Contest

MATTHEW REILLY

CONTEST

Copyright (c) Matthew Reilly 2000

For Mum and Dad

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to Stephen Reilly, my brother -- marketing genius, tortured writer (aren't we all?) and loyal friend. To Natalie Freer -- the first person to read my work, and the most patient and giving person on this earth. To my parents for letting me watch too much television as a kid and for their unwavering support. And to Peter Kozlina for his monumental show of faith in this book before he had even read a word. And of course, thanks once again to everyone at Pan Macmillan -- Cate Paterson, for being a brilliant publisher; Jane Novak, for being a fantastic publicist (and for being the only person I know who could read Voss and then pick up Ice Station and enjoy them both!); Julie Nekich, for being an understanding editor (you have to be to work with me); and lastly, once again, all the sales reps at Pan for the countless hours they spend on the road between bookshops. Thank you.

To anyone out there who knows a writer, never underestimate the power of your encouragement.

A note from the author about Contest

Hello there. Matthew Reilly here.

Now before we get on with the show, I'd like, if I may, to share with you a few secrets about Contest.

First of all, as some of you may already know, Contest was my first novel. The story of how I self-published it after every major publisher in Sydney rejected it has been pretty well documented elsewhere, so I won't go into that here. Suffice it to say that only 1000 copies of Contest were ever released, all paid for by yours truly.

And then came Ice Station.

Now, many people have taken the time to tell me what a ride they found Ice Station to be. Such comments please me immensely because that is what it was supposed to be -- a non-stop rollercoaster ride on paper.

What few people know, however, is that when I wrote Ice Station, I had one all-consuming goal: to top Contest.

Contest is the book that made Ice Station (and later Temple) what it was. If it doesn't seem as large in scale as its two successors, it is because it was the first. It was the prototype upon which they were built; a prototype for a different style of book -- a superfast-paced, absolutely non-stop thriller. Everybody has to start somewhere. I started with Contest.

That said, I think the story in Contest is easily the fastest of all my books. It is like a sports car stripped down to its raw components -- wheels, frame, engine. No fancy paintwork. No fancy upholstery. Just raw nonstop energy.

As any author will tell you, you only get one first book. And that first one always occupies a special place in your heart. Contest is like that for me. It was the first one, and now as I look back on it, I can see without a doubt that it set the tone for everything to come.

I truly hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

Matthew Reilly November 2000

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

- T. S. Eliot

INTRODUCTION

From: Hoare, Shane

Suetonius: The Picture of Rome (New York, Advantage Press, 1979)

'CHAPTER VII: THE FIRST CENTURY A.D.

... ultimately, however, it is Suetonius' classic work, Lives of the Emperors, that provides us with the best picture of court life in Imperial Rome. Here Suetonius might well be writing a modern day soap opera, as he outlines the lust, the cruelty, the intrigues and the numerous insidiae -- or plots -- that dominated life in the Emperor's presence...' [p. 98]

'... not least of whom was Domitian, who, although well-known for his ex-tempore executions of scheming courtesans, provides perhaps the most brutal of all examples of Roman intrigue -- that of Quintus Aurelius.

A distinguished former captain in the Roman army who rose to prominence in the Senate under Domitian, Aurelius apparently fell out of favour with the Emperor in 87 A.D. Initially recruited by Domitian to aid him in military matters, Aurelius was also a prolific writer, who not only instructed Domitian on military strategy, but who also committed those instructions to his own personal record. Much of this writing has survived to the present day, dated and intact.

However, Quintus Aurelius' writing ceased abruptly in the year 87 A.D.

All correspondence between senator and Emperor was severed. Aurelius' personal record cited no further entries. There was no mention of Aurelius in Senate documents from that year onward.

Quintus Aurelius had disappeared.

Some historians have speculated that Aurelius -- who, it was said, would appear in the Senate in fall military attire -- simply fell out of favour with Domitian, while others have proposed that Aurelius was discovered plotting...' [p. 103]

From: Freer, Donald

From Medieval to Modern: Europe 1010-1810 (London, W. M. Lawry & Co., 1963)

'... by comparison, the wheat riots in Cornwall were but a trifle when compared with the confusion that overwhelmed a small farming community in West Hampshire in the spring of 1092.

Historians have long pondered over the fate of Sir Alfred Hayes, the Lord of Palmerston Estate, whose disappearance in 1092 upset the entire feudal balance of his small agrarian community in West Hampshire...' [p. 45]

'... However, the most startling aspect of the whole affair is that if Hayes did, in fact, die suddenly (of cholera or anything else for that matter), why was his death not listed in the local church register as had always been the custom? A man so renowned for his past glory on the battlefield, and of such stature in the community, would not be overlooked by the death registrar. The sad fact is that since no body was ever found, no death was ever recorded.

Writing after his lord's disappearance, the local abbot of West Hampshire observed that, apart from necessary military excursions, Sir Alfred had never left West Hampshire before, and that during the days immediately prior to his disappearance, he had been seen about the village carrying out his business as usual. It was odd, the abbot wrote, that here was a man who could be 'certified as born', but who had, officially, never died.

Putting aside all medieval myths of witchery and demonic intervention, the facts are quite straightforward: in the spring of 1092, Sir Alfred Hayes, Lord of Palmerston Estate, West Hampshire, simply vanished from the face of the earth.' [p. 46]

CONTEST

PROLOGUE

New York City

30 November, 2:01 a.m.

Mike Fraser pressed himself flat against the black wall of the tunnel. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to block out the roar of the subway train flashing by in front of him. The dirt and dust kicked up by the speeding train hit his face like a thousand pin-pricks. It hurt, but he didn't care. He was almost there.

And then, just as soon as it had come, the train was gone, its thunderous rumble slowly fading into the blackness of the tunnel. Fraser opened his eyes. Against the black backdrop of the wall, the whites of his eyes were all that could be seen. He peeled himself away from the wall and brushed off the dirt that had clung to his clothes. Black clothes.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and while the rest of New York slept, Mike Fraser was going about his work. Silently and swiftly, he made his way up the subway tunnel until he found what he was looking for.

An old wooden door, set into the tunnel wall, held shut by a solitary padlock. Pasted across the door was a sign.

NO ENTRY -- BOOSTER VALVE

HIGH VOLTAGE AREA

CONSOLIDATED EDISON PERSONNEL ONLY

Fraser examined the padlock. Stainless steel, combination lock, pretty new. He checked the hinges of the old wooden door. Yes, much easier.

His crowbar fitted snugly behind the hinges.

Crack!

Status Check: Initialise program systems.

Officials in charge of third element

please confirm delivery.

The door fell from its frame, and dangling from the padlock, swung silently into Fraser's waiting hand.

He peered inside the doorway, slipped the crowbar back into his belt and stepped inside.

Large box-shaped electricity meters lined the walls of the booster valve room. Thick black cables snaked their way across the ceiling. There was a door on the far side. Fraser headed straight for it.

Once through the booster valve room, he made his way down a narrow, dimly lit passageway until he came to a small red door. It opened easily and as Fraser looked out from the doorway, he smiled at the view.

Endless rows of bookshelves -- each one rising from floor to ceiling -- stretched away from him as far as the eye could see. Old and faded fluorescent lights lined each aisle, but at night only every third one was on. The lights themselves were so old that the whiteness of their fluorescent tubes had gone a mouldy ivory colour and a powder of oxidised fluorine had settled inside them. Their sickly state gave the lowest floor of the New York State Library a haunting yellowish glow.

The New York State Library. One hundred years old, a silent sanctuary of history and knowledge -- and also the owner of twelve brand-new Pentium III computers whose hard drives would soon be in the back room of Mike Fraser's apartment.

Fraser checked the lock on the door.

Safety lock.

From the booster room you didn't need a key, but from the library side you did. One of those automatically closing doors designed to keep the curious out, but not to accidentally lock the electricity workers in.

Fraser thought for a moment. If he had to make a hasty escape, he wouldn't have time to pick the lock. He searched around for an answer.

That'll work, he thought, spying the nearest bookshelf. He grabbed the first book he could reach and wedged it on the floor between the red door and its frame.

The door now safely ajar, Fraser hustled down the nearest aisle. Soon the small red door marked BOOSTER VALVE -- NO STAFF ACCESS PERMITTED was but a tiny square in the distance behind him. Mike Fraser didn't even notice, he knew exactly where he was going now.

Terry Ryan looked at his watch -- again.

It was 2:15 a.m. Four minutes after he'd last looked. Ryan sighed. Jesus, the time crawled on this job.

Status Check: Officials in charge of third element

confirm delivery complete.

Idly, Ryan peered out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the atrium of the New York State Library. Nothing stirred on the streets outside.

He touched the gun by his side and grunted a laugh. Security guards in a library -- a library, for God's sake. The pay was the same, he guessed, and so long as that kept coming, Terry Ryan didn't care what they asked him to guard.

He continued to stroll around the atrium, whistling quietly to himself--

Clink-clink.

He froze.

A noise.

There it was again: clink-clink.

Ryan held his breath. It had come from the left. He drew his gun.

Behind the Information Desk, Mike Fraser swore as he picked his screwdriver up from the floor. He peered out over the counter.

No one to the left. Nor to the right. He let out a deep breath. No one had--

'Freeze!'

Fraser snapped around. He took in the scene quickly. Security guard. Gun. Maybe fifteen metres, twenty at the most. As if there was a choice.

'I said, freeze!' Terry Ryan yelled. But the thief had already made a break for it. Ryan broke into a run.

Books on shelves became streaking blurs of colour as Fraser bolted down a narrow aisle. His heart pounded loudly inside his head. And then suddenly he saw the door. And the sign: stairs.

Fraser hit the stairs running, grabbing the banister, sliding down the first flight. The security guard, Ryan, flew in two seconds later, taking the stairs three at a time.

Down and down, round and round, Fraser went, clinging to the banister, hauling himself around at every turn. He saw the door at the bottom. He flew down the last flight of stairs and hit the door at full speed. It burst open easily -- too easily -- and Fraser went sprawling face-first onto the hard wood floor.

He could hear heavy footsteps bounding down the stairs behind him.

Fraser reached for the nearest bookshelf to hoist himself up and immediately felt a searing pain rip through his right arm. It was then that he saw his wrist. It had taken the full weight of the fall, and now, bent grotesquely backwards, it was undoubtedly broken.

Teeth clenched, Fraser hauled himself up with his good arm and had just made it to his feet when--

'You stay right where you are.'

The voice was soft and sure.

Fraser turned around slowly.

In the doorway behind him stood the security guard, with his gun levelled at Mike Fraser's head.

Ryan pulled out his handcuffs and threw them to the injured thief.

'Put 'em on.'

Fraser closed his eyes in disgust. 'Why don't you,' he began, 'kiss... my... ass!' Then suddenly, like a wounded animal, he lunged at the guard.

Without a blink, Ryan raised his gun and fired it into the air above the fallen thief's head.

