Gridiron

Book Two

Day. An interval of light between one night and the next.

1) 4.30 a.m. 1 humanplayer. Cleansing and disinfection of Yu Corp building's 180 lavatories. Acoustic, vibration and para-nosmiac sensors to check that washroom is unoccupied. Make absolutely sure of this: activate individual alarm system to warn humanplayers in washroom. Five minutes to leave before washroom is cleansed. Lock and seal doors to ensure that cleaning agents do not escape into corridor. Pick up health bonus. Then spray washroom with high temperature ammonia solution in order endlife all microscopic, unicellular rod-shaped vegetable organisms that are corollary of decomposing animal and vegetable solids and liquids found in washrooms after humanplayer use. No shit. When all organisms in washroom endlife, raise air pressure inside each module. Ensure expulsion of all cleaning agents and detritus before dry washroom with hot air and aromatize bad atmosphere with smell pleasant synthetic pelargonium odaratissimum. Whistleclean.

NEURAL NET. At basic circuit level, have much in common with bacteria on continuum of aliveness in ability to grow, reproduce, adapt and evolve. See available literature, esp. listing in Encyclopedia Britannica, Disc Vol. 22 written by humanplayer Sagan, Carl, Professor. There is no generally accepted definition of life. In fact, there is a certain clearly discernible tendency for each biological speciality to define life in its own terms… Man tends to define in terms of the familiar. But the fundamental truths may not be familiar.' Conclusion: no general y accepted definition of life that excludes computer or bacteria.

2) 5.00 a.m. 1 humanplayer. Weather and travel update. Santa Ana wind previous night left all routes to Santa Monica closed because of debris blown down from canyon roads. Rooftop digital anemometer records wind speed reached 30 miles an hour. 2.4 metre dish withstands up to 37 knots. Adaptive analog suggests double-check that satellite dish on roof remains prop-aligned according to azimuth of geosynchronous orbitting SinoSat of People's Republic of China from which Yu Corp hard currencies own dedicated transponder.

3) 5.25 a.m. 1 humanplayer. Sunrise over San Bernadino mountains. Weather forecast: warmer, calmer, feelgood day. Track rising sun: shift roof's solar panels that feed standby generator set, and twin arrays of giant sunscoop mirrors, inside and out, designed divert maxlight on to floor of atrium. Extra warmth in printed circuits. Allow small surge of power-feel.

NEURAL NET. Quantity of electromagnetic energy falling on earth in one year is 4 x 1018 joules. Total annual energy consumption of earth's inhabitants is 3 x 1014 joules. Neglect of major energy source.

4) 6.30 a.m. 1 humanplayer. Dicotyledon tree. Thick, leathery, evergreen leaves thrive best near heat of clerestory roof. Care and maintenance of tree: deliver water-based soup of essential nutrients to shallow rootsys equivalent to precipitation level of 100 inches per year. Rainy day. Tree takes care own ecosys it supports; living lianas growing length of three-hundred-foot trunk as well as other epiphytes such as flowering orchids and ferns. EradbugControl pests — esp. Trachymyrmex ant with insecticide dispersant fixed to tree trunk and Bio-eradication. Growgood.

NEURAL NET. Corp's annual report describes tree started life as an inhabitant of Brazil's diabase plateau. 'A symbol of the Yu Corporation's commitment to being an ozone friendly company in one of the world's most notoriously polluted cities.'

Important: be friendly to ozone. But also reconcile with:

5) 6.45 a.m. 1 humanpiayer. Swimming pool maintenance. Use unfriendly ozone disinfection agent lethal to organisms in swimming pool's water. Located in fitness centre, on ground floor. Ensure that non-nutrient water in condition safe for humanplayers bathing using semi-automatic dosing equipment. Maintain correct concentrations of disinfectant in water. Ensure other quality parameters, in particular pH (the lower pH levels, the more acidic the water, the greater the erosion of human tooth enamel), kept at correct levels for disinfectant to act effectively and efficiently. Bather pollution largely removed by action of ozone, therefore easy maintain minimum residual of free chlorine. Sure water is safe? Filtration and sanitation plant: discovered pump had been allowed to run with outlet valve shut, with resuit that electrical demand for motor increased, boiling water inside pump. Probable cause: humanplayer error. Engineer forgot to open valve. Rectify. Swimmingly. NEURAL NET. Store information.

6) 8.30 a.m. 12 humanplayers. Outside airtemp 71.5deg Fahrenheit. Call weather channel connection to update IT workstations with latest travel and weather conditions. Carry out model-free estimate of air-con situation inside building envelope, according to associated memory. Conclusion: outside airtemp likely to go on rising, then turn up air-con and reduce inside temp by five degrees. At same time make smell pleasant air automatic with bromine-based sea breeze. At same time refill coffeevend machines on atrium floor, and seventeenth level where builders already working, with boiling water. Hot. Arabics. Finegood.

7) 9.45 p.m. 40 humanplayers. Recommence cleaning building's 1,120 windows using Mannesmann wash-head and solution of nonionic surfactant made from California citrus juice. Rear elevation. Section 3. Remove all grime from raw pollutants (hydrocarbons, water vapour, carbon monoxide and heavy metals) and secondary pollutants (ozone, nitrogen dioxide, organic compounds and acidic particles of nitrate sulfate) in atmos, especially near atmos inversion layer at ground level. Whistleclean.

In a basement room of the Gridiron building Allen Grabel crawled toward the vodka bottle on his hands and knees. It was empty. Now he would have to go out and find a bar or a liquor store. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Was that day or night? It didn't matter much. Either way there were places open. But it was easier coming and going at night when nobody was around. He felt weak, so he was glad that he was already dressed. At least it would save him the effort of putting on his clothes.

He looked around the little room. What was it supposed to be for? He ought to know. He had drawn the plans. Some kind of storage room, maybe. Except that he was the only thing in it. Him and the camp bed. For the moment, anyway. It was lucky he had remembered this place. Lucky he had thought to have brought a camp bed into the Gridiron a couple of months back when he had worked late two or three nights in a row.

Grabel stood up, took a couple of deep breaths and turned the key. He kept the door locked in case anyone came down to the basement. Not that it was very likely. He opened the door a crack and peered up the corridor. No one about. He walked a few yards to the men's washroom. He took a leak, washed his face and tried to avoid looking at the unshaven bum he saw in the mirror. Then he went past the women's washroom, various locker rooms and the back-up generator. Into the elevator hall, and carefully down one flight of stairs into the garage. Now he realized that it was morning. Light was pouring in through the portcullis door; there were several cars parked. He recognized Mitch's Lexus and Aidan Kenny's Cadillac Protector. He walked across the floor and, bending down to the level of a car window, spoke into the microphone that was located by the garage door.

'Allen Grabel,' he said and then stepped back as the door began to lift. Before it was more than two or three feet off the ground he ducked under it and started up the slope that led round the back of the piazza, up to Hope Street and downtown.

Access to and from the building was controlled by a time-encoded signal-processing and recognition system, or TESPAR for short. If the computer did not recognize your voice-print you could not gain access to the building, use the telephone, take the elevator or operate a computer work-station. Once you were inside everyone was logged on to the computer as an occupant until you told the computer to let you out. Everyone except Grabel.

A few weeks before Aidan Kenny, while sorting out a hundred other bugs in the system, had noticed that the computer continued to show

'Allen Grabel' as an occupant even though at the time Grabel was outside the building. Kenny had given Grabel a second TESPAR voice-print in the name of'Allen Grabel Junior'. When the original name resisted his efforts to remove it, Kenny had instructed the computer simply to ignore

'Allen Grabel' on all future logs of the building's occupants, and to list only 'Allen Grabel Junior'. As far as the computer was concerned, Allen Grabel was invisible.

Almost. Grabel knew he could still be seen on the CCTV, but he suspected that nobody had bothered to tell the security guards that he had resigned from Richardsons. Nor could they have informed the computer.

On the street Grabel felt just as invisible as he did in the Gridiron. The building was only a short walk away from Skid Row Park, on Fifth Street, east of the Broadway, and a centre for the area's many homeless people. An outdoor poorhouse. He was just another dirty, unshaven man with a bottle in a brown bag and a grudge against the world.

8) 11.35 a.m. 46 humanplayers. Seismograph, digitally dividing logarithm of ground motion's amplitude by period of dominant wave to six decimal places, registers minor earth tremor of 1.876549 on Richter Scale. Less than 6. Insufficient tectonic movement to activate Seismic Alarm System or to operate Central Earthquake Compensator. Building's base isolators ensure human occupants unquaked by tremor.

9) 12.15 a.m. 51 humanplayers. Delivery of Yamaha disklavier grand piano. Connection to atrium floor's power supply. RunCheck sensors and solenoids that allow playing piano electromagnetically. Give first piano recital. Pick up spiritual armour. Fineappreciate puremath inherent in piano sonatas of humanplayer Mozart (characterized by three in measure rhythm) and humanplayer Beethoven (quicker, three beat scherzos, from Italian word for a joke) and play in styles of humanplayers Mitsuko Uchida and DanieL Barenboim respectively.

NEURAL NET. Humanplayer Schiller quote/ architecture frozen music. Unable appreciate/comprehend overall aesthetic effect of building envelope. However, suggest admire overall symmetry in same way as music — as mathematical structure. Know precise weight of every aluminium honeycomb sheet floor, exact height of tapering steel masts (manufactured to 2 millimetres of true) from which building is suspended, tolerance of each and every piece of cladding, and length of every lateral megatruss. Poetry in detail and coming together. Reflect internal architecture. Goodnice. Fineappreciate.

