It was a busy time, the tables in front of the windows were nearly all full, smartly uniformed waitresses bustling about. People were thronging the concourse and the balconies, filling the escalators. Teenagers hung out. Strands of music drifted up from various levels, played by licensed buskers. Greg could see a team of clowns working through the window tables two storeys below, children laughing in delight.

"Baronski is back this way," Greg said, and pointed back down the corridor. "Couple of doors." That was when the ordered his gland secretion, seeing a flash of black muscle-tissue jerking. His espersense unfurled, freeing his thoughts from the prison of the skull. Minds impinged on the boundary as it swept outwards, deluging him with snaps of emotion, of tedium and excitement, the tenderness of lovers, and frustration of office workers. One fragment of thought had a hard, single-minded purpose that was unique in the whirl of everyday life about him. He stopped and searched round, seeking it again, knowing from irksome memory what it spelt.

"Wait," he said.

Suzi almost bumped into him as he halted. "Now what?"

There was a flare of interest in the mind. And again, another one on the edge of perception, a couple of floors higher up.

"There's a surveillance operation here," Greg said. "I've got two people in range. Probably more outside."

Suzi shifted her bag. "Targeting Baronski, do you think?"

"Dunno. They're interested in us, though, the direction we're heading."

"What now?"

"Malcolm, there's one on the other side of the well, opposite this corridor, not moving. Male. See if you can spot him."

Malcolm Ramkartra turned slowly and leant back on the walkway, resting his elbows nonchalantly on the rail. "Think so. Bloke in a blue-grey shortsleeve sports shirt, late twenties, brown hair cut short. He's outside a greengrocers, reading a cybofax."

Greg looked down the corridor. A woman and her ten-year-old daughter were riding the walkway towards the well. Ordinary thought currents. There was no one else.

Two people in the well implied a sophisticated deal. They couldn't stay there all the time, which meant a rotation, others held in reserve. Probably an AV spy disk covering Baronski's door as well. More people to trail the old man if he went down the corridor to a lift.

He realized he'd subconsciously accepted that it was Baronski who was the surveillance target. Not that there'd been much conscious doubt. The chance of this being a coincidence was way too slim.

"OK, this is how we handle it. Malcolm, you walk down the corridor to the first lift, call it, and hold it. When you've got it, Suzi and I will try and get in to see Baronski. If the observers start thinking hostile thoughts, we'll run for it, if not, we go in. Meantime, you get Pearse to contact that security liaison officer, go through Victor Tyo if it'll add more weight. But I want to know if that's an authorized surveillance. This might just be a police drugs bust, or something."

"Bollocks," Suzi said.

"Yeah, all right, some hope. But we check anyway."

"Gotcha," said Malcolm. He stepped on to the walkway that took him back down the corridor.

"We're running into a lotta heavy-duty shit for what was supposed to be a simple little track-down," Suzi muttered. "The Monaco lift, now this."

Greg was watching Malcolm, who was talking urgently into his cybofax. "Yeah, Julia didn't think this through properly."

"How do you mean?"

"Why did the people who took that sample from the flower bother taking it in the first place? I mean if they knew what the flower was they wouldn't need to take a sample. If they didn't, then there'd be no reason to do it. The flower was a specific message from Royan to Julia, he knew she'd be curious about it because flowers are special to the two of them. But for anyone else, it would be meaningless, a beautiful girl carrying a token from a lover."

"If they knew she was a courier they would have ripped her baggage apart to find the message. Analysed everything. Maybe even used a psychic to sniff out what she was carrying. You said the flower was giving off freaky vibes."

"Could be," he admitted. "Especially if they knew she was carrying a warning about the aliens, a living example would be an obvious way of providing proof. But if they are working for the aliens, then why let a message about their existence get out at all? Why not snuff her?"

Suzi rubbed her forehead. "Christ, Greg. I'm just here to hardline for you, remember?"

"I don't expect answers. All I'm saying is that this is weirder than it looks."

"That's what I've just fucking told you!"

"I'm trying to think what kind of allies these aliens might have plugged in with. For a start, whoever it is has got to be rich enough to afford these kind of deals."

"A kombinate, finance house, someone like Julia; Christ, take your pick."

"There's no one else like Julia."

"Independently wealthy, arsehole."

"But why?"

"Like I said to Julia yesterday. Starship technology is worth a bundle. Antimatter drives, boron hydride fusion, high-velocity dust shields. Any one of those would be instant trillionairedom."

"Right." He was amused by her reaction. Suzi, a starship buff. He knew the English Interstellar Society sponsored regular conventions, covering topics from propulsion systems down to the practicality of pioneers setting up homesteads in alien biospheres. And there was a large chapter active in Peterborough, naturally, the heart of England's high-tech industry. The thought of Suzi attending didn't fit his world view.

The observer on the other side of the well emitted a burst of annoyance. He began to walk away from his position, thought currents feverishly active.

Looking the other way, Greg saw Malcolm Ramkartra was holding the lift. The hardliner gave Greg a short nod.

Two new minds moved into his perception range, that same steely intent as the first observer prominent amongst their thought currents.

"Bugger."

"What?" Suzi asked.

"The observation team have realized we've seen them. Come on."

At least Baronski was at home. Greg could sense his mind. Thought currents moving normally, their tension slacker than the people in the well, the way it always was with older people. Another mind close by was denser, brighter, filled with expectancy, a streak of suspense.

"He's got someone in there with him," Greg said. "One of his girls, at a guess." He pressed the call button. The suspicion and interest of the observers rose.

"Yes?" Baronski's voice asked from the grille.

"Dmitri Baronage? Could we come in, please? We'd like a word."

"I'm not seeing anyone today."

"It is important."

"No."

"Just a couple of questions, I won't take a minute."

"No, I said. If you don't go away, I shall call arcology security."

Greg sighed. "Baronski, unless you open this door right now, I'll come back with arcology security, and they'll smash it down for me. OK?"

"Who are you?"

Greg showed his Event Horizon security card to the key, there was a near invisible flash of red laser light. "I'm Greg Mandel. Now can I come in? After all, you're not on our shit list… yet."

"You're from Event Horizon?"

"Yeah, and one of your girls met with our boss in Monaco the other night. Are you getting my drift?"

"I… Yes, very well." The door lock clicked.

Baronski's lounge was huge, its colour scheme navy-blue and royal purple. The chairs and settee were sculpted to look like open sea shells. Antique furniture cluttered the wall, delicate tables holding various art treasures, a genuine samovar, an icon panel of the Virgin Mary that was dark with age, what looked suspiciously like a Fabergé egg, which Greg decided had to be a copy. The paintings were chosen for their erotica, old oils and modern flour sprays side by side. They were illuminated by biolum lamps in the shape of a tulip, grey smoked glass with elaborate gold-leaf curlicues. Vivaldi was playing quietly out of hidden speakers.