It was cold and getting colder.  The Doctor raised the collar of his jacket, but the gesture did little to protect him against the bitter wind.  The rain had turned to sleet, then to snow - making their flight through the dark even more unpleasant.  He cast an uneasy glance at his companions.  Gerry seemed all right, stolidly astride the rawboned grey they had "borrowed" from the abandoned Scourge mounts.  The Rider showed few, if any, ill effects from the attentions of his captors.  In the Doctor's opinion, Gerry was either extremely tough or Captain McAllister's healing talents included inducing amnesia.

The Captain herself was not doing well.  She drooped over Satan's neck, staying in the saddle only through sheer obstinacy.  Her tricks in the barn, and the healing, had exhausted her.   Afraid she would topple into the snow, the Doctor kept within arms' reach.

They had seen no third Scourge Unit.  Not that they would have noticed anyone who did not ride directly into them. Visibility was only a few feet in any direction.

Dancer staggered and nearly went to her knees.  The Doctor pulled her back, hearts banging, and somehow she kept her feet.  Enough, he decided,  was enough!  He nudged the mare closer to the roan and seized Captain McAllister's reins.  Satan took immediate offense, prancing and snorting and rousing his mistress from her stupor.

"What is it?  Where are we?"

"Captain!" The Doctor shouted to be heard above the wind.   "We're going to die out here if we don't find shelter."

She did not seem to comprehend him, slumping forward again, white hands slipping on the leather.

"Gerry!"

The Rider trotted up beside them.

"Do you know where we are?"

"No, sir.  No idea."

"The Captain won't last much longer.  Start looking for a place to make camp."

"But, sir, the Scourge . . ."

"Are probably tucked up before a roaring fire as we speak!  Do it, man!"

"Yes, sir!"

He was off, swallowed by the snow.  The Doctor, keeping hold of Satan's reins, followed the grey's swiftly filling hoof prints.

Their pace was agonizingly slow.  Dancer and Satan picked delicately through the piling drifts, ears back, heads lowered.  Grateful for the western-style saddle, the Doctor looped the Captain's reins around his pommel and let go of his own long enough to blow into numbing hands.  Satan jostled up against him and he was just in time to catch the young woman as she started to slip to one side.  He caught one of her hands.  It was ice cold.

"Doctor!"

Gerry appeared out of the darkness.  He  pointed to the left.  Just barely, the Time Lord made out a wall of pines, boughs sagging beneath the weight of the snow.  Not ideal, but it would have to do.

The trees straggled up a steep, rocky hill.  Fifty feet into them, tucked away in their midst, was a scattering of boulders.

"Looks promising!"  Gerry said.

"Agreed.  Let's stop here."

Rider and Time Lord dismounted and together, eased Captain McAllister from the gelding.  She kept her feet only by clinging to her saddle.  Certain that collapse was imminent, the Doctor instructed an equally worried Gerry to get a blanket and wrap her in it.

"I'm going to have a quick look," he told the Rider. "With luck, we can rig some kind of shelter."

"Be careful, Doc.  You can get lost real fast in this stuff!"

Slipping and sliding over the icy rocks, the Doctor found a place where they formed a crude ring, shutting off the worst of the wind.  Two especially large specimens reared up out of the snow, tilting toward each other to form a crude arch.  With a blanket or canvas stretched across the back it would make a reasonable shelter, a pseudo-cave large enough to fit them in a semblence of comfort.  The Doctor returned to his companions with the news.

"Good!"  was Gerry's heartfelt response.  He had the required blanket wrapped around his shivering commander.  "You see to her, Doctor.  I'll unsaddle the horses and be with you in a minute."

The Doctor lifted the young woman and drew her, stumbling, toward the rocks.  Halfway there, she crumpled quietly into the snow.  He could not rouse her, so he carried her the rest of the way.    Tucking her into the arch, he pulled the blanket more firmly around her. Gerry struggled after them.

"Here!" the Doctor shouted.

The Rider was laden with packs, bed rolls and, wonderfully, a tent.  Together they managed to work the canvas around the back of the arch, holding it in place by tying the ropes to other rocks nearby.  There were more blankets in the bags, too.  Captain McAllister had an uncanny prescience, it seemed.

