The Amtrak Wars - Cloud Warrior - Book 1 

By: Patrick Tilley

Synopsis:

Ten centuries ago the Old Time ended when Earth's cities
melted in the War of a Thousand Suns.  Now the lethal high technology
of the Amtrak Federation's underground stronghold is unleashed on
Earth's other survivors - the surface-dwelling Mutes.  But the
primitive Mutes possess ancient powers greater than any machine...

An Orbit Book First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd
1983

Reprinted 1986, 1987 (twice), 1988 (twice), 1989 (twice), 1990, 1991

Reprinted by Warner Books 1995

Reprinted 1996, 1997

Reprinted by Orbit 1998

Copyright © Patrick Tilley 1983

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 1 85723 535 5

Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Orbit

A Division of Little, Brown and Company (ilK) Brettenham House

Lancaster Place

London we2E 7EN To Nick Austin, who made it all possible.  This one's
for you.

ONE

Cadillac sat on the ground near Mr Snow and listened with half-closed
eyes as the white-haired, bearded old man told the naked clan-children
the story of the War of a Thousand Suns.

Cadillac knew the story off by heart.  It was the two hundred and
eighth time he had heard it, and it was not new to the sixty young
children of the settlement that squatted in a half-circle before
them.

It did not matter.  The children sat spellbound, hanging on every word,
just as they had the first time.  Most of them didn't remember Mr Snow
telling them the story before.  But then, most of them hardly
remembered anything for very long - and never would.

But Cadillac could.

Cadillac remembered everything.  All he had ever seen and heard, down
to the minutest detail.  That was why he had been chosen by Mr Snow to
learn all that had happened to his people from the beginning of the New
Time.  When Mr Snow left them to go to the High Ground, Cadillac would
take his place as the clan's wordsmith.  It would then be Cadillac's
task to find a young child capable of memorising the series of events
that made up the nine hundred year history of the Plainfolk.

Before that, stretching back beyond the reach of even Mr Snow's memory,
was the uncounted span of years known as the Old Time when the world
trembled before the feats of Heroes with Names of Power.

Mr Snow knew a few tales of the Old Time, when there were as many
people on the earth as there were blades of grass.  When huts were
built on top of one another to form settlements that rose high in the
sky like the distant mountains.  When the crumbling hardways, that once
ran across the land like veins along his arm were choked with a
never-ending stream of giant beetles that carried people from one
place to another so that no one would ever find himself alone.

As Mr Snow rippled his fingers up the length of both arms to describe
how, in the War, the falling Suns had burned the flesh from every
living thing, Cadillac stood up and walked away down the slope towards
the settlement.

The morning sun warmed his bare back and cast a slim, broad-shouldered
shadow in front of him.

Cadillac took a deep breath to fill out his chest, stretched his arms
out sideways then brought them together above his head.

His shadow did the same.

It never failed to fascinate Cadillac.  The shape of his shadow pleased
him.  It was different from the shadows cast by most of the others in
his clan.  It had a sleek, smooth outline, with long straight arms and
legs, and the shadow's hands had only one thumb and four fingers - like
the shadows of the sand-burrowers that Cadillac had never seen but whom
Mr Snow had described.

The hidden enemy far to the south by the Great Water who sent out the
iron snakes and the cloud warriors -' from whom he must always flee.

Cadillac M'CalI, now eighteen years old, belonged to one of the many
clans of She-Kargo Mutes that roamed the Central and Northern Plains.

According to Mr Snow, their ancestors had come from beyond the dawn on
the backs of giant birds whose beating wings made the noise of a mighty
waterfall.

They had landed at a place called O-haya, by the side of a great
lake.

To celebrate their arrival, they had killed and roasted the birds and
feasted on them all summer long then, when winter came, they used the
frozen waters of the lake to build a great settlement full of towering
pillars of ice that glowed with all the colours of the rainbow and
whose tops were lost in the clouds.

In the War of a Thousand Suns, the city had melted and flowed back into
the lake..  Every living thing had perished except for an old man
called She-Kargo and an old woman called Me-Sheegun and their
children.

She-Kargo had fifteen sons, all of them brave warriors, tall and strong
as bears; the old woman had fifteen beautiful daughters.

She-Kargo's sons and Me-Sheegun's daughters crossed wrists and bound
their bodies together with the blood kiss and their children, and their
children's children, grew strong and multiplied, and moved westwards
into the lands of the Minne-Sota, the Io-wa, Da-Kota, and Ne-Braska,
killing all who resisted them, and making soul-brothers of all those
who laid the hand of friendship upon them.

They triumphed because their warriors were braver, their wordsmiths
wiser, and their summoners more powerful.

And thus it was that-the Plainfolk grew strong in number and gave
thanks to their great mother-goddess, Mo-town.

Cadillac went to his chosen place among the rocks at the edge of the
plateau where the M'Call clan had set down their huts to wait out the
growing time.  From the ragged edge of the plateau the ground fell away
steeply, ridged and hollowed as if clawed by the talons of a giant
eagle.  Lower down, the ground evened out, flowing in a gentle curve to
join the rolling, orange grass-covered plain that stretched towards the
rim of the world.  Beyond that lay the hidden door through which the
sun entered each morning.  The pale blue that had quenched the golden
fireclouds of the dawn was deepening as the sun climbed higher; small
widely-spaced clouds, like a distant slow-grazing herd of white
buffalo, were beginning to form over the far edge of the plains.

Cadillac lay back against the warm rock face and let his eyes roam
across the unbroken stretch of blue, searching for the tell-tale flash
of silver light that he had been told would signal the presence of a
cloud warrior.  As Mr Snow's chosen successor, Cadillac had no need to
act as a sentinel.  Over a hundred of his clan-brothers were perched on
the hilltops that lay around the settlement; young warriors - known as
Bears - were on guard, day and night; some watching the sky for cloud
warriors; others, the ground, for any marauding bands from rival Mute
clans seeking to invade the M'Call's summer turf.  Some manned hidden
look-out posts on the high ground, others patrolled the area around the
settlement in small mobile packs that doubled as hunting parties.

Cadillac continued his search of the sky.  Not because he felt
threatened but because he was consumed with curiosity.

As a Mute, he had every reason to fear the sand-burrowers; the
mysterious people who lived beneath the earth and killed everything
upon it whenever they emerged from the darkness; yet in spite of their
awesome reputation - or perhaps because of it - he yearned to confront
them; to challenge them.

So far, they had not ventured into the lands of the Plainfolk.  But the
Sky Voices had told Mr Snow that the time of their coming was near.

The first sign would be arrowheads in the sky; the birdwings that
carried the cloud warriors on their journeys.  They were the far-seeing
eyes of the iron snake which followed, bearing more sand-burrowers in
its belly.  When they came, there would be a great dying.  The world
would weep but all the tears in the sky would not wash the blood of the
Plainfolk from the earth.

When Mr Snow had finished telling his story to the children, he walked
down to where Cadillac sat with his face turned up to the sky and
squatted cross-legged on an adjoining rock.  His long white hair was
drawn up into atop-knot, tied and threaded with ribbon; the aging skin
covering his lean, hard body was patterned with random swirls, patches
and spots of black, three shades of brown - from dark to light and an
even lighter olive-pink.

Mr Snow had said that the bodies of the sand-burrowers were the same
colour all over.  Olive-pink from the top of their heads to the soles
of their feet.  Like worms.

Cadillac's body was marked with a similar random pattern but his skin
was as smooth as a raven's wing.  Some of Mr Snow's skin was smooth too
but in other places, such as his forehead, shoulders and forearms, the
skin was lumpy as if it had pebbles stuffed underneath, or it was
shrivelled up like a dead leaf or the gnarled bark of a tree, That was
the way most Mutes were born.  And many were different to Cadillac in
other ways too.  As a young child, when Cadillac finally became aware
that his body was different from those of his clan-brothers, he had
felt ashamed; a grotesque outcast.  Some of the other children taunted
him, saying he had a body like a sand-burrower.  He became alienated
from his peer group; ran away; was brought back; fell sick, refused to
eat.

Black-Wing, his mother, had taken him to Mr Snow who explained that the
things he hated about himself were precious differences that would, in
the years to come, enable him to perform great feats of valour.  That
was why he had been made straight and strong as the Heroes of the Old
Time, and had been given a Name of Power.  Cadillac, then four years
old, had sat listening wide-eyed as, in the flickering firelight under
a dark sky heavy with shimmering stars, Mr Snow had revealed to him the
Talisman Prophecy.

F. from that moment, Cadillac knew, with a childlike certainty he had
never lost, that everything that happened to him had a meaning, and
that his destiny was bound up with the greater destiny of the
Plainfoak.

Cadillac gave up his search of the sky and turned to Mr Snow.  He had
no need to tell the old man what he had been looking for.  Mr Snow, his
teacher and guide since early childhood, who spoke to the Sky Voices,
knew these things; knew everything.

'Is this the year of the Great Dying?"  asked Cadillac.

'This is the year it begins,' said Mr Snow.

'When will the iron snakes come?"

Mr Snow closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and turned his face
towards the sun.  The sky had now turned a deep blue.  Cadillac waited
patiently.

Eventually, the answer came.  'When the moon's face has turned away
three times."

'And what of the cloud warrior the Sky Voices have chosen?"

Mr Snow let the air out of his body with a long sigh and dropped his
head onto his chest.  His eyes fluttered open.

'His journey towards us begins.  He dreams the dreams of young men.  Of
feats of valour, of triumph, of power, of greatness."  Mr Snow raised
his eyes and looked at Cadillac.

'But like all young men, he thinks these things are gifts.  He does not
yet know how much the world pays for such dreams."

TWO

The one hundred members of Eagle Squadron jerked back their shoulders
and sat bolt upright in their desks as the Flight Adjudicator entered
the briefing room.  The Adjudicator surveyed them briefly with grey
expressionless eyes then scanned the list displayed on his video-pad.

'Avery - ?"

Mel Avery leapt out of her seat and snapped to attention, thumbs
aligned with the side seams of her blue jumpsuit.

'Sir!"  'Flightline Three."

Avery grabbed her visored helmet, saluted swiftly and headed for the
door at the double.

The Flight Adjudicator keyed in a box co& against Avery's name and
looked up.  'Ayers - ?"

Ayers stood up, jaw squared, back ram-rod straight.  'Sir!"

'Flightline Five."

Ayers saluted and ran.

'Brickman - ?"

Steve Brickman shot to his feet, stamped his right heel into line with
his left and braced his shoulderblades together.  'Sir!"  'Flightline
Six."

The Snake Pit.

Despite his tensed neck and jaw muscles, Bricknmn let slip a brief
involuntary gasp of dismay.

The Adjudicator's grey eyes fastened on him.  'Anything wrong?"

