3.



Sophie Douglas discovered that she had not after all murdered Thor when she watched the 6 p.m. television news on the BBC. This gave a few details of the strange events in Parliament Square but to Sophie's immense annoyance showed no film footage, despite the fact that she had clearly seen news cameras in action. Censorship ruled, it seemed. She had hoped for better but really she was not surprised. The whole episode was perceived as a threat to national security.

Sophie had had enough trouble getting away from the scene herself, despite her powers. At one point she had had to spend half an hour sitting inside the gestalt of a post-box on a street corner before enough policemen left for her to depart without being questioned. But...there was a superhero in town; she hadn't done him any real damage since the hospital had not even needed to admit him; she could try for a re-match as soon as she felt up to it herself. This time, though, she would know what to expect and she would plan accordingly. Her costume would get an airing. She would do it somewhere less sensitive, so there would be cameras. The whole world would know her, by the time she had finished.

The news report did not finish with the statement that Thor had been treated for cuts and bruises and discharged from hospital. The television news team obviously felt that this long-absent hero's reappearance deserved more detailed treatment than that. When Sophie realised what they were about to do she grabbed a videotape and slammed it into the recorder; then she looked on enthralled as the BBC devoted almost five minutes of their bulletin to a potted biography of Thor. This included footage of some of his more sensational exploits with the Avengers. Superhero battles made superb television as long as the crew could get close enough without being blown to pieces by some weapon or mutant power, or vaporised by some spell. American news networks even had special teams who were paid danger money to cover such incidents. They won journalistic prizes regularly.

At the end of the report the news team returned to contemporary events. Reporters had of course been waiting for Thor when he left hospital. He was shown - oddly dressed, in a pair of leather trousers and what appeared to be the top half of a surgical scrub suit - running the gauntlet of pressmen and refusing to make any comment. He was accompanied by a member of hospital staff, a brown-skinned man who would have seemed outstandingly well built had he not appeared alongside the superhero. This man shouted at the reporters in a Scots accent which was barely noticeable to start with but which grew thicker and more incomprehensible as he became more and more annoyed. The TV voice-over identified this irascible type as Malcolm Ross, former Scotland rugby forward and consultant orthopaedic surgeon.

Thor was ushered by this surgeon into a waiting cab. The two men drove away, reporters and cameramen chasing them desperately on foot. Then there was a brief snippet of film evidently from some team which had had the foresight to bring its own fast transport. This showed Thor and his companion running from their cab through another gauntlet of journalists into the entrance of one of the Westminster mansion blocks. There was the curious minaret-like tower of Westminster Cathedral in the background. The door slammed in the reporters' faces and the television news moved on to another item.

Sophie did not know the Westminster area well, but she was reasonably sure that her videotape would, if studied diligently, provide her with enough information to find the apartment block in question.


Thor passed a long and boring day. Malcolm had been in no mood to talk as they drove away from the reporters in the hospital car park and as they evaded the second mob of reptiles, as the surgeon put it, at the entrance to the flats. He had simply left Thor in his apartment with instructions to rest and not to go out until he got back; then he had returned to the hospital, presumably leaving the mansion block by a back entrance to avoid the Press.

It quickly became apparent that medical orders or no medical orders, Thor simply had no choice. The journalists did not give up easily. He and Malcolm arrived back at one p.m.; by six there were almost as many reporters outside as there had been initially. Not until it began to get dark at seven did they start to drift away.

The afternoon passed very slowly. Thor showered and changed his clothes, ridding himself of the garment he had borrowed to replace the shirt and jacket ruined in his fall. In the living room he looked at Malcolm's bookshelves, which contained a great deal on UFOs and dinosaurs and rugby football and almost nothing at all on medicine; though there was a huge and untidy pile of Lancets and assorted specialist orthopaedic publications leaning precariously in one corner. He noted his friend's large collection of science fiction movies on laser-disc, SF novels and American comic books; and the total absence of anything suggesting a social life, save for a few flyers for SF conventions.

The worst of it was that as Thor had observed that morning, Malcolm's apartment contained absolutely nothing to eat. Nor was there any money lying around which he could use to buy food. He had American currency in his briefcase, but that did not seem to be of any use unless he could get to a bank. After an abortive attempt over the telephone to find a pizza delivery service which would accept American dollars, Thor decided that all he could do was sit down and rest as his friend had instructed. He made coffee, put Aliens in the laser-disc player, picked out a volume of Gene Wolfe short stories and settled down to wait.

