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he'd heard it before. 'I'm supposed to know you?' he said.
        'Perhaps not.' There was no evident disappointment. 'I have to meet with you to discuss a matter of great importance. And possibly of great urgency.'
        Rivers took time to sip his coffee. 'Life insurance?' he said.
        'I would say your life is somewhat charmed, wouldn't you?'
        He understood the reference. 'That isn't something I want to talk about…' He heard the man take in another breath.
        'Nor I, Mr. Rivers. May I give you my number so that you can call me back when you have more time?'
        'I see no reason to.'
        'If I mention one word it might help you decide.'
        'It still sounds like life insurance.'
        There was a pause. 'In a way, that's not too far from the truth.'
        Rivers realized his fingers were crushing the butt of his cigarette. It was the dream, still getting to him, making him tense. It had nothing to do with this stranger. 'I'm waiting,' he said impatiently.
        'Tinkerbell.'
        He stared at the vox as if it were Poggs, there in the room with him.
        A second or two went by before he pressed the MEMO button on the remote unit.
        'Give me the number,' he said.
        Rivers opened the Renault's door and flicked the cockroach off the driver's seat and on to the pavement. He crushed the insect with his foot before it could scurry away, an act that even the Animal Liberation Front wouldn't have complained of nowadays.
        'At least my day hasn't been in vain,' he told the mulched remains on the concrete.
        After a swift inspection he took an environment-friendly can (not friendly to roaches and their kind, though) from the glove compartment and sprayed the vehicle's interior thoroughly. He closed the door and smoked a cigarette while he waited for the chemicals to work.
        How had this man with the silly name known? he wondered as he leaned against the car. And what did he know about Tinkerbell? When the critically damaged research aircraft had crash-landed ten miles outside of Galveston and he had been pulled from the wreckage, one of only three survivors, apparently he had repeated the name over and over again. Tinkerbell, Tinkerbell, Tinkerbell… And that had been all he'd said for those first two weeks of recovery.
        It had taken that long for him to come to his senses, and at least half that long again for him to remember what the name meant. That was when it became an Official Secret.
        A passing neighbour, wearing a white short sleeved shirt with striped tie and dark knee-length shorts, his briefcase the only heavy thing about him, gave the climatologist a curt 'good-morning' nod. Sun protection cream smeared the man's bare parts and on his shirt pocket he sported a Sun Alert UV self-adhesive badge whose photo-sensitive chemicals would denote the sun's strength throughout the day by changing the colour of its dyes. Rivers returned the nod, unsurprised at the man's caution.
        How had this Hugo Poggs found out about Tinkerbell? And what was he implying? That name, Poggs… It meant something to him, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. He'd heard it at some time, or perhaps read about the man somewhere. No matter, it'll come.
        He tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the dusty road and pulled open the car door again, allowing the worst of the fumes to waft out before climbing in. After a quick check for any more bugs lying on their backs kicking air, he switched on and drew away from the kerb.
        Even at that early hour, the sun was beating fiercely and as he passed his neighbour, a City broker of some sort he seemed to recall, Rivers contemplated pulling over and offering him a lift to the station. The businessman-Simpson or Timpson was his name-used to drive a maroon Jaguar saloon to his office every day, but since such gas-guzzlers and their drivers had become social pariahs, he had