"How is she?"  Gerry asked anxiously.

The Doctor shook his head. "We need a fire."

"I don't know, Doc.  Isn't that a risky?"

"Hypothermia is far riskier," was the Time Lord's response.  "No one will see it unless they climb right in here.  I trust you will deal with anyone foolish enough to do that?"

"Count on it," was Gerry's grim promise, and he tramped off to gather some wood.

Thanks to an electronic flint the Doctor always carried, there was soon a respectable blaze in the center of the hollow.  Rummaging through the packs, the Doctor found another blanket and crawled into the cave with the Captain.  She was awake, but shivering violently, lips blue.  He sat beside her and slipped an arm around her shoulders, but she jerked away.

"You're freezing," the Doctor said bluntly.  "This is not an attack on your virtue, Captain.  I promise."

She nodded then, teeth chattering and did not resist as he pulled her against him and wrapped his blanket around them both.  She sat rigidly for several seconds, then abruptly, went limp, head falling onto his shoulder.  Looking down, he saw that she was asleep.

The fire burned brightly in the mouth of their shelter, filling it with light and warmth.  Gerry returned, but declined to join them.

"Someone's gotta keep watch," he said, pragmatic to the end.

So the Doctor sat quietly while the Witchhorde's beautiful and deadly commander slept soundly beside him, his thoughts troubled.

The image of the Rathin as an evil, predatory species had taken a beating back in the barn.  Her method of dealing with the Scourge had been brutal, true, but no more so than many other species when dealing with an enemy.   And he could not remember anything in the TARDIS database that talked about Rathi having healing abilities or such powerful telekinetic skills.  Was it possible that the Time Lords' data on the species were incorrect?

The Horde Rider's white-dusted figure came into view.  He tossed a few branches onto the flames and gave the shelter a sharp look.  The Doctor put a finger to his lips.  Gerry grinned and moved off.  Captain McAllister stirred, opened bemused golden eyes, and smiled drowsily.  Only then did the  Time Lord let himself drift off to sleep.

 *  *  *

Danner woke as he always did, every faculty alert and functioning.  For just a moment, the information those faculties provided left him confused.  White walls and ceiling, grey light -- a hospital?

No.  Not a hospital, a laboratory -- with him as guinea pig!  He sat up, pushing back the blankets, and stepped onto cold, bare linoleum.  Going to the dresser, he peered into the mirror.  A gaunt, pale face stared back at him, hair in all directions, as if . . .

The mental image was sudden, vivid and unexpected: a cartoon cat with its toe in an electrical socket, fur spiked, eyes bugging out and a halo of lightning bolts shooting out from its body.

Danner took a deep breath that ended in a startled chortle.  The image receded almost as once, leaving him with a lingering sense of loss.  He gave his reflection a slight, twisted smile and opened the top drawer.  Inside was a comb, a brush, a toothbrush and a bar of soap, all neatly wrapped in white paper.  He unwrapped the brush and yanked it through his hair.  Then, avoiding the mirror, he crossed the room and opened the blinds.  Outside, the world was obscured by a full-blown
blizzard.  Snow hissed against the window, clinging to the bars, melting on the glass.

He stared in disbelief.   It was barely September!

Today was "session day."  To his own surprise, Danner was looking forward to it with the liveliest curiosity.  Despite his predicament, this place fascinated him, especially the interesting Dr. Taylor.  His being a blackstone did not seem to bother her, an attitude he rarely encountered - and never in the few women he had encountered since getting sick.

Sunfire eyes.  Luscious mouth.  Pain beyond belief.

The blackstone took a deep breath and pushed the nightmare image away.  He had enough to worry him without dwelling on dreams that were really memories.

Turning his back on the uninformative view, Danner went off to the shower.  That turned out to be a real treat - steaming hot with good, strong water-pressure.  He stayed in it for nearly an hour.  Finally, wrinkled and clean to the point of excess,  he was ready to face the day.

First stop - breakfast.  He poked his head into the dining room.  Two other blackstones, Steve and the man from the courtyard were sitting at an empty table, distressed.

"There's no one here," complained Steve, as if Danner were somehow responsible.  "And there's no food!"