'No, sirr!"  'Okay, get moving."

Brickman picked up his helmet from the desk top and saluted smartly.

The Flight Adjudicator's attention was already elsewhere.

'Bridges - ?"

'Sir!"  Brickman cursed his luck as he ran along the corridor which led
to the simulators and free-flight rigs.  The end-of-course exam
consisted of eight segments.  Like all the other candidates, he had
been hoping to warm up on one of the easier rigs.  Instead, his first
test was to be over the toughest hurdle.

The Snake Pit - as it had been christened by a long-&ad generation of
flight cadets - was described officially in the Academy's training
manual as the Double Helix, and listed in Daily Or&rs as Flightline
Six.

The rig consisted of two circular ramps wrapped around massive central
pillars housed side-by-side in a sausage-shaped shaft.  In elevation,
they looked like two giant corkscrews with opposing threads; the
left-hand ramp descending eleven full turns in a clockwise direction;
the right-hand one, anticlockwise.

As each ramp wound down the shaft around its central pillar, it created
a rectangular tunnel of air space one hundred and thirty feet wide and
ninety feet high.  In the centre of the shaft the two ramps touched rim
to rim enabling a pupil pilot aboard one of the Academy's Skyhawks to
fly from one to the other, weaving his way up and down the shaft in an
almost infinitely variable series of ascending or descending
figure-eights and tight right- or left-hand turns around the two
pillars.

Runways for take-off and landing were situated in flight access tunnels
at the top and bottom of the rig and these were linked by express
elevators able to carry two Skyhawks with their wings folded.

The overall height of the Snake Pit was some twelve hundred feet.  The
shaft containing the spiral ramps measured seven hundred by three
hundred and fifty feet.

Each flight access tunnel was one hundred and fifty feet wide, one
hundred feet high, and a quarter of a mile long.

And the whole colossal structure, together with the other rigs and the
rest of the Flight Academy had been drilled, hammered and blasted out
of the bedrock several hundred feet beneath the desert sands of New
Mexico near the ruins of a city that, in the prehistory of the
Federation, had been known as Alamogordo.

Already rated above-average, Brickman knew every twist and turn of the
Snake Pit.  He knew he would make it through to the finish line,
out-performing the rest of the senior year in the process.  But that
wasn't enough.

Brickman was intent on gaining the maximum possible points.

That was the difficult part.  It meant his performance had to be
faultless.  Not only on the Snake Pit but on all the other rigs and
flight simulators too.  For Brickman was not only aiming to finish top
of his class; he wanted to rack up a perfect score.  Something no
wingman had ever achieved in the hundred year history of the Academy.

Fate had ordained that the graduation date of Brickman's class
COincided with his seventeenth birthday and the one hundredth
anniversary of the Academy.  The traditional passing out parade in
which the senior third-year cadets were awarded their wings was
scheduled to be part of the celebrations.  When he had learned of this
providential conjunction upon his enrolment as a Freshman, Brickman had
determined to provide the Academy and his guardians with something
extra to celebrate.

Steven Roosevelt Brickman.  The first double century wingman.  Leader
of the class of 2989 with a ground-flight test score of two hundred and
winner of the COveted Minuteman Trophy - awarded on graduation for the
best all-round performance while under training.

Brickman paused as he reached the access door to the Snake Pit, took
several deep, calming breaths, checked the alignment of the creases in
his blue flight fatigues, then stepped through into the Rig
Supervisor's Office and logged his arrival by feeding his ID sensor
card into the checkpoint console at the door.

As soon as he was cleared to enter the flight area, Brickman ran at the
double towards the ramp where two Skyhawk microlites were.  being
readied by six of the Academy's ground staff.  Bob Carrol, the Chief
Flying Instructor, stood at the edge of the runway talking to another
of the ten Adjudicators who had been sent down from Grand Central to
conduct the flight tests and award the marks.

Brickman thudded to a halt with perfect timing, cocked his elbow into
line with his shoulder and saluted, his arm folding like a well-oiled
jack-knife, fingers, hand and wrist rigidly aligned, the tip of his
black glove exactly one inch from the bar and star badge on his forage
cap."  Senior Cadet 8902 Brickman reporting for flight test, sir!"  The
Adjudicator gave Brickman a dry, appraising glance then lifted the
cover of his video-pad and scanned the text displayed on the
centimetre-thick screen beneath ... He pursed his lips at whatever was
written there, then nodded at Carrol, 'Ah, yes - your star
performer."

Then to Brickman he said, 'Okay.  Hear this.  Take-off and landing will
be from this runway.  Your first turn will be to the left.  The rest of
your flight pattern on the downward and return leg will be indicated by
course markers on each level.  Lead time will be fifteen degrees of
arc.  Points will be deducted for course and altitude deviations, and
-' the Adjudicator paused, '- you'll be flying against the clock.

Overall flight time will be counted in the final pass mark.  Have you
got that?"

'Loud and clear, sir!"  'Okay.  You roll on the green in fifteen."  The
Adjudicator returned Brickman's salute and walked away towards the
Flight Control Room.

CFI Carrol, a sandy-haired thirty-year-old leatherneck, eyed Brickman
sympathetically.  Like all the Academy staff, Carrol was a tough,
demanding instructor but if he had allowed himself to show favour to a
cadet, Brickman would have been the recipient.  'I had a hunch you
might draw the short straw.  How do you feel?"

Brickman, now standing at ease, allowed himself a brief non-regulation
shrug.  He knew Carrol; he knew he wouldn't pick up on it.  'Someone
has to be first."

CFI Carrol greeted Brickman's reply with an ironic smile.  'Yes, I
guess they have.  Okay - you'd better get moving."

Brickman sprang to attention and threw another faultless salute.

Carrol acknowledged it with what looked like a half' hearted swipe at
a fly on his forehead.  Discipline was one thing; saluting another.

Confronted daily for the last five years by zealous cadets his right
arm had often felt as if it was coming off its hinges.  'Good luck."

'Thank you, sir."

'And Brickman -' Brickman froze halfway through a left turn.  'Sir?"

'This is a cruel world.  Good guys don't always finish first."

'I'll try and remember that."

'Do,' said Carrol.  'But don't let it stop you trying."  He lowered his
voice.  'Take Number Two The controls are smoother."  He dismissed
Brickman with a nod and watched him as he ran towards the parked
aircraft.

The Skyhawk - the only aircraft built by the Federation consisted of a
small three-wheeled cockpit and power pod, with a cowled propellor and
rudder at the rear, slung under a wire and strut braced arrow-head wing
measuring forty-five feet from tip to tip.  The wing covering was of
fabric with a plastic lining that could be inflated like a bicycle tyre
to give it an aerofoil section.  The motor ran on batteries.  For
underground training flights - none of which lasted more than thirty
minutes - the static charge in the power pod was enough; when used
overground, the Skyhawk's wing was covered with solar-cell fabric that,
under optimum conditions, gave it virtually unlimited range..

Carrol lingered by the runway as Brickman carried out his own quick
pre-flight check of the Skyhawk then strapped himself into the cockpit
frame and started up.  There had been many able cadets who had passed
through his hands in the last five years, but Brickman was in a class
by himself.

Watching his progress on the rigs, Carrol had concluded that the young
Tracker had more than a feel for flying.  He had - well, there was only
one way to describe it - some strange sixth sense that told him what
was going to happen.

Carrol was sure of it.  When flying in the Snake Pit, for example,
Brickman seemed to know which way the course marker lights would go
before Flight Control flipped the switches.  There was no other
explanation for the fact that he was always correctly positioned for
the required turn.  And after only a few hours on the rig, almost
always flying a perfect course.  Right down the wire.

It was uncanny.  But marvelous to behold.

Carrol had not confided this feeling about Brickman to anyone.  The
concept of a 'sixth sense' did not form part of the official Tracker
philosophy.  Indeed, the term had not formed part of Carrol's
vocabulary until he had been assigned to one of the Trail-Blazer
expeditions charged with pacification of the overground.

Many veteran Trail-Blazers believed that the Mutes - the perpetual
enemies of the Amtrak Federation - possessed a 'sixth sense', but very
few were prepared to discuss it.  In fact, to do so publicly was a
punishable offence.  Trackers had no need to dwell upon such dubious
intangibles.  It was their physical and technological skills that had
made them masters of both the earthshield and the overground.  It was
the visible power of the Federation which sprang from the genius of the
First Family that had ensured their survival, and had brought the dream
of an eventual return to a blue sky world to the edge of reality.

That was what it said in the Manual of the Federation; a comprehensive
information/data bank known colloquially as 'The Book'.  Video page
after video page of reference and archive material, rules and
regulations governing every aspect of Tracker life plus the collective
wisdom of the First Family: inspirational insights for every
occasion.

What 'The Book' didn't mention was that, as a wingman, you also needed
a generous amount of good luck to survive the required minimum of three
operational tours - each of which lasted a year.  Fortunately, luck was
one of the few permissible abstractions that Trackers could dwell upon
during a short life dedicated to the pursuit of excellence in a world
where the practical application of brawn and brain took precedence over
everything else.

Brickman, strapped in his seat, with the nose wheel of the Skyhawk
poised on the centre of the start line, was oblivious of Carrol's
presence on the edge of the runway behind his port wing.  Brickman's
eyes were fixed on the runway control light mounted in the left-hand
wall of the flight access tunnel, his hand on the brake lever as the
motor behind him revved at full power.

All his senses were attuned to the flight ahead.  And the extra one,
ascribed to him by Carrol, had already hinted that the first course
marker would probably indicate another tight left-hand turn around the
pillar.

A lead time of fifteen degrees of arc meant that, when the right- or
left-hand arrow lit up, a pilot had a little under two seconds in which
to react and make the appropriate course correction.  If he left it too
late, he would swerve off the centre line.  When that happened, lines
of photoelectric cells in the ramp ceiling recorded the deviation.  A
similar arrangement of cells in the shaft wall also recorded variations
in altitude.  To score the maximum number of points, a pilot had to fly
within extremely tight limits down the middle of the flight tunnel from
start to finish.  To do so demanded a high degree of airmanship,
intense concentration and hair-trigger responses.

Brickman possessed all these qualities, plus an inexplicable ability to
predict random events several seconds before they happened.  As he sat
there waiting, with total concentration, for the green light, he was
confident that he would 'see' the course marker lights one or two
seconds before they were illuminated by Flight Control.  This sixth
sense only seemed to operate in moments of stress - as now.

A fortuitous gift he put to good use without speculating on its
provenance; without the slightest trace of fear or wonder, He just
accepted it.  In the same way as he accepted, without question, the
fact that he, Steven Roosevelt Brickman, was destined to succeed.