The booming shot rang out in the silence of the library.

Fraser dropped back to the floor as small white flakes of plaster began to flutter down around his head.

Ryan stepped forward into the aisle, tightened his grip on his pistol, reasserted his aim at Fraser's head.

'I said, put 'em on. So put--' Ryan's eyes darted left. 'What was that?'

Fraser heard it, too.

And then -- ominously -- it came again.

A long, slow growl. Like the snort of a pig. Only louder. Much louder.

'What the hell was that?' Fraser said quickly.

Boom. A loud, dull thud.

The floor shook.

'There's something down here...' Fraser whispered.

Boom. Again.

The two men stood there frozen.

Ryan looked down the aisle beyond Fraser. It stretched endlessly away from them, disappearing into darkness.

Silence.

Dead silence.

The wooden floor was still again.

'Let's get the fuck outta here,' Fraser hissed.

'Shh!'

'There's somethin' down here, man!' Fraser raised his voice.

Boom.

A tremor shook the floor again.

A book teetering on the edge of a shelf fell to the floor.

'Let's go!' Fraser cried.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Books began to fall off the shelves in bundles.

Ryan leaned forward, grabbed Fraser by the collar. He pulled the thief's lace up to his own.

'For God's sake, shut up,' he whispered. 'Whatever it is, it's hearing your voice. And if you keep talking--'

Ryan stopped abruptly, and frowned at Fraser. The young thief's eyes were wide with fear, his lower lip quivering madly, his whole expression one of total and utter disbelief.

Ryan felt his blood run cold.

Fraser was looking over his shoulder.

Whatever 'it' was, it snorted again, and as it did so Ryan felt a wave of hot air rush across the back of his neck.

It was behind him.

It was right behind him!

The gun went off as Ryan was yanked bodily off the floor. Fraser dropped to the ground, staring at the hulking mass of blackness before him.

Ryan screamed as he struggled uselessly in the powerful arms of the dark shape. And then suddenly, the creature bellowed loudly and hurled him through the nearest bookshelf. Books cascaded everywhere as Ryan's body doubled over and crashed right through the old wooden casing.

The massive black shape lumbered around the bookshelf, looking for the body on the other side. In the dull yellow light, Fraser could see long black bristles flowing over a high, arched back, saw demonic pointed ears and powerful muscular limbs, caught glimpses of matted black hair and gigantic scythe-like claws.

Whatever it was, it picked up Ryan's body like a rag doll and dragged it back around to the aisle where Fraser sat.

The flight through the bookshelf must have broken Ryan's back, Fraser guessed, but the security guard wasn't dead yet. Fraser could hear him moaning softly as the creature lifted him to the ceiling.

It was then that Ryan screamed.

A shrill, ear-piercing, inhuman scream.

To his absolute horror, Fraser saw what was going to happen next and he put his hand up over his face just as he heard the sickening crack and an instant later, he felt a torrent of warmth wash all over the front of his body.

Ryan's scream cut off abruptly and Fraser heard the beast roar a final time, followed by the thunderous crunching of wooden shelves.

And then there was nothing.

Silence.

Total and utter silence.

Slowly, Fraser removed his hand from his face.

The beast was gone. The guard's body lay there in front of him, twisted and mangled, motionless. One of the bookshelves to his right lay horribly askew, wrenched free from its ceiling mountings. Blood was everywhere.

Fraser didn't move, couldn't move.

And so he just sat there, alone, in the cold emptiness of the New York State Library, and waited for the dawn.

FIRST MOVEMENT

30 November, 1:27 p.m.

The sun shone brightly over Norwood Elementary School. It was lunchtime and groups of schoolchildren were out playing on the school's enormous grassy playing field.

Status Check: Initialise electrification systems.

Norwood was one of the leading private elementary schools in Connecticut. An impressive academic record -- and one of the biggest building funds in America -- had made it one of the sought-after schools for the well-to-do.

At the bottom corner of the grassy playing area, a cluster of children had gathered. And in the middle of this cluster stood Holly Swain, nose-to-nose with Thomas Jacobs.

'He is not, Tommy.'

'Is too. He's a murderer!'

The crowd of children gathered around the two combatants gasped at the word.

Holly tried to compose herself. The white lace collar of her uniform was beginning to feel very tight now and she was determined not to let it show. She shook her head sadly, raised her nose a little higher.

'You're so childish, Tommy. Such a boy.'

The girls behind her chirped similar comments in support.

'How can you call me childish when you're only in the third grade?' Tommy retorted. The group assembled behind him echoed their agreement.

'Don't be so immature?' Holly said. Good, word, she thought.

Tommy hesitated. 'Yeah, well, he's still a murderer.'

'He is not.'

'He killed a man, didn't he?'

'Well, yes, but...'

'Then he's a murderer.' Tommy looked around himself for support. 'Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!' The group behind him joined in.

'Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!'

Holly felt her fists clench by her side, felt her collar tighten around her neck. She remembered her father. Be a lady. Got to be a lady.

She spun around, her blonde ponytail flinging around her shoulders. The girls around her were shaking their heads at the taunts of the boys. Holly took a deep breath. She smiled to her friends. Got to be a lady.

Behind her, the boys' chant continued.

'Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!'

Finally, Tommy called out above the chant, 'If her father's a murderer, then Holly Swain will probably grow up to be a murderer, too!'

'Yeah! Yeah, she will!' his group urged.

Holly's smile went flat.

Slowly -- ever so slowly -- she turned back around to face Tommy. A hush fell over the crowd.

Holly stepped closer. Tommy chuckled, glancing around at his friends. Only now his supporters were silent.

'Now I'm upset,' Holly said flatly. 'I think you'd better take back those things you've been saying. Would you, please?'

Tommy smirked and then he leaned forward. 'Nope.'

'Okay, then,' Holly said, smiling politely. She looked down at her uniform, straightened her skirt.

Then she hit him.

Hard.

The clinic had become a battlefield.

Glass exploded everywhere as test tubes exploded against the walls. The nurses leapt clear of the melee, hurriedly moving the multi-million-dollar equipment out of the line of fire.

Dr Stephen Swain burst out of the adjoining observation room and immediately set about calming the source of the storm -- a 57-year-old, 240-pound, big-busted woman named Rosemary Pederman, a guest of St Luke's Hospital, New York City, on account of a small abnormality in her brain known as a cerebral aneurism.

'Mrs Pederman! Mrs Pederman!' Swain called. 'It's okay. It's okay. Just calm down,' he said gently. 'What seems to be the problem?'

'The problem?' Rose Pederman spat. 'The problem, young man, is that I will not put my head in that... that thing... until someone tells me exactly what it does!'

As she spoke, she jerked her chin at the enormous Magnetic Resonance Imaging -- or MRI -- machine which occupied the centre of the room.

'Come on, Mrs Pederman,' Swain said sternly. 'We've been through this before.'

Rose Pederman pouted, child-like.

'The MRI will not harm you in any way--'

'Young man. How does it work?'

Swain pursed his lips tightly.

At 39, he was the youngest ever partner in Borman & White, the radiologist collective, and for a very simple reason -- Swain was good. He could see things in an X-ray or a CAT-scan that no-one else could, and on more than one occasion, had saved lives by doing so.

This fact, however, was difficult to impress upon older patients since Swain -- sandy-haired and clean-shaven, with a lean physique and sky-blue eyes -- looked about ten years younger than his actual age. Except for the fresh red vertical scar that cut down across his lower lip, a feature which seemed to age him, he could have passed for a third-year resident.

'You want to know how it works?' Swain said seriously. He resisted the urge to look at his watch. He had somewhere to be. But then, Rose Pederman had gone through six radiologists already and this had to stop.

'Yes, I do,' she said stubbornly.

'Okay. Mrs Pederman, the process you are about to undertake is called Magnetic Resonance Imaging. It's not unlike a CAT-scan, in that it generates a cross-sectional scan of your skull. Only instead of using photovoltaic methods, we use controlled magnetic energy to re-align the ambient electrostatic conductivity in your head in order to create a three-dimensional composite cross-section of your cranium.'

'What?'

'The magnet in the MRI machine affects the natural electricity in your body, Mrs Pederman, giving us a perfect picture of the inside of your head.'

'Oh, well...' Mrs Pederman's lethal frown instantly transformed itself into a beaming, maternal smile. 'That's quite all right then. That was all you had to tell me, lovey.'

An hour later, Swain burst through the doors of the surgeon's locker room.

'Am I too late?' he said.

Dr James Wilson -- a red-haired paediatrician who, ten years previously, had been the best man at Swain's wedding -- was already moving quickly toward him. He hurled Swain's briefcase to Swain. 'It's 14-13 to the Giants. If we hurry, we can catch the last two quarters at McCafferty's. Come on, this way. We'll go through the ER.'

'Thanks for waiting,' Swain hurried to keep up with his friend's rapid strides.

'Hey, it's your game,' Wilson said as he walked.

The Giants were playing the Redskins and Wilson knew that Swain had been waiting a long time for this game. It had something to do with Swain living in New York and his father who lived back in D.C.

'Say,' Wilson said, 'how's that lip healing up?'

'It's okay.' Swain touched the vertical scar on his lower lip. 'Still a bit tender. Got the stitches out last week.'

Wilson turned as he walked, grinning. 'Makes you look even uglier than you already are.'

'Thanks.'

Wilson arrived at the door to the emergency room, opened it--

--and was immediately met by the pretty face of Emma Johnson, one of the floating nurses at St Luke's.

The two men stopped instantly.

'Hey, Steve, how are you?' Emma looked only at Swain.

'Gettin' there,' he replied. 'How about you?'

A coy cock of the head. 'I'm good.'

'I'm fine, too,' Jim Wilson chimed in. 'Not that anyone seems to care...'

Emma said to Swain: 'You wanted me to remind you about your meeting with Detective Dickson, about the ... incident. Don't forget you have to see him at five.'

'Right,' Swain nodded, absently stroking the cut on his lower lip. 'No problem. I can do that after the game.'

'Oh, I almost forgot,' Emma added. 'You got another message. Norwood Elementary called about ten minutes ago. They want to know if you can come down there right away. Holly's been fighting again.'

Swain sighed. 'Not again. Right away?'

'Right away.'

Swain turned to Wilson. 'Why today?'

'Why not?' Wilson said wryly.

'Is there a delayed telecast of the game later tonight?'

'I think so, yeah,' Wilson said.

Swain sighed again. 'I'll call you.'

----ooo0ooo------

Stephen Swain leaned on the steering wheel of his Range Rover as he pulled it to a stop at the traffic lights. He glanced across at the passenger seat beside him. Holly was sitting with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, her feet jutting out horizontally from the seat, unable to reach the floor. They weren't swinging wildly about as they usually did.

The car was quiet.

'You okay?' Swain asked softly.

'Hmmm.'

Swain leaned over to look at her.

'Oh, don't do that,' he said gently, reaching for a tissue. 'Here.' He dabbed at the tears that had run down her cheeks.

