Patricia ran to the main door and ordered it to open. It did not. She gulped a breath of air and turned to face the image, suddenly determined not to lose control. "What. . . what do I get in return?" she asked. "If I tell you?"

"Maybe we can trade."

"Let me sit down, then."

"Oh, I wouldn't stop you from doing that. I'm not cruel, you know."

"You're a ghost," she said decisively.

"More so than most ghosts you meet," the image elaborated.

"What's your name?"

"I don't have one now. Spoor, but no name. Yours?"

"Patricia."

"Not a common name."

Suddenly, she retrieved the memory of the rogue's face. Just as suddenly, she rejected the clue; it was ridiculous. "I'm really an American," she said.

"What percentage? Most are happy to claim three or four percent, though statistically that has to be a pose—"

"One hundred percent. I was born in the United States of America, in California. Santa Barbara."

The image wobbled again. "Not much time, Patricia Luisa Vasquez. What you say doesn't make any sense, by itself, but you seem to believe it. How did you grow up so uncluttered and primary?"

"Where I come from—and when"—she took another deep breath to calm herself—"that's almost all the choice there is." She cocked her head to one side. "I know you," she said. "You look like Edgar Allan Poe."

The rogue betrayed some surprise. "Fancy you recognizing that. Fancy that indeed. Did you know Poe?"

"Of course not," Patricia said, feeling an incongruous tingle of delight beneath her fear. "I read him. He's dead."

"He's my chosen mentor. Such a mind!" The rogue surrounded itself with rapid picts of sepulchral figures, live burials, ships in whirlpools and arctic wastes. "Patricia Luisa Vasquez recognizes Poe. Claims to be a twenty-first-century American. Fascinating.

"I have to go soon. Ask me what you need to know, and then I'll ask you one more thing."

"What are they going to do with us?"

"Us? There are others?"

"Four others. What are they going to do?"

"I really don't know. I'll try to find out. Now, my last question for this visit. Why are you so special to them?"

"Because of what I just said." To her surprise, all her fear was gone. The rogue or ghost or whatever it was seemed to be willing to cooperate, and she saw no reason to be foolishly loyal to their kidnappers.

"We can help each other, I think. Did you know your data service has a block on it? They're keeping you here and they're selectively cutting off your access. If you tell them I've been here, I may not be able to come back, and I won't be able to answer your question. Think about it. Until next time," the rogue said, and vanished. The apartment suddenly found its voice.

"Ser Vasquez, are you well? There has been interference—"

"Don't I know it," Patricia said.

"Could you describe the difficulty?"