I joined him at the elevator. By pressing my good ear to the doors I could hear the sound of gunfire echoing up the shaft. Initially, the gunfire rattled continuously. Then, at last, it subsided to sporadic single shots. Moments later there was silence.

Sam stood, his head cocked to one side, listening for more sounds. At last he said, 'Well, what the hell happened down there?'

We moved back behind the barrier of office furniture. As we did so I heard a buzzing sound. I hunted for the source of the noise until I came across a small wooden box on which were a series of switches.

'It's the intercom,' Kerris said. 'Someone's trying to get in touch with us on the internal system.'

Sam looked at it suspiciously for a moment. 'Why don't they use the phone like they did before?'

'Maybe the telephone system is down?'

'OK.' Sam picked up the wooden box. It was attached to a cable that snaked away to the wall. 'Now, how do you switch this thing on?'

'Here, let me.' Kerris flicked a switch on the box.

Sam didn't say anything. He just listened. A faint hiss of static came from the speaker. Then, tentatively, 'Hello?'

A male voice came over the speaker. 'Sacramento.'

A flicker of hope lit Sam's eyes. Giving the answering code word, he asked, 'Who's this?'

'Sergeant Gregory Campbell, Foresters' Marines, C division, sir.'

'Is Lieutenant Truscott there?'

'Sorry, he was killed just a moment ago, sir. There's been a hell of a battle down here.'

'What's the position?'

'We regrouped with other elements of the force, sir. Then we launched another attack on the building around half an hour ago.'

'You're holding it now, Campbell?'

'Yes, sir, but we can't hold it for long. Respectfully, sir, you've got to get the hell down to the lobby so we can get away. Enemy tanks will be here any minute.'

'Thank you, Campbell. We'll be right down.'

Sam looked at us. 'It looks as if we've just got our ticket out of here.'

Here the elevators were automatic. Gabriel pressed the call button and within moments the elevator duly arrived.

As the doors closed on us for the long descent Sam said, 'Keep bunched tight around Christina when we get out in the lobby. Keep your guns ready, too.' His troubled eyes locked on the descending hand of the floor indicator. 'After all, we don't know what we're going to find down there, do we?'

I glanced at Kerris. She gave me a reassuring smile and I felt her hand rest against my forearm.

What we did find came as a surprise. The lobby was empty. I looked round, noticing blackened smears on the marble floor where grenades had exploded, along with the rust-coloured marks of dried bloodstains, too. As I stepped out of the elevator with my companions I saw the ruined furniture had been cleared away. Strangely, despite the sounds of battle we'd heard earlier, there wasn't a single spent cartridge to be seen.

In the doorway at the entrance of the building stood a lone Foresters' Marine armed with a rifle, the characteristic green bandanna around his neck.

'This way, sir,' he called. 'Please hurry.'

Even from this distance I saw that his face burned a bright red colour. Suddenly I realized he was blushing with embarrassment - or with shame.

We were halfway across the vast expanse of marble floor when I heard Gabriel mutter, 'I don't like the look of this... something isn't right.'

Another five paces - and then something strange happened to the lone Marine. He suddenly shot backwards. As he flew back through the doorway he gave a strangled cry. 'I'm sorry! I didn't want-'

As he disappeared through the doorway a dozen black-uniformed figures took his place. Without any fuss they pointed machine guns at us.

We aimed our own weapons back at them.

Stepping between the Guardsmen came a man I'd seen before. It was Rory Masterfield, the sharp-faced man I'd met on the steamship that first brought me to New York. Dressed in trousers and an open-necked shirt he held out his arms to show he was unarmed.

'Kerris. Ask your friends to put down their guns.'

'No.'

'Tell them,' Masterfield insisted. 'There's no point in you all dying over this.'

'We're walking out of here,' Kerris shouted. 'Tell your men to clear the way.'

'You know you'll not get through the doorway. There are hundreds of our soldiers out in the road.'

'You won't shoot.'

'Won't we?'

'No. Because you won't risk injuring Christina. Torrence values what she has too much for that.'

'Then we've reached an impasse, haven't we?'

As he said the words he stepped back. Then he put both arms straight up, above his head.