What Malcolm might have to say to him when he got back from the hospital was something he would just have to face.


On a male surgical ward of Westminster City Hospital a recently employed immigrant junior sister reported for her night shift and found that her colleagues seemed strangely distracted. It did not take long for Jane St. Clair to discover the reason for the disorganisation. Even the ward's senior sister was unable to resist passing on the gossip.

"Jane! You'll never guess what's happened! They've had a genuine, American superhero admitted to Casualty. I bet you've heard of him. You might even have met him, mightn't you?"

Jane, who over the past few weeks had become sensitised to her co-workers' harping on her nationality (mostly they wanted to know if the American health-care system was as bad as they seemed to think it was; not an attitude which endeared them to Jane), felt an instant surge of annoyance. She had seen no news broadcasts that day, since she had been busy organising her extraordinary new accommodations.

Katrina had at first been effusively welcoming. She and Jane had spent days exchanging their twenty years' worth of catching up, though Katrina was no more sensitive nowadays than she had been in nursing school. Her only comment on hearing of the break-up of her friend's marriage (or as much of it as Jane felt able to tell her) had been to say that men are all the same; one starts off with so many romantic notions but in the end it comes down to arguments about who always cleans the toilet. Jane kept quiet in the face of this. Not only did she not wish to say any more about her own affairs; she doubted Katrina had ever cleaned a toilet in her life.

Then, a couple of days before, Jane's hostess had had to face, as she put it, "All these terrible bores from the Diplomatic descending on me, dahling." She had not been able to continue to accommodate her friend at home. Instead she given Jane the immediate, rent-free loan of an entire penthouse flat in Sloane Square ("Just the least I can do for a dear old friend..."); an address which Jane would have been unable to afford on several lifetimes' worth of nurse's salary. Rearranging the furniture to suit herself and generally sorting out her belongings had been irresistible pastimes in the circumstances. She had no idea how long the arrangement would last, but the flat had felt almost immediately like home. She had even begun to think that the past might be going to leave her be.

The mention of a superhero, any superhero, was almost like a threat.

Quite convinced that she did not want to know the answer, Jane asked the expected question. "Which superhero was it?"

"That's even more amazing. It was actually Thor, and I don't know if you know, but they're saying he isn't even human; he's some kind of god or something..."

Annoyance faded and turned to leaden inevitability. Jane felt herself turn pale and cold. Suddenly it felt as though nothing around her were real: not the ward; not the visitors scurrying about; not her fellow nurses and other staff members. Nothing was real. Her job wasn't real; nor was Katrina; nor her flat. None of it had really happened and none of it, nothing, mattered. Nothing mattered but fate.

But Wyrd, I mean, she corrected herself.

Jane almost turned on her heel and walked out, ready to leave, to go - to go somewhere, anywhere which might allow her some peace. Then she changed her mind. Shortly after that, she had an idea. Just before the other sister could realise there was something wrong she determinedly put the smile back on her face. "Oh yes. I've heard of Thor," she managed to say. "And you know...Everything they say about him is true."

Jane moved off down the ward to take the report, but as she walked she thought about her recent induction course. As a sister she was expected to take her turn to act as hospital site coordinator, a job which neither she nor any of her colleagues, as far as she could tell, enjoyed at all. Now it did appear to have one advantage. Because she might have to answer telephone queries, look for patients' notes when the clerks had all gone home, do any one of many other little tasks, she had been given, along with all Westminster City's sisters, her own security code with which to access the hospital's patient database. If you knew a patient's name you could find their hospital number, their home address, their diagnosis; any one of a dozen interesting things. Later on she would have time to sit down and play with the ward's terminal. And then...then she would see.


Sophie's aunt went to bed at eight, shortly after their evening meal. She was an early bird who liked to be up and about before six. Sophie sat and brooded for a short while then decided that she could not wait. While she did not yet feel physically capable of sustaining another battle, she felt an irrestistible impulse to test herself out again. She would find out if she could get to see Thor where he was staying without being either apprehended by the authorities, or recognised by the superhero himself. She decided this despite the fact that she was certain he would know her if he saw her. He'd been back to see her twice - or was it three times? She had made an impression there.

Such an escapade would really test her creativity with her powers, she thought. She knew it was also foolhardy; but somehow this consideration bore little weight. She could not have said why, but the temptation to see Thor again, at close range, was impossible to resist.

