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"Peter's not here at the moment, can I take a message?"

Three blurs hovered a thousand feet above the cliffs at Carn les Boel. Ahead of them lay 5,000 miles of ocean. Nick extrapolated the path of the ley across the Atlantic then concentrated on a hazy area of cloud on the horizon just to the north of where the ley would have hit.

"Here we go," he said, fixing his mind on that patch of cloud and dragging himself towards it. From that cloud he hopped to the next and the next, substituting a patch of ocean when there was no cloud.

Below, the Atlantic passed in a featureless wash of blue. Clouds streaked overhead and to the sides. Faster, Nick pushed his senses further, concentrating on the horizon and clawing it towards him. Wondering, hoping that the next dark line on the horizon would be land not cloud, assembling maps within his mind: coastal charts memorised from the HV—Mexico to Maine. Any minute now they had to hit land. Any second . . .

He slowed. Was that land? False alarm. Another bank of cloud. Another bank of cloud now disappearing in the rear-view mirror of his mind. On he swept, dipping down as the clouds lowered and darkened, sweeping through the driving rain of an Atlantic depression then rising on the other side, fixing on a wisp of high cirrus and pulling himself into the stratosphere.

"Where are we going?" asked Louise.

"I need height," said Nick. "The more height, the more coastline I'll be able to see, the less chance of making a mistake."

The Earth curved below them—ocean from horizon to horizon. How long did it take to fly 5,000 miles? Shouldn't they be there by now? Were they flying off course? Were they heading into the South Atlantic?

A quick check on the sun. It seemed to be in the right place. But what time zone were they in now? Should the sun be due south, east, west?

He pressed on. No time for doubt. They had to hit a coastline some time.

A line of grey appeared on the horizon, growing and stretching with every second. Other colours—twinkling whites and was that green? He slowed. It must be a coastline. It had to be! He could make out a forest and was that a city?

"Is that Florida?" asked Louise.

He wasn't sure. It looked right. But he'd expected more of a curve to it and where was Miami? Or were they further north?

"That's Jacksonville," said John. "You can just make out Cape Canaveral to the south."

Could you? Nick strained to make sense out of the hazy coastline. John could be right. Thinking about it, he probably was. He must have flown these skies countless times before.

"Let's go down and take a look," he said, aiming at a point halfway between Jacksonville and the cape. If John was right, there'd be an interstate—the I95—running north-south a mile or two inland. An interstate packed with helpful road signs that even a higher dimensional traveller would have little problem making out.

The coastline grew and spread; towns appeared, lakes and forests. Down and down they dived, sucking the ground towards them. There was the interstate—a straight line parallel to the coast. Nick carved a turn towards it, sweeping in and down from the north. Slowing now, looking for a road sign, dropping to thirty, forty feet above the tarmac. And there it was. A line of green placards swung across the lanes on a gantry. He raced towards it then stopped. Large white letters shimmered in front of him—Daytona Beach 10 miles. They were almost there. Orlando couldn't be more than fifty, sixty miles away.

They followed the road, took the Orlando exit, blurred the traffic beneath them, slowed again, checking the road signs: Orlando twenty miles, fifteen, ten. Almost there, one more exit.

Nick's mind raced ahead. John was staying at the New Sheraton. He had a speaking engagement at the Metropolitan at 12:30. Then a number of interviews back at his hotel before leaving for Dallas at five. What was the time now?

Tall office blocks and apartment buildings sprung up to his right. Would one of them have a clock tower, an external digital display? He peeled off from the road, heading downtown, swinging through man-made canyons of concrete and glass, brick and stone, slowing at every intersection, reading the street names. The New Sheraton was on North Magnolia by a lake. They'd try there first.

South Magnolia. Nearly there. Nick veered right and headed north.

"Look out for a big white building," he said. "The New Sheraton. Should be at the end of this road by a lake."

A lake flashed by to the right. No hotel. How many lakes were there? The road continued, changing its name from South Magnolia to North. Nick pushed on, willing it to be morning or early afternoon, wondering if they could track John to Dallas, wondering if . . .

