There is no peanut gallery at this trial. Jo is waiting outside with a couple of blue-suiters and the other designated witnesses, but the Auditors want no inconvenient onlookers who might have to be bound to silence or memory-wiped, should I accidentally disclose material above their level of classification.

"Please state your name and job title." There's a recorder on the desk, as usual: its light is glowing red.

"Bob Howard. Senior Specialist Officer grade 3. Personal assistant to Tea—er, DSS Angleton."

That causes a minor stir. One of the Auditors—female, blonde, lateforties—turns sideways and says something to the others that I ought to be able to hear, but can't. The other two nod. She turns back and addresses me directly. "Mr. Howard. You are aware of the terms of this investigation. You are aware of the geas it is conducted under. You have our special dispensation to respond to any question, the first time it is posed—and only the first time—by warning us if in your judgment the reply would require you to disclose codeword-classified information. Please state your understanding of this variance, in your own words."

I clear my throat. "If you ask me about sensitive projects I'm allowed to stonewall—once. If you ask me again, I have to tell you, period. Uh, I assume that's because you'd prefer to keep the enquiry from accidentally covering so many highly classified subjects that nobody is allowed to read its findings . . . ?"

She smiles drily. "Something like that." It feels like the Angel of Death has just perched on my shoulder, paused from sharpening its blade, and quietly squawked: Who's a pretty Polly? Then the sense of immanent ridiculous demise passes. Ha ha, I slay myself . . .

The Chief Auditor nods, then looks at the legal pad before him. "Yesterday you visited the library front desk. What was your objective?"

Lie back and think of England—and nothing else. "Angleton gave me a reading list," I said. "He told me to bring back a particular document." Pause. "Oh, and Mo wanted me to pick up a copy of a report she'd asked for, but it wasn't in yet."

There is no prickling of high tension current in my legs to warn me that my partial truth is unacceptable.

"Who is 'Mo'?" asks Auditor #3.

"Dr. Dominique O'Brien. Epistemological Warfare Specialist grade 4."

Auditor #3 leans forward hungrily. "Why did this person ask you to collect a document on their behalf?" he demands.

I blink, nonplussed. "Because I told her I was going to the library, and she was busy. She's my wife."

Auditor #3 looks baffled for a few seconds, his bloodhound trail evaporating in a haze of aniseed fumes. "You're married?"

"Yes." This would be hilarious if I wasn't scared silly by the sleeping horror I am standing on that will sense any attempt at deception and—

"Oh." He makes a note on his pad and subsides.