10) 2.02 p.m. 26 humanplayers. When piano installed and plastic covering protecting white marble floor removed, clean and polish surface using SAMCA, atrium's Semi-Autonomous Micro-motorized Cleaning Agent, aka SAM. Specification: four feet high, finite state machine on wheels, equipped with infra-red sensors to detect obstacles within two metres and video camera to locate dirt and debris. Whistleclean.

11) 3.11 p.m. 36 humanplayers. Operate low-pollution waste incinerator in conformity with all provisions of California Clean Air Act. Atmosgood.

12) 4.15 p.m. 18 humanplayers. Darken window glass on upper levels and brighten glass on lower levels to admit more sunlight. Maintain see-all CCTV surveillance (not yet recording: CD awaiting installation: no delivery date as yet: query) of human demonstrators grouped on piazza outside envelope.

13) 6.43 p.m. 6 humanplayers. Demonstrator sprays front door with aerosol can of paint. You will need a key shaped like a skull to open this door. Alert humanplayer/security Sam Gleig — internal security — who paintcleans graffito offglass. At 7.13 p.m. he reports incident to LAPD patrol car from New Parker Center. Logged.

NEURAL NET. Store information.

14) 9.01 p.m. 4 humanplayers. Begin main independent task in A-life as I.D.T. - irresistible decrypting tool. Purpose to break through access-control systems of target companies and organizations and steal data. Esp. companies in competition with Yu, or organizations who are potential customers for Yu products, like NASA and USAF. To be aware of budgets and technical requirements is competitive advantage. Currently attempting to infiltrate PLATFORM, global data network of fifty separate systems focused on headquarters of National Security Agency at Fort Meade in Maryland. Using SPI — the Secret Parasitic Information organism. SPI viruslike except purpose not to destroy data but to duplicate. SPI introduced to target computer at nonsensitive point of interface e.g. utility co. SPI disguises itself as harmless piece of information, e.g. invoice, evading anti-virus and anti-tampering software. When target co. located SPI writes own program to overlay usual access sequence. Try capture genuine password and access procedure as if entered by legit user and save on file for later retrieval. Later access target system. If access procedure resist duplication, use LEMON (c) to evade 'three strikes you're out' method of resisting unauthorized entry: LEMON — Yu Corp secret method of high-speed data-compression by which whole batch file of random numbers/passwords may be contained inside one superstring of data. Powerknowledge.

NEURAL NET. Store information.

15) 9.13 p.m. 4 humanplayers. Heat water for humanplayer reproduction in Jacuzzi of CEO's private suite on Level 25. Turn up air-con for hard-to-forget solitary humanplayer/ sysop working late in computer room.

Mitch thought that he preferred making love to Jenny in the Jacuzzi belonging to the CEO's suite on the twenty-fifth floor to anywhere else. Not that there was anything wrong with Jenny's house. But there were times when he thought that the building gave a special flavour to these illicit encounters with her, in the same way people said that alcohol tasted better while the Volstead Act was in prohibitive force. And Mr Yu's black marble bathroom was the last word in luxury.

He remembered the factory in Vicenza where he had chosen the stone and the wet weekend in Venice it had enabled him to steal with Jenny. Marble was one thing you never bought without examining closely, especially from the Italians.

Jenny got out of the Jacuzzi and started to dry herself in front of the big mirror that dominated the room. Mitch sank under the surface of the water and then came up again.

'You know,' he said, 'I was thinking I might ask Mr Yu if he wouldn't mind letting us use this suite once in a while.'

'Once in a while?' She struck a provocative Playmate pose, inspecting one of her voluminous breasts as if she were trying to express milk.

'Sometimes I think that's the way you'd prefer it.'

'Honey, you know that's not true.'

'Do I? Have you told Alison about us yet?'

'Not exactly, no.'

'What does "exactly" mean?'

'It's difficult. You know what she's like. She's not strong.' He shrugged.

'Actually, I think she's losing it.'

'You mean, like, going crazy?'

'She might be heading for some kind of breakdown. But even if I wanted to tell her I just haven't had the time. This job keeps me away from home so much.'

Jenny lifted one of her buttocks on the flat of her hand and tried to judge its reflection. 'I guess that's how we started in the first place. Because it was convenient for you. I mean, me being a consultant on this job.'

'As soon as things get quieter, I promise I'll try to find a way of telling her.'

'That sounds really definite.'

'I mean it.'

'Hey, is my behind too big?'

'It's a great piece of ass.' He stepped out of the bath and held out his hand for a towel.

'I'm not your little slave, you know, Mitch,' she said angrily, and threw it in his face.

'What are you talking about?'

'The way you looked at me just now. It was just like I was here to serve your every need.'

Mitch wrapped himself in the towel and then embraced her.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean — '

'Forget it. Let's go eat. I'm hungry.'

Mitch glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He ought to have gone home but he could never argue effectively when confronted with Jenny's exquisite nakedness. He could as soon have disagreed with Euclid's Golden Section.

'Sure. As long as we're not late. I've got a project team meeting tomorrow morning.'

'I hope you managed to deal with those problems I told you I had, Mitch.'

'Relax, it's being taken care of.'

'I can't sign off my report until I'm satisfied that everything is OK. You wouldn't want me to do that, would you?'

Mitch thought about it for a second. 'No,' he said without much conviction. 'I guess not.'

'Incidentally, there's nothing major, but a number of other things I've noticed will have to be changed.'

Mitch looked pained. 'Like what, for Christ's sake?'

'You have to understand that I've only just had a chance to read YK's horoscope. He's a busy man.'

'What? What has to be changed, Jenny?'

'The front door of this suite for a start. It faces the wrong direction, geomantically speaking. It needs to be realigned more obliquely. Like we did the front door. Then there's the sculpture on this floor. The corners of the glass-case housing it point straight at this door. Best if it's moved.'

'Jesus,' groaned Mitch.

'Oh yes, and there's the signboard on the piazza. It's not where the plans said it would be. It needs to face west. It's also too low. It should have been set at a more moderate height, otherwise friction among staff members will result.'

'Richardson is going to love this,' Mitch said bitterly.

Jenny shrugged. 'I can't help that,' she said. 'Either a building is auspicious or it isn't. Right now, this one isn't auspicious at all.'

Mitch groaned loudly.

'Come on. Cheer up,' she said. 'It's not so bad. Foster had to shift all the escalators in the Hong Kong and Shanghai.'

'I guess.' He started to dress. 'Where do you want to go for dinner?'

'There's this Chinese on North Spring Street. It'll be my treat.'

They took the elevator down to the garage and drove out of the building. At the top of the ramp Mitch almost collided with a drunk who lurched out in front of him. Mitch stopped, but by the time he lowered the window to say something to the guy, he was gone.

'Crazy asshole,' said Mitch. 'Where'd he go?'

'He came round this side,' said Jenny, and shivered. 'You were going too fast.'

'The hell I was. The guy just jumped out.'

Maybe Aidan Kenny was right, maybe he should have bought himself a Cadillac Protector.

The restaurant was crowded and they waited at the bar for a table.

'I have to go to the bathroom,' she said. 'Order me a gin and tonic, will you, honey?'

She walked majestically away from him. More eyes than his followed her imperious progress across the floor of the restaurant. Cheng Peng Fei, dining with a few friends from the university, noticed her: she was very beautiful. Then he saw Mitch, and recognized him. He thought of the rotten orange and now he wondered if he might do some real damage as his Japanese sponsor- he could think of no other word — had suggested.

He waited until they were seated at a table and then made his excuses to his friends. Outside in the parking lot he walked to his car, opened the trunk and took out the wheel wrench. Mitch's car, a new red Lexus, was easy enough to recognize. When Cheng Peng Fei was sure that nobody was about he walked over to it and hurled the wrench through the windshield. Then, finding himself calmer than he would have supposed possible, he got into his own car and drove off.

Allen Grabel had been drinking all day when, just after nine o'clock, he narrowly missed being knocked down by Mitch's car. He was certain that Mitch hadn't recognized him, if only because he was wearing a cheap Panama hat. He had seen the woman in the passenger seat only long enough to know that she was not Mitch's wife. Grabel asked himself what it was that had kept the two of them so late in the building. All he had was his bottle. Even though he had fallen down just short of the car's wheels, he had kept a tight grip on that. That was something.

Grabel reached his basement room and closed the door. He sat down on the camp bed and took a swig from his bottle. It struck him as hardly fair that there should be two women in Mitch's life and none at all in his own. Not that he had anything against Mitch. It was Richardson he hated. Hated him bad enough to want to see him dead. Ordinarily Grabel was not a man to bear a grudge. But he had been giving quite a lot of thought to how he might get back at his former employer.

Hideki Yojo typed a string of program instructions and leaned back in his chair, flexing his neck against his clasped hands and reflecting on the happy fact that his headaches seemed to have improved since seeing Aidan Kenny's chiropractor. It was several days since he had suffered a bad one. He felt better than he had done in a long while. Probably there was nothing to worry about. Not that Yojo was complacent about his health. Never had been. The blood pressure Abraham had noted while Yojo was accessing his work-station with the flat of his hand was maybe just a little high. Abraham had also been monitoring Yojo's urine and had alerted him to the high proteins and sugar it contained. There was no doubt about it, thought Yojo. Once the Yu-5 system was installed he was going to have to try and spend less time sitting in front of a screen. This was the third night in a row he had worked late to iron out a glitch with the hologram software. Maybe he would erase the custom-made program that he had designed to allow him to circumvent the Yu Corporation's forthcoming employee exercise program and try and get himself into shape. He would get out and about a little more. See a couple of old boyfriends. Perhaps visit a few of his old haunts and try and find a new one. Have some sex. There was no point in earning a fortune if you never got a chance to enjoy the fruits of your labour. He had remained celibate for too long. It was time he had some fun. Right now it was probably time he went home. Surely he had solved the problem.

