"That's part of it. Trust in the big picture as well."

"What's the big picture?"

"No one knows. That's why you have to trust in it."

Teri considers for a moment, then smiles. "How did you get so wise?"

"Oh, I've been around."

We walk for another hour without talking. I enjoy the exercise, but I'm also looking for places to set up monitoring devices to increase my security.

Back at my house, we find Matt reading a short story that I wrote for a sci-fi anthology. It's a personal favorite; I left it out on purpose. It follows the observations of K-8-P-or Kap-the name my hero goes by while he's on earth. Matt reads it aloud to catch Teri up.

Although from another planet, Kap is a low-level grunt who, along with his partner, has been assigned the job of destroying the earth. Kap's own world is only a few centuries further along than earth, but it belongs to an advanced galactic civilization that has been monitoring earth's TV and radio programs for decades, and that has determined we are far too hostile a race to be allowed to expand out into the galaxy.

My story begins with Kap and his partner spraying a ten-mile-long asteroid with a special type of black paint that reduces its albedo ratio-its ability to reflect light-to near zero. Then the two outfit the asteroid with rockets that fire for a month and slowly alter its orbit so that it will intercept the earth in three years. Because it's so dark, earth astronomers won't notice the asteroid until it's days away from destroying our home.

The job done, the two enter a deep freeze that will keep them asleep for a decade while they cruise home. Only Kap sets his hibernaculum so that he awakens as soon as his partner is asleep. He turns their ship around and heads for the earth. He is curious to meet humanity. This is the tenth planet he's destroyed, and he wonders what criteria the top dogs in the galaxy are using to decide who lives and who dies.

The story takes off when Kap takes a shuttle down to earth and is fired upon by America's missile shield. His shuttle is damaged, and he crash-lands a couple of miles offshore, near San Francisco. The shuttle is equipped with a device that instantly gives Kap amnesia, lest he accidentally or intentionally warn any backward planet that it is about to be destroyed.

Kap survives the crash and is rescued by a fishing ship.

The rest of the story deals with Kap's innocent observation of human life. In one sense he sees everything with a child's eyes. But in another sense his observations are profound because they're completely unbiased.

I called the tale "Eyes of the Stars," and it won both a Nebula and a Hugo award for best sci-fi short story of the year. Like most of my work, I published it under the name Lara Adams.

"Why do you use a pen name when you write?" Matt asks as he finishes the story.

"Don't be so nosy. Her reasons might be private," Teri scolds.

"I do it to maintain my privacy," I say.

"I don't believe that," Matt teases. "Most people, when they're nobodies, talk about how they wouldn't mind the money fame brings, but they'd hate to have people chasing after them taking their picture. But I think everybody wants fame."

"Not me," I say flatly.

"Come on," Matt insists. "Wouldn't you love to have your picture taken by paparazzi and splashed all over the magazine covers?"

"Paparazzi are vultures. They're the last people I'd want near me."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Teri says. "Our society suffers from celebrity addiction. So much reality TV gives people the impression that the only way to be happy is to be famous."

"Hear, hear," I mutter.

"Would Kap agree with you guys?" Matt asks.

"You know he would. You just read my story."

Matt disagrees. "Kap's observations of mankind are confined to small things. How people push ahead of each other in checkout lines. He never reads a paper while on earth. He doesn't study our politics. He doesn't go after the bigger picture of why we're a danger to the rest of the galaxy."

"Remember, for the bulk of the story, Kap's lost his memory-"

"I don't know why you set it up that way," Matt interrupts, a bad habit of his. "Kap's observations would be more interesting if he could mentally compare his home world to earth."

"Kap's observations are worthwhile because they're innocent," I say. "He focuses on the small things we do because they're the most telling. When he sees a herd of cattle being rounded up for slaughter, it's his gut reaction that makes the story ring true."

"The truth is most of us would be vegetarians if we saw how animals are killed," Teri says. "Matt, remember that chicken farm we drove past in Kansas? After they gave us a tour, that was it for me. I haven't been able to eat chicken since."

"You're a hypocrite, darling. You still eat steak."

"Once a month. To keep from getting anemic."

Matt gestures to the swordfish. "You ate meat right now."

"Fish is not meat," Teri says.

"Tell that to the fish just before you chop off his head."

"Krishna used to say that fish were swimming vegetables," I say.

"By Krishna do you mean the Hindu god?" Teri asks.

"Yes."

"I didn't know you were into Eastern thought," Teri says.

