The Internal Business Process Perspective

Introduction Businesses struggle to maintain their market share despite stiff competition, global economic recession and other factors that interfere with their performance. In addition, investors hire qualified staff and acquire modern equipment to ensure they have high chances of dominating local and foreign markets.Advertising We will write a custom essay sample on The Internal Business Process Perspective specifically for you for only $16.05 $11/page Learn More However, these efforts do not sometimes yield the expected results due to unforeseen challenges (Kaplan and Norton 2000). These problems may be internal or external and affect business performance throughout its existence. This essay is a case study that examines how the Duke Children’s Hospital managed to create a balanced scorecard and its effects on the staff, patients and state. Analysis The stakeholders at Duke Children’s Hospital will remember 1996 as a year full of darknes s and unforeseen future in its operations. The hospital received very little medical allowance while revenues declined due to an increase in patients with capitated compensation. Children’s services became very expensive and sky rocketed to $ 14,889 from the initial $ 10,500 in 1993. All healthcare organisations have objectives that ensure they generate profits for investors, offer employment opportunities to nurses and physicians and provide quality heath services to patients (Meliones, Ballard, Liekweg and Burton 2001). However, this hospital was not able to achieve these objectives due to poor performance. As a result, the net margin decreased by nine million dollars between 1993 and 1996. In addition, it was necessary to eliminate some programmes and reduce the services offered to clients. This also marked a decrease in staff productivity from the initial 80% to 70% range. However, this hospital adopted the balanced scorecard methodology to transform these challenges into opportunities for growth. Application of the Balanced Scorecard Methodology The balanced scorecard methodology is a complex approach that helps investors and all stakeholders to deal with challenges facing their businesses. A healthcare institution is a dynamic organisation that provides various needs to physicians, patients and investors (Kaplan and Norton 2000). The role of a healthcare institution is represented in a three pillar diagram that indicates the needs of all stakeholders as shown in the diagram below. Advertising Looking for essay on business economics? Let's see if we can help you! Get your first paper with 15% OFF Learn More When one of the above processes fails to achieve its target the whole process will fail leading to a crisis as described in the introductory remarks. The balanced scorecard approach ensures that the interests of all stakeholders are put into consideration in implementing the functions of a business. This hospital had totally negle cted the needs of its employees. However, it realised its mistakes early and implemented radical changes that transformed its image. The following ways were used to implement the balanced scorecard approach. Patients, physicians and investors are connected by the outcome of the services offered by health institutions. Quality Information The institution realised the need to communicate accurate information to physicians and patients as a way of improving performance. This hospital has a mission, vision, objectives and motto that guide its operations (Meliones, Ballard, Liekweg and Burton 2001). However, it seems the staff had not realised the need to put into practice the words conveyed by these aspirations. The implementation of this performance methodology ensured the hospital staff communicated relevant, appropriate, accurate, site specific and clear messages amongst themselves. This hospital had many sources of both primary and secondary data that was never used to improve its p erformance (Zelman 2009). The information given to physicians and nurses differed although it was meant to gauge and develop their performance in an intellectual manner. Bridging Gaps This hospital is a mega investment with three departments namely the Raleigh Community Hospital, Duke University Hospital and Durham Regional Hospital. DUKE Children’s Hospital is a department under the Duke University Hospital and receives about 6,000 and 30,000 inpatient and outpatient annually in its 135 bed capacity (Meliones, Ballard, Liekweg and Burton 2001). It integrated the quality clinical and business outcomes in 1996 to improve its performance. This perspective had significant impacts on the performance of the hospital through the following ways. First, the institution realised the need to balance between its expenses and needs. It noted that decreasing the number of nurses will reduce expenses in terms of salaries and allowances. However, this will reduce the labour required to prov ide quality services to patients (Zelman 2009). In addition, it noted the need handle patients in a healthy manner and also emphasised on the importance of learning and growth of its staff. Lastly, it ensured there was a balance between the internal business and services offered. Essentials for Building a Scorecard This institution realised the urgent need to implement various changes to ensure employees remain focused to solve the challenges facing them. It adopted a three tier approach in dealing with this issue by highlighting the importance of establishing links to get connected, analysing performance to get results and gaining knowledge to become smart to deal with organisational challenges (Meliones, Ballard, Liekweg and Burton 2001).Advertising We will write a custom essay sample on The Internal Business Process Perspective specifically for you for only $16.05 $11/page Learn More The need to establish connections ensures all stakeholders work tow ards achieving the goals, objectives and mission of the institution. This brings them together to ensure they maintain focus and deliver results that reflect their purposes. They defined key performance indicators, developed staff satisfaction strategies and established a regulatory arena that ensures all activities reflected nursing and health requirements. Performance was analysed in terms of the quality of services offered by physicians and nurses. This also involved the opportunities for growth like the use of modern equipment to improve quality and staff motivation to boost performance. Information was collected on a regular basis from various departments and analysed to evaluate the performance of this institution. This was also accompanied with fast and frequent communication to ensure everyone everywhere gets appropriate information. Knowledge generation was also an important tool in improving this hospital’s performance. The scorecard was constantly reviewed and revi sed depending on the immediate needs of the hospital (Zelman 2009). This was an important arena to develop future plans to deal with challenges that may face this institution. All medical practitioners must develop their skills and enrich their knowledge through practice. Therefore, they must be exposed to environments that offer them opportunities to learn various issues through experience or observation (Kaplan and Norton 2000). This hospital n\became a knowledge generation institution as nurses continued to gain knowledge regarding various health issues. Conclusion The integrated module enabled the hospital to reduce the cost per case by about $ 5,000 (about $ 30 million) between 1996 and 2000. The net margin shifted positively by about + $15 million during the period mentioned above. All programmes that were supposed to be eliminated or reduced were not affected since there was a general improvement in performance. Patient satisfaction index increased by 0.4 on a 5.0 scale (from 4.3 to 4.7 where p=0.05). The nursing units improved their performances to 100% in 2000 from the initial 70% in 1996. Staff satisfaction was the highest gainer with an increase of 2.0 on a 5.0 scale from the initial 1.5 to 4.0. References Kaplan, R. S. and Norton, D. P. (2000). Strategy Focused Organization. Boston: Harvard Business School Press.Advertising Looking for essay on business economics? Let's see if we can help you! Get your first paper with 15% OFF Learn More Meliones, J. N., Ballard, R., Liekweg, R. and Burton, W. (2001). No Mission No Margin: It’s That Simple. Journal of Health Care Finance, 3, 21-29. Zelman, W. N. (2009).Financial Management of Health Care Organizations: An  Introduction to Fundamental Tools, Concepts and Applications. New York: Jossey-Bass. This essay on The Internal Business Process Perspective was written and submitted by user Na0m1 to help you with your own studies. You are free to use it for research and reference purposes in order to write your own paper; however, you must cite it accordingly. You can donate your paper here.

Pyrmaids essays

Pyrmaids essays Throughout the ages, people of the world have been perplexed by the pyramids of Egypt. This great wonder of the world has always interested me, as it has others. One question that arises is that, who, why, and how were the pyramids built. There are many hypotheses for this perplexing question, but three main ones are brought forth: they were made for tombs of pharaohs, aliens built them, or its a passage to and from planet to planet. The first and most well known hypothesis is that the Egyptians built the pyramids to house their pharaohs during their afterlife. This is taught in schools, it is read about, and seems the most logical and sane explanation for why the pyramids were built. In my opinion this is the truth and is the right answer to the why the pyramids were built. I dont really see what other explanation would work. There is so much evidence that points to this hypothesis. Such as, that the Egyptians made the pyramids because many of the tools have been found. It is said that Egyptians didnt have the tools to make the pyramids, obviously, this is false. The Egyptians have a history that supports why they built the pyramids, they thought that by making the pyramid they could go to the afterlife as well as the pharaoh. That is why this hypothesis is the most well known and excepted, as it has a right to be. The second reason is that alien architects built the pyramids. It is said that they built pyramids to line up with the stars of Orions belt. Okay, why did they build them on Earth? It really makes no sense to me, but a lot of people actually believe this hypothesis. There is a lot of evidence such as; that if a diagonal line is extended North-East and North-West of the pyramid, the lines incorporate the Nile river neatly and entirely. Another piece of evidence is that the pyramid is lined up exactly to the magnetic North pole. They say coin ...