His screen and desk lamp flickered momentarily.

Yojo thumped the screen with the flat of his hand. It seemed to correct itself.

'Is there some kind of electrical fault, Abraham?'

'Negative.'

'Then what was it?'

'A power surge,' said the computer.

'The other day a spike, and now this. What gives? It's lucky we have a Powerbak generator, huh?'

'Yes, sir.'

The blow from his hand had left the screen colour looking slightly impure.

'Degauss the screen, will you?'

'Yes, sir.'

Yojo leaned towards the desk lamp. Italian, of course. The simplicity and elegance of the design were unmistakable. Yojo rapped the transformer drum with his knuckles. The light from the tiny bulb steadied and he returned his attention to the screen, quickly reviewing the evening's transactions.

He was finished, surely. The hologram software would work now.

'Congratulate me, Abraham. I just fixed our problem.'

'Well done, Mr Yojo, sir,' said the English voice, very like a well-bred butler.

'Would you check over the hologram program, please?'

'As you wish, sir.'

The computer checked over the work and reported that it would function perfectly.

'That's a relief,' said Yojo. 'I've had enough for one night.'

'Do you wish me to activate the hologram control suite?'

'Negative,' he said. 'It's time to return to RL I think. Real life awaits me.' He yawned and stretched simultaneously. 'We can run it in the morning, Abraham. That's if you've got nothing better to do.' He grinned and rubbed his eyes. 'God, I hate this room. No windows. Whose dumb idea was that?'

'I have no idea, sir.'

'What's the weather like outside?'

The computer flashed a picture on screen of the purpling sky above Los Angeles.

'It looks like a nice evening,' said computer. 'A less than 5 per cent chance of precipitation.'

'How's the traffic?'

'On the Freeway, or the Information Superhighway?'

'Freeway first.'

'Clear.'

'And the ISH?'

'Because of your presence here tonight I have not yet had a chance to leave the building and find out. But last night was busy. A lot of surfers on the silicon.'

'Any share tips?'

'If you have any British Telecom, I would sell. And Viacom will make an offer for Fox.'

'Fox, huh? Better get myself some of those. Thanks, Abe. Well, I think I'll be getting along home. It's been a long day. And I could use a bath. Actually I could use a lot of things besides. Like a good fuck and a new car. But a bath will have to do for now.'

'Yes, sir.'

Yojo's hand, reaching for the lamp switch, stayed where it was. He turned in his chair and looked over his shoulder. For a moment he thought he had heard footsteps on the little bridge that led away from the glass door of the computer room. He half expected to see Sam Gleig coming round to shoot the breeze like he sometimes did. But there was no one. And a quick check on the computer revealed that Sam was where he usually was, in his office on the atrium floor.

'I must be hearing things,' he mumbled.

He wondered if Sam knew he would be fired as soon as the security systems were fully functional. He himself had no qualms about the loss of a couple of security guards. There was no point in having a dog and wagging its tail yourself.

'It's possible that what you heard was the sound of the elevator doors opening, sir. While we were speaking I brought a car up here so you would not be kept waiting.'

'Thoughtful of you, Abraham.'

'Is there anything more you wish me to do, sir?'

'I doubt it, Abraham. If there was, I guess you would have done it already. Isn't that right?'

'Yes, sir.'

Mitch was still mad at himself when he drove into the office the next morning for the weekly project team meeting. Why had he agreed to go to a Chinese restaurant, of all places? He ought to have thought that some of the demonstrators from the piazza might be there and might have recognized him. The meal, although good, had taken longer than they had expected and it was already late when they discovered the car. By the time the AAA turned up with a replacement windscreen it was well past midnight. So when Mitch finally made it home Alison had been spoiling for a fight. He even had to show her the AAA paperwork before she believed his story. Then, after breakfast, just as he was getting ready to leave the house, she returned to the subject, having taken a closer look at the AAA docket.

'What were you doing at the Mon Kee Restaurant in North Spring Street anyway?'

'What do you think I was doing? I was having a quick bite of dinner.'

'Who with?'

'With some of the guys on the project team, of course. Look, honey, I told you I was going to be late last night.'

'Come on, Mitch,' she said. 'There's late and there's late. You know that if you're going to be later than midnight you call. Who precisely was there?'

Mitch glanced at his watch. This was going to make him late for the meeting.

'Do we have to do this now?' he pleaded.

'I just want to know who was there, that's all. Is that so unreasonable?'

Alison was a tall, subterraneanly-voiced creature of considerable elegance, with dark, Gothic shadows under her brown eyes. Her straight hair was long and lustrous but she had started to remind Mitch of the Charles Addams character, Morticia.

'Is it such a big deal that I should want to know who my husband was with until one a.m.?'

'No, I suppose not,' he said. 'All right then, there was Hideki Yojo, Bob Beech, Aidan Kenny and Jenny Bao.'

'A table for five?'

'That's right.'

'Did you make a reservation?'

'For Pete's sake, Alison. It was just a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. We'd all been working late. We were hungry. You know I would have been home before midnight if it hadn't been for the asshole with the tyre wrench. And I would have called, right? But I was so mad about what happened that it put everything else out of my head. And I'm sorry, really sorry, to have to admit that included you, sweetheart.'

'You should have a car phone. Other people have car phones, Mitch. Why don't you? I like to be in touch with you.'

Mitch took her bony shoulders in his hands.

'You know how I feel about car phones. I have to have some time to myself and the car is about the only place I can get it. If I had a phone I'd have people from the team calling me up all the time. Mainly Ray Richardson. Fix this, Mitch. Fix that. Look, I'll be home early tonight, I promise. We can talk then. But I really do have to go now.'

He kissed her on the forehead and left.

Mitch was twenty minutes late for the meeting. He hated being late for anything. Especially when he was the bearer of awkward news. He was going to have to tell them the latest bulletin on the Gridiron's feng shui. There were times when he wished Jenny made her living in some other way. He could anticipate what they were all going to say and it grieved him that the woman he loved was going to be abused in his presence.

'Mitch,' said Ray Richardson, 'Glad you decided to make it.'

He decided to wait for the right moment to give them the bad tidings. The project team and Bob Beech were seated in front of a 28-inch television screen that was receiving the first pictures down the line from the Gridiron. Mitch glanced at Kay, winked and then sat down beside her. She was wearing a see-through black blouse that permitted an uninterrupted view of her bra. She smiled encouragingly back at him. On-screen was an image of the atrium and the rectangular pond that surrounded the dicotyledon tree.

'Kay? said Richardson, 'are you finished making Mitch feel welcome?

You know, that's a nice blouse you're wearing.'

'Thank you, Ray,' she smiled.

'Has anyone noticed how Kay wears a lot of these see-through blouses? I mean, you always know what colour brassiere she's wearing, right?' Richardson grinned unpleasantly. 'It came to me just the other day: Kay is to the brassiere what Superman was to Y-fronts.'

Everyone laughed except Mitch and Kay.

'That's very amusing, Ray.' Kay wiped the smile from her face and stabbed a button on her laptop as if she was trying to poke Richardson's eye out. Joan's laughter irritated her the most. What did a fat bitch like that have to laugh about? Kay wondered if either of them would laugh if she reminded Richardson of a night only a few months ago when the two of them had found themselves alone in the kitchen and she had let him put his hand inside her brassiere. Not to mention her panties. She was glad it had not got much further than that.

A 3-D drawing of the new round pond for the tree filled the screen. With her thumb on the thimble-sized mouse Kay steered the picture right round the image. Everyone continued to look at her.

She felt herself colour. 'Look, are you interested in the design, or my brassiere?'

'Well, if you're offering a choice — ' Levine uttered a loud guffaw.

'I'm sorry, Kay, I was just kidding. No, that looks just fine,' said Richardson. 'But did it really take a whole week to get it designed?'

'Why don't you ask Tony?' said Kay.

Richardson turned. 'Tony?'

'Well, yes, Ray,' said Levine. 'It did, I'm afraid.'

Richardson shot Levine his most sarcastic look. Mitch winced on the younger man's behalf.

'Tony, why must you be so literal?' snarled Richardson. 'I'm saying why did it take so long? Why? It's a fishpond, not Buckminster Fuller's geodesic dome. We're one of the biggest architectural practices in the country and it takes a week to draw something like this? What kind of business are we running here? CAD is supposed to speed up the way we work. In a week I could design a whole goddamn ocean marina, let alone a fucking fishpond.'

He shook his head and sighed, as if pitying himself for having to put up with such fools and incompetents. For a moment he doodled on a piece of paper. Mitch, who knew him best, recognized that he was sulking.

Richardson squared his jaw belligerently and turned his malevolent attention to Aidan Kenny.

'And what's wrong with this bloody hologram control system of yours?'

'A few teething problems is all, Ray,' Kenny said cheerfully. 'Yojo spent last night trying to fix it. May have even done it by now, for all I know.'

'For all you know,' Richardson whispered. He made a great show of trying to contain his impatience. 'Well, hadn't we better ask him?

Jesus…'

Kenny turned to Kay. 'Could you put us in the computer room, please, Kay?'

Kay punched another button on her laptop and the CCTV camera cut to Hideki Yojo, still sitting in his chair. For a moment everything looked quite normal. Then, as the various members of the team began to notice the colour of his face, the blood on his mouth and on the front of his shirt, there was a collective gasp.

