"One?" came the reply. "I'm the last. I'm the only."

"So share it with me. I want to be able to change the world."

"Just a little ambition."

"Don't f.u.c.k with me!" Jaffe said, the suspicion growing in him that he was being taken for a fool.

"I'm not going to leave empty-handed, Kissoon. If I get the Art I can enter Quiddity, right? That's the way it works."

"Where'd you get your information?"

"Isn't it?"

"Yes. And I say again: where'd you get your information?"

"I can put the clues together. I'm still doing it." He grinned as the pieces fitted in his head. "Quiddity's somehow behind the world, isn't it? And the Art lets you step through, so you can be there any time you like. The Finger in the Pie."

"Huh?"

"That's what somebody called it. The Finger in the Pie."

"Why stop with a finger?" Kissoon remarked.

"Right! Why not my whole f.u.c.king arm?"

Kissoon's expression was almost admiring. "What a pity," he said, "you couldn't be more evolved. Then maybe I could have shared all this with you."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're too much of an ape. I couldn't give you the secrets in my head. They're too powerful, too dangerous. You'd not know what to do with them. You'd end up tainting Quiddity with your puerile ambition. And Quiddity must be preserved."

"I told you...I'm not leaving here empty-handed. You can have whatever you want from me. Whatever I've got. Only teach me."

"You'd give me your body?" Kissoon said. "Would you?"

"What?"

"That's all you've got to bargain with. Do you want to give me that?"

The reply flummoxed Jaffe.

"You want s.e.x?" he said.

"Christ, no."

"What then? I don't understand."

"The flesh and blood. The vessel. I want to occupy your body."

Jaffe watched Kissoon watching him.

"Well?" the old man said.

"You can't just climb into my skin," Jaffe said.

"Oh but I can, as soon as it's vacated."

"I don't believe you."

"Jaffe, you of all people should never say I don't believe. The extraordinary's the norm. There are loops in time. We're in one now. There are armies in our minds, waiting to march. And suns in our groins and c.u.n.ts in the sky. Suits being wrought in every state-"

"Suits?"

"Pet.i.tions! Conjurations! Magic, magic! It's everywhere. And you're right, Quiddity is the source, and the Art its lock and key. And you think it's tough for me to climb inside your skin. Have you learned nothing?'"

"Suppose I agree."

"Suppose you do."

"What happens to me, if I was to vacate my body?"

"You'd stay here. As spirit. It's not much but it's home. I'll be back, after a while. And the flesh and blood's yours again."

"Why do you even want my body?" Jaffe said. "It's utterly f.u.c.ked up."

"That's my business," Kissoon replied.

"I need to know."

"And I choose not to tell you. If you want the Art then you d.a.m.n well do as I say. You've got no choice."

The old man's manner-his arrogant little smile, his shrugs, the way he half closed his lids as though using all his gaze on his guest would be a waste of eyesight-all of this made Jaffe think of Homer. They could have been two halves of a double-act; the lumpen boor and the wily old goat. When he thought of Homer he inevitably thought of the knife in his pocket. How many times would he need to slice Kissoon's stringy carca.s.s before the agonies made him speak? Would he have to take off the old man's fingers, joint by joint? If so, he was ready. Maybe cut off his ears. Perhaps scoop out his eyes. Whatever it took, he'd do. It was too late now for squeamishness, much too late.

He slid his hand into his pocket, and around the knife.

Kissoon saw the motion.

"You understand nothing, do you?" he said, his eyes suddenly roving violently to and fro, as though speed-reading the air between him and Jaffe.

"I understand a lot more than you think," Jaffe said. "I understand I'm not pure enough for you. I'm not-how did you say it?-evolved.Yeah,evolved."

"I said you were an ape."

"Yeah, you did."

"I insulted the ape."

Jaffe's hold on the knife tightened. He started to get to his feet.

"Don't you dare," Kissoon said.

