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Beneath the windows, and their spectacle of the frightening night, stood rows and rows of file drawers, each with its own digital coded lock. The rug was the same deep claret as the chair in which Lark had made himself comfortable. Other chairs here and there were done up in the same color so that they all but vanished into the floor or into the darkly paneled walls.

The top of the desk was blank. Behind Mitchell's head of scarecrow hair was a great abstract painting that resembled nothing so much as a spermatozoon swimming like mad to a fertilized egg. It was wonderfully colored, however--full of cobalt and burning orange and neon green--as if painted by a Haitian artist who, having stumbled upon a drawing of sperm and egg in a scientific journal, had chosen it for a model, never guessing or caring what it was.

The office reeked of wealth. The Keplinger Institute reeked of wealth. It was reassuring that Mitch looked sloppy, incapable and even a little dirty--a mad scientist who made no concessions to corporate or scientific tyranny. He had not shaved in at least two days.

"God, am I glad you finally got here," said Mitch. "I was about to go out of my mind. Two weeks ago you dump this on me, with no explanation except that Rowan Mayfair sent it to you...and that I have to find out everything that I can."

"So did you?" asked Lark. He started to unbutton his raincoat, then thought better of it. He eased his briefcase to the floor. There was a tape recorder inside but he didn't want to use it. It would inhibit him and possibly scare Mitchell to death.

"What do you expect in two weeks? It's going to take fifteen years to map the human genome, or haven't you heard?"

"What can you tell me? This isn't an interview with the science editor of the New York Times. Give me a picture. What are we dealing with here?"

"You want that sort of speculation?" Mitch gestured to the computer. "You want to see something three-dimensional and in living color?"

"Talk first. I distrust computer simulations."

"Look, before I say anything, I want more specimens. I want more blood, tissue, everything I can get. I've had my secretary calling your office every day about this. Why didn't you call me back?"

"Impossible to get anything more. What you've seen is what you get."

"What do you mean?"

"You've got the only samples to which I have access. You have the only data which came to me. There is something else in New York...but we'll get to that later. The point is, I can't give you any more blood, tissue, amniotic fluid or anything else. You have everything Rowan Mayfair sent to me."

"Then I have to talk to Rowan Mayfair."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"Can you turn off that blinking fluorescent light up there? It's driving me crazy. Do you have an incandescent lamp in this fancy room?"

Mitchell looked startled. He sat back as though he'd been pushed. For a moment, he seemed not to understand the words, and then he said, "Oh yes." He touched a panel under the lip of his desk. The overhead light went out suddenly and finally, and a pair of small lamps on the desk were quickly illuminated, soft, yellow, pleasant. They made the deep green of the desk blotter come to life.

Lark hadn't noticed the perfect, markless blotter, or its leather corners. Or the still, odd-shaped black phone hunkering there with its numerous and mysterious buttons like a symbolic Chinese toad.

"That's better. I hate that kind of light," said Lark. "And tell me exactly what you know."

"First tell me why I can't talk to Rowan Mayfair, why I can't get more data. Why didn't she send you photographs of this thing? I have to talk to her--"

"Nobody can find her. I've been trying for weeks. Her family has been trying since Christmas Day. That's when she disappeared. I'm on an eight-thirty plane tonight to see her family in New Orleans. I'm the last one to have heard from Rowan. Her phone call to me two weeks ago is the only current evidence that Rowan is even alive. One phone call, then the specimens. When I contacted her family for funds, which is what she asked me to do, they told me about her disappearance. She has been spotted once since Christmas Day...maybe...in a town in Scotland called Donnelaith."

"What about the courier service which delivered the specimens? Where was the pickup? Trace it."

"Done. Dead end. The service picked them up from a hotel concierge in Geneva, to which they were given by a female guest as she was checking out. The woman does fit Rowan's description, somewhat, but there's no proof that Rowan was ever a guest in this hotel, at least not under her own name.

"The whole thing was surreptitious. She'd given the concierge info as to the destination of the package several days before. Look, the family has investigated all this, believe me. They're more eager to find Rowan than anybody else. When I called to tell them about all this, they went nuts. That's why I'm going down there. They want to see me personally, and it's their nickel, and I'm happy to oblige. But these people have had detectives all over Geneva. No trace of Rowan. And believe you me, when this family can't find someone, that person cannot be found."

"How come?"

"Money. Mayfair money. You couldn't have not heard of Rowan's plans last fall for Mayfair Medical. Now talk, Mitch, what are these samples? I have to make that plane. Count on my common sense. If you don't mind the expression, let yourself go!"

Mitchell Flanagan reflected quietly for a moment. He folded his arms, his lower lip jutting a little, and then absently he pulled off his glasses, stared into space, then put his glasses back on, as though he could not think except when he was behind them. He stared intently at Lark.

"OK. It's what you said," said Mitch, "or what you said Rowan said."

Lark didn't respond. But he knew that he had registered his reaction before he could stop himself. He bit his tongue. He wanted Mitch to go on.

"This offspring isn't Homo sapiens," Mitch continued. "It's primate, it's mammalian, it's male, it's potent, it has a dynamite immune system, it appears in the final tests to have reached maturity, but this is by no means certain, and it has a baffling way of using minerals and proteins. Something to do with its bones. Its brain is enormous. It may have profound weaknesses. Until I run more tests I don't know."

"Draw me a picture in words."

"Based on the X rays alone, I'd say it is one hundred fifty pounds in weight or less, and that when the final tests were done in late January, it was six and one-half feet tall. Its height changed remarkably between the first X rays taken on December twenty-eighth in Paris, and those taken in Berlin on January fifth. There was no change between January fifth and January twenty-seventh. No change in any measurement. Which is why I'm saying it may have reached maturity, but I don't know. The skull is not fully developed, but that may be as developed as it gets."

"How much did it grow between December and January?"

"It grew three inches. Growth took place mostly in the thighs, with some growth in the forearms and a very slight lengthening of the fingers. Its hands, by the way, are very long. The head became slightly larger. Not enough to attract attention, probably. But it's larger than a normal head. Say the word and I'll show what I mean on the computer. I'll show you how it looks, moves..."

"No, just tell me. What else?"

"What else?" Mitch demanded.

"Yes, what else."

"That's not enough? Lark, you have to explain all this to me. Where were these tests taken? This stuff is from clinics all over Europe. Who did these tests?"

"Rowan did the tests, we think. The family's been working on it. But the clinics never even knew what was going on. Apparently Rowan slipped in with this creature, had the X rays taken and slipped out, before anybody ever realized there was an unauthorized doctor on the premises, or that her male subject wasn't a patient. In fact, in Berlin, nobody remembers seeing her at all. It's only the computerized date and time on the X-ray film that confirms she was there. Same with the brain scans, the electrocardiogram and the thallium stress test. She entered the clinic in Geneva, directed the laboratory herself for the tests she wante

d, wasn't questioned for obvious reasons--white coat, authority, speaks German--and then she took the results and left."

"How incredibly simple that must have been."

"It was. These were all public facilities, and you remember Rowan. Who would question Rowan?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"The people in Paris who do remember her, by the way, remember her well. But they can't help us find her. They don't know where she came from or where she went. As for the male friend, he was 'tall and thin and had long hair and wore a hat.' "