When she was quite sure her aunt was asleep Sophie went through her videotape frame by frame. When she was certain of the mansion block's location she changed into her costume again. Once again she chose to wear a coat over the top, but she had decided from now on to wear costume on any occasion when it was even possible that she would have to fight. Thus attired, she left the flat and hailed a cab in a nearby main street. She asked the driver to take her to the Roman Catholic Cathedral, Westminster.


The closer her ship bore her to earth, the more certain Moondragon became about her goal. She could feel the psychic bond which she had thought broken strengthen, grow and live more certainly with every astronomical unit she crossed. She had tried twice to tap it, to gain some idea of what the Other was doing and where on the planet she might be, but she had had no luck. It was as though something was shielding the Other from outside scrutiny. That was very puzzling, though not yet worrying. It could simply be that the Other had learned to shield herself. There was, after all, every chance that she too might have psionic powers. Whatever the explanation, it was still necessary to go.

Once, it had been enough to know the Other was alive. Then it had been agony to realise that the bond was broken. Now, it was as though the mental tie were a fisherman's line. Moondragon was being reeled in. She could no more resist the pull, or the call, than she could by sheer force of will cease to need air to breathe. The closer Earth approached, the stronger it became.

In the end, Moondragon ceased to wonder what was happening and resolved simply to follow the call's direction. As her ship passed Earth's moon she thought she could at last tell a little about where the Other was located. As they swung into Earth orbit, thought became knowledge. First she attended to her mental shields, wishing to hear but not to be heard; they would protect her from both psionic and magical intrusion. There were far too many super-powered beings on Earth to neglect such a precaution. She checked her psychic link to the ship's computer. Then she instructed the matter transmitter to send her down. Moments later Moondragon stepped onto Planet Earth, her first home, from which she had been too long away.


Sophie's diligence was soon rewarded. Of all the apartment blocks, houses and commercial premises in the vicinity of Westminster Cathedral there was only one whose outer appearance and surroundings matched that shown on the television news. Leaning against the trunk of a tree opposite, with the gestalt of tree-bark covering her from head to foot, Sophie was almost invisible as she watched and waited for the development which something inside her told her must happen tonight.

At nine-thirty a black cab drew up outside the block. The man who got out of it was unmistakable. If it hadn't been for his proximity to Thor on the news footage he would - bald patch and all - have been one of the largest and most athletic-looking men Sophie had ever seen. Malcolm Ross was home. Still Sophie waited. There was more. She could feel it.

Then, only five minutes or so after his arrival, Ross left the building again. He walked rapidly away in the direction of Victoria Station. Sophie knew immediately that this was her signal. Her next move had been dictated to her by Providence. She could not know why the surgeon had decided to leave like this, but the opportunity could not be denied. She dismissed her tree-bark; she waited a few minutes until she was sure Ross was not going to come back straight away; then she crossed the street. As she did so her appearance changed. By the time she reached the entrance to the mansion block the gestalt of Ross himself, within which Sophie walked, was perfectly formed. The entrance gave her the rest of her plan. There was no porter in the lobby; instead there was a set of doorbells and an entry-phone. One of the bells was clearly marked Ross'.

In Malcolm Ross's apartment the doorbell sounded. Thor went to the entrance-hall and pressed the 'talk' button on the intercom.

"Flat six, yes?"

"Thor? It's Malcolm. I've left ma keys up there. Could you let me in?"

Thor hesitated. The voice sounded right, but he was about 80% certain that he had seen Malcolm's keys in his hand. Then there was no reason at all why Malcolm should come back right now; Thor would be at the flat to let him in just as much in half an hour's time as he was at the moment. Also, in view of the the surgeon's strained manner on his return from the hospital it was slightly odd that he called him 'Thor' quite so casually. There was every chance that this was another reporter. After a few seconds curiosity won out; also, Thor was by now very hungry. Malcolm had gone to fetch a meal from his favourite Indian restaurant which, unfortunately, did not provide a delivery service. The last thing Thor wished was for this to be delayed. He pressed the buzzer which would allow the caller to enter the block. Shortly afterward, through the spy-hole in the door of the flat, he observed a person who appeared, indeed, to be Malcolm Ross. He opened the door.

"Ah...Hi! Canna' think how I came tae...You havenae seen the keys anywhere, have you?"

