By now, Sellers thought, he should have learned to anticipate to the Executor's sudden appearances--always when Sellers was in the midst of working on something important, and somehow, always when he least expected it--but he nearly fell out of his hover-chair when the black silhouette shimmered into focus on the screen, purple-haloed like the eclipse of a dark star, obscuring his latest reports.

He sat up, clutching at the front of his robe. "Ah, Senior Network Adviser. What can I do for you at this hour?" Sellers detested the sound of his own voice, sickly sweet and ingratiating; what he really wanted to say was Bloody hell, Adviser, for the love of that so-called God you're always raving about would you please stop trying to give an old man a heart attack. But of course he never said it.

"I think you already know what I'm here for." No hint of mockery in the soft monotone; if anything, it sounded as though the Executor was trying to conceal his own irritation. "I see from your report that the preparations are nearly complete. But we're running out of time. Even the measures I took to distract the Federation may not be enough."

Sellers' temper rose, surfacing for a moment through the oily skim of flattery on his voice. "I told you I was working as fast as I could, Adviser. Remember, I'm but a humble man of science; I can't work miracles."

"But I can." Spoken, as usual, with such conviction Sellers didn't question for a moment that the Executor believed it; and after seeing how skillfully he had coordinated those attacks on the military a few days ago, Sellers almost believed it himself. "Now, listen carefully. There are elements within the Federation that continue to threaten our objectives. The files that were stolen from Patmos appear to have found their way into the hands of the Contact Subcommittee. I trust you know what that means."

His fists curled against the armrests of his chair. "You don't mean-- The Mizrahi woman."

"The high priestess of Babylon," said the Executor. "The mother of harlots and of the abominations of the earth."

It took Sellers a moment to realize the Executor was reciting from that hallucinatory holy book again, the same one Mizrahi had been obsessed with during the last days of his headlong flight into madness; the coincidence made Sellers detest them both even more. Still, this time he had to admit the Executor had chosen a fitting epithet for Mizrahi's widow. Sellers hated her almost as much as he hated his old colleague, although he had to admire her ruthless dedication to the pursuit of her goals. In her younger years she had been almost as much an opportunist as he was, shamelessly taking advantage of anyone and everyone who might help her serve her own interests. The way she'd left that doddering old madman to his dollmaking and volunteered their daughter as a test subject for Yuriev's experiments had been masterful, the ultimate offering before the altar of scientific progress. Years later, when Sellers himself had defected to Yuriev's side, Yuriev had spoken of her with admiration, even with longing, and Sellers had felt a stab of envy. In a different world he might have wanted her for himself, if he hadn't despised her for belonging to Joachim first.

"You have a plan to get rid of her?" said Sellers, letting on more of his enthusiasm than he intended.

"Be patient. As it happens, she's working closely with some of our own agents in the Federation government. She doesn't know it, of course, but they've been watching her all this time, waiting to tear her to pieces at my command."

To his surprise, Sellers felt his heart racing. He had never taken any particular enjoyment in the suffering of others, except to study it in a detached and clinical manner when it occurred as a side effect of his research; but suddenly he wanted very much to see the Mizrahi woman ruined. He took a deep breath, thankful for the shaded lenses that concealed his eyes, so the Executor wouldn't see the polished glint of Sellers' madness buried like a jewel in the depths. Sellers had admitted years ago that he was insane, perhaps as mad as Joachim Mizrahi himself; but unlike Mizrahi, he had learned to harness that madness, to use it as a catalyst for changing the world. "Are you aware, Adviser," he said, venturing out cautiously at first, "that Juli Mizrahi is in possession of certain data which could prove extremely valuable to our own research?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"And I can retrieve it for you. After all, what good will it do in the hands of the government? They'll just seize her files after she's apprehended, and all of her brilliant contributions to the advancement of science for the last seventeen years will simply go to waste. That would be a terrible shame, don't you agree?"

The Executor was silent for a moment, his purple-black aura shifting like daylight glimpsed from the floor of the ocean. "Can you retrieve the data without jeopardizing your own safety or the integrity of our project?"

"Of course." Sellers contrived to sound affronted. "You're talking to an expert."

"Very well. But I warn you: don't do anything reckless."

"Just what do you think I am?" He braced himself against the arms of his chair, scowling.

Deep resonant laughter from the terminal, as if the Executor were enjoying a private joke at Sellers' expense, and then the transmission cut off.

Sellers turned his back on the screen. A fool. A pale imitation. A fraud with delusions of grandeur. The rest of the world could offer any number of answers to his question, but not the one he wanted. Not the one he deserved.