Lisa and I reunited, bleary-eyed and droopy-tailed, the next morning. It turned out she hadn't been exaggerating when she said that gathering up, re-sorting, and re-filing her papers was going to take all night. We were still knee-deep in paper at the crack of midnight, at which point I'd had to head home out of respect for parental sensibilities. Were it up to me, crashing at Lisa's nearby apartment sounded like a wonderful alternative, but a sleepover on a school night definitely felt like pushing my luck when it came to Dad. I could tell he liked me spending time with Lisa, but anything that might prompt a request for a call to or from her parents didn't warrant the trouble. Thankfully, me having an actual friend was still novel enough that he didn't mind my staying out late.

I took another indecently large gulp of my coffee as Lisa collected her order from the counter and wandered over to join me. Last night, we'd planned to meet at a coffeeshop a few blocks from Arcadia called Uncommon Grounds. As one of the more agreeably hip destinations in Downtown, its early birds generated enough background din to foil a potential eavesdropper.

Just thinking about last night hooked weights onto my eyelids. I rubbed my eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time in the past hour, and formed a platoon of ants in the cellar below into a cheer pyramid in the vain hope of stimulating some kind of mental activity.

Lisa half-sat, half-crumpled into the seat across from mine with a cross between a sigh and a moan.

"You look about as good as I feel," she said. "If I have to touch one more piece of paper, I'll scream. I'm going digital, I've had enough." Dull red paper cuts latticed both of her hands. She winced as her right hand brushed some of them against the unshielded heat of her cup. "I never thought 'death by a thousand cuts' was supposed to be taken literally."

I examined my own mercifully unblemished hands, one of the benefits of gloves woven from spider silk.

Lisa scowled. "Oh, don't rub it in. I'm already suffering enough, don't you think?"

"I could make you a pair, you know," I offered. "They'd probably go with the look."

"You're a miracle worker. I'd offer to commission a pair, but I can already tell what your answer to that is going to be."

"As if I'd take your money. And here I thought you were a Thinker."

"Yeah, yeah." She took a deep swig of her coffee. "God, I needed that. Ugh. I've never bent over so much in my life, and yes, I know how that sounds. Get your mind out of the gutter. My back's going to kill me for weeks."

"Stretching's supposed to be good for you, right?" I finished off the dregs of my coffee and decided to turn to more serious subjects. "Any luck deducing the identity of our mysterious assailant?"

"Not much, sadly. Only that they're probably in their 20s, government-employed, and here on an official cover story, not skulking around underground."

"Not much? That's practically a criminal profile."

"Oh, please. If it was any good, I'd be able to pinpoint her motel room and her employer. As is, I've got nothing. We'll have to hope she calls some attention to herself. I'll get in touch with a few of my contacts, too."

"You've got contacts?"

"Yeah, well, you meet some people when you're running around working for and against superpowered nutjobs." She smirked. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Naturally. I'll keep an eye out too, but I can't imagine I'll have much luck at Arcadia. I guess there's those Wards you said went there, but whoever this is doesn't sound interested in working with the local authorities."

"That said, odder things have happened," Lisa said. "I'll meet you after you finish getting your daily dose of federally-mandated education."

"We can't all be super-geniuses," I said. "Some of us actually need that education."

"Such a terribly benighted way to live. I can hardly imagine what it must be like. Anyways, don't be late on my account. I'll catch you after school." She rummaged in her purse and slid my fat, gray, plastic hunk of a pre-paid cellphone across the colorful lacquer of the table. I normally left it at the office to avoid any possibility of its existence getting back to Dad. "In case of any sudden developments," she said. "I have an inkling that this mess is going to spiral even further out of control, so I need you on call. I'll do my best to avoid disrupting your academic tranquility, but no promises."

I shoved the phone into a side pocket of my backpack. I didn't want to even think about trying to fit that brick of an electronic device into the so-called pockets of my skinny jeans. "See you at the office," I said, and set off toward Winslow.