A large white building towered into view. He accelerated, skimming past the intervening intersections, dragging the building towards him. There was a name on the roof just like in the picture he'd seen. He . . . stopped, hovering in front of the sign. The New Sheraton, it proclaimed in ten-foot letters. Even his imperfect higher dimensional vision couldn't mistake that.

"Follow me," he said, diving down the face of the building. There had to be a clock in the foyer, or the restaurant, or on someone's wrist if he could get them to stay still long enough. He rolled through ninety degrees just before he hit street level, swinging into the recessed entrance lobby, slowing and turning and . . .

He was inside. The light level dropped instantly.

"Where are we going?" asked John.

"It's the tech guys again, John," said Nick. "They say it's an integral part of calibrating the software. Don't ask me how. I think they just like playing with our heads. You just follow me and ignore everything else you see. None of it's real."

The foyer was huge. Shops lined one wall, seats and tables and—was that a café?—lined another. And on the far wall—above the reception area—was a clock.

Nick pulled it towards him. It was a digital display. Ten thirty-one? Or was that fifty-one? No, definitely thirty-one.

"Yes!" he shouted. Plenty of time. John might even be in the hotel now. He didn't have anything else scheduled until twelve thirty.

"John, we're going to test the radio encryption routines for a couple of minutes," said Nick. "Follow me as before but until you hear the words 'switch frequency' you won't be able to understand a word we say."

Louise was impressed. The way Nick handled John—his speed of thought, the easy way in which he turned a mind-boggling and potentially fraught situation into something plausible and fun. Hey John, we're going to fly out-of-body across the Atlantic. Cool.

It had all gone far smoother than she'd ever imagined.

Now, they had to find the other John. Which in a hotel this size was not going to be easy. There had to be over a thousand rooms.

"It'll take ages," she told Nick. "Wouldn't it be better to wait for John at the other place? At least we know what time he's supposed to be there."

"Why wait? And think about it—you wouldn't stick a VIP like John Bruce in any old room. He'll have a suite and an entourage. Not to mention armed body guards. Even our imperfect vision couldn't miss that lot."

He was right. All candidates were assigned protection officers these days. And hotel security wouldn't want Bruce too close to their regular clientele—not after what had happened to McKinley and Martinez.

"Come on," said Nick, "We'll drift up through the floors and see what we can see."

They ascended, positioning themselves by the lift doors and rising through the ceiling into the lobby above. A long corridor ran from left to right. A woman with a cleaning trolley was knocking on one of the doors to the left. No other signs of life.

"Should we check each corridor?" asked Louise.

"Not yet. Let's start at the top and work down. Chances are that's where the VIP suites will be."

Nick was right. As soon as they hit the twentieth floor they saw him. Smart suit, heavy set, standing with his back to a door forty yards along the left-hand corridor. He had to be a bodyguard.

And was that another? There was a similarly dressed man sat in an arm chair in the lobby watching the lifts.

"How are we going to do this?" asked Louise. "Do we fly our John in and talk him through the reconnection?"

"Some reconnaissance first, I think. Remember the alien is likely to be part of Bruce's inner circle. I'd feel happier if we could get Bruce on his own. Human eyes might not be able to see us up here but who knows what alien eyes can see?"

"I'll go," she said. "You stay here and keep John out of sight."

She didn't wait for an objection. Nick was the only one who could handle John. He had to stay back. Plus, she was the careful one. If anyone was going to go blundering into a dangerous situation better it was her. Nick was more likely to do something rash.

She drifted along the corridor, wondering how large John's suite would be and how many people might be inside. Should she enter by the guarded door or slide through the walls now and approach from the side?

And could one of the security guards be the alien?

She blurred into the wall, compressing herself—or, at least, willing herself to compress. She wanted to blend with the wall, to be contained such that not one higher dimensional atom protruded into the room on the other side. She wanted to be invisible.

Everything went a speckled grey, whether it was because the plan had worked or because the wall was thick she neither knew nor cared. All her thoughts were on the next stage. And the room.

