Enough. I shook myself and went to Ego’s front door.

I could see the camera, watching from its bracket on the ceiling, and past it, the guard desk. I looked into the camera’s eye and nodded, schooling my face to something like confident blankness.

The guard was one I didn’t know, young, brown-haired, with a sunburnt nose. He looked up when I stopped in front of the desk.

“They know I’m coming,” I said.

“Can I have your name, please, to—”

“They don’t need my name. They just saw my face on the monitor upstairs.” I tilted my head toward the camera.

“I have to call to authorize—”

“Please do.”

He went into the little room with the window in the door, and I followed silently after. When I came in, he was on the intercom saying, ”… didn’t give a name, sir.” I reached gently around his shoulder and took the desk mike away from him.

“Hello, Tom,” I said. It would come through clearly; I knew how to talk into a microphone. “I thought I was invited.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the drawling voice, saying, “Well, God damn if you aren’t. Come on up. You know the way.”

The guard stepped back, watching me. He seemed skittish. I handed him the microphone and headed for the elevator.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. We’d discovered, when we put our heads together, that the only thing we could plan was the lighting of Ego. Helping Dana, thwarting — or even avoiding — Tom, were too full of variables. I could only go, because I had to go, and stay alert, and do the next thing, whatever it was. Everything depended on what happened next, and what happened after that, and after that, and I had no idea what any of those would be. I was waiting, almost literally, for a sign. Improvisation wasn’t what I was good at. What was I good at? What was I made to do?

Theo would light the Gilded West, if he could, at the request of Sherrea’s gods. What was I here for? To bring Dana out. To stop Tom Worecski. I doubted I could manage either one. I was simply moving in the direction that seemed right, and hoping that at the appropriate moment, something would tell me I’d arrived.

“This isn’t just the power monopoly,” Sherrea had said before I climbed into the truck. “That’s just a symptom. D’you understand?” It had meant a lot to her, I could tell: her hands were closed hard on my shoulders, and her face was uncomfortably close to mine. She wouldn’t have forgotten if it wasn’t important. Once, I would have smiled and told her yes, I understood, sure. This afternoon, I’d stood quiet under her hands and finally shook my head. She’d remembered then, let go and stepped back. But I’d seen the fear in her face.

Oh, spirits, if Frances wasn’t John Wayne, I certainly wasn’t. Why hadn’t I just stood at the front door and cut my throat?