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  It was a big mistake, coming in here. This is probably exactly the kind of place frequented by the people he's trying to avoid. They probably pop in here after a hard day's murdering to throw back a few cold ones.

  He finally realizes his eyes are never going to adjust, and decides to try backing out through what he hopes is the way he came in.

  His heel connects with something animal on the floor. He hears the rattle of a chain, a worrying hiss, and the thick muscle of his calf erupts with a stinging pain.

  He jumps in a direction which he prays is away from the danger, and collides with a chair. His right hand reaches down involuntarily for balance, but grabs a handful of hair, and elicits a heart-squeezing curse.

  Even though Eddie snaps his hand back with cobra speed, he feels a wet warmth spreading over it, which can only be the product of a swift encounter with a very sharp, very ready blade.

  He puts the back of his hand to his mouth and sucks at the salty blood pumping copiously through his neatly sliced flesh. He waits for the pain to come, hoping it will be sufficiently excruciating to help him blank out the agony in the back of his leg, which is thrumming very unpromisingly.

  What was that thing that stung him?

  He's praying it was just a large, grizzled old bad-tempered cat with inexplicably sharp claws. But the truth is, it felt more like a snake.

  Or, possibly, a scorpion.

  From the size of the punctures, it was big snake, too.

  Or an unbelievably large scorpion.

  Could there truly be a big snake chained to the floor here? Or a giant scorpion in fetters? Or, best of all, one of those illegitimate genetic/surgical hybrid guard animal/insect/reptiles, banned on every continent and colony in the solar system, but nurtured openly and apparently adoringly by hairy tattooed men with shaven heads? This certainly is the kind of establishment where the management might find it amusing to keep such a lethal, nightmarishly ugly predator as a bar pet.

  So here's the big question: is deadly poison currently coursing through Eddie O'Hare's veins?

  And, if so, should he really be sucking his own blood?

  Eddie's waiting for the first sign of paralysis to hit him. Waiting for the muscular spasms, for the uncontrollable juddering of his legs, for the frothy bile to start foaming out of his facial apertures. And it comes. His arm experiences an involuntary jerk. This is it, Eddie's thinking; Here I go.

  And there's another jerk, and another, before Eddie realizes someone's tugging his arm with increasing urgency. A final tug impels him into a chair.

  He's in a booth. Eddie wonders what kind of person would require the additional privacy of a booth in a place like this. In a place where the bar staff would require infra-red night scopes and sophisticated sonar equipment just to collect the empty glasses. He peers through the gloom, still sucking on his probably poisoned blood, and finally decides there is definitely someone else occupying the booth opposite him.

  There is a voice from that general direction: soft, but not threatening. 'Recognize me?'

  Eddie can't help a little snort escaping, and now he has the taste of his own blood in his nose. 'I'm sorry, friend, but it's pretty dark in here. I can barely recognize me.'

  'Well, that's good,' the other voice smiles. 'Because I want you to stop being you.'

  Eddie wonders how, with all it's been through tonight, his stomach still feels athletic enough to churn mildly, let alone perform a full-blown Fosbury flop.

  He stops sucking his hand, which is now beginning to hurt more than his apparently venom-free leg wound. 'You want me to stop being me?' Eddie tries to indicate an air of intriguement, with a tinge of amusing engagedness, rather than petrifaction, with a soupcon of unwitting bowel movement.

  'That's right.' The voice gets closer, bearing on its breeze the aroma of expensive cigar. 'From now on, I'd like you to start being me.'

  8

  And so the luckiest man in the cosmos finally gets to speak to the unluckiest man in the cosmos. At last, the irresistible force meets the movable object.

  Eddie's feeling very sticky here in the darkness. His clothes are gooey from the drying rainwater and reluctant sweat. His face is gluey from cloying blood mingling with that same sweat and his own saliva, a rapidly dwindling resource. He doesn't want to think about what he'd look like with a bright light trained on him. Certainly, small children would scream at the sight. Caught unawares, he might even scream at himself.

  But here, in this dark nook in the darkness, he can pass himself off as a reasonably regular individual. He leans back, trying, pointlessly, to pinpoint the incumbent of the seat opposite and meet his invisible gaze. 'You want me to start being you? You want us to swap identities?'

