you get 'em, the documentation and cards will be legit and you can transfer cash into "Marvin's" accounts and start your new life underground. We also rented the room we found you under his name and paid the first month's rent in advance, for which you will owe us. You can pay us back, can't you?'

  'I can hack into my old accounts and change my own name and details to those of Dan Marvin. Since that happens to be one of my lines of business, I can certainly do it for Dan.'

  Ben chuckled again. 'What a bright boy you are. The cyborgs aren't interested in bank and charge accounts — they never cared about money — so you should be okay.'

  'This change in their activities,' Gumshoe said. 'What do you think it means?'

  Ben shook his head from side to side, then stubbed out the remains of his joint. Gumshoe had already stubbed his out: he felt pretty high.

  'Dunno,' Ben said. 'Obviously something dramatic is in the offing, but we haven't a clue what it is. So far it seems that they're moving off the streets and going indoors; more specifically, moving down into the basements of both the White House and the Pentagon. Whether it's permanent or not we can't say, but it's a key question.'

  Recalling what he had seen in the immense basement area of the Pentagon, particularly what he had seen of his parents, Gumshoe suffered another spasm of grief, horror and rage that was only softened by the effects of the Mary Jane.

  'If they're clearing out of the streets for good,' Gumshoe said, 'it could be good news for us.'

  'Or bad news,' Ben said. 'Those bastards are so unpredictable, we don't know what they intend.'

  'They could be planning to leave for ever,' Gumshoe said.

  'They could be planning anything.'

  'Are you planning to do anything about what's happening?'

  'Like what?' Ben responded.

  'Like taking advantage of their absence from the streets to . . . Christ, I don't know.'

  Exacdy. You don't know and we don't know. Nobody knows. So all we're doing for now is keeping a watch on those two buildings to see what transpires. The fact that they're off the streets and not patrolling the skies only means that we can observe them with less danger to ourselves. That's the only gain so far from all of this.'

  At that moment Madeleine approached their table and handed Ben the documentation and cards she had been working on. Here,' she said. 'Dan Marvin lives.' She threw Gumshoe another quick smile, then turned away and returned to her work table.

  Nice lady,' Gumshoe said.

  'Nice enough to have a boyfriend who's twice your size, has the muscles of a gorilla, and works right there beside her.' Ben was checking the documentation. When he had finished, he passed it over to Gumshoe, who carefully flipped through it: birth certificate, school records, medical records, driver's licence, and plastic cards for cash withdrawls and every other kind of financial transaction. His photo had been reproduced as a tiny holograph on Dan Marvin's plastic cards.

  'Beautiful,' Gumshoe said, distributing the documentation and cards between the two inside pockets of his corduroy jacket. 'I already feel like a new man.'

  'Move into your new room immediately,' Ben told him. 'Here.' He handed Gumshoe a set of car keys.

  'You'll find a bright red transit van parked by the sidewalk just outside. Use it to move your stuff out of Bonnie Packard's room and into your own. Not forgetting your beloved Yamaha 400. Now that should make you feel like a new man.'

  'It sure will,' Gumshoe said. 'Is that it for now?'

  'That's it. We'll call you if we need you.'

  'I'm your man,' Gumshoe said. Then he pushed his chair back, stood up and left the basement. Outside, almost directly facing him on the sidewalk, was the red transit van mentioned by Ben. As there was

  nothing left in his old apartment worth taking, Gumshoe slipped into the driver's seat of the van and drove the few blocks to Bonnie's place, located just off 7th Street. Parking the van as close to the building as possible, which wasn't as close as he would have liked in this area notorious for its crime rate, he walked back along the sidewalk, passing a boarded-up Chinese restaurant, then entered the crumbling building by its front door. Checking the nameplates on the mailboxes in the unlit, stale-smelling hallway, he was relieved to note that Bonnie's room was on the ground floor, at the very far end of the corridor. Not too far, then, to hump his Tower of Babble when he moved it out bit by bit, not to mention his beloved motorcycle.

