"Maybe he won't come," Harry said.

"He'll come," Oliver Brown said. "He knows the way."

"Oh. Yeah, of course he would," Mike said.

And that would be that, Sherrine thought. They'd take the Angels to California, either to hide them or to try again with Phoenix. But that wouldn't matter to her. By tomorrow she would be back home in Minneapolis, safe and snug and not quite warm.

The wind blew cold sleet into Captain Lee Arteria's face, stinging her exposed skin with a thousand tiny needles. The Minnesota troopers and the Minneapolis police formed a cordon around the small, one-bedroom house. Neighboring houses winked in the dusk as their inhabitants pulled window shades aside for a glimpse of the goings on. One or two neighbors had bundled up and come out onto their porches. They stood there with their arms thrust under their armpits, bouncing up and down in nervous anticipation.

Lee Arteria had never liked spectators.

A glance into the pulpy sky showed that the storm had hours yet to run. Arteria called to the squad on the Hartley porch. "No answer?"

A pantomime shake of the head.

"Then break the door in, Sergeant Pyle." The policeman hesitated, and Arteria shouted, "Its fucking cold out here."

Pyle nodded and raised a boot. Two well-aimed kicks broke the latch and the door swung in and banged against the back wall. Arteria crowded into the hallway with the others.

"Shit," said one of the state troopers. "It ain't that much warmer in here."

Conte stood by Arteria's elbow. "Are you criticizing the thermostat law, Trooper?"

"Uh, no, Captain."

"All right. Spread out and search the place."

"What are we looking for?"

Arteria threw back the military parka's enormous, furlined cowl and gave the trooper a grim smile. "You'll know when you find it."

A search did not turn up much. One of the city police located a photograph of Hartley and handed it to Pyle, who showed it to Conte and Arteria. "Horsey looking, ain't she? You'd want to brown bag a date like that."

"That will be all, Sergeant," Arteria said in severe tones. "Homeliness isn't a crime." Besides, it isn't true. She's attractive enough.

"Good thing, or she'd be doing hard time." Pyle barked at his own joke and resumed supervision of the search.

Conte studied the picture over Arteria's shoulder. "What do you think, Captain? Is it her?"

Arteria passed the photograph to him. "Probably. Show it to some of those nosy neighbors hanging around out there. Verify her identity. Find out if they know the name of the man in the picture, too."

Conte called to a trooper and gave him the instructions.

"Wait," said Arteria as the man turned to go. "If it is Hartley, have him get copies of the photograph made for distribution."

Lee went from room to room looking for inspiration. Nothing was conspicuously missing from the closet. The toothbrush still hung in its rack above the sink. One toothbrush only. An ice-coated pool of water stood in the sink. A housecoat thrown across the bed. Wherever Sherrine Hartley had gone, she had left in a hurry and had expected to return soon.

That fits. Angels down. Fans to the rescue. She picked up the housecoat. It was quilted; down-filled. Whatever happened to flimsy negligees? Arteria had always liked those. Now you couldn't find them anywhere. Victims of the new, chillier age. Besides, judging from her picture, Hartley had never been the type to wear risque nighties.

Or was she? Aah, who ever knew? Lee dropped the housecoat onto the unmade bed. What are we doing here, pawing through some poor woman's personal things and laughing? The people at the University had described her as a loner, a misfit. A talented programmer, they granted, but, really, a nerdette, lacking in the social graces.

And didn't I know a lot of those, boys and girls both, once upon a time? This could be my room, if I'd stayed where-Bit late for that, now. Or is it? How long before one of the searchers found-

The thought was hardly born when a city policewoman, her hands trust deep underneath the mattress, shouted in triumph. She pulled out three tattered, dog-eared paperback books, looked at the covers, and handed them over to Pyle with a smirk. "She's one of them, all right."

The books were The Sixth Winter, The Man Who Awoke, and Fahrenheit 451.

"Look at this crap, would you," Conte said in disgust. "With all the problems here on Earth, why would anybody waste their time with this escapist stuff? We oughta take these and throw them right into the trash can."

"What're the stories about, anyway?" Arteria took the dry, brittle volumes from Conte and read the back covers. Won't do to let them know I know already… "Get this. It says here that The Sixth Winter is about the sudden onset of an ice age; and The Man Who Awoke is about a scientist in 1933 who goes to sleep and wakes up in a future of depleted resources and ruined environments."

Conte took the books back. He scowled at them. "Yeah? What's the third one about?"

"Burning books."

Conte looked uncomfortable and opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Jheri Moorkith and the Green Police.

"Bureaucracy," said Moorkith, shaking his head. "Would you believe it? I never received your memo announcing this raid."

Arteria shrugged. Okay, let's play head games. First you dribble crane around the floor; then I'll dribble yours. "It's probably lost somewhere in the interdepartmental mail. The courier will find it stuck in the bottom of his pouch tomorrow."

"Well, no matter." Moorkith dismissed the breach of protocol with a wave of the hand. "I'm here now. What's going down?"

Arteria hated civilians who tried to talk like cops. They always got it wrong anyway. Conte flashed a sympathetic smirk. I'm glad he's your problem.

"We're checking on a possible lead. The details were in the memo--"

Arteria was interrupted by the return of the state trooper with the photograph. "Good news, Captain," he said, reporting to Conte. "We've got a definite make on Hartley. Neighbor lady on the west says the fellow in the picture with her is an ex-boyfriend named Robert Needle--or something like that. A university prof. Get this: he's a materialist scientist. He used to hang out with her a lot. We're running a make on him now. But, get this, the neighbor says he drives a maroon van. And he showed up here about two in the morning the night the air thieves went down."

Moorkith sucked in his breath and traded triumphant looks with Conte and Arteria. "I think we're onto something here." He took the photograph from the trooper and studied it.

We? "How can the witness be sure about that early morning business?" Arteria asked.

"She says she sleeps light and the noise of the van woke her up. Me, I think she's a nosy old biddy who likes to spy on her neighbors. But what the hell, a lead's a lead, night?"

Right. And the University said Hartley called in later that morning and took an unscheduled week's vacation. She's supposed to be back tomorrow. When she does, we'll be waiting for her. And then what do I do?