She pa.s.sed the other boats on the basin, none of them occupied just now, as if there was a curse on the place. When she reached the Mananda Mananda, she was almost relieved to see the Chillys still in position on the other side.

So it wasn't Gordy they wanted.

8.

Eye Spy tinny jingle erupted from the car radio, followed by a Agush of slushy background mood music, all of it with an irritating ground ba.s.s beat. The DJ was tying himself into knots of unctuous fatuity.

'And it's a Mega-morning to all you slickers out there.

You're jacked into N Treble U the ones who share bringing you our daily show on National FM Radio. I'm Anthony and this is where the jazzy bright day starts. A New World coming soon. The way it always will be.'

'And I mean that most most sincerely,' jeered Sarah Jane. She swung her bright yellow Spitfire into the fast lane and broke free of the standard M25 snarl-up at least for a couple of miles. sincerely,' jeered Sarah Jane. She swung her bright yellow Spitfire into the fast lane and broke free of the standard M25 snarl-up at least for a couple of miles.

Undeterred, the DJ continued, 'You know, we want to share that with you all. Meantime it can be a meeean meeean time out there, so let's unlock the beat right now.' time out there, so let's unlock the beat right now.'

Bleahh, went Sarah. 'You've got to be joking. Give K9 some air-time and a few CDs and he'd do better than that.'

The music settled into a bland pop number by the latest teeny idols Fizzy Milk, which seemed coincidentally to continue the background beat, already an obvious hazard of listening to this station. In hope of something soothing, Sarah switched to Radio 3, but the Composer of the Week was Stockhausen and he was obviously not at his best on Thursdays. As a last resort she turned to Cla.s.sic FM and hoped to stay awake until she got to the university.

She still hadn't decided on her line of attack. New World had employed her after all, but she was going to give them only about an eighth of what they wanted. And, having listened to the bog-standard quality of their radio station, she couldn't work out what they could possibly want it for. Maybe she'd be better off investigating them. The fee was fine: they told her there would be an article in it for her too. It was the content that worried her. It had seemed simple enough: trace the people on this list. Some twenty-five years before, they had all been present at something called 'The London Event', but it would have helped if someone could define what the 'Event' actually was. No one seemed to know.

The official channels started clamming up immediately.

They were almost racing ahead of her, slamming doors and shutting up shop before she even turned the corner. Sarah had plenty of strings to pull and favours to call in, but the more she uncovered, the less she knew. She began to run out of strings.

Of the people on the list, several were dead, at least three had vanished without trace and those surviving seemed in truth not to remember.

She even knew two of them personally. The veteran TV presenter Harold Chorley of Yours Chorley Yours Chorley fame had been delighted to see her again, but couldn't remember her name properly, let alone what story he had been covering in London a quarter of a century ago. He called her Sandra and kept staring over her shoulder as if he expected a cue card to materialize out of the ether. fame had been delighted to see her again, but couldn't remember her name properly, let alone what story he had been covering in London a quarter of a century ago. He called her Sandra and kept staring over her shoulder as if he expected a cue card to materialize out of the ether.

What concerned her most was the large number of army names on the list. And the name of one colonel in particular.

At that point, she decided it was definitely time to give New World University a good going over.

There was also another name, which, although not on the prescribed list, had emerged when she started to conduct her own research. There was no ID photo on the MoD report, old enough to be held only on hard copy. But the description of a male, aged approximately 50 years, height five foot nine, with long dark brown hair and eccentric dress, plus the almost deliberate lack of any other information, only confirmed his ident.i.ty. It matched her own brief memories of one of several gentlemen that her best friend had once introduced her to. He said that they were manifestations of himself, but her best friend had the knack of talking scientific or philosophical nonsense. Or just being b.l.o.o.d.y-minded for that matter.

Anyway, that situation had been absurd, and it was much too complicated to explain to her university employees. The MoD report simply called him 'The Doctor', but that name, allied to that of Colonel Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart, was enough to set her blood tingling.

From a window high in the techno-studies block, Danny Hinton watched the yellow sports car pull up outside the reception block. Its driver, a woman with thick auburn hair, wore a smart fawn suit and startling cherry pink accessories.

She was carrying a briefcase and hurried into the foyer as if she was late.

Danny closed the blind with a snap and turned to the terminal on the desk beside him. He had about an hour before anyone was due to use the room. An hour elsewhere; other places to access, snapping the blind shut on one existence as he jumped to somewhere better. All you needed was a key to unlock each door. Danny had the whole bunch. He knew how to find things his special trick. Just visualize their location in his mind and go and collect. But that wasn't enough. Running away, they always said; the boy lives in his head. Well, maybe one day he'd log out of reality for keeps.