  He walked along to the end of the hallway and rang Bonnie's

  bell. He had to ring a couple more times before she opened the door, sleepy-eyed and wearing only a dressing gown. When she saw him, her sleepy eyes grew as big as spoons.

  'Gumshoe!'

  'Surprise, surprise. I've come to collect all my stuff'

  'What? Now?'

  'Sure. Now.' Gumshoe histrionically checked his wristwatch. 'It's not near your bedtime,' he said, looking up again, 'and I've really gotta make the move tonight. So can I come in, please?'

  Before she could protest, he pushed his way inside and instantly saw his beloved Tower of Babble and, propped up against the wall to his right, his silver-tanked Yamaha 400. He heaved a sigh of relief. . .

  then saw the new kid in town, Mike Johnson, sitting on the edge of Bonnie's bed, fully dressed but lacing up his brown leather boots.

  When Michael saw Gumshoe, he looked up, not showing surprise, then said quietly, 'Hi, Gumshoe.

  Come for your things?'

  'Yeah, right,' Gumshoe replied.

  Suddenly he felt embarrassed and also confused, aware that he liked this Mike Johnson and wished him no harm, but at the same time feeling deeply hurt to find him sitting so casually on Bonnie's bed. As Bonnie came up beside him, as Mike Johnson finished tying his boot laces, Gumshoe realized that he felt more deeply for Bonnie Packard than he had admitted to himself and that he had lost her to a rival who had more class than he could ever hope to possess. He could have had that class — if his parents had not been abducted — and this awareness, in its turn, brought back with startling clarity the horrific image of the severed heads of his parents, face to face and surgically stitched together on the thick neck of a pig. That image scorched Gumshoe yet again, shaking him through and through, then became confused with the pain he was feeling over Bonnie and this new kid in town. He realized then, on the instant, that every loss in his life, in Bonnie Packard's life, in the lives of all his friends, had been caused, either directly or indirectly, by the intervention of the cyborgs and would never be remedied unless the cyborgs were brought down. He also sensed then, though he did not quite rationalize it, that the epochal moments in human history, whether glorious or disastrous, noble or obscene, were affected by the minutiae of everyday lives — lives such as his own — and that history could obliterate those lives but never deny them. Almost dizzied by such thoughts, by his conflicting emotions, he had to fight to keep control of himself and hide his true feelings. Though feeling unreal, he managed it.

  'That's a lot of stuff there,' Michael said. 'Let me help you take it down.'

  Gumshoe glanced sideways and caught Bonnie's wide-eyed, soulful glance. For once in her life, she actually looked embarrassed and Gumshoe was touched by that. He grinned at her, trying to be casual,

  then turned back to Michael. 'Yeah, right,' he said. 'Why not?'

  'I didn't touch nothin',' Bonnie said, now sounding as soulful as she looked. 'I just kept it here. Except for the motorcycle, of course. I looked after it, Gumshoe.'

  'Yeah, I know you did. Thanks.'

  'Let's get going,' Michael said.

  They did it between them, each selecting separate parts, and managed to complete the job in four runs, with Michael handing the stuff up to Gumshoe and letting him stack it carefully in the back of the transit van before locking the door with equal care and going in for some more. Finally, when they were back in Bonnie's room and Gumshoe was about to wheel out the motorcycle, Bonnie, still looking soulful, said, 'Why not stop for a drink? We got some beer in the cooler.'

  Gumshoe glanced at Michael, saw his quiet smile and nod of approval and respected him all the more for it. But he said, 'Thanks, but I think I'd better get this stuff into my new place before the midnight curfew falls.'

  'No problem with that right now,' Michael said. 'The cyborgs have stopped their patrols, so you're perfectly safe.'

  Yeah, I heard that,' Gumshoe said, 'but if the muggers and druggies have also heard it, they'll have doubled in number, taking advantage of their freedom - so I still think I should move in as soon as possible.'

  'In that case,' Michael said, 'let me come with you and help you carry your stuff into your new place.

  Two are safer than one.'

