"No. They'd all go to ground, and we can't afford that if I'm wrong." He folded the leaflet and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Come on, let's go see the tennis match."

Greg rode the escalator out of the Slatebridge Park station into another of the ubiquitous rotundas. There was a police sergeant waiting for him, Bernard Kemp, whose stomach was bulging over the regulation belt holding his shorts up. Greg was glad to see him, obviously an old hand. His phlegmatic greeting made a pleasing change from his colleagues' breathless enthusiasm.

Slatebridge Park was the ninth sighting of the afternoon. After the casino there had been the tennis match, an orchard, a beach, shopping arcade, another beach, a gallery—Hyde Cavern seemed to be suffering from a plague of Celestial Apostles, all of them distributing the same leaflet advertising the blessing ceremony. "They've never been this blatant before," Lloyd McDonald said. "It's almost like they don't care about stealth any more." And after Slatebridge Park there were another two sightings waiting to be investigated.

The visibility of the Celestial Apostles was worrying him.

He was sure the Dolgoprudnensky would have agents up here. Would they connect the leaflet with the alien? His intuition was mercifully silent. They couldn't have found Royan or the alien yet. But not even Royan could hide for ever. He was growing increasingly aware of how finite New London really was. And the Dolgoprudnensky had a four-day lead.

Greg looked over Bernard Kemp's sagging shoulders at the Globe. It was an open-air amphitheatre, cut into the side of a hillock, circled by a lonely rank of fluted Greek pillars. Tiered ranks of stone seats looked down on a simple open circular stage; the only backdrop was the long still lake at the foot of the small valley.

About a quarter of the seats were filled. Three actors in white togas were on the stage. Greg was too far away to hear the dialogue, but guessed at Julius Caesar.

Bernard Kemp used his police-issue cybofax to verify Greg's card, something none of the other bobbies had done.

"Company man?" the sergeant said sourly.

Greg recognized the mind tone, resentful and weary. Bernard Kemp wasn't a man who enjoyed his beat being interrupted for political reasons. Greg felt a degree of sympathy. As a policeman Kemp was infinitely preferable to André Dubaud. Pity he himself was the irritant. "Not quite, no," Greg said. "But it's a good enough description. So where's our man?"

Bernard Kemp stabbed a thumb at the Globe. "Annoying the audience. There's a couple of them in there. My partner's watching." The thumb moved, lining up on the pillars at the top of the seats. "Their look-out is skulking about up there."

A black woman in an Indian poncho was sitting with her back to one of the pillars, her knees drawn up to her chin. The position gave her an excellent view over the surrounding parkland.

Bernard Kemp was the first person to spot a watcher. Greg wasn't surprised.

They walked up the slight incline to the amphitheatre. Greg detected the stirrings of alarm in the black woman's mind as she saw the group of them. She climbed to her feet, brushing grass from her poncho.

Charlotte stood on the side of the seats, looking round the audience. She blinked, leaning forwards. "It's him." She sounded dubious. "Really."

Greg looked at the man walking up one of the aisles. Charlotte had been generous when she said he was in his late fifties, Greg put his age closer to sixty-five. Other than that he fitted her description: rotund, thinning hair drawn back into a pony-tail, albino skin. He was playing the joker, handing out the leaflets with a bow, smiling broadly, mocking himself. The technique was good, people took the leaflet without protest.

"All right," Greg said. "Charlotte, you lead. Just walk over to him. Teresa, keep an eye on the watcher."

Charlotte started to thread her way along the seating. It wasn't quite the surreptitious approach Greg had wanted, too many heads turned to follow Charlotte's progress. When they were halfway towards him, the Celestial caught sight of her.

Greg watched the emotions chase across his mind, the surprise that came from recognition, interest then concern. When he caught sight of Greg the concern tilted into agitation. Resignation was last, after he'd looked round, sizing up his chances of making a run for it. He gave a half-hearted shrug, and stuffed the leaflets back in a satchel.

The black woman by the pillar had disappeared by the time Charlotte reached him.

"Hello again, Charlotte," the old man said. "I didn't expect to see you up here again so soon."

Charlotte gestured awkwardly, not saying anything.

"Good afternoon to you," he said as Greg stepped into the aisle. "You'll be wanting a leaflet?"

Greg grinned. "Thanks, I've already got one." Charlotte had been right about the warmth of his smile.

"Ah well. I'll be going, then."

"I've come all the way from Earth just to see you," Greg said.

"What, this little sack of skin and bones?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sure you must have the wrong person."

"No." He was aware of the people sitting by the aisle watching him. "You want to go somewhere where we don't disturb people?" He pointed to the top of the amphitheatre.

The old man glanced round with pointed slowness. "Well now, what do you say, Charlotte? Should we stop distracting these good people from this rather mediocre performance? I could never resist the wisdom of a pretty girl."

"Please," Charlotte said quietly.

"Ah, now that's the word to use. Please." He began to walk up the slope.

Greg saw Rick, Teresa Farrow, Jim Sharman, and Bernard Kemp walking up the side of the seats to meet them at the top.

"Is that a member of the constabulary I see?" the old man asked.

"Yes," Greg said.

"Am I to be taken away in chains, then?"

"Not unless I tell him to," Greg said lightly.

The Celestial shot him a fast appraising glance, then squared his shoulders and carried on. Suzi gave an evil chuckle.

"The look-out scooted," Teresa Farrow said when Greg reached the top of the hillock. "Do you want her back?"

"No. Not important."

"All this effort," the Celestial said. "I'm quite flattered."

"Want to tell me your name?" Greg asked.

"I'll show you mine if you show yours."

"Greg Mandel, Mindstar Captain, retired."

"By all that's holy, a gland man."

"No messing."

"The name is Sinclair, for me sins. Pleased to meet you there, Captain Greg." He stuck out his hand.

Greg turned to Bernard Kemp. "Thanks very much for your help. We'll take him from here."

"I figured you might," the sergeant said. He paused. "Sir." He adjusted his cap, taking his time, then walked back down the aisle.

Greg just heard him mutter: "Glory boys."

Sinclair's smile was fading as they all looked at him, he dropped his hand back to his side. "Ah well, I had a grand run. Not that it particularly matters any more, of course. Not after tomorrow."

Greg realized the light was dimming. The idea was perturbing, it had remained constant the whole time they'd spent chasing round Hyde Chamber after the Celestials; an eternal noon, casting virtually no shadows. He looked up, round, instinct calling him to the southern endcap a couple of kilo-metres away.

The waterfalls had gone. Instead, six huge plums of dense snow-white vapour were shooting out of the openings in the rock. They swept across the sky, heading towards the northern endcap, already several hundred metres long, twisting round the lighting tube like bloated contrails from an acrobatic display team.

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

"Hyde Chamber's irrigation system," Melvyn said. "They turn it on every other night, once in the early evening, and again just before dawn."