The screen, reflected in the lenses of his gla.s.ses, made him look unnecessarily studious. He wore a dark wool coat over his Chilly uniform, but he had swivelled the yellow baseball cap into reverse. He wore the headphones only when he could be seen. Even then, he never connected them to the radio receiver strapped to his belt. He didn't want his head full of that beat, that slow incessant pounding that all the others seemed to need. It wasn't a cosmic heartbeat or an aid to meditation or clear thought. To Danny, it meant slavish conformity like the metronome beat of the drummer on the galley ships.

He resented the c.u.mbersome terminal and its keyboard. It let him go surfing when he liked. Easy. It unlocked the way into another world where the impossible could be everyday.

But it was limited, man-made. The net could get tangled. He still had to log out and come back down to earth.

It was the same when he went flying, projecting himself out-of-body onto the astral plane another trick. Soaring at will amid the congregations of stars, freed from responsibility and continuous a.s.sessment and lack of cash. Winning through to ever higher levels, higher etheric planes where he saw such beauty and wildness as his mind could not encompa.s.s. And once, hovering even higher through pearly clouds in some spiritual sky, he thought he had seen an immortal being, an arch-seraph or even G.o.d, its hundred wings beating like feathered torches.

But no matter what world he projected into, etheric or man-made, his physical body stayed anch.o.r.ed to what pa.s.sed for reality. He was bound. He wanted to sever the silver cord and fly on and on for ever.

Working at the terminal, he consulted a crumpled piece of paper, tapping in codes that had taken weeks to visualize and find.

The screen presented a sequence of status reports on checks for viruses and trojans. Then a synthetic voice read aloud what was being printed.

' Good morning. Good morning. ' '

The time and date appeared in the corner.

' Please insert your ident.i.ty code. Please insert your ident.i.ty code. ' '

Working from the paper, Danny input a fresh set of codes.

Almost immediately, the screen cleared.

' Welcome to NEW WORLD. Welcome to NEW WORLD.

' Have the Best One yet. Have the Best One yet. ' '

This is where we take the plunge, he thought. He tapped in a sequence that would take him into the administrative database. He had got caught here before, but that was because he had the sequence wrong. For that he had been hauled up before Queen Vic herself.

He'd always had this problem with authority. He blamed the start of it on his dogmatic parents, whose inability to show affection resulted in a home run like a corrective inst.i.tution.

He was the only boy in the history of School House who volunteered to stay at Brendon for the holidays. Once he chained himself to his bed in the dormitory rather than go home for Christmas. Matron and one of the junior masters had to restrain him physically until his parents, none too pleased, were summoned to collect him. After that, all authority figures reminded him of his father.

Yet his hauling over the coals by the Vice Chancellor, whom he had expected to be the most repressive of all of them, turned out to be about as severe as a barbecue with a favourite aunt. Yes, Miss Waterfield admonished him, but all the time there was a wink behind her tone. It made her sermon seem at worst half-hearted, something to be got out of the way before she broke out the lagers. She had been far more lenient than he would have been with himself. She asked about his family dodgy subject and, considering his abilities with computers, how he rated the university mainframe? It was a bit like meeting the real Queen and finding out that she played the lottery and ate takeaway curry like normal people.

He came away understanding why Victoria had this great reputation with all the other students. She had a sort of innocence that had no business in a business suit. It was at odds with everything in the place.

Which was more than could be said for the Marketing Facilitator, Christopher Rice. From the moment Danny had first seen the guy, there was an instant dislike. Rice was a poseur who liked to throw his weight about. Danny had been working on his terminal after hours and had surfed into something, he couldn't remember what now, that made him burst out laughing. At that moment, he saw Christopher Rice watching him across the ranks of terminals from the far doorway of the computer room. Christopher had said nothing, but the next morning there was an e-mail message warning all students that the computer room was out of bounds after session hours.

Every time Danny had encountered Christopher since, the unspoken look was, 'I'm watching you, you little creep.' And they hadn't even spoken yet.

That was why Danny had to know more.

The terminal pinged angrily at him.

' Authorization Failure. Authorization Failure. ' '

He nervously tapped at his teeth with a fingernail.

' You have 10 seconds to enter Stage Three Security Key. You have 10 seconds to enter Stage Three Security Key. ' '

He consulted the paper and began typing. No. It was all wrong a trick. He deleted it and stared into the screen for a moment. He visualized the mainframe and found what he wanted.

Speak the same code aloud. 'Waterfield.'