The day's classes drifted by in an inadequately-caffeinated haze without much incident. Leaving things at one cup of coffee had undoubtedly been a mistake. Each standard-length 45-minute period seemed to lengthen the remaining day, not shrink it. My increasingly fatigued slog towards the final bell brought me to my English class, today held in the afternoon, thanks to the vagaries of Arcadia's rotating schedule. The rationale behind it was supposedly to break up the monotony to facilitate learning and retention, but even after just a month and a half or so, it was every bit as comfortably mind-numbing as Winslow's fixed schedule had been.

I filed in and dropped into my seat, murmuring greetings to a couple of kids I was reasonably friendly with. The bizarre Ms. Readman hadn't yet made another appearance, but judging by the continued absence of Mr. Peyren from behind his desk, she'd undoubtedly turn up soon. I took out my notebook and waited.

True to form, Ms. Readman skidded in with the chime of the bell. Pink colored her cheeks, and her breath came somewhat heavily.

"Oh, I hope you'll forgive me!" she said. "I was having the most fascinating conversation in the library, and I just lost track of time!"

I'd about figured as much.

"Maybe you could let us go early? Then you could get back to it," one of my more burned-out-looking classmates suggested hopefully.

"Oh, goodness, no!" Ms. Readman said, shocked. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of even a single minute's discussion of this wonderful book." I couldn't find even the slightest trace of sarcasm in her tone. She smiled and clapped. "And I've even got the lesson plan!" She rummaged through the pockets of her jacket, reaching around lumps which looked to be several mass-market paperbacks. "There we go! Oh, I'm terribly sorry about yesterday."

At those words, a memory of whirling paper and intense confusion stirred itself. The lilt of her voice as she said them-but it couldn't be. Could it?

I hadn't been slouching, but I came up completely straight in my seat. The long, jet-black hair spilling down her back, the knee-length coat, the recent arrival and impermanent status, even her near-maniacal obsession with books-it all fit the frame constructed from firsthand experience and Lisa's deductions. To think that my milquetoast substitute English teacher secretly possessed superpowers seemed insane, but I was absolutely certain in my conviction. All that remained was for Lisa to validate my theory. Hopefully my first bit of real detecting wouldn't prove embarrassingly half-baked.

The forty minutes of class proved an exercise in slow-motion torture. Each tick of the second hand on the classroom's plastic clock reverberated in my ears like a gunshot. I set myself to organizing a relay race through the walls of the school with a group of centipedes to even out my nerves, but the adrenaline still pumped through my body with every heartbeat. I even managed to answer a few questions from Ms. Readman, for today she actually solicited participation, without my composure cracking completely. Her face betrayed no hint of recognition or suspicion, but an intrepid international agent wouldn't, after all, would she. I had no idea what to make of the woman anymore.

The flow of time followed its inexorable course, agonizingly slow though it might be, and with the ring of the final bell carried me to my desk in our office, where Shamus had failed to make any further dent in the errant paperwork. In fact, as I arrived through our back entrance, I found her nestled in her chair with her legs up on her paper-strewn desk, flipping through a battered paperback mystery which we had uncovered from a long-forgotten corner of the room last night. She turned a page, scoffed, and waved the book in a derisive gesture. "The sister did it," she said. "I knew I never read this thing for a reason."

"You're on page two," I said, more amused than surprised.

"You're right, I am slipping. In my defense, most of the first page was purple prose. Wasn't entirely indecipherable, though. Five gets you ten this author's dodged his taxes for years. Wanna tip off the IRS?"

"I think I've got a breakthrough on the case," I said. The words came out in a jumbled rush. "I might know who our mysterious thief is."

Shamus tossed her novel aside with wanton disregard. It landed on yet another stack of paper with a soft thud. She swung her legs off the desk and stood up, her eyes sharp with excitement.

"Wait, you solved it at school? Damn, keep that up and I'm going to start feeling like I'm just here to look good. Well, don't keep me waiting, come on, spill! Hey, is this what it feels like to deal with me all the time? I would drive myself nuts. Information wants to be free, so lay it on me already."

