Trevor Hicks stepped out of the rental car under a big iron trestle and screened his eyes against the sun. He saw Arthur Gordon crossing the street. Gordon waved. Hicks, exhausted from the drive and still nervous, made a feeble gesture of acknowledgment. He had never become used to driving in the United States. Unable to find a quick route by surface streets, he had taken the freeway to get to the Seattle waterfront, then had driven in circles beneath the bridge for ten minutes, twice barely missing other cars in the narrow aisles. Finally he had managed to park just down the long concrete steps from the Pike Place Market. Across the street, warehouses converted into restaurants and shops vied with new buildings for views of the bay. Sea gulls wheeled and squeaked over a half-eaten hamburger in the street, lifting on spread wings to dodge passing cars.

Gordon approached and they shook hands awkwardly. Despite having communicated recently on the network, they hadn't seen each other since their first meeting in the Furnace Creek Inn. "My wife and son are in the aquarium," Gordon said, pointing down the street. "That'll keep them busy for a couple of hours."

"Do they know?" Hicks asked.

"I told them," Arthur said. "We're staying together, wherever I go. We're driving to San Francisco next week."

Hicks nodded. "I'm staying here. I hear there's going to be activity in the sound soon." He made a face. "If you can call it 'hearing.'"

"Any idea what sort of activity?" Arthur asked.

Hicks shook his head. "Something important. In San Francisco, too."

"I've had that impression."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Hicks said.

Arthur stared at him, puzzled. "Sorry?"

"Mr. Feinman. It was in the papers yesterday morning."

Arthur hadn't thought of Harry much since leaving Oregon. "I haven't been reading the papers. He . . ." "Monday," Hicks said.

"Christ. I . . . Ithaca probably called, and we were gone." He lifted his head. "I told him about the network, too."

"Did he believe you?"

"I think he probably did."

"Then maybe it helped . . . No, I suppose that's silly."

Arthur stood with hands in pockets, shaken despite the months of preparation. He felt vaguely guilty for not thinking of Harry; he had called several times before leaving Oregon, and had been unable to speak to his friend. He took a deep breath and indicated they should climb the stairs to the market. "I wanted him to know that not everything was lost. I hope it helped. It's so difficult sorting everything out."

They passed in silence through the mostly empty aisles, stopping at a bakery to buy coffee and sitting at a white wrought-iron table placed between shops.

"How have they kept you busy?" Arthur asked.

"I've been visiting libraries, universities. Locating people . . . That's how I'm most useful, apparently. I help find people the network is looking for, scientists, candidates."

"I haven't been doing much of anything yet," Hicks said. "Do you know . . . who the candidates are?"