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over at midnight to pace the halls of his headquarters silently as a bat. Now it was Howard Jones who looked out over cornfields and woodland in one direction and the vast staff parking lot in the other.
    The skyway was hot and musty. That made sense when Howard thought about it: a clear plastic tube was going to heat up in the bright sun, and the arch meant the hottest air would hang in the middle like the bubble in a level. Howard had never before considered physics when he daydreamed of receiving Robert Strange’s summons.
    The wrought-iron grill at the far end was delicate but still a real barrier, even without the two guards on the other side watching as Howard approached. They were alert, very big, and not in the least friendly.
    Muscle-bound, Howard told himself. I could slice them into lunchmeat with my rapier!
    He knew he was lying, and it didn’t even make him feel better. Quite apart from big men not necessarily being slow, this pair held shotguns.
    “Good morning!” Howard said, trying for “brightly” and hitting “brittle” instead. “I have an urgent summons from Mr. Popple!”
    Christ on a crutch! What if this was some kid’s practical joke? Let’s see if we can scam some sucker into busting into the Strange Mansion! Maybe they’ll shoot him right where we can watch!
    Howard glanced down, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do now that he wasn’t protected by the excitement of the thing. At least he didn’t see kids with a cell phone and gleeful expressions peering up expectantly.
    One of the guards said, “Who’re you?” His tone would have been a little too grim for a judge passing a death sentence.
    Howard’s mind went blank. All he could think of was the accusing glare of his resume picture—but wait! Beside the picture was a name!
    “Howard Albing Jones!” he said triumphantly.
    “Nothing here about ‘Albing,’” said the other guard.
    The first guard shrugged. “Look, it’s Sunday,” he said to his partner. Fixing Howard with a glare that could’ve set rivets, he said, “We’re letting you in, buddy. But as Howard Jones, that’s all. That’s how you sign the book.”
    “All right,” said Howard. “I’m willing to be flexible.”
    One guard unlocked the grating; the other nodded Howard toward a folio bound in some unfamiliar form of leather, waiting open on a stand in the doorway. The last name above Howard’s was that of a regional manager who’d been sobbing as he trudged into the parking lot for the last time.
    The first guard pinned a blank metal badge on Howard’s sweatshirt, right in the center of Fuqua. “Keep it on,” he said. “See the yellow strip?”
    He gestured with his shotgun, then returned the muzzle to point just under where the badge rested.
    An amber track lighted up in the center of the hallway beyond. The glow was so faint that it illuminated only itself. Focusing his eyes on it meant that Howard didn’t have to stare at the shotgun.
    “Right,” he said. “Right!”
    “You follow it,” said the guard. “It’ll take you where you’re supposed to go. And you don’t step off it, you understand?”
    “Right,” said Howard, afraid that he sounded brittle again. “ I certainly don’t want you gentlemen coming after me.”
    The other guard laughed. “Oh, we wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Pete and me watch—” he nodded to the bank of TV monitors, blanked during Howard’s presence “—but we ain’t cleared to go wandering around the mansion. Believe me, buddy, we’re not ready to die.”
    Howard walked down the hall with a fixed smile until the amber strip led him around a corner. He risked a glance backwards then and saw that the light was fading behind him. He supposed it’d reappear when it was time for him to leave.
    He supposed so.
    Howard hadn’t had any idea of what the inside of the Strange Mansion would be like. There were a thousand rumors about the Wizard of Fast Food but almost no facts. Howard himself