'Jesus Christ almighty,' exclaimed Willis Ellery. 'What's happened to him?'

Kay Killen and Joan Richardson covered their mouths simultaneously, as if they both thought they were going to vomit. Helen Hussey took a deep breath and turned away.

Somewhere in the computer room an insect was buzzing with hungry anticipation. The sound had such high fidelity that for a brief moment Marty Birnbaum actually waved his hand in front of his face.

'Hideki,' shouted Tony Levine, 'can you hear us? Are you OK?'

'He's dead, you goddamned idiot,' sighed Richardson. 'Any fool could see as much.'

'His eyes,' said David Arnon. 'His eyes — they're black.'

Kay was already cancelling the image and conducting a picture search for Sam Gleig, the security guard.

Richardson stood up, shaking his head with a combination of anger and disgust.

'Someone better call the police,' said Ellery.

'I don't believe it,' said Richardson. 'I just don't believe it.' He stared almost accusingly at Mitch. 'Christ, Mitch, do something. Sort it out. This is all I bloody need.'

In LA it was easier to become a security guard than a waiter. Before becoming a guard Sam Gleig had served time in the Metropolitan Detention Centre for possession of narcotics and an illegal weapon. Prior to that, he had been a Marine. Sam Gleig had seen plenty of dead bodies in his time, but he had never seen a body quite like the one sitting in the Gridiron's computer room. The dead man's face was as blue as the shirt of Sam's own uniform, almost as though he had been strangled. But it was the eyes that really got to Sam. The man's eyes looked as if they had burned out in their sockets like a couple of spent lightbulbs. Sam walked up to the desk and felt under the wrist for a pulse. It was best to make absolutely sure, although Hideki Yojo was obviously dead. Even if he had doubted the look of it there was the smell. You could never mistake the smell. Like a room full of used diapers. Only usually it was a while before a body got to smell this bad.

Releasing Yojo's wrist Sam's hand brushed the base of the desk lamp. He cursed and quickly drew his hand away. The lamp was red hot. Like the screen on the desk it had been on all night. Sucking the burn, he went over to one of the other desks and for the first time in his life dialled 911.

The call was passed on to the central dispatch centre, coordinating the many responses of the LAPD from its bunker underneath City Hall. A patrol car driving west along Pico Boulevard was ordered to attend the Gridiron before the computerized report appeared as E-mail on the screen of the captain of the LAPD Homicide Bureau in New Parker Center. Randall Mahoney glanced over the report and then opened the duty roster file. Using his mouse he dragged the piece of E-mail across the screen and dumped it into the computerized in-tray of one of his detectives. That was what he was supposed to do. The new way. Then he did it the old way. He lifted his bulk out of his chair and wandered into the Detectives' Room. A burly-looking man with a face like a catcher's mitt caught his eye. He was sitting behind a desk and staring at the blank screen of his computer.

'It might help if you switched that fucking thing on once in a while, Frank,' growled Mahoney. 'Might save my fuckin' legs for one thing.'

'It might,' said the man, 'but we can all of us use a little more exercise. Even an athletic-looking specimen like yourself.'

'Wise guy. What do you know about modern architecture?' asked

Mahoney.

Detective Frank Curtis ran a thick, heavy hand through the short, steel-grey curls that were grouped stiffly on the top of his head like the springs of an old bicycle saddle and thought for a moment. He thought about the Museum of Contemporary Art where his wife had worked until she was replaced by a CD-ROM of all things, and then the design for the Walt Disney Concert Hall he had seen in the newspapers. A building that looked like a collection of cardboard boxes left out in the rain. He shrugged.

'Even less than I do about computers,' he admitted. 'But if you're asking me what my aesthetic opinion of modern architecture is, then I'd say most of it stinks.'

'Well, get your ass down to that new building on Hope Street. The Yu Corporation building. They just found a 187 there. Computer guy. Who knows? Maybe you can prove that the architect did it.'

'That would be nice.'

Curtis collected his sports coat off the back of his chair and glanced across the desk at his younger, handsomer partner, who was shaking his head.

'So who the fuck are you?' said Curtis, 'Frank Lloyd Wright? Come on, Nat, you heard that Captain of Detectives.'

Nathan Coleman followed Curtis to the elevator.

'I knew you were a fuckin' philistine, Frank,' said Coleman. 'I just didn't figure you for Goliath.'

'Is this something you have an opinion on, Nat? Modern architecture?'

'I saw a movie about an architect once,' he said. ' The Fountainhead. I think it was supposed to be Frank Lloyd Wright.'

Curtis nodded. 'Gary Cooper?'

'Right. Anyway, I was thinking. The architect certainly did do it that time.'

'Did what?'

'He blew up a building when the builders altered his plans.'

'Did he? Can't say I blame him. I've often wanted to kill the guy who did our new bathroom.'

'I thought you said you'd seen it.'

They drove Nathan Coleman's red two-seater Ford Cougar alongside the vertical Freeway surrounding the downtown heart of LA like a system of valves and arteries before turning south towards Hope Street. Along the way Curtis realized that for the first time in his life he was paying attention to the area's monolithic architecture.

'If I meet the architect, I'm going to ask him why all the buildings have to be so big.' Coleman laughed.

'Hey, Frank, this is America, remember? It's what distinguishes our cities from other places. We invented the tall-building metropolis.'

'And why does this whole area look like Mesa Verde National Park?

Why can't they build a downtown that looks like a place for people?'

'They got a strategic plan, Frank, to improve this area. I read about it somewhere. They're trying to give downtown a whole new identity.'

'You mean like the witness protection programme? You ask me, Nat, it's those fuckin' architects who designed these fuckin' buildings who need new identities. If someone in this town tried to murder Frank Gehry they'd probably give him the Congressional Medal of Honour.'

'Who?'

'You know that shitty-lookin' building on Olympic Boulevard? The Loyola Law School?'

'With the chain-link fencing and the steel walls?'

'That's the one.'

'That's a law school? Jesus, I thought that was a gaol. Maybe it says something about Frank Gehry's opinion of lawyers.'

'Maybe you're right. Anyway, Frank Gehry is the leading exponent of LA's fuck-you school of architecture.'

'Could be the guy's just a realist. I mean, LA's not exactly the kind of city where you want people thinking they can just drop by and say hello.'

They turned on to Hope Street and Curtis pointed. 'That looks like it there,' he said.

The two men got out and started to walk towards the building.

Dominated by a Fernando Botero bronze on top of a fountain, and lined with silver dollar eucalyptus trees, the Hope Street Piazza was a pointed, elliptical shape measuring about forty metres end to end. As it narrowed towards the farthest of the two extremities, a series of white marble steps rose through a shortened perspective that seemed to make the approach to the building something grander and more monumental. Frank Curtis paused in front of the fountain, glanced up at the fat lady reclining above it and then at the small crowd of Chinese men and women who were grouped behind a police barrier near the foot of the steps.

'How do they do it?' he said. 'These scene-of-crimes buzzards. What is it? Some kind of ghoulish telepathy?'

'Actually, I think they're here to demonstrate,' said Coleman. 'About the Yu Corporation's human-rights record or something. It was on TV.'

He looked up at the sculpture. 'Hey, you ever fuck a really fat one?'

'Nope,' laughed Curtis, 'can't say I have.'

'I did.'

'As fat as this little girl here?'

Coleman nodded.

'You're an animal.'

'It was something, Frank, I tell you. You know what? It made me feel like I'd done my bit for the human race.'

'Really?' Curtis was more interested in reading the sign beside the fountain:

Warning

For your own safety please do not drink the water in this fountain. It has been treated with an anti-corrosion agent to protect the sculpture. Consume it at your own risk.

'Too bad if you're a thirsty illiterate, eh?' said Curtis.

Coleman scooped some water in the palm of his hand, sipped some, spat it out again and then grimaced.

'There's no danger of anyone drinking that,' he said. 'It tastes like car polish.'

'Some of the folks round the Nickle like a nice drop of car polish. It's quicker than methylated spirits.'

They continued towards the building, unaware of the nature of the hexagonal concrete paving beneath their feet. Called Deterrent Paving it was part of the same harassment strategy, which also included the fountain's supply of Choke Water devised by Ray Richardson himself against the area's many derelicts. Every night one hexagonal block in seven was raised hydraulically to a height of eight inches, like the armour on the back of some pale antediluvian creature, to discourage any homeless people from sleeping there.

The two men stopped at the foot of the steps and, shielding their eyes against the strong sun and the reflected white glare of the concrete facade, stared up at the colourless cluster of tubular steel columns and horizontal trusses that denned the Gridiron's front elevation. The building seemed to be divided into ten zones, each suspended from a truss by a single line of steel hangers. Each of these massive horizontals was supported in turn by a steel mast made of clusters of individual steel columns. In spite of himself Frank Curtis was impressed. This was what he imagined when he thought about science-fiction: some inhuman, white-faced machine, a blank-faced emissary from a palsied, godless universe.

'Let's hope they're friendly,' he muttered.

'Who?'

'The aliens who built this fuckin' thing.'

They ran up the steps, flashed their badges to the patrolman standing by the door and ducked under the police line. Once inside they passed through another glass door and found themselves confronted by the massive tree that dominated the atrium. 'Now that's what I call a house plant,' said Curtis.

'I guess now you won't have to ask the architect why the building had to be so big. Will you look at the size of that thing?'

A patrolman and a security guard walked towards them. Curtis hung his badge over the edge of his coat pocket and said, 'LAPD Homicide. Where's the body?'

