What she was good with was what she'd always been good with: stories — like fairy tales and movies. And despite her mother's repeated warning when she was younger (“No girl can make a living at movies except you-know-what-kind-of-girl”), the odds of making a career in film seemed a lot better than in fairy tales.

She was, she'd decided, born to make films and this one — a real, grown-up film (a documentary: the ground-zero of serious films) — had in the last hour or two became vitally important to her, as encompassing as the air pressure that hit her when the subway pounded into the tunnel. One way or another, this documentary was going to get made.

She looked out the window. Whatever subterranean colonies lived in the subways, they'd have to wait a few more years for their story to be told.

The train crashed past them or past rats and trash or past nothing at all while Rune thought about nothing but her film.

... but not about the bombing.

In the offices of Belvedere Post-Production the air-conditioning was off.

“Give me a break,” she muttered.

Stu, not looking up from Gourmet, waved.

“I do not believe this place,” Rune said. “Aren't you dying?”

She walked to the window and tried to open the greasy, chicken-wire-impregnated glass. It was frozen with age and paint and wormy strips of insulating putty. She focused on the green slate of the Hudson River as she struggled. Her muscles quivered. She groaned loudly. Stu sensed his cue and examined the window from his chair, then pushed himself into a standing slump. He was young and big but had developed muscles mostly from kneading bread and whisking egg whites in copper bowls. After three minutes he breathlessly conceded defeat.

“Hot air outside's all we'd get anyway.” He sat down again. He jotted notes for a recipe, then frowned. “Are you here for a pickup? I don't think we're doing anything for L&R.”

“Naw, I wanted to ask you something. It's personal.”

“Like?”

“Like who are your clients?”

“That's personal! Well, mostly ad agencies and independent film makers. Networks and big studios occasionally but —”

“Who are the independents?”

“You know, small companies doing documentaries or low-budget features. Like L&R... You're grinning and you're coy and there's an old expression about butter melting in the mouth that I could never figure out but I think fits here. What's up?”

“You ever do adult films?”

He shrugged. “Oh, porn? Sure. We do a lot of it. I thought you were asking me something inscrutable.”

“Can you give me the name of somebody at one of the companies?”

“I don't know. Isn't this some kind of business-ethics question, client confidentiality —”

“Stu, we're talking about a company making films that're probably illegal in most of the world and you're worried about business ethics?”