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eyes that were active and intelligent. Body in constant motion, eyes often downcast as if he were perpetually looking for something he had dropped, the man was undertall and skinny, his attitude apologetic but determined. They were about as innocuous-looking a pair as one could expect to encounter on the streets of Reides. Except they weren’t on the streets of Reides.
    They were in her living room, in her home.
    Though both wore small satchels slung at their waists, neither of the intruders brandished anything resembling a weapon. The woman smiled. “Good day of those that remain, Dr. Marinsky. You are Dr. Neila Marinsky, resident physician at Reides General Hospital?”
    Strange greeting, she mused. She saw no reason to deny the query—or for that matter, to respond to it. “Who are you and how did you get into my house?” Reaching into her own bag, she drew out her com unit. While it might take the nearest police ten or fifteen minutes to get here, urb security would arrive in a third of that time.
    The man nodded regretfully at the device. “That won’t do you any good, I’m afraid.” His gaze dipped. “We’ve cloaked your property in a privacy sphere.”
    She tried anyway. The intruder was as good as his word. Nothing in the way of electronic communications could get in or out. Putting the com unit back in her bag, she set it down on a table. There were no weapons in the house, but the kitchen contained devices that could cut and bruise. Focusing on the intruders, she wandered slowly in that direction.
    “It doesn’t matter how we got in,” the woman was saying. “What matters is that we are here. Matter is what matters.” To this cryptic observation, her companion nodded somberly. “We just want to ask you some questions, then we’ll leave.” She gestured at the austerely elegant surroundings. “You can see that we haven’t disturbed anything. We’re not thieves.”
    Marinsky hesitated. If she could get rid of these two without trouble . . . “What do you want from me?”
    “Just some information.” The man tried to smile pleasantly, but a quirk of his facial structure rendered it crooked. “You are treating a young man named Philip Lynx?”
    Marinsky frowned, wondering if it might be better to make a break for the front door. Outside, it was unlikely anyone would hear her screams, but she might well make it to her vehicle. Once locked inside, she would be safe and could either leave or wait for urb security to arrive. Neither of her unannounced visitors looked particularly athletic.
    “I am not. The name is entirely unfamiliar to me.”
    The man’s smile grew more crooked as it widened. “He may have declared himself by another name. As he travels, he often disguises his identity. We know he is on Goldin Four and in Reides. By sheer good fortune we happened to see him, as we were watching the news, being carried, in an apparently unconscious state, onto a hospital transport. The tridee commentator observed that he was among a number of people who had lapsed into a simultaneous and inexplicable comatose state while walking through a local shopping complex. It was announced that all those thus afflicted were taken to Reides Central for treatment.”
    Marinsky blinked. “I saw the manifest for everyone who was brought in. The name Philip Lynx was not on it. You’re tracking this individual?”
    The woman spoke up without responding to the accusation. “He’s very easy to identify, our Philip Lynx. Handsome in a boyish way, red hair, quite tall.” Her tone was confident. “He travels in the constant company of an Alaspinian minidrag. Not a profile that matches many.”
    “Arthur Davis,” the doctor blurted without thinking. So their patient had retained enough presence of mind, even when emerging from his coma, to give a false name. But why?
    The peculiar couple was quietly pleased. “Then it is him,” the woman murmured.
    Her companion nodded, the movement terse and jittery like