Both of them turned in unison to stare accusingly at the dumbwaiter.

"Have you told anyone?"  Danner asked.

"No one's here."

"I'm not surprised," Danner said, remembering the mess outside.  "What about the night nurse?"

"Hank?"  The other blackstone laughed shortly.  "Hell, no.  As soon as the last of the staff leaves, he's off to his drinkin' buddy's down in the mailroom."

"So the guy in the infirmary been unattended all night?"

"Yep."

Neither of them seemed particularly concerned about this.  Danner bit down on a bad-tempered remark and asked:  "Where are you from?"

"Here . . . Anor."

No wonder they were so complacent.  Probably always had the best of medical care.  Leaving them to their complaining, he went down the hall.

In the infirmary the relapsed blackstone tossed and turned on the bed.  His sheets were soaked with sweat and urine, the i.v. empty.  Dry, cracked lips moved ceaselessly in fevered gibberish.  Danner wanted to hit something.  Hank would have done nicely.

The i.v. was beyond him, but the rest he could handle.   There had to be a storeroom somewhere in this well-equipped unit that included linens.  His clandestine explorations to date had not included unlocked doors.

 Much later, tucking in fresh sheets around a newly clean and considerably quieter patient, Danner heard someone come into the infirmary:

"God!  I don't believe this blizzard!  Stuart?"

Danner looked up.  It was Dr. Taylor, snow-covered and breathless, staring at him in amazement.

"Mr. Renwolf!  Where's Stuart?"

"I have no idea," he snarled, glowering at her over the boy, "But I'll tell you one thing, Doctor . . .  I sure as hell hope I get transferred out of here before I relapse.  I'm not impressed by the quality of your medical care!"

"Oh, dear."  She came in, still shedding clumps of snow.

Danner pointed, scowling, at the heap of sodden sheets and empty i.v.

"Hank, right?  That worthless piece of sh..." she clamped down on the rest of her comment.

"And the troops are whining because there's no breakfast," he added, mollified a bit by the fact that she seemed almost as angry as he.

She leaned over the boy, checking his pulse and feeling his forehead.  Then, cussing and muttering, she went to a cabinet, unlocked it and pulled out a new i.v. bag.

"I know, I know.  Half the buses aren't running and the other half are at least an hour late.   If I didn't live so close, I probably wouldn't be here, either.  No one else has shown up, eh?"

Danner shook his head, watching as she competently switched bags and made sure the drip started correctly.  Her movements were swift and economical. The restless young blackstone began to quiet almost immediately as the analgesic entered his veins.

"That's better, isn't it, Lee?" she murmured to him, tucking the blanket up under his chin.  "Damn.  Inexcusable."

"I agree.  You should fire the turd."

"I wish we could," she replied frankly. "Unfortunately, finding people to work with sick blackstones is almost impossible.  Too bad we couldn't hire you.  Nice job changing the bed.  Eyuch."  She kicked at the sodden linen in disgust.

"I'll take care of that," he offered.  "You'd better see about breakfast before there's mutiny in the ranks."

"Thanks.  Would you keep an eye on him for a while?  I'm going to call Stuart and see if he can make it in somehow."

"Sure."

She was gone, heels clicking down the hall.  Danner disposed of the soiled linens as quiet settled back over the infirmary.

An hour later, Stuart, the day nurse, appeared.  Apologizing profusely, he assumed command, politely but firmly ushering Danner out.  Having already seen evidence that this man not only knew what he was doing, but actually seemed to care about his patients, Danner obeyed. He left the room and headed down the hall to Dr. Taylor's office.

The psychologist was  in the throes of dealing with crises.  She was on the phone when he poked his head in, haranguing someone.  Glancing up, she nodded, pointing toward the chair by her desk.

"...Absolutely no excuse -- we cannot have our subjects going without food!  For heaven's sake, if it were research animals you would be blasting your way to our door!  Don't think we won't submit a full report and a formal complaint!  Fine.  No.  No.  All right.  Fine.  Yeah.  You, too, dickless!"

Slam!

She took a deep breath.  Their eyes met over her desk, his wide with appreciation.  Reluctantly, she grinned.  "So, Mr. Renwolf," she said.  "What do you think of your first day?"