"Red rag to a bull," Jaffe said, his head spinning from the effort of rising, "-saying dare to me. I've seen stuff...done stuff..." He started to take the knife out of his pocket "...I'm not afraid of you."

Kissoon's eyes stopped their speed-reading and settled on the blade. There was no surprise on his face, the way there'd been on Homer's; but there was fear. A small thrill of pleasure coursed through Jaffe, seeing that expression.

Kissoon began to get to his feet. He was a good deal shorter than Jaffe, almost stunted, and every angle slightly askew, as though all his bones and joints had once been bro-ken and reset in haste.

"You shouldn't spill blood," he said hurriedly. "Not in a Loop. It's one of the rules of the looping suit, not to spill blood. "

"Feeble," said Jaffe, beginning to step around the fire towards his victim.

"That's the truth," Kissoon said, and he gave Jaffe the strangest, most misbegotten smile, "I make it a point of honor not to lie."

"I had a year working in a slaughterhouse," Jaffe said. in Omaha, Nebraska. Gateway to the West. I worked for a whole year, just cutting up meat. I know the business."

Kissoon was very frightened now. He'd backed against the wall of the hut, his arms spread out to either side of him for support, looking, Jaffe thought, like a silent-movie heroine. His eyes weren't half-open now, but huge and wet. So was his mouth, huge and wet. He couldn't even bring himself to make threats; he just shook.

Jaffe reached out and put his hand around the man's tui-key throat. He gripped hard, fingers and thumb digging into the sinew. Then he brought his other hand, bearing the blunt knife, up to the corner of Kissoon's left eye. The old man's breath smelled like a sick man's fart. Jaffe didn't want to inhale it, but he had no choice, and the moment he did he realized he'd been f.u.c.ked. The breath was more than sour air. There was something else in it, being expelled from Kissoon's body and snaking its way into him-or at least attempting to. Jaffe took his hand from the scrawn of the neck, and stepped away.

"f.u.c.ker!" he said, spitting and coughing out the breath before it occupied him.

Kissoon didn't concede the pretense.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" he said. "Am I reprieved?"

It was he who advanced now; Jaffe the one retreating.

"Keep away from me!" Jaffe said.

"I'm just an old man!"

"I felt the breath!" Jaffe yelled, slamming his fist against his chest. "You're trying to get inside me!"

"No," Kissoon protested.

"Don't f.u.c.king lie to me. I felt it!"

He still could. A weight in his lungs where there'd not been weight before. He backed towards the door, knowing that if he stayed the f.u.c.ker would have the better of him.

"Don't leave," Kissoon said. "Don't open the door."

"There's other ways to the Art," Jaffe said.

"No," Kissoon said. "Only me. The rest are dead There's n.o.body can help you but me."

He tried that little smile of his, bowing his wretched body, but the humility was as much a sham as the fear had been. All tricks to keep his victim near, so as to have his flesh and blood. Jaffe wasn't buying the routine a second time. He tried to block out Kissoon's seductions with memories. Pleasures taken, that he'd take again if he could only get out of this trap alive. The woman in Illinois, the one-armed man in Idaho, the caress of roaches. The recollections kept Kissoon from getting any further hold on him. He reached behind him and grabbed the door handle.

"Don't open that," Kissoon said.

"I'm getting out of here."

"I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I underestimated you. We can come to some arrangement surely? I'll tell you all you want to know. I'll teach you the Art. I don't have the skill myself. Not in the Loop. But you could have it. You could take it with you. Out there. Back into the world. Arm in the pie! Only stay. Stay, Jaffe. I've been alone here a long time. I need company. Someone to explain it all to. Share it with."

Jaffe turned the handle. As he did so he felt the earth beneath his feet shudder, and a brightness seemed to appear momentarily beyond the door. It seemed too livid to be mere daylight, but it must have been, because there was only sun awaiting him on the step outside.