I told her my suspicions, seemingly unsupported though they might be. She banged a fist on the desk with glee. Warm mirth filled her laugh.

"A substitute teacher! Oh, that's perfect. We got punked by a substitute teacher! I'll never live this one down. Not that anyone else is ever going to find out if I can help it, but I'm my own harshest critic."

"So you think I could be right?"

"Could be? Hon, it's a guarantee. You nailed it. Very solid sleuthing, so props for that. Your substitute teacher! Christ, days like these are almost lucky enough to make you feel like the universe is actually on your side." She checked her watch. "That said, I should get eyes on her to be one hundred percent certain that it's our girl. How about we change back into civvies, duck out the back, and make a quick trip? Sorry to drag you back to that pit of hormonal ferment and teenage angst, but it's for a good cause."

"I've got nothing better to do," I said. "Let's get moving."

A brisk but relatively brief walk brought us to the school. Lisa talked my ear off about everything but the case on the way. Aside from the track, The school had largely been deserted by this time, an hour after the final bell. Many of the teachers remained, of course, ensconced in their classrooms with their work, but the students scattered at the first moment of freedom. Grunts of exertion and whistle blasts carried through the open windows of the building from the fields behind the school where the lacrosse and field hockey teams practiced, but the halls themselves were largely deserted.

"God, field hockey. Can you imagine?" Lisa said. She shuddered and looked back over her shoulder at the threshold. "Setting foot in one of these places again while the sun's still up just feels wrong. Serious bad juju. Now, where's that office?"

With Lisa on my heels, I headed for a nearby staircase and out onto the second floor. From there, the walk to my English class took no more than a minute or two, depending on how reluctant you were to get to class that day. Lisa gave a jaunty wave and her best beaming smile to a girl who hurried out of a nearby classroom with a microscope clutched in both hands, but the girl rushed by without breaking stride. Lisa sighed.

"Typical self-absorbed teenager," she said with mock derision. "What are they teaching you kids here? And to think people like to judge dropouts. Best decision I ever made."

"We're here," I said, gesturing to an unremarkable door of light brown laminate wood nestled in a double row of gray steel lockers. "She's at her desk." I'd tagged her with a gnat as we'd gone up the staircase.

"Impeccable navigating, as always." Lisa flashed me a grin. "You'd better hang back out of sight, just in case she's a sharp one. Wouldn't want her to put two and two together. Thirty seconds with her should be more than enough for me to figure out if that's our gal, so sit back and watch the master at work."

One quick jaunt through the door and a few confused excuses later, and Lisa strolled back out. A triumphant smirk curled across her face. She gestured for me to follow as she headed back towards the stairs.

"Yeah, that's her," she said. "I'll admit, I'm impressed. You totally nailed it. A substitute teacher! Hah!" She barked a laugh again. "Of all the ridiculous cover stories. I'm seriously embarrassed that I didn't think of it. Well, we've got her now."

"Where are we going?" I asked as we exited the staircase and headed back outside. "Don't we need to put her under surveillance, or something? I've still got my bugs on her, but we'll be out of range in a minute."

"Professional as always! You're on fire today, so keep it up. Our paper puppeteer had her face buried so deeply in a book when I walked in that I could barely even see her eyes. Trust me, she won't be going anywhere for a while. I guess when it's a choice between reading in some motel room or your classroom, the classroom doesn't seem so bad. What we're going to do is go change, stake out this place thanks to your fabulous surveillance skills, tail her back to whatever dump she's lurking in, and then give her a good working over."

My hesitation must have showed on my face, because Lisa chortled and made a calming gesture. "Verbally work her over, don't worry. She used the kid gloves on us, so it only seems fair to return the favor. Plus, beating up a substitute teacher has to be one of the saddest things you could do. They suffer enough from those kids already, don't you think?"

"I'm relieved you weren't planning on taking a crowbar to her," I said. "She certainly got the typical abuse from the class, but I'm not sure if it registered at all. She's kind of remarkably spacey."