"I'm not sure," he said.  "And it's Danner, OK?"

"All right, Danner. I'm Anna.  Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Haven't had time."

"And we're way behind schedule."  She rubbed her temples, tiny lines appearing between her brows.  "Dietetics supposedly sent something up forty minutes ago.  They 'forgot."  Bastards. Would you object to starting the interview while you're eating?  I've got a ton of stuff that needs doing and the way things are going today, it'll be midnight before I'm out of here.  Which is going to upset a friend of mine even more than he is already."

"Lieutenant Sheridan?"

She blinked. "Yes.  How did you know?"

He shrugged.  "We met in, er, jail.  He mentioned you -- in passing."

"He did?"  She was looking at him doubtfully.

"Yeah.  And it's fine with me if we do the interview over lunch."

A half hour later, seated in the dining room while he picked over a metal tray of lukewarm meatloaf, limp broccoli and custard, they began.  She had a pad of lined paper before her and several pens.  There was a cassette player at her elbow. He watched as she scrawled his name and a number across the top of the page.

"OK."  She considered the empty page thoughtfully, chewing on the end of her pen.  "Let's see -- we've established by physical tests that you are first generation.  Are you familiar with the term 'archiving'?"

He shook his head.

"Max didn't explain it, huh?  OK.  We -- or rather I -- believe that the plague has altered the normal mechanism involved in memory storage."

"Huh?"

"We have no way of knowing how long you people will live.  It appears to be a very long time, indeed.  About twenty years ago, another researcher in Eveda found out that blackstones experience a distinct, and unusual routine of memory loss.  She theorized that the brain had been reorganized to accommodate for an extended lifetime of memory.  Both she, and now I, have gathered a considerable body of evidence that supports this.
 
"The objectives of these interviews are to confirm the data we've already compiled, and to see whether there is a difference in results between the recently recovered and victims who were part of the original infection."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Danner said.  "My memory's fine."

She looked at him a moment, then smiled. "OK.  Tell me about your parents."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Parents?"

"Yeah.  Everyone has 'em.  Tell me about yours."

"Oh," he murmured finally.

"See?"

Stunned, Danner could only look at her.  Of course.  Parents.  She was right - everyone had them.  But, especially unnerving was the fact that he could not remember the last time he had even considered the idea, let alone recall who those people had been.

"Dr. Vailor was able to establish what looks like a pattern -- a way to predict which memories get dumped into your subconscious.  Your parents are almost certainly dead, their memory no longer serves any immediate, practical purpose. These memories are retrievable, however, and that's the other part of my study -- perfecting a retrieval mechanism.

Danner stared blankly at his now-cold food,  unsure what to say or think about this.  If he had forgotten he had parents, what else had been shoved away into darkness?

"How do you get them back?"

"So far, the best way is by hypnosis, but that doesn't work for everyone.  It's especially difficult with older blackstones.  To deal with this, I use an alternate procedure --  memory triggers.

"Unfortunately triggers are hard to find.  They have to be very specific to the time period and geography of the subject.  Visual images are best -- photographs, paintings, diaries and so on.  Do you remember where you got the plague?"

He shook his head, still dazed by these revelations.

"Hmm.  We don't know who you were or where you ultimately came from,  only that you are probably first generation.  It's going to be hard, perhaps even impossible, to find anything.  Would you object if we were to attempt hypnosis first?"

"Why bother?  I guarantee you I will not go under."

She stared at him speculatively, then nodded. "I didn't think so.  The Consortium has a collection of early photographs from the plague's first wave.  I think there may be quite a few from this area.  We find that most blackstones never stray far from their roots for some reason.  The photos aren't generally accessible to staff.  I'm not sure where they are, but they may be catalogued on the library's computer.  Would you be willing to go through some?"

"Sure."

"It'll be another delay, I'm afraid.  There's only one computer in the library  - I may have to stand in line a while . . ."

Which was just what Danner wanted.  The only office he had not pilfered yesterday had been Dawson's, due mainly to the fact that the man had been in it until late into the night.

Anna left shortly after that.  When she was gone, Danner made sure everyone else was occupied, then went to have a look at the boss' office.