Malcolm was standing on the threshold staring as if he had never seen the flat before in his life. Thor, baffled and still wary, moved aside. Malcolm entered and looked around the hallway for all the world as if he were trying to determine which of the six closed doors might lead to which room.

"They aren't in the living room. You didn't put anything down in there. Where else did you go before you left for the take-away?"

"Oh, just...I went tae the bathroom." Sophie took a wild guess. It was a plausible thing for someone returning from work to do. When Thor did not immediately contradict her, she continued, "That's it. They must be in the bathroom."

Since Malcolm had indeed been in the bathroom before leaving, Thor was somewhat reassured; although he had not known that the euphemistic American usage of this word was in his friend's vocabulary. Malcolm had a Scots working-class bluntness of speech. Thor had even heard him make fun of the reluctance of some Americans to use the word 'toilet'. When Malcolm gave no sign of moving in the appropriate direction Thor went on ahead, opening the door and looking all over the room for any sign of a bunch of keys. Meanwhile he kept a watchful eye on the other man. Malcolm followed him hesitantly. He still looked as though he had never seen the flat before.

"Ah...Any sign?"

"Not in here, no."

"Well then, ah..." Malcolm turned and left the room. Thor followed, just in time to see the man who seemed to be his friend open another of the doors off the hallway.

"They aren't going to be in there, are they?"

Too late, Sophie realised that in her incipient panic - for she really had no idea what she wanted to say or do now she had got this close to Thor - she had opened a broom closet. "No, I guess not...Look, perhaps I dropped them outside..." She started to turn, wanting to reach the front door and flee before the superhero could place himself between her and escape.

At that moment several things happened. A key rattled in the keyhole and the front door opened. Another Malcolm Ross walked into the flat. A magnificent scent of curry wafted toward Thor from the brown paper bag clutched in the new arrival's right hand. The first 'Malcolm' whirled with a strangely feminine-sounding yelp. For a second or two, two identical orthopaedic surgeons stared at each other: the first in horrified panic; the second in sheer disbelief. Then, before either of the other men could move, the 'Malcolm' who had returned for his keys took to his heels, barging past Thor and knocking his counterpart out of the way as he sprinted for the door.

Behind him Thor was dimly aware of Malcolm cursing obscenely as he retrieved the scattered remains of their evening meal from the floor. He raced for the doorway and was in time to watch the intruder start down the stairs. Thor followed, but stopped in shock on the landing. On the stairway, a floor below already, he could see a fleeing figure; but it was no longer Malcolm Ross. As the real Malcolm joined him Thor watched a young woman with very fair hair race in panic for the ground floor. Just before she disappeared from sight she looked up. Thor knew that face. He stared; then he turned to his friend.

"Did you see that as well?" he asked.

"It was me!" said Malcolm. "Then 'I' turruned intae someone else. A girrul! I already knew I had walked into one of ma oon comic books, Don. I realised that this morrning. Now, could you please tell me what the hell is gaein' on here?"

They walked slowly back to the flat. As they entered the front door Thor replied. "Malcolm, I'm truly sorry. I never meant to involve you in my problems. What can I say? Do you want me to leave?"

Malcolm bent down to retrieve the lid of a curry container. "We lost about a quarter of the food, I think," he said. "Should still be enough. I bought some milk and some bread and some tins of soup as weel. Sorry about leaving you tae starrve this afterrnoon..."

"Let me help you with that." Thor went through to the kitchen and fetched a mop. Between them the two men cleaned the floor and removed as much of the curry stain as possible from the Chinese rug. In silence they collected the remains of the food and some plates and took the meal through to the living room.

"I'll get us a beer," Malcolm said. Thor sat down. Malcolm came back with the entire six-pack from the 'fridge and two glasses.

"No, Don. I dinna' want you tae leave," he said eventually, between mouthfuls of curry. "I was just...surprised. Sorry I shouted. But what the bluidy hell was tha'...?"

"As far as I could tell, Malcolm, 'that' was a girl I last saw in New York. In a hospital there. She was very sick at the time. I didn't know she was in England, let alone in London. Nor do I understand how she found out where I was staying..."

"You havenae seen the news, then!"

"Oh. I see. But even with that, I have no idea what she was doing here nor what she wanted. Why should anyone go to all that trouble just to stand in the same room with me and...and panic?"

"Don, even if you cannae, I can understand quite well why a young woman might want to get into yuir presence. I even had a bit of the same, back when I was playing for Scotland. If yuir...who you seem tae be, I'm surprised you havenae encountered...fans before."

