of the Japanese Bureau. He had already put in fifteen years and in

another five, he would have the option of either taking his pension

and entering the corporate sector or filing an application for

acceptance to the I. T. C. His lifelong goal had been the latter, the

highest level of government service that an adept could hope to

attain, short of actually sitting on the board of the International

Thaumaturgical Commission.

Akiro had no illusions about ever being able to rise that far. He

simply did not possess enough natural ability, otherwise he would

have been accepted to the I. T. C. straight out of thaumaturgy

school. That sometimes happened, although it was very rare.

Occasionally, a student would come along who would display such a

high level of natural ability that he or she would be selected for a

special program upon graduation, an accelerated course of study

leading to certification as a sorcerer and enrollment in one of the I.

T. C.‘s specialized training schools in places such as Cambridge,

Geneva, Heidelberg, or Rome. But Akiro had realized early on that

such was not to be his lot. He had talent and he had ability, but it

came at the cost of steady, plodding work. In time, his record with

the Bureau would give him a favorable chance of being accepted by

the I. T. C, but only in some field office, behind a desk, or as a

subordinate field agent. And that was fine. It would be a good job,

with outstanding salary and benefits, and with a great deal of

prestige. He could want for nothing more. But he would never get it

if his Bureau record contained a case that was not closed. And

somehow, he would close this one, not only close it, but solve it. The

only trouble was, how?

He had nothing to go on. No witnesses. No clues. No leads of any

kind. All he had were corpses and corpses did not speak. Already,

there was talk en the streets about the hideous murders. Within a

matter of days, if not mere hours, the media would be certain to

pick up on it. And then they would come to him, as the agent in

charge of the case. They would focus their cameras upon him and

what would they see? A stocky little Bureau agent in his mid-fifties,

slightly overweight, with a receding hairline and inexpensive

clothes, in other words, the typical shopworn bureaucrat. They

would shove their microphones into his face and what would they