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By Eric Van Lustbader

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Wolf hit the pavement running, bent his shoe soles to the concrete of the garbage-piled alley. ' Bobby stood up. His hands were covered with Junior's blood. The two men looked as if they belonged in an abattoir. He pointed, mute with shock, to a corner of the alley. Wolf went across, kicked the body over. Chucho Arquillo's mahogany matador's face was covered with blood. 'Good work, Bobby,' he said. ' Wolf, hearing some hoarse and semi-hysterical note, looked back at Bobby. ' 'Look,' Bobby said.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see a tiny smile curl Minako's pressed-together lips. Then he grunted, annoyed at his momentary discomfort. ' 'I MUST CORRECT THAT SURMISE,' the Oracle said. ' Moravia stared at the thing, trying to fathom it. But, in truth, he was struggling to understand the unknowable. He had walked towards it. Tell me more about this thing,' he said to Minako. The Oracle supplied the answer. 'I WAS CREATED FROM A COMBINATION OF HEURISTIC NEUROLOGIC CIRCUITS AND AN ENTIRELY NEW TECHNOLOGY CALLED LAPID.

Selfish of him to want Arquillo himself, but there was something undeniably intimate between the two of them now, the stealthy approach, the slow dance of death on the rooftop a personal challenge, that swing at the kidneys the slap in the face that signals the intent to duel, an affair of honour now. The killing effort on Arquillo's face etched into Wolf's memory; the dark pupils fixed on death were what Wolf imagined those three effete men had seen in the instant before Arquillo had taken their lives.

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