Angels Demons Chapter 9397

Still he clawed on. Somewhere a voice was telling him to move left. If you can get to the main aisle, you can dash for the exit. He knew it was impossible. There’s a wall of flames blocking the main aisle! His mind hunting for options, Langdon scrambled blindly on. The footsteps closed faster now to his right. When it happened, Langdon was unprepared. He had guessed he had another ten feet of pews until he reached the front of the church. He had guessed wrong. Without warning, the cover above him ran out. He froze for an instant, half exposed at the front of the church. Rising in the recess to his left, gargantuan from this vantage point, was the very thing that had brought him here. He had entirely forgotten. Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Teresa rose up like some sort of pornographic still life†¦ the saint on her back, arched in pleasure, mouth open in a moan, and over her, an angel pointing his spear of fire. A bullet exploded in the pew over Langdon’s head. He felt his body rise like a sprinter out of a gate. Fueled only by adrenaline, and barely conscious of his actions, he was suddenly running, hunched, head down, pounding across the front of the church to his right. As the bullets erupted behind him, Langdon dove yet again, sliding out of control across the marble floor before crashing in a heap against the railing of a niche on the right-hand wall. It was then that he saw her. A crumpled heap near the back of the church. Vittoria! Her bare legs were twisted beneath her, but Langdon sensed somehow that she was breathing. He had no time to help her. Immediately, the killer rounded the pews on the far left of the church and bore relentlessly down. Langdon knew in a heartbeat it was over. The killer raised the weapon, and Langdon did the only thing he could do. He rolled his body over the banister into the niche. As he hit the floor on the other side, the marble columns of the balustrade exploded in a storm of bullets. Langdon felt like a cornered animal as he scrambled deeper into the semicircular niche. Rising before him, the niche’s sole contents seemed ironically apropos – a single sarcophagus. Mine perhaps, Langdon thought. Even the casket itself seemed fitting. It was a sctola – a small, unadorned, marble box. Burial on a budget. The casket was raised off the floor on two marble blocks, and Langdon eyed the opening beneath it, wondering if he could slide through. Footsteps echoed behind him. With no other option in sight, Langdon pressed himself to the floor and slithered toward the casket. Grabbing the two marble supports, one with each hand, he pulled like a breaststroker, dragging his torso into the opening beneath the tomb. The gun went off. Accompanying the roar of the gun, Langdon felt a sensation he had never felt in his life†¦ a bullet sailing past his flesh. There was a hiss of wind, like the backlash of a whip, as the bullet just missed him and exploded in the marble with a puff of dust. Blood surging, Langdon heaved his body the rest of the way beneath the casket. Scrambling across the marble floor, he pulled himself out from beneath the casket and to the other side. Dead end. Langdon was now face to face with the rear wall of the niche. He had no doubt that this tiny space behind the tomb would become his grave. And soon, he realized, as he saw the barrel of the gun appear in the opening beneath the sarcophagus. The Hassassin held the weapon parallel with the floor, pointing directly at Langdon’s midsection. Impossible to miss. Langdon felt a trace of self-preservation grip his unconscious mind. He twisted his body onto his stomach, parallel with the casket. Facedown, he planted his hands flat on the floor, the glass cut from the archives pinching open with a stab. Ignoring the pain, he pushed. Driving his body upward in an awkward push-up, Langdon arched his stomach off the floor just as the gun went off. He could feel the shock wave of the bullets as they sailed beneath him and pulverized the porous travertine behind. Closing his eyes and straining against exhaustion, Langdon prayed for the thunder to stop. And then it did. The roar of gunfire was replaced with the cold click of an empty chamber. Langdon opened his eyes slowly, almost fearful his eyelids would make a sound. Fighting the trembling pain, he held his position, arched like a cat. He didn’t even dare breathe. His eardrums numbed by gunfire, Langdon listened for any hint of the killer’s departure. Silence. He thought of Vittoria and ached to help her. The sound that followed was deafening. Barely human. A guttural bellow of exertion. The sarcophagus over Langdon’s head suddenly seemed to rise on its side. Langdon collapsed on the floor as hundreds of pounds teetered toward him. Gravity overcame friction, and the lid was the first to go, sliding off the tomb and crashing to the floor beside him. The casket came next, rolling off its supports and toppling upside down toward Langdon. As the box rolled, Langdon knew he would either be entombed in the hollow beneath it or crushed by one of the edges. Pulling in his legs and head, Langdon compacted his body and yanked his arms to his sides. Then he closed his eyes and awaited the sickening crush. When it came, the entire floor shook beneath him. The upper rim landed only millimeters from the top of his head, rattling his teeth in their sockets. His right arm, which Langdon had been certain would be crushed, miraculously still felt intact. He opened his eyes to see a shaft of light. The right rim of the casket had not fallen all the way to the floor and was still propped partially on its supports. Directly overhead, though, Langdon found himself staring quite literally into the face of death. The original occupant of the tomb was suspended above him, having adhered, as decaying bodies often did, to the bottom of the casket. The skeleton hovered a moment, like a tentative lover, and then with a sticky crackling, it succumbed to gravity and peeled away. The carcass rushed down to embrace him, raining putrid bones and dust into Langdon’s eyes and mouth. Before Langdon could react, a blind arm was slithering through the opening beneath the casket, sifting through the carcass like a hungry python. It groped until it found Langdon’s neck and clamped down. Langdon tried to fight back against the iron fist now crushing his larynx, but he found his left sleeve pinched beneath the edge of the coffin. He had only one arm free, and the fight was a losing battle. Langdon’s legs bent in the only open space he had, his feet searching for the casket floor above him. He found it. Coiling, he planted his feet. Then, as the hand around his neck squeezed tighter, Langdon closed his eyes and extended his legs like a ram. The casket shifted, ever so slightly, but enough. With a raw grinding, the sarcophagus slid off the supports and landed on the floor. The casket rim crashed onto the killer’s arm, and there was a muffled scream of pain. The hand released Langdon’s neck, twisting and jerking away into the dark. When the killer finally pulled his arm free, the casket fell with a conclusive thud against the flat marble floor. Complete darkness. Again. And silence. There was no frustrated pounding outside the overturned sarcophagus. No prying to get in. Nothing. As Langdon lay in the dark amidst a pile of bones, he fought the closing darkness and turned his thoughts to her. Vittoria. Are you alive? If Langdon had known the truth – the horror to which Vittoria would soon awake – he would have wished for her sake that she were dead. 94 Sitting in the Sistine Chapel among his stunned colleagues, Cardinal Mortati tried to comprehend the words he was hearing. Before him, lit only by the candlelight, the camerlegno had just told a tale of such hatred and treachery that Mortati found himself trembling. The camerlegno spoke of kidnapped cardinals, branded cardinals, murdered cardinals. He spoke of the ancient Illuminati – a name that dredged up forgotten fears – and of their resurgence and vow of revenge against the church. With pain in his voice, the camerlegno spoke of his late Pope†¦ the victim of an Illuminati poisoning. And finally, his words almost a whisper, he spoke of a deadly new technology, antimatter, which in less than two hours threatened to destroy all of Vatican City. When he was through, it was as if Satan himself had sucked the air from the room. Nobody could move. The camerlegno’s words hung in the darkness. The only sound Mortati could now hear was the anomalous hum of a television camera in back – an electronic presence no conclave in history had ever endured – but a presence demanded by the camerlegno. To the utter astonishment of the cardinals, the camerlegno had entered the Sistine Chapel with two BBC reporters – a man and a woman – and announced that they would be transmitting his solemn statement, live to the world. Now, speaking directly to the camera, the camerlegno stepped forward. â€Å"To the Illuminati,† he said, his voice deepening, â€Å"and to those of science, let me say this.† He paused. â€Å"You have won the war.† The silence spread now to the deepest corners of the chapel. Mortati could hear the desperate thumping of his own heart. â€Å"The wheels have been in motion for a long time,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"Your victory has been inevitable. Never before has it been as obvious as it is at this moment. Science is the new God.† What is he saying? Mortati thought. Has he gone mad? The entire world is hearing this! â€Å"Medicine, electronic communications, space travel, genetic manipulation†¦ these are the miracles about which we now tell our children. These are the miracles we herald as proof that science will bring us the answers. The ancient stories of immaculate conceptions, burning bushes, and parting seas are no longer relevant. God has become obsolete. Science has won the battle. We concede.† A rustle of confusion and bewilderment swept through the chapel. â€Å"But science’s victory,† the camerlegno added, his voice intensifying, â€Å"has cost every one of us. And it has cost us deeply.† Silence. â€Å"Science may have alleviated the miseries of disease and drudgery and provided an array of gadgetry for our entertainment and convenience, but it has left us in a world without wonder. Our sunsets have been reduced to wavelengths and frequencies. The complexities of the universe have been shredded into mathematical equations. Even our self-worth as human beings has been destroyed. Science proclaims that Planet Earth and its inhabitants are a meaningless speck in the grand scheme. A cosmic accident.† He paused. â€Å"Even the technology that promises to unite us, divides us. Each of us is now electronically connected to the globe, and yet we feel utterly alone. We are bombarded with violence, division, fracture, and betrayal. Skepticism has become a virtue. Cynicism and demand for proof has become enlightened thought. Is it any wonder that humans now feel more depressed and defeated than they have at any point in human history? Does science hold anything sacred? Science l ooks for answers by probing our unborn fetuses. Science even presumes to rearrange our own DNA. It shatters God’s world into smaller and smaller pieces in quest of meaning†¦ and all it finds is more questions.† Mortati watched in awe. The camerlegno was almost hypnotic now. He had a physical strength in his movements and voice that Mortati had never witnessed on a Vatican altar. The man’s voice was wrought with conviction and sadness. â€Å"The ancient war between science and religion is over,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"You have won. But you have not won fairly. You have not won by providing answers. You have won by so radically reorienting our society that the truths we once saw as signposts now seem inapplicable. Religion cannot keep up. Scientific growth is exponential. It feeds on itself like a virus. Every new breakthrough opens doors for new breakthroughs. Mankind took thousands of years to progress from the wheel to the car. Yet only decades from the car into space. Now we measure scientific progress in weeks. We are spinning out of control. The rift between us grows deeper and deeper, and as religion is left behind, people find themselves in a spiritual void. We cry out for meaning. And believe me, we do cry out. We see UFOs, engage in channeling, spirit contact, out-of-body experiences, mindquests – all these eccentric ideas have a scientific veneer, but they are unashamedly irrational. Th ey are the desperate cry of the modern soul, lonely and tormented, crippled by its own enlightenment and its inability to accept meaning in anything removed from technology.† Mortati could feel himself leaning forward in his seat. He and the other cardinals and people around the world were hanging on this priest’s every utterance. The camerlegno spoke with no rhetoric or vitriol. No references to scripture or Jesus Christ. He spoke in modern terms, unadorned and pure. Somehow, as though the words were flowing from God himself, he spoke the modern language†¦ delivering the ancient message. In that moment, Mortati saw one of the reasons the late Pope held this young man so dear. In a world of apathy, cynicism, and technological deification, men like the camerlegno, realists who could speak to our souls like this man just had, were the church’s only hope. The camerlegno was talking more forcefully now. â€Å"Science, you say, will save us. Science, I say, has destroyed us. Since the days of Galileo, the church has tried to slow the relentless march of science, sometimes with misguided means, but always with benevolent intention. Even so, the temptations are too great for man to resist. I warn you, look around yourselves. The promises of science have not been kept. Promises of efficiency and simplicity have bred nothing but pollution and chaos. We are a fractured and frantic species†¦ moving down a path of destruction.† The camerlegno paused a long moment and then sharpened his eyes on the camera. â€Å"Who is this God science? Who is the God who offers his people power but no moral framework to tell you how to use that power? What kind of God gives a child fire but does not warn the child of its dangers? The language of science comes with no signposts about good and bad. Science textbooks tell us how to create a nuclear reaction, and yet they contain no chapter asking us if it is a good or a bad idea. â€Å"To science, I say this. The church is tired. We are exhausted from trying to be your signposts. Our resources are drying up from our campaign to be the voice of balance as you plow blindly on in your quest for smaller chips and larger profits. We ask not why you will not govern yourselves, but how can you? Your world moves so fast that if you stop even for an instant to consider the implications of your actions, someone more efficient will whip past you in a blur. So you move on. You proliferate weapons of mass destruction, but it is the Pope who travels the world beseeching leaders to use restraint. You clone living creatures, but it is the church reminding us to consider the moral implications of our actions. You encourage people to interact on phones, video screens, and computers, but it is the church who opens its doors and reminds us to commune in person as we were meant to do. You even murder unborn babies in the name of research that will save lives. Again, it is the ch urch who points out the fallacy of this reasoning. â€Å"And all the while, you proclaim the church is ignorant. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning, or the man who does not respect its awesome power? This church is reaching out to you. Reaching out to everyone. And yet the more we reach, the more you push us away. Show me proof there is a God, you say. I say use your telescopes to look to the heavens, and tell me how there could not be a God!† The camerlegno had tears in his eyes now. â€Å"You ask what does God look like. I say, where did that question come from? The answers are one and the same. Do you not see God in your science? How can you miss Him! You proclaim that even the slightest change in the force of gravity or the weight of an atom would have rendered our universe a lifeless mist rather than our magnificent sea of heavenly bodies, and yet you fail to see God’s hand in this? Is it really so much easier to believe that we simply chose the right card from a deck of billions? Have w e become so spiritually bankrupt that we would rather believe in mathematical impossibility than in a power greater than us? â€Å"Whether or not you believe in God,† the camerlegno said, his voice deepening with deliberation, â€Å"you must believe this. When we as a species abandon our trust in the power greater than us, we abandon our sense of accountability. Faith†¦ all faiths†¦ are admonitions that there is something we cannot understand, something to which we are accountable†¦ With faith we are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion is flawed, but only because man is flawed. If the outside world could see this church as I do†¦ looking beyond the ritual of these walls†¦ they would see a modern miracle†¦ a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls wanting only to be a voice of compassion in a world spinning out of control.† The camerlegno motioned out over the College of Cardinals, and the BBC camerawoman instinctively followed, panning the crowd. â€Å"Are we obsolete?† the camerlegno asked. â€Å"Are these men dino-saurs? Am I? Does the world really need a voice for the poor, the weak, the oppressed, the unborn child? Do we really need souls like these who, though imperfect, spend their lives imploring each of us to read the signposts of morality and not lose our way?† Mortati now realized that the camerlegno, whether consciously or not, was making a brilliant move. By showing the cardinals, he was personalizing the church. Vatican City was no longer a building, it was people – people like the camerlegno who had spent their lives in the service of goodness. â€Å"Tonight we are perched on a precipice,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"None of us can afford to be apathetic. Whether you see this evil as Satan, corruption, or immorality†¦ the dark force is alive and growing every day. Do not ignore it.† The camerlegno lowered his voice to a whisper, and the camera moved in. â€Å"The force, though mighty, is not invincible. Goodness can prevail. Listen to your hearts. Listen to God. Together we can step back from this abyss.† Now Mortati understood. This was the reason. Conclave had been violated, but this was the only way. It was a dramatic and desperate plea for help. The camerlegno was speaking to both his enemy and his friends now. He was entreating anyone, friend or foe, to see the light and stop this madness. Certainly someone listening would realize the insanity of this plot and come forward. The camerlegno knelt at the altar. â€Å"Pray with me.† The College of Cardinals dropped to their knees to join him in prayer. Outside in St. Peter’s Square and around the globe†¦ a stunned world knelt with them. 95 The Hassassin lay his unconscious trophy in the rear of the van and took a moment to admire her sprawled body. She was not as beautiful as the women he bought, and yet she had an animal strength that excited him. Her body was radiant, dewy with perspiration. She smelled of musk. As the Hassasin stood there savoring his prize, he ignored the throb in his arm. The bruise from the falling sarcophagus, although painful, was insignificant†¦ well worth the compensation that lay before him. He took consolation in knowing the American who had done this to him was probably dead by now. Gazing down at his incapacitated prisoner, the Hassassin visualized what lay ahead. He ran a palm up beneath her shirt. Her breasts felt perfect beneath her bra. Yes, he smiled. You are more than worthy. Fighting the urge to take her right there, he closed the door and drove off into the night. There was no need to alert the press about this killing†¦ the flames would do that for him. At CERN, Sylvie sat stunned by the camerlegno’s address. Never before had she felt so proud to be a Catholic and so ashamed to work at CERN. As she left the recreational wing, the mood in every single viewing room was dazed and somber. When she got back to Kohler’s office, all seven phone lines were ringing. Media inquiries were never routed to Kohler’s office, so the incoming calls could only be one thing. Geld. Money calls. Antimatter technology already had some takers. Inside the Vatican, Gunther Glick was walking on air as he followed the camerlegno from the Sistine Chapel. Glick and Macri had just made the live transmission of the decade. And what a transmission it had been. The camerlegno had been spellbinding. Now out in the hallway, the camerlegno turned to Glick and Macri. â€Å"I have asked the Swiss Guard to assemble photos for you – photos of the branded cardinals as well as one of His late Holiness. I must warn you, these are not pleasant pictures. Ghastly burns. Blackened tongues. But I would like you to broadcast them to the world.