At this hour, the airport was almost deserted. Arthur sat in the sterile black and gray waiting area near his gate, reading a discarded newspaper. He glanced at his watch, and then looked up to see a thin, nervous-looking woman, hardly more than a girl, standing a few feet away, staring at him. "I hope you don't mind," she said.

"Beg pardon?"

"I followed you from your house. You're Arthur Gordon, aren't you?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, puzzled. He didn't answer.

"I know you are. I've been watching your house. I know that sounds terrible, but I have. There's something I have to give you. It's very important." She opened the shopping bag and took out a cardboard box large enough to hold a baseball. "Please don't be alarmed. It's not a bomb or anything. I showed it to the airport security people. They think it's a toy, a Japanese toy for my cousin. But it's for you." She held out the box.

Arthur looked her over carefully, then said,

"Open it for me, please." He seemed to be operating on some automatic program, cautious and calm at once. He hadn't given much thought to assassination attempts before, but he could be a likely target for Forge of Godders or anybody tipped over the edge by the news of the last few weeks.

"'All right." She opened the box and removed an ovoid object, steel or silver, brightly polished. She held it out to him. "Please. It's important."

With some reluctance—it did resemble a toy more than anything sinister—he took the object. Quickly, it unfolded its legs, gripped his palm, and before he could react, nipped him on the fleshy part of the thumb. He stood up and tried to fling it away, swearing, but it would not let go. Warmth spread quickly up his arm and he sat down again, face pale, lips drawn back. The young woman retreated, shaking her head and crying. "It's important," she said. "It really is."

"All right," Arthur said, more calm on the exterior than deep in his mind. The spider crawled into his suit coat, cut through the fabric of his shirt, and nipped him again on the abdomen.

The woman walked off quickly. He paid her little attention.

By boarding time, he was beginning to receive information, slowly at first. On the aircraft, as he pretended to nap, the information became more detailed, and his fear subsided.

Chapter 40

40

Hicks had stayed in Washington, hoping with a kind of desperate hope that there was still something he could do. The White House did not summon him. Beyond the occasional television interviews, fewer and fewer since the fiasco on Freefire, he was woefully unoccupied. His book had sold in a fresh spurt the past few weeks, but he had refused to discuss it with anybody. His publishers had given up on him.