Thor raised his eyebrows. The thought had not occurred to him. "I suppose it could just be that. But how do you explain the disguise? I cannot imagine how that might have been managed. I had several minutes with...her. Until I realised my visitor was lost in what was supposed to be his own flat, I really thought it was you. It was a perfect copy. Even the voice!"

"I dinna' have any explanation, Don. We'll have tae be careful, though. Use a bell code or something. Just in case."

Conversation drifted to other matters: the excellence of the meal; the awkwardness of patients who always needed emergency surgery at inconvenient times and caused consultants to work twelve-hour days even at weekends; science fiction, about which Malcolm knew a great deal more than Thor. Malcolm drank three cans of extra-strong lager with a speed that seemed unjustified by the heat of the curry.

"'Scuse me, Don. Must gae for a pess."

Definitely Malcolm, Thor thought. He watched his friend weave across the room. Although they had been involved in social drinking sessions on several occasions he had no idea whether it was Malcolm's normal habit to drink three or four cans of Red Stripe Special of an evening.

In the distance the toilet flushed. Moments later Malcolm stumbled back into the living room, a curious expression on his face. He stopped in his tracks on the threshold, staring at Thor. Then he burst out laughing.

"...Malcolm?"

"Oh...I'm bluidy daft, arren't I? Take yuir heer oot of that goddamn ponytail and you...I should'ae known. We all should'ae known. Bluidy redeculous, eh?" The surgeon seemed to find this wonderfully funny. He literally rocked with laughter, teetering from foot to foot.

"Malcolm..!" Gods, he is drunk, Thor thought. He started to get up as Malcolm swayed again, looking for a moment very much as if he was going to pass out. But the surgeon recovered. He crossed the floor and sat down heavily on his chair.

"It's okay, Don." Malcolm stared at his guest. He giggled. "You dinnae mind if I call you tha', do you?"

"No, of course not..."

Malcolm reached for his fourth can of beer, ignoring a half-formed gesture of discouragement from Thor. "Amazin' what a heerstyle and a change of clothes can dae. I wouldnae ha' guessed, you know. I would ne'er ha' guessed." He sat back in his chair, eyes closed, right hand raised to cover his mouth. His shoulders heaved.

"Malcolm, I..." Thor shrugged. In the past he had seen the surgeon pass out cold and he had even seen him drunk enough to take part in a karaoke contest; but he had never known him indulge in hysterics before. There was no way to judge how he might react. He might be too drunk already to hold any sort of rational conversation. But Thor knew that if he said nothing, if he acted as though all this were of no importance, he might as well say goodbye to their friendship right now. He might as well just leave.

"Malcolm," he said, "I meant what I said. I am truly sorry. Both for involving you with my problems and for keeping this from you. There are reasons. I thought they were good ones. My life nowadays wouldn't be worth living if everyone knew who I was. Do you think for one moment that the...that my previous employers would have taken me on, if they'd known? Do you think that I could carry on working as anything, anywhere? I wouldn't even be able to walk down the street. Believe me. I've been there. And secrecy just becomes a habit. One which backfires sometimes."

"Yuir previous...I see what you mean. You know I used tae think..." The surgeon let out another brief laugh, though he sounded a little less excitable now. "You seemed the type. Dedicated. Focussed. Celibate, even. I used tae think that one day you were gaein' tae join them. That you were...testin' yuir vocation, or somethin'. Guess I should'ae asked if you were a Catholic, but that's sortae...not done, wheer I'm frae..."

Thor said nothing.

Malcolm took a small drink of beer. He seemed much calmer, as if the hysteria had blown itself out."I dinna' think I'd better have any more of that...Look. You arren't obliged tae explain yourself tae me, Don. It's your life. You dinna' have to say anythin'. But since you have...I appreciate that. Thank you." He paused for a moment. "Oh, ma heid is swimmin'...How aboot some coffee? I think I need it."

"Good idea."

"Uh...Don, would you mind? I dinna' think I can stand up right now..."

"Sure."

Thor went through to the kitchen and returned shortly afterwards with two large mugs of black coffee. "Sugar?"

"I think I need about four..."

A few minutes passed in silence. Malcolm applied himself vigorously to the task of getting some caffeine into his system. Eventually he placed his empty mug on the table. He laughed softly again; but this time he sounded genuinely amused. "It is funny, though. Really it is. That I never noticed anythin'. Even after you cheated in that arm-wrestling match!"