Forewarned that the green light was about to come on, Brickman released
the wheel brakes as the current reached the lamp filament.  The Skyhawk
surged forward and was airborne in thirty yards.  By the time he had
reached the end of the flight access tunnel and gone into his first
turn Carrol, who had moved to the centre of the runway, sensed that
Brickman was on his way to establishing an unbeatable lead.

By the end of the fourth day, when all the flight times were in,
Carrol's hunch had been amply confirmed.

Brickman not only flew a faultless pattern, he completed it in a time
that was destined to become par for the course.

,and from the Snake Pit, he had gone on to rack up a perfect score on
all the other flight rigs.

Brickman also scored full marks in the test of his physical agility
over the gruelling assault course, on the firing range and general
weapon handling, and in the video question and answer sections on
general and technical subjects.  When the Adjudicators began processing
the results, it soon became clear that 8902 Brickman, S.R. with one
test to go, was within reach of an unbelievable double century.

'A-t.  en-SHUN?

Three hundred pairs of heels crashed together on the floor command of
the Cadet Squadron Leaders as CFI Carrol entered the main lecture hall
followed by Triggs, the senior Assistant Flight Instructor.

The cadets, whose turn it was to be in charge of the three units that
made up the senior year, about-faced, saluted and reeled off the usual
class report as the CFI mounted the dais.

'Condor Squadron present and ready, sahl' 'Hawk Squadron present and
ready, sa-h!"  'Eagle Squadron present and ready, sah!"  Carrol
responded with his famous fly-swipe and went to the lectern.  AFI
Triggs, a noted drill freak, positioned himself one pace back, and one
arm's length to Carrol's right, feet apart and angled symmetrically
outwards, stiff-fingered hands crossed in the small of his back with
thumbs overlapping on the joints.

'Be seated, gentlemen."

Three hundred butts slid smoothly into place.

'Okay,' said Carrol.  'I've seen the provisional results.  So far, so
good.  All that remains is your final, make-or-break flight test.  The
big one.  The real thing.  At 0700 hours tomorrow, you'll begin moving
up - a section at a time - to Level Ten for your first overground
solo."

Steve Brickman shared the surge of excitement and apprehension
generated by Carrol's announcement.

'You've all seen pictures of it,' continued Carrol.  'You've all been
briefed.  You know what to expect.  Right?"

'Yess-SIRR!"  chorussed the class.

'Wrong,' snapped Carrol.  'Everything you've experienced and everything
you've been taught up to now is totally useless.  Forget it.  Nothing
can prepare you for that moment when you lift off the ramp and catch
your first glimpse of the overground.  It's like entering a new
dimension.  The initial impact will overwhelm you, may even frighten
you.  That's okay.  When you fly your first patrol into Mute territory,
you're going to be scared too.

Anyone who isn't is an idiot.  The important thing is to stay in
control.  Of yourself and your aircraft.  Don't allow yourself to
become disoriented.  It's just like being in the free-flight dome only
bigger."

A lot bigger.  Vast.  Endless.  Terrifying ...

'Some of you are going to breeze through.  After the first few minutes,
you'll be flying hands off- wondering what all the fuss was about.  And
some of you are going to hate every minute of it.  You're going to want
to ball up in your seat and close your eyes and hope it goes away.  But
you're going to fight that feeling.  If you plan to graduate as wingmen
a week next Friday, you're going to fly that blown-up bedsheet every
inch of the way around the course that's been mapped out for you, and
you're going to bring it back in one piece.

And what's more, you're going to do it with a clean pair of pants."

This news raised a ripple of nervous laughter.

'No, don't laugh,' said Carrol.  'I'm not kidding.  Your flight
instructors are going to be on duty in the shower room.  Right?"

Mr Triggs nodded meanly.  'Right ..."

Carrol eyed his audience.  Remembering.  'Two of my classmates freaked
out when they cleared the ramp.  One of them just rolled over on his
back and went straight in from five hundred feet.  The other took one
look, made a one hundred and eighty degree turn and tried to fly back
inside.

Came in at full throttle.  Would have made it too but - he was in such
a hurry, he didn't wait for the ramp crew to open the door."

Brickman winced.  The Academy staffer who had briefed them on the
overground had mentioned that the outer ramp doors to the arid desert
above the Academy were colossal twelve foot-thick slabs of reinforced
concrete.

The CFI concluded his cautionary tale with a grimace.  'I trust that I
can count on you all not to do anything in the next ten days that
might, in any way, spoil the centenary celebrations."

The class gazed at him silently.

'Good,' said Carrol.  He turned to the senior AFI.

'They're all yours, Mr Triggs."

Despite Carrol's dire warning, the fail rate on this crucial solo
flight was now almost zero.  Since the days when the CFI had been a
cadet, the psychological profile of the ideal wingman had been
carefully reconstructed and each applicant was subjected to rigorous
tests' during the selection process.

In theory, the psy-profile of successful candidates had to achieve a
seventy-five per cent match with the referent.  In practice, this was
not always possible.  In the thousand year history of the Federation,
as in the millennia preceding it, no one had yet found a way to endow
the art of applied psychology with the mathematical exactitude of the
physical sciences.

Which meant that, now and then, an aggressively normal bonehead would
soar off the ramp and, after a few minutes aloft, agoraphobia would set
in.  The fear of open spaces that afflicted the majority of Trackers.

The unlucky candidate would find that his hand on the control column
had become palsied, and that his intestines were doing the
shimmy-shake.

And while he might master his fear sufficiently to fly the allotted
course, it was the end of his career as a wingman.

For during the crucial solo flight, each cadet was wired up like
someone taking a lie detector test.  Sensors fixed to his body and
linked to a recorder monitored various functions that included such
giveaways as heartbeat, brain activity, skin temperature and
humidity.

The Flight Adjudicators from Grand Central did not need Mr Triggs on
standby in the shower room.  With the sophisticated telemetry at their
command, they knew when a student.pilot had been scared shitless.

Brickman, who had begun mapping out his career at the age of five, was
confident that he would pass this test - as he had all the others with
flying colours.

This is not to imply that success came easily to brickman.

It did not.  Apart from his inherent flying ability, he was by no means
the brightest or the strongest student in the senior year - but he was,
without doubt, the sharpest.  His intellectual and physical
achievements in course studies, track and match events, were the result
of endless hours of hard work and unrelenting concentration; a total
commitment to the ,task in hand.

Brickman's true talent lay in maximising his potential; making the most
of his natural assets.  Which included a tall, straight-limbed body, a
well-boned honest, dependable face, and a pleasant, engagingly shrewd
manner that was used, with good effect, to conceal a brain that
functioned as precisely and dispassionately as a silicon microchip.

Although the cadets assigned to Eagle Squadron traditionally regarded
themselves as innately superior to the rest of the Academy intake (the
Eagles had been overall champions in team events for fifteen out of the
past twenty years) it figured third in the organisationai listings.  As
a consequence, Brickman and his fellow cadets had a four-day wait
before being cleared to Level Ten for the final test flight.

On the fifth day, the long-awaited moment finally arrived.  Armed with
their movement orders, Brickman, Avery, and the eight other cadets that
made up the first section of A-Flight presented themselves at the Level
Superintendent's Office and rode the elevator to Level Five.

From there, they took the conveyor to the second Provo checkpoint on
Six, then entered another elevator for the ascent to the subsurface:
Level Ten.

It was the first time that Brickman had gone beyond Five.

Prior to joining the Academy, his whole life had been spent within the
Quad.  Levels One to Four.

The ground floor of Level One was fifteen hundred feet below the
surface of the overground.  Each level was one hundred and fifty feet
high, subdivided into ten floors, or galleries.  Thus, counting up from
the bottom, One-8 was the eighth floor of Level One, and Ten-10 was the
ramp access floor; the heavily defended interface between the
Federation and the overground.

For reasons of security, only a limited number of subdivisions went all
the way up to Level Ten.  Most of the Federation's bases were located
between Levels One and Four and linked with each other by interstate
shuttle.

Stepping out of the elevator on Ten-10 gave Brickman a strange
feeling.

At first glance, there was little to distinguish the ramp access floor
from those below it but Brickman could 'feel' the overground.  Even
though it was still, at that point, some fifty feet above his head, it
registered as an almost palpable presence.

Reporting to Overground Flight Control, Brickman found he was listed
number one to go.  One of the ubiquitous Flight Adjudicators stood by
as two medics taped the sensors to his body and checked the screened
printout from a data recorder.  Brickman then stepped back into his
blue flight fatigues and fed the umbilical carrying the sensor wires
through the flap provided.

In the Chart Room, a second Flight Adjudicator handed him a map, a set
of course coordinates and the latest weather data.  'You have fifteen
minutes."

Gripped by rising excitement, Brickman choked back a smile that could
have cost him valuable marks, saluted smartly, and went to work on one
of the plotting desks.  He was finished in under ten minutes but spent
the extra time checking his calculations a third and then a fourth
time.

Flying one of six alternative courses, the other cadets in his section,
and the rest of the squadron, would be following him off the ramps at
quarter hourly intervals over the next two days.

From the Chart Room, Brickman was directed towards the North-West ramp;
one of four lying at right-angles to each other in the form of a giant
Maltese Cross.  Reaching the ramp access area, he found a Skyhawk
parked with its nose pointing towards the huge lead-lined doors.  The
delta wing was covered in a metallic blue fabric into which were woven
thousands of solar cells.  Brickman carried out the usual pre-flight
checks, then donned his dark-visored bone dome, strapped himself into
the cockpit, plugged his mike lead into the VHF set, and the umbilical
into the onboard transmitter.  From now until he stepped out of the
cockpit, the data from the sensors taped to his body would be displayed
on a monitor screen in Flight Control and recorded on tape providing an
indelible second-by-second record of his reactions.

The data transmitter was attached to the right-hand side of the cockpit
by his elbow.  Brickman reached across with his left hand and switched
it on.

Flight Control radioed back immediately.  'Easy X-Ray One, your data
link reads A-Okay."

Brickman acknowledged the Ramp Marshal's windup signal and hit the
button.  The electric motor behind his seat whined into life.  Brickman
checked the movement of the control surfaces, then moved forward under
the direction of the Ramp Marshal's batons until the nose of the
Skyhawk was a couple of feet from the innermost ramp door.

With a swishing noise that Brickman barely heard above the thrumming
engine, the fifty foot high wall in front of him slid downwards into
the floor.  Following the orange batons, Brickman taxied over it
towards the double outer doors, stopping on the parallel yellow line.

At this point, the ramp access tunnel was one hundred feet wide, its
sides sloping gently inwards towards the ceiling.  Brickman remembered
from the briefing that the inner pair of doors opened sideways; the
outer pair overlapped horizontally; the larger top section going into
the roof, the lower section into the floor.  This arrangement allowed
the ramp crew to adjust the aperture to the size of the object passing
through it.

