"You better not touch me," Beaumont said.

"I know — I've had hygiene lectures." Dallen took the cylindrical bomb from his pocket. "How many people were you hoping to kill with this?"

"You're the killer around here, Dallen."

"You know me?"

"I know you. We all know you." Beaumont's words were slurred as a result of his paralysis. "And one of these days…"

"Then you'll also know this isn't a bluff — you, young Derek, are going to tell me the combination for this." Dallen flicked the six numbered rings, close to one end of the cylinder, which would have to be correctly set to allow the fuse to be withdrawn.

Beaumont managed something close to a sneer. "Why the fuck should I?"

"I should have thought that was obvious," Dallen said mildly. "You're going to be sitting on top of the bomb if it goes. How long have you got? Ten minutes? Fifteen?"

"You don't scare me, Dallen. You couldn't get away with a thing like that."

"Couldn't I?" Dallen thought for a moment about the effects of an explosion in the crowded Exhibition Centre and felt his humanity bleed away. "If you've got some dim ideas about publicity and propaganda — forget them. I hauled you way back here because a few walls and a good cushion of air are enough to contain a bomb this size. The bang will startle a lot of people, naturally, but they'll calm down when they hear it was one of the city's old gas mains. And nobody is going to hear about you, friend. This time tomorrow you'll be nothing but rat turds."

"You're a bastard, Dallen. You're a dirty…" Beaumont fell silent and the appearance of a thoughtful, introverted expression in his eyes showed that he was struggling to move, to force muscle commands across the artificially widened synaptic gaps of his nervous system. Lentils of perspiration appeared on his brow, but his limbs remained totally immobile.