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The Internet could wait. Greg had reached the sparkly new Chemistry building, when a young woman fell in next to him on the sidewalk. She had short black hair, held back by a hair band, and her caramel skin glistened with sweat. ‘Wanna race?’ she asked, flashing white teeth at him. ‘Sure,’ Greg replied shortly, and kept running. The girl kept pace with him, but she never managed to get past him. Given the few glances Greg had gotten of her body, it was the toned, fit body of a real runner. This had to be so frustrating for her. At last, they reached the football stadium, having taken a roundabout, meandering way. Partly, it was because Greg actually wanted to explore the town. But it was also partly because he’d gotten lost. The effect was that the racing pair had probably gone on together for five miles or so, in addition to what they’d put in before that. The girl staggered to a halt in front of an empty ticket booth. ‘Damn, man,’ she wheezed. ‘I didn’t know you were that good.’. George had to wait a week for a visa and a further week to make the bookings. His father had arranged unlimited credit at the country's main bank ( as he had for Lisa a year ago) and all he had to do was find out what was happening to his sister. His first act on arrival was to seek an interview at the Department of Justice which oversaw the country's prison system. He was kept waiting for a week until he was asked to drop in. The Mr Hernandes who finally invited him to come round to see him was a fat and perspiring man who looked like a heart attack in waiting to the ever athletic and fit George."I am sorry, Mr Griffiths. I have the record of your sister's trial. The evidence was only photographic. Here is the incriminating photo taken by a security camera."George looked closely at it. That was never Lisa! Never in a million years!"That is not my sister, Mr Hernandes. How could you have identified her and convicted her on the basis of that?" He was seething with rage to think poor.
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