"What?"

"You knew it wasn't a fair contest. I'd never lost before in ma life!" Malcolm grinned lopsidedly. "So there we are. The Asgardian superhero Thor is a medical doctor who has spent seven years working for the Jesuits. You have tae admit it sounds pretty strange."

"And all true, I assure you..."

"Well, I said I didna' want tae know, and now I do, I...It's nothing short of bizarre to find that yuir friend, drinking companion and fellow medical man is some sort of g.."

"Please, Malcolm. It's just me. What can I say? I can't help it..."

"Okay, okay. Don...Just give me a while tae adjust. That's all I need. After all, look at me. I've had ma own experience of bein' the outsider..."

"I know. Sure."

There was another brief silence. Then Malcolm spoke again. "Actually I can imagine what some of the consequences might be if everybody knew. We had a good demonstration of that earlier, eh?"

"Yes...Though I suspect that that incident has something to do with other things that have happened recently. Other...out of place appearances."

"Oh, yes? Like the sea-serpent and the man who fell off the high wire? Is that what you meant by your 'problems'?"

"It was that sort of thing which brought me to London, yes. I have felt from the start as though these appearances were aimed at me. By someone who knows me well. Last night...tended to confirm this. Which leads me to ask just who that girl really is...If she is acting on her own it is a mystery. I never saw her before I met her in New York."

"She's nae someone out of your past, then. She looks...No' family or anythin'?"

"Not as far as I know."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. He looked hard at his old friend. Thor looked as though he were contemplating something unpleasant. Family problems?

The surgeon wished as soon as the thought was completed that this had not occurred to him. He became abruptly and terrifyingly aware (and aware that despite what he had said, until this moment the fact really had not registered) that this man, his friend Don Blake, was really the son of Odin. He was that Thor, the thunder god of myth, once worshipped by millions of people. Family problems?

Malcolm felt his hair, or what was left of it, do its best to stand on end. This would never do, he knew; if he went too far down that path he would never be able to look his friend in the face again. "I think it's bedtime, Don. We're both tired out. At least I am; 'tired and emotional', as they say. And you dinna' look much better than I feel. How about it?"

"Excellent idea."

"Well then...'night."

"Goodnight."


Eventually Jane St. Clair had an opportunity to sit down at the ward's computer terminal. For a while she had no luck. The database knew nothing of a patient simply named Thor; nor had it heard of a Don or Donald Blake. Then she remembered a conversation she had had with Thor many years before during which he had explained to her how his people, the gods of Asgard, named their children.

There had been a context for this conversation. It had all started when Jane - like any young woman preparing to marry a man of a different culture - had asked if he would mind if she had their children baptised. As it happened he had minded, a lot; it had very nearly produced their first major row. Jane shook her head. It had seemed so important at the time. She had been so naive. They both had been naive. If only they had known...She found she needed to wipe her eyes. Then she concentrated fiercely on the relevant details.

Asgardians did not have patrilineal surnames. They were like Icelanders in that way; perhaps not in itself surprising. They named children after their fathers; or sometimes after their mothers. Which parent's name they chose to use seemed largely to be a matter of taste. And they simply added '-son' or '-dottir' to the parent's name. So Loki was Loki Laufeyson; Laufey the Giantess was Loki's mother. Hela was Hela Lokisdottir; she was named for her father. And Thor...Thor was Thor Odinsson, of course.

And there he was. He had been treated for minor injuries and then discharged; to somewhere, one had to assume. There was his American address, which Jane recognised as one of the many houses and apartments owned by Tony Stark. That figured. It was Tony's normal Manhattan residence. She had accompanied Thor to a party there many years before. She smiled ruefully. Her main memory of that evening was of the expression on the face of one of Tony's business friends when, after a determined attempt to pick her up, he had been confronted with the sheer size of his 'target's' boyfriend.

And finally, there was the place Thor was staying in London. C/O Mr. Malcolm Ross. Good grief, thought Jane.

The database gave the full address. Jane knew exactly where it was. If she were to walk to Sloane Square from the hospital instead of taking a cab or the Tube she would go right past it.


Lying in bed that night Sophie found that she was both pleased and disgusted with herself. The Ross gestalt had been good; good enough to fool a friend of his for several minutes. It seemed as though her powers were becoming stronger and more reliable with each day that passed. But panic was bad; and she had undoubtedly panicked when the real Ross had come home. Worse, she had begun to panic before this. That was what she got for going into a situation without thinking it through in detail.

