Marty ducked around the dressing-room door and out into the hall, but the American recovered his balance with speed, and reached out to snatch the back of his shirt. The attempt was sufficient to slow Marty down, and as he turned to beat the arresting hand away he saw the second American emerging from the room the old men were in. There was a frightening serenity in the youth's eyes as he closed in on Marty.

"Run!" was all he could shout to Carys, but the blond god stopped her as she slipped out into the corridor, pushing her back the way she'd come with a breathed "No," before continuing on his way toward Marty. "Hold her," he told his companion as he took over the hold on Marty. Tom stepped out of sight after Carys, and there was a noise of struggle, but Marty had little time to analyze it, as Chad doubled him up with a blow to the stomach. Marty, too confused by the sudden rush of action to prepare for the pain, groaned and fell back against the front door of the suite, slamming it. The blond boy followed him down the corridor, and through tear-bleared eyes Marty just caught sight of the next blow before it landed. He didn't see the third or fourth. There was no time between the punches and kicks to stand upright or catch a breath. The corn-fed body pummeling him was lithe and strong, more than Marty's equal. Vainly, he flailed against the tattoo. He was so damn tired and sick. His nose began to bleed again, and still the serene eyes fixed him as the fists beat his body black. So calm, those eyes, they could have been at prayer. But it was Marty who was falling to his knees; Marty whose head was dragged back in enforced adulation as the blond boy spat on him; Marty who said, "Help me"-or some bruised corruption of those words-as he collapsed.

Mamoulian stepped out of the gaming room, leaving the pilgrim to his tears. He'd done as the old man had asked-they'd played a game or two for old times' sake. But now the indulgence was over. And what was this chaos in the hall; the tangle of limbs at the front door, blood spattered on the wall? Ah, it was Strauss. Somehow the European had expected a late arrival at the celebrations; who it was to be, he hadn't foreseen. He stalked the corridor to see what damage had been done, looking down at the disfigured, spittle-laced face with a sigh. Saint Chad, his fists bloody, was sweating a little: the scent off the young lion was sweet.

"He was almost away," the Saint said.

"Indeed," the European replied, gesturing for the youth to give him room.

From his collapsed position on the hall floor Marty gazed up at the Last European. The air between them seemed to be itching. Marty waited. Surely the killing stroke would follow quickly. But there was nothing, except the gaze from those noncommittal eyes. Even in his broken state Marty could see the tragedy written in the mask of Mamoulian's face. It no longer terrified him: simply fascinated. This man was the source of the nullity he had barely survived in Caliban Street. Was there not a ghost of that gray air lurking in his sockets now, seeping from his nostrils and mouth as though a fire smoldered in his cranium?

In the room where he and the European had played cards Whitehead moved stealthily across to the pillow of his makeshift bed. Events in the hall had shifted the focus for a useful moment. He slipped his hand beneath the pillow and drew out the gun hidden there, then crept through into the adjoining dressing room, and slipped out of sight behind the wardrobe.

From that position he could see Saint Tom and Carys standing in the hallway, watching events at the front door. Both were too intent on the gladiators to notice in the darkened room.

"Is he dead...?" Tom asked, from a distance.

"Who knows?" Whitehead heard Mamoulian reply. "Put him in the bathroom, out of the way."

Whitehead watched as Strauss' inert bulk was hauled past the door and into the room opposite, to be dumped in the bathroom. Mamoulian approached Carys.

"You brought him here," he said simply.

She didn't reply. Whitehead's gun hand itched. From where he was standing Mamoulian made an easy target, except that Carys stood in the way. Would a bullet, fired at her back, pass through her and into the European? The thought, though appalling, had to be contemplated: survival was at issue here. But the moment's hesitation had snatched his chance. The European was escorting Carys toward the gaming room, and out of shot. No matter; it left the coast clear.

He slipped out of hiding and darted to the dressing-room door. As he stepped into the corridor he heard Mamoulian say: "Joseph?" Whitehead ran the few yards to the front door, knowing the chance of escape without violence was gossamer-thin. He grabbed the handle and turned it.

"Joseph," said the voice behind him.

Whitehead's hand froze as he felt invisible fingers plucking at the nape of his neck. He ignored the pressure and forced the handle around. It slid in his sweaty palm. The thought that breathed at his neck pressed around his axis vertebra, the threat unmistakable. Well then, he thought, the choice is out of my hands. He released the door handle and turned fully around to face the card-player. He was standing at the end of the corridor, which seemed to be darkening, becoming a tunnel extruded from Mamoulian's eyes. Such potent illusions. But simply that: illusions. He could resist them long enough to bring their forger down. Whitehead raised the gun and pointed it at the European. Without giving the card-player another moment to confound him, he fired. The first shot hit Mamoulian's chest; the second his stomach. Perplexity crossed the European's face. Blood spread from the wounds across his shirt. He did not fall, however. Instead, in a voice so even it was as if the shots had not been fired, he said: "Do you want to go outside, Pilgrim?"

Behind Whitehead, the door handle had started to rattle.

"Is that what you want?" Mamoulian demanded. "To go outside?"

"Yes."

"Then go."

Whitehead stepped away from the door as it was flung open with such venom the handle impaled itself in the corridor wall. The old man turned away from Mamoulian to make good his escape, but before he could take a step the light in the corridor was sucked away into the pitch darkness beyond the door, and to his horror Whitehead realized that the hotel had disappeared from beyond the threshold. There were no carpets and mirrors out there; no stairs winding down to the outside world. Only a wilderness he'd walked in half a life ago: a square, a sky shot with trembling stars.

"Go out," the European invited him. "It's been waiting for you all these years. Go on! Go!"

The floor beneath Whitehead's feet seemed to have become slick; he felt himself sliding toward the past. His face was washed by the open air as it glided into the hallway to meet him. It smelled of spring, of the Vistula, which roared to the sea ten minutes' walk from here; it smelled of blossom too. Of course it smelled of blossom. What he'd mistaken for stars were petals, white petals lifted by the breeze and gusted toward him. The sight of the petals was too persuasive to be ignored; he let them lead him back into this glorious night, when for a few shimmering hours the whole world had promised to be his for the taking. Even as he conceded his senses to the night the tree appeared, as phenomenal as he had so often dreamed it, its white head shaking slightly. Somebody lurked in the shade beneath its laden branches; their smallest movement caused a new cascade.

His entranced reason made one final snatch at the reality of the hotel, and he reached to touch the door of the suite, but his hand missed it in the darkness. There was no time to look again. The obscured watcher was emerging from the cover of the branches. Déjà vu suffused Whitehead; except that the first time he'd been here there had only been a glimpse of the man beneath the tree. This time the reluctant sentinel broke cover. Smiling a welcome, Lieutenant Konstantin Vasiliev showed his burned face to the man who'd come visiting from the future. Tonight the lieutenant would not shamble off for a rendezvous with a dead woman; tonight he would embrace the thief, who had grown furrowed and bearded, but whose presence here he'd awaited a lifetime.