He was uniquely designed by the accident of genes for his task: a pain-responsive, pain-fed eater of emotion, depending on his intake of raw anguish as others did on their intake of bread and meat. He was the ultimate representative of his audience’s tastes and so was perfectly able to supply that vast audience’s inner needs. But though his capacity had dwindled with the years, he still was not satiated. Now he picked his way through the emotional feasts he staged, a fresh gobbet here, a bloody pudding of senses there, saving his own appetite for the more grotesque permutations of cruelty, searching always for the new, and terribly old, sensations.

Turning to Aoudad, he said, “I don’t think the idiot-savant will be worth much. Are you still watching over the starman Burris?”

“Daily, sir.” Aoudad was a crisp man with dead gray eyes and a trustworthy look. His ears were nearly pointed. “I keep watch over Burris.”

“And you, Nick? The girl?”

“She’s dull,” said Nikolaides. “But I watch her.”

“Burris and the girl…” Chalk mused. “The sum of two grudges. We need a new project Perhaps … perhaps…”

D’Amore reappeared, sliding from the opposite wall atop a jutting shelf. The idiot-savant stood placidly beside him. Chalk leaned forward, doubling fold of belly over fold of belly. He feigned interest.

“This is David Melangio,” D’Amore said.

Melangio was forty years old, but his high fore-head was unfurrowed and his eyes were as trusting as a child’s. He looked pale and moist, like something out of the earth. D’Amore had dressed him stylishly in a glittering robe shot through with iron threads, but the effect was grotesque on him; the grace and dignity of the expensive garment were lost, it served only to highlight Melangio’s blank, boyish innocence.