She did not have to wonder whether Thor had known who she was. His face, as they locked eyes on the staircase, had been a picture of shocked recognition. No point in any further sneaking around, then. As soon as she felt fit enough, that would be her moment to strike: this time openly, in costume, before as many people as possible. There would be television cameras and newspapermen; paparazzi and superhero specialists. They would all watch, all see her defeat one of the most powerful heroes of all. Then she could die happy.

Still planning her coup, Sophie fell asleep.


At four a.m. Sister St. Clair sat in her ward's little kitchen on her coffee break. She was alone. A staff nurse and a student were out on the ward; the two nursing assistants who had also gone for their breaks were both smokers and had elected to walk the couple of hundred yards to the hospital's only staff smokers' retreat.

Good, thought Jane. Some decisions could only be made in private.

She sat still for quite some time, but in the end she could not prevent herself. She opened her handbag. From the bag's zipped interior compartment she removed a leather folder, about eight inches by five in size. For the first time in almost ten years she opened the miniature combination lock which held the two leaves together. The folder contained two display compartments for photographs, though only one of them was in use.

Jane was concentrating so hard on the folder that she was not aware of another woman who entered the room behind her. Samantha Cullen, student nurse, had come in search of the sister in charge in order to ask her to come to the telephone; but she saw immediately she entered the kitchen that there was something odd going on. She was not trying to pry, but as she stood irresolute she could not help but catch a glimpse of the thing which engaged Sister's entire attention.

The photograph in the folder was a professional quality half-length portrait of a man and a woman, evidently lovers. The man stood with the woman on his right; their bodies were half-turned toward each other and the woman clasped both her beloved's hands at chest level between them. On the third finger of the woman's left hand a ring with a deep red stone was just visible. The two looked not out of the picture but at each other; the man all rapt attention, the woman smiling a faint and astonished smile. They were both quite recognisable. The woman was the one who now called herself Jane St. Clair: several years younger in appearance and in the full glow of her now fading beauty. The man was tall, broad and blond; his face and his costume those which had once been familiar to millions as those of the Norse god of thunder, Thor.

Samantha remembered Thor from her childhood: the tall handsome superhero who had broken so many of her schoolfriends' hearts. She had also seen the news footage that evening before coming to work. She stared; but she was sufficiently perceptive to know that she absolutely had to keep quiet. There was something old and terribly sad here, she realised; something so painful and so private that even to let the other woman know that she had seen anything would be an intrusion. Quietly the student nurse turned and left the room. She would tell Staff Nurse that Sister was busy, or even that she couldn't find her. Staff would think her stupid; but at that moment Samantha could not have cared less.

Jane noticed nothing. She traced the outline of Thor's face on the picture with a finger-tip. It had always been there; but this business, knowing that the the man who could have been - should have been - her husband was staying within half a mile of her, that she might meet him in a cafe or bump into him in the street, had ripped the scab off the badly-healed wound and loosed the pain that lay beneath. For years now she had been able to recall, all too clearly, just what Thor's father had done to her mind and her memory; how he had treated her as no more than a puppet while claiming to be acting for her good (and how she wished that at the time she had had the courage to say to Odin that she rejected his interference; that he was not her God and that he should leave both her and Thor alone). But she had no idea what that tyrant might have done to his only son since the last time they had met, when he had behaved as if they were mere acquaintances; nor could she know what that son thought nowadays (nor, indeed, what he felt) about the events of so many years past. Those years were less than nothing to a man of Asgard; for her they had been for ever; they had been, as she would never be able to forget, an eternity of lies.

She stared at the picture for a few more seconds. Thor...his face said it all; he had loved her so much; and, like her, he was a victim of his father's sorcery. It was suddenly crystal clear to Jane that if she did nothing more she would never forgive herself. A fragile resolution took possession of her mind. She took a sheet of paper from her Filofax and wrote two sentences and a number. This paper she slipped unfolded into the folder's empty compartment so that anyone opening the folder would see the message straight away. Then she sat completely still, staring ahead, clutching the folder to her chest.

Jane felt as though she were cuddling an unexploded bomb. She was contemplating something irrevocable; something for which, as she was aware, she had no rational motive; something whose consequences she could in no way predict. Anything might happen, from nothing whatsoever, to...She would not speculate further. There were still four hours until the end of her shift. By the end of that time she might have made her decision.