† Glick decided it must be perpetual Christmas inside Vatican City. He wants me to broadcast an exclusive photo of the dead Pope? â€Å"Are you sure?† Glick asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. The camerlegno nodded. â€Å"The Swiss Guard will also provide you a live video feed of the antimatter canister as it counts down.† Glick stared. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas! â€Å"The Illuminati are about to find out,† the camerlegno declared, â€Å"that they have grossly overplayed their hand.† 96 Like a recurring theme in some demonic symphony, the suffocating darkness had returned. No light. No air. No exit. Langdon lay trapped beneath the overturned sarcophagus and felt his mind careening dangerously close to the brink. Trying to drive his thoughts in any direction other than the crushing space around him, Langdon urged his mind toward some logical process†¦ mathematics, music, anything. But there was no room for calming thoughts. I can’t move! I can’t breathe! The pinched sleeve of his jacket had thankfully come free when the casket fell, leaving Langdon now with two mobile arms. Even so, as he pressed upward on the ceiling of his tiny cell, he found it immovable. Oddly, he wished his sleeve were still caught. At least it might create a crack for some air. As Langdon pushed against the roof above, his sleeve fell back to reveal the faint glow of an old friend. Mickey. The greenish cartoon face seemed mocking now. Langdon probed the blackness for any other sign of light, but the casket rim was flush against the floor. Goddamn Italian perfectionists, he cursed, now imperiled by the same artistic excellence he taught his students to revere†¦ impeccable edges, faultless parallels, and of course, use only of the most seamless and resilient Carrara marble. Precision can be suffocating. â€Å"Lift the damn thing,† he said aloud, pressing harder through the tangle of bones. The box shifted slightly. Setting his jaw, he heaved again. The box felt like a boulder, but this time it raised a quarter of an inch. A fleeting glimmer of light surrounded him, and then the casket thudded back down. Langdon lay panting in the dark. He tried to use his legs to lift as he had before, but now that the sarcophagus had fallen flat, there was no room even to straighten his knees. As the claustrophobic panic closed in, Langdon was overcome by images of the sarcophagus shrinking around him. Squeezed by delirium, he fought the illusion with every logical shred of intellect he had. â€Å"Sarcophagus,† he stated aloud, with as much academic sterility as he could muster. But even erudition seemed to be his enemy today. Sarcophagus is from the Greek â€Å"sarx† meaning â€Å"flesh,† and â€Å"phagein† meaning â€Å"to eat.† I’m trapped in a box literally designed to â€Å"eat flesh.† Images of flesh eaten from bone only served as a grim reminder that Langdon lay covered in human remains. The notion brought nausea and chills. But it also brought an idea. Fumbling blindly around the coffin, Langdon found a shard of bone. A rib maybe? He didn’t care. All he wanted was a wedge. If he could lift the box, even a crack, and slide the bone fragment beneath the rim, then maybe enough air could†¦ Reaching across his body and wedging the tapered end of the bone into the crack between the floor and the coffin, Langdon reached up with his other hand and heaved skyward. The box did not move. Not even slightly. He tried again. For a moment, it seemed to tremble slightly, but that was all. With the fetid stench and lack of oxygen choking the strength from his body, Langdon realized he only had time for one more effort. He also knew he would need both arms. Regrouping, he placed the tapered edge of the bone against the crack, and shifting his body, he wedged the bone against his shoulder, pinning it in place. Careful not to dislodge it, he raised both hands above him. As the stifling confine began to smother him, he felt a welling of intensified panic. It was the second time today he had been trapped with no air. Hollering aloud, Langdon thrust upward in one explosive motion. The casket jostled off the floor for an instant. But long enough. The bone shard he had braced against his shoulder slipped outward into the widening crack. When the casket fell again, the bone shattered. But this time Langdon could see the casket was propped up. A tiny slit of light showed beneath the rim. Exhausted, Langdon collapsed. Hoping the strangling sensation in his throat would pass, he waited. But it only worsened as the seconds passed. Whatever air was coming through the slit seemed imperceptible. Langdon wondered if it would be enough to keep him alive. And if so, for how long? If he passed out, who would know he was even in there? With arms like lead, Langdon raised his watch again: 10:12 P.M. Fighting trembling fingers, he fumbled with the watch and made his final play. He twisted one of the tiny dials and pressed a button. As consciousness faded, and the walls squeezed closer, Langdon felt the old fears sweep over him. He tried to imagine, as he had so many times, that he was in an open field. The image he conjured, however, was no help. The nightmare that had haunted him since his youth came crashing back†¦ The flowers here are like paintings, the child thought, laughing as he ran across the meadow. He wished his parents had come along. But his parents were busy pitching camp. â€Å"Don’t explore too far,† his mother had said. He had pretended not to hear as he bounded off into the woods. Now, traversing this glorious field, the boy came across a pile of fieldstones. He figured it must be the foundation of an old homestead. He would not go near it. He knew better. Besides, his eyes had been drawn to something else – a brilliant lady’s slipper – the rarest and most beautiful flower in New Hampshire. He had only ever seen them in books. Excited, the boy moved toward the flower. He knelt down. The ground beneath him felt mulchy and hollow. He realized his flower had found an extra-fertile spot. It was growing from a patch of rotting wood. Thrilled by the thought of taking home his prize, the boy reached out†¦ fingers extending toward the stem. He never reached it. With a sickening crack, the earth gave way. In the three seconds of dizzying terror as he fell, the boy knew he would die. Plummeting downward, he braced for the bone-crushing collision. When it came, there was no pain. Only softness. And cold. He hit the deep liquid face first, plunging into a narrow blackness. Spinning disoriented somersaults, he groped the sheer walls thatenclosed him on all sides. Somehow, as if by instinct, he sputtered to the surface. Light. Faint. Above him. Miles above him, it seemed. His arms clawed at the water, searching the walls of the hollow for something to grab onto. Only smooth stone. He had fallen through an abandoned well covering. He screamed for help, but his cries reverberated in the tight shaft. He called out again and again. Above him, the tattered hole grew dim. Night fell. Time seemed to contort in the darkness. Numbness set in as he treaded water in the depths of the chasm, calling, crying out. He was tormented by visions of the walls collapsing in, burying him alive. His arms ached with fatigue. A few times he thought he heard voices. He shouted out, but his own voice was muted†¦ like a dream. As the night wore on, the shaft deepened. The walls inched quietly inward. The boy pressed out against the enclosure, pushing it away. Exhausted, he wanted to give up. And yet he felt the water buoy him, cooling his burning fears until he was numb. When the rescue team arrived, they found the boy barely conscious. He had been treading water for five hours. Two days later, the Boston Globe ran a front-page story called â€Å"The Little Swimmer That Could.† 97 The Hassassin smiled as he pulled his van into the mammoth stone structure overlooking the Tiber River. He carried his prize up and up†¦ spiraling higher in the stone tunnel, grateful his load was slender. He arrived at the door. The Church of Illumination, he gloated. The ancient Illuminati meeting room. Who would have imagined it to be here? Inside, he lay her on a plush divan. Then he expertly bound her arms behind her back and tied her feet. He knew that what he longed for would have to wait until his final task was finished. Water. Still, he thought, he had a moment for indulgence. Kneeling beside her, he ran his hand along her thigh. It was smooth. Higher. His dark fingers snaked beneath the cuff of her shorts. Higher. He stopped. Patience, he told himself, feeling aroused. There is work to be done. He walked for a moment out onto the chamber’s high stone balcony. The evening breeze slowly cooled his ardor. Far below the Tiber raged. He raised his eyes to the dome of St. Peter’s, three quarters of a mile away, naked under the glare of hundreds of press lights. â€Å"Your final hour,† he said aloud, picturing the thousands of Muslims slaughtered during the Crusades. â€Å"At midnight you will meet your God.† Behind him, the woman stirred. The Hassassin turned. He considered letting her wake up. Seeing terror in a woman’s eyes was his ultimate aphrodisiac. He opted for prudence. It would be better if she remained unconscious while he was gone. Although she was tied and would never escape, the Hassassin did not want to return and find her exhausted from struggling. I want your strength preserved†¦ for me. Lifting her head slightly, he placed his palm beneath her neck and found the hollow directly beneath her skull. The crown/meridian pressure point was one he had used countless times. With crushing force, he drove his thumb into the soft cartilage and felt it depress. The woman slumped instantly. Twenty minutes, he thought. She would be a tantalizing end to a perfect day. After she had served him and died doing it, he would stand on the balcony and watch the midnight Vatican fireworks. Leaving his prize unconscious on the couch, the Hassassin went downstairs into a torchlit dungeon. The final task. He walked to the table and revered the sacred, metal forms that had been left there for him. Water. It was his last. Removing a torch from the wall as he had done three times already, he began heating the end. When the end of the object was white hot, he carried it to the cell. Inside, a single man stood in silence. Old and alone. â€Å"Cardinal Baggia,† the killer hissed. â€Å"Have you prayed yet?† The Italian’s eyes were fearless. â€Å"Only for your soul.† Angels Demons Chapter 9397 Still he clawed on. Somewhere a voice was telling him to move left. If you can get to the main aisle, you can dash for the exit. He knew it was impossible. There’s a wall of flames blocking the main aisle! His mind hunting for options, Langdon scrambled blindly on. The footsteps closed faster now to his right. When it happened, Langdon was unprepared. He had guessed he had another ten feet of pews until he reached the front of the church. He had guessed wrong. Without warning, the cover above him ran out. He froze for an instant, half exposed at the front of the church. Rising in the recess to his left, gargantuan from this vantage point, was the very thing that had brought him here. He had entirely forgotten. Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Teresa rose up like some sort of pornographic still life†¦ the saint on her back, arched in pleasure, mouth open in a moan, and over her, an angel pointing his spear of fire. A bullet exploded in the pew over Langdon’s head. He felt his body rise like a sprinter out of a gate. Fueled only by adrenaline, and barely conscious of his actions, he was suddenly running, hunched, head down, pounding across the front of the church to his right. As the bullets erupted behind him, Langdon dove yet again, sliding out of control across the marble floor before crashing in a heap against the railing of a niche on the right-hand wall. It was then that he saw her. A crumpled heap near the back of the church. Vittoria! Her bare legs were twisted beneath her, but Langdon sensed somehow that she was breathing. He had no time to help her. Immediately, the killer rounded the pews on the far left of the church and bore relentlessly down. Langdon knew in a heartbeat it was over. The killer raised the weapon, and Langdon did the only thing he could do. He rolled his body over the banister into the niche. As he hit the floor on the other side, the marble columns of the balustrade exploded in a storm of bullets. Langdon felt like a cornered animal as he scrambled deeper into the semicircular niche. Rising before him, the niche’s sole contents seemed ironically apropos – a single sarcophagus. Mine perhaps, Langdon thought. Even the casket itself seemed fitting. It was a sctola – a small, unadorned, marble box. Burial on a budget. The casket was raised off the floor on two marble blocks, and Langdon eyed the opening beneath it, wondering if he could slide through. Footsteps echoed behind him. With no other option in sight, Langdon pressed himself to the floor and slithered toward the casket. Grabbing the two marble supports, one with each hand, he pulled like a breaststroker, dragging his torso into the opening beneath the tomb. The gun went off. Accompanying the roar of the gun, Langdon felt a sensation he had never felt in his life†¦ a bullet sailing past his flesh. There was a hiss of wind, like the backlash of a whip, as the bullet just missed him and exploded in the marble with a puff of dust. Blood surging, Langdon heaved his body the rest of the way beneath the casket. Scrambling across the marble floor, he pulled himself out from beneath the casket and to the other side. Dead end. Langdon was now face to face with the rear wall of the niche. He had no doubt that this tiny space behind the tomb would become his grave. And soon, he realized, as he saw the barrel of the gun appear in the opening beneath the sarcophagus. The Hassassin held the weapon parallel with the floor, pointing directly at Langdon’s midsection. Impossible to miss. Langdon felt a trace of self-preservation grip his unconscious mind. He twisted his body onto his stomach, parallel with the casket. Facedown, he planted his hands flat on the floor, the glass cut from the archives pinching open with a stab. Ignoring the pain, he pushed. Driving his body upward in an awkward push-up, Langdon arched his stomach off the floor just as the gun went off. He could feel the shock wave of the bullets as they sailed beneath him and pulverized the porous travertine behind. Closing his eyes and straining against exhaustion, Langdon prayed for the thunder to stop. And then it did. The roar of gunfire was replaced with the cold click of an empty chamber. Langdon opened his eyes slowly, almost fearful his eyelids would make a sound. Fighting the trembling pain, he held his position, arched like a cat. He didn’t even dare breathe. His eardrums numbed by gunfire, Langdon listened for any hint of the killer’s departure. Silence. He thought of Vittoria and ached to help her. The sound that followed was deafening. Barely human. A guttural bellow of exertion. The sarcophagus over Langdon’s head suddenly seemed to rise on its side. Langdon collapsed on the floor as hundreds of pounds teetered toward him. Gravity overcame friction, and the lid was the first to go, sliding off the tomb and crashing to the floor beside him. The casket came next, rolling off its supports and toppling upside down toward Langdon. As the box rolled, Langdon knew he would either be entombed in the hollow beneath it or crushed by one of the edges. Pulling in his legs and head, Langdon compacted his body and yanked his arms to his sides. Then he closed his eyes and awaited the sickening crush. When it came, the entire floor shook beneath him. The upper rim landed only millimeters from the top of his head, rattling his teeth in their sockets. His right arm, which Langdon had been certain would be crushed, miraculously still felt intact. He opened his eyes to see a shaft of light. The right rim of the casket had not fallen all the way to the floor and was still propped partially on its supports. Directly overhead, though, Langdon found himself staring quite literally into the face of death. The original occupant of the tomb was suspended above him, having adhered, as decaying bodies often did, to the bottom of the casket. The skeleton hovered a moment, like a tentative lover, and then with a sticky crackling, it succumbed to gravity and peeled away. The carcass rushed down to embrace him, raining putrid bones and dust into Langdon’s eyes and mouth. Before Langdon could react, a blind arm was slithering through the opening beneath the casket, sifting through the carcass like a hungry python. It groped until it found Langdon’s neck and clamped down. Langdon tried to fight back against the iron fist now crushing his larynx, but he found his left sleeve pinched beneath the edge of the coffin. He had only one arm free, and the fight was a losing battle. Langdon’s legs bent in the only open space he had, his feet searching for the casket floor above him. He found it. Coiling, he planted his feet. Then, as the hand around his neck squeezed tighter, Langdon closed his eyes and extended his legs like a ram. The casket shifted, ever so slightly, but enough. With a raw grinding, the sarcophagus slid off the supports and landed on the floor. The casket rim crashed onto the killer’s arm, and there was a muffled scream of pain. The hand released Langdon’s neck, twisting and jerking away into the dark. When the killer finally pulled his arm free, the casket fell with a conclusive thud against the flat marble floor. Complete darkness. Again. And silence. There was no frustrated pounding outside the overturned sarcophagus. No prying to get in. Nothing. As Langdon lay in the dark amidst a pile of bones, he fought the closing darkness and turned his thoughts to her. Vittoria. Are you alive? If Langdon had known the truth – the horror to which Vittoria would soon awake – he would have wished for her sake that she were dead. 94 Sitting in the Sistine Chapel among his stunned colleagues, Cardinal Mortati tried to comprehend the words he was hearing. Before him, lit only by the candlelight, the camerlegno had just told a tale of such hatred and treachery that Mortati found himself trembling. The camerlegno spoke of kidnapped cardinals, branded cardinals, murdered cardinals. He spoke of the ancient Illuminati – a name that dredged up forgotten fears – and of their resurgence and vow of revenge against the church. With pain in his voice, the camerlegno spoke of his late Pope†¦ the victim of an Illuminati poisoning. And finally, his words almost a whisper, he spoke of a deadly new technology, antimatter, which in less than two hours threatened to destroy all of Vatican City. When he was through, it was as if Satan himself had sucked the air from the room. Nobody could move. The camerlegno’s words hung in the darkness. The only sound Mortati could now hear was the anomalous hum of a television camera in back – an electronic presence no conclave in history had ever endured – but a presence demanded by the camerlegno. To the utter astonishment of the cardinals, the camerlegno had entered the Sistine Chapel with two BBC reporters – a man and a woman – and announced that they would be transmitting his solemn statement, live to the world. Now, speaking directly to the camera, the camerlegno stepped forward. â€Å"To the Illuminati,† he said, his voice deepening, â€Å"and to those of science, let me say this.† He paused. â€Å"You have won the war.† The silence spread now to the deepest corners of the chapel. Mortati could hear the desperate thumping of his own heart. â€Å"The wheels have been in motion for a long time,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"Your victory has been inevitable. Never before has it been as obvious as it is at this moment. Science is the new God.† What is he saying? Mortati thought. Has he gone mad? The entire world is hearing this! â€Å"Medicine, electronic communications, space travel, genetic manipulation†¦ these are the miracles about which we now tell our children. These are the miracles we herald as proof that science will bring us the answers. The ancient stories of immaculate conceptions, burning bushes, and parting seas are no longer relevant. God has become obsolete. Science has won the battle. We concede.† A rustle of confusion and bewilderment swept through the chapel. â€Å"But science’s victory,† the camerlegno added, his voice intensifying, â€Å"has cost every one of us. And it has cost us deeply.† Silence. â€Å"Science may have alleviated the miseries of disease and drudgery and provided an array of gadgetry for our entertainment and convenience, but it has left us in a world without wonder. Our sunsets have been reduced to wavelengths and frequencies. The complexities of the universe have been shredded into mathematical equations. Even our self-worth as human beings has been destroyed. Science proclaims that Planet Earth and its inhabitants are a meaningless speck in the grand scheme. A cosmic accident.