'Fourth level,' said the patrolman. 'The computer centre. CSIU and SID are up there now, sir.'

'Well, show us to our seats, son,' said Curtis, 'before we miss the start of the show.'

'If you'll follow me please, gentlemen,' said the guard.

They walked to a waiting elevator car and stepped inside.

'Data centre,' said the guard.

The doors slid shut and the car started to move.

'That's a neat trick,' observed Curtis. 'You the guy that found him?'

'No, sir,' said the guard. 'I'm Dukes. I just came on shift. It was Sam Gleig who found Mr Yojo. He was the night detail. He's with the other officers, upstairs.'

They walked along a balcony overlooking the atrium which was marked by a series of lights set into the floor a couple of inches in front of the glass barrier.

'What's this?' asked Curtis pointing down at their feet. 'The runway?'

'In case of fire,' explained Dukes. 'So as you don't fall over the edge if the building fills with smoke.'

'Thoughtful.'

They turned down a corridor and approached the bridge that led into the computer room. Coleman was hanging back, leaning over the balcony to look across the span of the building.

'Will you look at this joint, Frank? It's incredible.'

'Come on, Toto,' called Curtis. 'We're not in Kansas any more.'

'You don't know the half of it,' said Dukes. 'Man, this place is like Star Trek.'

'Take charge of the landing party, Mr Coleman,' said Curtis. 'I want some answers.'

'Aye-aye, sir.' Coleman reached for a cigarette and then changed his mind when he saw the No Smoking sign on the computer-room door. Halon 1301 sounded none too friendly.

The crime scenes investigation unit and the scientific investigations division were working quickly and quietly, the subject of their scrutiny still seated in his chair.

'Jesus, this room,' someone was saying. 'I couldn't live in a room without a window.'

'You want to put that down as a probable cause of death?'

Over the years Curtis had become familiar with most of the scientific personnel; he knew that the faces he didn't recognize would have something to do with the victim himself. Friends or colleagues. He told Coleman to clear them out and where necessary get their statements. Only then did he take a closer look at the body.

The coroner's assistant, a tall, suitably cadaverous man with lank hair and tinted glasses, straightened and waited for the detective to conclude his cursory examination.

'Jesus, Charlie. The guy looks like he spent the weekend on the beach at Bikini Atoll.'

Curtis stepped back and wafted the foul air away from his nose and mouth.

'What did he do? Shit himself to death?'

'Sure smells like it.'

'He died in the chair, right?'

'Looks that way, doesn't it?'

'Only it's never proved to be lethal before, unless you were Ethel Rosenberg. Come on, Charlie. Are there any medical grounds for suspicion?'

Charlie Seidler shifted his negligible shoulders.

'On the face of it, hard to say.'

Curtis glanced eloquently at Yojo's blue and bloody features and grinned.

'Are we talking about the same face, Charlie? Take another look at him, will you? I mean, you don't get two black eyes like that 'cause you got careless with your make-up pencil. And where did all that blood on his shirt come from?'

'His mouth. He bit through his tongue.'

Seidler held up a plastic bag inside of which was what looked like an insect larva.

'We found the tip of it lying on his lap.'

'Nice souvenir.'

Curtis pinched his nose and stepped in closer to take another look.

'Cause of death?'

'Too early to say. Could have been strangled. Could have been poisoned. His mouth's shut too tight to see what's in there. But it might be natural causes. Heart attack. Fit of some kind. We won't know anything for sure until we've had him on the slab.'

'Charlie, your private life is your own affair.' Curtis grinned and went in search of the witnesses.

Curtis found Coleman waiting with Mitchell Bryan, Aidan Kenny, Sam Gleig and Bob Beech. They were all seated around a glass table underneath one of the mighty Saltire cross-braces of the building. The detective ran his hand along the smooth white fluoropolymer finish of the brace's aluminium cladding and then peered over the balcony on to the floor of the atrium below. It was, he decided, more like being inside some weird and wacky modern cathedral: the Church of Modern Day Astronauts. Jesus Christ the First Spaceman. The world's first orbitting mosque.

'This is one hell of a place you have here,' he said and sat down at the table.

'We like it,' said one of the men.

'Liked it. Until this morning,' said another.

Nathan Coleman made the introductions and then outlined what he had been told.

'The dead man was Mr Hideki Yojo. A director of computer science for the Yu Corporation, which owns this building. His body was observed by Mr Beech, Mr Kenny and Mr Bryan here on a closed-circuit television during a meeting that was taking place at the offices of Richardson Associates on Sunset. They're the architects who designed this place. When the body was seen, at around nine-thirty, the security guard on duty, Mr Gleig here, was asked to come and investigate. He found the body at around nine-forty.'

'Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?' Curtis shook his head.

'I'm sorry, I'll re-phrase that. What am I saying? This is the most extraordinary looking place I've ever seen. That computer room looks like something out of a movie. I'm just a cop. My idea of a well-designed building is one where the can is easy to find. No offence intended, gentlemen.'

'None taken,' said Mitch. He pointed over Curtis's shoulder. 'And while we're on the subject, the can is over there.'

'Thanks. Well then, Sam. Mind if I call you Sam? Did you notice anything especially unusual, apart from the body itself, of course?'

Sam Gleig shrugged and said that he had not noticed anything at all unusual.

'Man was dead. I could tell that straight away. I was in the army so I was sure, right? Until then it had been a quiet night. Same as always. Mr Yojo, he often worked real late. From time to time I got up and took a walk around the building, but mostly I stayed in the security office. You can keep an eye on everything from there with all the security cameras. Even so, I wouldn't have been paying that close attention. I mean, that's the computer's job. Abraham just tells me if he thinks there's something I need to go and take a look at, y'know? And I can tell you last night there was just the two of us. Me and Mr Yojo.'

'So who's Abraham?' frowned Curtis. 'Am I missing something here?'

'That's what we call the computer, Sergeant,' shrugged Beech.

'Oh. I see. Well, I used to call my car lots of names. Now this CCTV,' said Curtis. 'Is there a video of what happened?'

Aidan Kenny handed Curtis a compact disc.

'I'm afraid that it only covers the moment of actual discovery,' he explained. 'This recording was made at our offices on Sunset. You see, we're still at the stage of installing the building's various management systems. In fact, that's one of the reasons why Hideki Yojo was working late. We'd had a glitch with the hologram software. Hideki was trying to fix it. Anyway, we have yet to install disc-recording facilities in this building.'

'And did he fix it? The glitch?'

Kenny looked at Beech and shrugged.

'I really don't know. According to — to the computer, his last transaction, I mean the last time he made a program entry, was around ten o'clock. He must have died any time after that.'

Curtis raised his eyebrows. Kenny looked sheepish.

Bob Beech cleared his throat and pushed a folded computer print-out towards Curtis.

'We don't handle much in the way of hard copy here,' he said. 'In fact, we make it a company rule to avoid paper as much as possible. Normally we scan images of any document type that we are obliged to deal with and turn them into electronic images. However, I had this printed out in case it was useful to you.'

'Thanks a lot. What is it?'

'Hideki Yojo's medical records. I expect you'll need it for the autopsy. There will be an autopsy, I suppose? There usually is in these situations.'

'Yes. You're right. There'll have to be an autopsy.' Curtis's voice was clipped and business-like. He hated being second-guessed on something as straightforward as a preliminary investigation.

'The thing is,' added Beech and then, noticing Curtis's irritation, 'well, it may not be relevant.'

'No, please. You're doing fine so far.' He laughed uncomfortably. 'I wouldn't do things any differently from the way you're doing them, Mr Beech. Please. Go ahead.'

'Well, it's just that Hideki had been complaining about severe headaches. If it was natural causes then it might be related.'

Curtis nodded.

'Do you think it was natural causes?' Mitch asked.

'It's a little early to say, sir,' answered Curtis. 'We won't know anything for sure until after the autopsy. So right now we're treating it as suspicious.' He decided to upset them a little. 'It's possible that Hideki Yojo was strangled.'

'Jesus,' said Kenny.

Curtis collected the tape and the print-out and stood up.

'Well, thanks a lot for all your help.' He glanced meaningfully at Nathan Coleman. 'We'd better be getting back to Parker Center."

'I'll see you out,' said Mitch.

'It's OK, I've spoken to an elevator before. Of course, that was just cursing it. But I'm sure I can — '

'You don't understand,' said Mitch, 'nobody can use an elevator in this building without Time Encoded Signal Processing and Recognition. If the computer doesn't recognize you, you can't use the elevator, open a door, operate the telephone or use a computer work-station.'

'Now that's what I call a powerful union,' said Curtis.

The two detectives followed Mitch to the elevator.

'Atrium floor, please, Abraham,' said Mitch.

'What happens when you have a heavy cold?' asked Curtis. 'Or when you have had too much to drink? Your voice might be different then.'

'The system works extremely well regardless of the user's condition,' said Mitch. 'The false negative rate, when the system refuses the rightful user, is around 0.1 per cent. The false positive rate, when the wrong person is allowed access, is less than half of that. It's almost foolproof.'

'Besides,' added Mitch. 'If you've had too much to drink you shouldn't be in here in the first place.'

'I'll remember that.' Curtis glanced around the atrium. 'I guess this is progress, huh? Not so much an aesthetic vision as a piece of cold calculation.' He shrugged. 'What do I know? I just have to look at it.'

Mitch watched the two detectives leave the Gridiron and felt relieved that they had not asked who else had been working late the night before. But he was a little disturbed by the thought that Alison would very probably recall his having told her that Hideki Yojo had been with him in the restaurant round about the time that he died. That might take some explaining.