Swain had arrived at the school just as Holly was leaving the vice-principal's office. Her ears were red and she'd been crying. It was harsh, he thought, that an eight-year-old should get such a dressing down.

'Hey,' he said. 'It's all right.'

Holly lifted her head. Her eyes were watery and red.

She swallowed. 'I'm sorry, Daddy. I tried.'

'You tried?'

'To be a lady. I really did. I really tried hard.'

Swain smiled. 'You did, huh?' He grabbed another tissue. 'Mrs Tickner didn't tell me what made you do it. All she said was that the lunchtime teacher found you straddled on top of some boy, beating the hell out of him.'

'Mrs Tickner wouldn't listen to me. She just kept saying that it didn't matter what made me do it, only that it was wrong for a lady to fight.'

The lights went green. Swain put the Range Rover into gear and moved off.

'So what did happen, then?'

Holly hesitated, then said, 'Tommy Jacobs was calling you a murderer.'

Swain closed his eyes momentarily. 'He was, was he?'

'Yes.'

'And you tackled him and punched him for that?'

'No, I punched him first.'

'But for that. For calling me a murderer?'

'Uh-huh.'

Swain turned to face Holly and nodded. 'Thanks,' he said seriously.

Holly smiled weakly. Swain turned his eyes back to the road. 'How many lines did you get?'

'One hundred times: "I must not fight because it is not ladylike".'

'Well, since this was partly my fault, what do you say you do fifty, and I'll do the other fifty in your handwriting.'

Holly smiled. 'That would be good, Daddy.' Her eyes began to brighten.

'Good,' Swain nodded. 'Just next time, try not to fight. If you can, try to think your way out of it. You'd be surprised, you can do a lot more damage with your brains than with your fists. And you can still be a lady at the same time.' Swain slowed the car and looked at his daughter. 'Fighting is never the answer. Only fight when it's the last option you've got.'

'Like you did, Daddy?'

'Yeah,' Swain said. 'Like I did.'

Holly lifted her head and began to peer out the window. She didn't recognise this area.

'Where are we going?' she said.

'I've got to go to the police station.'

'Daddy, are you in trouble again?'

'No, honey, I'm not in trouble.'

'Can I help you!' the harried-looking receptionist yelled above the din.

Swain and Holly were standing in the lobby of the 14th Precinct of the New York Police Department. There was activity everywhere. Beat cops hauling drug dealers away; phones ringing; people shouting. A prostitute in the corner winked sexily at Swain as he stood at the check-in desk.

'Uh, yes, my name is Stephen Swain. I'm here to see Detective Dickson. I was supposed to see him at five, but I had some time, so I--'

'That's fine, you're on the list. He's up in his office now. You can go right up. Office 209.'

Status Check: Electrification systems ready.

Swain headed for the stairwell at the rear of the bullpen. As he did so, Holly bounded to his side and grabbed his hand. Swain looked down at the blonde ponytail bobbing madly up and down beside him. Wide-eyed and interested, Holly was taking in the pandemonium of the police station with the curiosity of a scientist. She certainly was resilient, that was for sure, and with her natural blonde hair, blue eyes, button nose and sharp-eyed gaze, she was looking more and more like her mother every day...

Stop it, Swain thought. Don't go there. Not now...

He shook his thoughts away as they ascended the stairs.

On the second floor, they came to a door marked: 209: HOMICIDE. Swain heard a familiar voice shouting from within.

'I don't care what your problem is! I want that building shut down, okay!'

'But sir--'

'Don't give me that, John. Just listen for a moment, will you. Good. Now look at what we have here. A security guard found lying on the floor -- in two pieces -- and a two-bit thief who's found sitting there next to him. Yeah, that's right, he's just sitting there when we arrive.

'And this thief, he's got blood all over his face and all down the front of his body. But it's not his blood, it's the guard's. Now I don't know what's going on. You tell me. Do you think this thief is from one of those crazy sects, who goes out, chops up a security guard, rubs the blood all over himself, and then manages to overturn a couple of ten-foot-tall bookcases?'

The voice paused for a moment, listening while the other man mumbled something.

'John, we don't know shit. And until we find out more, I'm shutting down that library. Okay?'

'Okay, Sarge,' the other voice relented.

'Good,' the first voice was calm again. 'Now get down there, set up the tape around all entrances and exits, and put a couple of our guys inside for the night.'

The door opened. Swain stepped aside as a short officer came out of the office, smiled quickly at him, and then headed down the corridor and into the stairwell.

Status Check: Electrification to commence in two hours.

Earth time: sixth hour post meridian.

Swain knocked softly on the door and peered inside the office.

The wide room was empty, save for one desk over by the window. There Swain saw a large barrel-chested man seated in a swivel chair, his back to the door. He was gazing out the window, sipping from a coffee mug, savouring, it seemed, a rare moment's silence.

Swain knocked again.

'Yeah, come in,' the man didn't look up.

Swain hesitated, 'Ah, Detective--'

Captain Henry Dickson swung around in the swivel chair. 'Oh, I'm sorry, I was expecting someone else.' He got up quickly, crossed the room and shook Swain's hand. 'How are you today, Dr Swain?'

'Gettin' there,' Swain nodded. 'I had some time so I thought I'd come in and get this thing out of the way, if that's all right.'

Dickson led them to his desk where he reached into an open drawer and pulled out a file.

'Sure, no problem,' Dickson fished through the file. 'It shouldn't take more than a few minutes anyway. Just give me a minute here.'

Swain and Holly waited.

'All right,' Dickson said at last, holding up a sheet. 'This is the statement you gave on the night of the incident. What we'd like to do is include it in the departmental report, but by law we can't do it without your written consent. Is that okay with you?'

'That's fine.'

'Good, then I'll just read it to you to make sure it's okay, and then you can sign the report and we can all be out of here.'

Status Check: Officials from each system report

that teleports are ready. Awaiting transmission

of grid co-ordinates of labyrinth.

Dickson straightened himself in his chair.

'All right, then,' he began to read from the statement, 'at approximately 8.30 p.m. on the night of October 2, 2000, I was working in the emergency room of St Luke's Hospital, New York City. I had been called in to do a radiology consult on a gunshot wound to a police officer. X-rays, C-spines and a CAT-scan had been taken and I had just returned to the emergency ward with the films when five young Latin American men wearing gang colours burst in through the main doors of the emergency ward with automatic weapons firing.

'Everyone in the ward dived for the floor as the wave of bullets smashed into everything in sight -- computer screens, whiteboards, everything.

'The gang members fanned out immediately, shouting to each other, "Find him and kill him!" Two of them brandished automatic rifles while the other three held semi-automatic pistols.'

Swain listened in silence as Dickson recounted the events of that night. He remembered being told later that the wounded cop had been with the Vice Squad. Apparently, he'd been working undercover in Queens with a crack-dealing gang when his cover had been blown during a botched raid. He'd been winged during the shoot-out, and now the gang-bangers -- incensed at his role in the bust -- were here to finish him off.

Dickson kept reading: 'I was standing just outside the wounded policeman's room when the five men stormed the hospital. There was noise everywhere -- people were screaming, the men's guns were booming -- and I ducked behind the nearest corner.

'Then suddenly I saw one of the pistol-bearing gang-bangers rush toward the wounded cop's room. I don't know what made me do it, but when I saw him reach the doorway to the room and see the cop inside -- and smile -- I leapt at him from behind, tackled him hard.

'We slammed into the doorframe together, but he elbowed me sharply in the mouth -- cutting my lip -- and we fell apart and then suddenly before I knew what was happening, he was swinging his pistol around toward me.

'I caught his wrist in mid-flight -- held the gun clear of my body -- just as one of the other gang members arrived right in front of us.

'This second youth saw our struggle and instantly raised his own pistol at me but -- still holding onto the first gang member's wrist -- I whirled around and, with my free hand, punched the second youth square on the wrist of his gun-hand, causing his fingers to reflexively spring open and drop the gun. On the return journey, I used that same fist to backhand the youth across the jaw, knocking him out cold.

'It was at that moment that the first gang member started pulling indiscriminately on the trigger on his gun -- even though I was still gripping his wrist. Gunshots boomed, bullets shredded the walls.

'I had to do something, so, pushing my feet off the doorframe, I hurled us both to the floor. We tumbled to the ground together -- a clumsy rolling heap, so clumsy in fact that the youth's gun was pushed awkwardly up against his own head and then--'

And then abruptly -- shockingly -- the gun had gone off and the youth's head had simply exploded.

Swain didn't need to listen to Dickson any more. He could see it all in his mind's eye as if he was still there. He could remember the star of blood that had sprayed all over the door. He could still feel the youth's body go limp against his own.

Dickson was still reading the statement.

'--as soon as the other gang members saw their dead comrade, they fled. I believe it was about then that I passed out. This statement is dated 3/10/00, 1:55 a.m., signed Stephen Swain, M.D.'

Dickson looked up from the sheet of paper.

Swain sighed. 'That's it. That's my statement.'

'Good,' Dickson handed the typewritten statement to Swain. 'If you just sign there where it says "Consent granted", that'll just about do it, Dr Swain. Oh, and may I say once again, on behalf of the New York Police Department, thank you.'

Status Check: Grid co-ordinates of labyrinth to

be transmitted to all systems upon electrification.

----ooo0ooo------

'We'll see you in the morning then,' Officer Paul Hawkins said as he stood inside the enormous translucent glass doors of the New York State Library.

'See you then,' the lieutenant said, closing the doors on Hawkins' face.

Hawkins stepped away from the doors and nodded to his partner, Parker, who stepped forward with a large ring of keys. As Parker began to bolt the first of four locks on the huge translucent doors, Hawkins could see the blurred outline of the lieutenant affixing bright yellow police tape across the entrance. The tape pressed up against the other side of the glass and Hawkins could make out the familiar words: police line -- do not

CROSS.

He checked his watch.

5:15 p.m.

Not bad, he thought. It had only taken them twenty minutes to skirt the building and seal off all the entrances and exits.

Parker finished off the last lock and turned around.

'All done,' she said.

Hawkins thought about what the other cops had said about Christine Parker. Three years his senior, she was hardly pretty -- for that matter, hardly petite. Big hands, dark heavy-set features, good with a gun. Unfortunately, her image hadn't been helped along by reports of insensitivity -- she was known in the department for her rather icy demeanour. Hawkins shrugged it off. If she could hold her own, that was all that mattered to him.

'Good,' he turned to face the enormous atrium of the library. 'Do you know what happened? I was only called in this afternoon.'

'Somebody broke in and slashed up a security guard. Pretty messy,' Parker replied casually.

'Broke in?' Hawkins frowned. 'I didn't see any forced entry on any of the doors we sealed.'

Status Check: 0:44:16 to Electrification.

Parker put her keys in her pocket and shrugged. 'Don't ask me. All I know is that they haven't determined point of entry yet. SID's coming in tomorrow morning to do that. Guy probably picked the lock on one of the storage doors. Those things have got to be at least forty years old.'

