'What do you fink I've been doing at Yarrumundi since I started?' Gazo said. 'You fink I can't hot-wire a car by now?'

'Oh. Right,' said Cadel. 'Sorry.'

'I can drive one too,' Gazo added. 'Trouble is a I mean, I dunno if I can drive wiv a helmet on. And if I take it off, well, it's a big risk. For you.'

Cadel considered this. He had no idea how bad Gazo's stench was, but it had to be pretty dangerous or Dr Darkkon wouldn't have been interested in him.

'You're right,' Cadel conceded. 'It would be a risk. Maybe I'll skip it for now.'

'But you should still go.' Gazo's tone became suddenly urgent. 'He's real sick, Cadel. Know what I mean? If you don't go now, you might not get the chance.'

'Really?'

'Really,' said Gazo, in a solemn voice. 'Bleeding from every pore, I 'eard.'

Cadel shuddered. He didn't relish the prospect of seeing that.

'He wants to talk to you. No one else. Just you,' Gazo pointed out. 'Maybe he's got a will or somefink.'

'Oh h.e.l.l,' Cadel groaned. 'I suppose I'd better. It might be important.' (To him, as well as to Abraham.) 'I guess I'll call a cab. Do you want me to tell him anything? From you?'

'Just that I woulda come if . . . well, you know.'

'I know.'

'He don't like me, anyway,' Gazo concluded, with his usual air of resignation. Cadel left him there, standing alone in the sunshine. On reflection, it was better not to risk Gazo's driving. Cadel was positive that Gazo didn't have a licence, let alone a firm grasp of the Australian road rules. And Abraham might not appreciate anyone hot-wiring his car.

Because it wasn't the rush-hour, Cadel's trip to the hospital only took about twenty minutes. When he arrived, however, he spent a good deal of time trying to locate Abraham Coggins. First he went to the wrong desk. Then he waited in the wrong queue. Then he went to the wrong department, where he had to wait some more, until a busy nursing aide had checked a computer. (He could have done it twice as fast himself, but smothered his impatience.) At last he was directed to the Intensive Care Unit, where he was questioned vigorously by one of its staff.

After that, he was forced to wait another half-hour for a doctor, who came and sat down opposite him with a clipboard and wanted to know why he had come.

'I'm a friend of Abraham's,' Cadel rejoined, trying not to lose his temper. 'He wanted me to come.'

'He made a phone call,' the doctor said. 'Was that to you?'

'To my friend.' Cadel paused for an instant, before deciding that 'friend' wasn't a bad way of describing Gazo. 'My friend told me.'

'You're the first visitor Abraham's had. He's very sick. Did you know that?'

'Well a yeah. He's in hospital, isn't he?'

'How old are you, Cadel?'

'Fourteen.'

'Your parents didn't come with you?'

'They're at work.'

'Do they know you're not at school?'

'Yes,' Cadel replied, with candid, wide-eyed confidence. 'They definitely know I'm not at school.'

'Well . . . all right.' Obviously disarmed by Cadel's innocent manner, the doctor moved on to another topic. 'As I told you, Abraham is very sick. And we don't really know what's wrong with him. He has a lot of nasty symptoms, but nothing that adds up to a recognisable syndrome. We're still running tests. Can you help us at all?'

Cadel stared, with the air of someone who might at any moment stick a thumb in his mouth. Then he shook his head, slowly.

'No,' he said.

'Have you known him very long?'

'No.'

'Do you know why he wanted you to come?'

Again, Cadel shook his head by way of reply.

'His flatmates have informed us that he's a medical student, doing some sort of research. Is that right?' 'I think so.' Cadel didn't want to be too definite. 'Do you know if he's been researching any kind of toxic micro-organism? Anything like that?'

'No. I mean a I don't know. He doesn't talk about that stuff.'

The doctor sighed and scribbled something down.

'All right,' he said. 'We're trying to get hold of his supervisor at the moment, though we're not having much luck. Meanwhile, I have to warn you, we're not even sure if he's contagious, so he's in an isolation unit. Which means that you might find it hard to talk.'

'Oh.' 'You can see him, but he's behind gla.s.s. Only authorised personnel are allowed in there.'

It occurred to Cadel that Abraham must be causing quite a stir in the medical community. Thaddeus didn't like it when Axis students attracted that kind of attention. It was possible that the Fuhrer might be called in to sort things out.

Cadel realised that he should have checked the inst.i.tute network before visiting Abraham.

'Is there some kind of intercom?' he inquired.

'Pardon me?'

'Some kind of intercom. Like an internal phone system, or something. That me and Abraham could use.'

'Oh.' The doctor looked faintly surprised. 'Well a um a I suppose we could arrange something. Though he's not very well, Cadel. I doubt he'll be able to talk. He hasn't been able to talk to us.'