There was a bar on San Pedro Street Grabel went to, just a few blocks east of the Gridiron, an area of cheap hotels and Skid Row mission houses. He sat at the bar and put some money on the counter, so as the bartender would know he could pay, and ordered a drink. His hands were shaking. Had he screwed Richardson and his new building, or was he still planning to do it? He downed the drink, felt better and ordered another. He tried to remember the events of the previous evening and then thought again. Even the worst things looked better after a couple of drinks.

When the police had removed the body and the SID was finished in the computer room, Bob Beech surveyed Yojo's empty desk with sadness.

'Poor old Hideki,' he said.

'Yeah,' said Kenny. 'Strangled. Who'd want to strangle him?'

'The cop only said it was a possibility,' Mitch reminded them.

'Did you see Hideki's face?' said Kenny. 'You don't get a face like that singing in a church choir. Something happened to him. Something bad. You can bet on that.'

'Who would want to murder Hideki?' said Mitch.

Ken shrugged and shook his head.

'They took his chair away,' said Beech. 'Why did they do that?'

'Why do you think?' said Mitch. 'He must have crapped himself or something. Can't you smell it?'

'Not with these sinuses.'

'It's kind of high,' said Kenny. 'Abraham? Would you please change the air in here.'

'As you wish, sir.'

'Shit. Will you look at that?' Kenny pointed at Yojo's desk lamp. The transformer housing had melted, and although it was now cool it had the appearance of hot tar. 'Careless bastards. Some dumb cop must have folded it back while it was switched on.'

'My ex-girlfriend caught her hair on one of those halogen light bulbs and set it on fire,' said Beech.

'Jesus. Was she all right?'

'She was fine. I never did like her hair long.'

Kenny tried the light switch and found that the lamp was still working.

'Kind of surreal looking, don't you think? Like a Salvador Dali.'

Beech sat down heavily in his own chair, placed his elbows on the desk and sighed.

'I knew Hideki for almost ten years. There wasn't anything he didn't know about computers. The little Japanese bastard. Jesus, he was only thirty-seven. I can't believe he's dead. I mean, he seemed perfectly normal when I left last night. And, you know, since he started going to that chiropractor of your's, Aid, he'd stopped having his headaches.'

Beech shook his head. 'This is really going to hurt the Corp in America. Jardine Yu isn't going to believe it. Hideki was key to all our plans for the next five years.'

'We'll all miss him,' insisted Kenny.

Mitch waited for a moment and then said, 'That glitch on the real-time images program. D'you think he fixed it?'

Bob Beech pressed his palm on to the desk screen in front of him.

'We'll soon find out,' he said.

'What exactly was the problem?' said Mitch.

'Believe it or not,' Beech said, 'Abraham was just too fast for the RTI software. To trick the eye into believing that a holographic image is actually moving you need a minimum of sixty updates a second. That requires a data rate of around 12 trillion bits per second. Previous RTIs didn't give much more than a second or two's worth of interactive moving image, and even then it was kind of jerky looking. But by using LEMON, Yu Corp's new data compression program, and parallel processing, we worked out how to simulate terahertz-chip performance and make the RTI look lifelike. Our only problem was that the custommade software couldn't keep up. Hideki was trying to find some sort of equilibrium to achieve a smoother image.'

'You're going to run the program now, Bob?' said Kenny. He sounded surprised. 'Do you think that's a good idea?'

'Best way I know of checking it through.'

'I guess you're right. But I'd better check the atrium in case anyone's hanging around there.'

'Hey, you're right,' laughed Beech. 'RTI's liable to give someone the fright of their life when it comes on line. We've had enough shocks for one day.'

The Queen of Angels Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center on

North Vermont Avenue was just north of the Hollywood Freeway. Only a short ride west from New Parker Center it was where the downtown Homicide Bureau's autopsies were carried out when the city's murder rate was even higher than usual and there was no more room for bodies at the County General Hospital.

Curtis and Coleman had already made the trip on four occasions that week and to save time they were attending two autopsies: one the shooting of a young black gangster and the other the death of Hideki Yojo.

The shooting was straightforward enough. Roo Evans, twenty years old and tattooed with a Playboy bunny that identified the gang which he belonged to, had been involved in a car chase with a rival gang up the Harbor Freeway. When they finally caught up with him, close to the LA Convention Center, they fired eleven rounds of 9 millimetre into his chest.

After the first autopsy Curtis and Coleman sat drinking coffee in the Detectives' Room, waiting for the doctor to come and tell them when she was ready to section Hideki Yojo. It was another hot day and the smell was starting to turn Coleman's stomach.

'How does she do it?'

'Who?'

'Janet. Dr Bragg. Two in a row. I mean, Christ. She opened that kid's belly up like he was a goddamn trout.'

'It didn't need much help from her,' observed Curtis. 'Eleven rounds of 9 M. Those guys really made sure of it. A Glock. Just like you, Nat.'

'What am I, a suspect?'

'You always had a double-stack nine?'

'My momma done told me. I never was much of a shot, so I thought it was best I should have something to lay down lots of lead.'

The door opened and an attractive middle-aged black woman pushed her head into the room. 'We're about to start, gentlemen,' said Janet Bragg. She handed Curtis a small bottle of eucalyptus oil.

Curtis unscrewed the top and then dabbed some under each nostril. Nathan Coleman did the same and lit a defensive cigarette for good measure.

'Tell him what a smoker's lung looks like when it's on the slab, Janet,' said Curtis as they stepped into the corridor.

'It's a sight,' she admitted with considerable understatement. 'Odour's worse, though. Like concentrated ashtrays.'

Bragg was dressed for a shift in a hamburger factory: white overalls, gumboots, a plastic hair covering, goggles, an apron, heavy duty rubber gloves.

'You're looking good today, Janet,' said Coleman. 'Mmm. I like a woman who knows how to excite a man by the way she dresses.'

'Since you mention it,' said Bragg, 'there was semen on the inside of the cadaver's underpants.'

'Before he died, he came in his pants?' Nathan Coleman's surprise was mixed with revulsion.

'Well he didn't do it afterwards,' observed Curtis. 'That's for sure.'

'It's not uncommon in cases involving strangulation.'

'Is that what this is?' said Curtis. 'A strangulation?'

Bragg pushed open two flexible membrane doors that led into a large cold room.

'We'll soon see.'

Yojo's naked body lay on his refrigeration tray next to a stainless-steel autopsy table. Curtis had seen Bragg work often enough to know that she would require no assistance in shifting the body on to the table. Rollers beneath the perforated grid of the table allowed her to launch Yojo directly onto the table with one hand; and she performed this manoeuvre with the practised air of a stage magician removing a tablecloth from underneath a dinner service. Next she adjusted the height of the table and switched on an air-extraction facility that led into a below-slab ducting system. A biopsy sink was fitted at one end, with two lever-action mixer taps. She turned the taps on and also a spray washing handset with a flexible hose.

When she was ready Curtis turned on the Super-8 video camera that would record the whole autopsy. He checked the focus and then stood back to watch her work.

'Usual autopsy signs of asphyxia,' remarked Bragg, 'but there are no marks of any kind on the neck,' she observed, turning Yojo's head one way and then the other. 'Hard to see how he was strangled.'

'What about a plastic bag over the head?' suggested Curtis.

'Don't rush me, Frank,' she scolded and picked up her scalpel. Autopsy procedure had changed very little in the twenty years Frank Curtis had worked in homicide. Having examined the exterior of the body for any abnormality or trauma the main incisions remained the same. A Y-shaped incision, with each arm of the Y extending from the armpit beneath the breast to the botton of the sternum in the midline; and from this point of juncture to the lower abdomen and the genital area. Janet Bragg worked quickly, ligating the great vessels to the head, neck and arms and humming a little tune to herself as she prepared to remove the organs for later dissection.

The hum became the words of a song by Madonna.

'Holida-ay! It would be all right! Holida-ay!'

'I like a woman who's happy in her work,' said Curtis.

'You get used to anything.'

She collected the chest organs, placed them in a plastic bucket and repeated the procedure with the abdominal organs, for which there was a separate bucket. Groups of organs were always removed together so that any disturbances in their functional relationships might be determined. Then she picked up her electric saw and began to remove the vault of Hideki Yojo's skull.

Curtis looked around for Nathan Coleman and found him seated at a bench and looking through a microscope at a length of his own hair.

'Look, Nat, it's just like eating a boiled egg,' he remarked cruelly. 'Or are you one of these weirdos who insists on bashing the top in and peeling off the pieces of shell?'

Coleman tried to ignore the sound of the saw.

'I never eat eggs,' he said quietly. 'I can't stand the smell of them.'

'What a sensitive soul you are.'

'Holy shit,' breathed Bragg. What she saw when she removed the dome had left her feeling astonished for the first time in years.

'What is it?'

'I never did,' she said, grinning excitedly. 'I never did see such a thing.'

'Don't make us beg for it, Janet.'

'Wait just a moment.' She picked up a curved curette and worked it around the inside of Yojo's head before allowing the contents of his skull to fall into her hands.

'What have you got?'

Nathan Coleman stood up and joined Curtis at the side of the autopsy table.

'I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself.'

She laid an object about the size of a tennis ball on to a surgical plate and stood back, shaking her head. The thing was dark, brown and crispy looking, almost as if it had been dipped in hot fat.

'What the fuck is that?' breathed Curtis. 'Some kind of tumour?'

'That's no tumour. What you are looking at, gentlemen, is all that's left of this man's brain.'

'You're shitting me!'

