“I did love you, Eric.” She said it because she wanted to hear herself say it and because she knew with equal certainty she’d never see Eric Abbott again.

They could order her to go to her room and stay there, but they couldn’t keep her from thinking, and they couldn’t keep her from feeling. At least she could take that wonderful feeling, that forbidden, impossible love, with her wherever she went. It would be nice to have that, even if she couldn’t have him.

It was as impossible as she’d told him it was.

Then she’d heard Tarragon screaming and yelling. He sounded worried, and that gave her pleasure. She’d never liked Tarragon much, though he’d never been anything other than deferential and polite to her. She didn’t like any of the people she worked for, even if that was silly and counterproductive, as the psychs told her. Actually it was indifference more than active dislike. There was no reason to hate them. No reason at all.

There were only two waiting for him in the lobby. Tarragon must have finally gathered enough of his wits about him to call downstairs.

Interesting that they think this necessary, Eric mused. Three lines of defense, just in case. Tarragon wasn’t taking any chances.

The decorative grille which divided the elevator bay from the outer lobby was closed, locking him in. He didn’t know if the two who confronted him were male or female, because he couldn’t see their faces. All riot-control suits were built with one-way glass in the helmets.

They turned toward him immediately. Yes, they’d been informed of his escape. The suits were silver, striped and marked in red. They whined as they trundled toward him, the tiny servo motors in the armatures and leg joints responding instantly to the muscular movements of the bodies within. Metal fingers reached out for him.

Eric watched the news and had seen such suits in action. One man in a riot suit could disperse or otherwise incapacitate a crowd by himself. The operator inside the suit was protected from weapons advanced as well as primitive, while the servomotors gave him enough strength to manhandle vehicles as easily as people.

When Eric tried to dart past the first, the second reachcd out to grab him around the waist. A steel cable emerged from beneath the right arm to whip several times around his midsection.

Reaching out and back he grabbed hold of the cable and pulled. Even in his dream-state it required a conscious effort. Riot suit and operator rose off the ground. It was so easy to use it like a flail to hammer away at the other. There were no screams from inside the soundproofed suits, so he battered at the first until the metal split at several joints and the armatures were jammed.

As he let the second suit fall to the ground, it reached metal fingers toward his face. He grabbed it with his free hand, pulled, and twisted. Servos squealed and oil spurted across the immaculate marble floor of the lobby. Then the joint exploded. When he let it fall, it hung limp and useless, dripping lubricants.

The other arm was now digging into his shoulder, motors humming under the overload. His bones should have snapped. Instead, he felt only a light pressure. Idly he reached up and banged away at the metal with his bare hand until it fell away.

Lifting the suit and operator inside by the cable, he spun it over his head. It picked up speed like a rock on a string, until the lobby was filled with a roar like helicopter blades. He planned to throw it through the sealed grille. Suddenly the street beyond the entrance was full of flashing blue and red lights and he could see additional riot police hurrying toward the building. Some were clad in suits like the two he’d just disabled while others carried very large weapons.

So instead of heaving the riot suit at the grille, he made a half turn and threw it toward the two-story high glass wall that delineated the far end of the elevator bay. Traveling at tremendous speed, the heavy suit snapped free of the restraining cable and smashed through the thick glass, the panels making a deafening racket as they came crashing down to the unyielding floor.

Now he could hear shouts and yells behind him as he ran for the gap. There were buzzes and pops as guns were fired in his direction. Something stung his right side once, twice. He ignored it and jumped through the opening.

How far the jump carried him he couldn’t tell. Twenty feet outward, thirty, a hundred or more; he couldn’t have said as he soared through the darkness, arms flapping, legs kicking. As he described a long arc, he discovered that someone had stolen the earth. Instead of grass or decorative stonework or gravel there was only another second or two of falling.

Then he fell through a sheet of undulating black ice and disappeared.

The chill of the East River acted like a tonic on his system. Fear and wonder gave way to fresh determination. He kicked hard, gasping, and sucked air as he broke the surface.

Across the river the towering walls of light blinked uncaringly down at him, advance guard of the electronic Stonehenge that was Queens. As he turned a slow circle in the water, he caught sight of the building he’d escaped. He’d landed well out in the river.

Tilting his head back, he saw that the lights were on in maybe half the high-rise homes. Somewhere up there, Lisa. Next time he would have to plan their rendezvous with much greater caution, think it out in more depth. He had a lot to think about.

Voices, loud and upset, drew his attention to the bank above. Drifting and thinking, he decided, could be dangerous to his health. The pursuit had followed him through the hole he’d made in the glass wall, fanned out to inspect the landscaped garden he’d jumped over. Powerful lights probed the well-manicured bushes and trees, crawled up the side of the building. None sought shapes in the water yet. That would come soon.

Taking a deep breath and arcing his back like a dolphin, he went under the surface and started swimming upriver. The water was clean and cool around his body, soothing and unthreatening. He’d always been a good swimmer and he pushed on until his lungs threatened to burst.

When he stuck his head out into the night air the next time, coughing and spitting out river, there was no sign of pursuit. In fact, the residential tower itself lay out of sight downriver. He’d covered far more distance underwater than he’d estimated.

He repeated the dip and swim several times until he was convinced he was near mid-uptown, then swam for shore. There were no docks or industrial buildings here. Manhattan was all residential or office blocks. No one saw him climb the boulders that formed the breakwater.

He sat sharing his seat with curious rock crabs as he caught his breath. A different, evaporative chill replaced the cold of the river. It was vital to get out of his wet clothes, and fast.