The doctor was wrong, however. Abraham could talk. But he would only risk doing so after Cadel had been left alone outside the isolation unit, with strict instructions that he wasn't to stir from the spot in which he had been placed. All he could do was lean against the window, staring through it at a figure on a high, white bed.

The figure lay very still, hooked up to at least three humming machines, as well as two suspended plastic bags. He didn't look well. His face was a very peculiar colour: sort of bluish, with dark grey patches, and puffier than usual. He was still as bald as an egg.

Cadel watched the doctor place a gentle hand on Abraham's shoulder, while a masked nurse hovered in the background. There was no response. The doctor studied two of the machines closely, exchanged a few quiet words with the nurse, and left the room, stethoscope swinging. On his way out the door he stopped beside Cadel. 'If he does wake up while you're here, we might see if you can get him to talk,' the doctor said. 'We really need to know what this disease might be, and he might have some idea, since he's a medical student.'

Cadel nodded. For the next ten minutes he stood with his nose pressed against the gla.s.s as the masked nurse busied herself around Abraham's bed, changing plastic bags, scribbling on his chart, adjusting his position. Finally, she too left the room.

'I'll be back in a few minutes,' she told Cadel, her voice m.u.f.fled by her mask. 'Don't go in there. All right?'

'All right.'

'Good boy.'

She bustled down the corridor, pulling off her latex gloves, her rubber soles slapping crisply against the linoleum. At last she turned a corner and disappeared.

Almost immediately, one of Abraham's eyes flicked open. The whites were blood-coloured. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head. Then he crooked one bony finger, beckoning to Cadel.

Cadel looked around. There were some white-clad figures in the distance, but they weren't paying him any attention.

He turned back to the window.

I can't, he mouthed, shaking his head. They won't let me.

Abraham beckoned again a more urgently this time. Cadel decided to go in. If he didn't, the whole trip would have been a waste of time. Besides, what could the doctors actually do to him? Have him arrested?

After casting another quick glance up and down the corridor, he sidled into Abraham's gla.s.s box.

'I'm not allowed in here,' he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of disinfectant. 'So you'd better make it fast.'

'Cadel?'

'I'm here. What is it?'

'Cadel . . .' Abraham was hoa.r.s.e. His mouth flapped vaguely. Frowning, Cadel wondered if he was feverish.

'This is Terry's fault,' Abraham suddenly rasped. 'He's got the vial. Did you know that? I saw him pick it up, that day in the labs. When Carla collapsed. I told the Fuhrer when he questioned me. I had to.' The weak voice suddenly cracked. 'It wasn't my fault! I had to!'

'Shh a '

'So now this is Terry's revenge. He's made me sick, I know it. He emptied the vial into my coffee.'

'Abraham, you were sick before.' Cadel glanced behind him, through the gla.s.s, but saw no medical staff approaching. 'Don't you remember?'

Abraham, however, didn't seem to hear.

'I might die!' he croaked, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose, down the side of his jaw. 'I might die if Terry doesn't help me. That's why I want you to go to my house. My room. There's a key in there: the key to a post-office box. I want you to hide that key, and tell Terry this: if he doesn't bring me the cure, I'll tell everyone what's written on the paper in that post-office box. I'll tell the Fuhrer! I'll tell Dr Roth.' A feeble cough. 'Or you will, if I...if I...' The breathless ranting trailed away.

'Well, all right,' said Cadel. It sounded crazy to him, but he had to humour the poor fellow. Upsetting a sick man wouldn't help anyone. 'I guess I could do that, as long as you don't expect me to talk to Terry myself. I mean, I could leave a letter. A computer printout.'

'The key's taped to the inside back cover of my Principles of Internal Medicine,' Abraham went on, as if he hadn't heard Cadel. 'There's a spare key to the house on top of the fuse-box. You've got to go now. Quickly. Before it's too late.'

'Abraham a '

'The post office box is number 23 at a oh G.o.d a at Strathfield. 23.' The trickle of blood was now more like a stream, pooling darkly on the white sheets. 'You're the only one I can trust. The only one. You asked me how I was feeling . . .'

'Abraham, I don't know where you live,' Cadel said nervously. He wondered if he should summon a nurse. The sight of all that blood was making his feel queasy. Alarmed. 'Abraham? Where do you live?'

But Abraham wouldn't listen. He was muttering about his work; Cadel had to save his work from being destroyed by the evil and envious Terry. His files, all his notes a they had to be rescued.

Cadel slipped out of the room. He went over to the nurse's station, where Abraham's nurse was labelling something.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'but Abraham's bleeding.'

The nurse looked up.

'What?' she said.