The place was a disaster, the chaos lending itself poorly to his purposes.  Spying was always so much easier when the target was compulsively organized.  Here, there was simply too much stuff to look at.  Personal memos were scattered throughout the Consortium's version of junk mail.  He was forced to skim random papers among the piles on Dawson's desk.

There was nothing very interesting - class schedules, memos announcing meetings, handfuls of graphs and reports.  Then, just as he was turning away, his name leapt out at him from a piece of paper.  He picked it up.

It was a second page of a letter addressed to the Regulatory Committee and signed by a Benjamin Wayland, Endocrine Studies.  The last lines of the letter were especially unsettling:

"...I recognize the argument for giving precedence to investigators doing noninvasive studies, first-generation blackstones are of course extremely rare.  However, I would like to point out that confirmation of my results would have a major impact on the direction of everyone's research.  I have requested letters supporting my petition from Drs. Vecchesi, Lawrence and Bennington, all of whom would directly benefit from the Committee approval of my request and they are attached. "

It did not sound good. Not at all!  Tossing the memo aside, Danner started looking for the rest of the letter.

* * *

Ron tracked her down in the library.  Hunched over the computer keyboard, Anna was oblivious to everything, including the small knot of anxious students at her shoulder.  The library's computer had gone down once again, and -- once again -- it was Anna the beleaguered comp-tech sought out.   Computer ESP, she called her uncanny affinity for the tempermental machines.  Just fire it up, stare at the keyboard, and go.  It kept the comp-tech's nose out of joint and the computer running.

Ron managed to get the bystanders to move by a combination of black uniform and black scowl.  Anna, tapping madly at the keys, nearly went through the roof when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Ron!  Please!  Don't sneak up on me like that!"  she said sharply.  "You almost gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry."  He pulled out the chair next to her.  "I've been looking for you for the past hour.  What are you doing?"

"Trying to retrieve my last search, dammit.  Piece of crap went down -- again."

"What are you looking up now?"

"First-hand accounts of the period just before and during the plague's first wave."

"I beg your pardon?"

She hit a key and the screen went ballistic.  She held her breath as it convulsed in a brief spasm of psychedelic color, then blinked and resumed a normal screen mode, the citation and abstract of her last article clearly displayed.  The bystanders cheered discreetly, then scuttled away when Ron growled at them.

Anna leaned back, suddenly aware of an ache between her shoulders, and the damned headache waiting to crash down on her.   She was also keenly disappointed.  The photographs she wanted were listed as being in the Vaults.  Masterson had them, and he was notorious for keeping all Vault material under tight control.

"I'm trying to find some way to get Danner to retrieve archived memories.  Usually we use hypnosis, but he refuses flat out to submit to that.  So I'm trying memory triggers.  If that fails, I may have to use relaxation therapy. . ."

"Relaxation therapy?"

"Yeah, you know - soft music, dim lighting, massage . . ."

"Massage?"  Ron's voice was strained.  "You're not thinking of touching him?"

She blinked. "Well, only as a last resort - but sure. Why not?"

"He's a BLACKSTONE!"

"Shhh.  This the library, for God's sake.  So what if he's a blackstone?  I've touched blackstones before.  Frequently."

"Yes, but massage?  That's pretty, er, intimate.  So what if he doesn't want to be hypnotized.  Why the hell give him a choice?"

"Oh, come on!  Danner's a first generation blackstone.  Rarer than hens' teeth.  I suspect his archiving is extensive.  At least covering enough time to perceive a pattern.  And the knowledge, the history he had locked up inside his head is priceless!  And as for forcing hypnosis, it just doesn't work that way!  Ron, you sound jealous."

"Of a blackstone?" he sneered.  "Please.  What I am jealous of, love, is the fact that he's getting all your time.  By the way, have you even been back to your office to check your messages in the last hour or two?"

"Well, er, no."

"That's what I thought.  Well, I've tracked you down, my darling.  I have a. . ."

"I really don't have the time, Ron."

"...message from Administration - you've been asked to run a little errand for the Old Man."

"What?  Again?"

"You've done this before?"

She shrugged.

