If it exists (if Dr. Ford is right) the first sign is that it will amplify the efficacy of all our thaumaturgic tools. But it'll gather pace rapidly from there. He's predicting a phase-change, like a pile of plutonium that's decided to lurch from ordinary criticality—the state of a controlled nuclear reactor—to prompt criticality—a sudden unwanted outburst of power, halfway between a normal nuclear reaction and a nuclear explosion. Nobody predicted this before: we all expected CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN to switch on with a bang, not a weeks-long transition, an explosion rather than a meltdown. For a few days, we'll be gods—before it tears the walls of the world apart, and lets the nightmares in.

"Ought to make the best use of what time we've got left," she thinks aloud.

I put my glass down and roll on my side, to face her. "Yes."

"Come here," she says, stretching her free arm towards me.

Outside the window, the wild darkness claws at our frail bubble of light and warmth, ignored and temporarily forgotten in our primate frenzy. But its time will come.

THE NEXT MORNING WE OVERSLEEP, BY MUTUAL CONSENT, then slouch about the kitchen for a scandalously prolonged breakfast. Mo looks at me, sleepy-eyed with satisfaction, over a bare plate. "I needed that." A guilty glance across at the empty egg carton by the frying pan on the hob: "My waistline disagrees, but my stomach says 'fuck it.'"

"Enjoy it while you can." I've got plans for the weekend that include blowing a week's salary on stuff we might not need: brown rice, lentils, canned beans, camping gas cylinders. I can make room for it in our abbreviated joke of a cellar if I toss the rusting bicycle and a bunch of other crap that's taking up space . . . "I was thinking about going into the office this afternoon."

"But you're signed off sick," Mo points out.

"Yeah, that's the trouble." I refill my coffee mug from the cafetiere.

"After what Andy said, I figure I ought to at least poke around Angleton's office. See if I can spot something that everyone else has missed, before the trail goes cold. And there are some files I want to pull so I've got something to read over the weekend."

"You are not bringing work home." She crosses her arms, abruptly mulish.

"The thought never crossed my mind." I play the innocent expression card and she raises me one sullen glare. I fold. "I'm sorry, but there's also some reading matter I want to pick up."

"You're not bringing work home! We're not certified, anyway."

"Yes we are—as of yesterday, this is a level two secure site," I point out. "I'm not bringing anything secret home, just archive stuff from the stacks. It's tagged 'confidential' but it's so old it's nearly ready to claim its pension. Strictly historical interest only."

"Um." She raises an eyebrow. "Why?"