  Gumshoe glanced at Bonnie. Receiving her tentative smile and nod of approval, he turned back to Michael. 'I don't think I can say no to that. I'd sure feel a lot easier.'

  You lead the way,' Michael said.

  Bonnie held the door open for them as Gumshoe wheeled out the motorcycle, followed by Michael.

  She kissed Gumshoe on the cheek as he left, but then she also kissed Michael. Trying to ignore this, Gumshoe pushed the motorcycle along the hallway, then out of the house and along the sidewalk to the rear of the van. When between them they had managed to hump the motorcycle up into the van, they both climbed into the front and Gumshoe started the short journey to his new room.

  Chinatown was busy at this late hour, with the bars and dance clubs doing good business, the hookers and druggies and winos out in force on the sidewalks, all rendered surreal in the neon lights flashing relentlessly, invitingly, on and off. Nothing classy out there, for sure.

  Thanks for the help,' Gumshoe said as he drove. 'I really appreciate it. I'm not frightened of these streets, but being seen loading a van on your own at this hour is a temptation a lot of muggers can't ignore.'

  Michael chuckled. Yeah, right.' Turning serious, he glanced sideways at Gumshoe. 'Listen, about Bonnie—'

  Its okay,' Gumshoe interjected, embarrassed to even talk about it. 'I don't hold nothin' against you. Like Bonnie said, nothin' happened between us and she has her own life to lead. She likes you, I think she's entitled and I don't hold no grudges. Besides, I think she coulda done a lot worse, so in that sense I'm pleased for her.'

  As soon as he finished speaking, he realized that he had automatically altered his speech, making himself sound more common than he was. He wondered why he had done that.

  'Thanks for the compliment,' Michael said. Tm not sure I deserve it.'

  'You deserve it, believe me.'

  Michael glanced at him again, his gaze steady, then nodded thoughtfully. 'Well, thanks anyway, Gumshoe.'

  'My pleasure,' Gumshoe said.

  They drove in silence for a moment, then Michael said, 'She says we won't last. She says we're too different. Do you think that as well?'

  Gumshoe gave it some thought before replying. 'I don't know,' he said eventually. 'It's hard to say, really. I mean, Bonnie's kind of a lost soul, a child of the streets, and you're the kind she's never known in her life, so she's bound to find that appealing. On the other hand, she might feel that you're above her and that would make her uneasy. She might be right. I don't know.'

  'You don't know or you don't want to say?'

  'Both,' Gumshoe said emphatically. 'I don't know and I don't want to venture an opinion 'cause I have my own interests in the matter and they conflict with your interests. In other words, I don't think I can be objective and I won't be dishonest. How's that grab you, pal?'

  'It feels good,' Michael said. 'I couldn't ask for much more.

  'Then let's call it a day.'

  Gumshoe pulled up at the sidewalk near his new rooming house, another formerly grand, now converted and dilapidated Federal-style building, also located within view of the old sports stadium, standing between similar buildings deprived of their former grandeur. A couple of lights in the street were still working, casting their baleful glow on the shadowy forms lurking in doorways. When Gumshoe saw them, he realized how grateful he was that Michael had volunteered to come along and assist him.

  'Home sweet home,' he said.

  Simultaneously, they slipped out of their respective sides of the van and went around to the rear to unlock the doors. After some discussion between them, it was decided that Gumshoe would take the motorcycle up, bouncing it up the damned stairs, with Michael coming up behind him to give protection in the event of attack by a mugger. With the motorcycle safe in the locked room, they would then unload as much of the rest as they could carry in one run, then lock the van and go together up the stairs to Gumshoe's new room, each prepared to give protection to the other — again, in the event of any attempted mugging. Gumshoe's room was on the second floor and, though the stairs and landings were dilapidated, the room itself was in good condition, with an en suite bathroom, clean carpets on the floor, curtains over the single window, and a narrow view of the seats in the old MCI Arena. They managed to unload and move everything in four runs, thankfully without encountering any trouble.