Glancing in his rearview mirror, Brickman saw to his surprise that the
huge door behind him had risen noiselessly, cutting him off from the
Federation.

The voice of the controller came over his headset.  'Easy X-Ray One,
this is Ground Control.  Light balance will commence in five seconds.

The doors will open in ten.  Do not attempt to taxi through until you
see the green.  Once you cross the double yellow line, you are clear
for takeoff.

Transmit your callsign when you pass over the red, white and blue
beacon on your return leg.  Over."

'Easy X-Ray One, Roger."  Brickman's voice contained a tremor of
excitement.

'Good luck,' said the voice in his ear.

In the same instant, banks of neon tubes stretching along the walls
from floor to ceiling and across the ceiling itself rippled into life,
creating a glowing tunnel of light that grew progressively brighter
towards the ramp door to match the intensity of the daylight that lay
beyond.

Brickman lowered his visor.  Five seconds later, the twelve foot-thick
inner doors slid apart and the lower section of the outer door sank
level with the ramp presenting Brickman with a fifteen foot high slot
just wide enough for the Skyhawk to pass through.

Nosewheel on the centre line, Brickman taxied out on the green, passing
under the equally massive concrete curtain that formed the top section
of' the outer door.  Rolling clear of its threatening bulk, he paused
on the double yellow line that stretched from wall to wall and took
stock of his surroundings.

He saw that he was in a concrete canyon with sheer, unseamed, fifty
foot high walls.  Ahead of him, the ramp sloped gently upwards.

Brickman knew from his study of the model that the walls which now
enclosed him angled out sharply, tapering down, as the ramp rose in the
shape of a giant fan, to meet the overground.

The canyon was roofed with a flat expanse of brilliant blue.

With a sudden shock of recognition, Brickman realised that he was not
looking at another illuminated ceiling - like those in the Federation's
central plazas - but at the sky.

The ceiling of the world.  'The wild blue yonder' - that heartsurging
phrase from the battle hymn of the Flight Academy that had fired
Brickman's imagination at the age of ten.  Not wrought by concealed
tubes of neon, but filled with a light of dazzling, almost
overpowering, intensity that bounced off the bleached concrete and cast
sharp, rich, dark shadows on the runway beneath the Skyhawk.  The light
of the sun; blazing down upon him so brightly that even his visored
eyes could not bear to look at it directly; its raying heat piercing
his body, making the marrow in his bones tingle with its warmth.

Willing himself to remain calm, Brickman took a deep breath of the
fresh oven-baked air, pushed the throttle wide open and aimed the
Skyhawk up the centreline of the ramp and at the sky beyond.  A wave of
reflected heat floated the lightweight craft into the air
unexpectedly.

Brickman quickly adjusted the Skyhawk's trim.  The enclosing walls fell
away and, as the ramp beneath him shrank into a shimmering slice of
concrete pie, Brickman caught his first glimpse of the overground.

And was engulfed by the vastness of the earth and sky.

For the past sixteen years and fifty-one weeks of Brickman's life, the
most distant object he had gazed upon had never been more than half a
mile away; the highest vaulted space, seven hundred and fifty feet
above his head.

He had seen video pictures of the recently completed John Wayne Plaza
at Grand Central; a marvel of engineering a mile wide and nearly half a
mile high.  But even that was rendered totally insignificant by the
vista that unfolded as the Skyhawk climbed higher.  For now, Brickman
could see for more than a hundred miles.  A mind-blowing, eye-popping,
heart-stopping panorama bounded by an impossibly distant, cloud-flecked
horizon under the fathomless blue bowl of the sky.

Brickman's response to the overground welled up from the innermost
depths of his being.  CFI Carrol had been right.  Nothing in his past
life could have possibly prepared him for this moment.  For years, he
had prided himself on his clinical detachment; his ability to control
his reaction to any situation; investing his words and actions with
exactly the required degree of emotion.  No more, no less.

But not today.

For one brief instant, Brickman let the mask slip; abandoning himself
to the raw sensations that made his scalp tingle and his heart pound;
that left him gasping for breath.  He lay back and let the essence, the
latent power, of the overground flood through his whole being; let its
seductive beauty embrace him (had he known the phrase and understood
its implications) like a long-lost lover.

Was reunited.

Heard voices.

Sensed danger.

Recovered.  Regained control.  Returned his being to the service of the
Federation; purging himself of all feeling; crushing his new found
sense of wonder beneath the iron heel of his Tracker psyche.

Outwardly restored, Brickman throttled back for the climb to altitude,
checked that he was on the correct course heading for the first leg of
his flight, and turned his attention to the land below.

The overground.  The despoiled birthright of the Trackers.  Overrun by
the shadowy, hostile Mutes.  The blue sky world which the First Family,
in the name of the Federation, had vowed to cleanse and repossess.

Brickman consulted his map.  The ramp above the Flight Academy from
which he had taken off was situated some five thousand feet above sea
level, and halfway between two pre-historic sites called Alamogordo and
Holloman AFB.

All that remained of Alamogordo was a few jagged walls sticking up out
of the ground in vague rectilinear patterns among the bright red
trees.

Holloman AFB, below his port wing, consisted of three enormous
overlapping craters partially filled with wind-blown sand.

Brickman turned his attention back to the giant cottonwoods.

Trees ...

Like the distant clouds, they were something else Brickman had only
seen pictures of.

At this point, Brickman's altitude was two and a half thousand feet and
climbing, above terrain that had been described by the Academy's Chart
Officer as 'high plains country'.  Over his right shoulder, beyond the
ramp, Brickman could see the towering summit of the Sierra Blanca, part
of the mountain range barring the way to the east.  Ahead, lay the San
Andreas range which he would cross between Black Top and Saunas Peak.

From here, his course lay in a straight line over the Jornada del
Muerto to the northern end of a large overground reservoir that formed
part of a giant river cutting deep into the bedrock of the land as it
snaked its way south.

The Rio Grande.

Despite all he had been told, Brickman found it hard to accept that
the overground could be as deadly as it was beautiful.  Yet he could
not deny the first-hand evidence provided by his guard-father who, as a
wingman, had put in a double-six up the line and was now a shrunken
shadow in a wheelchair; his body ravaged by the all-consuming sickness
that lay in wait for all those who survived the allotted number of
overground tours of duty.

The sky above, the land below, the crisp fresh air that now filled his
lungs, was charged with lethal radiation that, even on this first
sortie, had already begun its silent attack on his own unshielded
body.

Every square inch of ground, every cubic inch of sky harboured the kiss
of death.

It was this ever-present danger, lying across the world like an
invisible funeral shroud, which had caused the subterranean birth of
the Federation; had kept it, for nearly a thousand years, from assuming
its rightful place in the sun.  Anti-radiation top-suits did exist but
they were ungainly garments that were scorned by Trail-Blazers who,
like the pre-Holocaust American Green Berets and British Paras,
regarded themselves as lite shock-troops; the cream of Amtrak.  The
standard-issue closed helmet with its air filtration system and 'flak'
jacket were considered an acceptable form of protection; anti-radiation
top-suits did not even form part of a wagon train's inventory.  The
refusal to wear them was viewed by Grand Central not as a breach of
discipline, but as proof of the Blazer's readiness to die for the
Federation.

The cross-country course Brickman had been given to fly was in the
shape of a roughly equilateral triangle, and covered a total distance
of two hundred and twenty-five miles.  The first seventy-five mile leg
was angled northwest to the head of the Elephant Butte Reservoir; the
second almost due south, running parallel to the Rio Grande and
crossing it at another prehistoric ruin bearing the name of Hatch to
reach the peak of the Sierra de Las Uvas.  The return leg ran E.N.E,
skirting the eight thousand foot peak that marked the high point of the
San Andreas mountains, then across the dazzling, desolate expanse of
White Sands and back to the ramp.

Aware that the Adjudicators might possess the means to monitor his
flight pattern, Brickman flew a perfect course at he required cruising
altitude of eight thousand feet, at a ground speed of seventy-five
miles an hour.  He searched the sky around him but could see no sign of
any other craft.

Once clear of the mountains, he began losing altitude for his final
approach.  Ahead of him, he could see the thousand foot high,
pencil-slim red, white and blue striped beacon balanced on its point as
if by magic.  Below him, the white sand, wind-shaped into curving
lines, stretched away on all sides like a vast frozen sea.

The sea ...

Brickman had heard about it, but had never seen pictures of it.  He
only knew that it lay beyond the southern horizon.

He fought down a mad impulse to break away in search of it and
continued his slow descent towards the SouthWest ramp.  When he was
some two miles from touchdown, he saw a tiny, triangular speck of blue
rise from the takeoff ramp, becoming a flash of silver as it banked
round and caught the sun.  High in the sky to the south-east hung
another micro-dot.  Someone else on their way back in.

Brickman throttled right back and drifted down through the warm air
with the tranquil ease of a seabird, putting all three wheels on
the'ramp three hours after takeoff; matching - to the second - the
estimated time he had filed with Overground Flight Control.

A final, flawless performance.

As he taxied down the ramp, the converging walls seemed to leap
upwards, cutting him off from the overground; hemming him in;
suffocating him.  Within seconds, all that remained of the sky world
was a flat slab of blue visible through the clearview wing panels above
the cockpit.

The ramp doors slid open noiselessly as the Skyhawk reached the double
yellow line.  The green light signalled he was clear to taxi in.

Brickman knew that the brightly-lit tunnel beyond represented safety;
offered total protection against the dangers of the overground yet he
found himself momentarily paralysed; gripped by an inexplicable fear.

A fear of being buried alive.

With an involuntary movement, he hit the brake pedal, holding the
Skyhawk's nose on the double yellow line.  One, two, three, four, five
seconds.  Six, seven A warning klaxon blared harshly.  The controller's
voice spoke quietly into his ear.  'Clear the ramp, Easy X-Ray One."

The voice paused then added, 'Your data line is down but we have no
malfunction signal.  Check system, over."

Brickman moved his right arm back and glanced down at the data
transmitter to which his body was wired.  A chill shiver ran through
him.  It was switched off!  Somehow he must have unwittingly knocked it
with his elbow.  Oh, Christopher Columbus!  How could he have done such
a stupid thing?  And When?  I He quickly flipped the switch back into
the 'on' position and berated himself silently.  Oh, shit, shit, and
triple shit.  You bonehead!  You've blown it!

The bland, disembodied voice of Ground Control cut across his mental
confusion.  'Okay, we have your data.  Roll it in, Easy X-Ray One."

Willing an inner and outward calm upon his body, Brickman eased his
foot off the brakes and taxied in under the raised section of the outer
door.  As soon as he was inside, the lower section rose with a barely
audible hiss and the inner doors slid out of the walls.  As the bright
rectangle of daylight in his rearview mirror shrank rapidly and
disappeared behind the overlapping curtains of concrete, Brickman did
his best to bury the strange, troubling feelings that had assailed him
during the flight.  Dangerous, treacherous sensations that he could not
put into words; that would be better forgotten but which he knew would
haunt him for the rest of his life.