Aural response. The screen turned blue.

' You are attached to Priority Zone Zee. You are attached to Priority Zone Zee. ' '

A line-graphic pyramid appeared and began to spin in the centre of the screen.

'Yes!' Danny made a little fist of triumph. Good game.

By the time Sarah Jane reached New World reception, she was considerably irritated. The university's one-way system consisted of enough junctions and circuits to fill a computer.

There were Chillys everywhere, all neatly uniformed in green and yellow, all studious, all plugged into their headphones.

Sarah guessed that Student Accommodation provided them all with neat pigeonholes in which to live and sleep. Further education had started to take on the attributes of the battery farm. Yet there was also an air of cheerfulness about the campus. The students all looked happy. Sarah found that doubly worrying probably something in the tea. She began to wonder what exactly she had walked into.

She crossed the airy foyer where a group of Chillys sat motionless on expensive leather sofas. The cra.s.s beat of N Treble U FM was being piped in from somewhere.

The girl at the reception desk was another typical example of the breed. So bright and friendly with her 'Hi. Welcome to New World. How can I help you?', that Sarah thought it would be more appropriate to order large fries and a strawberry milkshake. Plainly there were no administrative staff here the students were expected to run the place themselves.

'Sarah Jane Smith of Metropolitan Metropolitan magazine. I have an appointment to see the Vice Chancellor.' magazine. I have an appointment to see the Vice Chancellor.'

The receptionist was staring at her computer screen while she tapped away at her keyboard.

Sarah added, 'I am expected...'

'At eleven o'clock,' completed the receptionist. 'Would you like to take a seat.' She handed Sarah a yellow pamphlet and indicated the sofas. 'Have the best one yet.'

Sarah gave a surface smile and sat down. On the speakers, the DJ started to babble something inane. The pamphlet contained the same New World hype that had made her switch off earlier. She glanced across at the waiting Chillys.

With one concerted movement, their heads swivelled to return her stare.

'Ms Smith?'

Startled, she saw a man standing beside the reception desk.

He had slicked black hair and his smile oozed sincerity.

Somehow it all matched exactly with the Bransonesque pullover.

'Welcome to New World. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.' As she stood, he took her hand firmly with both of his. 'I'm Christopher Rice, the Marketing Facilitator.'

'Good morning,' she said, somewhat taken aback.

'I hope you've brought the files.'

She tapped her bag. 'Yes.' Her heart wasn't in it. She was sure he could see right through her little subterfuge.

'Then come on up. Miss Waterfield, she's the university's Vice Chancellor, would like to thank you personally.'

He ushered her into a waiting lift and pressed the b.u.t.ton marked eight. They stood side by side, she avoiding his eyes.

Once the doors had closed, he said, 'I think the sum agreed was twelve K, a.s.suming all the personal profiles are complete.'

Sarah took a deep breath. 'Not quite.'

He still looked straight ahead and she suddenly realized that he was watching her reflection in the polished metal doors.

'Ms Smith, when we were advised of your reputation, both Miss Waterfield and I were impressed. We thought, what's a few red-tape barriers to a journalist of this calibre?'

She smiled at his reflection and said curtly, 'But you didn't tell me some of this data was government cla.s.sified.'

The doors slid open with a thunk.

Without another word, he led her along a pa.s.sage and ushered her into a s.p.a.cious office. Its large windows and white curving walls should have made it starkly clinical, but the minimal furnishings gave it a surprising warmth and character.

The hi-tech desk that dominated the room was surrounded by several strategically placed antiques: a walnut bureau, a tall and beautiful Chinese vase, a gla.s.s cabinet. There were also a number of framed photographs depicting scenes from the last century and several items that Sarah recognized as originating from Tibet: the head of a Buddha and two silver prayer wheels.

Miss Waterfield was sitting behind the desk in a high-backed leather chair. She looked over the top of her spectacles as they entered and then rose to greet her guest with a smile that was more formal than friendly.

Sarah had expected the Vice Chancellor to be older than this smartly dressed career woman. She felt uncomfortable because, although she was used to interviews, it was usually she who was in charge. She was sure that these two, who looked for all the world like mid-morning TV presenters, were going to leave a lot to be desired as far as their interviewing technique was concerned. She simply handed over the disk of information she had compiled and waited with increasing agitation as they flicked silently through the files on a screen she could not even see.

She knew the data well enough. A series of reports on personnel present at the 'London Event'. She could make out the ID photos reflected in the lenses of Miss Waterfield's gla.s.ses.

Annoyed at being ignored, she finally said, 'Look, I still don't know what New World wants these people for.'