She eased forward, thinking micron small. All she needed was a glimpse of the room, nothing more. A bubble formed in the wall of grey. A droplet of light and something she couldn't make out. She pushed further. The bubble expanded. The room was empty as far as she could she. A window in the far wall bled hazy light. Tables and chairs rippled in the foreground. A large HV projector filled a corner. She pushed further. There was a table pushed against the wall below her, a bowl of fruit, flowers, a stack of what looked like files.

There were three doors. Two to the right—towards the room being guarded—and one to the left.

She slid along the wall towards the single door, reached the corner of the room, slowed, pushing and compressing herself as before. Even slower now, waiting for the bubble to appear, straining to make sense of that hazy, distorted fish-eye world.

It was a bedroom. A double bed between two windows. Something lying on that bed. A man?

She struggled to make out the man's identity. He was on his back, fully clothed, his shoes pointing into the room. She was too far way and too low to make out his face. Was it John?

She slid further into the room. Whoever it was was on his own. Or was there someone in the bathroom? There was an open door in the far wall. Anyone could be inside.

She pulled back inside the wall and rose higher. She'd find the ceiling and use that to move unseen to the point above the man's face. The speckled grey around her changed subtly. The ceiling? She flowed into and along it. It had to be the ceiling. She sampled her position, dropping microscopically into the room then pulling back. The man hadn't moved. No one else had joined him.

She stopped. This would be it. Right above his face. If it was John she'd know in the next second.

The bubble reappeared and grew and . . .

It was John. He . . . 

She pulled away immediately. He'd been staring right at her. Could he see her?

Panic. Calm down, Louise. You're invisible. It was a coincidence. She slid two feet to the side and let the bubble form again. He was no longer looking at her. But he was still staring at the ceiling, and . . . he hadn't moved. She pushed further into the room. He didn't look right. His stare was fixed and unnatural.

She retreated back into the ceiling, slid along towards the bathroom. She had to find out if anyone was in there. There wasn't. She dropped down into the room, not caring about camouflage. Something was wrong with John. Very wrong.

She flew towards the bed, rising and hovering a few feet above John's head. He still hadn't moved. Was he resting? Was he going over his speech in his head?

Was he . . .

She didn't want to finish that sentence but why didn't he move? He hadn't even blinked. And his chest . . . it wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing!

"John," she called, projecting her voice inside his head. "Wake up, John." Then louder, drilling the words through his skull. "John! Blink your eyes, godammit. Wake up!"

Nothing.

"No!" she screamed. Not this. To have come so far, to have risked so much and then . . . to find John Bruce dead.

Nick dived into the room.

"What's happened? I could hear you from out there."

"It's John. He's dead."

Nick flew towards the body on the bed, gained height, hovering a metre or so above John's chest. Was he dead? He couldn't see any evidence of trauma—no blood, no bruises, no gaping wounds. If it wasn't for those blank staring eyes he would have said John was resting—his head was on the pillow, his arms folded across his chest. Had he been arranged?

Or wasn't he dead?

Nick dived lower, stopping inches from John's nose. Was he breathing?

Nick cursed his imperfect senses. He couldn't feel John's breath. Even if John was alive any breath would pass straight through him. And his vision—that was almost as bad—how could he tell if John's chest was moving when the whole room was rippling back and forth?

Maybe he could slip inside John's chest—see if his heart was still pumping?

He slid along John's body, paused for a second over his chest then started to push inside.

"What are you doing?" hissed Louise.

Nick didn't answer. He was too busy being amazed. And trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He was inside a human being. A wash of red and pink and creamy white. Was it moving or was he? He thought stop. The world around him continued to flex. A higher dimensional effect? Imperfect vision? Proof that John was still alive?

He couldn't tell. Everything was too confusing.

He retraced his path, rising up through John's chest until he was half in, half out. He'd use the room as an anchor, a reference point to see if John's chest was moving or not. He thought stop and froze. Half his world was now in the room, the other half a dark pinky red. He watched and waited. A pink tide rose and fell like water gently lapping against a rock.