"Yes, sir," the driver said. "Ever since I could climb a ladder, maybe before, too."

"And you are?"

"Simon, sir."

"Can you do anything else?" Christine asked. There was a purring challenge in her voice.

Simon broke into a sudden ingratiating smile. From his position in the passenger seat, Alan was craning over Simon's shoulder, staring.

Greg sent out a silent prayer. Christine was fifteen years old, and developing a figure as grand as her mother's. The lime-green cap-sleeve T-shirt she was wearing proved that; and now he thought about it, her cut-off jeans were high and tight. None of her clothes were exactly little-girlish any more. He supposed that one day he really ought to talk to her about boys and sex, except that he had always sort of assumed Eleanor would do that. Coward, he told himself silently.

Simon's mouth had opened to answer her, but then he took in Greg's impassive expression and Derek's scowl, and decided not to chance it. "We can help with the cooking. And I have an HGV licence," he offered.

"Any mechanical problems, and I'm your man," Alan added. "City and Guilds diploma in transport power systems."

Greg made a note on his cybofax.

"Mr. Mandel lets you in, then you work from dawn to dusk," Derek said. "I told him you was good boys; you fuck up, you make me a liar, you disgrace your family."

From anyone else it would have been absurdly over the top. But Simon and Alan suddenly looked panicky.

"We want to work," Simon insisted. "We didn't drive two hundred klicks for fun."

Greg ordered a low-level secretion from his gland. In his imagination it was a slippery lens of black muscle, pumping away enthusiastically, oozing milky liquids. It was an illusion he had somehow never quite managed to shake off. Reality was far more banal. The gland was an artificial endocrine node which the Army had implanted in his skull, absorbing blood, and refining a devilish cocktail of psi-enhancing neurohormones to exude into his synapses.

The Army saw psychics forming a super-intelligence-gathering task force, pinpointing enemy locations, divining their generals' strategies, opening up a whole chapter of information that would ensure victory. The Mindstar Brigade never quite lived up to those initial hopes, although it retained a fearsome reputation. Psi wasn't an exact science, human brains were stubbornly recalcitrant, and not everybody could take the psychological pressure.

After his encouraging test results, the project staff had expected Greg to develop a formidable sixth sense, seeing through brick walls, seeking out tactical data over twenty kilometres. Instead, he wound up with the ability to perceive people's emotions, their fears and hopes, knowing instantly when someone was lying. It was useful for counter-intelligence work, but hardly justified the expense.

His gland also cultivated a strong intuitive sense, although official opinion was divided on that. Greg knew it was real. One time in Turkey during the Jihad Legion conflict, he had tried to convince his company commander it was too risky crossing a valley floor. The major hadn't listened, putting it down to the usual squaddie superstition about open ground.

Eight of the company had been lost when the Apache attack helicopters swam out of the cloudless sky, another fifteen were stretcher cases.

Greg felt his perception altering as the neurohormones bubbled through his brain, the world receding slightly, becoming grey and shadowy. The tightly wound thought currents of the two boys in the ambulance shone out at him. It was like watching fluid neon streamers swirling in surreal patterns, a cryptic semaphore message he alone could read.

He always checked over newcomers, just to make sure he wasn't letting any vipers into Hambleton's rustic peace. But neither of the boys were harbouring anything sinister, no malice or secret disdain, there was just a flutter of nerves as they waited for his answer, a genuine urge to work. And in Alan's case, a high-voltage sparkle of admiration for Christine.

The one thing Greg never used his espersense for was checking up on his own children. He'd always promised himself that. Paranoid parents were the last thing a growing kid needed. So he stopped short of seeing how interested Christine really was with the two boys, preferring trust instead.

Besides, she already had three serious boyfriends that he knew of.

Christine brushed some of her long titian hair aside, tucking it behind her ear. "Two hundred kilometres; where have you come from?" she asked the boys.

"York," Alan said.

"Oh, I think that's such a wonderful city. I always love visiting it."

"We'll give it a shot," Greg said hurriedly, trying to regain control.

"Thank you, sir," Simon said, grinning broadly. "We'll show you haven't made a mistake."

"Right. Park down beside the torreya tree. Make sure to put some wood underneath your wheels, the ground's wet. OK? And don't cut down any trees in the copse." He pointed at the block of Chinese pine saplings beyond the groves. "We provide logs."

"Yes, sir."

The ambulance's hub motors engaged with a light whine.

"And don't you piss in the reservoir," Derek yelled after them. Simon's hand waved from the open window.

"You've never been to York," Greg said to Christine.

She started giggling. "Oh, Dad, what's that got to do with anything?"

Greg gave up. "Right, that's twenty. Who's next?"

A pair of hands were placed over his eyes. "I thought you always told me it was impossible to creep up on a psychic," a woman's voice said in his ear.

Christine squealed. "Aunty Julia!"

Greg turned round to see Christine hugging Julia Evans. He gave her a lame grin. "Listen, you, it's more than possible when a psychic is having a day like this one."

"I know the feeling." Julia gave him a kiss, just a little bit longer than politeness dictated.

Greg slapped her bottom. "Behave yourself." When Julia was seventeen she'd had a mild crush on him, a psychic detective and ex-hardline resistance fighter was so far outside her usual experience she thought it terribly romantic, the ultimate in mysterious strangers. Greg was suddenly aware of Derek shuffling uncomfortably. He introduced Julia, privately amused by Derek's consternation when he realized that, yes, it really was the Julia Evans. "Did you bring Daniella and Matthew with you?" he asked.

"Yes, I've just picked them up from Oakham School. They went on into the house."

"Picked them up from school," Greg chuckled. "Just an ordinary working mum, huh?"

Julia grinned. "Looks like you've got a good crop this year," she said.

"Best yet." He caught sight of Victor Tyo, Event Horizon's security chief, standing respectfully a couple of metres behind Julia. A slender Euroasian with an adolescent's face and thick black hair, he had slung his suit jacket over one shoulder, white shirt undone at the collar. At forty years old, he was young for the job, but Greg had worked with him on the virus case, Victor Tyo had what it took. That too young face was a misdirection, the brain behind could have been made from solid bioware. There weren't many tekmercs who chanced going up against Event Horizon these days.

Greg shook Victor's hand warmly. "Where are Julia's bodyguards? You're far too old for hardlining now."

"Hey," Victor Tyo spread his arms. "You speak for yourself." He gestured with one hand. A nineteen-fifties Rolls Royce Silver Shadow was parked on the drive just above the farmyard, two sober-faced hardliners in ash-grey suits standing beside it.

Greg rolled his eyes. "My God, it's the camouflage detachment." On the road at the top of the drive a flock of children was forming, plotting dark misdeeds.

A horse-drawn caravan had pulled up in front of the gate, painted bright scarlet with yellow and blue trim. Greg recognized Mel Gainlee holding the reins, a spry pensioner who'd been coming to Hambleton for almost as long as Derek. He waved hopefully to Greg.