She cocked her head indifferently. 'Larry at Dispatch told me they spent most of the day just trying to clean it all up.'

Parker walked over to the Information Desk and sat down. 'Anyhow,' she put her feet up on the counter, 'this isn't so bad. Doesn't bother me if I get double time for sitting in a library all night.'

'Come on, Daddy!' Holly said impatiently. 'I'm missing Pokemon!'

'Okay, okay,' Swain pushed open the front door. Holly burst past him, dashed into the house.

Swain pulled his key from the door and called after her, 'Don't slide on the carpet!'

He stepped inside as Holly charged out of the kitchen, biscuit tin in one hand, a can of Coke in the other. Swain stopped in his tracks as Holly cut across his path, making a beeline for the TV.

Watching her, Swain put his suitcase down, folded his arms and leaned against the bench that separated the kitchen from the living room. He watched as, unsurprisingly, in mid-stride Holly dropped to the floor and slid gracefully across the carpet, coming to a halt inches away from the television set.

'Hey!'

Holly gave him a throwaway smile. 'Sorreee.' She flicked on the TV.

Swain shook his head as he went into the kitchen. He always said not to slide on the carpet and Holly always did it anyway. It was kind of a ritual. Besides, he thought, Helen had always said it, and Holly had always ignored her, too. It was a good way for both of them to remember her.

It had been two years now since Swain's wife had been killed by a drunk driver who had tried to run a red light at fifty miles an hour. It had happened late one August evening, around eleven-thirty. They had run out of milk, so Helen had decided to walk to the 7-Eleven a few blocks away.

She never came back.

Later that night, Swain would see her body at the morgue. The mere sight of it, bloodied and broken, had knocked the wind out of him. All the life, the essence, the personality -- everything that had made her Helen -- had been sucked from it. Her eyes had been wide open, staring blankly into space, lifeless.

Death had struck -- brutally, swiftly, unexpectedly. She had gone out for milk and then all of a sudden she was gone. Just gone.

And now it was just him and Holly, somehow continuing life without her. Even now, two years on, Swain occasionally found himself staring out the window, thinking about her, tears forming in his eyes.

Swain opened the fridge, pulled out a Coke for himself. As he did so, the phone rang. It was Jim Wilson.

'You missed a great game.'

Swain sighed. 'Oh, yes...'

'Man, you should've seen it. It went into--'

'No! Stop! Don't tell me!'

Wilson laughed loudly on the other end of the line. 'Now would I do that?'

'Not if you wanted to live. Want to come over and watch it all over again?'

'Sure, why not? I'll be there in ten,' Wilson said and hung up.

Status Check: 0:14:38 to Electrification.

Swain glanced at the microwave. The green LED clock read 5:45 p.m.

He looked over at Holly, camped less than a foot away from the television screen. On the screen, multicoloured creatures danced about.

Swain grabbed his drink and went into the living room. 'What are you watching?'

Holly didn't move her eyes from the screen. 'Pokemon,' she said, feeling for the biscuit tin beside her and grabbing a biscuit from it.

'Any good?'

She turned quickly, scrunched up her nose. 'Nah. Mew isn't there today. I'll see what's on the other channels.'

'No, wait!' Swain leaned forward, grabbing for the remote. 'The sport will be--'

The station changed, and a newsreader appeared on the screen.

'--while in football, fans in the national capital were not to be disappointed as the Redskins scalped the Giants twenty-four to twenty-one in an overtime thriller. At the same time, in Dallas...'

Swain closed his eyes as he sank back into his chair. 'Aw, man.'

'Did you hear that Daddy? Washington won. Grandpa will like that. He lives in Washington.'

Swain laughed softly. 'Yes, honey, I heard. I heard.'

Status Check: Officials attending to

Earth Contestant await special

instructions regarding teleportation.

Paul Hawkins strolled idly around the foyer of the library.

His every footfall echoed hauntingly in the open space of the atrium.

He stopped to survey the atrium around him. It was, quite simply, a massive interior space. When one took into account the rail-lined balcony that ran in a horseshoe above the lower floor, its ceiling was actually two storeys high. In the early evening darkness, the atrium looked almost cavernous.

Ten-foot-high bookcases loomed in the brooding semi-darkness. Indeed, with the onset of night, apart from the harsh white glow coming from the Information Desk where Parker sat reading, the only light that penetrated the gigantic room was the slanting blue light from the streetlights outside.

Status Check: 0:03:04 to Electrification.

Teleport Officials standby.

Hawkins looked over at Parker. She was still sitting behind the Information Desk, her feet up, reading some Latin book she said she'd read back in school.

Jesus, it's quiet here, he thought.

----ooo0ooo------

Status Check: 0:01:41 to Electrification.

Status Check: Officials on Earth confirm

receipt of special instructions.

Standby.

The phone rang again. Holly leapt up from the floor and grabbed the receiver.

'Hello, Holly Swain speaking,' she said. 'Yes, he's here.' She put the receiver to her chest and yelled at the top of her lungs, 'Daddeee! Phone!'

Swain emerged from his bedroom down the hall, doing up the buttons on a clean shirt. The belt around his jeans dangled from his waist and his hair was still dripping from the shower.

He gave Holly a crooked smile as he took the phone from her. 'Do you think the whole neighbourhood now knows I've got a phone call?'

Holly shrugged as she danced away toward the refrigerator.

'Hello,' Swain said into the phone.

'It's me again.' It was Wilson.

Swain glanced at the microwave clock. 'Hey, what are you doing? It's almost six. Where are you?'

'I'm still at home.'

Status Check: 0:00:46 to Electrification.

'Home?'

'The car won't start. Again.' Wilson said, deadpan.

Swain just laughed.

Hawkins was bored.

Idly, he poked his head inside the library's central stairwell, flicked on his heavy police flashlight. White marble stairs flanked by solid oak banisters rose in a wide ' spiral up into the darkness.

Hawkins nodded. Had to hand it to these old buildings, they were built to last.

Status Check: 0:00:15 to Electrification.

Parker stood up from her seat behind the Information Desk. She gazed lazily around the atrium, squinting in the darkness.

'What're you doing?' she called.

'Just looking around.'

Status Check: 0:00:09 to Electrification.

Standby.

Parker walked over to Hawkins. He was standing at the doorway to the stairwell, his flashlight on, peering up into the darkness.

:06

She stopped next to him.

'Nice old place,' Hawkins said.

'Yeah,' Parker nodded. 'Nice.'

:04

:03

:02

:01

Standby...

--Electrification initialised.

At that moment, while Hawkins and Parker stood in the stairwell, bright blue sparks flashed out from the main entrance to the library. An electric blue current shot up between the large glass doors while sizzling claws of electricity lashed out around the edges of the door frame.

Every single window of the library shook as tiny forks of blue lightning shot out from their panes. At the small side entrances to the library, yellow police tape bubbled slowly, boiling under the intense heat of the electricity now flowing through the doors.

And then, in an instant, it stopped.

All the windows and doors giving access to the library were suddenly still.

Suddenly silent again.

The State Library, old and dark, stood sombrely in the darkness of New York City, its magnificent glass doors grey in the moonlight. To the casual observer a few feet away they looked regal and austere, just as they had looked the day before.

It was only when one came close that one would see the intermittent flash of tiny blue lightning that licked out from between the two huge doors every few seconds.

Just as it did at every other entrance to the library.

Status Check: Electrification complete.

Dispatch grid co-ordinates

of the labyrinth.

Commence teleportation.

----ooo0ooo------

Holly grabbed onto Swain's leg. Swain shook it playfully as he spoke into the phone.

'It won't be much of a surprise anyway. I already heard who won.'

'You did?'

Swain frowned down at Holly as she reached into his jeans pocket. 'Yes. Unfortunately I did.'

Holly pulled her hand out of his pocket and frowned at the object in her hand.

'Daddy, what's this?'

Swain glanced down at her and cocked his head in surprise. 'May I?' he said.

Holly gave him the small silver object.

'What's going on?' Wilson asked.

Swain turned it over in his hand. 'Well... Doctor Wilson, maybe you can tell me. Maybe you can tell me why my daughter has just pulled a Zippo out of my jeans. My jeans that you borrowed for your little cowboy thing on the weekend.'

Wilson hesitated. 'I have absolutely no idea how that got there.'

'Why don't I believe you?'

'All right, all right, don't start.' Wilson said. 'What are my chances of getting my lighter back?'

Swain put the cigarette lighter back into his pocket. 'I don't know. Sixty-forty.'

Status Check: Teleportation sequence initialised.

'Sixty-forty!'

Holly grabbed another drink from the refrigerator. Swain shifted the telephone to his shoulder and bent down to pick her up. He grunted under the weight.

'God, you're heavy.'

Initialise teleport: Earth.

'Dad... Come on, I'm eight now...'

'Too old to be picked up, huh? All ri--'

At that moment the room around Swain began to brighten. A mysterious white glow filled the kitchen.

'Daddy...' Holly gripped his shoulders tightly.

Swain turned around slowly, staring, mesmerised, at the soft white light glowing around him -- glowing around him -- growing around him.

Growing.

The kitchen was getting brighter. The light was gathering intensity.

Swain spun. All around him, the soft white glow had become a dazzling white light. Wherever he turned, his eyes reeled at the brilliant light. It seemed to come from every direction.

He lifted his forearm to shield his eyes.

'Daddy! What's happening?'

Swain held her closer, pushed her head into his chest, guarding her from the light. He squinted as his eyes tried to penetrate the blinding wall of white light surrounding them, searching for a source.

Recoiling from the light, he abruptly looked down at his feet -- and saw a perfect circle of white light ringing his sneakers.

And then Swain realised.

He was at the centre of the light.

He was the source!

Gusts of wind shot through the kitchen. Dust and paper swirled around Swain's head as he held Holly close to his chest. He shut his eyes, bracing himself against the screaming wind.

Then, strangely, above the howling of the wind, he heard a voice. A soft, taint, insistent voice saying, 'Steve? Stephen Swain, are you still with us?'

It took him a second to realise that it was the phone. Wilson was still on the line. Swain had forgotten that he was still holding onto the phone.

'Stephen, what's going on? Ste--'

The phone went dead.

A deafening thunderclap boomed and Swain was instantly plunged into complete darkness.

SECOND MOVEMENT

30 November, 6:04 p.m.

A lot of people would say that fear of the dark is nothing but a phenomenon of childhood.

A child fears the dark simply because he or she does not have the experience to know that in fact nothing is there. But as Stephen Swain knew, fear of the dark was common in many adults. Indeed, for some, the human need for sight was often as basic as the need for food.

Standing in pitch darkness, without a clue where he was, Swain felt it strange that he should be thinking of his college studies in human behaviour. He remembered his lecturer saying, 'Human fears are very often irrational constructs of the mind. How else would you explain a six-foot-tall woman being petrified by the mere sight of a single white mouse -- a creature barely four inches long?'