'He's bleeding. From his nose.'

She bolted. One second she was there, the next she was gone. When Cadel turned, Abraham's door was swinging; the nurse was already inside.

Cadel left her to it. While equipment beeped and voices were raised, he quietly scanned the area for a familiar face. (There weren't any, that he could see.) Then he made his way out of the hospital.

From the taxi-rank beside the main entrance, he caught a cab to his local mall. There he once again made use of the toilets near his second-favourite computer shop. Having locked himself in a cubicle, he donned his old school tie and his old school blazer, which looked quite convincing over a new white shirt and pair of grey pants. He also slicked his hair down with gluey soap from the soap dispenser, and jammed the school hat firmly over it. Finally, he went to a chemist shop, and bought himself a pair of off-the-rack reading gla.s.ses. By pushing them way down his nose, he found that he could see over the tops of these gla.s.ses well enough to avoid b.u.mping into poles, or giving himself a headache. And they were a very effective disguise. From a distance, with his slicked-back hair, he didn't look too much like himself.

Not that he was trying to dodge any experts. All he had to do was fool a few schoolteachers. Nothing very challenging.

All the same, he was nervous.

Time constraints meant that he was forced to catch another cab, to Crampton College. He arrived with five minutes to spare, and had to lurk behind a bus shelter while a distant siren blared, announcing the start of the second-last period. Cadel waited. He gave the students another five minutes to swap cla.s.srooms. Then he emerged from behind the bus shelter and sauntered over to a side gate, reminding himself that it wouldn't do to look furtive.

He had to convince any onlookers that he had a clear conscience a that he was arriving back at school after a dentist's appointment, perhaps. With a note in his pocket. With a bag full of textbooks and a cla.s.s to go to.

Cadel wasn't familiar with the latest Crampton College timetable. He did know, however, that the second-last period on the third Tuesday of the month was traditionally reserved, at Crampton, for a meeting between English staff and library staff. (Something to do with Book Week activities and literacy programs.) Since this meeting always took place in the library, the English staffroom would almost certainly be deserted.

And the computers within it would almost certainly be free.

Cadel moved briskly along the familiar paths and beneath the familiar brick archways. As he pa.s.sed a high bank of windows, he heard a teacher's raised voice cutting through the babble of a noisy cla.s.s. 'We'll have a bit of quiet, please!' (Mr Ricci, by the sound of it.) Nothing seemed to have changed, except the notices pinned up around the place. As he neared the English staffroom, he ticked off various landmarks along the way: the year-twelve lockers, the broken fountain, the dirt track trodden into the gra.s.s between the bubblers and the a.s.sembly hall.

When he reached the English staffroom, he stopped to tie his shoe. A quick glance around convinced him that no one was in sight. The door to the staffroom was locked, of course, but that didn't matter. He had brought with him the keys that he had so painstakingly copied while still a student at the school. They were labelled in code.

The English staffroom key still fitted the English staffroom lock.

Once he was inside, he was careful to lock the door behind him. Then he headed straight for Ms Barry's computer. He had chosen it partly because it had an Internet hook-up, and partly because, owing to the L-shaped layout of the room, it was invisible from the door. If someone did pop in unexpectedly, he would have more time to hide.

Time. Time was the problem. He had half an hour at the most, and half an hour wasn't long. Not if you were trying to infiltrate a credit card database.

Cadel set the alarm on his watch before booting up.

The credit card receipt that he had retrieved from the Piggotts' wardrobe had given him a card type and a card number. With these, and with his precious collection of bank pa.s.swords, access keys and code-breaking modules, he was able to track down the accompanying name and transaction record. The name was unfamiliar to him: James Herbert Guisnel. The transaction record, however, contained one valuable nugget of information among a load of dross.

James Herbert Guisnel was paying off his credit card with transfers from another account: a savings account. And when Cadel pried his way through the firewalls protecting that account (rather clumsily, because he didn't have much time), one decoded entry jumped out at him.

James Guisnel was receiving large and regular credits from an account that Cadel recognised. During his rare forays into Thaddeus Roth's database, Cadel had spotted the same company account being used by Thaddeus for business-related expenses. It was a disburs.e.m.e.nt account.

Cadel would have followed this trail still further if his alarm hadn't gone off. As it was, he was obliged to shut down the computer as quickly as possible. Even as he made for the door, he heard the warning blast of a siren heralding the end of another period. Kids immediately came bursting out of every cla.s.sroom like water out of a breached tank. They poured into the corridors, slapping against walls and swirling around lockers. Cadel, who was caught up in the flood, forced himself not to hurry. He kept his head down, trying not to catch anybody's eye.

For the most part, he was successful. But just as he emerged onto the front lawn, someone's head suddenly snapped around.