Inhabiting a Day Player was like riding a Segway. They both come easily but can occasionally catch you unawares once you feel so comfortable with them that you forget they are there. A well-fitting Day Player is a great joy to use, but I heard later that inhabiting a body not designed for your own use was like driving a car with all the controls reversed.

Thursday Next, Private Diaries

My guess had been correct: She’d put me in a storage cupboard. I was surrounded by cleaning products, buckets, brooms, a chair and table for tea breaks and an industrial floor cleaner. I had been wrapped in a blanket this time and laid on a camping mat, so at least I was warm. For the record, waking up from a Cognition Retransfer is pretty much instantaneous, but the memories I’d formed while I’d been a Day Player took a minute or two to establish themselves.

I pulled myself to my feet using the floor cleaner and noticed that my Day Player had kindly pinned a pay-as-you-go cell phone to my shirt, where I couldn’t possibly miss it. There was also a key to the storeroom taped to the palm of my right hand. I rubbed my tattoo, just in case, but I didn’t really need to—the ache in my leg told me I was well and truly home.

I tried to think clearly against the mild fog of the Dizuperadol. Synthetic Jack had said, I get to wake up in a hotel suite, which suggested that his base of operations was in one of the six five-star hotels in the city.

I’d had a quick look around my office before Jack killed my Day Player, and that gave me a few clues. First, there was the faint aroma of jet fuel in the air, which suggested Dyson International, the airshipfield to the east of the city—a choice that narrowed the hotels down to the Majestic, the Adelphi or the Piper-Astoria. The swing of his jacket suggested a heavy key fob in his suit pocket, and if that was so, then he was in a suite at the Adelphi—the others used key cards.

I unpinned the phone from my shirt and dialed in one of the numbers that Synthetic Me had considerately left myself on speed dial.

“Phoebe? It’s Thursday. I need a favor.”

I outlined what I needed her to do and heard her sharp intake of breath. She knew she’d be tackling Goliath eventually but hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

“Arresting a Top One Hundred is . . . problematical,” replied Phoebe. “Are you sure you’ve got something on him?”

“Not yet.”

“Here’s the deal,” said Phoebe. “I’ll help you, but if it all goes squiffy, you take the flak.”

“Deal.”