I interpreted that as a signal to someone. I glanced round for hidden snipers. Above my head electricians had made a start on rigging temporary lighting to replace the chandeliers smashed during yesterday's firefight.

Only no light bulbs hung down from the cables. Instead there were long thin wires from which objects that looked like candles dangled.

Sam noticed them, too. He pulled a grenade from his belt. I raised the muzzle of my gun. Seeing that blue-black gun barrel come up to bear on the Guardsmen in the doorway was the last thing I remembered with any clarity for a while.

For right then it felt as if the entire building had crashed down upon my head.

The first perception after that to make any sense to me was my recollection of looking up and seeing that wire-festooned ceiling. Hanging down from the wires, like a strange kind of fruit, had been sticks of dynamite.

I never did hear the actual detonation. (At least, I had no memory of having heard it - one of the effects of the concussion. I guess.) But I felt its effects, all right. When I opened my eyes all I could see were blurred pairs of boots hurrying around my head. At that moment I could still hear nothing. In fact, it felt as if my ears were stuffed with cotton wool. However, I could feel a distinct pins-and-needles sensation in my face.

For the moment I was content to lie there on the floor, because the world had taken to lurching dizzily around me. But even as I decided that standing upright wasn't really for me, hands seized my clothing to hoist me roughly to me feet. I blinked and my blurred vision improved. To my right stood Gabriel Deeds. Blood streamed from his nose while one eye was closed by an almighty swelling.

I looked to my left. Kerris stood there, her face as white as paper. My hearing came back in a rush accompanied by ringing sounds that, I guessed, came from somewhere inside my blast-addled head. Behind me was Sam Dymes, his face blackened by the effects of the explosion. And there was the rest of our dishevelled team: Christina, Marni, the Marine and two undercover operatives.

While milling all around us in a state of high excitement were dozens of Guardsmen. I saw Rory Masterfield watching me with an expression on his face that could only be described as smug.

I winced as the smarting around my eyes intensified. Being a little taller than average I figured I was paying the price for my face being nearer the explosion. Flash burns were beginning to make their stinging presence felt.

Hands grasped my arms as I was searched for any weapon that I might still have concealed up a sleeve or down a boot. Presently the Guardsmen were satisfied. One of them shouted back towards the entrance, 'Prisoners secured!'

The line of black uniforms parted in front of me.

A tall figure strolled forward. And once more I found myself looking into that resolute face with its one green and one yellow eye. Torrence looked pleased with himself. He regarded my face closely, as if I were some much-sought-after antique. 'Yes,' he said at length. 'You do look remarkably like your father, Masen.' He smiled at me. 'Now, in a little while, I'll be able to repay Bill Masen for this.' He pointed at his egg-yolk eye. 'Believe me, I will be paying him. back with interest. And how is your mother, Josella Playton?'

I kept my mouth firmly shut.

'Or does she call herself Josella Masen now?' He smiled again, then brought his face close to mine so the yellow eyeball hovered in front of my own eyes. 'I'm looking forward to our reunion party. Hmm. Come to think of it, Josella won't be that old, will she? Oh, I know she'll be too long in the tooth to have children naturally. But I'm sure she can play host to Christina's progeny, can't she?'

Torrence didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he looked over the rest of his catch. Again he looked pleased with himself. He had every reason to be. He'd lured us down to the lobby using a captured Marine. With a stroke of brilliance his men had strung sticks of dynamite across the ceiling, using the explosive in such a way that it wouldn't produce lethal shrapnel but would generate a concussive blast wave to stun its victims. There had been a chance that we might have suffered more serious head injuries, but Torrence had gambled that the ovaries deep inside Christina's stomach would be unharmed, and that his surgeons could speedily remove them if need be. But then, my father always freely admitted that Torrence had good organizational skills, even if they were applied downright brutally. What was more, he must have galvanized his anti-triffid squads into action overnight. Through a window I could see armoured bulldozers clearing away the once fearsome sixty-foot plants that had been burned to cinders by what must have been a veritable firestorm from massed ranks of flame-throwers. With Manhattan cleared of invaders - human and triffid alike - the city was once more in this man's iron grip.

Torrence paused to look at both his daughters. First he scrutinized Marni, paying particular attention to the scar. Then he turned to look at Kerris again. 'You know,' he began, 'I think you really are twins. Of course, you don't look so identical now.' He spoke back over his shoulder. 'Masterfield.'