† He paused. â€Å"Even the technology that promises to unite us, divides us. Each of us is now electronically connected to the globe, and yet we feel utterly alone. We are bombarded with violence, division, fracture, and betrayal. Skepticism has become a virtue. Cynicism and demand for proof has become enlightened thought. Is it any wonder that humans now feel more depressed and defeated than they have at any point in human history? Does science hold anything sacred? Science l ooks for answers by probing our unborn fetuses. Science even presumes to rearrange our own DNA. It shatters God’s world into smaller and smaller pieces in quest of meaning†¦ and all it finds is more questions.† Mortati watched in awe. The camerlegno was almost hypnotic now. He had a physical strength in his movements and voice that Mortati had never witnessed on a Vatican altar. The man’s voice was wrought with conviction and sadness. â€Å"The ancient war between science and religion is over,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"You have won. But you have not won fairly. You have not won by providing answers. You have won by so radically reorienting our society that the truths we once saw as signposts now seem inapplicable. Religion cannot keep up. Scientific growth is exponential. It feeds on itself like a virus. Every new breakthrough opens doors for new breakthroughs. Mankind took thousands of years to progress from the wheel to the car. Yet only decades from the car into space. Now we measure scientific progress in weeks. We are spinning out of control. The rift between us grows deeper and deeper, and as religion is left behind, people find themselves in a spiritual void. We cry out for meaning. And believe me, we do cry out. We see UFOs, engage in channeling, spirit contact, out-of-body experiences, mindquests – all these eccentric ideas have a scientific veneer, but they are unashamedly irrational. Th ey are the desperate cry of the modern soul, lonely and tormented, crippled by its own enlightenment and its inability to accept meaning in anything removed from technology.† Mortati could feel himself leaning forward in his seat. He and the other cardinals and people around the world were hanging on this priest’s every utterance. The camerlegno spoke with no rhetoric or vitriol. No references to scripture or Jesus Christ. He spoke in modern terms, unadorned and pure. Somehow, as though the words were flowing from God himself, he spoke the modern language†¦ delivering the ancient message. In that moment, Mortati saw one of the reasons the late Pope held this young man so dear. In a world of apathy, cynicism, and technological deification, men like the camerlegno, realists who could speak to our souls like this man just had, were the church’s only hope. The camerlegno was talking more forcefully now. â€Å"Science, you say, will save us. Science, I say, has destroyed us. Since the days of Galileo, the church has tried to slow the relentless march of science, sometimes with misguided means, but always with benevolent intention. Even so, the temptations are too great for man to resist. I warn you, look around yourselves. The promises of science have not been kept. Promises of efficiency and simplicity have bred nothing but pollution and chaos. We are a fractured and frantic species†¦ moving down a path of destruction.† The camerlegno paused a long moment and then sharpened his eyes on the camera. â€Å"Who is this God science? Who is the God who offers his people power but no moral framework to tell you how to use that power? What kind of God gives a child fire but does not warn the child of its dangers? The language of science comes with no signposts about good and bad. Science textbooks tell us how to create a nuclear reaction, and yet they contain no chapter asking us if it is a good or a bad idea. â€Å"To science, I say this. The church is tired. We are exhausted from trying to be your signposts. Our resources are drying up from our campaign to be the voice of balance as you plow blindly on in your quest for smaller chips and larger profits. We ask not why you will not govern yourselves, but how can you? Your world moves so fast that if you stop even for an instant to consider the implications of your actions, someone more efficient will whip past you in a blur. So you move on. You proliferate weapons of mass destruction, but it is the Pope who travels the world beseeching leaders to use restraint. You clone living creatures, but it is the church reminding us to consider the moral implications of our actions. You encourage people to interact on phones, video screens, and computers, but it is the church who opens its doors and reminds us to commune in person as we were meant to do. You even murder unborn babies in the name of research that will save lives. Again, it is the ch urch who points out the fallacy of this reasoning. â€Å"And all the while, you proclaim the church is ignorant. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning, or the man who does not respect its awesome power? This church is reaching out to you. Reaching out to everyone. And yet the more we reach, the more you push us away. Show me proof there is a God, you say. I say use your telescopes to look to the heavens, and tell me how there could not be a God!† The camerlegno had tears in his eyes now. â€Å"You ask what does God look like. I say, where did that question come from? The answers are one and the same. Do you not see God in your science? How can you miss Him! You proclaim that even the slightest change in the force of gravity or the weight of an atom would have rendered our universe a lifeless mist rather than our magnificent sea of heavenly bodies, and yet you fail to see God’s hand in this? Is it really so much easier to believe that we simply chose the right card from a deck of billions? Have w e become so spiritually bankrupt that we would rather believe in mathematical impossibility than in a power greater than us? â€Å"Whether or not you believe in God,† the camerlegno said, his voice deepening with deliberation, â€Å"you must believe this. When we as a species abandon our trust in the power greater than us, we abandon our sense of accountability. Faith†¦ all faiths†¦ are admonitions that there is something we cannot understand, something to which we are accountable†¦ With faith we are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion is flawed, but only because man is flawed. If the outside world could see this church as I do†¦ looking beyond the ritual of these walls†¦ they would see a modern miracle†¦ a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls wanting only to be a voice of compassion in a world spinning out of control.† The camerlegno motioned out over the College of Cardinals, and the BBC camerawoman instinctively followed, panning the crowd. â€Å"Are we obsolete?† the camerlegno asked. â€Å"Are these men dino-saurs? Am I? Does the world really need a voice for the poor, the weak, the oppressed, the unborn child? Do we really need souls like these who, though imperfect, spend their lives imploring each of us to read the signposts of morality and not lose our way?† Mortati now realized that the camerlegno, whether consciously or not, was making a brilliant move. By showing the cardinals, he was personalizing the church. Vatican City was no longer a building, it was people – people like the camerlegno who had spent their lives in the service of goodness. â€Å"Tonight we are perched on a precipice,† the camerlegno said. â€Å"None of us can afford to be apathetic. Whether you see this evil as Satan, corruption, or immorality†¦ the dark force is alive and growing every day. Do not ignore it.† The camerlegno lowered his voice to a whisper, and the camera moved in. â€Å"The force, though mighty, is not invincible. Goodness can prevail. Listen to your hearts. Listen to God. Together we can step back from this abyss.† Now Mortati understood. This was the reason. Conclave had been violated, but this was the only way. It was a dramatic and desperate plea for help. The camerlegno was speaking to both his enemy and his friends now. He was entreating anyone, friend or foe, to see the light and stop this madness. Certainly someone listening would realize the insanity of this plot and come forward. The camerlegno knelt at the altar. â€Å"Pray with me.† The College of Cardinals dropped to their knees to join him in prayer. Outside in St. Peter’s Square and around the globe†¦ a stunned world knelt with them. 95 The Hassassin lay his unconscious trophy in the rear of the van and took a moment to admire her sprawled body. She was not as beautiful as the women he bought, and yet she had an animal strength that excited him. Her body was radiant, dewy with perspiration. She smelled of musk. As the Hassasin stood there savoring his prize, he ignored the throb in his arm. The bruise from the falling sarcophagus, although painful, was insignificant†¦ well worth the compensation that lay before him. He took consolation in knowing the American who had done this to him was probably dead by now. Gazing down at his incapacitated prisoner, the Hassassin visualized what lay ahead. He ran a palm up beneath her shirt. Her breasts felt perfect beneath her bra. Yes, he smiled. You are more than worthy. Fighting the urge to take her right there, he closed the door and drove off into the night. There was no need to alert the press about this killing†¦ the flames would do that for him. At CERN, Sylvie sat stunned by the camerlegno’s address. Never before had she felt so proud to be a Catholic and so ashamed to work at CERN. As she left the recreational wing, the mood in every single viewing room was dazed and somber. When she got back to Kohler’s office, all seven phone lines were ringing. Media inquiries were never routed to Kohler’s office, so the incoming calls could only be one thing. Geld. Money calls. Antimatter technology already had some takers. Inside the Vatican, Gunther Glick was walking on air as he followed the camerlegno from the Sistine Chapel. Glick and Macri had just made the live transmission of the decade. And what a transmission it had been. The camerlegno had been spellbinding. Now out in the hallway, the camerlegno turned to Glick and Macri. â€Å"I have asked the Swiss Guard to assemble photos for you – photos of the branded cardinals as well as one of His late Holiness. I must warn you, these are not pleasant pictures. Ghastly burns. Blackened tongues. But I would like you to broadcast them to the world.† Glick decided it must be perpetual Christmas inside Vatican City. He wants me to broadcast an exclusive photo of the dead Pope? â€Å"Are you sure?† Glick asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. The camerlegno nodded. â€Å"The Swiss Guard will also provide you a live video feed of the antimatter canister as it counts down.† Glick stared. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas! â€Å"The Illuminati are about to find out,† the camerlegno declared, â€Å"that they have grossly overplayed their hand.† 96 Like a recurring theme in some demonic symphony, the suffocating darkness had returned. No light. No air. No exit. Langdon lay trapped beneath the overturned sarcophagus and felt his mind careening dangerously close to the brink. Trying to drive his thoughts in any direction other than the crushing space around him, Langdon urged his mind toward some logical process†¦ mathematics, music, anything. But there was no room for calming thoughts. I can’t move! I can’t breathe! The pinched sleeve of his jacket had thankfully come free when the casket fell, leaving Langdon now with two mobile arms. Even so, as he pressed upward on the ceiling of his tiny cell, he found it immovable. Oddly, he wished his sleeve were still caught. At least it might create a crack for some air. As Langdon pushed against the roof above, his sleeve fell back to reveal the faint glow of an old friend. Mickey. The greenish cartoon face seemed mocking now. Langdon probed the blackness for any other sign of light, but the casket rim was flush against the floor. Goddamn Italian perfectionists, he cursed, now imperiled by the same artistic excellence he taught his students to revere†¦ impeccable edges, faultless parallels, and of course, use only of the most seamless and resilient Carrara marble. Precision can be suffocating. â€Å"Lift the damn thing,† he said aloud, pressing harder through the tangle of bones. The box shifted slightly. Setting his jaw, he heaved again. The box felt like a boulder, but this time it raised a quarter of an inch. A fleeting glimmer of light surrounded him, and then the casket thudded back down. Langdon lay panting in the dark. He tried to use his legs to lift as he had before, but now that the sarcophagus had fallen flat, there was no room even to straighten his knees. As the claustrophobic panic closed in, Langdon was overcome by images of the sarcophagus shrinking around him. Squeezed by delirium, he fought the illusion with every logical shred of intellect he had. â€Å"Sarcophagus,† he stated aloud, with as much academic sterility as he could muster. But even erudition seemed to be his enemy today. Sarcophagus is from the Greek â€Å"sarx† meaning â€Å"flesh,† and â€Å"phagein† meaning â€Å"to eat.† I’m trapped in a box literally designed to â€Å"eat flesh.† Images of flesh eaten from bone only served as a grim reminder that Langdon lay covered in human remains. The notion brought nausea and chills. But it also brought an idea. Fumbling blindly around the coffin, Langdon found a shard of bone. A rib maybe? He didn’t care. All he wanted was a wedge. If he could lift the box, even a crack, and slide the bone fragment beneath the rim, then maybe enough air could†¦ Reaching across his body and wedging the tapered end of the bone into the crack between the floor and the coffin, Langdon reached up with his other hand and heaved skyward. The box did not move. Not even slightly. He tried again. For a moment, it seemed to tremble slightly, but that was all. With the fetid stench and lack of oxygen choking the strength from his body, Langdon realized he only had time for one more effort. He also knew he would need both arms. Regrouping, he placed the tapered edge of the bone against the crack, and shifting his body, he wedged the bone against his shoulder, pinning it in place. Careful not to dislodge it, he raised both hands above him. As the stifling confine began to smother him, he felt a welling of intensified panic. It was the second time today he had been trapped with no air. Hollering aloud, Langdon thrust upward in one explosive motion. The casket jostled off the floor for an instant. But long enough. The bone shard he had braced against his shoulder slipped outward into the widening crack. When the casket fell again, the bone shattered. But this time Langdon could see the casket was propped up. A tiny slit of light showed beneath the rim. Exhausted, Langdon collapsed. Hoping the strangling sensation in his throat would pass, he waited. But it only worsened as the seconds passed. Whatever air was coming through the slit seemed imperceptible. Langdon wondered if it would be enough to keep him alive. And if so, for how long? If he passed out, who would know he was even in there? With arms like lead, Langdon raised his watch again: 10:12 P.M. Fighting trembling fingers, he fumbled with the watch and made his final play. He twisted one of the tiny dials and pressed a button. As consciousness faded, and the walls squeezed closer, Langdon felt the old fears sweep over him. He tried to imagine, as he had so many times, that he was in an open field. The image he conjured, however, was no help. The nightmare that had haunted him since his youth came crashing back†¦ The flowers here are like paintings, the child thought, laughing as he ran across the meadow. He wished his parents had come along. But his parents were busy pitching camp. â€Å"Don’t explore too far,† his mother had said. He had pretended not to hear as he bounded off into the woods. Now, traversing this glorious field, the boy came across a pile of fieldstones. He figured it must be the foundation of an old homestead. He would not go near it. He knew better. Besides, his eyes had been drawn to something else – a brilliant lady’s slipper – the rarest and most beautiful flower in New Hampshire. He had only ever seen them in books. Excited, the boy moved toward the flower. He knelt down. The ground beneath him felt mulchy and hollow. He realized his flower had found an extra-fertile spot. It was growing from a patch of rotting wood. Thrilled by the thought of taking home his prize, the boy reached out†¦ fingers extending toward the stem. He never reached it. With a sickening crack, the earth gave way. In the three seconds of dizzying terror as he fell, the boy knew he would die. Plummeting downward, he braced for the bone-crushing collision. When it came, there was no pain. Only softness. And cold. He hit the deep liquid face first, plunging into a narrow blackness. Spinning disoriented somersaults, he groped the sheer walls thatenclosed him on all sides. Somehow, as if by instinct, he sputtered to the surface. Light. Faint. Above him. Miles above him, it seemed. His arms clawed at the water, searching the walls of the hollow for something to grab onto. Only smooth stone. He had fallen through an abandoned well covering. He screamed for help, but his cries reverberated in the tight shaft. He called out again and again. Above him, the tattered hole grew dim. Night fell. Time seemed to contort in the darkness. Numbness set in as he treaded water in the depths of the chasm, calling, crying out. He was tormented by visions of the walls collapsing in, burying him alive. His arms ached with fatigue. A few times he thought he heard voices. He shouted out, but his own voice was muted†¦ like a dream. As the night wore on, the shaft deepened. The walls inched quietly inward. The boy pressed out against the enclosure, pushing it away. Exhausted, he wanted to give up. And yet he felt the water buoy him, cooling his burning fears until he was numb. When the rescue team arrived, they found the boy barely conscious. He had been treading water for five hours. Two days later, the Boston Globe ran a front-page story called â€Å"The Little Swimmer That Could.† 97 The Hassassin smiled as he pulled his van into the mammoth stone structure overlooking the Tiber River. He carried his prize up and up†¦ spiraling higher in the stone tunnel, grateful his load was slender. He arrived at the door. The Church of Illumination, he gloated. The ancient Illuminati meeting room. Who would have imagined it to be here? Inside, he lay her on a plush divan. Then he expertly bound her arms behind her back and tied her feet. He knew that what he longed for would have to wait until his final task was finished. Water. Still, he thought, he had a moment for indulgence. Kneeling beside her, he ran his hand along her thigh. It was smooth. Higher. His dark fingers snaked beneath the cuff of her shorts. Higher. He stopped. Patience, he told himself, feeling aroused. There is work to be done. He walked for a moment out onto the chamber’s high stone balcony. The evening breeze slowly cooled his ardor. Far below the Tiber raged. He raised his eyes to the dome of St. Peter’s, three quarters of a mile away, naked under the glare of hundreds of press lights. â€Å"Your final hour,† he said aloud, picturing the thousands of Muslims slaughtered during the Crusades. â€Å"At midnight you will meet your God.† Behind him, the woman stirred. The Hassassin turned. He considered letting her wake up. Seeing terror in a woman’s eyes was his ultimate aphrodisiac. He opted for prudence. It would be better if she remained unconscious while he was gone. Although she was tied and would never escape, the Hassassin did not want to return and find her exhausted from struggling. I want your strength preserved†¦ for me. Lifting her head slightly, he placed his palm beneath her neck and found the hollow directly beneath her skull. The crown/meridian pressure point was one he had used countless times. With crushing force, he drove his thumb into the soft cartilage and felt it depress. The woman slumped instantly. Twenty minutes, he thought. She would be a tantalizing end to a perfect day. After she had served him and died doing it, he would stand on the balcony and watch the midnight Vatican fireworks. Leaving his prize unconscious on the couch, the Hassassin went downstairs into a torchlit dungeon. The final task. He walked to the table and revered the sacred, metal forms that had been left there for him. Water. It was his last. Removing a torch from the wall as he had done three times already, he began heating the end. When the end of the object was white hot, he carried it to the cell. Inside, a single man stood in silence. Old and alone. â€Å"Cardinal Baggia,† the killer hissed. â€Å"Have you prayed yet?† The Italian’s eyes were fearless. â€Å"Only for your soul.†

