It said a lot about Mr. Sherwood's composure that he was in the smallest building he'd been in in years, if not decades, and he hadn't batted an eyelid. He was currently sat on a dining chair beside Sol, working the computer. Sol's explanations had started at a very basic level, but he soon upped the pace as it became apparent that Mr Sherwood was not in fact a doddery, half-senile old fool, but every bit as bright and quick as his young companions, and just as comfortable with technology. In fact, the computing aspects seemed routine to Mr. Sherwood; he was more interested in the details of Holistic Analysis techniques themselves.

"You mean you predict people's decisions?"

"Give or take, yes." said Sol, impressed; Sherwood had cut through the layers of crap that tended to mire most people, and immediately grasped the point.

"What if they act unpredictably?"

"People never act unpredictably."

"Never?"

"Very rarely. Civilization is, or at least can be seen as, a huge mechanism for ensuring that nobody does anything unexpected. There are huge dampening mechanisms that channel events into the standard, predictable path. What that path is, however, isn't obvious. The trick that holistic techniques revolve around is spotting this path, and extrapolating it."

"So what would happen if someone did something truly unpredictable?"

"They'd get locked up."

Sherwood laughed. "No, seriously."

"Seriously, they'd get locked up. Society is so intensely geared towards things working the way they're supposed to that any attempt to do otherwise is viewed as insanity. The surprising thing is that you can usually predict the people who are going to act unpredictably."

"And then what do you do?"

"More often than not, you can safely discount their actions. Society has a tendency to ignore people like that in the long term."

"But surely there are things that happen at random, bu that affect decisions. What about coincidences?"

"There are no coincidences."

Nikolay looked over the clothed laid out on the bed - sombre tie, white shirt, dark suit - and grunted in satisfaction. They had wanted him to wear some ridiculous, antiquated dress uniform, but he flat out refused, on the basis that he was, bar a technicality, the President, and as such he could wear what he damn well liked.

He looked over everything one last time, to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and then went to the door. He knocked on the inside, and the body guard on the other side opened it a fraction.

"Yes, sir?"

"Everything is prepared."

"Including the clothes?"

Nikolay stepped backwards, made a sweeping arm gesture, and said in a weary voice. "Yes. They're on the bed, as you asked."

"Thankyou, sir." He looked at his watch. "Now, if you'd like to gather your things together, we should be setting off."

Grumbling, Nikolay gathered everything he would need and headed out of the door.

It was a cold day, the cottony clouds weaving together to form a solid grey mass that occasionally spattered half-hearted rain down on the streets and building below. The roof of the Grand hotel was puddled with water, and exposed to a bitter, shifting wind that whipped every loose item and rippled the surface of the dark pools. This was the reason that the sniper had chosen to book a room on the fifth floor, and was currently standing on his balcony looking down on the street.

His client had paid him to kill the President Elect before the inauguration, and so he had positioned himself along the route that the motorcade would take on it's route from the Parliament Building to the cathedral where the ceremony was to take place. He had vaguely worried that they might change the parade route at the last minute, to derail any attempt such as this one, but now he was satisfied that that wasn't going to happen. As he looked down from his balcony, he could see that the street was thronging with people for a mile or two in each direction, straining against makeshift barriers, and watched by uneasy police. If they announced a route change now, they'd have a riot on their hands.

Other people were watching from balconies beside and across from him, leaning and waving paper flags. In this situation, some people would be worried about being seen, but he wasn't concerned. He would have been more concerned had he been the only person on a balcony; in that case, they would know exactly where to look. In the current situation, he was confident that he could be through to the back of the hotel, using the route he'd planned this morning, down the fire exit, and away, before they'd even thought about sealing off the area.

He went back inside the room, hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the outside door handle, and wedge the door closed with a chair for good measure. The last thing he wanted was for the maid to come in halfway through to change the towels. He reached into his holdall, and pulled out a rectangular metal case, the sort you might use to hold a camera. He sat on the bed with the case in front of him, and flipped open the catches. There, nestling in a grey foam bed, was his rifle. He began to remove the parts, one by one, from the case, and assemble it with practiced ease.

He could hear the noise from the crowd rising from a murmur to an excited chatter, which broke into a cheer. The motorcade was obviously near. He moved towards the balcony, gun in hand, and crouched down as he went through the french doors. This particular balcony had copious plants growing in window boxes around the edge, and these spilled over and provided adequate cover from him to work behind. There was little chance of anyone seeing him, even from one of the other balconies close by.