What Brickman had experienced was a sense of freedom.

His inability to perceive this, or to put a name to it, was perfectly
understandable.  The word 'freedom' did not appear in the Federation's
dictionary.  It was, of course, known to the highest ranks of the First
Family but officially, the concept did not exist.

CFI Carrol waved the senior classmen back into their seats and took his
place at the lectern.  The six assistant FI's led by Mr Triggs lined up
against the wall behind him.

'It's been a long haul,' said Carrol, 'but we've come to the end of the
line.  After home-base leave, you'll be shipping out on your first unit
assignments.  Between then and now you're going to be busy drilling for
the big anniversary parade so, as this is probably my last opportunity
to address you as a group, I thought I'd mark the occasion with a few
farewell words."

Carrol paused and let his eyes range slowly over the seated cadets.

'I've seen the results ' The senior year reacted with a rustle of
excitement.

Carrol held up a hand.  'Hold it.  The marks and places will be
screened as scheduled tomorrow.  However, what i can tell you is that
there are no wipeouts, and no retreads."

The news was received with total silence.

Carrol shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe it and turned to
the AFI's.  'Amazing.  None of them look at all surprised."

The three hundred cadets, over a third of them girls, broke into
laughter.  They all knew no one would be choked for airing their teeth
today.  Not by Carrol, anyway.

'I know what you're thinking,' continued Carrol.  ' "Here it comes.

The CFI's standard address to every graduation class."  Not so.  I have
to tell you that three years ago when you joined the Academy, we
thought we'd been landed with a bunch of red-heads but - you all did
well.  Some better than others."  His eyes rested briefly on
Brickman.

'In fact, all of you turned in such terrific grades, the average
pass-mark is the highest ever in the Academy's history."

The class of 2989 gave themselves a congratulatory cheer.

The six AFI's allowed themselves an impassive smile.

Carrol gestured soberly for silence.  'Yes, I suppose I should
congratulate you but, the truth is, you people have just made life more
difficult for the rest of us.  Because now, Grand Central are going to
expect us to do even better next year."  Carrol looked over both
shoulders at the AFI's.

'Which means, gentlemen, that, as from tomorrow, you and I are going to
have to kick ass."

The six AFI's responded with mock resignation.  'We could always put in
for promotion,' said Triggs.

Carrol cocked a finger at the senior All.  'Good thinking."

He turned back to the class, placed his hands purposefully on the upper
corners of the lectern and cleared his throat.

The class of 2989 straightened their backs and faces.

'Okay.  Hear this.  In a few days you'll have a badge pinned to your
chest.  You'll be wingmen.  The frontline force of the Amtrak
Federation.  It's a great moment.  Savour it.  But don't think that
life's going to get easier, that the hard work is over.  You have
another twelve months operational training ahead of you when you join
your wagon trains.  And if you're smart, it won't stop when you swap
your silver badge for a gold.  You'll go on learning.  Because it's the
only way to become a better flier.  Always remember that when the chips
are down and you're fresh out of luck, it's the hot pilots that make it
back to base."  Carrol paused and ran his eyes along the rows of
bright, eager young faces, his mouth tightening with a hint of
regret.

'Who knows?  If you don't power down, or pull a trick, some of you
could even end up making speeches to classes like this."

His audience greeted this with a dry, ragged laugh.  To 'power down'
was Trail-Blazer jargon for a crash in hostile territory - usually with
fatal results; like 'buying a farm' or 'going into the meat business',
for it was well known that Mutes ate any prisoners they caught alive.

To 'pull a trick' was another euphemism for death - from what the
Federation medical establishment had labelled a TRIC: a Terminal
Radiation-Induced Cancer.

Most of the wingmen on the Academy's Roll of Honour had powered down,
or pulled a trick.  Usually before they reached the ripe old age of
thirty.  Carrol knew that at least haft of the young faces now fixed on
his would never see the sun rise on their twenty-first birthday.  His
audience knew it too.  And didn't give a damn.  Every year, the Academy
was swamped with thousands of applications for the three hundred places
available for Squabs - the derisive name applied to first-year
cadets.

That - according to the Manual - was the great strength of the Amtrak
Federation.  The raw courage and dedication of the Trackers.  Two of
the Seven Great Qualities possessed by the founders of Amtrak.  The
Foragers and the Minutemen.  Qualities now enshrined in the First
Family and the members of the two lite companies that bore their
name.

'They died so that others might live."  The message was emblazoned on
wall surfaces throughout the Federation and every Tracker was
encouraged, from birth, to emulate their example.

Without question.

When the examination results were screened, Brickman found to his
amazement that, after three years of dedicated, relentless effort, he
had been placed fourth with 188 points, behind Pete Vandenberg, from
Condor Squadron, the cadet Brickman had judged most likely to come a
poor second to his brilliant first.  That was bad enough but there was
worse to come.  Gus White, a wingman in the same flight as Steve, who
had not even figured in his calculations had landed in the No.  2 slot,
ahead of Vandenberg by one point at 190; Donna Monroe Lundkwist,
another cadet from Eagle Squadron who Steve had thought might make the
first ten had come top of the heap with a score of 192, and had been
nominated as Honour Cadet; winner of the prized Minuteman Trophy.

Brushing aside the congratulations of other A-Flight cadets in the
crowd milling excitedly around the screens, Brickman retired to his
shack, wedged the door shut, and spent two silent, solitary hours
trying to come to terms with what had happened.  He went over every
move he had made in each of the tests and could find nothing that could
have cost him marks.  His one error had been that fatal hesitation on
the ramp after landing but he could simply not believe that those seven
seconds had cost him not only the first place he was convinced he
deserved but also second and third.

And to find himself trailing fourth behind a no-hoper like Gus White
who had not even been close in the monthly class tests!  It just didn't
add up ...

Admittedly there had been the additional problem of the three minute
break in the transmission of data from the sensors taped to his body
but he had talked this through exhaustively with the Adjudicators and
Ground Control after landing and they had accepted that the switch
could have been moved inadvertently.  The data transmitter was not
fitted to Skyhawks when used operationally and during his discussion
with the Adjudicators they had admitted that it was positioned
awkwardly.  But despite their apparent understanding he had been
savagely penalised.

No matter.  One day, he would even the score.  With Lundkwist, with Gus
White, Carrol, the Flight Adjudicators and the others - as yet unknown
- who had conspired to humiliate him.  They would all pay.  It might
take years but that would only make his revenge all the sweeter.

The decision did nothing to assuage his bitter disappointment but it
filled his breast with a harsh, cold joy.  It enabled him to think
clearly, to function.

Rising from his bunk, Brickman showered, put on a fresh, neatly pressed
jump-suit, then sought out Lundkwist and Gus White amidst the raucous
celebration party in the mess and offered his congratulations; hugging
each of them in turn with heart-warming sincerity.

Faced with the astonishing results, CFI Carrol felt obliged to
commiserate with his star pupil.  Brickman put on an outward show of
philosophical resignation but Carrol knew that he felt himself to be
the victim of a blatant injustice.

Inwardly, Brickman was suffering.  And would continue to suffer.

Which, in so far as Carrol could understand these things, was how those
who ordered the affairs of the Federation wished it to be.  For, in
addition to their luggage, the Adjudicators from Grand Central had
brought floppy-disc files on all the candidates.  No one at the Academy
had been allowed to see what they contained but, in an unguarded
moment, Carrol had glimpsed an enigmatic notation on the cover of
Brickman's electronic dossier.

It read: 'This candidate is to be marked down'.

THREE

Armed with a crossbow and a handful of the precious iron bolts
fashioned in the Fire-Pits of Beth-Leto, Cadillac and Clearwater made
their way down to the grassy plain below the settlement.  Clearwater
was the sixteen-year-old girl chosen by the clan elders to be his
soul-mate.  They had not yet crossed wrists or exchanged the blood kiss
but since the Yellowing of the Old Earth they had lain together, skin
against skin, under his furs at each black moon - what was known to the
Plainfolk as 'sleeping between the wolf and the bear'.

Underneath the swirling pattern of black, brown and dark cream pigment,
Clearwater's body was smooth skinned, like Cadillac's.  Her jaw was
small, her teeth evenly set and concealed by her lips; her long hair
was streaked with yellow and brown like the leaves blown from the trees
before the White Death; her eyes were a brilliant pale blue like the
morning sky that poured light into the lakes and streams, bringing them
to life and making them good to drink.  Hence her given name of
Clearwater, blood-daughter of Sun-dance and Thunderbird, a great
warrior who filled ten head-poles before falling at the battle of the
Black Hills.  She was tall and straight-limbed like Cadillac, swift as
an eagle, strong as a mountain-lion, and her heart was warm and filled
with goodness, like the Middle Earth at the time of the Gathering.

Cadillac and Clearwater journeyed eastwards through the shoulder-high
orange grass until the mountain which rose behind the M'Call settlement
was no wider than the fingers of their outstretched hand.  As the sun
reached the head of the sky, they drank from a shallow, swift-running
river and rested for a while in the cool shade of a large rock.  The
water rippled over worn pebble beds with a slapping noise like women
throwing flat-bread at a clanbake.

Cadillac climbed up onto the rock and cautiously scanned the ground
beyond the river.  The grass was shorter on the far side and in the
distance, he saw the tell-tale flash of white hindquarters that
indicated a herd of fast-foot; sharp-eyed reddish-brown deer that could
outrun a mountain lion.

They would require careful stalking but if he could bring down one of
the horned males it would be a highly prized catch that would give him
standing with the Bears - and might even earn him a fire song.

Cadillac slithered quickly down the rock to where Clearwater lay curled
in its shadow.  He touched her shoulder.  'Fast-foot."  He pointed
across the river then picked up his crossbow and cranked the lever that
drew the bowstring onto the half-trigger.

Clearwater sat up and smoothed her boned and ribboned rat-tail plaits
into place around her ears.  'How far?"

'Two bolts,' grunted Cadillac.  Even with the aid of the lever, it
required considerable strength to pull the bowstring back to the
half-way position.

A bolt was one of the methods used by Mutes to judge distances and was,
as the name suggests, the distance a bolt travelled when fired from a
fully-cocked crossbow.  Since the maximum range could vary considerably
it was a somewhat imprecise measurement but, on average, one bolt
equalled a little under four fifths of a mile.

Clearwater climbed swiftly up onto the overhanging rock and searched
the plain beyond the river.  'I see them."  She clambered halfway down
then jumped, landing gracefully at Cadillac's feet.  'Let us wait
here.

They will come to the river at sundown."