He gave her a long look, then:  "Apparently Masterson's been trying to get his hands on some data for the past twenty years and it's finally arrived -- from Hawa or some damn place.  He wants you bring it out."

"The hell I will!.  I'm not his errand girl."

Ron chuckled.  "The Old Man anticipated that response. He says you can have your photographs.  Whatever that means."

"Are you serious?"  Her mouth dropped.

"Yeah.  Photographs of what?"

She turned back to the computer and eyed it with awe.  Was there anything at Igan to which he did not have access?

"These histories I need -- some of them have pictures.  Those are what I want for the memory triggers and they're all at the Observatory.   Damn him!  I don't suppose Admin bothered to req me transport?"

"No need.  We'll take my jeep," Ron said. "I'm going with you."

"He won't let you in."

"He can try and stop me, the bastard.  Hell! That jerk has entirely too much leeway.  I don't care if he is a Founder.  He's still a blackstone."

"I love what a tolerant, unbiased guy you are,"  Anna marveled.  "Thanks, but I'd rather go alone."

"Sorry, love," he replied.  "Not this time.  You have no business going so far into the low-security zone alone  You'll go with an adequate escort, my girl."

"I am not your girl!" she growled.

"Look, you might as well give in on this one, hon.  The Old Man wants this package ASAP and you know it would take you several hours of running all over campus to get Rush Requisition for travel."

"Not if  Admin were on the ball,"  she muttered, but he was correct in one thing.  She had not the slightest desire to untangle all the red tape involved in trying to bypass the bureaucracy.  With this bizarre snowstorm, it would be even harder.  Transportation was very anal about the condition of their vehicles.

"Oh, all right," she grumped.  She pushed "print" and waited while the printer chugged and woofed out her search.  Rolling it up, she jammed it into her bag.

"Shall we go?"

The jeep was right outside, parked smugly in a 'no parking' zone.  Anna, in no mood to appreciate the convenience, sneered at him for exploiting his authority and climbed in.

The snow had stopped - for now - and Igan's solitary plow had been busy.  The promise of more was in the low, heavy clouds.  The damp cold cut right through her coat.  Inside the jeep, however, it was warm and dry.

It was one of the newer vehicles, with closed sides and leather seats . . . even a CD player.  Pity Ron only liked pre-plague country.  She gritted her teeth as he turned on the engine and the classic "Achy Breaky Heart" blared through the interior.  Sensing that he was on the edge with her, Ron lowered the volume, smiled apologetically and took off.

Anna, annoyed with her paramour, maintained a frigid silence the entire way.  Ron pretended not to notice.  When at last they reached the observatory, he turned to her with determined cheerfulness.

"Here we are, hon.  The package is the glove compartment."

Anna bit back a bad-tempered retort about the overuse of the term 'hon' and opened the compartment.  A cardboard envelope wrapped in old, clouded plastic fell into her lap.  It bore the evidence of a long, rough journey.

"What is it?" Ron asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she admitted.  "And I don't really care as long as I get the photographs."

The walkway had not been shoveled (of course) and it was a chore slogging through the drifts to the door.  Neither was there evidence that the door had been opened since the first snowfall.  Ron banged on it loudly.  To Anna's surprise, it opened at once, but the Old Man, seeing Ron, began to shut it immediately.  Quickly Anna peeked around Ron's broad shoulder.

"Professor Masterson!  It's me!"

Ron shoved his foot over the threshold, successfully thwarting Masterson's attempt to shut them out.

"Why'd you bring the Doberman?"  The Old Man snapped, glaring at Ron.  Ron glared back.

"I didn't have a choice," she replied, adding her glare to the collection.  "Come on, Alan, let us in."

"Give me my package."

Anna smiled and held on to it tightly.  "Not until we're inside."

"Oh, OK."  And with this gracious response, the Old Man hauledopen the door and stood aside to let them enter, favoring Ron with a look of vast disdain.

"OK.  You're in.  Give me the package."

"Uh-uh.  The photographs."

"What photographs?"

Anna turned on her heel and headed back for the door.

"All right!  All right!  Everyone is so touchy!  Come with me.  Not you, damned attack dog!"

"I'm coming with Anna," Ron said stubbornly.