He lay down on the foam mat that he had placed on the balcony beforehand, and got comfortable. When he was, he sighted down the powerful telescopic sight at the head of the motorcade. As expected, there were dozens of police outriders, but there were also a surprising number of open topped cars, full of minor dignitaries (the sniper, a visitor to this part of the world, didn't recognise any of them). No matter; he knew exactly what his target looked like.

As it happened, wouldn't have made a difference if he hadn't. The President Elect's car was at the back of the motorcade, separated from the rest of the pack by a pair of police motorcycles. Sitting in it was Nikolay Ardalionovitch himself, smiling grimly and waving. The assassin sighted for his upper chest - less flashy, but far more reliable, than a head shot - and squeezed the trigger. He was up, the rifle stashed, and out of the fire exit while the crowd were still in the process of moving from cheers to screams.

Nikolay sat in the basement of the Interior Ministry building, next door to the cathedral. He was protected by a thick metal door that had armed guards posted on each side. He had been there for a couple of hours, drinking bottles water and watching a small, portable T.V. He had thought that they'd overestimated the danger to his person, until the news coverage of the motorcade had descended into chaos. After a couple of frustrating minutes, he got sick of watching the Bravikstahni news service anchor man babbling incomprehensibly into the oblique camera, and grabbed the remote control. He flipped to CNN, where one of their minor foreign corespondents was standing calmly, filmed against a backdrop of running crowds, explaining the situation to camera. Even though this was clearly some junior reporter who had just been in the right place and the right time, and had a major story land in her lap, she was exuding assured professionalism.

His English wasn't great, but it was clear that there had been an attempt on the doubles - actually, on his - life. He was watching the foreign journalist explaining events in his own country when there was a knock at the door. The guard opened the door, listened for a moment, then turned around an solemnly informed Nikolay that his lookalike was dead.

For a second, Nikolay didn't quite believe it. Then, the reality sank in and he slumped down heavily into his chair. When they had told him that they had reliable information that there would be an attempt on his life, he had scoffed. He had only agreed to go along with this ridiculous deception under protest, but it had saved his life.

"I don't think I'm cut out for a life in politics." he muttered to himself.

Sol flicked off the television and turned to the others.

"Well, that seems to have worked." he declared morosely.

He was sat, along with Beth, in one of the large lounges of Mr Sherwood's mansion. They had both called in sick (it was a Monday); Isabelle had gone in to work. All three of them had, at least temporarily, moved into the mansion's various rooms. Sherwood had wanted the Crystal work close too him, and they agreed out of fear of losing his patronage. They had initially worried that Mr Sherwood wouldn't have the appropriate facilities for them to work effectively, but as it happened, nothing could be further from the truth. Sherwood had all the technology they needed to work with, and much more besides.

"Somebody still died." Beth pointed out, equally listlessly. She was stretched out on one of the big leather sofas, her head resting in Sol's lap, and he was absent-mindedly stroking her hair. He nodded in response to her comment, but said nothing.

Beth had spent the day working on moving the software parts of Crystal to another computer, one of Sherwood's as opposed to one in the Jupiter offices. She'd just about got everything working. Sol had spent his time working on queries, trying to find out what would happen to the Bravikstahni nuclear weapons. This was how he found out about the plot to make an attempt on the President Elect's life. He had immediately run through the vaulted, echoey corridors of mansion to find Sherwood, and they had agreed to warn the President Elect via one of the latter's field agents. However, they hadn't heard anything since, and Sol had suspected that their warning would be ignored. After all, Crystal had predicted the shooting, so it was bound to happen. He knew nothing of the plan to use a lookalike until he heard the whole story explained on the evening news, and was immeasurably relieved to see footage of Nikolay making a hastily rewritten inauguration speech, stressing the need for calm in these turbulent times.

"I take it you've heard the news." Sherwood said from behind them. Beth sat up, and they both turned round; they hadn't heard him come in.

"Yes." said Sol, simply.

"It seems that our efforts were not wasted, and that Faraday's plans have been set back." He was beaming, obviously pleased that things were going well.

"Somebody still got shot." Beth repeated for Sherwood's benefit.

"Yes, yes, but in any struggle here are always casualties." He seemed not to notice Beth's hardening expression, "The important thing is that the situation in Bravikstahn is far more stable than it was a couple of hours ago."

"Surely this will make everyone paranoid in the extreme?" protested Sol.

"And that means that they'll all be on their guard, and it will be far harder for Faraday to do whatever it is he planned to do with that country."

