"No-no! You do not understand. It was stolen in Maui and brought here to New York City."

    "You know that for sure?"

    "Reasonably sure."

    Reasonably was close enough.

    "Just what is this heirloom?"

    "I would rather not say right now. I have pictures I can show."

    "Is it big?"

    "It is not small, but can easily be carried with one hand."

    Good. Liked to hear that. One more, then he'd quit the twenty questions. Jack liked to know how a customer found him.

    "Where did you hear about me?"

    "From friend of friend on Maui."

    Jack frowned. Did he know anyone out there? Didn't think so.

    "Name?"

    "I prefer not to speak names on phone. Where can we meet? I will tell you everything then."

    Jack couldn't argue about keeping mum but the meeting place was a good question. He'd been overusing Julio's lately and couldn't risk becoming a creature of too much habit. Someplace public… far from Julio's… that served beer, of course.

    "Okay. We'll meet tomorrow at—"

    "Can we not meet tonight?"

    "Tomorrow. Three P.M. at the Ear. It's on Spring between Washington and Greenwich."

    "The Ear? This is a true name?"

    "Believe it. It's a pub."

    "It does not sound appetizing."

    "You eat sushi?"

    "Of course."

    "Well, don't expect to find any there. See you at three. If you're late, I'm gone."

    Hank Thompson lay blinking in the dark, just awakened from a dream.

    But not the usual dream. Not the dream of the Kicker Man protectively cradling a baby—Dawn's baby, Hank was sure—in his four arms. This one involved the Kicker Man, yes, but instead of holding a baby he was swinging a Japanese sword—one of those long, curved samurai numbers—whipping it back and forth. And then he dropped it and faded away.

    But the sword remained, allowing Hank a closer look.

    A real piece of crap—no handle and its blade eaten away in spots up and down its length.

    But maybe it only looked like a piece of crap. Its appearance with the Kicker Man meant it was important. Somehow it figured into the future of the movement—or "Kicker evolution," as he was calling it.

    A few months ago Hank would have been asking, How? Why? Now he knew better. Somewhere along the way he'd become a sort of antenna for signals from… where? Out there was all he could say, although where that was and what was out there he had no idea. His daddy had told him about "Others" on the outside that wanted to be on the inside, and that Daddy and Hank and his sibs had special blood that would put them in great favor if they helped the Others cross over.

    Daddy's talk had sounded crazy at times, but he had a way of saying things that made you believe. That dead eye of his could see places and things no one else could. Or so he said.

    But a couple years ago Hank had started having dreams of the Kicker Man, and the man had shown him things… things he'd put into a book that had sold like crazy, making him famous—or maybe notorious was a better word—and attracting a following from all levels of society, especially people living on the fringe.

    Yeah, Kick was zooming toward its two-millionth copy sold, with no signs of slowing. He was rich.

    Hank glanced at the glowing face of his clock radio: 2:13 A.M. He pushed himself out of bed and wandered to his room's single window. He looked out at the Lower East Side block, just off Allen Street, one story below.

    Funny, he didn't feel rich. Not living in this single room in the Septimus Lodge. But he had to keep up appearances, had to live like his peeps. Get into conspicuous consumption and he might lose them—and that meant losing their donations. He had a few whales giving big bucks to the Kicker clubs, but most donations were small. But they added up because there were so many of them.

    Well, he was used to living lean. No biggie. He could hang out until the Change came and the Others arrived. Then he'd be rewarded. But there might be no change and no Others arriving if he didn't help open the door. And to do that he needed the Key.

    Had to find Dawn, damn it. Her baby was, as Daddy liked to say, the Key to the Future.

    But what about that ratty sword? Where did that fit in?

    He'd have to put that on the Kicker BOLO list.

    Hideo Takita stood in Kaze Group's Tokyo office looking down at the Marunouchi district's gridlocked streets. Even in early afternoon—jammed.

    He lifted his gaze beyond the skyscrapers to the Imperial Palace squatting low and graceful among its flanking gardens, but the sight of it offered no peace.

    He wiped his sweating palms on the pants of his gray suit. A systems analyst such as Hideo was not invited to the office of Sasaki-san, the chairman of the board, simply for idle chatter. Idle was not a word one would associate with Kaze Group.

    The reception area offered little reassurance—literally and figuratively. Bare walls of polished steel, black ceiling, gleaming floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the city. A brushed-steel desk and chair were the room's only furnishings, and not meant for visitors. One must not be comfortable if one is idle at Kaze Group.

    Kaze… a fitting name.

    Although ostensibly a simple holding company, Kaze Group was more powerful than the largest of the keiretsus, the giant vertical and horizontal conglomerates that ruled Japanese business.

    Formed shortly after World War II, it had slowly woven itself into the fabric of Japan's economy. Today, through a web of dummy corporations, it owned controlling interest in Japan's "Big Six" keiretsus and most of the major corporations. The keiretsus were like icebergs—their small, uppermost portion visible, the vast bulk looming hidden beneath the surface.

    But what determined the path of icebergs through the sea? The currents. And what dictated the currents?

    The wind.

    Kaze.

    Not satisfied with Japan alone, Kaze Group had branched out, extending its reach in all directions. Although it produced nothing itself, it had a hand in the manufacture of everything of importance produced around the globe.

    "Takita-san?"

    Hideo whirled and saw that the slight, business-suited receptionist had returned and was standing behind the desk. Hideo tried to look relaxed and confident as he approached.

    "Sasaki-san will see me now?"

    The receptionist's lips twisted. Hideo realized with a spike of embarrassment that he was suppressing a laugh.

    "You will not be seeing the chairman today."

    Hideo imagined him adding, nor any other day.

    The receptionist handed Hideo a thumb-size flash drive.

    "On this you will find scans of a shipping tube taken at Kahului Airport on Maui. In that tube you will see the image of a damaged katana. The item was checked through to Kennedy International in New York. The passenger's name was listed as Eddie Cordero. That, however, is an alias. The chairman wishes you to go to New York and find that katana." The receptionist gave him a knowing look. "If you deliver this katana to him, he will be most grateful."

    Hideo knew what that meant. But…

    "The chairman wants me to find a damaged sword?"

    "You question the chairman's desire?"

    "No, of course not. I did not mean that. I meant, why me? I have no special skills."