Dark Rivers of the Heart

although less exhaustive background checks and were issued ID cards.
        Spencer explored menus and directories, and in another twenty minutes, he found the records that he needed.
        The data related to casino-employee work permits was divided into three primary files: Expired, Current, Pending. Because Valerie had been working at The Red Door in Santa Monica for two months, Spencer accessed the Expired list first.
        In his rambles through cyberspace, he had seen few files so extensively cross-referenced as this one-and those others had been related to grave national defense matters. The system allowed him to search for a subject in the Expired category by means of twenty-two indices ranging from eye color to most recent place of employment.
        He typed VALERIE ANN KEENE.
        In a few seconds the system replied: UNKNOWN.
        He shifted to the file labeled Current and typed in her name.
        UNKNOWN.
        Spencer tried the Pending file with the same result. Valerie Ann Keene was unknown to the Nevada gaming authorities.
        For a moment he stared at the screen, despondent because his only clue had proved to be a dead end. Then he realized that a woman on the run was unlikely to use the same name eve here she went and thereby make herself easy to track. If Valerie had lived and worked in Vegas, her name almost surely had been different then.
        To find her in the file, Spencer would have to be clever.
        While waiting for Nella Shire to find the scarred man, Roy Miro was in terrible danger of being dragooned into hours of sociable conversation with David Davis. He would almost rather have eaten a cyanide-laced muffin and washed it down with a big, frosty beaker of carbolic acid than spend any more time with the fingerprint maven.
        Claiming not to have slept the night before, when in fact he had slept the innocent sleep of a saint after the priceless gift he had given to Penelope Bettonfield and her husband, Roy charmed Davis into offering the use of his office. "I insist, I really do, I will listen to no argument, none!"
        Davis said with considerable gesturing and bobbing of his head.
        "I've got a couch in there. You can stretch out on it, you won't be inconveniencing me. I've got plenty of lab work to do. I don't need to be at my desk today."
        Roy didn't expect to sleep. In the cool dimness of the office, with the California sun banished by the tightly closed Levolors, he thought he would lie on his back, stare at the ceiling, visualize the nexus of his spiritual being-where his soul connected with the mysterious power that ruled the cosmos-and meditate on the meaning of existence. He pursued deeper self-awareness every day. He was a seeker, and the search for enlightenment was endlessly exciting to him.
        Strangely, however, he fell asleep.
        He dreamed of a perfect world. There was no greed or envy or despair, because everyone was identical to everyone else. There was a single sex, and human beings reproduced by discreet parthenogenesis in the privacy of their bathrooms-though not often. The only skin color was a pale and slightly radiant blue. Everyone was beautiful in an androgynous way. No one was dumb, but no one was too smart, either.
        Everyone wore the same clothes and lived in houses that all looked alike. Every Friday evening, there was a planetwide bingo game, which everyone won, and on SaturdaysWertz woke him, and Roy was paralyzed by terror because he confused the dream and reality. Gazing up into the slug-pale, moon-round face of Davis's assistant, which was revealed by a desk lamp, Roy thought that he himself, along with everyone else in the world, looked exactly like Wertz. He tried to scream but couldn't find his voice.
        Then Wertz spoke, bringing Roy fully awake: "Mrs. Shire's found him.
        The scarred man. She's found him."
        Alternately yawning and grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth, Roy followed Wertz to the data processing room. David Davis and Nella Shire were standing at her workstation, each with a sheaf of papers.
        In the fluorescent glare, Roy squinted with discomfort, then with interest, as Davis passed to him, page by page, computer printouts on which both he and Nella Shire commented excitedly.
        "His name's Spencer Grant," Davis said. "No middle name. At eighteen, out of high school, he joined the army."
        "High IQ, equally