Analysis of American Eagle Outfitters Research Paper

Analysis of American Eagle Outfitters - Research Paper Example he company’s auditor, the research will draw from the current financial statements for the year ending February 2013 in an attempt to identify the name of the audit firm, whether the audit firm issued a combined for separate reports, the type of audit opinion provided and the auditor’s view about internal control over fiscal reporting. AEO is a retailer company whose main business activity is clothing and accessories sold under its own private label brands. Its main products include footwear, apparel, personal care, accessories and lingerie, which is offered in a multi-brand targeting people in different ages. The American Eagle Outfitters most common brand targets both female and male aged 15 to 25 years. It most popular products are polo shirts, low-rise jeans, swimwear, graphic T-shirts, Henley shirts, briefs and boxers. The aerie lingerie brand targets females aged 15-21 years and it offers a variety of female wears including undergarments, dorm-wear, loungewear, sleepwear and active apparel. The company has experienced misfortunes while marketing its brands. For instance, failure of success by the Martin + Osa stand alone lifestyle concept brand led to its closure in 2006. It targeted women and men aged 28-40 years. Furthermore, its latest brand, 77 kids, which targeted children aged 2-10 years was also sold after experiencing after tax losses in 2012. American Eagle Outfitters has a worldwide presence in a number of international countries. The company has expanded to Canada, Puerto Rico, Egypt, Tokyo, Moscow, Dubai and Kuwait where it sells its clothing brands. With over nine hundred stores and 148 Aerie stand-alone stores, this clothing retailer is one of the largest in U.S having acquired revenues of $ 3.48 billions in FY 2013 (United States Securities And Exchange Commission-FY 2013). AEO is a public company; therefore, it is required by law to appoint an independent external auditor to audit its financial statements. This is also a requirement

Safety and quality of meat Assignment Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1250 words

Safety and quality of meat - Assignment Example Looking at the outbreak of Food and Mouth Disease (FMD) in 2001 and the destruction this very infectious animal disease caused to the livestock industry and economy of the United Kingdom has caused the level of inspection to be increased in the import of the poultry sector of the country. The disease was completely removed from its entire root in 8 months but by this time the United Kingdom had slaughtered more than 4 million animals to stop the disease from spreading and had faced loses worth more than 5 billion dollars in its food and agriculture industry. Due to this disease United Kingdom also had to face a loss in its tourism industry as the people were scared about the food they would be eating in the United Kingdom. The United Kingdom had been FMD free since the last 34 years before the FMD breakout in 2001. The United Kingdom until recent was not allowed to take part in international trade of livestock, poultry and the products produced from these livestock’s and poult ry as they could transfer the FMD virus in the other countries (United States General Accounting Office, 2002). On the other hand the United States since the last outbreak in 1929 has been a FMD free country and has not faced an outbreak of this disease till today. The poultry, livestock and agriculture industry of the United States was worth 100 billion dollars in 2001. The importance of the livestock is immense for the agricultural sector and industry of the United States and hence it is an important duty of the United States Department of Agriculture to keep the livestock safe from FMD and other animal diseases not existing in the United States. The USDA’s Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS) have to assure the precise labeling, the safety and healthiness of the poultry, meat and processed egg products. FSIS imposes the Federal Meat Inspection Act (FMIA), the Egg Products Inspection Act and the Poultry

Education in Pakistan Essay Example for Free

Education in Pakistan Essay Education in Pakistan is overseen by the governments Ministry of Education and the provincial governments, whereas the federal government mostly assists in curriculum development, accreditation and in the financing of research. The article 25-A of Constitution of Pakistan obligates the state to provide free and compulsory quality education to children of the age group 5 to 16 years. â€Å"The State shall provide free and compulsory education to all children of the age of five to sixteen years in such a manner as may be determined by law†. [3] The education system in Pakistan is generally divided into five levels: primary (grades one through five); middle (grades six through eight); high(grades nine and ten, leading to the Secondary School Certificate or SSC); intermediate (grades eleven and twelve, leading to a Higher Secondary (School) Certificate or HSC); and university programs leading to undergraduate and graduate degrees. [4] The literacy rate ranges from 87% in Islamabad to 20% in the Kohlu District. [5] Between 2000—2004, Pakistanis in the age group 55–64 had a literacy rate of almost 30%, those aged between 45–54 had a literacy rate of nearly 40%, those between 25–34 had a literacy rate of 50%, and those aged 15–24 had a literacy rate of 60%. [6] Literacy rates vary regionally, particularly by sex. In tribal areas female literacy is 7. 5%. [7]Moreover, English is fast spreading in Pakistan, with 18 million Pakistanis[8] (11% of the population)[8] having a command over the English language, which makes it the 9th Largest English Speaking Nation[9] in the world and the 3rd largest in Asia. [8] On top of that, Pakistan produces about 445,000 university graduates and 10,000 computer science graduates per year. [10] Despite these statistics, Pakistan still has one of the highest illiteracy rates in the world. [11] Education Expenditure as Percentage of GDP Public expenditure on education lies on the fringes of 2 percent of GDP. However, the government recently approved the new national education policy, which stipulates that education expenditure will be increased to 7% of GDP,[22] an idea that was first suggested by the Punjab government. [23] Author of an article, which reviews the history of education spending in Pakistan since 1972, argues that this policy target raises a fundamental question: What extraordinary things are going to happen that would enable Pakistan to achieve within six years what it has been unable to lay a hand on in the past six decades? The policy document is blank on this question and does not discuss the assumptions that form the basis of this target. Calculations of the author show that during the past 37 years, the highest public expenditure on education was 2. 80 percent of GDP in 1987-88. Public expenditure on education as a percentage of GDP was actually reduced in 16 years and maintained in 5 years between 1972–73 and 2008-09. Thus, out of total 37 years since 1972, public expenditure on education as a percentage of GDP either decreased or remained stagnant for 21 years. The author argues if linear trend were maintained since 1972, Pakistan could have touched 4 percent of GDP well before 2015. However, it is unlikely to happen because the levels of spending have had remained significantly unpredictable and unsteady in the past. Given this disappointing trajectory, increasing public expenditure on education to 7 percent of GDP would be nothing less than a miracle but it is not going to be of godly nature. Instead, it is going to be the one of political nature because it has to be invented by those who are at the helm of affairs. The author suggests that little success can be made unless Pakistan adopts an unconventional approach to education. That is to say, education sector should be treated as a special sector by immunizing budgetary allocations for it from fiscal stresses and political and economic instabilities. Allocations for education should not be affected by squeezed fiscal space or surge in military expenditure or debts. At the same time, there is a need to debate others options about how Pakistan can invent the miracle of raising education expenditure to 7 percent of GDP by 2015. [24]