"Don't leave me!" he heard Kissoon yelling, and with the yell felt the man clutching at his innards the way he had bringing him here. But the hold was nowhere near as strong as it had been. Either Kissoon had burned up too much of his energy in attempting to breathe his spirit into Jaffe, or his fury was weakening him. Whichever, the hold was resist-able, and the farther Jaffe ran the weaker it became.

A hundred yards from the hut he glanced back, and thought he saw a patch of darkness moving across the ground towards him, like dark rope uncurling. He didn't linger to dis-cover what new trick the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d was mounting, but ran and ran, following his own trail across the ground, until the steel tower came in sight. Its presence suggested some attempt to populate this wasteland, long abandoned. Beyond it, an aching hour later, was further proof of that endeavor. The town he half-remembered staggering through on his way here, its street empty not only of people and vehicles but of any distinguishing marks whatsoever, like a film-set yet to be dressed for shooting.

Half a mile beyond it an agitation in the air signalled that he had reached the perimeters of the Loop. He braved its confusions willingly, pa.s.sing through a place of sickening disorientation in which he was not certain he was even walking, and suddenly he was out the other side, and back in a calm, starlit night.

Forty-eight hours later, drunk in an alleyway in Santa Fe, he made two momentous decisions. One, that he'd keep the beard he'd grown in the last few weeks, as a reminder of his search. Two, that every wit he possessed, every hint of knowledge he'd gained about the occult life of America, every iota of power his astral eyes lent him, would go to the possessing of the Art (f.u.c.k Kissoon; f.u.c.k the Shoal), and that only when he'd got it would he once again show his face unshaven.

IV.

HOLDING to the promises he'd made himself was not easy. Not when there were so many simple pleasures to be had from the power he'd gained; pleasures he made himself forfeit for fear of depleting his little strength before he stole his way to greater.

His first priority was to locate a fellow quester; someone who could aid him in his search. It was two months before his enquiries threw up the name and reputation of a man perfectly suited to that role. That man was Richard Wesley Fletcher, who'd been-until his recent fall from grace-one of the most lauded and revolutionary minds in the field of evolutionary studies; the head of several research programs in Boston and Washington; a theorist whose every remark was scrutinized by his peers for clues to his next breakthrough. But his genius had been flawed by addiction. Mescaline and its derivatives had brought him low, much to the satisfaction of many of his colleagues, who made no bones about their contempt for the man once his guilty secret came out. In article after article Jaffe found the same smug tone, as the academic community rounded on the deposed Wunderkind, condemning his theories as ludicrous and his morals as reprehensible. Jaffe couldn't have cared less about Fletcher's moral standing. It was the man's theories that intrigued him, dovetailing as they did with his own ambition. Fletcher's researches had been aimed at isolating, and synthesizing in a laboratory, the force in living organisms that drove them to evolve. Like Jaffe, he believed heaven could be stolen.

It took persistence to find the man, but Jaffe had that in abundance, and found him in Maine. The genius was much the worse for despair, teetering on the brink of complete mental breakdown. Jaffe was cautious. He didn't press his suit at first, but instead ingratiated himself by supplying drugs of a quality Fletcher had long since been too poor to afford. Only when he'd gained the addict's trust did he begin to make oblique reference to Fletcher's studies. Fletcher was less than lucid on the subject at first, but Jaffe gently fanned the embers of his obsession, and in time the fire flared. Once burning, Fletcher had much to tell. He believed he'd twice come close to isolating what he called the Nuncio, the messenger. But the final processes had always eluded him. Jaffe offered a few observations of his own on the subject, garnered from his readings in the occult. The two of them, he gently suggested, were fellow seekers. Though he, Jaffe, used the vocabulary of the ancients-of alchemists and magicians-and Fletcher the language of science, they had the same desire to nudge evolution's elbow; to advance the flesh, and perhaps the spirit, by artificial means. Fletcher poured scorn on these observations at the outset, but slowly came to value them, finally accepting Jaffe's offer of facilities in which to begin his researches afresh. This time, Jaffe promised, Fletcher wouldn't have to work in an academic hothouse, constantly required to justify his work to hold on to his funding. He guaranteed his dope-fiend genius a place to work that would be well hidden from prying eyes. When the Nuncio had been isolated, and its miracle reproduced, Fletcher would reappear from the wilderness and put his vilifiers to flight. It was an offer no obsessive could have resisted.