  'No, no. Why would I want to be you? No. I want to be me, as well. I just want you to stop being you, and start being me.'

  Eddie wonders if he can leap up and reach the door before this madman produces a chainsaw and starts on some kind of rampage. But there's the chained stinging-orbiting beast to worry about. And the slash-happy razor man. And who knows what else is lurking there in the dark between him and the exit?

  And so Eddie tries politeness and reason. 'Listen, friend, I don't want you to think that I'm against your plan, in principle. And I don't want to put any flies in any ointments, here; but if I become you, who's going to be me?'

  Eddie spots a red circle opposite. It glows, briefly illuminating the lower face of the man who wants Eddie to be him, then darts out of sight. There's something about that half face, that nose. Eddie catches the scent of cigar again. It makes him wish he were a smoker. There is a long, sibilant exhalation, and the man speaks. 'There's very little time here, so forgive me if I'm wide of the mark. I saw you in the casino. You looked like a man who needed to win. Who needed to win very badly. When you walked in here, you didn't look like you had won. At least, not enough to get you out of whatever mess you were in.'

  Eddie wonders how anyone could have read all that just from his expression in the brief moment his entry was illuminated by the lights outside. He concludes you probably don't need to see him. He probably reeks of it. Eau de loser. Effective at fifty paces.

  The cigar voice croons on. 'Tell me now if I'm wrong, but I think we're both running on a very tight schedule, and I think we can help each other out.'

  Suddenly the memory of the half face in the cigar glow clicks with Eddie. 'It's you. You're him! You're the man who won--'

  Eddie's shin bursts into pain. The man hisses: 'Keep it down. I'm trying to keep a low profile on that subject. What d'you think I'm lurking in this dive for?'

  'Well, I don't know.' Eddie's shin feels like it's doubling in size. 'I don't know what you're doing in a place like this. You should be having some fun, somewhere. I mean, some serious fun.' And this is so. In this man's place, even Eddie would be having fun, with all the good-time girls he could lay his tongue on. Of all persuasions in all the colours of the rainbow. Who in his right mind would celebrate the acquisition of a tax-free fifty-million fortune in a darkened, joyless pit where the clientele sit in the gloom with one hand on a drink and the other on a spring-loaded cut throat razor?

  'I shouldn't be here at all, friend. I should be at the Project.'

  Of course. Eddie had spotted the man as a pilgrim. 'I see.' Eddie rolls it over in his mind. 'You're expected there. But now...'

  'Circumstances alter cases. I'm a very rich man, now. I stand to make around five million a year in interest alone.'

  'That's right,' Eddie's calculator brain steps in. 'You're raking in around ten globals every minute, day or night, sleeping or waking. And that's assuming a basic non-compound interest rate of only ten per cent, which is well short of--'

  'The point is: I'd like to enjoy this money. I don't want to join the Project any more.'

  'And who could blame you?'

  'They could. And they will.'

  Point made. Point taken. Pilgrims were the modern equivalent of kamikaze pilots. Their families were
richly provided for. Their debts were all written off. In return, they signed an iron-clad contract. The mission demanded a full complement. Desertion would be ferociously and, if the rumours were true, terminally discouraged.

  This was actually starting to sound good to Eddie. This sounded like a fine deal in the making. Eddie O'Hare would avoid the lethal retribution awaiting him by ceasing to exist. And in exchange, he would become a member of an elite group of Earth's finest: the best of the best, on a lifelong voyage to the stars. For the rest of his life, his every need would be provided for.

  And this is the pretty pass to which Eddie has come. The prospect of ceasing to exist is not only the best thing that's been put on his table tonight; it's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

  But Eddie, being Eddie, has to perform a little dental inspection on this gift horse. He has to check the bridge work.

  'All right. Say I agree. Let's say I become you. How would I pull that off? Who are you, anyway?'

  'I am... you are Charles Perry Gordon.' Eddie is aware of a document file being pushed across the table. 'Everything you need to know is in here. You're a community planner.'

  'I'm a what?'