But no fear was seen as more irrational -- or more innate in man -- than a fear of the dark. Academic theorists and weary parents had been saying for centuries that there was nothing in the dark that was not already there in the light...

But I'll bet something like this never happened to them, Swain thought as he stared into the sea of blackness around him.

Where the hell are we...?

His heart pumped loudly inside his head. He could feel a wave of panic spreading slowly through his body. No. He had to stay calm -- rational -- had to look after Holly.

He felt for her at his shoulder. She held him tightly, frightened.

'Daddy

If he could just see something, he thought, trying to contain his own ever-increasing fear. A break in the darkness. A splinter of light. Anything.

He looked left, then right. Nothing.

Only black. Endless, seamless black.

A fear of the dark didn't seem quite so irrational now.

'Daddy. What's happening?'

He could feel Holly's head pushed close against his shoulder.

'I don't know, honey,' Swain pursed his lips in thought. And then he remembered.

'Wait a minute,' he said, stretching his hand awkwardly underneath Holly to reach into his jeans pocket. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the cold slippery metal of the lighter.

The Zippo flipped open with a metallic calink! and Swain flipped down on the cartwheel. The flint sparked for an instant, but the lighter didn't catch. Swain tried again. Another spark but no flame.

'Christ,' he said aloud. 'Some smoker.'

'Daddy...'

'Just hold on, honey,' Swain put the lighter back in his pocket and turned to face the darkness again. 'Let's see if we can find a door or something.'

He lifted his foot and took a hesitant step forward. As he lowered it, however, he began to understand why some people feared the dark so much. The sheer helplessness of not knowing what was right in front of you was terrifying.

His shoe hit the floor. It was hard. Cold. Like slate, or marble.

He took another step forward. Only this time, as his foot came down, it didn't find any floor. Just empty space.

'Uh-oh.'

His sense of panic began to rise again. Where the hell was he? Was he standing on the rim of a ledge? If he was, how far down did it go? Was it on every side of him?

Shit.

Swain slowly lowered his foot further over the edge.

Nothing.

Slowly. Further. Still nothing.

Then his foot hit something. More floor, not far below where he was standing.

Swain pushed down and forward again. Another piece of floor. He smiled in the darkness, relieved.

Steps.

Holding Holly close to his chest, Swain cautiously descended the stairs.

'Where are we, Daddy?'

In the darkness, Swain stopped. He glanced at Holly. Although everything was still dark, he could just make out the outline of her face. The hollows of her eye sockets, the shadow of her nose across her cheek.

'I don't know,' he said.

He was about to take another step forward when he snapped up to look at Holly again. The hollows of her eye sockets, the shadow across her cheek--

A shadow.

There must be a light.

Somewhere.

Swain looked closely at her face and, scanning the shadow of her nose, he suddenly saw it -- a soft green glow, so dim that it barely revealed her other features. Swain leaned closer and -- abruptly -- the gentle glow vanished.

'Damn it.'

He slowly moved his head back and, equally slowly, the glow returned, half covering Holly's face.

Swain's eyes widened. It was his own shadow covering his daughter's face.

The light source was somewhere behind him.

Swain spun around.

And there, in the sheet of blackness in front of him, he saw it. It was hovering in the darkness, level with his eyes and yet completely still -- a tiny green light.

It couldn't have been more than six feet away, and it shone like a small pilot light on a VCR. Swain stared intently at the tiny green light.

And then he heard a voice.

'Hello, Contestant.'

----ooo0ooo------

It came from the green light.

It sounded prim, proper, refined. And yet at the same time high-pitched, as if spoken by a midget.

It came again.

'Hello, Contestant. Welcome to the labyrinth.'

Swain squeezed Holly close. 'Who is that? Where are you?'

'I am here. Can you not see me?' The voice was not threatening. It was almost, Swain thought, helpful.

'No. It's too dark.'

'Oh, yes. Hmm,' the voice sounded disheartened. 'Just a moment.'

The tiny green light bounced away to Swain's left, bobbing up and down. Then it stopped.

'Ah. Here we are.'

Something clicked and some overhead fluorescent lights immediately came to life.

In this new-found light, Swain saw that he was standing halfway down a flight of wide marble stairs with banisters made of dark polished wood. The stairs seemed to spiral down several floors before disappearing into darkness.

Swain guessed he was at the top of the stairwell, since no stairs ascended from the landing above him. Only a heavy-looking wooden door led out from the landing.

His gaze moved left from the door, and suddenly he saw the owner of the voice.

There, standing next to a light switch, stood a man no more than four feet tall, dressed completely in white.

White shoes, white coveralls, white gloves.

The little man was holding something in one white-gloved hand. It looked like a grey wristwatch. Swain noticed that the small green light he had seen before was attached to the face of the wristwatch.

In addition to his completely white outfit, Swain saw that the little man wore an odd white skull cap that covered every part of his head, except for his face.

'Daddy, it looks like an eggshell,' Holly whispered.

'Shh.'

The little man in white stepped forward, so that he stood on the edge of the landing, his head a little higher than Swain's. He spoke perfect English, without trace of an accent.

'Hello. Welcome to the labyrinth. My name is Selexin and I am your guide.' He extended his little white hand. 'How do you do?'

Swain was still staring in disbelief at the little white man. He absently offered his own hand in return. The little man cocked his head.

'You have an interesting weapon,' he said, looking down at the telephone receiver in Swain's hand.

Swain glanced at the receiver. The spiral cord leading out from the phone had been cut several inches from where it met the hand-piece. He hadn't realised that he was still holding it. He quickly handed it to Holly, and shook hands awkwardly with the man in white.

'How do you do?' Selexin bowed solemnly.

'I'm gettin' there,' Swain said, warily. 'How about you?'

The man in white smiled earnestly and nodded politely. 'Oh, yes. Thank you. I am getting there, too.'

Swain hesitated. 'Listen, I don't know who or what you are, but...'

Holly wasn't listening. She was staring at the handpiece of the telephone. Without a spiral cord snaking back to a base unit, it looked like a cellular.

She examined the shortened phone cord. The cut at the end of it looked as if someone had snipped it with a pair of extremely sharp scissors. It was a clean cut. A perfectly clean cut. The wires inside the cord were not even frayed.

Holly shrugged and put the phone in her uniform pocket. Her own cellular phone, even if it didn't work. She looked back at the little man in white. He was talking to her father.

'I have no intention of harming you,' he was saying.

'You don't?'

'No,' Selexin paused. 'Well, not me.'

'Then if you don't mind, do you think you could tell us where we are and how the hell we can get out of here?' Swain said, taking a step up the stairs towards the landing.

The little man seemed shocked.

'Get out?' he said blankly. 'No one gets out. Not yet.'

'What do you mean no one gets out? Where are we?'

'You are in the labyrinth.'

Swain looked at the stairs around him. 'And where is this labyrinth?'

'Why, Contestant, this is Earth, of course.'

Swain sighed. 'Listen, ah...'

'Selexin.'

'Yes. Selexin,' Swain offered a weak smile. 'Selexin, if it's okay with you, I think my daughter and I would like to leave your labyrinth. I don't know what it is you're doing here, but I don't think we're going to be a part of it.'

Swain climbed the stairs and walked over to the door leading out from the landing. He was reaching for the door handle when Selexin snatched his hand away.

'Don't!'

He held Swain's hand away from the heavy wooden door. 'Like I said, no one gets out, yet. The labyrinth has been sealed. Look.'

He pointed to the gap between the door and its solid wooden frame. 'You see?'

Swain looked at the gap and saw nothing. 'No,' he said, unimpressed.

'Look closely.'

Swain leaned closer and peered at the inside of the door frame.

And then he saw it.

A tiny blue fork of electricity licked out from the gap between the door and the frame.

He only just saw it, but the sudden electric blue flash of light was unmistakable. Swain's eyes followed the door frame up its vertical edge. Every few inches there was a distinct flicker of the bright blue charge between the frame and the door.

It was the same on all four sides of the door.

Slowly, Swain stepped back onto the landing. He spoke as he turned, his voice soft and flat.

'What the hell are you doing here?'

----ooo0ooo------

In the atrium of the library, Officer Paul Hawkins was pacing back and forth in front of the Information Desk.

'I'm telling you, I saw it,' he said.

Parker was sitting with her feet up on the desk, chewing on a candy bar, now happily reading a back issue of Cosmopolitan.

'Sure you did.' She didn't even look up as she spoke.

Hawkins was angry. 'I said, I saw it.'

'Then go and check it out for yourself,' Parker offered him a dismissive wave. As far as she was concerned, Hawkins was green. Too young, too fresh and far too eager. And like every other rookie, always suspicious that the crime of the century was happening right under his nose.

Hawkins walked off toward the bookcases near the stairwell, mumbling to himself.

'What'd you say?' Parker called lazily from behind her magazine.

'Nothing,' Hawkins muttered as he stalked off. 'I'm going to see if it happens again.'

Parker looked up from her magazine to see Hawkins disappear through the stairwell doors. She shook her head.

'Rookie.'

Slowly, Hawkins climbed the wide marble stairs, peering around every turn, hoping to see it happen again. He leaned out over the banister and looked up into the shaft.

With the stairwell lights out, he knew he would barely be able to see beyond the first landing--

There was a light!

Up at the top.

One of the fluorescent lights up at the very top of the stairwell was on -- and it hadn't been on before.

Hawkins felt his adrenalin surge.

Someone was in here.

What should he do now? Get Parker? Yes, backup-- backup was good. No, wait. She wouldn't believe him. She hadn't before.

Hawkins peered back up into the shaft and saw the light. He took a hesitant step up the stairs.

And then it happened.

Hawkins immediately leapt back from the banister as a blinding stream of white light burst up through the central shaft of the stairwell, instantly illuminating everything around it.

Flecks of dust swirling around the hollow core of the stairwell suddenly came to life as the rising light struck them, creating a dazzling column of vertical white light.

Hawkins stared at it in awe. It was exactly what he had seen before -- a brilliant stream of white light pouring through the shaft of the stairwell.

And yet, somehow, this time it was different.

The source was different. This time, it wasn't coming from somewhere high up in the stairwell.

No, this time it was coming from below.

Slowly, Hawkins peered out over the edge of the banister, looking down into the shaft.

The light seemed to be coming from underneath one of the landings below him. All he could make out was the edge of what looked like a large glowing sphere of pure white--

It went out.

It didn't fade. It didn't flicker. It just disappeared to black. Just as it had done before.

Hawkins suddenly found himself standing in the empty stairwell again, the hollow shaft in the centre now no more than a silent, gaping hole of blackness.

He looked back over his shoulder toward the atrium. Beyond the bookcases, he could see Parker's feet resting lazily on the counter of the Information Desk. He thought about calling to her, but decided against it.

He turned back to face the darkened stairwell.