"No need to tell me," Lisa said. "That lady's a major head case. And to think she's working for a major government! The Brits have majorly lost it."

We paused at the school crosswalk to allow a gaggle of track team members, most beet-red and in various stages of respiratory distress, to fly by. My calves twinged in sympathy. My morning runs had gotten me into fairly respectable shape by now, all things considered, but that didn't mean they were easy.

Lisa observed their exertions with a dubious look. "I still say you're crazy for voluntarily doing that to yourself," she said. "Don't give all those pompous flying pricks the satisfaction of turning into a human tomato just to cover a few miles."

I couldn't disagree with the sentiment, but decided to get in a riposte anyways.

"It helps when you need to flee from a crossbow-wielding maniac," I said.

"Touché," Lisa replied with a smirk.

We made good time back to the office, at least until I had to talk Lisa out of needling a Protectorate patrol - Armsmaster did not seem like the kind of guy to appreciate some "spirited repartee", as Lisa called it - changed into our costumes, and made our way back to Arcadia. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon by the time we returned. Banks of Arcadia's crystal-clear windows blazed red in answer.

"It's no dump, I'll say that much," Shamus said of the school as we both gazed appreciatively. "Did you pick up our girl?"

I reached out and nudged the minuscule gnats I'd settled in the creases of Ms. Readman's coat, of which there were many.

"Locked in," I confirmed. "We'll know as soon as she starts moving."

Shamus beamed with appreciation. "Honestly, you make the best tail," she said. "A+ power for surveillance work. I don't even have to try."

"You're too kind," I said. "I do think I'm getting the hang of it. I'd still probably rather be able to throw people through walls, though."

My bugs swished through the air as Ms. Readman stood up from her desk. "She's moving," I said to Shamus. "How do you want to play it?"

"Oooh, I love being asked for my opinion. Not that I ever hesitate to give it, of course." She chuckled. "On to business. Above all, we have to make sure not to spook her. If she twigs to us, those paper powers will rip us apart. I'm not sure if even your bugs will be able to get through them, and god knows I'll be dead weight. We'll use your human-radar self to follow her while staying out of sight. Once she heads back to whoever she's stashed the book - and she will head back to wherever she's stashed the book - we'll get in her face and very sternly demand some answers. How's that for a plan?"

"Do you think we'll be able to get away with trying to talk to her first? She seemed like a paper tornado first, questions later kind of operator."

"Well, well, get a load of Ms. Preemptive Strike here. Gunning to cold-cock your own teacher?"

"Come on, you know that's not it. Reasonable precautions might be justified, that's all."

"I'm insufferable, I know. To get serious, I'm almost one hundred percent confident that we'll be able to have a productive conversation with resorting to physical, or, in my case, verbal blows. She might be a spook, but I have to say, she doesn't make a particularly scary one. I want her to know that we found her, and that we could take the book back. Not that we're probably going to, mind you, depending on how interesting the whole mess turns out to be."

I nodded, and hoped that her faith was not misplaced, as I tracked Ms. Readman to a side entrance often preferred by the teachers. To say that I had misgivings about my ability to take my substitute on would be a profound understatement. And there was a sentence that, six months ago, I never would have anticipated myself saying.

"She's clear of the building," I said to Shamus. "What was the game plan from here?"

She smiled.

"It's pretty straightforward, really. We tail her to whichever dump she's stashed our book in, and we very politely ask for it back."

I quirked an eyebrow behind my lenses, knowing that Shamus would almost certainly pick up on it anyways, full-face mask or not.

"Alright, so maybe I ask pretty rudely, and then if she says no, you stick a bunch of bugs where the sun don't shine," she said. "How's that for a plan?"

"I hate to say it, but I've heard better. Didn't you say she was a government agent? That sounds like it could be a little out of our league."

Shamus waved a hand with disdain.

"The British government's supposed to scare me? What is this, 1776? 1773? I can never remember when the damn thing started. Hey, this is what happens when you drop out of history class, isn't it? Hoist on my own petard. Anyways, it's not like we're going to kill, or even hurt, our friendly substitute paper Master, so don't worry."

