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doing research on infinite-dimensional space in Heidelberg, Germany. I wrote a little book about dimensions called Geometry and Reality ? That helped me get the grant for Heidelberg. And I came to Rome with my wife and children for a vacation. My wife wants to see the Pope at St. Peter’s on Easter.”
    “Today will be Good Friday,” Minos said absently. “A day for human sacrifice.” The delicate little mouth formed a small smile in the fat face. “Get a manifesto from him, Virgilio, just in case. Then contact the Embassy.”
    Minos and Virgilio talked a bit more in rapid Italian, patting each other on the shoulders. Minos left, throwing me a smile and a negligent wave of his pinky.
    “OK,” Virgilio said to me. “Sit down and write.” He dragged a chair and card table over to where I was chained. He had paper and a ball-point pen. Lafcadio still bounced on the couch, making explosion noises and cradling his gun.
    “What’s this supposed to be?” I demanded.
    “Self-incrimination. Revolutionary manifesto. Write.”
    This is what I wrote:
    I HAVE JOINED THE PEOPLE’S ARMY OF MY OWN FREE WILL. DEATH TO THE FASCIST PIG. CUT OFF HIS BLACK PLASTIC TROTTERS. ROAST HIM WITH GAMMA RAYS. USE EVERYTHING EXCEPT THE SQUEAL. FUCK AMERIKKKA, FUCK KKKOMUNISM, FUCK KKKOD. SINCERELY, DR. ALWIN BITTER, THE ARCHIMEDES OF ANARCHY.
    I wouldn’t want to say that I composed the whole message myself, but I did have a hand in it here and there. On one level, I even meant it. But on the level that counts, I didn’t mean a word. Honest! I just wanted to get out alive.
    Virgilio was pleased with our collaboration, and taped the note up on the wall. “Here, Alvino,” he said, handing me a small machine gun. “Try it on for size.”
    The gun was an Uzi, Israeli-made, lethal as a cobra’s fang. It had a snap-on wire stock. I clicked the trigger. Empty of course. I realized Virgilio had just wanted to get my fingerprints on the weapon. I threw it at him. He dodged easily, then left, laughing at me. Lafcadio was still there on the couch, standing guard.
    “ Per altra via, per altri porti verrai a piaggia, non qui, per passare ,” he said suddenly, staring at me with glowing eyes.
    I noticed that he had a photograph glued to his robot’s face, a photograph of a plump blond woman. His mother? Some lost love? Was this really the famous Lafcadio Caron? No point stirring him up with a question.
    I smiled politely and lay down on the rags to sleep. Maybe by the time I woke up, this would all be over. Virgilio would contact the Embassy, and they’d tell him I was an academic, a scholar, a nobody. Then he’d just have to let me go.
    Or would he? The businessman-gangster hadn’t come right out and said so, but I had the impression they might kill me if I wasn’t worth a good ransom. Dead men tell no tales.
    I pushed the thought away. Once Virgilio realized his mistake, surely he’d put me out on the street. I wouldn’t press charges; he could be sure of that. All I wanted was to get the next train out of Rome. The next train. I drifted off to sleep, a bad sleep filled with bad dreams.

CHAPTER THREE
    Sybil

    The children woke Sybil up. They were in the bathroom playing with the water. Their little voices were very loud on the tiles.
    “Alwin,” she called, “make them stop.”
    The noise kept on, Ida, five years old, liked to giggle. Tom, seven, liked to roar. He’d only learned the roar recently, from some school friends in Heidelberg.
    “BAAAOOOOUUUUUU! BAAAOOOOUUUUUU! UUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHOOOOOUUUU!” Tom.
    “Gligeeglegleheeehegligiheeheeteeheeegleeheepeepegigteehee.” Ida.
    “Stop the NOISE!” Sybil shouted, “You’ll wake everyone in the hotel!”
    Ida gave a happy scream and came running out of the bathroom. She was waving a towel that had been rolled into a loose tube.
    “Poo-worm bite Mama!” she shouted with a burst of laughter, and threw the towel at Sybil. One end of the towel was soaking wet. It smacked onto the