'Sir?'

'I want you to make sure that Kerris Baedekker once more resembles her sister. Then she can go to the Maternity Complex.'

'Yes, sir.' Rory Masterfield spoke with unconcealed eagerness. 'And the others, sir?'

'David Masen is important to my strategies for the Isle of Wight. As for the others...' He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I think they will have a long and uncomfortable career in the coal mines. No promotion prospects, naturally. Now, what I think is essential is-'

With a wordless bellow, Marni broke free of the man holding her. She launched herself forward, slashing at Torrence's face with her clawed fingers. He moved back. But not before I saw red lines slash across one cheek.

Before her fingers could reach his one good eye the Guardsmen had pounced on Marni, dragging her back. Roaring with fury, she turned her attention on them.

In one movement Torrence drew a pistol from beneath his jacket and fired.

Marni pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone. Then, as her face creased with pain, she crumpled to the floor. There she lay, face down. Unmoving.

I bunched my fists and judged my chances of getting just one full-blooded punch into the man's face.

Torrence, however, decided not to take any more risks. 'Put them in chains.' Angry, he touched his scratched face, then glared down at Marni's still body. 'And throw that thing into the incinerator.' He kept his pistol in his hand.

Guardsmen had started snapping steel cuffs on my wrists when I heard a disturbance in the street outside. For a moment I actually hoped it signalled the return of the triffids. But these were no shouts of alarm. More a rising buzz of voices that, although quite calm, were insisting upon something.

Torrence rolled a fierce green eye in the direction of the main doorway. I followed his gaze. There in the entrance was a line of civil guards armed with rifles. I saw them look uneasily at one another. Then, one by one, they moved aside.

Curious now, I raised my head to look over the Guardsmen in front of me as a ripple of voices came through the lobby. Even the Guardsmen were distracted from chaining their captives.

By now the civil guard had moved yet further apart, and I saw, with some measure of disbelief, a curious body of people marching across the lobby. These, I realized, were the Blind. They moved with a quick confidence, their white sticks sharply tapping the marble floor. Indeed, there were so many of them that the rap of their sticks drowned out every other sound in the place.

'What is this?' Torrence asked with supreme irritation. 'Get these people out of here.'

But the Blind moved forward, and what I took at first to be dozens of them turned out to be hundreds. What a mixture they were. All the different colours of humanity were there. Some were neatly dressed, others wore rags. Clearly they'd come from both Free Manhattan and the slave camp in the north.

Torrence's expression switched between anger and bewilderment.

At the front of this strange procession was an unsighted woman of around seventy with long white hair; beside her a sighted girl acted as her guide.

Torrence let out a sudden laugh. He looked at me, then at Sam Dymes. 'I know what this is, Dymes!' Pointing back at the Blind with his pistol, he said, 'This is your secret weapon.' He laughed even louder. 'Is this the best you could do?'

'I... I don't know anything about this.' Sam's voice was barely a whisper.

'Oh, so you're disowning this absurd pantomime? Sanity at last!' Torrence then turned and bellowed at the Blind men and women. 'Listen to me! Don't you know that the old adage still rings true?' He pointed to his green eye. 'That in the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king!'

'General Fielding,' began the elderly woman in calm tones.

'Oh go away, blind woman. And take your rabble with you.'

'We are not leaving, General Fielding. Or should we address you by your real name... Torrence, isn't it?'

Torrence's humour vanished. 'Masterfield, have this place cleared, and if they don't clear out in five minutes give the order to open fire on them.'

Guardsmen raised their weapons.

The woman spoke out in a clear voice. But she didn't address Torrence. Instead she called out, 'Stephen? Stephen? Are you there?'

This was a cue for all the Blind. With a calm dignity they began to call out in clear voices.

'Elizabeth? Elizabeth?'

'Anthony?'

'Hans, are you there, Hans?'

'Joe? Can you hear me, boy?'

'Colleen?'

'Rose?'

'Aaron, are you there, son?'

'Theo...'

'Michael, it's your father...'

The slave Blind and the free Blind were calling to their sons and daughters.

'Colleen?'

'Benjamin, this is your mother.'

'Can you hear me, son?'