He swallowed, and suddenly forgot all about the fluorescent light that had been turned on upstairs.

Hawkins pulled his heavy police-issue flashlight from his belt and switched it on.

Then he began his descent into the darkness.

Selexin was still holding the grey wristband. It was heavy in his hand, mainly because of the thick metal straps used to clasp it to its wearer's wrist.

He glanced at the face. It was rectangular -- like an elongated digital watch -- broad in width, short in height. At the top of the face, the little green pilot light burned brightly. Next to it was another light, slightly larger than the green one, dull red in colour. At the moment it was lifeless.

Good, Selexin thought.

Beneath the two lights there was a narrow oblong display that read:

INCOMPLETE--1

Selexin looked up from the watchface. He saw Swain and Holly standing at a window, gazing out, both careful to stay a safe distance from the electrified window panes.

Selexin grunted, shook his head sadly, and looked back down at the wristband. The display flickered:

INCOMPLETE--1

The words disappeared for an instant. When they returned, they had changed. The display now read:

INCOMPLETE--2

And it was stable again.

Selexin walked over to Swain at the window and stopped beside him.

'Now do you understand?'

Swain continued to stare out the window.

After he had seen the electrified door at the top of the stairwell, he had immediately come down the first flight of stairs and opened the nearest door. It was a large fireproof door marked with a red '3'.

It had opened onto an extremely broad, low-ceilinged room, perhaps fifty yards wide. Swain had gone straight across it -- winding his way through a forest of odd-looking steel-framed desks -- heading directly for the nearest window.

The room was completely filled with the peculiarly shaped desks. Each had a vertical partition attached to the rear edge, so that it formed an L-shape with the horizontal writing surface. Hundreds of these desks, bunched together in tight clusters of four, covered the vast floorspace of the room.

Now, as he looked out the window and saw the familiar inner city park, surrounded by the darkened streets of New York City, Swain began to understand.

'Where are we, Daddy?'

Swain's eyes took in the multitude of partitioned desks in the room around them. In the near corner of the room was a heavy-looking maintenance door, next to which was a sign:

QUIET PLEASE.

THIS ROOM IS FOR PRIVATE STUDY ONLY.

NO CARRY BAGS PERMITTED.

A study hall.

Swain turned to face Selexin. 'We're in the library, honey. The State Library.'

Selexin nodded. Correct.

'This,' he said, 'is the labyrinth.'

'This, is a library.'

'That it may well be,' Selexin shrugged, 'but that is of little concern for you now.'

Swain said, 'I think it's of a lot of concern for me now. What are you doing here and what do you want with us?'

'Well, first of all,' the smaller man began, 'we do not exactly want both of you.' He looked at Swain. 'We actually only want you.'

'So why did you bring my daughter too?'

'It was unintentional, I can assure you. Contestants are strictly forbidden to have assistance of any kind. She must have entered the field just before you were teleported.'

'Teleported?'

'Yes, Contestant,' Selexin sighed sadly. 'Teleported. And you can count yourself extremely fortunate that she was fully inside the field at the time. If she had been only partially inside the field, she might have been--'

There was a loud rumble of thunder outside the window. Swain looked out through the glass and saw dark storm clouds rolling across the face of the moon. It was well and truly dark outside now. Streaks of rain began to appear on the window.

He turned back. 'The white light.'

'Yes,' Selexin said, 'the field. Everything inside the field at the time the systems are initialised is teleported.'

'Like the phone,' Swain said.

'Yes.'

'But only half the phone came with us.'

'Because only half the phone was inside the field.'

Selexin said. 'In its simplest form, the field is merely a spherical hole in the air. Anything inside that sphere is, at the time of teleportation, lifted up and placed elsewhere, whether it is attached to something else or not.'

'And you determine where we go. Is that right?' Swain said.

'Yes. Now, Contestant--'

Swain held up his hand. 'Wait a minute. Why do you keep calling me that?'

'Calling you what?'

'"Contestant". Why do you keep calling me "Contestant"?'

'Because that is what you are, that is why you have been brought here,' Selexin said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 'To compete. To compete in the Seventh Presidian.'

'Presidian?'

Now it was Selexin who frowned.

'Yes,' his voice tightened. 'Hmmm, I suspected this might happen.' He gave a long sigh and looked impatiently at the metal wristband in his hand. Its green light was still burning and its display still read:

INCOMPLETE--2

Selexin looked up and spoke to no-one in particular: 'Well, since there is still time, I will tell you.'

Holly stepped forward, pointed to the grey wrist-watch. 'What is that?'

Selexin gave her a sharp look. 'Please, I will come to that. Just listen for a moment.'

Holly backed away immediately, reaching for Swain's hand.

Selexin was taking short, quick breaths, showing his irritation. As Swain watched him, it seemed increasingly obvious that the little man in white simply did not want to be here.

'The Presidian,' Selexin began, 'has been held on six previous occasions. And this,' he said, looking at the study hall around him, 'is the seventh. It is held approximately once every thousand Earth years, each time on a different world, and in every system, except Earth, it is held in only the highest esteem.'

'Systems?' Swain asked.

'Yes, Contestant, systems.' Selexin's tone was now that of a weary adult addressing a five-year-old. 'Other worlds. Other intelligent life. There are seven in total.'

Selexin paused for a moment, lifted a hand to massage his brow. He looked as if he was trying very hard to keep himself calm.

Finally, he looked up at Swain. 'You didn't know that, did you?'

'The part about other worlds and other intelligent life? Ah, no.'

'I am dead,' Selexin whispered, presumably to himself. Swain heard him clearly.

'Why?' he asked innocently. 'Why are you dead? What is this Presidian?'

Selexin sighed in exasperation. He held his hands out, palms up.

'What do you think it is?' he said sharply, barely concealing the condescension in his voice. 'It is a competition. A battle. A contest. Seven contestants enter the labyrinth and only one leaves. It is a fight to the death.'

He could see the disbelief spread across Swain's face. Selexin threw up his hands. 'By the Gods, you do not even understand what you are here for! Do you not see?'

Selexin slowed down for a moment, lowering his voice, trying desperately to control himself.

'Let me begin again. You have been chosen to represent your species in the ultimate contest in the universe. A contest that dates back over six millennia, that bases itself on a principle that goes light years beyond any notion of "sport" that you could possibly imagine. That is the Presidian.

'It is a battle. A battle between hunters, athletes, warriors; creatures coming from every corner of the universe, possessed of skill, courage and intelligence, prepared to stake their very lives on their extraordinary talents -- talents at hunting, stalking and killing.'

Selexin shook his head.

'There is no coming back from defeat in the Presidian. There is no return match. Defeat in the Presidian is no loss of pride, it is loss of life. Every contestant who enters the labyrinth accepts that in this contest the only alternative to ultimate victory is certain death.

'It is quite simple. Seven will enter. The best will win, the lesser will die. Until only one remains.' The little man paused. 'If, of course, one does remain.

'There is no place for the ordinary man in the Presidian. It is a contest for the extraordinary -- for those prepared to risk the ultimate to attain the ultimate. On Earth you play games where you lose nothing in defeat. "Winning isn't everything," you say. "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you played the game."' Selexin grunted disdainfully. 'If that is the case, why should anyone even try to win?

'Winning is devalued where defeat involves no loss, and humans are quite simply unable to comprehend that idea. Just as they are unable to comprehend a contest like the Presidian, where defeat means exactly that-losing everything.'

The little man looked Swain squarely in the eye. 'Winning is everything when you have everything to lose.'

The little man laughed weakly. 'But your kind will never understand that...'

Selexin paused, dropping his head, withdrawing into himself. Swain just stood there, entranced, staring in amazement at the little man before him.

'And that is why I am dead,' Selexin looked up. 'Because my survival depends on your survival. It is a highly prized honour to guide a contestant through the Presidian -- an honour bestowed upon my people since we are prevented by our size from competing in the contest -- but when one accepts that honour, one also accepts the fate of his contestant.

'So when you die, I die. And as I see it now,' he raised his voice, 'since you appear to know absolutely nothing about the Presidian or anything it entails, I would say quite confidently that at the moment our collective chances of survival are approximately zero!'

Selexin looked Swain up and down. Sneakers, jeans, a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly wet. He shook his head.

'Look at you, you haven't even come prepared to fight!'

He began to pace, gesturing with his arms, despairing for his situation, until finally he was totally indifferent to Swain and Holly's presence: 'Why me? Why this? Why the human? Keeping in mind the distinguished history human participation has had in the Presidian...'

Swain watched the little man pace back and forth in front of him. Holly just stared at him.

'Hey,' Swain said, stepping forward. Selexin continued to mutter to himself.

'Hey!'

Selexin stopped. He turned and stared at Swain.

'What?' he said angrily. In his anger, the little man possessed a ferocity that belied his size.

Swain cocked his head. 'Are you saying that humans have been in this thing before? In this contest?'

Selexin sighed. 'Yes. Twice. In the last two Presidia, humans have participated.'

'And what happened to them?'

Selexin laughed sadly. 'Both were the first to be eliminated. Neither one ever stood a chance.' He cocked an eyebrow. 'Now I know why.'

He looked down at the wristwatch. It now read:

INCOMPLETE--3

Swain said, 'And how exactly were they selected for this thing?'

As Selexin explained, but for one crucial modification, the process for human selection for the Seventh Presidian was largely unchanged from that which had operated for the two Presidia before it. Beings unable to accept the fact that other lifeforms existed in the universe could hardly be expected to choose a contestant of their own accord, let alone appreciate the concept of the Presidian.

After all, humans had not even been considered for inclusion in any Presidian until two thousand years ago -- human development having been disappointingly slow.

All six of the other systems chose their own representatives for the millennial Presidian either by holding a competition of their own or by choosing their greatest sportsman, huntsman or warrior. Earth, on the other hand, would be surveyed for some time, and from that surveillance, a worthy contestant would be chosen.

'Well, they didn't look too hard this time,' Swain said. 'I've never picked a fight in my life.'

'Oh, but--'

'I'm a doctor,' Swain said. 'Do you know what a doctor is? I don't kill people. I--'

'I know what a doctor is, and I know precisely what they do,' Selexin shot back. 'But you have forgotten what I said earlier -- one crucial modification was made to the selection criteria this time.

'You see, for the last two Presidia the choice of the human contestant was based largely on combat skills, and combat skills alone. This was obviously a mistake. After the dismal performance of those two human contestants, it was decided that other, less obvious skills should be taken into account in the selection process for this Presidian.

'Of course, fighting skills would be necessary, but this time they would not be conclusive. Now, from our observations of your planet, we could see that human warriors were adept at using artificially propelled weapons -- firearms, missiles and the like. But such weapons are forbidden in the Presidian. Only self-propelled weapons are allowed -- throwing knives, bladed weapons. So, first of all, we needed a human proven in hand-to-hand combat. Naturally, several warriors of your race fulfilled this requirement.