"Okay," I said. "You figured out which government she was with from one conversation that quick?"

Shamus laughed.

"Actually, I pretty much just went off the accent," she said, her shoulders shaking with mirth. "Sometimes you have to take a flier, right?"

I shook my head in bemusement. The more time I spent with Shamus, the more apparent the limits of her power became, but I still found myself treating it more as a mystical 411 line than a phenomenon with clear capabilities and limits. That wouldn't do at all if I wanted to be a capable partner. I needed a firm mental grasp on what Lisa could do to be sure that my actions would be an effective extension of her own. That would be something else to work on.

As we crouched in our well-concealed vantage point behind one of the school's dumpsters, Ms. Readman paced down the sidewalk which curved from the school's entrance down to the street. As it happened, we needn't have bothered concealing ourselves, as she had buried her nose in yet another book, and seemed utterly oblivious to any and all of her surroundings.

Shamus sounded almost disgusted.

"There's not gonna be any sport in this tail at all, is there, huh? I really should have seen that coming." She watched as Ms. Readman nearly made impact with multiple oncoming pedestrians, who barely saved themselves by swerving out of the way at the last moment. "Christ. I think we could walk right behind her the whole way and she wouldn't even notice. Even for what I remember of substitutes, she's got more than a few screws loose." Horns blared as she nearly stepped off the sidewalk into fast-flowing traffic. MS. Readman yelped and leapt back, then immediately returned to her book. Shamus groaned.

"This dingbat had better not get herself killed before we can pump her for information. Honestly, this is just sad."

"I have some concerns myself," I admitted. "It's hard to believe this is the same woman who took us out so effortlessly yesterday. It felt like crossing paths with an avalanche."

Shamus scowled.

"Now I'm even more humiliated. This case keeps getting worse and worse. At this rate, it'll probably end up with me getting knocked out and stuffed in a trash can with a 'Kick Me' sign on it."

"Well, I won't kick it," I said.

"Oh, you'll have your own trash can, don't worry. It's pretty clear that I'm dragging you down with me on this one. If you're approaching rock bottom at terminal velocity, you can always break through it."

Ms. Readman darted across another intersection on her journey towards the less-savory parts of Downtown, and Shamus and I followed from our position a full block back.

"I'll just have to hope I don't end up smeared on the bedrock of international biblio-conspiracies," I said. The constant flow of pedestrians around us would have made maintaining visual contact with our target from this distance nearly impossible, but thanks to my insectoid tracking devices, we could follow from a distance where we almost certainly wouldn't be spotted by an alert individual, much less one with her focus squarely and solely on a book.

As we walked, Downtown bustled with people out for dinner, drinks, or recreation after another mind-numbing workday. We were passing through the last of the more reputable nightlife districts now, and while we did draw some attention as streetlights threw us into relief against the gathering darkness, most people simply shot us the same glance you might give any other mildly noteworthy pedestrian, and then hurried on. In any city, you got used to seeing capes, and in a city like Brockton Bay, you got used to giving them a wide berth. This might stem from fear of giving affront, when it came to the criminal element, or fear of getting caught up in a crossfire, when it came to the heroes. What's more, Shamus deliberately kept a very low profile, and I hadn't even had a picture circulated online or in the media. You couldn't miss somebody like Glory Girl, who, I was sure, had plenty of encounters with awestruck young fans, but anybody walking behind Shamus probably wouldn't even have realized she was a cape, even if they did know about her. That said, there was no mistaking my carapace armor for anything but a costume. Rather unfortunately, it occurred to me that the appearance of my costume might be causing people to lump me in with the aforementioned criminal element, and thus make a point not to engage. Absent reason to believe otherwise, people tended to assume the worst about an unknown cape, as a matter of survival rooted in simple pragmatism, if nothing else.

