He nods. "You must understand, previous models all seem to have looked at how possession spreads through a sparse network, like classical epidemiological studies of smallpox transmission, for example. But that's flawed: if you posit an uncontrolled outbreak, then people can see their neighbors, random strangers, being possessed. And that in turn weakens the observer-mediated grid ultrastructure, making it easier for the preta to tunnel into our reality. It's a feedback loop: the more people succumb, the weaker everyone else's resistance becomes. I modeled it using linear programming and the results are, well, they speak for themselves."

"And the closer we come to the Transient Weak Anomaly the more outbreaks we're going to see, and the—it contributes to the strength of the TWA?" She looks at him sharply.

"Substantially, yes." Dr. Mike shuffles uncomfortably in his chair.

"Well, shit." She folds the paper neatly and slides it into her handbag. "And here I was hoping Andy had gotten the wrong end of the stick."

"Second-order effects are always gonna getcha." He shrugs apologetically. "I don't know why nobody looked into it from this angle before."

"Not your problem, not my problem."

"Says Wernher von Braun, yes, and who says satire is dead?"

"Tom Lehrer. Or maybe Buddy Holly."

"Right. But you said something that interests me strangely. How did the Black Brotherhood—or whoever wants us to think they're the BBs—get the news?"

"That's what a lot of people are asking themselves right now." She gives him a peculiar look. "It made quite a stir, unfortunately. Lots of wagging tongues. Unfortunately Oscar-Oscar are drawing blanks and they can't Audit the entire organization—at least not yet. We'll have to examine the second-order consequences if the cultists learn they've got a turbocharger, though. If you can come up with anything . . ."

"Angleton would be the one to talk to about that," he says slyly. "After all, he's the head of the Counter-Possession Unit."

"Angleton's missing—" Mo freezes.

For a moment they sit in silence. Then Dr. Mike raises one preposterous eyebrow. "Are you certain of that?"

I'M GLAD I'M NOT CLAUSTROPHOBIC.

Well, I'm not very claustrophobic. Lying on my back in a coffin-sized railway carriage, rattling down a steep incline in a tunnel less than a meter in diameter that was built in the 1920s is not my idea of a nice relaxing way to spend an afternoon. Especially knowing that the station staff are zombies and I'm barreling headfirst into the depths of a high security government installation with only my warrant card to speak for me, on a mission of somewhat questionable legality.

Pull yourself together, Bob. You've been in darker holes.