Eleven months later, Richard Wesley Fletcher stood on a granite headland on the Pacific Coast of the Baja and cursed himself for succ.u.mbing to Jaffe's temptations. Behind him, in the Mision de Santa Catrina where he'd labored for the best part of a year, the Great Work (as Jaffe liked to call it) had been achieved. The Nuncio was a reality. There were surely few less likely places for labors most of the world would have judged unG.o.dly than an abandoned Jesuit Mission, but then from the outset this endeavor had been shot through with paradox.

For one, the liaison between Jaffe and himself. For another, the intermingling of disciplines that had made the Great Work possible. And for a third the fact that now, in what should have been his moment of triumph, he was minutes away from destroying the Nuncio before it fell into the hands of the very man who'd funded its creation.

As in its making, so in its unmaking: system, obsession and pain. Fletcher was too well versed in the ambiguities of matter to believe that the total destruction of anything was possible. Things couldn't be undiscovered. But if the change that he and Raul wrought on the evidence was thorough enough it was his belief that n.o.body would easily reconstruct the experiment he'd conducted here in the wilds of Baja California. He and the boy (it was still difficult to think of Raul as a boy) had to be like perfect thieves, rifling their own house to remove every last trace of themselves. When they'd burned all the research notes and trashed all the equipment it had to be as though the Nuncio had never been made. Only then could he take the boy, who was still busy feeding the fires in front of the Mission, to this cliff edge, so that hand in hand they could fling themselves off. The fall was steep, and the rocks below plenty sharp enough to kill them. The tide would wash their blood and bodies out into the Pacific. Then, between fire and water, the job would have been done.

None of which would prevent some future investigator from finding the Nuncio all over again; but the combination of disciplines and circ.u.mstances which had made that possible were very particular. For humanity's sake Fletcher hoped they would not occur again for many years. There was good reason for such hope. Without Jaffe's strange, half-intuitive grasp of occult principles to marry with his own scientific methodology, the miracle would not have been made, and how often did men of science sit down with men of magic (the suit-mongers, as Jaffe called them) and attempt a mingling of crafts? It was good they didn't. There was too much dangerous stuff to discover. The occultists whose codes Jaffe had broken knew more about the nature of things than Fletcher would ever have suspected. Beneath their metaphors, their talk of the Bath of Rebirth, and of golden Progeny begotten by fathers of lead, they were ambitious for the same solutions he'd sought all his life. Artificial ways to advance the evolutionary urge: to take the human beyond itself. Obscurum per obscurius, ignotum per ignotius, they advised. Let the obscure be explained by the more obscure, the unknown by the more unknown. They knew whereof they wrote. Between his science and theirs Fletcher had solved the problem. Synthesized a fluid that would carry evolution's glad tidings through any living system, pressing (so he believed) the humblest cell towards a higher condition. Nuncio he'd called it: the Messenger. Now he knew he'd misnamed it. It was not a messenger of the G.o.ds, but the G.o.d itself. It had a life of its own. It had energy, and ambition. He had to destroy it, before it began to rewrite Genesis, beginning with Randolph Jaffe as Adam.

"Father?"

Raul had appeared behind him. Once again the boy had stripped off his clothes. After years of going naked, he was still unable to get used to their constrictions. And once again he used that d.a.m.n word.

"I'm not your father," Fletcher reminded him. "I never was and never will be. Can't you get that into your head?"

As ever, Raul listened. His eyes lacked whites, and were difficult to read, but his steady gaze never failed to mellow Fletcher.

"What do you want?" he said more softly.

"The fires," the boy replied.

"What about them?"

"The wind, father-" he began.