"But he's still got Crystal," burst Beth, "He's probably been planning for this all along!"

"It's a good point," agreed Sol, turning to Sherwood, "How can we stop him, given that he can predict the future as well as us. We've probably only won this one because he made the same mistake at us in interpreting the forecast."

It was evident from the look on Sherwood's face that he hadn't got an answer for this. He was about to say something in any case, but before he could he was interrupted by the ring of Sol's phone. Sol apologized, grabbed his phone from the table, and started to walk from the room, punching the green button as he went. Halfway out of the room, he froze, and turned round.

"Mr. Faraday. This is unexpected."

Beth and Sherwood snapped there necks around and looked at him intently. On the other end of the phone, Faraday continued.

"Don't play the idiot with me, Solomon. We both know that you have a prediction engine, just as I do. What bothers me most is that you're using it against me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Denial was the best strategy that Sol could come up with off the top of his head.

"Look," Faraday growled menacingly down the line, "your really trying my fucking patience. Maxwell said you were a bolshie little shit. Now, are you going to stop bullshitting and listen to me?"

Sol hadn't been ready for that; "Yes" was all that he could manage.

"Good. Now, the way I see it, you've got a prediction engine. I, on the other hand, have a shitload of money and contacts all over the world." Sol remained silent, but made a mental note that Faraday, or maybe Maxwell, should be asking better questions of their prediction engine. "I could crush you like a bug. But I'm a reasonable man, so I'm going to offer you an alternative. Come and work for me. You obviously know a hell of a lot about this, and you could be useful. Well?"

"Give me a minute. I have to ask..."

Faraday cut him off. "Other people know about this? They're there with you, though? Good." He paused. "You can ask them."

Sol fiddled with his phone for a second, then figured out how to put Faraday on hold. He turned to the others.

"He's offered a deal; he wants me to go and work for him. If I don't, he's threatened to crush me like a bug."

"How about the rest of us?" Beth asked.

"He didn't seem to know about you, until I let it slip." Sol grinned. "He doesn't seem to be using the prediction engine as well as he might. In fact," he turned to Sherwood, "he doesn't seem to have figured out that you're involved at all. He seems to think that Crystal is the only advantage we have."

They all considered this for a moment.

"I think we tell him to take a running jump." Beth said. Sherwood nodded in agreement, and Sol, smiling, took up the call again.

"About time." complained Faraday, "I'm a busy man. Well?"

"We've talked about it, and I'm afraid we will have to decline your kind offer."

There was a pause, then Faraday spat "Fine by me." and hung up.

"Well? What did he say?" asked Beth impatiently, as Sol hung up his phone and returned it to the table.

"Nothing much."

"What? No threats? No 'I'm going to get you'? Nothing?"

Sol shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you."

Before any of them could say anything else, Sol's phone rang again.

"That'll be the threat now," he predicted as he reached for the phone. "Oh," he said looking at the screen, "It's Isabelle." He sounded almost disappointed that he wasn't about to be told that his life was in terrible danger.

"Hi, Isabelle. What's up?"

"Sol, I was just going to... there's been some sort of... I think you're life's in terrible danger..."

Sol sat bolt upright. "O.K. Calm down. What's happened?"

("What's wrong?" asked Beth, but Sol waved her into silence.)

Isabelle took a deep breath, and looked out of the windscreen at the bedlam of gawkers and firefighters had rapidly coagulated a few hundred yards away.

"I was on my way back to Sherwood's from work, and I was going to pick up some clothes from your house like you asked. I was on the way, and I heard this huge bang, and when I turned into your street, your house was on fire, and it had a huge hole in the front." She stopped for a second. "Shit, a minute or two latter and I could've been inside."

"Are you O.K.?"

Isabelle made a little noise of assent.

"Good. What's happening now?"

"There are a couple of fire engines, and firemen all over the place. What should I do?"

"Just get back here. We can work out what to do then. The important thing is that the house was empty; nobody got hurt."

"Yeah. Well, I'll see you in a little while. Bye." Isabelle hung up, took a moment to pull herself together, then started the engine and set off.

At the mansion, Sol put the phone down and ran his fingers through his hair, and then noticed that Beth was looking at him expectantly.

"There was an explosion at my house; Isabelle says that there's a lot of damage."

"Shit! Is she O.K.?"

"She's a bit shaken, but she wasn't hurt. Look, I'm a bit thrown by all of this; I'm going to go and take a shower, and try to relax." He wandered off to one of the mansion's many bathrooms, with Beth watching him go, unsure what to do.