  'Relax. It's a walk in the park. If anybody asks you a question, all you need is an opinion. It doesn't even have to be a good opinion. It's a Social Science. It'll take years before anyone realizes you don't know what you're talking about. It's -- how would the Americans distort the language? -- a totally no-risk scenario for you.'

  '"Charles", you said? "Charles" ...' Eddie runs the name over his tongue, while he tries, pointlessly, given the ambient light, to sift through the paperwork. "Chaaaaarles". Is that what people call you? Please don't say they call you "Chuck".'

  'Nobody out there's met me. I worked out of Rio de Janeiro; never been on site. To the people on the Project, I'm a photograph on a CV. I'm a bunch of papers, articles and emails. They'll call you what you want them to call you.'

  'And you're sure they'll believe I'm you?'

  'Why wouldn't they? We're of similar build, similar colouring. You'll have my ID. They won't even think about it. They'll have a million other things to worry about up to the launch.'

  'How about "Cee Pee"? I think that has a certain ring.'

  In the darkness, the real Mr Gordon is beginning to have his doubts about this man's ability to pass himself off as a human, let alone as one of the Selected. But the Devil's driving here. Needs must. Needs must. '"Cee Pee" sounds charming. The question is: how can I be sure you'll keep to the bargain?'

  And with difficulty, because saying it out loud, admitting it, explaining it to another person makes it seem even more terrifyingly hopeless, Eddie tells him. He tells him about his situation.

  And the real Mr Gordon doesn't express sympathy, doesn't remark on Eddie's luck. He simply relaxes in the darkness and holds out his hand across the table. 'So we have a deal?'

  Eddie senses rather than sees the proffered hand and, without thinking it through, offers his own.

  The exuberant handshake bursts Eddie's sticky scab, and his wound starts to bleed again with all its original enthusiasm.

  Eddie might see this as a sign. Blood to be spilled. If he were a religious man, he might even make a connection with stigmata, and sacrificial lambs. But he isn't, and he doesn't.

  Poor Eddie.

  9

  Eddie is looking at Afortunado from a different perspective, now. From many different perspectives.

  He's a new man. Literally.

  He's cleaned up. He has fresh clothes. He has luggage! He has a new identity, new papers, a new career. He has a future. He even has a little money. Enough to hire him this spindly, ancient, yet astonishingly sturdy oriental taximan to ferry him and his cases to the Project shuttle station.

  He's looking down on the crowds swarming Easy Street as the taximan hurtles through, yelling strange curses and barging aside the drunk, the drugged and the just plain dopey, and he feels above it all. Superior. Even though the frenzy is mounting, is yet to peak, the town is tumbling inexorably towards its grave. Come the morning, it will be dead.

  He's bobbling towards the thermal wall at the edge of town, now, and to the gate of the shuttle station just by it. Armed guards in uniform woman the entrance. Eddie wonders why. Most of the pilgrims will be at the Project already. Just a few stragglers left to show up. And Eddie.

  Suddenly, he's nervous again. Armed guards. To keep out curious tourists, chancers and...

  ... and impostors.

  Armed.

  The taximan stops abruptly and drops Eddie's cases. But he doesn't set Eddie down. He barks up at Eddie. Some kind of demand, or order.

  Eddie says: 'This is it. This'll do nicely,' and tries to dismount, but the taximan grips his legs, both of which are injured anyway, and barks the incomprehensible demand again.

  Through gritted teeth, Eddie tries to explain that he's happy with the destination, and he'd really like to get down now, while what's left of his blood is still circulating around what's left of his legs. He tries variations on this theme in a few languages, concluding with an appalling attempt at pidgin English, including the humiliating phrase: 'Leggee hurtee', before he realizes the taximan won't release him until he's paid his fare.

  This is wrong. The fare's already been paid by the real C.P. Gordon, who was keen to ensure Eddie's safe arrival at the station. A very generous fare, too, not to say extravagant.

  But the taximan knows when he can milk a profit, and he wants another fare.

  Not a problem, as soon as Eddie can remember which pocket he put his wallet in. And, indeed, where any pockets might actually be in the unfamiliar official garments of Project personnel. He tries to ignore the pain in his legs and pats his jacket, grinning in the direction of the guards, who look on dispassionately.