H.R. department at Coca-Cola :: essays research papers

Q1- Introduction, business profile of Coca-Cola, and its historical prospective. In May 1886, Coca-Cola was invented by Doctor John Pemberton a pharmacist from Atlanta, Georgia. The name was a suggestion given by John Pemberton’s bookkeeper Frank Robinson who was the first to script â€Å"Coca-Cola† into the flowing letters which has become the famous logo of today. Until 1905, the soft drink, marketed as tonic, contained extracts of cocaine as well as the caffeine-rich kola nut. As we know, every new product in its introductory stage faces a certain loss due to higher cost relatively to the revenue generated after sales, and that was the case when Pemberton started the selling process on May 8 of that same year, where he ended up with a loss of $20 as a result of costs equal to $70 and revenues equal to $50. By the late 1890s, Coca-Cola was one of America’s most popular fountain drinks. With another Atlanta pharmacist, Asa Griggs Candler, the Coca-Cola Company increased sales by over 4000% between 1890 and 1900. Advertising was an important factor in Pemberton and Candler’s success. And by the turn of the century, the drink was sold across the United States and Canada. In addition, the company began selling syrup to independent bottling companies licensed to sell the drink. After 19 years of the invention date, the Coca-Cola Company started operating internationally and it became the world’s largest bottle of liquid, nonalcoholic refreshment. It took the company about 119 years to turn the $20 loss in 1886 into $596 million profit in 2004, and that implies a successful business strategy followed by the company. Coca-Cola Enterprises is the world’s largest Coca-Cola bottler, selling approximately 43 billion bottles and cans each year. The company markets, distributes and produces beverage products of Coca-Cola Company and its subsidiaries. The products include Coca-Cola Classic, caffeine free Coca-Cola classic, diet Coke, Sprite, Cherry Coke, and Fanta. The company conducts its business primarily under agreements with The Coca-Cola Company, which own around 37% of the company's common stock. These agreements give it the exclusive right to market, distribute and produce beverage products in specified territories. This also provide the Coca-Cola Company with the ability to establish prices, terms of payment and other terms and conditions for the purchase of concentrates and syrups, in addition to other significant transactions and agreements including acquisitions of bottling territories, arrangements for cooperative marketing, advertising expenditures, purchases of sweeteners and strategic marketing initiatives.

Break-Even Point of Industry Essay

1. Airbus’ Interests & Objectives First of all, the large and cost-efficient A3XX would be popular with significant growth in the air transportation industry. Worldwide passenger traffic would almost triple in volume by 2019, with fuel price rising in the future. Creating large and cost-efficient aircrafts, rather than increasing frequencies and building new routes, would be the long-term solutions to the problem of growing demand. Therefore, this project will be strategically significant. Secondly, Airbus wants to gain market shares in the VLA market and break up the monopoly of the 747, but it didn’t have a product to compete with Boeing’s 747. Compared to the 747, the A3XX provides more advantageous features which would attract passengers especially on the longer routes, such as more space per seat, four-engine plane, etc. The combination of increased capacity and reduced costs would provide superior economics. Airbus felt confident that capacity increases would eventually prevail. As we stated above , Airbus’s objectives are to break up the monopoly of the 747, to increase its market share in the VLA market, to gain enormous financial success and to be an industry leader. 2. Break-Even Point & Market Demand Production will be able to reach full capacity from 2008, with order and delivery assumed on a stable level. During this period, the capital expenditure will be offset by depreciation in calculation of free cash flow, and R&D will be included in the operating margin. The company, as assumed, will produce and deliver 22 aircrafts for the airlines which have ordered, with 6 in 2006 and 16 in 2007. Since $700 million would have already been spent before the decision, this amount of investment should be treated as sunk cost, therefore irrelevant to the NPV analysis. To break even, with assumed operating margin of 18%, Airbus should produce and sell about 40 VLAs every year since 2008, or 495 in total before 2019. Taking the estimated margin from Lehman Brothers and CS First Boston into consideration, total orders needed for break-even can range from 306 to 509 in 20 years. From the view of Airbus, the market demand for VLA, 1550 in years, is large enough to take this project. And it is pretty safe to launch the development since, even with lowest estimated margin, 38% of total market share will guarantee a break-even. However, Boeing gives a totally different perspective and a much lower forecast on potential market demand. Under this estimation, A3XX development will have little chance to make a profit. Airbus should take at least half a market on VLA to make that project fruitful. 3. Boeing’s Response Based on the analysis before, the VLA market is so promising that Airbus is very likely to launch the A3XX. Facing with this threat, the most important move for Boeing is to prevent Airbus from dominating the VLA market. Therefore, Boeing can cut the price of existing 747 product lines and produce 747 stretch as response to Airbus. Producing 747 stretch which may contain 550+ passengers won’t be too costly for Boeing since is a modification over the current model, and that can powerfully compete with A3XX in the VLA market. Before the stretch version is market available, Boeing can offer a price cutting of the existing 747 which can not only divert sales away from A3XX, but also make A3XX project less attractive. Other alternatives might not fit. Firstly, fighting the A3XX on legal grounds (improper subsidies) will probably induce the revenge complain from Airbus, making Boeing itself to pay a large penalty. Secondly, to develop its own super jumbo jet is costly and maybe not profitable. What’s worse, in 1997 Boeing faced the first loss in more than 50 years, it’s better for Boeing to have a prudent stable strategy than an aggressive investing. 4. The Threshold To Launch We think Airbus should commit to build A3XX. The Annual Sales and Orders as of 1999 show that Airbus currently faces a disadvantage in competition with Boeing on almost every size of passenger aircraft. Worse is that, while Boeing pockets the market for VLA, Airbus even has no product to compete. Breaking the monopoly on this market becomes critical for Airbus, which is aiming to lead the industry. Strategic significance of A3XX makes this project worth an effort. Compared with the situation when Boeing launched its 747 development with 25 initial orders, the current 22 orders, with other 34 probable, is not a negative sign to commit the project. However, there would also be great risk in the new aircraft development. The possible poor market demand will make the project unprofitable. More important is that new A3XX should be sold quickly in early years to exploit learning curve effect on manufactory and seize market before Boeing reacts.

