"You're not used to this, are you, Tentimes?" Gabriel asked with silky insistence. "A solo hotrod, your combat is all mental. Well, this time the feedback is physical. You want my advice? Play ball. Don't annoy us. There are another seven who took part in the blitz. We'll just work down the list until we get some co-operation."

"I didn't have any choice!"

"Tell us about it," Greg suggested. "Downstairs."

"Down? Where?"

"Your terminals," Gabriel said.

"Shit, how…" O'Donal clamped his mouth shut as Greg flicked the Walther's nozzle towards the door.

Out in the hall O'Donal stopped and sniffed the air, then his eyes found the smear of viscous liquid on the tiles. A small pulse of anger coloured his thoughts. "Through here," he said, pointing dully at a recessed door.

"You open it," Gabriel ordered. "Seeing as how it's keyed to your palmprint. I'd hate my colleague to receive that thousand-volt charge."

O'Donal swallowed hard, almost a gulp. As he turned to the door Greg slapped the back of his head, knocking his face against the flaking varnish. The cook's hat fell off.

"Shit!" There was real fear in O'Donal's voice and mind. He looked at them to plead, a bead of blood seeping out of his left nostril. "I wasn't gonna. Honest, shit. I wouldn't have. Shit, you've gotta believe me!"

"Sure," Gabriel crooned.

Behind the hall door were fifteen steps leading down to another door made of bronze-coloured metal. It slid open at O'Donal's voice command.

"Impressive," Gabriel murmured.

The basement had been built as a wine cellar; the stain where the racks had been ripped out were still visible on the rough brick walls. A metal air-conditioning duct which had ensured the bottles were kept at a perfectly maintained temperature ran along the ceiling.

The basement was a hotrod's crypt, now smelling faintly of acetone. There were five terminals sitting on a long pine table, all different makes, each hardwired with customised augmentation modules. Hundreds of memox crystals were stacked neatly on narrow oak shelving. Four big cubes clung to the wall facing the table, two on either side of a long flatscreen which was lit up like a football stadium scoreboard. The Gracious Services circuit, detailing burns in progress, hackers on line, requests, available umpires. Greg searched, and sure enough saw Wildace's name.

"Expensive, too," Greg said. "According to the circuit you've only been solo for six months. Means you've been scoring pretty good, Tentimes. How do you do it?"

"What… what are you going to do to me?"

Greg shoved the Mulekick against the man-black surface of the Hitachi terminal on the table. There was a flat crack as the power tubes discharged. A zillion precious delicate junctions were smelted into worthless cinders. The smell of scorched plastic filled the air.

O'Donal yelped as though he'd received the jolt. "Oh, shit-fire, do you know how much that cost me?" He stared aghast at the ruined Hitachi.