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somewhere. For himself. For himself.

For himself.

It worked. His arm jangled like a live wire, but he picked up the pace.

* * *

Girard rubbed his mouth. The tape hurt coming off. The young man who had untied him didn't look like he was in good shape. He had left a trail of blood on the way in.

"We have to do something about your leg," the young woman with him said. Girard remembered the man-he was EABI. The woman he had never see before.

The young man sat down heavily. "I won't argue," he grunted.

The tape was still lying where Bester had left it. It would do for the moment, until he could get an ambulance here. "What's your name, son?" he asked.

"Diebold, sir. Benjamin Diebold."

"I think he saved my life," the woman explained. "He pushed me out of the way."

"That was Bester, wasn't it?" Diebold gasped, as Girard cut his trousers away with his pocket knife.


"But we got orders to break the cordon..."

"I know. Hold still."

Diebold said something else, but Girard didn't hear. A sudden flash exploded in his head.

Two men, running. Old enemies. Garibaldi chasing Bester. No question what will happen when they meet. There will be no arrest, no capture, no trial, no prison. One of them will die, or both.

* * *


Garibaldi's shout sounded strangely tinny, depthless. Words were the tips of icebergs, and Bester was used to seeing the mountain that lay beneath the waves, the really dangerous mass of emotion and cognition that thrust words up for the ear to hear.

Normals talked and wrote of being able to "hear" anger or desperation in a voice, but like the parable of the blind men describing an elephant, they had no idea what they were talking about.

He didn't care what Garibaldi was thinking,
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