“It’s a long journey from Swindon to Cornwall,” I said. “They must have stopped for fuel.”

“Millon came up with these,” said Landen, laying some pictures on the table in front of me. They were grainy images from a security camera at a motorway services somewhere.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“These were taken at Agutter Services two hours after Aornis and the van left Swindon.”

He pointed to three figures—one, Aornis, being escorted by two others, recognizable as Quinn and Highsmith.

“Okay,” I said, “a toilet break. Now what?”

He showed me another taken a minute later, with Aornis on her own.

“Probably made them forget what they were doing,” said Landen. “The whole deafness-as-defense must have been totally wrong—she can manipulate memories in quite another way.”

“What happened to her after that?” I asked, and Landen showed me a picture of Aornis, this time getting into a Alfa-Morris Spyder. There was a road sign next to her, which indicated she was heading back the way she came.

“Okay,” I said, “so she headed back up the motorway. See what Millon can find from the motorway cameras. There can’t be many Alfa-Morris Spyders on the roads these days. It’s a start at least.”

“Why are we looking for Aornis again?” asked Landen. “I’m sure there’s a good reason, but I can’t remember what it is.”

“One of us has a mindworm. We have to kill Aornis to get rid of it.”

“Is it me?”

I nodded.

“Hmm. Wonder what it is? Don’t tell me! Will I forget about having one soon enough?”

“Pretty soon, yes.”

“Good.”

He returned his attention to the splinters stuck in my neck and shoulder.

“Ow!” I said as he wiped some dirt out of a wound, “Be careful. How did Tuesday feel about the failure of the defense shield?”

“She’s taking it well, but something’s brewing at the city council—she overheard them as they made their way out. Since they think it’s unlikely the Anti-Smite Shield will be operational by Friday, they said that Smite Solutions will have to be confirmed instead.”

“Is Smite Solutions an evacuation plan or something else?”

“Not sure,” he replied, “but even with an evacuation, the entire city center will still be destroyed in a firestorm. A billion pounds’ worth of damage, in less time than it takes to prepare ramer noodles—and no insurance due to the Act of God clause. Will you keep still?”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I didn’t tell you to go out and do fieldwork.”

“I was going to look at some books—it became fieldwork. Shit, I need a Dizuperadol patch the size of a washcloth. My leg is screaming at me like a stuck pig.”

“You’re not allowed to replace them until seven,” replied Landen, checking his watch.

“You’re my doctor now?”