'But other skills were also deemed necessary, skills which are not often found in your warrior types. High mental aptitude levels were a primary consideration -- in particular, the ability to respond to a crisis, objective rational thinking in the face of the potentially bizarre, and most importantly, adaptive intelligence.'

'Adaptive intelligence?'

'Yes. The ability to evaluate a scenario in an instant, take in all the immediately available solutions, and then act. We often call this reactive thinking -- the ability to think clearly under pressure and use any available means to solve one's problem. Based on our prior experience with humans, it was anticipated that the human contestant would probably not be an offensive, proactive contestant. Rather, he or she would be more defensive, reactive to a situation of someone else's making. So a quick-thinking, adaptive personality was required. You.'

Swain shook his head. He hardly thought of himself as a quick-thinking, adaptive personality. He saw himself as a good doctor, but not brilliant. He knew of countless other surgeons and physicians who were miles ahead of him in both knowledge and ability. He was just good at what he did, but quick-thinking or adaptive?

'Make no mistake, Contestant, your skills as a physician have been under scrutiny for some time now. Clear, reactive thought, under intense pressure -- have you ever experienced that before?'

'Well, yes, lots of times, but still... I mean, God, I've never been in combat--'

'Oh, but you have,' Selexin said. 'Your selection was based on your response to a life-threatening combat situation not so long ago, a situation that involved multiple enemies.'

Swain thought about it. A life-threatening combat situation involving multiple enemies. He wondered if college football counted as life-threatening. Christ, it sounded like something that would be better suited to somebody in the army or the police force.

The police force...

That night...

Swain thought about that night one month ago in October, when the five heavily-armed gang members had stormed the ER at St Luke's. He remembered his fight with the two pistol-toting youths -- remembered tackling the first one, then punching the second one in his wrist, dislodging his gun -- and then struggling with the first one again -- and falling to the floor in a heap -- and then hearing the gun discharge that final fatal shot.

Life-threatening? Definitely.

Swain suddenly realised that he was rubbing the cut on his lower lip.

'There is another thing,' Selexin said, interrupting his thoughts. The little man lifted his small white hand, offering the grey wristband to Swain.

'Take it, put it on. You will need it. Especially if we are separated.'

Swain took the wristband but did not put it on. 'Now, wait just a minute. I haven't agreed to be a part of this little show of yours yet--'

Selexin shook his head. 'You have not understood what I have been telling you. Your selection for the Presidian has been finalised. You no longer have any choice in the matter.'

'It doesn't seem like I ever did.'

'Please, just look at your wristband.'

Swain looked at the watch, at the display beneath the glowing green light. It read:

INCOMPLETE--3

Selexin said, 'See that number -- three. Soon that number will reach seven. When it does, we will know that all seven contestants have been teleported into the labyrinth. Then the Presidian will begin.' He looked seriously at Swain. 'You are here now, and whether you like it or not, you have become an integral part of this contest.'

Selexin pointed at the wristband. 'And when that number hits "7" you will become fair game for six other contestants who all have the same goal that you have. To get out.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Remember what I told you,' Selexin said. 'Seven enter, but only one leaves. The labyrinth is completely electrified. There is absolutely no way out. Except by teleport. And that is initialised only when one contestant remains in the labyrinth. That is the exit from the labyrinth -- and only the winner leaves. If, of course, there is a winner.'

Selexin slowed down. 'Mr Swain, the other contestants, they don't care whether or not you decide to accept your status as a contestant. They will kill you anyway. Because they are all well aware that unless every contestant bar one is dead, no-one leaves the labyrinth. The ultimate contest, Mr Swain.'

Swain looked at the little man in disbelief. He let out a slow breath through his nose. 'So you're telling me that not only are we stuck in here, but that soon there will be six other guys in here too, whose only way out is to make sure that I'm dead.'

'Yes. That is right.'

'Holy shit.'

----ooo0ooo------

Swain stood in the stairwell, by the fire door leading to the study hall. Holly stood behind him, holding onto his shirt tail.

He looked at the thick grey wristband now clasped firmly around his left wrist. It looked like a manacle from the arm of an electric chair -- thick and solid, and heavy too. The little green light glowed while the display still read:

INCOMPLETE--3

Swain turned to Selexin, 'So there are only three of us in here now. Is that right?'

'Yes. That is right.'

'Does that mean that we can walk around safely now?'

'I do not understand.'

'Well, not everyone is in the labyrinth yet,' Swain said. 'So say I want to wander around and have a look at this place -- what happens if I bump into another contestant? He can't kill me, can he? Not yet.'

Selexin said, 'No, he cannot. Combat of any kind between contestants is strictly prohibited until all seven have entered the labyrinth. In any case, I would advise you against "wandering about".'

'Why not, if they can't hurt us, we can safely have a look around the library.'

'That is true, but if you decide to wander, you do hazard the risk of being sequenced.'

'Sequenced?'

'Yes. If you do happen to meet another contestant before all seven have been teleported into the labyrinth, you can be assured that he -- or she -- cannot hurt you in any way. You may converse with other contestants if you want to, or you may ignore them completely.' Selexin spread his palms. 'Very simple.'

Then he held up a finger.

'However. If you do meet another contestant, there is nothing to stop that contestant following you until the remaining contestants have been teleported into the labyrinth, and the Presidian has commenced. That is sequencing, and it has proved to be a common tactic in previous Presidia.

'Another contestant can quite rightfully walk two feet behind you for the whole time until the Presidian commences and you cannot touch him -- for just as he cannot hurt you, you cannot hurt him either. And once the last contestant has been teleported into the labyrinth and your wristband reads "7", well...' Selexin shrugged. 'You had better be ready to fight.'

'Great,' Swain said, frowning at the thick grey wristband clamped to his wrist.

At that moment, the display flickered.

Swain was momentarily startled. 'What's this?'

Selexin looked at the wristband. The display read:

INCOMPLETE--3

Then it vanished and the screen came up again, reading:

INCOMPLETE--4

'What's that mean?' Swain asked. 'It means,' Selexin said, 'that another contestant has arrived in the labyrinth.'

In the atrium of the library, Officer Christine Parker sat behind the Information Desk with her mouth agape and her eyes wide.

She was staring at the hulking seven-foot figure standing before her, in front of the massive glass doors of the library.

Parker remembered how Hawkins had wandered off twenty minutes ago, looking for some damned white light that he thought he had seen. She also remembered laughing loudly when he'd told her about it.

Now she didn't feel like laughing.

Moments ago, she had seen a perfect sphere of brilliant white light appear in front of her. It was fully ten feet in diameter and it lit up the whole cavernous space of the atrium like an enormous light bulb.

And then it had vanished.

Extinguished in an instant.

Gone.

And now in its place stood a figure that looked something like a man. A seven-foot-tall, perfectly proportioned man -- with broad muscular shoulders narrowing to an equally muscular waist.

A man clad entirely in black.

Parker stared at him in awe.

The streams of soft blue light that filtered in through the great glass doors of the library surrounded the tall black figure before her, creating a spectacular silhouette, while at the same time highlighting one particularly distinguishing feature of the man.

The 'man' had horns.

Two long beautifully tapered horns that protruded from both sides of his head, and then stretched upwards so that they almost touched two feet above his head.

He stood absolutely still.

Parker thought he might have been a statue, but for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his powerfully built chest. Parker's eyes searched the head for a face, but with the light source behind him, all she could see beneath the two sharp rising horns was an empty space of ominous black.

But there was something wrong with the silhouette.

Something on the man's shoulder that was not black, something that broke the perfect symmetry of his body. It was a lump. A small white lump that seemed to slump over his left shoulder.

Parker squinted in the darkness, tried to determine what the small lump was.

She leaned back in her seat, her eyes wide.

It looked like another man...

A very small man. Dressed completely in white--

And then, suddenly, there was light again.

Sharp, sudden, brilliant white light filled the atrium of the State Library. Blinding spheres of light, four feet in diameter -- half the size of the one she had seen before -- illuminated everything around Parker.

Parker saw two small spheres of light before her... then three... then four. Loose sheets of paper began to blow about all around her, just as they had done before.

She looked beyond the swirling sheets of paper, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall man in black. But amid the billowing pages and the blinding light, the horned man remained completely still, impervious to distraction.

And then, in a flare of white, Parker saw the man's face.

He was staring at her.

Straight at her.

It was terrifying. Their eyes locked and a flood of adrenalin instantly rushed through Parker's body. All she could see were deep blue eyes set against a harsh black face. Eyes devoid of emotion. Eyes that simply stared.

Stared right at her.

Sheets of paper fluttered wildly around his unmoving frame and then--

And then abruptly, darkness again.

The four white spheres of light had vanished instantly. The wind stopped abruptly, and all over the atrium, sheets of paper glided softly to the floor.

Parker spun to face the spot where one of the spheres had been--

--only to see something small scuttle away behind a nearby bookcase, its long black tail lashing against the bottom shelf of the bookcase as it disappeared from view.

An eerie silence filled the atrium.

The enormous room was once again bathed in the soft blue light of the street lamps outside.

Parker looked back from the bookshelf, saw the carpet of loose paper spread out on the floor before her. In the silence, she could hear herself breathing heavily.

'Salve, moriturum es!'

A voice -- a deep, baritone voice.

Echoing loudly in the atrium.

Parker's head snapped up. It had come from the silhouetted man.

'Salve, moriturum es!' he repeated, loudly. His face was again masked by blackness, shadowed by the blue light behind him. Parker couldn't even see his lips move.

She heard the words. Salve moriturum es. They sounded vaguely familiar, like something she had learned at school, something that she had long since forgotten...

The big man took a step toward her. A glint of gold flashed off his dark shadowed chest.

Now she could see the small white lump on his shoulder quite clearly. It was a man all right, a small man, held in a fireman's carry over the horned man's shoulder. The little man groaned as the tall horned man moved toward the Information Desk.

Behind the counter of the desk, Parker leaned back, and slowly -- silently -- eased her Glock 20 semi-automatic pistol from its holster.

The tall man spoke.

'Greetings, fellow competitor. Before you stands Bellos. Great-grandson of Trome, the winner of the Fifth Presidian. And like his great-grandfather and two Malonians before him, Bellos shall emerge from this battle alone, conquered by none and not undone by the Karanadon. Who be'st thou, my worthy and yet unfortunate opponent?'

There was silence as the man waited for an answer.

Parker heard a soft, insistent scraping sound from the bookshelves to her left. It sounded like long fingernails moving quickly back and forth on a blackboard. She turned back to face him.

The man -- Bellos -- was looking at her, examining her, up and down, right and left.

Parker swallowed. 'I don't--'

'Where is your guide?' the deep baritone voice suddenly interjected. A demand, not a question.

'My guide?' Parker's face displayed her incomprehension.

'Yes,' Bellos said. 'Your guide. How will you confirm any conquest without a guide?'

Beneath the counter, Parker's hand gripped her gun tightly. 'I have no guide,' she said coolly.

