He thought about it. "No," he said. "He probably took a break. He'll be back soon."

"You're ignoring me," said someone.

"Look," I said, "I wouldn't be surprised if he disappeared any other time..."

"There's something to your twisted logic," said Huey, "but I don't think we can do anything about it."

"He's not right," I said.

"Don't exaggerate," said Louie. "He did a very nice job on Kalmanson's flat today. Doing is everything, the rest is nothing."

"No--yes--that is, sure. That's not what I meant."

"h.e.l.lo? Do you hear me?"

"Don't be a pain," said Louie. "Let me finish here."

And he went.

"You have to stop," said the voice. Its proud owner, a small, red-haired, bespectacled demon, gave me a warning look over his plate of asparagus.

"I'm only helping them," I said, mixing the pasta. The red and white chequered tablecloth caught my eye. I wondered what would be the sound of it burning. Maybe if we turned on a big enough fan, we could blow away all the tablecloths in the restaurant and then send out a jet of gas...

"Who, exactly?" enquired the demon as he tapped his golden monocle. "The world? Israel? The eleven people you killed?"

"Huey and Dewey," I said. "They're artists. They--we--will have an exhibition. Besides, n.o.body was killed."

"Ha ha," said the blond demon and pushed his sungla.s.ses slightly aside. "I'm sure the families would love to hear that."

A lift rises from its shaft, wrapped in flames, and takes off into the city's skies like a metallic phoenix, clumsy and burning, an orange glow gathering over the roofs and water tanks of the towering city of Tel Aviv, the metal cables singing as they drag behind, caught in sodium fire, a tail of steel sparks marking a trail in the evening's heavens.

"Beautiful," said Louie, hunched under his earphones. He didn't bother looking. The remote mic inside the lift caught the cries of the pa.s.sengers as well as the thunder of the flames. A light westerly wind blew.

"I think," said Dewey from behind camera number two, "that it's going to land somewhere in Florentine."

"Maybe," I said, distracted, awed by the view. The trail of smoke described an almost perfect parabola, and the ball of fire, which up until a few moments ago was an entirely ordinary and unglamorous component of an office block, fell with dignity somewhere in the south of the city, beside a lit-up billboard: "Phillips: The Real Experience." A pa.s.senger plane circled above, like a bird wondering if that was a relative who had fallen, or perhaps its eternal, mythological enemy, the fire eagle, the steel hawk, if that was the thing lying there burning, never to return to haunt the bird's dreams.

We changed clothes and went to a party.

Some genius of a designer decided to build a light organ of fire and smoke, to shoot out coloured flames in tune with the music. For the safety of all present, a giant wire cage was built around the contraption. Fire can't pa.s.s through a wire mesh, but our Louie worked in advance to replace the cage with a soft plastic replica and improve the mechanism--anything for a party.

"Excellent!" The partygoers were impressed when the DJ's stand began to smoke. "They really put money into their parties!" said a reporter to a television camera filming the event, and immediately a tongue of green fire emerged and took hold of him. Multicoloured flames grabbed now and then at a dancer, at the furniture, the barman, and the sponsorship signs ("McDonald's--If You're Not There, You're Nowhere"), and everything went peacefully enough until Louie lost his patience. The flamethrower made an awful farting sound, and suddenly the whole place became a giant whirlpool of painted fire. When the cameras we laid inside burned out, we gathered the equipment and went home to my place.

In the middle of the night, I disappeared. One moment I was leaning, between Huey and Louie, over a topographic map of the Trade Fair Gardens, and the next, I wasn't.

"Pa.s.s me his plate," said Huey, "I think he's finished eating."

"Listen, both of you," said someone.

"Say," said Louie, "doesn't it strike you as odd..."

"What?"

"That he, like, disappeared?"

"Who?"

"What do you mean who? Where's your brain?"

"Listen," said Huey, "Let's not play games."

Louie knows Huey and knows there is no point in arguing.

"Dewey. Disappeared. Don't you think something here doesn't add up?"

"Of course it doesn't," said a voice. "If you would only listen to me for a moment...."

