Leighton frowned. «I seem to have heard the name somewhere.»

«Dash it, man! She was the woman Richard was engaged to, around the time our experiments first began. He had to break off with her because of our damned official security.»

«Yes, I think it's coming to me. She got married, as I recall, to some accountant.»

J began pacing again. «That's right. Reginald Smythe-Evans C.P.A. That's the chap. A decent enough fellow, though of course Richard never could stomach him. Richard and I and a few other lads from MI6A were playing hide and seek with the Russians at her wedding. Damn poor form on our part, but we were desperate. She forgave him, and in fact made him second-godfather of her third child.»

Leighton said wistfully, «Her third child. God, how the years fly by.»

J pressed on with growing excitement. «Richard has had many women since then, both here in England and in various X dimensions, but it has always been my impression that Zoe has remained for him the woman, as Conan Doyle might have put it. With all the others Richard has held something back, knowing that the relationship could not last. Only with Zoe had he even the illusion that a life-long proper Church-of-England marriage was possible.»

«Come to the point, man,» Leighton snapped.

«The point is this: Zoe may be the one thing in the whole world Richard has not forgotten. If he could see her again, it could jog his memory, start him on the road to recovery.»

Leighton stroked his chin thoughtfully with a small hand. «Hmm. You may have something there, but if she's a happily married woman, would it be wise to, as it were, blow on the fading embers?»

«I won't ask her to divorce her husband or anything like that, of course. What's done is done. I only want Richard to see her, to speak to her if he can speak, or listen to her if he can't. How can she refuse a request for a single visit? For a few hours of her time? Once Richard meant a great deal to her, you know. He still does, if I'm any judge.»

«Do you know where she is?»

«No, but I can find her. MI6 can find anyone it really wants to find.»

The scientist nodded slowly. «I'd forgotten you were the original Great Octopus, but before you pick up the telephone and start slithering your tentacles out through the wires, perhaps you should consider that you may be placing this lady in grave danger.»

«Danger? What do you mean?» J had started toward the telephone on the desk, but now he paused.

«Nobody knows the limits of this creature's powers, this thing from who knows where. If Richard's old flame can actually threaten our Mr. Thing in any way, as we certainly hope she can, Mr. Thing may take steps to defend himself. For all we know Mr. Thing is in this room listening to us at this very moment «

J glanced uneasily around. «Nonsense. You told me yourself the thing was still contained within the hospital and computer complex.» He picked up the receiver of the old-fashioned desk phone and dialed Copra House.

Ten minutes later, his call completed, J hung up and turned to face Lord Leighton.

«You'll like a happy man,» Leighton commented, smiling. «It does your soul good, doesn't it, to do something, anything, even if it's the wrong thing?»

«It's not the wrong thing.» J walked slowly to the window and looked out. It may have been imagination, but the overcast sky seemed markedly brighter. Was that a touch of green on the branch of one of the leafless trees in Prince's Gate Crescent?

J glanced down.

On the sidewalk, gazing up at him with an expression that was, at one and the same time, shy and bold, innocent and challenging, stood a girl, not more than ten years old. Her clothing-a short skirt, sweater, bobby socks and saddle shoes — was curiously out of style, and she wore her blonde hair in a pony tail.

At first J was about to grin at her with the vacant grin he reserved for all small children who insisted on being noticed by him, then the thought entered his mind, Are you Dane Colby?

The girl answered his unspoken question with a teasing nod.

«Leighton,» said J softly. «Come here, quickly.»

Before the hunchback could limp to the window, Jane Colby had skipped on down the sidewalk and out of sight.

Chapter 4

The bells in the massive tower of the Church of Saint Peter Mancroft in Norwich had ceased pealing, but their humming drone had not yet faded away to silence when a pale slender woman in her thirties emerged from the Royal Shopping Arcade, crossed Gentleman's Walk, and entered the wide market area in the center of town, moving slowly through the crowd, stopping here and there at the stalls to buy fruit and vegetables. She wore a yellow plastic raincoat and hat, as did the three boys of various ages who tagged along behind her, for it had recently rained and the cold breeze and overcast sky promised more rain soon.

«Mama, let me carry it.» This was the youngest who piped up, stretching his arms to accept the bag of apples she had purchased.

«All right, Dickie.» She carefully handed it to him.

Mrs. Zoe Cornwall Smythe-Evans smiled. Dickie was not like his older brothers. He had a surprising maturity, a manliness, an almost knightly chivalry the others lacked, and there was no denying he was healthier, and that he was stronger than the others had been at his age. While the others moped about, doing as little as possible, little Dickie was always springing forward to volunteer his services. What could be the cause of the difference?

All three boys had the same father; the eldest was named Reggie Jr., and the next younger called Smitty, both taking their identities from Reginald Smythe-Evans. Dickie had many names. He was christened Edward Thomas Richard Smythe-Evans, but somehow from the beginning she could only think of him as Dickie, the name he had gotten from his second-godfather, Richard Blade. Had the name influenced her in some subliminal way, making her expect more of him than of the others, and had the child sensed this expectation and responded to it? She did not know, but this was not the first time the idea had crossed her mind.

Packing a head of lettuce into her string bag and paying the mustached vendor, she let her thoughts slip back into the past, to the days and the nights she'd spent with Richard at his seaside cottage in Dorset so many, many years ago. It was amazing how vividly those memories came back to her at times, though for the most part her busy life occupied her full attention, allowing little time for daydreams.

Her wild-set dark eyes clouded. Her generous mouth formed into a frown. She did not like to think of Richard. There was pain in the memories as well as pleasure, and frustration, and a curiosity that did not fade with the years, but grew gradually stronger. What was the secret work Richard had never been able to tell her about, the work that had finally destroyed their plans for a life together? Was he some sort of secret agent, or a criminal, or something else, something so strange as to be entirely outside her experience?

Richard Blade!

Against her will she saw his rugged face again, heard his voice, felt his touch, and was transported to a time-one time among many-when he and she had drifted in the gentle rise and fall of the breathing surf and watched the sunrise.

«Damn you, Dick,» she whispered.

«What?» asked little Dickie, surprised and worried.

«Nothing, Dickie. I was thinking of someone else.»

The boy was visibly relieved, yet there remained in his eyes that terrible alertness, the same alertness she had often seen in the dark restless eyes of his namesake.

Her shopping done, she left the marketplace, crossed the narrow road called Gaol Hill, and passed the brooding ancient flintstone Guildhall that stood like a medieval sentinel guarding the northern boundary of the city square.