Our young Heroine is first properly observed

"Right," Ham Duo said. "Here's the plan. We go to the house. We go inside. We get your Disruptor back. We find out what they know. Simple."

Splock's ears flattened. "That is not a plan. That is a sequence of actions with no contingency for failure, no escape route, and no consideration for the temporal consequences of direct confrontation. It is, in fact, the opposite of a plan."

"Got a better one?"

"Several. The most logical involves locating Chewgumma, retrieving his Disruptor, and establishing a secure observation post from which we can—"

"No," Bill said.

Splock blinked. "No?"

Bill stood up. "I'm not chasing a seven-foot furball through a city I don't understand so we can have a spare time machine that probably won't work anyway because Chewgumma's probably already traded it for food."

"Kookies don't—"

"I don't care what Kookies do. I'm hungry. I'm tired. And we've been sitting here listening to you talk about haiku-based pornography while the guy with my Disruptor is probably packing his bags and leaving town."

Splock drew himself up. "The haiku were culturally relevant to—"

"No." Bill held up a hand. "We're going to that house. Now. You can either help or stay here and write a paper about it."

Splock's expression shifted into something that, on a human, would have been wounded dignity. "I spent considerable effort gathering intelligence while you were unconscious. The Thurlow-Yonce methodology is not—"

"Is appreciated," Bill interrupted. "Really. Great job. Lots of facts. Now we're going to use them."

Splock's expression suggested he was recalculating every assumption he'd made about this mission. "Your approach lacks logical foundation."

"My approach is the only one we've got. Lead the way."

For a long moment, Splock simply looked at them—Bill with his fists on his hips and Duo with his infuriating grin. His expression suggested he was mentally filing a formal complaint with whatever authority might exist in this century. But he said nothing. He simply turned and began walking.

They followed.

The York residence was a three-story brownstone in a quiet neighborhood, sandwiched between similar buildings with identical stoops and identical windows and identical expressions of prosperous anonymity. Evening was settling over Brooklyn, softening the edges of things, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange that would have been pretty under other circumstances.

Splock led them to a position behind a parked vehicle across the street. "There," he whispered, pointing. "Second floor. The room with the amber curtain."

Light glowed through the fabric. Shadows moved inside.

Bill squinted. Through a narrow gap where the curtains didn't quite meet, he could see figures. A man. A woman. Close together.

"That's Hastings," Splock confirmed. "The man with his back to the window."

Bill stared. Hastings was tall, well-built, with dark hair and the kind of generic handsome features that could have belonged to anyone. Nothing about him suggested a ninth-century raider. No beard. No axe. No horned helmet.

Bill leaned toward Splock. "He doesn't look like a Viking."

"Why would he?"

"You said—the name thing. Hastings. Descendant of Hastein."

"Yes. Descendant. Not reincarnation. Temporal mechanics do not typically—"

"Shh." Bill held up a hand.

Because Hastings was doing something odd. He was leaning toward the woman—Karen, presumably—and pressing his lips to her forehead. Gently. Tenderly. The kind of kiss that belonged between lovers, not between a family doctor and his patient. Something else.

"See that?" Bill whispered. "That's weird, right? Doctors don't do that."

"Not in any medical ethics code I'm familiar with," Duo agreed.

Splock's ears were twitching furiously. "Fascinating. The body language suggests—" He stopped. "Do you hear that?"

Bill listened. From the house, faint sounds drifted through the evening air. Voices? No—something else. Rhythmic. Breath-like.

Bill leaned closer. "Is that... moaning?"

Splock's ears swiveled like radar dishes. "Vocalizations consistent with human intimate activity. Fascinating. Given the presence of a married woman and a man who is not her husband, the logical conclusion is—"

"They're doing it," Duo supplied helpfully.

"I was about to say 'engaging in extramarital relations,' but your phrasing is equally accurate."

Bill shook his head. "Why would a doctor—"

"The sounds are accompanied by rhythmic motion consistent with—" Splock paused. "Wait. The pattern. The frequency. This may be related to the earlier cultural reference."

Bill stared at him. "You think they're—while watching—"

"It is possible they are viewing an adaptation of the Spellkin haiku. The vocalizations match certain... artistic interpretations I have studied." Splock's ears twitched. "The production values were reportedly low, but the sound design—"

The sounds grew louder. More urgent.

"I would like to observe this footage," Splock said thoughtfully. "It might explain why the juvenile population—"

"You want to watch porn to figure out why kids called you 'erph'?" Duo's voice cracked with suppressed laughter.

"I want to gather complete intelligence. I am simply noting that the cultural penetration of those six films appears broader than initially estimated. I would be curious to view them myself, to better understand why the children associated me with the character 'erph.' The haiku upon which they were based—"

Bill grabbed his arm. "We're going in."

"Without an escape plan?"

"We'll find one on the way out."

The fire escape was on the side of the house. Old iron, bolted to the brick, leading up to a second-floor window. Bill grabbed the lowest rung and pulled himself up.

The entire structure tore away from the wall with a shriek of protesting metal and crashed to the ground, taking Bill with it.