I sighed inwardly. I had to admit, I did look a little off-putting, but I'd already racked my brain for months before finally settling on this design as the best of a number of ominous options. My mind returned to Glory Girl again. She'd seemed nice enough the two times I'd run into her, and she'd seemed genuinely interested in the PR stuff. Maybe I would ask her for some sartorial tips the next time I saw her. Or maybe I should talk to that Parian Shamus had mentioned, to see if she would be willing to help me with an upgrade.

Shamus chuckled.

"Don't worry, it's not so bad if people are a little scared. That gives us an edge when it comes to investigating. We've got the good cop/bad cop dynamic on lock. I know we haven't done many interrogations, but you could crack most people like an egg just by standing there silently and running a few bugs around."

"Uh, thanks, I guess?" I said. Truth be told, I didn't entirely know how to take that kind of compliment. Shamus, of course, must have sensed it, as she pressed on resolutely.

"No, really, I mean it," she said. "If you're thinking that being able to lean on people like a champ makes you some kind of villain, think again. Intimidation is a currency in the world we're moving in. The PRT does the same thing to people all the time. The freaking cops do the same thing to people all the time. Maybe they wouldn't threaten the lives of someone's family, like the Empire might, but that doesn't mean that they're lacking for pressure points of their own. Getting the right information out of someone quickly and cleanly can be the difference between a whole bunch of people dying messily or going home and sitting down at the dinner table with their families without knowing that anything even could've happened."

I nodded Shamus to the left, and as we headed down the block in pursuit of Ms. Readman, she launched back into her speech.

"So, you and I may be forced to wade around in the sewers sometimes, but that doesn't mean it has to leave a permanent stain on you. You know I'm not the world's biggest do-gooder, but I've still helped people, and so have you. If sometimes you've got to come down a little hard on some garbage excuse for a human being, well, I'm not losing any sleep over it, and neither should you."

"Very hard-boiled of you," I said. I felt a little better already.

Shamus snorted. "Thanks, that means a lot. Anyways, leave the PR to the people in the spotlight, like Glory Girl. I know you don't really care about popularity, and neither do I." She smirked. "Which isn't to say that I couldn't make us both the queen bitches of the Brockton Bay cape celebrity scene if I wanted to, mind you. Glory Girl wouldn't stand a chance. They'd be eating out of our hands." She glanced down to where my costume tapered over my rugged boots. "We would have to put you in heels, though."

"That idea's a little scarier than facing down the Empire, thanks," I said. "But I get what you're saying, and I agree. The most important thing is making a difference."

Still, I might as well have that chat with Parian, when I had the time.

One block ahead of us and another block to the right, Ms. Readman abruptly turned into a building. We were now very much so into the seedier parts of Downtown, where some storefronts displayed half-scrubbed graffiti, and where wooden boards covered the still-broken windows of some others.

I still couldn't see the building Ms. Readman had entered, but her movement had come to a halt. It had to be her hideout. What else could she be doing in this part of town? I voiced my suspicions to Shamus, who nodded eagerly.

"Yeah, that's gotta be the place. C'mon, let's nail her."

"So the plan's walking in the front door? Just checking."

Shamus waved me onwards as she hurried across the crosswalk. One block to go. A gaggle of skinheads leered at us unpleasantly, then quickly looked away as I swiveled my head in their direction and regarded them from behind the opaque one-way lenses of my mask. The goons made themselves scarce with impressive speed.

In these neighborhoods, the aura of an intimidating cape maybe wasn't quite so bad, as no normal thug would ever be stupid enough to mess with somebody in a mask. Of course, that only meant that you attracted gang violence of the super-powered variety instead, which was just as liable to have a very negative impact on your long-term health, if not more so.

We came to the end of the block, and Shamus looked over at me.

"Let me guess; this is the place, right?"

