Thus, when he happened to look out the window of his new office and saw the Davidson Military Academy bus pull up in front of the building, Buher was at first surprised, and then, when he realized why the bus was there, he buzzed his secretary and told her to hold all calls for a while. He would have to go welcome the boys.

They could hardly have chosen a more inopportune time, Buher thought. But if he couldn't handle little crises like this when they came along, then he didn't deserve to be sitting in this chair, in this office.

Outside, in the parking lot, the boys were busy being impressed. They had understood vaguely that the Thorn boys were very rich, but seeing these vast brick buildings, covering an area almost as large as the towns some of them had grown up in, was pretty overwhelming. One of them let out a long, low whistle.

Teddy decided to lighten the awestruck atmosphere. 'Does this tour include lunch in the executive dining room?' he asked, rubbing his stomach and licking his lips like some grotesque cartoon character.

'Of course,' Damien said, polite as ever.

But Mark wouldn't let Teddy get away with it. 'We're going to try out a new pesticide on you,' he said, and everyone laughed.

They moved into the main building where Buher was waiting to welcome them. Today Damien found himself a little shy with Buher. The boy had not had enough time to assimilate a hundredth of what he had just learned about himself. He felt stronger, though, and infinitely braver, but he knew it was still too early to act. He glanced briefly at Buher before moving over to a glass wall labeled:

PESTICIDE ROOM. NO ADMITTANCE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Peering through the glass, Damien saw an enormous room, approximately the size of a basketball court. Other than one man, whom Damien recognized as Pasarian, it contained miles and miles of pipes and valves in vivid colors and intricate cross-hatchings. It looked like the intestinal system of a very large and very complicated robot.

The colors were, of course, a code, and a trained technician read the information as easily as the average person reads a newspaper. This was Pasarian's room. He had built it, and it was his baby. And it was here that they were now trying to perfect his beloved P.84.

Pasarian was standing at a large computer console, watching the dials flash out their vital information. As he did so, he punched out numbers on the push-button phone at his side.

He raised the phone to his ear and shouted to an assistant on a catwalk above him, 'Give it another hundred pounds, Tom!' Then turning back to the phone he said, 'This is Pasarian. Has Mr Thorn come in yet?'

The voice on the other end crackled, 'No, sir.'

Pasarian began to get agitated. 'He still hasn't called?'