When they'd walked inside the headquarters with him they'd shown their pleasure in the knowledge that there was no mistake, that they had the one they wanted. Before, they had been in the realm of belief; now they had the evidence to swing their opinion to certainty. Two follicles of hair, that was all they needed. So silly. Two strands, nothing, till there was a microscope. But they would have a microscope, and scientists to use it, and a laboratory for them to work in.

Yet wasn't it still too easy, Moses, to rely just on their luck? Go deeper, hunt for the source of identification, the factor that isolated him from the mass of youths that paraded the streets of the city… Remember the balaclava, remember the campus shop, at the north side of the university, remember the label of sale. They would have stored the information, cared and gloated over it while the bed-ridden pig put together the description of the man that had shot him. Then treasured and coveted the two. The militia would have seen the shoulder satchel, worn carelessly and without concern; emblem of the university emblazoned on its flap. You did it for them, Moses.

Performed their work. A student with the features to match- what more could they have asked of you? So forget about photo-fits and laboratories and the magnification of hair roots. There was nothing that should minimize his stupidity. He had given it to them-all they needed for suspicion.

He'd left them only to supply the proof. And their technology would be massive, equal to that, hugely excessive for the task.

So how many hours more, how long till the report was typed and the knot tied, till they were ready for him?

It was cold in the cell, and the memory of the warmth as he had been walking in the street, wrapped in his own thoughts, was fading. There was a chill and sort of dampness that he could not identify, for the walls showed no rivulets of moisture. As if water had once been there and had strangely found no route of escape.