'Are we old ones?"  said Cadillac.  'Must we sit and wait until someone
puts meat in our lap?  She-ehh!"  He breathed out sharply, making a
short hissing sound - a sign, among Mutes, of annoyance.  He turned
away, and moved to the water's edge.

Clearwater caught hold of his wrist.  'We should not cross the river.

The water marks the edge of our turf.  If you would bring food, let us
take fish."

Cadillac jerked his arm free.  'Fish!?  Where is the standing in
that!

?"

'You have standing,' said Clearwater.  'You are the one who will speak
for us after Mr Snow has gone to the High Ground.  You have no need to
hunt, or run with the Bears.

That is the task of those born without pictures on their tongues."

'Need ... She-eeh!  What do you know of my needs?"  said Cadillac.  He
laid a fist on his heart.  'I would be as they are.

Oh, I know I cannot be like my brothers in the strength and shape of my
body.  Like you, I was made from a different clay.  But my heart is as
strong and as brave as theirs.  I paint pictures with my tongue, yes
but the colours are those of the brave.  The flashing silver of sharp
iron, the blood red of victory.  The history of the M'Call clan and the
Plainfolk is the history of its warriors.  The tales I tell are of
battles won by Bears with Names of Power ' 'You, too, have a Name of
Power ' 'It is empty.  I have no standing.  My tongue is full of brave
deeds but my knife-arm has never drawn blood.  How many fire songs will
bear my name when I go to the High Ground?"

Clearwater's eyes blazed with anger.  'Is that all that fills your
mind?  To be puffed up by praise - like a marsh frog with a throat full
of wind?  How many times must it be said?  You were born in the shadow
of the Talisman.  It fell upon you!  Not upon Motor-Head, Hawkwind,
Steel-Eye or Convoy or the other Bears you long to run with, but you!

When the Sky Voices call you to the service of Talisman, you will have
to be braver than the bravest of your clan-brothers.

More fearless than my father.  Mightier than the mightiest warriors who
have gone to the High Ground.

When that moment comes you will stand at the side of Talisman, and
there will be a thousand fire songs that bear your name?

'But when will that be?"  asked Cadillac.

'Who can tell when, or how, Talisman will enter the world?"  replied
Clearwater.  'You must wait as we all wait.

But you must prepare your heart and mind.  You must listen to the
sky."

'I listen.  But I hear nothing.  The Sky Voices do not speak through
me."

Clearwater tossed her head.  'She-ehh!  You anger me when you talk as
if you had nothing between your ears.  How many times has Mr Snow
spoken of these things?  You must hold yourself ready for whatever task
is to be given to you."

'I am ready,' said Cadillac.  'But I am sick of waiting."  He broke
away and splashed across the pebbled bed of the river.

Even at the deepest point, the rippling water barely covered his
knees.

Clearwater sighed, shook her head - and waded after him.

She caught up with him as he reached the far bank.

'Cadillac - stop.  This is not our turf.  You swore to Mr Snow to keep
within bounds - to never put the gift of words in danger."

Cadillac laughed.  'Where is the danger in a herd of fast-foot?

Did you not say I was born in the shadow of the Talisman?  If it is
true, then his shadow will protect us.

Come..."

The young fast-foot males were scattered around the edge of the herd on
picket duty, alternately grazing and nosing the air, their long necks
arched, white-rimmed eyes sweeping across the kne-high grass.  With the
sun beginning to descend towards the mountains, the fast-foot were
slowly moving closer to the river where they would gather in the cool
of the evening to drink at the water's edge - unless a careless
movement by Cadillac or Clearwater stampeded them in the opposite
direction.

Clearwater was tempted to make such a move but she knew that Cadillac
was determined to bring one down.

There was no point in making it more difficult.  She understood his
feelings.  'Standing', being able to 'cut it', was of paramount
importance within a Mute clan, and crucial to the self-respect of a
young male reaching the age of fourteen - the age when he became a
warrior.  But as the next wordsmith of the M'calls, Cadillac had no
need of standing.

The gift the Sky Voices had given him set him apart from the rest of
the clan, and when he took Mr Snow's place, even the clan elders would
seek his advice, would defer to his opinions and judgement.  Wordsmiths
did not need the raw, hot-blooded courage of Bears.  They needed to be
calm, resolute.  Cadillac could be both but, at other times, he burned
with a child-like impatience that made Clearwater doubt the wisdom of
the Sky-Voices that spoke through Mr Snow; the all-seeing, all-knowing
powers that guided the destiny of the Plainfolk.  When they had poured
her spirit into the belly of $undance, her mother, and shaped the
course of her life-stream to flow alongside that of Cadillac, did they
really know how difficult he could be ... ?

Moving downwind, Cadillac found a dry, shallow gully which snaked away
into the plain towards the centre of the herd where the capo - the
dominant male - grazed, surrounded by his retinue of a dozen or so
females.  Cadillac carefully parted the long grass and counted the
branches on the capo's horns.  Ten points.  No Bear in the M'Cail clan
had brought in a fast-foot with more points in the lifetime of Mr snow
now.  To bring down this capo would give him great standing in the eyes
of his clan-brothers.

Squatting in the bottom of the gully, Cadillac and Clearwater cut tufts
of the long orange grass and quickly wove them together to make a tall
crown for their heads and a cape to cover their shoulders and backs.

They tied the capes around their necks and waists with plaited ribbons
of grass and put the tight-fitting crowns with their waving plumes of
grass on their heads, arranging the strands that made up the deep
fringe around their faces.  Using their hunting knives, they unearthed
a layer of damp clay which they smeared over their bodies to mask the
smell of their flesh.  Thus prepared, they crawled along the gully,
working their way deeper into the heart of the plain, cautiously
raising their heads from time to time to check the position of the
capo.

He was still in the centre of the herd, but masked from attack by the
does in his mating group.  Twice, as they crept closer, young fast-foot
males leapt across the gully only yards ahead of them to continue
feeding on the other side.

Hardly daring to breathe, Cadillac and Clearwater inched along.  The
gully became shallower, forcing them to worm along on their bellies to
avoid showing themselves above the rim.  The carpet of knee-high grass
had broken up into scattered tufts, interspersed with short, sweeter,
red grass on which the fast-foot were grazing.

The gully angled sharply to the left around a large outcrop

of rock, taking them away from the capo.  Cadillac led the way round
the bend and froze.  A few yards away, the earth had been gouged out
from under a rock by the flood waters in the rainy season.  A big
rattle-tailed snake lay coiled in the shadow of the overhang.

Adopting the almost imperceptible movements of a stick insect, Cadillac
peered over the edge of the gully.  There was no long grass within
reach.  Three fast-foot were grazing some twenty to thirty yards away,
tails lazily flicking flies from the long heart-shaped white flash on
their hindquarters.

One of them raised her head and looked over her shoulder towards
Cadillac, her jaw moving from side to side in a casual, ruminative
manner.  As Cadillac held his breath, she tossed her head sharply in a
vain effort to drive away the flies hovering round her eyes then
stepped forward to crop a new stretch of grass.

Cadillac sank slowly back into the gully and saw that Clearwater had
been checking the other side.  She pointed towards the sleeping
rattler, indicating that Cadillac should go past him.

'What if he wakes?"  hissed Cadillac.

Clearwater smiled.  'You shall have a frae fire song telling how
bravely you died.  Go -' she whispered.  'He will not wake until we are
ready.  We will send him to the capo."

Brave as he believed himself to be, Cadillac had an unreasoning fear of
snakes.  But to have any standing at all, if it had to be killed, he
would have to kill it.  He regretted bringing Clearwater with him.  He
had done so to have an eyewitness of his hunting prowess.  Now he would
have to be brave.  He took out his hunting knife, placed it between his
teeth and, pushing the crossbow ahead of him, he edged forward gingerly
with his back pressed against the right-hand slope of the gully.

Taking the knife-sticks from her belt, Clearwater inserted the tapered
end of the first into the hollow handle of her knife and twisted the
second into the tube of rolled hide that was bound to the end of the
first - transforming her hunting knife into a spear with a strong
four-foot shaft.  She moved forward, knife-stick raised, poised on one
knee ready to skewer the rattler at the first sign of danger.

As Cadillac eased his chest past the snake he saw to his horror that
its black beady eyes were open.  He froze momentarily as the forked
tongue began darting in and out less than two feet from his stomach,
then willed himself forward, wriggling past with the minimum of
movement.

His heart was pounding as he drew clear and turned on his tormentor.

Hurriedly assembling his own knife-stick, he aimed the trembling blade
at the coiled bulk of the snake.

Clearwater reversed her knife-stick and gently prodded the rattler with
the butt of the shaft.  The rattler stirred, uncoiled the top half of
its body and hissed angrily.

Clearwater's eyes fixed on the snake with an unwavering, hypnotic
stare.  Cadillac jabbed the point of his knife-stick against the
rattler's throat as it flicked its head towards him, jaws open, then
both recoiled simultaneously.  The bones on its tailed rustled
ominously.  Uncoiling the rest of its six-foot length, the rattler
tried to slither up around the rock under which it had been sleeping.

Clearwater quickly drove it back.  Caught between the two prodding
knife-sticks the rattler took the Only avenue of escape, rig-ragging
out of the shadows onto the sunlit side of the gully and up over the
edge into the short grass.

Cadillac took a tenative peek over the top.  'Where has it gone?"

'Towards the capo,' whispered Clearwater.  Holding the knife-stick in
her two hands, she rested her elbows on the edge of the gully, pointed
the knife blade towards the capo, put the butt of the shaft against her
forehead and closed her eyes.

'What are you doing?"  whispered Cadillac.

'Don't talk,' she hissed, closing her eyes even tighter.

'Load your crossbow and aim for the capo."

Cadillac slithered quickly along the gully, pushed the camouflaged
crossbow over the edge and wormed his way into a patch of long grass.

Reaching into the bag at his belt, he took out one of the barbed, ten
inch-long bolts and placed it against the taut bowstring, with one of
its four vanes in the slot cut in the barrel of the bow.  He parted the
grass cautiously.  The capo with its prized ten-point horns was about
two hundred yards away.  Well within the range of a Mute crossbow but
a difficult shot for a relatively untrained marksman like Cadillac.  He
rubbed his palms in the earth to wipe off the sweat.

The female fast-foot masking the capo started nervously and skittered
sideways as the rattler reached them.  The capo backed away, stamping
its right foreleg, nosing the ground, then tossing its great horns in
the air.  Cadillac came up on one knee and brought the crossbow hard
into his shoulder, the elbow of his left arm locked against his raised
thigh, hand supporting the barrel of the bow rock-steady.  He sighted
along the upright vane of the bolt, aiming at the chest of the capo,
allowing for the distance the bolt would drop on its way to the
target.