"I like to study what every tradition has to offer."

"According to Kap, humanity has nothing to offer," Matt says.

"Not true. In the end he tries to save the earth," I reply.

"So what? Ninety percent of his observations of us are negative. The one place where you do deal with a larger issue is when it comes to money. You portray everyone who's rich as evil."

"Kap never uses the word 'evil.' He just notes that the distribution of wealth on earth is insane. Kap never gets angry at the rich. But he can't help feeling their behavior is illogical, because such unfairness cannot be sustained forever. At one point equality is either achieved or a culture falls apart due to internal pressures. History has taught us that much."

Matt laughs. "Bullshit. America's the most powerful nation on earth. But ninety percent of the wealth of this country is held by one percent of the people, and America shows no signs of faltering. It grows stronger with each passing decade."

"China grows stronger with each passing decade," I say. "They're the ones who pay the interest on our national debt."

"I knew, I knew it," Matt jeers. "You're a left-wing liberal."

"You could not be more wrong." I hold up both my hands and flex them. "I believe only the strong survive."

"Then you're a Republican, like me," Matt says.

"I despise Republicans," Teri mutters.

"I'm neither," I reply.

Matt misunderstands me, of course. Having lived so long, I can't tell the difference between the two political parties. They both sound like broken records that started skipping after the founding fathers died. Now there were some real men!

Matt continues-he still wants to win the argument.

"At the end of the story, when Kap's partner returns to find Kap and restores his memory, he makes an impassioned argument why violent races cannot be allowed to spread across the stars. I assume that was you talking. It sounded like it came from your heart."

"It's true, I did speak through his partner."

Teri is hurt by my remark. "Do you really feel there's no hope for humanity?"

I find it hard to lie to those I care about.

"I feel the road we're on leads nowhere. Yet part of me is an eternal optimist. I feel if we can change direction, we can survive."

"Why hire Teri to help you write a medical thriller?" Matt asks. "Your heart is clearly with bigger themes. Write a novel that focuses on a dystopian society."

"You mean, a novel that takes place after the bomb drops?"

"That's already been done," Teri says.

"Alisa will tell you that everything's been done," Matt says.

"True. It's how you do it that counts," I say. "But as far as my thriller being a small story-you have to understand it deals with our genetic code. I think our genes are the keys to our existence. They can either be our greatest wealth or our worst curse."

"How does it start?" Matt asks.

"With someone dying from a mysterious cause."

Matt smiles. "I look forward to reading it."

"I hope I can help you with it," Teri adds nervously.

"You'll help, trust me. I'll give you more work than you can handle."

Matt leans over and puts his arm around his girlfriend. "Let me tell you a secret about my girl that took me a long time to discover. She's tougher than you and I put together."

He lowers his head and kisses her, showing no inhibitions. Teri, aware that I'm watching, breaks away. But I feel the heat of her body. Naturally, I feel my own heat. The guy has sex appeal enough to sell by the pint.

I give Teri a list of books I want her to hunt down and buy. My next novel is not just an excuse to get to know her. I honestly think it can warn mankind about what's coming next.

The books I want Teri to find are not easily available. A few were self-published. All deal with the human genome. I give her cash to purchase the material and she promises to bring me receipts.

Matt squeezes me tightly and whispers in my ear. "There's something about you," he says, so softly Teri cannot hear.

The remark strikes me deeply. I wanted to have lunch together to get to know them better. But when I look back, I realize it was Matt who did all the probing. I suspect his teasing was all a charade. That he's like me, and has no political views at all. It makes me wonder what he really thinks.

"Do you know what it is?" I whisper back.

"Something. Something."

SIX.

Over the next week, I have them out to my house twice. The first time they come together. The next time they come separately. They both say the latter happened accidentally, but I feel they're trying to feel me out. I don't mind, I enjoy their company in either form, although I realize it could be a mistake for me to be alone with Matt. The guy has ingredient XYZ-if there is such a thing. He's so damn sexy! If I didn't love Teri so much, I'd have already jumped him. Even if he put up a fight, I wouldn't have cared.

But the trouble is I do care.

The day after I visit with them alone, I check my e-mail and discover that my female FBI agent, Claire Mason, has tracked the van's license plate number-the van the assassin used to haul his Gatling gun in-and has discovered that a Claudious Ember rented it a week ago from a Hertz in Manhattan. A further examination of his whereabouts shows he flew into Los Angeles the previous week, before flying to New York.