  Finally, he tracks down what feels like it might be a wallet in a pocket halfway down his right thigh. With difficulty -- the trouser material is being pulled taut, he has minimal feedback from his increasingly numb leg, and the taximan is not disposed towards being in any way helpful -- he drags out the wallet between his thumb and forefinger and flips it open.

  His heart performs a small somersault when he sees the false name below his ID photograph, but he collects himself, extracts a hundred bill and hands it down to the taximan.

  The taximan scrutinizes the note, without in any way relaxing his grip on Eddie's legs, and tucks it into some inscrutable fold in his curious, baggy trousers. Eddie leans forward to facilitate his dismount, but it's not going to happen just yet. The taximan holds up his hand again.

  'Keep the change,' Eddie says, and adds foolishly: 'Keepee changee.' But the taximan's hand stays where it is. Eddie looks hard, but the hand is empty. He wants more? This was a five-minute trip. If Eddie had a stone, he could turn and hit the pick-up point from here, even with his pathetic, girly throwing technique. But the taximan wants more. He knows a sucker when he's got one on his back.

  Eddie fishes out another note. He only has hundred bills. He tries to tell himself this money will be useless when he reaches the Project, but it's hard. Eddie's an accountant, and it's hard. 'You are, in fact, mugging me, you realize?' Eddie thrusts the bill into the waiting hand. 'In full view of armed law-enforcement personnel.' He glares over at the disinterested guardswomen. 'Do you truly expect to get away with this?'

  But, of course, the taximan truly does get away with it. He gets away with the first two hundred, and with three hundred more. When he's finally convinced Eddie's wallet is truly empty, he sets Eddie down.

  'Thanks a lot.' Eddie rubs his knees to try and coax a little blood through the bruised canals of his veins. 'Nice trip. As soon as I get my next million, we can go all the way round the block.'

  The taximan leers a single-toothed grin, waves Eddie's wad in the air and says what could be either: 'Hard knife dagger' or 'Have a nice day' -- either of which, in Eddie's book, constitutes an unnecessary taunt -- and hares off at Olympian speed back towards t
own.

  Eddie's dilemma now is when to start walking the few short steps towards the security gate. Does he move straight away, and risk looking like a man rising from a wheelchair at Lourdes? Or does he wait ten minutes or so, by which time he might be just capable of mimicking the walk of a brain-eating zombie?

  The decision is made for him. To his right, he hears a yell, a pleading yell, and a scuffle. The guards barely flick their eyes in the direction of the altercation. But Eddie knows what it is.

  It's a kerfuffle.

  Two men, wearing neat pork-pie hats, are swinging a third man between them.

  The third man is struggling, and the other two are sporting bright pink socks.

  The pink-socked duo are trying to work up sufficient momentum to hurl their appointment over the laser safety cut-outs and into the lethal thermal wall.

  Eddie starts to move towards the station entrance, hoping to get there and get through before the horror is played out. But his oxygen-starved legs can hardly hold him up, let alone carry him along with any kind of speed, and he's still several tottering steps away from the guards before the scream and the flash occur.

  Eddie doesn't look back, but the image conjures itself up in his brain anyway, thank you very much, and files itself where it simply isn't wanted.

  Eddie staggers up to the security gate and flashes his ID, hoping this will be enough to get him through. It isn't. One of the guards holds her hand out, and Eddie's forced to pass it over.

  He tries to look vaguely in the direction of the guards, without appearing to be either averting his gaze or staring them out. He's also trying not to look as if he's mentally undressing them, or conjuring up lurid sexual imaginings involving the electric cattle-prods dangling from their belts, but he's not sure how long he can keep it up.

  What's the delay here? The guard seems to be comparing Eddie's face with the photo on the ID. This shouldn't be a major problem. After all, it's a photo of Eddie, taken only minutes ago. Eddie attempts to strike the facial pose on the photograph exactly. Unfortunately, it's a bizarre, unnatural kind of half smile, and Eddie can't maintain it for too long without feeling he looks like an axe murderer. His nerve fails and he looks down at an imaginary bug he hasn't heard wriggling on the ground.