The big fast-foot lunged forward, caught the rattler on the forward
points of its horns and tossed it high into the air.  As the powerful
neck arched backwards, Cadillac fired at the base of the white
throat.

The capo staggered under the force of the impact, mouth open to the
sky, emitted a brief deep-throated roar of pain and alarm, staggered,
fell to its knees then toppled sideways, hitting the ground with a
great thud.

Cadillac leapt to his feet with a whooping cry of triumph as the rest
of the herd bounded away eastwards across the plain; the young males,
who had crossed the gully behind them, jinking crazily as they
passed.

Clearwater scrambled out of the gully carrying their knife-sticks.

Cadillac danced around her gleefully as she ran towards the fallen
capo.  'Did you ever see such a fine head?  Or such a fine shot?"

Clearwater knelt and examined the fast-foot as Cadillac strutted round
it, his face glowing with excitement.  The body of the deer quivered
spasmodically as the nervous system responded to the last confused
signals of the dying brain.

'Where did you aim?"  asked Clearwater.

'For the heart,' replied Cadillac.  'Where the throat joins the
chest."

He knelt beside the dead animal and ran his hand down its neck.  He
felt blood run between his fingers.  'See here - you can feel the end
of my shaft."

Clearwater nodded gravely then lifted her hand from the side of the
capo.  'Then whose bolt is this?"

Cadillac's mouth dropped open as he saw the vanes of a crossbow bolt
sticking out of the capo's chest just behind the right foreleg.  He
pulled his knife from its stick-shaft and cut the bolt out of the dead
buck.  Clearwater wiped the blood away with a handful of grass.  The
pattern scored on the shaft in front of the vanes were not those of the
M'Call clan.

'What is this, brothers?"  said a mocking voice.  'A coyote and a fox
that feeds off the meat of lions?"

Cadillac's and Clearwater's hearts faltered momentarily as four unknown
Mute warriors rose from the grass around them.  One of them who, to
guess by his adornments, was the gang-leader, carried a crossbow; the
others were armed with knife-sticks and stone flails.  The strangers
wore helmet masks of hardened buffalo hide onto which were sewn bones
and coloured pebbles.  They had stone-studded leather cuffs on their
forearms, and their patterned bodies were shielded with similar thigh,
chest and shoulder plates, hung with feathers and bones that had been
dipped in blood.

Cadillac and Clearwater rose slowly to their feet as the four Mutes
took a menacing step forward.  Cadillac slipped his knife into the
sheath tied to his waistbelt and turned to face the heavily-built
gang-leader.  The Mute tossed his crossbow to the warrior on his
right.

Cadillac offered the bolt to the gang-leader on his outstretched
palm.

'I am Cadillac, of the clan M'CalI, from the bloodline of the
She-Kargo, first-born of the Plainfolk.  We have stalked this fast-foot
since the sun was at the head of the sky.  The bolt I fired lies in its
heart."  He gestured to the dead capo.  'Cut it free and you will see I
speak the truth.

Yours was aimed too high to kill."  He tossed the bolt towards the Mute
- who snatched it out of the air with an angry gesture.

Clearwater's heart quailed at Cadillac's recklessness.

One of the other warriors knelt and examined the wound in the breast of
the dead buck.  He nodded to his leader as if to confirm Cadillac's
claim.

'It does not matter,' said the gang-leader.  'I fired first.  It is our
meat."

Cadillac flushed angrily.  'He was already dead when your bolt
struck!"

He tapped his chest.  'I made the kill!"  The gang-leader filled his
deep chest, flexed his shoulders and treated Cadillac to a mocking
smile.  'You have a big mouth, coyote.  But your tail will soon be
between your legs."

Cadillac stood his ground.  'A coyote does not fear the cawing of
carrion crows with no name."

The gang-leader swaggered forward until his nose was almost touching
Cadillac's and folded his arms - a gesture indicating his total
indifference to any possible danger from his opponent.  'Listen well,
coyote - while you still have ears.

I am Shakatak, of the Clan D'Vine, from the bloodline of the D'Troit,
mightiest of the Plainfolk."  He indicated his companions.  'These are
my brother Lion-Hearts Torpedo, Cannonball and Freeway.  We have chewed
bone, coyote.  A full head-pole marks the door to our pad.  Your skull
will sit well upon the second."

His three companions laughed, and mocked Cadillac by yelping like
frightened coyotes.

Clearwater moved to Cadillac's side and addressed Shakatak without any
sign of fear.  'By what right do you take the life of a soul-brother?

Are we not all of the Plainfolk?  Do we not breathe the same air?  Let
us divide the fast-foot between us and share the triumph of the
kill."

Shakatak uncrossed his arms, holding his fists clenched against his
thighs.  'The D'Troit are not soul-brothers of the She-Kargo."  He spat
on the ground in front of them.  'Your name is dirt in our mouth.  We
share nothing with those who invade our turf and steal the meat from
our knives."

Clearwater could not restrain her anger at the insult.

'This is no-man's land!  Your clan have put down no markers I' Shakatak
flung out his left arm towards Cannonball and snapped his fingers.

Cannonball reached down into the grass and picked up a claim stick - an
eight-foot pole hung with feathers, and plaques of sculptured wood
coloured with dyes that Mute clans used to mark the boundaries of their
turL Grasping the long pole with two hands, Cannonball lifted it high
into the air and drove the point deep into the ground.

'We have now,' growled Shakatak.  He turned to Cadillac.

'So, coyote - if you would take meat back to the stinking yellow cubs
you call clan-brothers, you will have to show me how sharp your teeth
are."

Cadillac stepped in front of Clearwater.  'Sharp enough to tear your
liver out,' he snarled.

Shakatak smiled.  'Hot words, coyote.  Does your knife speak as
boldly?"  He pulled out his long blade and sprang back, dropping into
the crouching, wide-legged stance of a knife-fighter.

Cadillac fumbled for his blade and stepped back, adopting the same
fighting pose.  His throat was dry.  He had fought mock duels, wrestled
and undergone trials of strength with his clan-brothers; his body was
lithe and well-mus.cled, his reflexes sharp, his mind alert, but up to
this moment, he had never faced anything more lethal than a sheathed
blade.  Now he found himself staring at a weaving eight-inch blade with
a vicious, dished top cutting edge and suddenly realised that he was
about to get himself killed very painfully.  He imagined Shakatak's
blade sinking into his groin and ripping upwards through his bowels.

His stomach became a ball of ice; the skin on the back of his neck
quivered.  If only he had stayed on the far side of the river.  If only
Once again Clearwater moved between them, thrusting a raised hand at
the fearsome Shakatak.  'Put up your blade!

There is no standing in this fight.  This is not a warrior you seek to
kill, but a wordsmith!"  Shakatak paused, clearly surprised by the
news.

'Are the Lion-Hearts of the D'Vine so weak that they must hunt down
those who have not chewed bone?"

Clearwater laughed, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.

'That would make a fine fire song!"  Shakatak growled angrily and
looked at his companions, uncertain of his next move.  Before he could
reply, Cadillac hurled Clearwater aside and slashed the air in front of
Shakatak's face with his knife.  'Even a wordsmith who has not chewed
bone is worth ten warriors from a clan like the D'Vine whose name is
dirt, and whose bravery can be recounted without the taking of a single
breath!"  He spat on the ground at Shakatak's feet.

Shakatak's eyes almost popped out of his head with rage.

He bared his teeth and jabbed a blunt forefinger at Cadillac.

'You are going to eat those words, coyote - along with your scrawny
little nut-bag.  Torpedo!  Draw the circle!"  Cannonball and Freeway
grabbed Clearwater by the neck and arms and dragged her to one side.

Torpedo put down Shakatak's crossbow, reversed his knife-stick and
quickly drew a fifteen-foot circle in the earth around Shakatak and
Cadillac.

Shakatak indicated the circle.  'Each time you step over that line,
Torpedo will take a slice off the fox.  Do you understand?"

Cadillac replied by making another slash at the air in front of
Shakatak's face.  Torpedo threw his knife-stick aside and helped pinion
Clearwater by the arms.

'Cut him slow?  yelled Freeway.

'Don't worry,' gloated Shakatak.  'I'm going to unpick this mother one
stitch at a time.  I'll leave his eyes till last so he can watch us
grease the tail of that fox -' His knife flashed from his right to his
left hand with frightening rapidity and slashed forward under
Cadillac's guard, slicing along Cadillac's rib cage with surgical
precision.

Clearwater's scream was choked off by Cannonball's hands on her mouth
and throat.

A spasm of pain shot up through Cadillac's chest as the blood welled
out of the wound in his side.  Shakatak's knife flicked forward again,
this time in his right hand, slashing open the skin on the other side
of Cadillac's ribs.  They were the first two strokes in the ritual of
wounding and dismemberment in single-handed fights to the death.

Cadillac had seen the pattern on the bodies of his clan-brothers and
marauding Mutes.  Next would come the cuts on the shoulders and upper
arms, weakening the opponent's knife thrusts.  The deep jabs into the
thighs would be followed by the cheek slashes, then the forehead
stroke, causing blood to pour into the eyes, the second horizontal
slice, across the belly, the upwards rip through the groin and then if
you were lucky - the plunging thrust into and across the throat that
preceded the severing of the head.

Those that were unlucky suffered further mutilation before choking to
death on their severed genitals.

Cadillac's terrifying vision of what lay ahead lent wings to his feet
as he bobbed and weaved around Shakatak.  He could not run, could not
abandon Clearwater, yet knew that if, by some miracle, he managed to
defeat Shakatak, his brother Lion-Hearts would take his place, either
singly or together.  He was going to die!  It was unthinkable that he
should but there was no way to escape.  He leapt backwards as
Shakatak's blade scythed through the air less than an inch from his
navel.

Shakatak's knife thrusts were terrifyingly fast but because of his
heavier body, he was slower on his feet.  After the two opening cuts on
his ribs, Cadillac's natural agility had kept him out of serious
trouble but this merely offered a temporary respite; it was no
solution.  He could not dance beyond the range of Shakatak's blade for
ever.  He had to find some way to get under his guard and inflict a
short, sharp disabling thrust.  But how?

Cadillac sidestepped as Shakatak lunged forward and ran behind him to
the far side of the circle where he stooped down and scooped up a
handful of dirt and pebbles.

Shakatak turned, his face creased with a knowing smile.  As Cadillac
advanced towards him warily, Shakatak flung out his arm towards the
three Mutes who held Clearwater, and snapped his fingers.  Holding onto
the struggling Clearwater with one hand, Torpedo unfastened the stone
flail looped through his belt and lobbed it towards Shakatak's
outstretched hand.  As his arm came up, Clearwater kicked at it
desperately, causing the flail to fall between Shakatak and Cadillac.

Shakatak stepped forward, switched his knife into his right hand, fixed
Cadillac with his glittering eyes and bent to pick up the flail.