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I was walking north along The Street. Japanese lanterns lined it, but they were all dark because it was daylight bright daylight. The muggy, smutchy look of mid-July was gone; the sky was that deep sapphire shade which is the sole property of October. The lake was deepest indigo beneath it, sparkling with sunpoints. The trees were just past the peak of their autumn colors, burning like torches. A wind out of the south blew the fallen leaves past me and between my legs in rattly, fragrant gusts. The Japanese lanterns nodded as if in approval of the season. Up ahead, faintly, I could hear music. Sara and the Red-Tops. Sara was belting it out, laughing her way through the lyric as she always had . . . only, how could laughter sound so much like a snarl? ‘White boy, I'd never kill a child of mine. That you'd even think it!' I whirled, expecting to see her right behind me, but there was no one there. Well . . . The Green Lady was there, only she had changed her dress of leaves for autumn and become the Yellow Lady. The bare pine-branch behind her still pointed the way: go north, young man, go north. Not much farther down the path was another birch, the one I'd held onto when that terrible drowning sensation had come over me again. I waited for it to come again now for my mouth and throat to fill up with the iron taste of the lake but it didn't happen. I looked back at the Yellow Lady, then beyond her to Sara Laughs. The house was there, but much reduced: no north wing, no south wing, no second story. No sign of Jo's studio off to the side, either. None of those things had been built yet. The ladybirch had travelled back with me from 1998; so had the one hanging over the lake. Otherwise ‘Where am I?' I asked the Yellow Lady and the nodding Japanese lanterns. Then a better question occurred to me. ‘When am I?' No answer. ‘It's a dream, isn't it? I'm in bed and dreaming.' Somewhere out in the brilliant, gold-sparkling net of the lake, a loon called. Twice. Hoot once for yes, twice for no, I thought. Not a dream, Michael. I don't know exactly what it is spiritual time-travel, maybe but it's not a dream. ‘Is this really happening?' I asked the day, and from somewhere back in the trees, where a track which would eventually come to be known as Lane Forty-two ran toward a dirt road which would eventually come to be known as Route 68, a crow cawed. Just once. I went to the birch hanging over the lake, slipped an arm around it (doing it lit a trace memory of slipping my hands around Mattie's waist, feeling her dress slide over her skin), and peered into the water, half-wanting to see the drowned boy, half-fearing to see him. There was no boy there, but something lay on the bottom where he had been, among the rocks and roots and waterweed. I squinted and just then the wind died a little, stilling the glints on the water. It was a cane, one with a gold head. A Boston Post cane. Wrapped around it in a rising spiral, their ends waving lazily, were what appeared to be a pair of ribbons white ones with bright red edges. Seeing Royce's cane wrapped that way made me think of high-school graduations, and the baton the class marshal waves as he or she leads the gowned seniors to their seats. Now I understood why the old crock hadn't answered the phone. Royce Merrill's phone-answering days were all done. I knew that; I also knew I had come to a time before Royce had even been born. Sara Tidwell was here, I could hear her singing, and when Royce had been born in 1903, Sara had already been gone for two years, she and her whole Red-Top family. ‘Go down, Moses,' I told the ribbon-wrapped cane in the water. ‘You bound for the Promised Land.' I walked on toward the sound of the music, invigorated by the cool air and rushing wind. Now I could hear voices as well, lots of them, talking and shouting and laughing. Rising above them and pumping like a piston was the hoarse cry of a sideshow barker: ‘Come on in, folks, hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay! It's all on the inside but you've got to hurr-ay, next show starts in ten minutes! See Angelina the Snake-Woman, she shimmies, she shakes, she'll bewitch your eye and steal your heart, but don't get too close for her bite is poy-son! See Hando the Dog-Faced Boy, terror of the South Seas! See the Human Skeleton! See the Human Gila Monster, relic of a time God forgot! See the Bearded Lady and all the Killer Martians! It's on the inside, yessirree, so hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay!' I could hear the steam-driven calliope of a merry-go-round and the bang of the bell at the top of the post as some lumberjack won a stuffed toy for his sweetie. You could tell from the delighted feminine screams that he'd hit it almost hard enough to pop it off the post. There was the snap of. 22s from the shooting gallery, the snoring moo of someone's prize cow . . . and now I began to smell the aromas I have associated with county fairs since I was a boy: sweet fried dough, grilled onions and peppers, cotton candy, manure, hay. I began to walk faster as the strum of guitars and thud of double basses grew louder. My heart kicked into a higher gear. I was going to see them perform, actually see Sara Laughs and the Red-Tops live and on stage. This was no crazy three-part fever-dream, either. This was happening right now, so hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay. The Washburn place (the one that would always be the Bricker place to Mrs. M.) was gone. Beyond where it would eventually be, rising up the steep slope on the eastern side of The Street, was a flight of broad wooden stairs. They reminded me of the ones which lead down from the amusement park to the beach at Old Orchard. Here the Japanese lanterns were lit in spite of the brightness of the day, and the music was louder than ever. Sara was singing ‘Jimmy Crack Corn.' I climbed the stairs toward the laughter and shouts, the sounds of the Red-Tops and the calliope, the smells of fried food and farm animals. Above the stairhead was a wooden arch with WELCOME TO FRYEBURG FAIR WELCOME TO THE 20TH CENTURY printed on it. As I watched, a little boy in short pants and a woman wearing a shirtwaist and an ankle-length linen skirt walked under the arch and toward me. They shimmered, grew gauzy. For a moment I could see their skeletons and the bone grins which lurked beneath their laughing faces. A moment later and they were gone. Two farmers one wearing a straw hat, the other gesturing expansively with a corncob pipe appeared on the Fair side of the arch in exactly the same fashion. In this way I understood that there was a barrier between The Street and the Fair. Yet I did not think it was a barrier which would affect me. I was an exception. ‘Is that right?' I asked. ‘Can I go in?' The bell at the top of the Test Your Strength pole banged loud and clear. Bong once for yes, twice for no. I continued on up the stairs. Now I could see the Ferris wheel turning against the brilliant sky, the wheel that had been in the background of the band photo in Osteen's Dark Score Days. The framework was metal, but the brightly painted gondolas were made of wood. Leading up to it like an aisle leading up to an altar was a broad, sawdust-strewn midway. The sawdust was there for a purpose; almost every man I saw was chewing tobacco. I paused for a few seconds at the top of the stairs, still on the lake side of the arch. I was afraid of what might happen to me if I passed under. Afraid of dying or disappearing, yes, but mostly of never being able to return the way I had come, of being condemned to spend eternity as a visitor to the turn-of-the-century Fryeburg Fair. That was also like a Ray Bradbury story, now that I thought of it. In the end what drew me into that other world was Sara Tidwell. I had to see her with my own eyes. I had to watch her sing. Had to. I felt a tingling as I stepped beneath the arch, and there was a sighing in my ears, as of a million voices, very far away. Sighing in relief? Dismay? I couldn't tell. All I knew for sure was that being on the other side was different the difference between looking at a thing through a window and actually being there; the difference between observing and participating. Colors jumped out like ambushers at the moment of attack. The smells which had been sweet and evocative and nostalgic on the lake side of the arch were now rough and sexy, prose instead of poetry. I could smell dense sausages and frying beef and the vast shadowy aroma of boiling chocolate. Two kids walked past me sharing a paper cone of cotton candy. Both of them were clutching knotted hankies with their little bits of change in them. ‘Hey kids!' a barker in a dark blue shirt called to them. He was wearing sleeve-garters and his smile revealed one splendid gold tooth. ‘Knock over the milk-bottles and win a prize! I en't had a loser all day!' Up ahead, the Red-Tops swung into ‘Fishin Blues.' I'd thought the kid on the common in Castle Rock was pretty good, but this version made the kid's sound old and slow and clueless. It wasn't cute, like an antique picture of ladies with their skirts held up to their knees, dancing a decorous version of the black bottom with the edges of their bloomers showing. It wasn't something Alan Lomax had collected with his other folk songs, just one more dusty American butterfly in a glass case full of them; this was smut with just enough shine on it to keep the whole struttin bunch of them out of jail. Sara Tidwell was singing about the dirty boogie, and I guessed that every overalled, straw-hatted, plug-chewing, callus-handed, clod-hopper-wearing farmer standing in front of the stage was dreaming about doing it with her, getting right down to where the sweat forms in the crease and the heat gets hot and the pink comes glimmering through. I started walking in that direction, aware of cows mooing and sheep blatting from the exhibition barns the Fair's version of my childhood Hi-Ho Dairy-O. I walked past the shooting gallery and the ringtoss and the penny-pitch; I walked past a stage where The Handmaidens of Angelina were weaving in a slow, snakelike dance with their hands pressed together as a guy with a turban on his head and shoepolish on his face tooted a flute. The picture painted on stretched canvas suggested that Angelina on view inside for just one tenth of a dollar, neighbor would make these two look like old boots. I walked past the entrance to Freak Alley, the corn-roasting pit, the Ghost House, where more stretched canvas depicted spooks coming out of broken windows and crumbling chimneys. Everything in there is death, I thought . . . but from inside I could hear children who were very much alive laughing and squealing as they bumped into things in the dark. The older among them were likely stealing kisse s. I passed the Test Your Strength pole, where the gradations leading to the brass bell at the top were marked BABY NEEDS HIS BOTTLE, SISSY, TRY AGAIN, BIG BOY, HE-MAN, and, just below the bell itself, in red: HERCULES! Standing at the center of a little crowd a young man with red hair was removing his shirt, revealing a heavily muscled upper torso. A cigar-smoking carny held a hammer out to him. I passed the quilting booth, a tent where people were sitting on benches and playing Bingo, the baseball pitch. I passed them all and hardly noticed. I was in the zone, tranced out. ‘You'll have to call him back,' Jo had sometimes told Harold when he phoned, ‘Michael is currently in the Land of Big Make-Believe.' Only now nothing felt like pretend and the only thing that interested me was the stage at the base of the Ferris wheel. There were eight black folks up there on it, maybe ten. Standing at the front, wearing a guitar and whaling on it as she sang, was Sara Tidwell. She w as alive. She was in her prime. She threw back her head and laughed at the October sky. What brought me out of this daze was a cry from behind me: ‘Wait up, Mike! Wait up!' I turned and saw Kyra running toward me, dodging around the strollers and gamesters and midway gawkers with her pudgy knees pumping. She was wearing a little white sailor dress with red piping and a straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on it. In one hand she clutched Strickland, and when she got to me she threw herself confidently forward, knowing I would catch her and swing her up. I did, and when her hat started to fall offi caught it and jammed it back on her head. ‘I taggled my own quartermack,' she said, and laughed. ‘Again.' ‘That's right,' I said. ‘You're a regular Mean Joe Green.' I was wearing overalls (the tail of a wash-faded blue bandanna stuck out of the bib pocket) and manure-stained workboots. I looked at Kyra's white socks and saw they were homemade. I would find no discreet little label reading Made in Mexico or Made in China if I took off her straw hat and looked inside, either. This hat had been most likely Made in Motton, by some farmer's wife with red hands and achy joints. ‘Ki, where's Mattie?' ‘Home, I guess. She couldn't come.' ‘How did you get here?' ‘Up the stairs. It was a lot of stairs. You should have waited for me. You could have carrot me, like before. I want to hear the music.' ‘Me too. Do you know who that is, Kyra?' ‘Yes,' she said, ‘Kito's mom. Hurry up, slowpoke!' I walked toward the stage, thinking we'd have to stand at the back of the crowd, but they parted for us as we came forward, me carrying Kyra in my arms the lovely sweet weight of her, a little Gibson Girl in her sailor dress and ribbon-accented straw hat. Her arm was curled around my neck and they parted for us like the Red Sea had parted for Moses. They didn't turn to look at us, either. They were clapping and stomping and bellowing along with the music, totally involved. They stepped aside unconsciously, as if some kind of magnetism were at work here ours positive, theirs negative. The few women in the crowd were blushing but clearly enjoying themselves, one of them laughing so hard tears were streaming down her face. She looked no more than twenty-two or -three. Kyra pointed to her and said matter-of-factly: ‘You know Mattie's boss at the liberry? That's her nana.' Lindy Briggs's grandmother, and fresh as a daisy, I thought. Good Christ. The Red-Tops were spread across the stage and under swags of red, white, and blue bunting like some time-travelling rock band. I recognized all of them from the picture in Edward Osteen's book. The men wore white shirts, arm-garters, dark vests, dark pants. Son Tidwell, at the far end of the stage, was wearing the derby he'd had on in the photo. Sara, though . . . ‘Why is the lady wearing Mattie's dress?' Kyra asked me, and she began to tremble. ‘I don't know, honey. I can't say.' Nor could I argue it was the white sleeveless dress Mattie had been wearing on the common, all right. On stage, the band was smoking through an instrumental break. Reginald ‘Son' Tidwell strolled over to Sara, feet ambling, hands a brown blur on the strings and frets of his guitar, and she turned to face him. They put their foreheads together, she laughing and he solemn; they looked into each other's eyes and tried to play each other down, the crowd cheering and clapping, the rest of the Red-Tops laughing as they played. Seeing them together like that, I realized that I had been right: they were brother and sister. The resemblance was too strong to be missed or mistaken. But mostly what I looked at was the way her hips and butt switched in that white dress. Kyra and I might be dressed in turn-of-the-century country clothes, but Sara was thoroughly modern Millie. No bloomers for her, no petticoats, no cotton stockings. No one seemed to notice that she was wearing a dress that stopped above her knees that she was all but naked by the standards of this time. And under Mattie's dr ess she'd be wearing garments the like of which these people had never seen: a Lycra bra and hip-hugger nylon panties. If I put my hands on her waist, the dress would slip not against an unwet-coming corset but against soft bare skin. Brown skin, not white. What do you want, sugar? Sara backed away from Son, shaking her ungirdled, unbustled fanny and laughing. He strolled back to his spot and she turned to the crowd as the band played the turnaround. She sang the next verse looking directly at me. ‘Before you start in fishin you better check your line. Said before you start in fishin, honey, you better check on your line. I'll pull on yours, darling, and you best tug on mine.' The crowd roared happily. In my arms, Kyra was shaking harder than ever. ‘I'm scared, Mike,' she said. ‘I don't like that lady. She's a scary lady. She stole Mattie's dress. I want to go home.' It was as if Sara heard her, even over the rip and ram of the music. Her head cocked back on her neck, her lips peeled open, and she laughed at the sky. Her teeth were big and yellow. They looked like the teeth of a hungry animal, and I decided I agreed with Kyra: she was a scary lady. ‘Okay, hon,' I murmured in Ki's ear. ‘We're out of here.' But before I could move, the sense of the woman I don't know how else to say it fell upon me and held me. Now I understood what had shot past me in the kitchen to knock away the CARLADEAN letters; the chill was the same. It was almost like identifying a person by the sound of their walk. She led the band to the turnaround once more, then into another verse. Not one you'd find in any written version of the song, though: ‘I ain't gonna hurt her, honey, not for all the treasure in the world'. Said I wouldn't hurt your baby, not for diamonds or for pearls Only one black-hearted bastard dare to touch that little girl.' The crowd roared as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever heard, but Kyra began to cry. Sara saw this and stuck out her breasts much bigger breasts than Mattie's and shook them at her, laughing her trademark laugh as she did. There was a parodic coldness about this gesture . . . and an emptiness, too. A sadness. Yet I could feel no compassion for her. It was as if the heart had been burned out of her and the sadness which remained was just another ghost, the memory of love haunting the bones of hate. And how her laughing teeth leered. Sara raised her arms over her head and this time shook it all the way down, as if reading my thoughts and mocking them. Just like jelly on a plate, as some other old song of the time has it. Her shadow wavered on the canvas backdrop, which was a painting of Fryeburg, and as I looked at it I realized I had found the Shape from my Manderley dreams. It was Sara. Sara was the Shape and always had been. No, Mike. That's close, but it's not right. Right or wrong, I'd had enough. I turned, putting my hand on the back of Ki's head and urging her face down against my chest. Both her arms were around my neck now, clutching with panicky tightness. I thought I'd have to bull my way back through the crowd they had let me in easily enough, but they might be a lot less amenable to letting me back out. Don't fuck with me, boys, I thought. You don't want to do that. And they didn't. On stage Son Tidwell had taken the band from E to G, someone began to bang a tambourine, and Sara went from ‘Fishin Blues' to ‘Dog My Cats' without a single pause. Out here, in front of the stage and below it, the crowd once more drew back from me and my little girl without looking at us or missing a beat as they clapped their work-swollen hands together. One young man with a port-wine stain swimming across the side of his face opened his mouth at twenty he was already