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take.”
    “And you really can access your father’s memories?”
    “They’re inside your head, cellular, part of your genetic code. You don’t just inherit your father’s looks and hair colour, you get his memories too. But you can’t access them without chemical assistance.”
    “I have my doubts about this,” said Will, helping himself to further foodstuffs. “Do you know anyone who’s actually taken Retro?”
    “Well, no,” said Tim.
    “And anyway, if my dad’s memories are in my head, I’d prefer that they stay somewhere hidden. I don’t want to know, thank you very much.”
    “But you’d find out about all his dirty doings. Imagine, you could remember how he shagged your mum and conceived you.”
    “What a hideous thought. No, thank you very much indeed.”
    “Please yourself,” said Tim. “But I’ve got six tabs. That’s three each. You could go back to your precious Victorian era.”
    “What?” said Will.
    “It’s all inside your head,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s the theory. I’m going to take the drug on Saturday night. If you’re not interested, I’ll let you know how I get on. But you’re missing out on something special, I’m telling you.”
    “I’ll give it some thought,” said Will. “But listen, can we talk later? There’s someone I have to see.”
    “Don’t go near them,” said Tim. “If they even suspect that you’re listening in to their conversation, you’ll be in real trouble.”
    “What?” said Will, all but dropping his tray. “What are you saying?”
    “I saw you,” whispered Tim. “Those corridors down to the archive are constantly scanned. My department takes care of that. I received a memo this morning that two dignitaries were coming to inspect the archive. I was to monitor them as far as the archive security door and then erase their images from the scanning program. And I did, but guess who I caught sneaking down the corridors before they did?”
    “Oh no,” said Will. “So I’m in big trouble?”
    “No trouble at all,” said Tim. “I erased you too. But don’t go near them. They’re
big
trouble.”
    “So who are they?”
    “So what were
you
doing in the archive?”
    “I can’t tell you that,” said Will.
    “Well I can tell you this.
Don’t
go down there again. And
don’t
go near those women. Do we understand each other?”
    “We do,” said Will. “Can I buy you lunch?”
    “You can,” said Tim. “And I’ll expect you at my housing unit at eight o’clock sharp on Saturday night. Try not to get yourself into any trouble before then, okay?”
    “I’ll try,” said Will. “I’ll try.”

3
    Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday came and went and these days were very dull indeed for Will. Dull they were, and worrying too. Will worried for the painting. Would someone uncover his hiding place? A cleaner, or a restorer, perhaps? Or would the iconoclastic women return? Might they have found out that they’d destroyed the wrong painting? Would investigations ensue? His fingerprints and DNA would be upon the Dadd. He should have worn gloves. He should never have got involved at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been a risk worth taking. Will perched on the edge of his seat in a permanent state of tension. Will worried and fretted and worried some more. Gladys worried for Will.
    “You’re not yourself, little manny,” she told him, reaching forth a podgy hand to stroke at his arm. “Come out with me this evening, I’ll cheer you up.”
    “Thanks,” said Will. “But no thanks.”
    “But Friday night is Rock Night at the Shrunken Head. Your kind of thing, Will, Retro Rock, twentieth-century stuff. The Apes Of Wrath are playing and Violent Macaroni and Foetus Eater, and Lawnmower Death, and The Slaughterhouse Five.”
    “Not my cup of coffee,” said Will. “But Tim McGregor in Forward Planning loves that kind of business. And between you and me, I think he’s somewhat enraptured by you. He keeps mentioning your name in the