“And we pay very well for what we’re interested in, Mr. Malthan,” Dorrance interrupted him. “Don’t we?”

“Yes, sir, you do. Only I don’t—”

“Malthan has been very useful,” interjected Professor Lackridge. “Though we must discount many of his, ahem, traveler’s tales. Fortunately he tends to bring us interesting artifacts in addition to his more colorful observations.”

“I’ve always spoken true,” said Malthan. “As this young man can tell you. He has the Mark and all. He knows.”

“Yes, the forehead brand of that cult,” remarked Lackridge, with an uninterested glance at Nick’s forehead, the Mark mostly concealed once more under his floppy forelock. “Socio-logically interesting, of course. Particularly its regrettable prevalence among our Northern Perimeter Reconnaissance Unit. I trust it is only an affectation in your case, young man? You haven’t gone native on us?”

“It isn’t just a religious thing,” Nick said carefully. “The Mark is more of a . . . a connection with . . . how can I explain . . . unseen powers. Magic—”

“Yes, yes. I am sure it seems like magic to you,” said Lackridge. “But the great majority of it is easily explained as mass hallucination, the influence of drugs, hysteria, and so forth. It is the minority of events that defy explanation but leave clear physical effects that we are interested in—such as the explosion at Forwin Mill.” He looked over his half-moon glasses at Nicholas.

Dorrance looked at him as well, his stare suddenly intense.

“Our studies there indicate that the blast was roughly equivalent to the detonation of twenty thousand tons of nitrocellulose,” continued Lackridge. He rapped his knuckles on the desk as he exclaimed, “Twenty thousand tons! We know of nothing capable of delivering such explosive force, particularly as the bomb itself was reported to be two metallic hemispheres, each no more than ten feet in diameter. Is that right, Mr. Sayre?”

Nick swallowed, his throat moving in a dry gulp. He could feel sweat forming on his forehead and a familiar jangling pain in his right arm and chest.

“I . . . I don’t really know,” he said after several long seconds. “I was very ill. Feverish. But it wasn’t a bomb. It was the Destroyer. Not something our science can explain. That was my mistake. I thought I could explain everything under our natural laws, our science. I was wrong.”

“You’re tired, and clearly still somewhat unwell,” said Dorrance. His tone was kindly, but the warmth did not reach his eyes. “We have many more questions, of course, but they can wait until the morning. Professor, why don’t you show Nicholas around the establishment. Let him get his bearings. Then go back upstairs, and we can all resume life as normal, what? Which reminds me, Nicholas—everything discussed down here is absolutely confidential. Even the existence of this facility must not be mentioned once you return to the main house. Naturally you will see me, Professor Lackridge, and the others at dinner, but in our public roles. Most of the guests have no idea that Department Thirteen lurks beneath their feet, and we want it to remain that way. I trust you won’t have a problem keeping our existence all to yourself?”