"Um. I think your left foot, squire."

Of course. Left foot. He knew that; he was just tense and confused. He kicked the stirrup to get his right foot free. But the armor had caught on the stirrup; he bent forward awkwardly and used his hand to tug the stirrup free. It still was stuck. Finally, at the moment of release, he lost his balance and fell on his back near the horse's rear hooves. The horrified pages quickly dragged him clear.

They got him to his feet, and then they all helped him to mount. He felt hands pressing against his buttocks as he rose shakily into the air, swung his foot over - Jesus, that was hard - and landed with a clank in the saddle.

Chris looked down at the ground, far below. He felt as if he were ten feet in the air. As soon as he was mounted, the horse began to whinny and shake its head, turning sideways and snapping at Hughes's legs in the stirrups. He thought, This damn horse is trying to bite me.

Reins, squire! Reins! You must rein him!"

Chris tugged at the reins. The enormous horse paid no attention, pulling hard, still trying to bite him.

"Show him, squire! Strongly!"

Chris yanked the reins so sharply, he thought he'd break the animal's neck. At this, the horse merely gave a final snort and faced forward, suddenly calmed.

"Well done, squire."

Trumpets sounded, several long notes.

"That is the first call to arms," the page said. "We must to the tourney field."

They took the horse's reins and led Chris toward the grassy field.

It was one in the morning. From inside his office at ITC, Robert Doniger stared down at the entrance to the cave, illuminated in the night by the flashing lights of six ambulances parked all around. He listened to the crackle of the paramedic radios and watched the people leaving the tunnel. He saw Gordon walking out with that new kid, Stern. Neither of them appeared to have been hurt.

He saw Kramer reflected in the glass of the window as she entered the room behind him. She was slightly out of breath. Without looking back at her, he said, "How many were injured?"

"Six. Two somewhat seriously."

"How seriously?

"Shrapnel wounds. Burns from toxic inhalation."

"Then they'll have to go to UH." He meant University Hospital, in Albuquerque.

"Yes," Kramer said. "But I've briefed them about what they can say. Lab accident, all that. And I called Whittle at UH, reminded him of our last donation. I don't think there'll be a problem."

Doniger stared out the window. "There might be," he said.

"The PR people can handle it."

"Maybe not," Doniger said.

In recent years, ITC had built a publicity unit of twenty-six people around the world. Their job was not to get publicity for the company, but rather to deflect it. ITC, they explained to anyone who inquired, was a company that made superconducting quantum devices for magnetometers and medical scanners. These devices consisted of a complex electro-mechanical element about six inches long. Press handouts were stupefyingly boring, dense with quantum specifications.

For the rare reporter who remained interested, ITC enthusiastically scheduled a tour of their New Mexico facility. Reporters were taken to selected research labs. Then, in a large assembly room, they were shown how the devices were made - the gradiometer coils fitted into the cryostat, the superconducting shield and electrical leads outside. Explanations referred to the Maxwell equations and electric charge motion. Almost invariably, reporters abandoned their stories. In the words of one, "It's about as compelling as an assembly line for hair dryers."

In this way, Doniger had managed to keep silent about the most extraordinary scientific discovery of the late twentieth century. In part, his silence was self-preservation: other companies, like IBM and Fujitsu, had started their own quantum research, and even though Doniger had a four-year head start on them, it was in his interest that they not know exactly how far he had gone.

He also was aware that his plan was not yet completed, and he needed secrecy to finish. As he himself often said, grinning like a kid, "If people knew what we were up to, they'd really want to stop us."

But at the same time, Doniger knew that he could not maintain the secrecy forever. Sooner or later, perhaps by accident, it was all going to come out. And when that happened, it was up to him to manage it.

The question in Doniger's mind was whether it was happening now.

He watched as the ambulances pulled out, sirens whining.

"Think about it," he said to Kramer. "Two weeks ago, this company was buttoned down tight. Our only problem was that French reporter. Then we had Traub. That depressed old bastard put our whole company in jeopardy. Traub's death brought that cop from Gallup, who's still nosing around. Then Johnston. Then his four students. And now six techs going to the hospital. It's getting to be a lot of people out there, Diane. A lot of exposure."

"You think it's getting away from us," she said.

"Possibly," he said. "But not if I can help it. Especially since I've got three potential board members coming day after tomorrow. So let's button it back down."

She nodded. "I really think we can handle this."

"Okay," he said, turning away from the window. "See that Stern goes to bed in one of the spare rooms. Make sure he gets sleep, and put a block on the phone. Tomorrow, I want Gordon sticking to him like glue. Give him a tour of the place, whatever. But stay with him. I want a conference call with the PR people tomorrow at eight. I want a briefing about the transit pad at nine. And I want those media dipshits at noon. Call everybody now, so they can get ready."

"Right," she said.

"I may not be able to keep this under control," Doniger said, "but I'm sure as hell going to try."

He frowned at the glass, watching the people clustered outside the tunnel in the dark. "How long until they can go back in the cave?"

"Nine hours."

"And then we can mount a rescue operation? Send another team back?"

Kramer coughed. "Well.. ."

"Are you sick? Or does that mean no?"

"All the machines were destroyed in the explosion, Bob," she said.

"All of them?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then all we can do is rebuild the pad, and sit on our asses to see if they come back in one piece?"

"Yes. That's right. We have no way to rescue them."

"Then let's hope they know their stuff," Doniger said, "because they're on their own. Good fucking luck to them."

Through the narrow slit of his helmet visor, Chris Hughes could see that the tournament stands were filled - almost entirely with ladies - and the railings crowded with commoners ten deep. Everyone was shouting for the tournament to begin. Chris was now at the east end of the field, surrounded by his pages, trying to control the horse, which seemed upset by the shouting crowd and had begun to buck and rear. The pages tried to hand him a striped lance, which was absurdly long and ungainly in his hand. Chris took it, then fumbled it as the horse snorted and stomped beneath him.

Beyond the barrier, he saw Kate standing among the commoners. She was smiling encouragement at him, but the horse kept twisting and turning, so he could not return her gaze.

And not far off, he saw the armored figure of Marek, surrounded by pages.

As Chris's horse turned again - why didn't the pages grab the reins? - he saw the far end of the field, where Sir Guy de Malegant sat calmly on his mount. He was pulling on his black-plumed helmet.

Chris's horse bucked once more and turned him in circles. He heard more trumpets, and the spectators all looked toward the stands. He was dimly aware that Lord Oliver was taking his seat, to scattered applause.