He wanted to scream for help then, sink to his knees there on the street and scream for the sky to help him, but he dared not risk the attention. Instead he kept walking, lifting his head and regulating his stride in an attempt to melt into the night crowds as he blended into the walkway that bordered the First Avenue corridor.

It was impossible. Therefore it hadn’t taken place. That was simple enough. He forced recent events to the back of his mind. He was reasonably confident of his sanity. Not mad, he told himself reassuringly. Just in love. A new hotel room, new clothes, some food and he’d feel much better. He pulled the opposing lapels tighter across his chest.

It was counterproductive to dwell on the implausible, not to mention the impossible. For the moment, therefore, he would assume they had not happened. Right away he felt his pulse slow. Take a while to concentrate on the basics: food, shelter, clothing. Later Lisa, somehow.

No one stared at the loosely clad figure as it made its way up the avenue. This was Nueva York, and far more badly dressed citizens walked its streets every night. There were some who might have remarked on the strange smile the man wore, but that sort of dazed, distant look was also common in the big city. At least he was walking purposefully and not stumbling inanely about.

The police cruiser that passed on patrol likewise ignored him. Why shouldn’t they? There was nothing to indicate they were ignoring the most dangerous man in the city.

Eric Abbott, of course, did not think of himself as dangerous. No, he was in love, and that was a thing of beauty. Nothing dangerous about being in love.

XI

It was a mission control room. That was self-evident. But it did not launch shuttles or probes to deep space. It only monitored information, shuttling bytes back and forth between components buried deep inside the Urirotstock and out to the world network. Satellite dishes fringing the mountain’s crest linked the room with Colligatarch relays in multiple overhead orbits. The operation spoke of smooth power, electrical and human.

Each console had been individualized according to the whims and taste of its operator. One boasted a tall maternal wood carving from the Central African Federation, another displayed shellacked blossoms from the Pacific Union, a third a string of handmade bells from the Inuit Republic. Each testified not only to the tastes but to the origin of each operator.

As he descended the ramp, Oristano felt a cool, quiet pride in the way the world’s most complex computer station functioned. Everything was as it should be. Backups rested behind their consoles, sleeping or reading optotext. They were rarely called upon for emergency work, so efficient had the system become.

Everything was as it should be, and yet it was not.

“CPO, sir?”

Oristano looked to his right. “What is it, Frontenac?”

The man thrust a handful of printouts under the Chief of Operation’s gaze. “It’s the Australians again, sir.”

“I see.” He scanned the printouts, his mind elsewhere. “;What is it this time?”

“They’re complaining about their share of the plankton harvest.”

Oristano sighed. He supposed some nationality had to claim the winner’s ribbon for most obstreperous.

“These figures look all right to me. What’s their complaint?”

“They say their harvest window doesn’t take predictions for an unusually severe Antarctic winter into account.”

“Gott im Himmel,” Oristano muttered to himself. Then, to the assistant, “Tell the Australian representative that we only predict the weather, we don’t control it. Not yet, anyway. Tell him that every other nation has to operate its krilling fleet under the same restrictions and that the catch is apportioned according to a thousand variables, of which weather is only one.”

“They won’t like that,” the assistant said dubiously. “They’ll say it shows a northerner bias as well as a failure to sympathize with a problem oceanic in origin.”

“They always say that,” Oristano responded tiredly. “They wouldn’t be happy unless we picked up and moved Colligatarch Center to Christchurch.”

“Is that what I should relay to them, sir?”

“No, of course not, Frontenac,” he said irritably, and hurried to soften his tone as he saw the other man react. “I just mean that you should reply with some common sense. Be diplomatic about it, as usual. Inform them that the Colligatarch will make a special study of this problem and render a further report based on additional research.”

“That will only mollify them for a little while, sir.” Oristano made pacifying gestures with one hand. “A little while is long enough. I’ve got other things on my mind these days. Just keep them off my neck for a month or so, will you, s’il vous plaît??”

“Oui, CPO.” He took back his printouts and left Oristano alone.

As if there wasn’t enough for him to worry about, he grumbled to himself as he returned to his office. The red light over his desk was pulsing silently. It was a toss-up as to who was the more demanding—the Colligatarch or his wife. Not to mention who was the more understanding. The comparison was unfair to Martha. He settled into his chair.

“All right, I’m here. You can shut that off now.” Instantly the light winked out. “What is it now? More thoughts on threats?”

The Colligatarch was immune to sarcasm. At least, it chose to give that appearance. It said politely, “No, Martin. It is the same threat that has troubled us all along.”

“All along is right. This has been going on for weeks.” He tried to conceal his impatience. It was all very well to announce some terrible menace and put everyone on alert to deal with it, quite another to expect everyone to maintain that state of readiness when day after day went by and nothing happened.

“I have learned a little more since the last time we spoke of the matter.”

“That’s good. What ‘little more’?”

“Nonspecifics.”

“Of course.” Oristano sighed. “It would be too much to expect you had discovered anything specific.”

“Hints, suggestions, overtones, leanings are often very important, Martin.”

“I certainly didn’t mean to denigrate your work. Enter this new information into my study file, and I’ll review it when I have more time.”

“Busy day?” asked the machine with genuine concern.

“The usual.”

“Australians giving you trouble again?”

“You’ve heard? I’ve already dealt with that.”

“This is more important than arguments over fishing rights.”

“Are you saying that I’m not taking your ‘threat’ seriously enough?” Oristano perked up. The implication was that the machine was drawing inferences from Martin’s vocal inflection and expression. “I am. We all are. You have to understand that’s it hard for us, laboring as we do under more immediate problems, to regard this as anxiously as you seem to, since to date there has been nothing in the way of a demonstrable danger to the system.”

“Then you will be pleased to know, Martin, that I have finally detected a disturbance which must be dealt with.”

Oristano sat up straighter in his chair. “It’s about time.” Odd how he was more relieved than concerned.

“You need to notify the International Surveillance Network to watch for intrusions or attempted intrusions by unauthorized personnel into Colligatarch Subsidiary Service Termini in the following cities: Bombay, Kyoto, Singapore, Brisbane—perhaps the Australians will have something truly serious to yell about—Antafogasta, Bogota, Nueva York, Metrotex, Madrid, Milan, and Kiev.”

Oristano automatically entered the list into his study file, frowned.

“Something about this troubles you, Martin?”

“That’s quite a list. I’m thinking of the expense involved in calling for special surveillance at so many points. Do you expect the danger to manifest itself at all of them?”

“All and none. I am still in the process of trying to decide where the actual serious assault is to take place.”

“‘Assault’? Then you’ve collated enough imponderables to project actual physical violence against the system?”