Atherton's face showed for only one instant more. And then, as if a giant hand had pulled at his ankles and dragged him down under, his dark form was sucked toward the bottom of the lake and was gone.

'Spread out everybody!' cried Thorn. 'We've lost him!'

But it was a pointless pursuit. He was gone. And as the skaters formed a long line and began sweeping the length of the river again, the great black raven let out a cry and circled away into the now overcast sky.

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Atherton had been dead for nearly a month; Paul Buher was still redecorating his new office. He had wood paneling put over the wallpaper and had installed sharp, clean, contemporary furniture of the black-leather-and-gleaming-chrome Bauhaus style to replace Atherton's old-men's-club overstuffed leather chairs. It pleased him to have his office resemble the dining room of Thorn's Chicago apartment; after all, that was where it had all begun.

It also pleased him to have his picture put up, handsomely framed, in the outer office where his receptionist and secretary worked. The studio portrait was where it was supposed to be... where Atherton's had been.

But what pleased him most of all, on this January morning as he emerged from his chauffeur-driven limousine in front of the main offices of Thorn Industries, was that Byron, his bright, obsequious, and endlessly helpful young executive assistant, was waiting just inside the main doors for him in order to thrust a particular magazine into his hands.

It was the latest issue of Fortune, and on its cover was a copy of the same Bachrach portrait which now hung in Buher's outer office; Buher had flown to New York expressly to have it taken. The caption on the magazine cover read: PAUL BUHER, NEW PRESIDENT OF THORN INDUSTRIES.

Byron stood very still in his double-knit suit and his blow-dried hair, anxiously awaiting his boss's response.

Buher nodded slightly, acknowledging the existence of the magazine, said, 'Thanks, Byron,' and walked quickly past him.

Byron was crestfallen. 'Oh,' he said, 'then you've already seen it.'

Buher looked at his assistant with undisguised contempt. 'You don't think these things happen by accident, do you?' He couldn't believe Byron's naïveté at times. He hadn't been that naïve ten years ago. At least he didn't think he had. It was hard to remember. The older Buher got, the more selective his memory became. At this point, he had nearly blanked out his childhood, and his adolescence was fading fast.

Byron interrupted his train of thought. 'I think it's neat,' he said, still referring to the cover of Fortune.

Buher didn't even bother to nod. Of course Byron thought it was 'neat.' He thought everything was 'neat,' with the exception of those things he thought were 'super.'

They waited for the elevator together.

'Any news of Pasarian?' Buher asked.