missing half his teeth and hollered ‘Yee-HAW!' around a melting glob of tobacco. It was Buddy Jellison from the Village Cafe, I realized . . . Buddy Jellison magically rolled back in age from sixty-eight to eighteen. Then I realized the hair was the wrong shade light brown instead of black (although he was pushing seventy and looking it in every other way, Bud hadn't a single white hair in his head). This was Buddy's grandfather, maybe even his great-grandfather. I didn't give a sh it either way. I only wanted to get out of here. ‘Excuse me,' I said, brushing by him. ‘There's no town drunk here, you meddling son of a bitch,' he said, never looking at me and never missing a beat as he clapped. ‘We all just take turns.' It's a dream after all, I thought. It's a dream and that proves it. But the smell of tobacco on his breath wasn't a dream, the smell of the crowd wasn't a dream, and the weight of the frightened child in my arms wasn't a dream, either. My shirt was hot and wet where her face was pressed. She was crying. ‘Hey, Irish!' Sara called from the stage, and her voice was so like Jo's that I could have screamed. She wanted me to turn back I could feel her will working on the sides of my face like fingers but I wouldn't do it. I dodged around three farmers who were passing a ceramic bottle from hand to hand and then I was free of the crowd. The midway lay ahead, wide as Fifth Avenue, and at the end of it was the arch, the steps, The Street, the lake. Home. If I could get to The Street we'd be safe. I was sure of it. ‘Almost done, Irish!' Sara shrieked after me. She sounded angry, but not too angry to laugh. ‘You gonna get what you want, sugar, all the comfort you need, but you want to let me finish my bi'ness. Do you hear me, boy? Just stand clear! Mind me, now!' I began to hurry back the way I had come, stroking Ki's head, still holding her face against my shirt. Her straw hat fell off and when I grabbed for it, I got nothing but the ribbon, which pulled free of the brim. No matter. We had to get out of here. On our left was the baseball pitch and some little boy shouting ‘Willy hit it over the fence, Ma! Willy hit it over the fence!' with monotonous, brain-croggling regularity. We passed the Bingo, where some woman howled that she had won the turkey, by glory, every number was covered with a button and she had won the turkey. Overhead, the sun dove behind a cloud and the day went dull. Our shadows disappeared. The arch at the end of the midway drew closer with maddening slowness. ‘Are we home yet?' Ki almost moaned. ‘I want to go home, Mike, please take me home to my mommy.' ‘I will,' I said. ‘Everything's going to be all right.' We were passing the Test Your Strength pole, where the young man with the red hair was putting his shirt back on. He looked at me with stolid dislike the instinctive mistrust of a native for an interloper, per-haps and I realized I knew him, too. He'd have a grandson named Dickie who would, toward the end of the century to which this fair had been dedicated, own the All-Purpose Garage on Route 68. A woman coming out of the quilting booth stopped and pointed at me. At the same moment her upper lip lifted in a dog's snarl. I knew that face, too. From where? Somewhere around town. It didn't matter, and I didn't want to know even if it did. ‘We never should have come here,' Ki moaned. ‘I know how you feel,' I said. ‘But I don't think we had any choice, hon. We ‘ They came out of Freak Alley, perhaps twenty yards ahead. I saw them and stopped. There were seven in all, long-striding men dressed in cutters' clothes, but four didn't matter those four looked faded and white and ghostly. They were sick fellows, maybe dead fellows, and no more dangerous than daguerreotypes. The other three, though, were real. As real as the rest of this place, anyway. The leader was an old man wearing a faded blue Union Army cap. He looked at me with eyes I knew. Eyes I had seen measuring me over the top of an oxygen mask. ‘Mike? Why we stoppin?' ‘It's all right, Ki. Just keep your head down. This is all a dream. You'll wake up tomorrow morning in your own bed.' †Kay.' The jacks spread across the midway hand to hand and boot to boot, blocking our way back to the arch and The Street. Old Blue-Cap was in the middle. The ones on either side of him were much younger, some by maybe as much as half a century. Two of the pale ones, the almost-not-there ones, were standing side-by-side to the old man's right, and I wondered if I could burst through that part of their line. I thought they were no more flesh than the thing which had thumped the insulation of the cellar wall . . . but what if I was wrong? ‘Give her over, son,' the old man said. His voice was reedy and implacable. He held out his hands. It was Max Devore, he had come back, even in death he was seeking custody. Yet it wasn't him. I knew it wasn't. The planes of this man's face were subtly different, the cheeks gaunter, the eyes a brighter blue. ‘Where am I?' I called to him, accenting the last word heavily, and in front of Angelina's booth, the man in the turban (a Hindu who perhaps hailed from Sandusky, Ohio) put down his flute and simply watched. The snake-girls stopped dancing and watched, too, slipping their arms around each other and drawing together for comfort. ‘Where am I, Devore? If our great-grandfathers shit in the same pit, then where am I?' ‘Ain't here to answer your questions. Give her over.' ‘I'll take her, Jared,' one of the younger men-one of those who were really there said. He looked at Devore with a kind of fawning eagerness that sickened me, mostly because I knew who he was: Bill Dean's father. A man who had grown up to be one of the most respected elders in Castle County was all but licking Devore's boots. Don't think too badly of him, Jo whispered. Don't think too badly of any of them. They were very young. ‘You don't need to do nothing,' Devore said. His reedy voice was irritated; Fred Dean looked abashed. ‘He's going to hand her over on his own. And if he don't, we'll take her together.' I looked at the man on the far left, the third of those that seemed totally real, totally there. Was this me? It didn't look like me. There was something in the face that seemed familiar but ‘Hand her over, Irish,' Devore said. ‘Last chance.' ‘No.' Devore nodded as if this was exactly what he had expected. ‘Then we'll take her. This has got to end. Come on, boys.' They started toward me and as they did I realized who the one on the end the one in the caulked treewalker boots and flannel loggers' pants reminded me of: Kenny Auster, whose wolfhound would eat cake 'til it busted. Kenny Auster, whose baby brother had been drowned under the pump by Kenny's father. I looked behind me. The Red-Tops were still playing, Sara was still laughing, shaking her hips with her hands in the sky, and the crowd was still plugging the east end of the midway. That way was no good, anyway. if I went that way, I'd end up raising a little girl in the early years of the twentieth century, trying to make a living by writing penny dreadfuls and dime novels. That might not be so bad . . . but there was a lonely young woman miles and years from here who would miss her. Who might even miss us both. I turned back and saw the jackboys were almost on me. Some of them more here than others, more vital, but all of them dead. All of them damned. I looked at the towhead whose descendants would include Kenny Auster and asked him, ‘What did you do? What in Christ's name did you men do?' He held out his hands. ‘Give her over, Irish. That's all you have to do. You and the woman can have more. All the more you want. She's young, she'll pop em out like watermelon seeds.' I was hypnotized, and they would have taken us if not for Kyra. ‘What's happening?' she screamed against my shirt. ‘Something smells! Something smells so bad! Oh Mike, make it stop!' And I realized I could smell it, too. Spoiled meat and swampgas. Burst tissue and simmering guts. Devore was the most alive of all of them, generating the same crude but powerful magnetism I had felt around his great-grandson, but he was as dead as the rest of them, too: as he neared I could see the tiny bugs which were feeding in his nostrils and the pink corners of his eyes. Everything down here is death, I thought. Didn't my own wife tell me so? They reached out their tenebrous hands, first to touch Ki and then to take her. I backed up a step, looked to my right, and saw more ghosts some coming out of busted windows, some slipping from redbrick chimneys. Holding Kyra in my arms, I ran for the Ghost House. ‘Get him!' Jared Devore yelled, startled. ‘Get him, boys! Get that punk! Goddamnit!' I sprinted up the wooden steps, vaguely aware of something soft rubbing against my cheek Ki's little stuffed dog, still clutched in one of her hands. I wanted to look back and see how close they were getting, but I didn't dare. If I stumbled ‘Hey!' the woman in the ticket booth cawed. She had clouds of gingery hair, makeup that appeared to have been applied with a garden-trowel, and mercifully resembled no one I knew. She was just a carny, just passing through this benighted place. Lucky her. ‘Hey, mister, you gotta buy a ticket!' No time, lady, no time. ‘Stop him!' Devore shouted. ‘He's a goddam punk thief! That ain't his young ‘un he's got! Stop him!' But no one did and I rushed into the darkness of the Ghost House with Ki in my arms. Beyond the entry was a passage so narrow I had to turn sideways to get down it. Phosphorescent eyes glared at us in the gloom. Up ahead was a growing wooden rumble, a loose sound with a clacking chain beneath it. Behind us came the clumsy thunder of caulk-equipped loggers' boots rushing up the stairs outside. The ginger-haired carny was hollering at them now, she was telling them that if they broke anything inside they'd have to give up the goods. ‘You mind me, you damned rubes!' she shouted. ‘That place is for kids, not the likes of you!' The rumble was directly ahead of us. Something was turning. At first I couldn't make out what it was. ‘Put me down, Mike!' Kyra sounded excited. ‘I want to go through by myself!' I set her on her feet, then looked nervously back over my shoulder. The bright light at the entryway was blocked out as they tried to cram in. ‘You asses!' Devore yelled. ‘Not all at the same time! Sweet weeping Jesus!' There was a smack and someone cried out. I faced front just in time to see Kyra dart through the rolling barrel, holding her hands out for balance. Incredibly, she was laughing. I followed, got halfway across, then went down with a thump. ‘Ooops!' Kyra called from the far side, then giggled as I tried to get up, fell again, and was tumbled all the way over. The bandanna fell out of my bib pocket. A bag of horehound candy dropped from another pocket. I tried to look back, to see if they had got themselves sorted out and were coming. When I did, the barrel hurled me through another inadvertent somersault. Now I knew how clothes felt in a dryer. I crawled to the end of the barrel, got up, took Ki's hand, and let her lead us deeper into the Ghost House. We got perhaps ten paces before white bloomed around her like a lily and she screamed. Some animal something that sounded like a huge cat hissed heavily. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream and I was about to jerk her backward into my arms again when the hiss came once more. I felt hot air on my ankles, and Ki's dress made that bell-shape around her legs again. This time she laughed instead of screaming. ‘Go, Ki!' I whispered. ‘Fast.' We went on, leaving the steam-vent behind. There was a mirrored corridor where we were reflected first as squat dwarves and then as scrawny ectomorphs with long white vampire features. I had to urge Kyra on again; she wanted to make faces at herself. Behind us, I heard cursing lumberjacks trying to negotiate the barrel. I could hear Devore cursing, too, but he no longer seemed so . . . well, so eminent. There was a sliding-pole that landed us on a big canvas pillow. This made a loud farting noise when we hit it, and Ki laughed until fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling around and kicking her feet in glee. I got my hands under her arms and yanked her up. ‘Don't taggle yer own quartermack,' she said, then laughed again. Her fear seemed to have entirely departed. We went down another narrow corridor. It smelled of the fragrant pine from which it had been constructed. Behind one of these walls, two ‘ghosts' were clanking chains as mechanically as men working on a shoe-factory assembly line, talking about where they were going to take their girls tonight and who was going to bring some ‘red-eye engine,' whatever that was. I could no longer hear anyone behind us. Kyra led the way confidently, one of her little hands holding one of my big ones, pulling me along. When we came to a door painted with glowing flames and marked THIS WAY TO HADES, she pushed through it with no hesitation at all. Here red isinglass topped the passage like a tinted skylight, imparting a rosy glow I thought far too pleasant for Hades. We went on for what felt like a very long time, and I realized I could no longer hear the calliope, the hearty bong! of the Test Your Strength bell, or Sara and the Red-Tops. Nor was that exactly surprising. We must have walked a quarter of a mile. How could any county fair Ghost House be so big? We came to three doors then, one on the left, one on the right, and one set into the end of the corridor. On one a little red tricycle was painted. On the door facing it was my green IBM typewriter. The picture on the door at the end looked older, somehow faded and dowdy. It showed a child's sled. That's Scooter Larribee's, I thought. That's the one Devore stole. A rash of gooseflesh broke out on my arms and back. ‘Well,' Kyra said brightly, ‘here are our toys.' She lifted Strickland, presumably so he could see the red trike. ‘Yeah,' I said. ‘I guess so.' ‘Thank you for taking me away,' she said. ‘Those were scary men but the spookyhouse was fun. Nighty-night. Stricken says nighty-night, too.' It still came out sounding exotic tiu like the Vietnamese word for sublime happiness. Before I could say another word, she had pushed open the door with the trike on it and stepped through. It snapped shut behind her, and as it did I saw the ribbon from her hat. It was hanging out of the bib pocket of the overalls I was wearing. I looked at it a moment, then tried the knob of the door she had just gone through. It wouldn't turn, and when I slapped my hand against the wood it was like slapping some hard and fabulously dense metal. I stepped back, then cocked my head in the direction from which we'd come. There was nothing. Total silence. This is the between-time, I thought. When people talk about ‘slipping through the cracks,' this is what they really mean. This is the place where they really go. You better get going yourself, Jo told me. If you don't want to find yourself trapped here, maybe forever, you better get going yourself. I tried the knob of the door with the typewriter painted on it. It turned easily. Behind it was another narrow corridor more wooden walls and the sweet smell of pine. I didn't want to go in there, something about it made me think of a long coffin, but there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. I went, and the door slammed shut behind me. Christ, I thought. I'm in the dark, in a closed-in place . . . it's time for one of Michael Noonan' s world-famous panic attacks. But no bands clamped themselves over my chest, and although my heart-rate was high and my muscles were still jacked on adrenaline, I was under control. Also, I realized, it wasn't entirely dark. I could only see a little, but enough to make out the walls and the plank floor. I wrapped the dark blue ribbon from Ki's hat around my wrist, tucking one end underneath so it wouldn't come loose. Then I began to move forward. I went on for a long time, the corridor turning this way and that, seemingly at random. I felt like a microbe slipping through an intestine. At last I came to a pair of wooden arched doorways. I stood before them, wondering which was the correct choice, and realized I could hear Bunter's bell faintly through the one to my left. I went that way and as I walked, the bell grew steadily louder. At some point the sound of the bell was joined by the mutter of thunder. The autumn cool had left the air and it was hot again stifling. I looked down and saw that the biballs and clodhopper shoes were gone. I was wearing thermal underwear and itchy socks. Twice more I came to choices, and each time I picked the opening through which I could hear Bunter's bell. As I stood before the second pair of doorways, I heard a voice somewhere in the dark say quite clearly: ‘No, the President's wife wasn't hit. That's his blood on her stockings.' I walked on, then stopped when I realized my feet and ankles no longer itched, that my thighs were no longer sweating into the longjohns. I was wearing the Jockey shorts I usually slept in. I looked up and saw I was in my own living room, threading my way carefully around the furniture as you do in the dark, trying like hell not to stub your stupid toe. I could see a little better; faint milky light was coming in through the windows. I reached the counter which separates the living room from the kitchen and looked over it at the waggy-cat clock. It was five past five. I went to the sink and turned on the water. When I reached for a glass I saw I was still wearing the ribbon from Ki's straw hat on my wrist. I unwound it and put it on the counter between the coffee-maker and the kitchen TV. Then I drew myself some cold water, drank it down, and made my way cautiously along the north-wing corridor by the pallid yellow glow of the bathroom nightlight. I peed (you-rinated, I could hear Ki saying), then went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, but the bed didn't have the orgiastic look of the morning after my dream of Sara, Mattie, and Jo. Why would it? I'd gotten out of it and had myself a little sleepwalk. An extraordinarily vivid dream of the Fryeburg Fair. Except that was bullshit, and not just because I had the blue silk ribbon from Ki's hat. None of it had the quality of dreams on waking, where what seemed plausible becomes immediately ridiculous and all the colors both those bright and those ominous fade at once. I raised my hands to my face, cupped them over my nose, and breathed deeply. Pine. When I looked, I even saw a little smear of sap on one pinky finger. I sat on the bed, thought about dictating what I'd just experienced into the Memo-Scriber, then flopped back on the pillows instead. I was too tired. Thunder rumbled. I closed my eyes, began to drift away, and then a scream ripped through the house. It was as sharp as the neck of a broken bottle. I sat up with a yell, clutching at my chest. It was Jo. I had never heard her scream like that in our life together, but I knew who it was, just the same. ‘Stop hurting her!' I shouted into the darkness. ‘Whoever you are, stop hurting her!' She screamed again, as if something with a knife, clamp, or hot poker took a malicious delight in disobeying me. It seemed to come from a distance this time, and her third scream, while just as agonized as the first two, was farther away still. They were diminishing as the little boy's sobbing had diminished. A fourth scream floated out of the dark, then Sara was silent. Breathless, the house breathed around me. Alive in the heat, aware in the faint sound of dawn thunder.