“Children?” She pronounced the word oddly, as though it were something she’d never considered before. “Yes, I suppose that, given certain conditions, it would be possible.” A strange way to put it, he thought, but rushed on by to other thoughts. “It’s not impossible.”

“No, of course it isn’t,” she said dryly. “I’ll get a nice job to complement yours and we’ll live happily ever after. Just your typical suburban couple.”

“It’s a picture worth considering,” he told her. “Sometimes the simplest thoughts are the easiest to hang on to, especially when everything around you seems to be going mad.

“As for Tarragon and his bosses, I’ve already thought about how we can take care of them. We’re going straight to the biggest media center in London and offer the whole thing to the opto networks. When a few million people know your story, Tarragon’s people will be a damn sight more careful before they try sprinting you off to another country and sticking me away somewhere where I can’t say anything.”

She brightened a little at the idea. “That’s just sane enough to be possible. I never thought of that before.” Watching as she sloughed off her apathy the way a butterfly sheds its cocoon was a wonder to behold. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Only on the rarest of occasions,” said a new voice.

Eric turned and stared.

Tarragon again, standing in the hallway door.

XV

Always Tarragon Would they never be free of Tarragon? Must he forever play Valjean to Tarragon’s Javert? It wasn’t fair, dammit! It just wasn’t fair!

“Not this time, Tarragon. You’re not separating us this time.”

“I’m sorry. Abbott. I have to. My job, you know.” Eric could see the heavily masked men clustered in the narrow passage behind him. A similar mask dangled from Tarragon’s neck.

“And this time we won’t allow you the luxury of waking up. Someone made a mistake. My people won’t repeat it.” Even as he spoke Eric saw the tiny capsules arcing through the air. As they struck the floor and furniture, they burst, hissing softly. Tarragon pulled his mask up over his face.

At the same time men pushed into the room, aiming their guns at the single target. No stunguns this time, he noted. No more kid gloves, no more chances. Simple automatic projectile weapons.

He knew that they meant to kill him, regardless of the mental damage that might result to Lisa. He knew it not only from the weapons themselves but from the expressions on the men and women who wielded them. He knew it from the way Lisa screamed behind him.

Her hand was still in his and he felt his fingers tighten convulsively around hers. She screamed again us the guns went off.

How strange, but he thought he heard Tarragon scream, too.

Darkness then, so warm and quiet.

So this is death, Eric thought. Not unpleasant, in fact, peaceful as the pastors claimed, save for the angelic choir singing somewhere off in the distance. That was only natural, of course.

He’d never been a particularly religious man and was vaguely surprised to hear angels. Well, life had been full of surprises. Why not death?

Something pressed tightly against him, a warm, pliable shape. He recognized the feel of Lisa. They’d been killed together, then. Together at last. Tarragon had finally won, though Eric doubted it had been his intention to have Lisa killed along with him. The thought of Tarragon discomfited made him feel a little better.

It was dry, chilly, and there was a faint musty smell to the air. That struck him as peculiar, as peculiar as being able to feel Lisa so strongly. The darkness, the angelic voices blending in perfect harmony, that much he could have anticipated, but somehow the ascent toward heaven should not be dry and musty.

He let go of Lisa and found he could walk. He also knew he was breathing. That also didn’t seem right. Surely when you died you dispensed with such temporal necessities as respiration?

Something stopped his progress, and reaching out, he found stone beneath his hand, cold and unpolished. Too many things not making sense.

“Eric, what happened to us?”

“I … I don’t know. We’re not where we were. I thought Tarragon’s people killed us.”

“So did I,” she said, “but I don’t feel dead.”

“A choice contradiction in terms,” he murmured softly. He let his eyes roam the darkness.

There was light, not from above but off to his right. It was weak, faintly yellow, and not at all sublime.

“I don’t think we’re in the Newlin Building anymore, Lisa. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, either.” He laughed, but the echoes were mocking and he quickly calmed himself. “Do you hear angels singing?”

“I hear something singing. You too?” He nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t see the gesture. They started walking toward the light.

As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and the increasing dim illumination, he saw they were in a low, vaulted chamber with an arched roof. The walls and ceiling were of hand-hewn stone blocks. Many boasted deeply cut inscriptions; some showed paint and other forms of decoration.

Still clinging to Lisa’s hand, he angled more to his right, chasing the light where it showed the strongest. Above them the heavenly chorus continued in song. He paused to eye one massive stone slab and read the inscription. The English chiseled into the rock was archaic but legible.

HERE LIES COL. JOHN SANTHORPE

FELL IN THE SERVICE OF HIS KING

DURING THE REVOLT OF THE AMERICAN COLONIES

MARCH 3RD, 1775

AGED 33 YEARS

“I always thought crypts were buried well below heaven,” he muttered. Now Lisa was moving faster toward the light, leading him on.

“They are, Eric, they are. Where are we? And what happened to Tarragon and his people? And how did we get here?”

“Plenty of questions, no answers,” Eric mumbled in confusion. “Sounds like life above us, not angels.”

They found themselves in a passage lit by sunlight from overhead. The ceiling was low. They hurried down it and came to a spiral stone staircase. As they climbed, the voices of the choir grew louder.

The staircase opened into a small room barred by a locked door. The lock opened easily at Eric’s touch and admitted them to an epiphany of light and sound.

They stood in a side nave, having finally emerged from the catacombs below. Far away, beneath the immense painted and mosaicked dome, a choir was rehearsing. As they stared, the conductor stopped, irritatedly bawled out an off-key tenor. Then the music was resumed. Eric finally recognized the piece as Vaughn Williams’s Toward the Unknown Region. Heavenly in inspiration, but decidedly secular in execution.

Eric didn’t recognize their locale, but Lisa had prepared well for her forced journey to England.

“We’re in St. Paul’s!” she said excitedly. “But how?” Eric only half heard her. He was lost in awe at the grandeur of the structure in which they found themselves. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve always heard about it. Never thought to see it.”

“This is not the time to play tourist.” She started pulling gently at his arm. “How did we get here? And can anyone else follow?” Her eyes were darting every which way, as if she expected Tarragon to spring at them any moment from behind one of the immense marble pillars.

“Strange,” Eric mumbled, turning his attention back to her. “I felt the disorientation. There was a mental wrench, not a physical one.”

“I felt something like that, too,” she told him, “but that’s a description, not an explanation.”

“What does it matter?” he said, suddenly feeling very alive and light-headed. He took her in his arms again. “I told Tarragon he’d never separate us again, and he hasn’t.” The kiss lingered until they both felt themselves growing short of breath.