"Fuck that," Des said. "We've blown cover hauling you out. I've gotta get my squad safeguarded. Standard procedure; you should know that, Mr. Military Hotshot. This operation is now over."

"What the hell do you want to go back for?" Suzi asked.

"I have to see something."

They shot out on to the promenade, and Des tilted the joystick sharp left. Pedestrians hopped out of the way, hurling abuse.

"Listen," Des said. "You wanna go back, that's fucking fine by me. I'll stop right now and you can walk. But you're on your own. We've been burning our arses off for you, and I don't see anything to show for it."

"OK, drop me here."

"Shit." Suzi and Des exchanged anxious befuddled glances. "You can't," said Suzi. "Come on, Greg, you can't hardly walk. We'll bring you back in a couple of days, when it's cooler."

"It has to be now."

"The photon amps are still in place, how about we take you back to Angelica's? You can watch from there."

Greg probed his nose tenderly, it didn't feel broken, and it'd stopped bleeding. "Not that sort of watching, not visual. I want to use my espersense on them."

"Jesus," Des spat. "You Mindstar?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody hell," Suzi muttered. "I knew there was something about you. Father never said nowt."

Greg said nothing, he had always held back from mentioning it to the Trinities. People developed funny attitudes to psychics, kids especially. Let them just think he was lucky, outfits like that put a lot in superstition.

"Jesus," Des said. "Fucking Mindstar active in Peterborough. Think on it. Party always pissed itself over you people. Look, just what is going down on that yacht?"

"If I knew for sure I wouldn't have to go back."

"Shit, just how close do you have to get?"

They compromised. Des drove into the maze of service alleys behind the promenade shops, and swapped clothes with Greg. Then he went off to organise the squad's withdrawal, leaving Suzi to drive Greg. There'd be no more retrieval posses if Toby and Mike came after them; but the snipers would remain in place until Greg had finished.

Suzi drove back out on to the promenade and deployed the brushes before moving up the quay next to the Mirriam's mooring. Seagull crap dissolved into creamy puddles, frizzy bristles whisking it away into the float's tanks.

"Stop here," Greg told her once they were opposite Kendric's yacht.

She climbed out of the little cab. "Don't be too long," she implored, and lifted the engine cowling.

Greg relaxed, sinking back into the thin cushioning of the bench, and instructed the cortical node to shut out the sharp throbs of pain his nerves were reporting loyally.

The gland: stressed, taut like a marathon runner's calf on the home straight. A sluice of neurohormones bubbled out amongst his axons.