"True, I'm not supposed to be here," the face said. It fell a couple of feet, the ball assuming the color of a rosy dawn. "But then, I'm just an icon myself. Please don't be alarmed."

"I am alarmed. You’re scaring me. Who are you?"

"I'm from City Memory. A rogue."

"I don't know you," she said. "Please go away."

"I can't possibly harm you. Irritate you, perhaps. I only need a few questions answered."

The globe dropped and fleshed out like a vampire in an old horror movie to form a masculine body, clothed in loose white shirt and forest-green pants. The figure seemed to solidify. In her room now stood a small, delicate man appearing slightly younger than middle age, with long black hair and a weary, thin face. Patricia's heart slowed and she moved a few inches out from the wall.

"I pride myself in my accomplishments," the image said. "I have access to the very best records. Forgotten records, actually. There's such an awful clutter in the lower levels of City Memory. And what I've found is the partially purged record of a court case. . . . Something serious, actually. Violation of flaw security. Bits and pieces of information pointed here. . . . Subtle connections, I admit, but intriguing."

The figure seemed familiar, as if she had met him or seen him somewhere else. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a rogue. A rather violent one, actually, though you wouldn't know it to look at me. I go where I please, and so long as I'm careful, I maintain. I've been non-corporeal for a hundred and fifty years now, supposedly condemned to inactive Memory. Of course, there's only a copy of me inactivated. Sometimes I'm hired for various jobs. Usually I duel with other rogues. I've taken down sixty in my time. Lethal chess."

"You haven't answered my question." She was close to tears now. She couldn't think who the rogue reminded her of. "Leave me alone. I just want to think."

"Rogues are never very polite. You're attracting a lot of attention in Axis Nader. I hadn't any idea where you were, though, until you used the data service just now. A tracer found you—one of my very best tracers. Based on the patterns of a mouse."

"Please!" Patricia shouted to the apartment. "Get him out of here!"

"It's no use," the rogue said. "Where are you from?"

Patricia didn't answer. She edged toward the bedroom door.

"I've been commissioned to find out where you're from. I've been paid in advantages over a very long-term adversary. I will not leave until you tell me."

"Who hired you?" she shouted, really frightened now.

"Let's see. . . I'm speaking twentieth-century English—American, actually. That's very surprising. Only the most die-hard Ameriphiles actually learn to speak the language as well as you do. But why would anybody be interested in an Ameriphile?" The image followed her into the bedroom. "They aren't paying me for guesswork. Tell me."