A pedestrian park bordered the river where he exited, neat parkland dominated by maples and hybrid elms. He guessed he was close to 102nd Street. Couples holding hands passed by as he ducked into the bushes. Once a police car slid softly past, its electric engine rumbling with stored power. The occupants did not look grim or anxious. No general alarm had been sounded, then. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed.

Whoever Tarragon took orders from didn’t want publicity, he remembered. The lower police ranks might not even be notified of this evening’s events.

Then he noticed the drunk sprawled on the grass behind the park bench. The inebriate was neither bum nor plutocrat, just an overindulgent citizen too long away from hearth and home. He was a little taller than Eric. As Eric approached, the man mumbled something about his goddamn boss. A middle-managerial type, Eric decided. Selvem was full of such gray personalities.

He hesitated, the thought of what he was about to do disturbing him much more than the havoc he’d wreaked back in the tower. This man didn’t intend him any harm. But Tarragon and the police hadn’t left him with much choice.

So he walked over to the drunk and said gently, “Excuse me, but I have to do this.” The man stared up at the soaking-wet apparition and gaped. Probably he thought he was looking at a fellow celebrant. Certainly Eric didn’t look like a mugger.

The man said nothing as Eric put an index finger in the hollow of the drunk’s throat and pushed carefully. The man started to kick and fight. Moving behind him, Eric kept up the pressure while holding the man immobile for another minute. That was all it took for him to slump heavily in Eric’s arms.

Letting him fall to the grass, Eric began with the coat, moved on to pants and underwear. Personal belongings he stacked neatly nearby. He was about to do likewise with the man’s wallet, thought better of it, and removed the loose cash, shoving the bills into his own still damp wallet. The more he made his actions resemble an ordinary robbery, the less likely anyone was to connect it to his extraordinary activities. He left the credit cards alone. They were useless to an ordinary thief.

The suit was a little large and hung loosely on his lankier frame, but not enough to attract undue attention, he thought. He tucked the sleeves and cuffs under and it looked better. At night the difference shouldn’t be too noticeable.

As soon as the stores opened he’d find himself a new set of clothes that fit properly. He still had his credit card, though whether it was safe to use it anymore he didn’t know. Tarragon had already amply displayed his ability to access information.

One thing he knew for certain: he couldn’t go back to his hotel. That would be as closely watched now as would Lisa’s codo.

He made a bundle out of his old clothes, leaving his unwilling benefactor snoring and snuffling naked on the grass behind him. There was a public dispos-all situated near the rest rooms half a block away. A few teens gamboled loudly around the water fountain, outrageous in their swapped attire; boys in dresses, girls in suits, unisex makeup plastered on every face. They offered up a few juvenile obscenities but otherwise ignored him. The fountain was brightly lit and close to the street, and they weren’t really in the mood to slice any citizens. He was grateful for the inattention. More trouble he didn’t need.

He stuffed his old clothing into the safety chute and pressed the switch. There was a muffled whoosh as the tube below sucked up the damning evidence, sending it on its way along with several million tons of additional refuse toward the power-plant burners.

From now on he’d have to be exceedingly careful of his movements. Tarragon would be less than polite the next time their paths crossed. If he didn’t try to see Lisa again, he might be able to slip out of the city and pick up a few threads of his former life. Former life. His future, like his mouth, was set. He was going after Lisa, and Tarragon probably knew that as well as he did himself.

How long would Tarragon’s desire to avoid unwelcome publicity keep him from notifying national authorities? Eric could plan better if he knew. Of course, he was a murderer now. Or was he? It had all been in self-defense (or was it resisting arrest?). The past hour was a muddle of screams and rapid movements and confused thoughts. It might be that he hadn’t killed anyone. But he’d certainly damaged many.

He stumbled out of the park, following the beacon of the moving traffic lights on busy First Avenue.

Staring down at his hands, he slowly turned his right hand palm-downward to stare at the knuckles. There was no sign of damage. Even his fingernails were unbroken. He clenched his fingers, slowly let them unclench. An ordinary hand, surely. His hand, smooth and uncallused. The same hand he’d grown up with.

He was suddenly dizzy. Another drinking fountain stood nearby. The edges were smooth, green plastic, the copper spigot dull bronze in the evening streetlight.

Experimentally, he grasped the spigot and pulled hard. Nothing happened. The spigot did not move. Frowning, he took a deep breath and pulled with both hands. Nothing.

There was no threat, be decided. Nothing to make the adrenaline rush to his muscles (though there was no denying any more that something considerably more potent than adrenaline was involved).

After him. They were after him! He had to defend himself, had to save himself and Lisa. They were going to get him, put him away, do something terrible to him, and worse to her!

He pulled again. There was a crunch as cement crumbled and the spigot emerged from its socket, trailing copper pipe behind it. The pipe cut through the thin cement and plastic like a piano wire through flesh. Water began to dribble, then to spurt from strained sections of pipe.

He let it fall aside, stumbled away up the street.

What’s happening to me, he thought wildly? What’s happening to me? It was all crazy. He shouldn’t be able to do things like that. Memory conjured up an image of himself whirling a heavy riot suit and its operator over his head like a cowboy twirling a lariat. Impossible, impossible! Had they really happened, those impossibles, or had he dreamed them?

Methodically, he tried to reconstruct the past hour of his shattered life. He’d gone to see Lisa. Tarragon had confronted them. He’d fled, breaking away from everyone who’d tried to restrain him. No man should have been capable of engineering such an escape.