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a button. It was a pen camera, of the type perfected in the twentieth century for spying. Carlsen should have remembered that no gossip columnist was ever without one.
    He was disappointed. He did not like Seth Adams, but he had been willing to help him. In fact, he had even begun to feel a kind of sporting excitement at the prospect of his sensational scoop. Didn’t the young idiot realise that it was stupid to do this kind of thing? Now he wouldn’t get his damned interview, and if Bukovsky found out, he’d get kicked off the paper. He watched Adams close the drawer and open the next one. He was tempted to clear his throat and give him a fright. Or would it be simpler to pretend he didn’t know what had happened and let him get away with the photographs? It would be easy enough to stop the newspaper from using them.
    Adams photographed the blonde girl, closed the drawer, then moved on. He pulled open the remaining drawer and sighted down the pen. A moment later, the pen was back in his pocket, and he had straightened up; his sigh of relief was audible over the telescreen. He tiptoed to the door and peered out, to verify that the laboratory was still empty. He looked carefully around the room, but failed to notice the disguised camera lens that followed him. Then he went back to the drawer and stood looking down at the girl. She was on a level with his knees. He bent over and touched the breast, then ran his hand slowly down over the body. Then he reached up and stroked the face, caressing the lips with his fingertips and pulling the lower one down. The other hand was resting on the thigh. Carlsen could gauge his increasing excitement by the sound of his breathing, which was clearly audible. When Adams dropped on his knees beside the drawer, Carlsen felt, it was time to interrupt. He crossed to the door, intending to slam it; the sound would carry over the loudspeaker. With the door open, he paused. He could see the shoulders bent over the drawer, but there was something unnatural about them; they were tensed, and the body was writhing. Fascinated and touched by sudden foreknowledge, he crept back to the telescreen. Seth’s head was inside the drawer, his face against the girl’s; but his body was jerking, as if in agony. Carlsen called out, and the body seemed to twist more violently. Then it became frozen again. It seemed to last for a long time. Then, very slowly, Seth Adams crumpled backwards, and fell. A hand appeared on the edge of the drawer. Unsteadily, as if waking from a deep sleep, the girl sat up. She looked around, ignoring the man’s body, then swung her legs over the side of the drawer, as if getting out of bed.
    The other telescreen buzzed; Bukovsky’s voice said: “Carlsen, are you still there?”
    Carlsen ignored it, running for the door. The lift stood open. Seconds later, he was in the corridor below, running to the laboratory. There was no thought of danger in his mind. He was thinking of Violet Mapleson, and hoping that Seth was merely unconscious.
    The lab was empty. He ran to the specimen room, expecting to see the girl at the door. To his surprise, she was not there; then he realised she was lying down again. Her eyes were closed. He looked at Seth’s face and stepped back involuntarily. This was no longer the same man. Something had happened to the face. The lips had shrunk back, exposing the teeth, and they were cracked and grey. At first, it seemed that the face was covered with a grey cobweb; then he saw that it had also shrunk. The cobweb effect was produced by wrinkles. It had become an old man’s face. As Carlsen watched, he realised that the black hair was turning grey. The hands that protruded from the sleeves had also become wrinkled, and their flesh was shiny, as if turned to grey celluloid.
    He noticed the movement from the drawer. Her eyes were open, and she was looking at him. There was no doubt that she was alive. The whole body seemed to radiate a soft glow. She smiled