The storeroom was small, windowless. There were old copies of the magazine stacked up here. Folders of newspaper clippings. Boxes of pencils, razors, layout sheets; a broken wax mangier. Mostly things that Bernard’s computer had rendered obsolete, but that Harper nonetheless insisted on keeping. There was also a basin and a small refrigerator with an electric kettle set on top. And bags and boxes of makings for tea, coffee and hot chocolate. A tin of stale digestive biscuits—Bernard munched on one of these as he filled and started the kettle.

He could still hear Harper pacing in the office proper, muttering to herself. “Arrogant, arrogant, yes. He traipsed after his own ego into the limelight. After all these years. A mistake. Finally. Tonight, we’ll get at the truth.”

Bernard dropped a teabag into each of two black mugs. He regarded the hissing kettle with hooded eyes.

“How long do you think Richard’s got to live?” he called in to her after a while.

He heard her footsteps cease. Steam rose around his face as the kettle’s switch clicked off.

“I don’t know,” she answered gruffly then. “My suspicion is he’ll need a doctor’s care within a year.”

Bernard nodded, his stomach souring. Poured the water into the mugs. “And you don’t think there’s something just a teeny, tiny bit, oh, say—unforgiveable—in using him in this fashion? To gather information from La Endering, I mean, when he’s obviously in love with her?”

As the mugs were filled, images formed on their black sides: the white-domed, hollow-eyed faces of aliens. They were etched there in sensitive ink, and the heat made them visible. The mugs were silly toys that Bizarre!’s new publisher gave away to subscribers. For some reason, the trick always delighted Harper.

“Ha-ha!” she said when Bernard carried them in to her, presented her with one. She was sitting on the edge of the chaise longue now, had slipped her feet into her shoes again. As Bernard drifted back to his chair, she held the mug to her lips with both hands, huddled over it, blew softly on the steam as it misted her glasses.

“If he is being used, it is not by me,” she said finally, when he had seated himself, when he had swiveled around to her. “You said it yourself. It is Storm’s coming here that has set things into motion. He is tied intimately to events, and probably has been from the beginning. That story he read at the party, his connection with the girl, even his nonsensical ghosthunting—all of it has played a part. A hero is led by destiny, Bernard; everyone else is simply dragged along by it. The only question left for Richard Storm is whether or not he is to be the hero of his own life.”

“And Endering?”

Harper wagged her head. “If I were she, I would fall in love with him.”