Huey thought about it. "No," he said. "He probably went for a break. He'll be back soon."

"Look," said Louie, "I wouldn't be surprised if he disappeared at any other time, but in the middle of topography?"

"Topography?" said the voice in suspicion. "What are you going to do now?"

"There is something to your twisted logic," said Huey, "but there you go."

"He's not right," said Louie.

"Don't exaggerate," said Huey. "He did a very nice job on the lift today. Doing is everything."

"That's right, don't exaggerate," said the voice. "We have eighty-five dead and almost a hundred wounded. Very nice. Can't you b.l.o.o.d.y listen for a moment?"

"No--yes--I mean, sure. That's not what I meant."

"Don't be a pain," said Huey. "Let me finish here."

Louie went.

The next day clouds covered the sun, but the Ferris wheel in the Luna Park shone a strong sunflower-yellow; it and the scores of soft, shining children in its lap. Phosphorus. Huey took pastoral pictures, Dewey recorded a symphony of screams and cries. The image of a child floating cheerfully through the air, as glowing as an angel, on the background of "To Be Or Not To Be--Mitsubishi," was followed immediately by the recording of the soft sound of impact as he hit the ground. After a few such happy minutes, when all eyes in the park were turned upward, the two activated the acid spray. Then the volume of sound rose by a magnitude of decibels, but after several minutes of vocal joy, the mics were burnt through and it was over.

"Ha ha," said the dark-haired demon, and pushed his sungla.s.ses slightly aside. "I'm sure the families would be happy to hear."

"Hear about what?"

"The eighty-six people you didn't kill."

"Eighty-six? What are you talking about?"

"Two in that flat in Tel Aviv, eight on the highway, five in the lift, forty-three in the club...."

"What about them?"

"Didn't you kill them?"

"Nu, so?"

"Don't you think," said the demon, and wiped his brow, "that something isn't right here? Ever heard of 'Thou Shalt Not Kill'?"

"Dear G.o.d!" I said. "You think we killed human beings?"

A wall made of recently annealed gla.s.s, and inside it darkening lumps. A strong smell of grilling and burning infuses the air. The lumps had stopped convulsing long before the gla.s.s solidified, of course. And now we stand there, and the recording films run again, and Huey approaches the wall, a giant hammer in his hands.

On the way from here to there, all three of us disappeared. One moment we were busy on the exact tuning of the recorder, and in the next, we weren't.

For one moment, everything stopped.

"Pa.s.s me his plate," someone said to somebody else. "I think he finished eating."

"Say," said someone, "doesn't it strike you as odd..."

"What?" said someone.

"That he, like, disappeared?"

"No," said the demon and blinked. He looked as if he needed gla.s.ses.

"Excuse me?" said someone.

"Not someone, sir," said the demon. "You."

"Me?" said someone.

"You. You know perfectly well who you are," said the demon.

"That's possible," said Dewey, "but what is it to you?"

"Thinking in the third person isn't going to help you."

"Get off it," I said.

"No," said the demon. "You've gone way too far. You're going to stop this moronic killing spree. Right now."

"I think you have a small problem with your perception of reality."

"I only have one problem," said the demon, "and it's you."

"Leave me alone!"

"I can't," said the demon. "I'm a part of you."

"Now I know you have a problem with your perception of reality."

"I really don't," said the demon. "And not just that: you, along with me, are stuck in the loop."

"There's something to your twisted logic," I said. "But there you go."

"You're not right," said the demon.

"Don't exaggerate," I said. "I did a very nice job with the wall today. Doing is everything."

"Wait!" said the demon. "There you go again! That's not what I meant!"

"Don't be a pain," I said. "Let me finish off here."

And I went.

A skysc.r.a.per in napalm. Billboards burning in the wind. "What You See Is What You Get--Nokia."

And was brought back.

"You're not going anywhere," said the demon. "You're staying here with me to the end."

"The end?"

"Yes. Until you realise you're one, not three, and stop getting out of control."

"Of course I'm one," I said. "I never thought otherwise. And I'm not out of control."

"A hundred and two victims would testify otherwise."