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to give it then because he was on his way to some wretched conference. If he didn’t come soon, the French couple would arrive; and then Jenny would have to sit through dinner, polite conversation, a boring play, more polite conversation and late drinks before her curiosity could be satisfied. She hoped the Frenchman did not want to go on to a night club. So many of these visiting executives did. It was almost a conditioned reflex.
    Jenny looked round the bar and sighed. A couple of tri-di personalities were chatting up a perfectly revolting girl who probably had pots of money. An aged actor was quietly and systematically getting himself stoned on Scotch. A striking Indian woman in a gold and red sari was listening attentively to the loud bad jokes of an ugly fat man who seemed familiar but could well be anything from a diamond merchant to a South Americandictator. And scattered around were small groups of suburbanites pretending they were living it up.
    Soon the Dorchester would be demolished—to make way for something hideous and half a mile high. Park Lane would never be the same again.
    Jenny’s reverie was broken by Simon’s arrival. It was now twenty past six.
    “Sorry I’m late, darling. Last minute idiocies. Shall I get you another drink?”
    “We don’t have time,” she said despondently. “What about Vanessa?”
    “The good news first Jean Baptiste has been called back to Paris. The evening is ours.”
    Jenny smiled with relief. “Allah is merciful. Yes, I will have another drink. A large one.”
    Simon signalled a waiter.
    “Is it bad news about Vanessa?”
    “No, not really. I persuaded the company to let me have one of our best espeople for a couple of days, a man named Draco. He went to the Richmond Children’s Home, where you left the baby, and met with a blank wall. No record, they said, of a Vanessa Smith.”
    Jenny spilled her drink. “My God! There has to be.”
    “Quite. But no public record. Draco displayed folding money, but it didn’t work. Then, on his way out, he flash-probed a dear old soul who looked as if she had been working there a million years.”
    “What does flash-probed mean?”
    “He splashed her mind with what he knew about Vanessa, which wasn’t much, and then listened for echoes. Incredibly the old girl remembered the year, remembered the baby, remembered you. So Draco went back to the front office and threatened them with tri-di, the press, habeas corpus, criminal investigation, questions in the House, and anything else he could think of.
    Theywilted—unofficially. It seems that Vanessa stayed there until she was seven years old. Then, apparently, the Department of Human Resources sent psych squads to all the orphanages in the country to pick up any potential paranormals for intensive training. Vanessa had a high esrate. So she was taken to a special school, a place called Random Hill. Draco went to Random Hill and talked to a Doctor Lindemann. He tried to pull the same bluff as at Richmond, but Lindemann wasn’t buying. He denied Vanessa’s existence, claimed to be covered by the Official Secrets Act and threatened to call the fuzz if Draco didn’t depart at Mach Three.”
    “So the trail is lost, then?”
    “No. Draco is a persistent creature. He is well paid for his persistence—among other things. He waited outside the perimeter—an electrified fence, by the way—until he saw kids playing in the grounds. Then he flash-probed once more. He got a response, but it was cut off quickly.” Simon drank deeply of his own gin and tonic, “Sweet Jeez, I needed that.”
    “What did Draco learn?” Jenny gripped her fingers until the knuckles were white.
    “Only that she had recently gone over the fence. Nobody seems to know if she is alive or dead.”
    “She is alive,” said Jenny. “Dammit, how many dreams have I had since that night? Do you remember the time I got up and ate raw eggs because I told you I was starving.” Her voice had risen.
    “Take it