Free Shift by Chris Dolley Page B

walking around, checking they hadn't been damaged or reset. Only the one imager was missing.

    He rummaged through one of the boxes looking for a blank data cube, found one and quickly inserted it into the main processor. The download began. He glanced to the window. Anyone walking by would see him. Were the two officers supposed to patrol the grounds?

    He tapped his fingers on the top of the unit. Come on! A few more seconds . . .

    The data cube ejected. He thrust it into a pocket. And stopped.

    Curiosity. He was here, the data was here, the monitors were here. Okay, the data hadn't been fully processed yet. But the imager data would have been merged, enough for a composite picture. Could he wait another hour?

    He ran to the side of the window, squatted down, peered back towards the gate. The police car was still there, nothing moving.

    He checked his watch. Five minutes. That's all he'd risk.

    He called up the files, sifted through the ones he could use and ran the programs. A composite scan of Pendennis's brain appeared on the screen. It was staggering. He viewed it from every plane, zooming in and out, flipping and rotating. Colours flared and sparked. He'd need more time to calibrate the results and run comparisons but the initial results . . .

    So much mass. What was it—three, four times, the amount of higher dimensional matter you'd expect? Though what was normal? They'd sampled such an infinitesimal section of the human population, who could say what the normal ranges were?

    But what a sight! It looked like the brain had been ripped in several places and then expanded. Was that evidence of additional matter—an outside source for the extra material—or was it part of the brain's natural healing process? An accretion of new matter like new bone being created at a fracture site?

    He definitely needed John Bruce's brain scans. Had they arrived yet?

    He rang the University computer, dialled into his office and checked his mail. Nothing from SHIFT. Maybe his usual contact was on holiday? He rang off and called up his home computer. He'd resend the request and tag on a couple of extra addresses. One of his contacts at SHIFT had to be at work.

    There was a sound in the distance. Outside. Nick ducked down, tapped in the confirmation and sent the request to SHIFT. Time to leave. He could finish processing the data at home. He grabbed an imager—one of the full spectrum models—and stuffed it in his pocket. Who could tell when the police would release the rest?

    He retraced his steps back to the Banbury road, wet-legged, a considerable bulge in one of his pockets, but exuding a practised and smiling innocence.

    "Hi," he told the first policeman. "I've come to collect my van."

    He showed his ID, waited to be photographed, finger scanned and cleared with HQ.

    And then collected his van. He could feel the impatient stare of the two policemen burning into the back of his neck as he took his time, walking around the van, looking inside, underneath and checking the back. Images of the previous night were still fresh. If Pendennis had escaped yesterday and made his way to the Hall, what better mode of transport than hiding in Nick's van.

    A car horn sounded from the gate. "Come on, we haven't got all day!"

    Nick opened the driver side door and climbed inside. One more check of the back seats and he was away, waving goodbye to the police and Framlingham Hall. He tried Louise's number again. Still no answer. Was she avoiding him? Or worse?

    He didn't want to think about worse. He'd go home, load the data, fire off the analysis programs and leave them running while he drove over to see her.

    And maybe drive to Upper Heywood afterwards. Demand to see Pendennis and see how Ziegler reacted.

    He parked outside his two-bedroomed terrace, slammed the car door shut and jogged the few yards through his almost non-existent front garden.

    And stopped.

    His front door was ajar. Had the police searched his house