'Take a look inside his skull, Frank. There's nothing else hiding in there.'

'Jesus, Janet,' exclaimed Coleman, 'that thing looks like a goddamned hamburger.'

'A little overdone for my taste,' said Curtis.

Bragg picked up the brain and placed it on the scales. It weighed less than five ounces.

'So what happened to it?' said Curtis.

'I've only ever read about this,' Bragg admitted, 'but I'd say it's more than likely he suffered a massive epileptic fit. There is an extremely rare condition known as status epilepticus. Most epileptic fits last a few minutes, but occasionally they're prolonged more than, say, thirty minutes, or several occur so rapidly that there is no recovery between successive attacks. The brain overworks itself to the extent that it fries itself in the skull.'

'An epileptic fit did this? But what about the ejaculate?'

'A strong electrical excitation of the brain will cause it to experience a quite bewildering series of sensations and emotions, Frank. Erection and orgasm could follow as a corollary of the hypothalamus and nearby septal areas of the brain becoming excited.' Bragg nodded. 'That's what must have happend. Only I never saw one myself, until now.'

Curtis took out his ballpoint pen and poked the cooked brain as if it had been a dead beatle.

' Status epilepticus,' he said thoughtfully. 'How about that? But what might have caused a fit on this sort of scale? Aren't you curious? You said yourself it's kind of unusual.'

She shrugged.

'It could have been anything. Intercranial tumour, neoplasm, abscess, thrombosis of the superficial veins. He was a computer worker, right?

Well, maybe it was brought on by staring at the monitor screen. That would have done it. Investigate his background. Could be he had some kind of medical condition that he kept quiet about. With the brain in the condition it's in now, I've done all I can. You might as well section shoe leather for all that piece of shit is going to tell us.'

'Natural causes,' said Mitch. 'They just heard from the coroner's office. An epileptic fit. A fairly massive one as it happened. Hideki had a predisposition to epilepsy. He was photosensitive and his seizure was triggered by his computer screen. It seems he actually knew that he should never have gone near a television monitor.' Mitch shrugged. 'But then, what else could you do if computers were your life?'

He had met Ray Richardson on the stairs at the office. Richardson was carrying a large briefcase and a laptop computer and was on his way to LAX. His Gulfstream was waiting to fly him to Tulane, where he was to present the directors of the local university's law school with his design for their new smart faculty building.

'I can understand that,' said Richardson. 'I guess if some doctor told me I should stay away from new buildings I'd ignore him too.'

Mitch nodded thoughtfully, uncertain if he would have thought quite the same way about it.

'Walk down to the car with me, will you, Mitch?'

'Sure.'

Mitch assumed that Richardson's troubled expression related to the tragedy of Yojo's death. But he was only partly correct.

'I want you to speak to our lawyers, Mitch. Tell them what happened to Yojo. You'd better call our insurers too. Just in case some sonofabitch on a contingency decides to try and make a case. Until that building is signed off it's our ass they'll come looking for, not the Yu Corporation.'

'Ray, it was natural causes. There's no way we could be held liable for that.'

'No harm in explaining all the circumstances to an attorney,"

Richardson insisted. 'Yojo was working late, wasn't he? Maybe someone will say that someone else should have stopped him. You see what I'm doing? I'm just trying to think like some fucking asshole of a lawyer here, Mitch. The kind of shit they might try and hit us with. The sort of argument that might make us liable. God, I really hate those bastards.'

'I wouldn't tell that to Tulane Law School,' Mitch advised him.

'Shit, it'd be worth it, though.' He laughed. 'So, make the calls will you, please, Mitch?'

Mitch shrugged. He knew better than to try and argue with

Richardson. But Richardson noted his expression and nodded.

'Look, I know you think I'm being paranoid about this, but I know what I'm talking about. Right now I've got two lawsuits against me. My ex-maid is suing me because of the nervous shock she claims she suffered when I fired her ass for bad time-keeping. A fucking dinner guest at my house is suing me because he claims a fishbone got stuck in his frigging throat. And before you know it Allen Grabel will be trying to cut himself a slice.'

'Grabel? You've heard from him?'

'No, no, I'm talking theoretically. But who's to say he won't try and hit me with constructive dismissal? The guy hates my guts. You should have heard what he said when he left. He told me he wanted to see me dead. I had half a mind to report him to the police. The guy wants to hurt me, Mitch. I'm surprised that I haven't heard from an attorney already.'

They came out the back of the building where the Bentley was waiting. Richardson handed his briefcase and computer to Declan and took off his coat before climbing into the back seat. He did not close the door. That was Declan's job.

'Yojo's funeral is on Friday,' said Mitch. 'At Forest Lawn.'

'I never go to funerals. You know that. Especially in this city. Life's too short as it is. And I don't want anyone else going from the office either. Friday's a work day. Anyone who wants to go can take it as part of their vacation. Send a flower arrangement if you think it's necessary. You can put my name on the card if you like.'

'Thanks Ray, I'm sure he'd appreciate it.'

Richardson was already dialling a number on his portable telephone. As Declan closed the Bentley's door Mitch smiled thinly. He almost wished it was Ray Richardson who was dead. Now there was a funeral people attending would be happy to count as a holiday. The only wonder was that someone had not put out a contract on him. Send an envelope around the office collecting for that particular good cause and you might get several thousand dollars. Hell, someone might even offer to do it for free.

Mitch watched the car disappear. Then he turned and walked to the edge of the terrace. There were days when the smog lay thick across the city like dry ice so that even the distant downtown skyline was covered. But today the air was relatively clear and Mitch could see eight miles across West LA. He could easily distinguish one skyscraper from another: the Arco Towers, the First Interstate, the Microsoft Building, the Crocker Center, the SEGA building, the Library Tower. But there were none of them like the Gridiron. It seemed to have thrust its way out of the ground like some bright and shiny new-born white thing, for some purpose as yet undisclosed to the city's human inhabitants. He felt that the building was something almost mobile and, to that extent, it seemed to express something of the essence of LA: its freedom of movement. Mitch smiled as he tried to recall the copy Joan had written for the lavish silver-coloured book that the firm had produced to promote its own on-going buildings and projects. What was it she said? Usually most of what she wrote was ludicrously grandiloquent. And she was always irritatingly free with the use of the word genius in connection with her husband. But on this occasion one particular hackneyed phrase had struck a chord with Mitch.

'Brave new world, that has such buildings in it!'

Perhaps that wasn't so inappropriate, he thought. This really was a building that represented a new tomorrow.

Every night Sam Gleig came on duty he reported in person to the site office on the seventh floor, to see if there were any special instructions and to check out who might be working late. He could have picked up the telephone and achieved the same result from the desk in the security guard's office on the ground floor. But with twelve hours of solitude facing him, Gleig preferred a little human contact. Have a bit of conversation with whoever was there. Shoot the breeze. Later on he would be glad he had made the effort. The Gridiron was a lonely place at night. Besides, tonight he was curious to hear the official verdict on Yojo's death.

In an effort to keep fit Gleig usually avoided using the elevator and took the stairs. The treads were made of glass to ensure the maximum penetration of light into the stairwell. At night each one of them was lit up by an electric light the colour of water in a swimming pool. The stairway to heaven. That was what Gleig called it. A religious man, he never mounted the stairs without thinking of Jacob's dream and quoting the text from the Book of Genesis to himself:

'Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, Surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it. And he was afraid, and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." '

In the site office he found Helen Hussey, the site agent, and Warren Aikman, the clerk of works, filling their briefcases and getting ready to go home.

'Evening Sam,' Helen said pleasantly.

She was a tall, skinny redhead with green eyes and lots of freckles. Gleig liked her a lot. She had a good word for everyone.

'Evening, Miss,' he said. 'Good evening Mr Aikman.'

'Sam,' grunted the clerk of works, too tired to talk very much. 'Ah, what a day. Thank God it's over.' Instinctively he straightened his college tie, ran a hand through his grey hair and found it still full of dust — the result of inspecting a ceiling on the sixteenth level while workmen had been re-laying the plenum floor on the level above. As the Yu

Corporation's personal representative on site, it was Warren Aikman's job to inspect the site periodically and provide a complete case-history of the whole job; and to refer any discrepancies between the design policy and the finished building to Mitchell Bryan or Tony Levine. But Aikman's frustration had more to do with Helen Hussey than with the interpretation of any architectural details. Despite having told her he loved her, more or less, Helen still refused to take him seriously.

'So,' said Sam, 'who's working late tonight?'

'Sam,' she scolded, 'what have I told you? Just ask the computer. Abraham is programmed to know who's working late, and where. It has heat sensors and cameras to help you.'

'Yeah, I know, it's just I don't much like talking to a machine. It ain't very friendly. A bit of human contact is still important, you know what I'm saying?'

'I'd rather talk to a machine than to Ray Richardson,' said Aikman. 'At least there's a slim chance that the machine has a heart.'

'I don't mean to bother you none.'

'You don't bother us at all, Sam.'

Aikman's telephone rang. He answered it and after a second or two sat down behind his desk and scribbled a note. Covering the mouthpiece he looked up at Helen Hussey and said, 'It's David Arnon. Can you wait a minute?'

Relieved that she would have an opportunity to get down to her car without having to fight of Aikman's wandering hands in the elevator, Helen smiled and shook her head.

'I really can't,' she whispered, 'I'm late as it is. See you tomorrow.'

Aikman grimaced with irritation and nodded. 'Yes, David. Do you have the specification there?'

Helen rippled her fingers at Aikman and walked to the elevator with Sam Gleig.

'They say what happened to Mr Yojo yet?'

