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the place?’
    Anderson stepped coolly into the room between them. Her gaze lingered on the walls, which were papered with pages torn from bibles. Crucifixes had been crudely rammed into the door and window frames.
    ‘You’re right,’ she said witheringly. ‘The guy’s obviously totally sane.’ She stepped toward a small writing desk, picking up the slim volume lying on its surface. ‘This is the focus of the emanations I’ve been getting. It’s some sort of diary.’
    Stokes looked troubled as she followed them in. ‘This room’s saturated with emotional residue!’ she said. ‘Such anguish, such pain, such hatred... but it’s determined, obsessive; focused . This is a bad one, Cass.’
    Warner holstered his weapon. ‘Great. We’ve got a Futsie. Let’s find him, Cube him and stop this time-wasting.’
    McKern turned to Anderson. ‘What do you think? Cassandra, you’ve gone quite pale. What’s the matter?’
    Anderson dropped the diary. ‘There has to be a medical centre in the compound... so let’s move it there on the double. Now!’
     
    ‘ ...June 6 th : I’ve found the jackal. He lives upstairs. Jack L. Remick, whose wife is expecting any day now (I know precisely when, of course). I wonder if she knows she’s carrying the Antichrist? She will when I kill him. God spoke to me again last night. He said I was doing awfully well...’
     
    June 6 th – 6.01pm
     
    The nurse was screaming something about no admittance, and continued screaming as McKern lifted her out of their path on a raft of telekinesis. Leading the pack, Anderson and Warner crashed through the doors, bowling over the Midwife Droid. ‘What in Grud’s name are you doing in here?’ bellowed Jack L. Remick, clutching the hand of his labouring wife.
    ‘What’s more to the point,’ breathed Anderson, ‘what’s he doing in here?’ She pointed at the bewildered figure nearby, dressed in an orderly’s uniform and frozen in the act of pulling a recoilless automatic from beneath his tunic. Warner’s Lawgiver was in his hand in the blink of an eye. ‘Armed Futsie!’ he screamed. ‘Everybody down!’
    Anderson’s fist crashed into his wrist. The shot went wide, tearing through the far wall. Simultaneously, the perp’s gun flew from his grasp, straight to McKern’s outstretched hand.
    ‘What the drokk are you doing ?’ spluttered Warner. ‘There were civilians at stake.’
    ‘And one of them was your target!’ Anderson snapped back. ‘I sense he’s a strong latent psionic, acting under the influence of something external. If you’d shot him, you’d have been shooting an innocent.’
    Warner was about to argue further, but was cut off by Stokes’ warning scream. They turned in horror to see the suspect crumple drunkenly to the floor, an inhuman howl rising in his throat. His body twitched and convulsed as something spewed from him; something abominable, something unholy... a grotesque mass of screaming faces that hung in the air, raining greasy fluid on the floor beneath.
    ‘The child! It wants to possess the new-born child!’ shrieked Stokes, gagging as her senses reeled beneath the psychic onslaught.
    ‘Warner, block it!’ ordered Anderson desperately.
    At once, Troughton and Warner leapt between the delivery bed and the oncoming nightmare. ‘Rapid fire. Drive it back!’ instructed Warner, gratified at last by a job at which he excelled. The two Lawgivers roared in the confines of the ward, but the thing advanced still, turning its many eyes toward the duo. There was a rending explosion as, through some infernal influence, the magazine of Troughton’s pistol detonated and tore him apart. Blasted off his feet by the impact and peppered with slivers of his colleague’s armour and bone, Warner was flung across the room like a doll, landing dazed against the wall. The thing turned in mid-air and lurched towards him... and then froze. Blue electrical energy coruscated across its surface.
    ‘We’re holding it...