Opposite the street from us, dominating its entire block, rose one of the hollowed-out old brick factories entirely too familiar to anybody who lived in a major ex-industrial New England city. Its smokestacks rose against the barely-illuminated evening sky. Some force-undoubtedly a struggle between Empire Eighty-Eight and the Protectorate or New Wave-had blown off half of the middle smokestack, leaving it a stump loomed over by its brethren. All of them were utterly inert. This place had been shuttered for so long that even my dad wouldn't remember ever seeing it in motion. A few gaping shards of glass were all that remained of almost every window we could see. Only a few of the top ones on the fifth story remained intact, by virtue of being much harder to hit.

Shamus whistled. "Well, it's an apt site for a showdown, I'll give her that. She's got better taste in hideouts than I thought."

Shamus sized up the building, and tapped a finger against her cheek. "We may as well go in through one of the windows, I guess. C'mon, follow my lead."

We crossed the street and headed over to stand beside the factory corner. I did my best to inject confidence and purpose into my stride and posture as we did. I didn't want to log onto PHO tomorrow and read somebody posting about how Flutter enjoyed slouching around creepy old factories.

Shamus shucked off her trenchcoat, swaddled her arm in it, and swept the last few fragments of glass out of the frame of the window closest to us. She had chosen a point around the corner from where Ms. Readman had entered, undoubtedly to maximize our chances of a stealthy entrance. Naturally, she hadn't needed me to give her the exact location of the main gates.

Shamus unwrapped her coat from her arm and donned it once more, rested a foot against the windowsill, and grinned at me. "If I get dragged screaming off into the darkness by paper as soon as I get a foot inside, you'd better come after me."

"I'll think about it," I said, smiling under my mask in return. Thankfully, Ms. Readman hadn't yet budged from her position near the entrance, so I doubted very much that we'd need to worry about a sneak attack.

Shamus hopped over the ledge, and I followed. If I were one of those cool-as-they-come action heroes, I probably would've vaulted it at a run for dramatic effect. Given the lack of immediately life-threatening circumstances, I opted instead to somewhat clumsily swing first one leg over the sill, then another, and lever myself inside.

The factory floor stretched out before us. Of course, nobody had paid an electric bill here for a very long time, and so the only light available to see by was that which streamed through the yawning maws of the windows. As these were set at regular intervals all along the floor, they provided enough light to see pretty well by.

The floor itself boasted mostly plain concrete, and very little else. Whichever machines used to form the heart of this place had long since been shipped away or sold for scrap. The lack of obstacles ensured that the yellow glow of the streetlights reached far enough inside to connect with that of their kin on the opposite side of the building.

Shamus held a finger to her lips, though she looked visibly pained at the prospect of being unable to fire off a few choice comments about the place. I nodded, and whirled a mass of the flying bugs I'd brought together to form a rough map before her eyes, marking our position and Ms. Readman's. Shamus grinned in appreciation and flashed me a thumbs-up. She retrieved her stun gun from its shoulder holster, and crept forward, waving for me to follow.

While the factory floor itself was empty, several offices could be seen at the far end of the building. Ms. Readman, according to my tracer bugs, had situated herself in the office closest to the entrance, which happened to be in the opposite corner of the building. A quick crawl-by of the office didn't reveal much that would serve as an obvious weapon. In fact, a few odds and ends in various corners aside, the office appeared to contain only a table and a single chair, at which Ms. Readman was currently seated.

We crept across the factory floor without so much as a sound, barring one close call where I nearly sent a golf-ball-sized fragment of old machinery skittering across the floor. After that, I swept the floor in front of me with my bugs every remaining step of the way, to prevent any further incidents.

At last, we stood next to the door, myself on the right side and Shamus on the left. I reformed my bugs into a map of the room itself, including a diagram which indicated that Ms. Readman, as best I could tell, had her back to the door.

Shamus nodded, and flashed me another thumbs-up. I wanted to compliment myself on the clear quality of my insectoid heads-up displays, but, sadly, it was just as likely that only Shamus could have made any sense of them. I'd have to find a non-Thinker to practice on sometime.

Shamus held up three fingers. I gathered together my bugs, just in case, although I wasn't at all sanguine about our chances in a head-on collision.

Two fingers, then one, and we burst into the room, with her in the lead.