His original point of departure? Zurich, Switzerland.

It probably means nothing, but one of Yaksha's men, Slim, told me that Yaksha worked out of Switzerland. I tell Claire to fly to Zurich and expand her search. Once more, I warn her to be cautious, to mask her trail, to be wary of strangers.

I only send Claire after Claudious. She made the breakthrough-it's her right to follow up on it. She knows how well I reward success. Besides, if I sent my other FBI agent to Switzerland, and the two detectives, they would get in each other's way. Worse, they might call attention to themselves. Claire is the smartest in the group. I trust her to be careful.

Claudious was not careful enough. Whenever I leave the country, I carry several passports and frequently change my ID. Also, he should have removed the license plate on the van, or swapped it with another, and filed down the identification number on the engine. To give the guy his due, he was probably confident he would kill me without much trouble.

It continues to puzzle me why Claudious's organization sent only one assassin after me. Perhaps they wanted to demonstrate what just one of their people could do. It's possible it was a test. Perhaps they wanted to see what I could do.

The information on Marko gnaws at me. I hate that he's out there, especially when Lisa Fetch is still working at IIC. Even if she had quit her job and moved to another city, I would be uneasy about her chances for a long life. Her connection to Randy Clifford is too tight; it was while doing her bidding that he was killed by the hit man. I feel it is only a matter of time before Marko pays Lisa and her boyfriend-the cop, Jeff Stephens-a visit.

I ask myself why I should care. Of course, I have practical reasons to be concerned about IIC. They have a file on me. They know my address. They refer to me as a "person of interest." Worse, they say I have a "lengthy history." Does that mean they know I'm a vampire? I don't know, but I have to find out.

Still, none of this explains my concern about Lisa and Jeff. The truth is, I just like them, and I would hate to see something bad happen to them, especially when I can prevent it. I don't decide who I care about-I don't know if anyone does. But I like Lisa and Jeff enough to bump up my visit to meet Marko.

The contract killer lives in Iowa, of all places, in a small town named Fairfield. At least he is centrally located. My source tells me he owns a thousand acres of land outside of town and grows feed corn-for pigs, cows, chickens, not for humans, although people consume it indirectly in the form of corn syrup. He has two residences, one in town, the other out on his land. He sits on the city council and attends church every Sunday. He has a wife and two young children. Talk about a great cover.

I fly to Cedar Rapids. A package is waiting for me at the airport, outside the secure area. In the package is a Glock .45, with two spare clips and a silencer. I'm one of those fortunate billionaires that have set up teams of gofers all over the world, people who are only too happy to deliver to me whatever I want, when I want it.

I rent a car and take a leisurely ninety minutes to reach Fairfield. By now the sun is setting, and I have only to swing by Marko's farm to know he's staying there with his family. "Damn," I swear quietly. I would prefer not to have the wife and kids around-they might cramp my style. But I'm confident I can lure him outside.

For ten minutes, I study the family through an open window. Marko sits with his wife and children, watching a new science fiction TV series. A fire burns under a chestnut mantel and the house smells of roasted turkey and homemade stuffing. There are numerous biblical paintings on the walls. The man himself-who's known in town as Joe Henderson-is forty-five, thin but wiry. He is six-two, and when he stands to get a cup of coffee for his wife from the kitchen, I notice how fast and smooth his movements are. No doubt he has the reflexes of a cat.

Mrs. Mary Henderson is fifteen years younger, pretty and plump. She wears a tiny gold crucifix, similar to my own, and a cheap store-bought dress that hides her legs. She has a boy and a girl. Both are cute, with red cheeks and bright smiles, and I can tell by their happy faces they don't have a care in the world.

It's clear family life suits Mr. Henderson, yet at the same time I note his constant alertness. There's no question in my mind he was trained by some branch of the military in special ops, and a quick peek inside his mind reveals a cold darkness I have seldom seen in a human being.

But I don't recoil in disgust. He is a curiosity. On the outside, Mr. Henderson looks like the perfect family man, but if his interior life could be displayed on a poster, it would probably be blank. He's unlike Danny Boy, the rapist, who took pleasure in taunting his victims. In a sense Marko is a consummate professional-he kills for money, nothing more, and when he's with his family, he's able to block his secret life out so well he hardly thinks about it.

He's like a robot with two sets of hard drives that he uses for memory. Two storage units that seldom connect. The guy would undoubtedly fascinate most psychologists. At some time in the past a switch must have broken inside him and cut him off from his humanity.