The big man cocked his head, his sharp horns tilting to the side. Parker watched him carefully as he pondered over her comment for a moment. He glanced down at the large metal band attached to his wrist. It had a green light on it...

The scraping sound behind the bookshelf got faster, more intense.

Impatient.

Bellos looked up from his wristband and levelled his eyes at Parker.

'You are not a contestant in the Presidian, are you?'

He looked at the wide atrium around him, at the bookshelves to his left and right. Then he looked back at Parker, a glint of menace in his eyes.

'Good,' Bellos said, smiling. 'Kataya!'

The attack came from Parker's left. From the bookshelves.

The creature sprang forward, leaping at the counter of the Information Desk with frightening speed. It hit the counter hard, grabbing the edge with two vicious-looking foreclaws, baring twin rows of long, razor-sharp teeth, squealing a loud reptilian squeal.

Parker reeled back in horror, staring in shocked disbelief at the creature before her.

It was the size of a large dog, about four feet tall, with hard scaly skin that was gunmetal black in colour. It had four bony-but-muscular limbs and a long, black scaled tail that slithered madly behind its body.

Stunned, Parker just stared at the creature as it struggled to climb over the counter.

Supported by a thin black neck, its head was totally bizarre. Two lifeless black eyes sat on either side of a round black skull, whose sole purpose it seemed was to accommodate the creature's enormous jaws.

The creature lashed out at Parker, clamping its pointed teeth down in front of her.

Parker pulled back from the counter, away from the creature, raised her gun--

--and then in a strange, flashing instant she saw the creature's limbs on the counter.

It was not struggling to climb over the counter anymore -- it was already there.

It lashed out at her again. Missed again.

Parker was momentarily startled.

It wasn't even trying to get her. It was as if this creature were merely trying to keep her attention...

It was then that a second creature hit her from the side. Knocking the wind out of her, jolting the pistol from her hand.

Parker stumbled from the impact, catching a split-second glimpse of what had hit her -- another creature, identical to the first.

A third creature charged her from behind, pitching her forward, face-first onto the ground. Parker rolled quickly onto her back and suddenly felt a heavy weight slam down onto her chest.

A loud reptilian squeal pierced her ears as two rows of long jagged teeth opened wide in front of her eyes.

It was standing on top of her!

Parker screamed as the creature slashed its long fore-claw across her stomach and ducked its head.

And as she lay on the floor, helpless to resist the slicing of the creatures' sharp teeth as ail four of them began to feed on her belly, Officer Christine Parker suddenly remembered -- quite irrationally -- what the words 'Salve moriturum es' meant.

They were Latin words -- words similar to those spoken by Roman gladiators when they were presented to the cheering crowd before combat -- 'We who are about to die, salute you'.

However, as Parker sank to the floor, her strength fading, and the weight of the four creatures now pressing down heavily on her body, she realised that Bellos had changed the words slightly, changing the meaning.

^'Salve moriturum es' meant: 'I salute you, you who are about to die.'

----ooo0ooo------

'I am not sure this is such a good idea,' Selexin said as he followed Swain and Holly through the fire door into the stairwell.

Swain peered down into the shaft, ignoring Selexin. Holly, however, turned to face the little man.

'If you're from another planet,' she said, 'how come you speak English so well?'

Selexin said, 'My native tongue is based on an alphabet comprised of seven hundred and sixty-two distinct symbols. With only twenty-six base letters to choose from, your language is exceedingly simple to learn apart from the dreadful idioms.'

'Oh.'

Swain continued to stare down the shaft.

'I was saying,' Selexin repeated for him, 'that I am not sure this is a very good idea. The chances of sequencing increase as more contestants enter the labyrinth.'

Swain was silent for a long moment.

'You're probably right,' he said, looking down into the dark shaft. Then he turned to face Selexin. 'But then again, if I'm going to be running for my life in this place, I don't want to be doing it in rooms and corridors that I don't know. At least if we look around, we might get to know where we can and can't run if we are followed. I sure as hell don't want to run into a dead end with some half-cocked killer behind me. And besides,' he shrugged, 'we might even find somewhere to hole up if we have to.'

'Hole up?'

'Yes, hole up. Hide,' Swain said. 'You know, escape. Maybe even just stay in the one place until everybody else has killed each other.'

'That is improbable,' Selexin said.

'Why is it improbable? Surely it must be the best way to survive this whole damn thing. We just hide away somewhere, let the others do the fighting and maybe they'll...'

Selexin wasn't listening. He was just standing there, staring at Swain, waiting for him to stop talking.

Swain said, 'What? What is it?'

Selexin cocked his head to one side. 'If you remember what I told you before, you will understand.'

'What? What did you tell me before?'

'As I have said from the beginning, only one contestant leaves the labyrinth. And if not one, none.'

Swain nodded. 'I remember. But how can that happen? If only one contestant is left in the maze, he's safe to find the exit and leave, because there's nothing left to kill him...'

Selexin did not answer.

Swain sighed, '... unless there's something else in here.'

Selexin nodded. 'That is right,' he said. 'The third element of the Presidian.'

'The third element?'

Selexin stepped back into the study hall and sat down at one of the L-shaped desks. Swain and Holly followed.

'Yes, an outside agent. A variable. Something that is capable of altering the conditions of combat instantly. Something that can turn victory into defeat, life into death. In the Presidian, the third element is a beast, a beast known throughout the galaxy as the Karanadon.'

Swain was silent.

'It is a most powerful beast, like no other,' Selexin said. 'As tall as the ceiling, as broad as three men, and as strong as twenty -- and its considerable strength is only matched by its unbridled aggression--'

'Okay, okay,' Swain said, 'I think I get the picture. This thing, it's in here too, right? Trapped inside, like the rest of us?'

'Yes.'

'So what does it do? Does it just wander around killing whoever it pleases?'

Selexin said, 'Well, for one thing, it does not just wander around...'

Swain let out a breath in relief.

'... all of the time.'

Swain groaned.

'But if you will just look at your wristband for a moment,' Selexin said, 'I will explain everything.'

Swain looked down at the heavy grey band on his wrist. The display still read:

INCOMPLETE--4

'You will remember,' Selexin said, 'that when I gave you your wristband, I told you it would be of vital importance to you, yes? Well, it is more than that. Without it, you will not survive the Presidian.

'Your wristband serves many purposes, one of which is to identify you as a contestant in the Presidian. For example, you cannot win the Presidian unless you are wearing your wristband -- you will simply be denied entry into the exit-teleport when it is opened. In the same way, other contestants will know that you are competing in the Presidian because they will see your wristband. This will protect you in the time before the Presidian commences -- but it will also tell others that you are still a competitor who must be eliminated.

'However, in addition to this, your wristband provides several other, more important functions. First of all, as you have no doubt already noticed, there is a glowing green light on it. That light answers your previous question: no -- the Karanadon does not just "wander" around. The green light you see indicates that the beast is at present dormant, nesting somewhere within the labyrinth. Or more simply, asleep. Wherefore, movement throughout the labyrinth is, at least for the moment, uninhibited by the Karanadon. Hence the green light.'

'The band can tell when it's asleep?' Swain said doubtfully.

'It is done through a device, surgically implanted in the beast's larynx, that electronically measures its rate of respiration. Respiration below a certain rate indicates sleep, respiration above -- animation. That device, however, also provides some degree of control over the beast. It can, at official command, either secrete a sedative that will put the beast to sleep or inject a hormone that will rouse it immediately.'

'When would that happen?' Swain asked. 'When would you want it to wake up?'

'Why, when there is only one contestant left, of course,' Selexin said. 'Perhaps I can explain this another way. There have been six previous Presidia. Three have been won by Malonians, one by a Konda, and one by a Crisean.'

'Okay.'

Selexin stared at Swain. 'Well, that's it. That's the point.'

'What's the point?'

'There have been six Presidia, while there have been only five winners,' Selexin said.

The little man sighed. 'That is what I am trying to tell you. There may be no winner in the Presidian -- unless one is worthy, none are worthy. There was no winner in the last Presidian, because the Karanadon killed all of the final three contestants when they happened upon its nest during combat. In the space of two minutes, the Presidian was over, due solely to the beast.'

'Oh.'

Selexin went on: 'And, as has always been the case, when only one contestant remains, and the exit-teleport to the labyrinth has been opened, the Karanadon is roused. One may choose to avoid it and search the labyrinth for the exit. Or one might attempt to kill it if he dares.'

Swain said, 'And has anybody ever done that before? Killed one?'

Selexin looked at Swain as though he had asked the most stupid question in the world.

'In a Presidian? No. Never. Not ever.' There was a short pause. Selexin moved on. 'But, anyway, as you will hopefully live to see later, when the beast is awake, the red light on your wristband will ignite.'

'Uh-huh. And this beast, this Karanadon, it was teleported into the library at the same time I was?'

'No,' Selexin said, 'the Karanadon is traditionally teleported into the labyrinth at least a day before the Presidian is to commence. But that does not really matter, because it would have been asleep all that time. Unless, of course, it was aroused. But that is unlikely.'

'I have one more question,' Swain said.

'Yes?'

'What if someone got out of this maze of yours? Now I know you think it can't happen, but what if it did? What happens then?'

'You credit me with a faith I do not possess. No, I accept your question quite easily, because it can happen. In fact, it has happened. Contestants have been known to be ejected from the labyrinth, either by design or by simple accident.'

'So what happens?'

'Again, it is your wristband that governs this situation,' Selexin said. 'As you know, an electric field covers this labyrinth. Your wristband operates in accordance with that field. If for some reason your wristband detects that it is no longer surrounded by the electric field, it automatically sets a timer for self-detonation.'

'A timer for self-detonation,' Swain said. 'You mean it explodes?'

'Not instantly. There is a time limit. You are allowed fifteen min--'

'Jesus Christ! You put a goddamn bomb on my wrist! Why didn't you tell me that before!' Swain couldn't believe it. It was incredible. He began to fiddle hurriedly with the wristband, trying to get it off.

'It won't come off,' Selexin said calmly. 'It can't come off, you waste your time even trying.'

'Shit,' Swain muttered, still grabbing at the solid metal band.

'Language,' Holly said, waving an admonishing finger at Swain.

'As I was saying,' Selexin said, 'if by some chance you are expelled from the labyrinth, you will have fifteen minutes to re-enter it. Otherwise, detonation will occur.'

He looked sadly at Swain, still fiddling with the wristband. Finally Swain gave up.

'You needn't worry,' Selexin said. 'Detonation will only occur upon expulsion from the labyrinth, and as I admit that it has happened before, I also add that it has not happened often. No-one gets out. Mr Swain, you must see now that whichever way you go there remains but one answer. Unless you leave this contest as the victor, you do not leave at all.'

----ooo0ooo------

Hawkins stood at the base of the stairwell, the beam of his flashlight the only light. There were no more stairs going down from here. Nothing but concrete walls and a large fire door that read: sub-level 2.