"No, you're not."  Anna replied.  "You insisted on coming with me, but I'm in no danger now . . . Alan, NO."

Hearing this last assertion, Masterson was busy making lecherous faces at her, an activity that was having its desired effect on Ron.  Feeling as if she were flanked by a couple of twelve-year-olds, Anna strong-armed Ron onto a nearby bench with a "Stay!" and turned on Masterson.

"After you."

Chortling, the Old Man sailed off toward the scope chamber, Anna hurrying after him.

"You should dump that cretin," he advised as soon as the double doors closed behind them.  "You could do a lot better."

"Any suggestions?"

"Well, how about that nice Mr. Renwolf?  Got him right where you want him, don't you?"

"You have a sick sense of humor."

"You really think so?"  Much struck, Masterson considered this.  "Gosh. You know, you may be right.  Hm."

Anna rolled her eyes.  Over on his desk she had already spotted a box marked "Vault" and was, therefore, willing to be patient - for a while.

"The package?"

"The photographs?"

"You're a hard woman, Dr. Taylor," he mourned, but trotted over and opened the box.  "Is this OK?"

There was a small pile of pictures in the box, some quite yellowed.  On the top was a photograph of a line of blackstones, chained together at the ankles, walking along the side of a road.  Military men stood by, rifles at ready.

"Wow."

"It's what you wanted, right?"

"How did you know?"

"I have a feed from Central campus that logs all computer use.  And you forget, darling, that I'm familiar with all your publications - published and unpublished.  I read your little theory on retrieving memory through triggers.  (Not bad, by the way.)  I figured Renwolf wasn't stupid enough to let you try hypnosis - I sure as hell wouldn't - so . . .?"

"You were right," she admitted, shaking her head.

"OK.  Give me the package."

"Give me the pictures."  Anna was no fool.

The Old Man sighed heavily. "OK.  We'll exchange 'em simultaneously."

She extended the package, making sure it crossed the box on the way over.  Keeping a sharp eye on each other, they each took hold of the coveted item.

"Now!" Masterson sang, and they snatched.  "Wasn't that fun?"

"Thanks so much."  Anna made no attempt to mask the sarcasm, but Masterson was impervious.

"I expect those back when you're finished with them, Anna dear, and in the same condition."

"Don't worry.  I'll guard them with my life!  By the way, what's in that package I brought? It looks like it came from the moon."

"Close. It's computer printout of the Hawan Observatory data from one hundred and four years ago."

"What?"

"Yeah," Masterson patted the package happily.  "Thought I'd never have a snowball's chance in hell of retrieving it.  What a stroke of luck that Sancru U has that marine navigation program."

"ANNA!"

Ron's voice penetrated the doors.  Anna winced.  Masterson grinned maliciously.

"Your lord and master calls."

"Go to hell, Masterson."

"Oh!"   The Old Man struggled valiantly to restrain himself, but Anna was still forced to listen to his giggling as she flounced toward the door.  Before she reached it, he called:  "Wait!"

"Why?"

"I'd be careful about how you play with that hound of yours.  Did you know he's collaborating with Wayland and pals to have Renwolf taken away from you?"

"What?"  She froze.

Alan was suddenly uncharacteristically grim.  "That's the real reason I wanted you out here, Dr. Taylor.  Being Founder, I get a copy of every memo sent to or by the Regents.  That butcher has requested a hearing with the Regulatory Committee -- which he got -- thanks to Sheridan's rather exaggerated reports on the risk Renwolf poses.  Your boss is preparing his response, of course, but I never did have much faith in Dawson's ability to play the system.  You'd better get what
you can out of Renwolf before he's body parts."

Anger choked her.  Masterson studied her face a moment.  "On the other hand, it would be nice gesture on your part to use your considerable talents to save his life.  I think you owe us blackstones that much, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?"  she asked through stiff lips..

"Look in the box again.  Under the top photo."

She opened it, found the slip of paper.  For a moment, she simply stared at it.  Then she crumpled it up.  When her eyes met his, he recoiled visibly from what looked back at him.

"Thanks for the photos, Alan," she said softly.

For once, the Old Man had no snappy comeback.

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