She was right; it was a V8 Austin-Maserati, and it—and she—were very fast. Although the Swindon Adelphi was on the far side of the airshipfield, we were there in record time.

“I hope I’m not frightening you,” she said as we drifted sideways around the Oxford Road roundabout, leaving two strips of hot rubber on the pavement and a cloud of thick tire smoke in our wake.

“Actually, no,” I replied. “Your driving reminds me of someone I once knew.”

We screeched to a halt outside the Swindon Adelphi, and I hurried inside after telling Mrs. Hilly that I would accept a lift back—and would hear all her grievances. I went to the eighteenth floor, where I knew the suites were located, and found Phoebe in the lobby area outside the elevators.

“No armed backup?” I asked.

“I was countermanded,” replied Phoebe. “Anyone in the Goliath Top One Hundred is Protocol 684: not to be approached without a signed warrant from the attorney general.”

This was quite true—Goliath had taken over the running of the police years ago. Phoebe could be here only because she was SpecOps, who were independent.

“I booked myself into Room 1802 down the hall,” she added, “so as to have deniability in case this all turns nasty. I’m not losing the best job I’m likely to get the day after I’m offered it.” “But you’re here.”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh, “I’m here.”

I thanked her, then asked which room Jack was booked into.

“The Dyson Suite, under the name of ‘Jacque Chitt.’ What do we do?”

“We go in. He said he was returning here, and he’s a Day player, so technically a chimera and can be destroyed on sight. But be warned: He’s a Mark VIII and can think and move three times as fast as us.”

“What if he’s not a chimera?”

“He is.”

“Yes, okay, but what if he’s not? Killing a Goliath Top One Hundred would be a serious career downer.”

“If he’s real, we don’t kill him.”

“How can we tell?”

“Leave that up to me. But if he is the real one, he’ll be in a coma, and we take him into custody and wait for him to wake up.”

“ Ooo-kay,” said Phoebe doubtfully. “You can do the talking. I brought you this . . . and this.”

She handed me a navy blue ballistic vest with LIBRARIAN written on the back in white letters. The other item was a revolver. I stared at it stupidly. I hadn’t used anything but an automatic in over two decades.

“They never jam,” said Phoebe, pulling out her own weapon, a Webley Break-Top that looked as though her grandfather might have bequeathed it to her. “A dodgy Walther gave me this.” She pointed at the ragged remnants of her ear. “Ready?”

“Ready—but help me off this chair. This vest is heavy.”