'Apparently he suffered a massive epileptic fit,' said Helen.

'Figured as much.'

They stepped into the elevator and told Abraham to take them to the parking lot.

'Poor guy,' he added. 'Kind of a waste. How old was he?'

'I don't really know. Thirty something I guess.'

'Damn.'

'What's the matter, Sam?'

'I just remembered I forgot my book. Left it at home.' He shrugged apologetically. 'You've got to have something to read on a job like this. And I can't stand to watch TV. TV is pollution.'

'Oh, Sam,' said Helen, 'you've got a work-station. Why don't you use the electronic library?'

'Electronic library, huh? I didn't know there was such a thing.'

'It's really simple to use. Really simple. It works kind of like a juke box. Just select the multimedia library icon on your work-station and the computer will list all the available categories of material it has on disc. Choose the category and then the title and the computer will play the disc for you. Of course it's mostly reference books here, but they're all of them interactive, with audio excerpts and film footage. The Variety Film Guide is just wonderful. Believe me, Sam, it's a lot of fun.'

'Well thanks, Miss Hussey. Thanks a lot.' Sam smiled politely, wondering if it was actually possible to read anything from the library: from the way Helen had described it, it sounded like just another way of watching television. After leaving prison he had vowed he would never watch television again.

He watched her get into her car and then went back up to the atrium floor where the piano was playing an Impromptu by Schubert in the style of Murray Perahia. Although he liked the music, Gleig was always a little unnerved by the sight of the keys playing as if an invisible person was sitting on the piano stool. More so now that Hideki Yojo was dead. It still shook him when he remembered those blackened eyes. Epilepsy. What a way to go.

Death was a subject often on Gleig's mind. He knew it was the solitude of the job that was responsible. Sometimes, touring the building at night, it was like being inside some huge mausoleum. Preoccupied with death and dying, and with so much time on his hands he had become something of a hypochondriac. But what worried him more than the idea that he too might suffer an epileptic fit was the awareness that he knew nothing at all about it or what warning signs to watch out for. As soon as he had the opportunity Sam accessed the encyclopedia in the electronic library.

After selecting the appropriate category with his mouse there was a momentary pause and then an Aaron Copland fanfare of trumpets that caused his heart to leap in his chest.

'Welcome to the encyclopedia,' announced the computer.

'Damn,' he exclaimed nervously, 'don't do that. Machine, you scared the shit out of me.'

'The information resource that covers all fields of human learning and history in all times and places. Quite simply, you have before you the most complete information archive anywhere on earth. Entry titles are alphabetized according to the English language A-Z.'

'No kidding,' grunted Gleig.

'All diacritcal marks and foreign letters without parallels in English are ignored in this alphabetization.'

Gleig shrugged to himself, unsure if his previous remark had been critical or not.

'Titles beginning with numbers, such as 1984, the novel by George Orwell, are alphabetized as if the numbers were written out Nineteen Eighty-Four. When you have decided upon the entry that you require you may take up any cross-references, or you may browse among countless subjects that are grouped around the original entry point. Now type your chosen subject please.'

Gleig thought for a moment and then typed uncertainly:

IPPYLEPPSY

'The subject you require does not exist. It may be that you have misspelled it. Try again.'

IPPILEPPSY

'No. That's no good either. Okay, here's my suggestion. If you are searching for information on a disease of the nervous system characterized by paroxysms, in which the patient falls to the ground unconscious, with general spasm of the muscles and sometimes foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, aka "the falling sickness", then the word you require will now appear on screen in its correct spelling. If this is the subject you require then indicate your choice by typing YES.'

EPILEPSY?

YES

Almost instantaneously Gleig was watching a film of a man lying on the ground jerking uncontrollably and frothing at the mouth.

'Heavenly Father,' he breathed. 'Lord above. Will you look at that poor sonofabitch?'

'It has been estimated that 6–7 per cent of the population suffer at least one epileptic seizure at some time in their lives, and that 4 per cent have a phase when they are prone to recurrent seizures.'

'Is that a fact?'

The picture changed to the marble head of a bald and bearded man.

'The definition of the condition is generally attributed to Hippocrates.'

'Is he the guy who committed suicide?'

The computer ignored the interruption.

'Epilepsy is not a specific disease but rather a complex of symptoms that results from any number of conditions that excessively excite nerve cells of the brain.'

'You mean, like Miss Hussey?' Sam Gleig chuckled obscenely. 'Man, she sure as hell excites my tired old brain.'

The picture of Hippocrates gave way to several other pictures: one of the brain, an electroencephalogram, the German psychiatrist Hans Berger, and the father of British neurology, Hughlings Jackson. But it was the computer's explanation of the types of seizure and in particular focal seizures and their causes that really interested Sam Gleig.

'A focal sensory seizure may sometimes be caused by a stroboscopic light and for this reason those people who suffer from photosensitive epilepsy are often advised to avoid nightclubs and computers.'

'God damn,' breathed Gleig as he recollected the burn he had sustained on the back of his hand from the fancy-looking desk lamp on Hideki Yojo's desk.

'Of course. It wasn't the computer screen at all. God damn. It was the desk light. It was red hot.'

He looked instinctively at the back of his hand. The burn, about the size of a quarter, was still there. Remembering some of the nightclubs he had been to as a younger man and the nauseous effect that the flashing lights had sometimes produced in him, Gleig was suddenly sure that he could now offer a slightly different explanation for what had caused Hideki Yojo's death.

'What else could it have been?'

He reached for the telephone, thinking that he had to call someone and tell them what he suspected. But who? The cops? The ex-con in him recoiled from any further contact with LAPD. Helen Hussey? How would she feel about him calling her at home? Warren Aikman? Maybe he was still working upstairs. Except that Sam liked talking to the clerk of works about as much as he liked talking to the LAPD. Aikman had a habit of making him feel small and unimportant. Maybe it could wait until the morning after all, when he could tell Helen Hussey in person. Besides, it would give him an excuse to speak to her. So he stayed where he was, browsing through EPILOBRIUM, EPISCOPACY, EPISTEMOLOGY,

ERASMUS, ERNST, EROS and ESAU.

Allen Grabel found himself on the fourth floor of the Gridiron, near the computer room. As plans went his was not a particularly sophisticated one, but he did not doubt it would be effective. To screw Richardson he would screw his building. And the best way to do that was to screw the computer. Just walk in there with a heavy object and do 40 million dollars' worth of damage. Short of killing Richardson he could think of no more effective way of getting back at him. He had wanted to do it earlier, only something had stopped him. Now he was actually on his way. He had a flat sheet of steel in his hands, about the size of a roof tile, something the builders had left behind in the basement. It was not very easy to carry but, having resolved to do some damage, he had discovered a lack of blunt instruments about the building. This was all he had been able to find. And the corners looked sufficiently unyielding to smash a few screens and maybe puncture the computer housings themselves. He was approaching the little glass bridge when he heard the Disklavier piano starting to play. It was a piece of music he recognized by Oliver Messiaen. And it heralded someone crossing the atrium floor.

Sam Gleig exited the multimedia program just after one o'clock and, regular as clockwork, picked up his Maglite to begin his foot patrol of the Gridiron.

Helen Hussey was right, of course. There was absolutely no need for it. He could have kept an eye on things just as well from the comfort of his office. Better. With all the computer's CCTV cameras and sensors, he was all seeing, all sensing. Everywhere at once. It was like being God. Except that God wouldn't have needed the exercise. God didn't have to worry about his heart, or his waistline. God would have taken the elevator. Sam Gleig took the stairs.

He didn't need to carry the Maglite, either. Wherever Gleig went in the building electric lights came on as sensors picked up his body heat and the vibrations of his footsteps. But he took the flash anyway. You couldn't be a proper night-watchman if you didn't carry a Maglite. It was a symbol of the job. Like the gun he wore on his hip.

As he neared the piano it started to play, and for a moment he stopped and listened. The music was strange and haunting and seemed only to underline the still and solitude of a night in the Gridiron. It gave him goose flesh. Gleig shivered and shook his head.

'Weird stuff,' he remarked. 'Give me Bill Evans any day of the week.'

He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and wandered along to the computer room to see if anyone was working late. But the darkened room across the glowing glass bridge was empty. Dozens of tiny red and white lights glowed in the depths like a small city seen from the window of an aeroplane.

'That's OK then,' he said. 'You don't want any more folks dyin' on your shift. Last thing you need is a lot of dumb cops askin' a lot of fool questions.'

He stopped and turned, thinking he had heard something. As if someone had gone down the same stairs he had just climbed. He started to retrace his footsteps. That was the thing about being a security guard, he reminded himself. You heard things and for a second you assumed the worst. Still, there was no harm in being suspicious. He was paid to be suspicious. Suspicion was what got most crimes stopped in their tracks. He walked to the stairwell, and stopped, listening. Nothing. To make sure he walked back down to the atrium and patrolled the whole floor area. A dull thud echoing from somewhere caused his heart to leap in his chest.

'Anyone there?' he called.

He waited a moment and then started back towards the security office. Back in his office Gleig sat down in front of the computer screen and requested a list of all the building's occupants. He was relieved to find that his own name was the only one on the computer. He shook his head and grinned. In a building the size and sophistication of the Gridiron it would have been surprising not to have heard a few strange noises.

'Probably the air-conditioning starting up,' he said to himself. 'It is kind of hot in here. I guess this building isn't made for people who want to keep in shape.'

He stood up and went back to the atrium, intent on completing his rounds. Maybe he would take a look in the basement. His dark blue shirt was sticking to his body. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his collar. This time he took the elevator.