Cadillac knew it was his one and only chance.  Hurling the handful of
dirt at S hakatak's face, he threw himself sideways into the air above
Shakatak's knife hand with a tremendous yell and kicked out at
Shakatak's head with both feet.  His heels connected with a force born
of desperation.  The knife flew from Shakatak's hand as his neck
snapped sideways.

Cadillac felt a terrible jarring pain as his feet slammed into the
stone-covered helmet.  There was a fleeting instant when time seemed to
suddenly stand still and he found himself praying he had not broken
his ankles - then Shakatak crashed to the ground with Cadillac
sprawling on top of him.

Cadillac kicked out wildly at Shakatak's face, knocking off his
helmet-mask at the same time as he stabbed viciously at the thick,
strongly-muscled legs that thrashed around his own head.  Shakatak
roared with pain like a crippled bull-buffalo.

Twisting round, Cadillac scrambled to his knees, fumbling to change his
grip on the bloodstained knife so that he could plunge it deep into
Shakatak's throat, or between the stone and leather chest plates
protecting his heart.

Before he could strike, Shakatak rolled into him then jerked upright,
his left hand flashing out to grasp Cadillac's wrist, staying the
knife.  Seemingly oblivious of any pain, or the blood pouring from the
deep slashes in his leg muscles, Shakatak smashed his right forearm,
with its leather and stone cuff against Cadillac's throat, knocking him
backwards onto the ground, haft-dazed and choking for breath.

Cadillac tried to roll aside.  Too late.  Shakatak still held his wrist
in a grip of iron.  Kicking out with his right heel, he hit both of
Cadillac's thighs with paralysing blows then threw his whole weight
upon him.  Cadillac squirmed wildly, arcing his body like a speared
fish, clawing at Shakatak's eyes but in a matter of seconds, Shakatak
was sitting astride his chest, with his knees pinning Cadillac's arms
to the ground, and with Cadillac's knife in his hand.

Shakatak grabbed Cadillac's hair, forcing his head back, and pressed
the sharp edge of the blade under Cadillac's left ear.  'You fight
well, wordsmith,' he gasped hoarsely.  'Well enough to have earned the
life I now hold in my hands.  The D'Vine have no tongues that can
pierce the mysteries of the world.  The past is darkness.  Our fire
songs are not remembered.  If you would weave them for us so that the
bright thread of our bravery endures, you and the fox shall have meat,
shelter and standing."

Cadillac struggled against the crushing weight on his chest and dragged
air down his battered throat.  'I would sooner have eagles tear out my
tongue than poison the air with your name,' he snarled, haft-choking on
the words.

'So be it, coyote,' said Shakatak.  'I have no past, you have no
future."  He raised the knife high into the air.  Cadillac saw the late
afternoon sunlight flash off the blade as it hung poised ready to
plunge into his throat.  He suddenly felt drained of fear; was filled
instead with a great sadness at leaving the world; at being parted from
Clearwater.  But it would not be for ever.  He would roam the sunset
islands in the sky until his spirit was poured into a new earth-mother,
re-entering the world in another skin to fulfill his destiny, sharing
the triumph of Talisman's ultimate victory.

In the split-second before the knife fell, Clearwater wrenched her head
free of Cannonball's grip and let out a piercing cry; a blood-curdling
half-scream, half-shout - the dreaded ululation that was the mark of a
summoner.

In'the same instant, Clearwater became the epicentre of a mini-tornado
which hurled her three captors from her in a shower of dust, stones and
uprooted grass.  The claim-stick wavered, was wrenched from' the
ground, spun wildly up into the air then drove itself through Torpedo's
chest as he tried to strike Clearwater with the stone flail.

Cannonball and Freeway crouched low, vainly trying to shield themselves
against the shower of stones that rained on them.

Cadillac was terrified too.  He covered his ears but the intensity of
the sound coming from Clearwater's throat grew, percing his brain.

An instant later, the spiralling wind enveloped him and Shakatak, still
seated on his chest, arm upraised.  The power that Clearwater had
unleashed seemed to imbue the knife he held with a life of its own.  It
vibrated wildly in Shakatak's fist but instead of breaking free of his
grip, the awesome force in the wind caused his fingers to lock tighter
round the handle.  Sensing the danger, the now-terrified warrior threw
up his other hand in a desperate effort to force the knife loose but as
he touched it, his fingers closed round those already gripping the
knife.  Shakatak let out a howl of fear.

The muscles on his neck and shoulders bulged as he strained to hold the
knife above his head.  The vortex of force increased in power, the
swirling &and howled, drowning out Clearwater's wavering, unearthly
cry.  With one swift, unstoppable movement, the knife in Shakatak's
hands curved downwards in front of Cadillac's horrified face and
buried itself up to the hilt in the warrior's solar plexus.

Shakatak gave a harsh, gasping scream and fell forward across Cadillac,
his hands still clasped around the knife.

Cannonball and Freeway scrambled to their feet and took off across the
grass like stampeding fast-foot, closely followed by the howling
twister.  The sound coming from Clearwater's throat faded.  She fell to
her knees, eyes glazed as if in a trance.

Wriggling out from under Shakatak's lifeless body, Cadillac stumbled
across to Clearwater on his numbed legs and gathered her in his arms.

Her body felt cold; drained of life.  He laid her down gently and
caressed her face, not knowing what to do, completely overawed by the
deadly nature of the power that had come from within her.  A power he
had not suspected she possessed; that she had never given the slightest
hint of possessing.

After a few minutes, the grey veil lifted from her eyes.  He felt the
warmth flood back into her body.  She smiled at him, then a look of
alarm crossed her face.  She sat up quickly then relaxed as she
realised that they were both out of danger.

Cadillac stood up, walked over to the fallen Shakatak and turned his
body over.  As the dead warrior rolled onto his back, his hands fell
limply away from the handle of Cadillac's knife.  Clearwater joined him
and they walked to where Torpedo lay transfixed by the D'Vine
claim-stick.

Their eyes met over his lifeless body.

'Why did you not tell me you were a summoner?"

Clearwater shook her head in bewilderment.  'I did not know until
now.

It was only when you were about to die that the power came upon me.  It
was sent through me.  It used my voice to call the forces up from the
earth but I did not guide it."  She paused and looked back at
Shakatak's body, suddenly intimidated by the terrible violence she had
unleashed.  'I do not know if it will come again."

Cadillac nodded.  'The door in your mind has been opened.  If you call,
the power will enter.  Mr Snow will teach you how to guide it."

Clearwater shivered and rubbed her arms.  'It frightens me."

The too,' agreed Cadillac.  'But it is a good power.  Did you not save
my life?"

Clearwater shook her head.  'No.  Talisman saved it.  It was his
strength that flowed through me."  She gently brushed the wounds on
Cadillac's ribs with her fingertips.  'If I could have saved you with a
single cry I would have struck down Shakatak before he drew his
blade.

But it was not to be.

Talisman did not reveal his power until you revealed yours.

You fought bravely, like a great warrior and, at the point of death,
you refused to dishonour your clan.  You have standing.  You have the
heart and blood of a Bear and there shall be a fire song to mark this
day ' 'I shall choose the words myself,' said Cadillac, swelling with
pride at the prospect and his new-found ability to ignore the pain that
pulsed through his chest.

'- but only,' continued Clearwater firmly, 'ffyou hold fast to your
oath to Mr Snow.  Never to act rashly again.  Never put the gift of
words in danger."

Cadillac shrugged arrogantly.  'If it is my destiny to be a great
warrior ' 'Then the fire song I sing shall tell how these Lion-Hearts
truly died.

Not under the hand of a brave Bear they called coyote, but by a single
cry from the lips of a tame fox!"  'She-err!"  hissed Cadillac.  'For a
tame fox you have sharp teeth."

Clearwater slipped her arms around his neck.  'They bite softly enough
in the darkness of the moon."  She rubbed her nose against his cheeks
then kissed him on the mouth.

'Come - let us prepare the fast-foot."

They gutted the carcass of the capo and strung it to the eight-foot
claim-stick.  The weight of the dead beast made it sag dangerously and
they could only shoulder it with great difficulty.  To take it back
unaided would mean abandoning the dead Mutes and their weapons.

Cadillac shed his end of the load.  'You will have to get help.  I will
stay here and guard what we have won.  Take the Lion-Hearts'
crossbow."

He hauled back the lever with a gasp of pain, placed a bolt in the
barrel and offered it to her.

Clearwater did not take it.  She was looking past him across the plain
to the north; Home of the White Death.

'Running clouds,' she said.

Cadillac turned, following the direction of her pointing finger.  He
saw a low dust haze hanging in the air above a distant rise; a sign
that often meant a group of warriors on the move; running with the
characteristic, loping gait that enabled Mutes to cover long distances,
sometimes running for twenty-four hours without a break, sleeping on
their feet as birds do on the wing; guided by some mysterious internal
navigation system.

The running cloud drifted against the grey-blue shadowed land beyond,
burning with orange fire as it caught the slanting rays of the sun.

Cadillac hurriedly loaded his own crossbow.  'Could those two crows
have flown to more of their brothers?"  he asked anxiously.  From his
experience of Mr Snow's powers he knew that if it left the summoner
exhausted, it did not come quickly again.  If those who now ran towards
them were marauding Lion-Hearts ...

'Make me tall and I shall tell you,' said Clearwater.

Cadillac cupped his hands together so that Clearwater could climb up
and stand upon his shoulders.  He sucked his breath in sharply as her
added weight compressed his slashed ribs.

Clearwater who, like most Mutes, was blessed with remarkably sharp,
almost hawk-like vision, quickly focussed on the tufts of golden
feathers on the side of the runner's head-masks.  'They are Bears -'
She waved vigorously then leapt nimbly to the ground and faced Cadillac
with a smile.

'- come to escort their warrior-wordsmith home in triumph."

The posse of M'Call Bears reached them some fifteen minutes later.

They were led by Motor-Head, the most fearless of cadillac's
clan-brothers.  A powerful young warrior, heavily built like the dead
Shakatak, but who had filled not one, but two head-poles.  With him
were Hawkwind, Chainsaw, Black-Top, Brass-Rail, Steel-Eye, Ten-Four and
Convoy, all of them bearing - as was the custom - Names of Power that
had once belonged to the Heroes of the Old Time.  Each was dressed in
the eccentric fashion of Mute warriors, their leather body plates,
adorned with trophies and emblems attesting to their prowess and
courage, and they arrived carrying the limp bodies of Cannonball and
Freeway slung like ded fast-foot from newly cut saplings.

Motor-Head circled the bodies of Torpedo and Shakatak, gave an
approving nod, then walked over to Cadillac and threw an arm round his
shoulders.  'Good work, little sand-worm."

Motor-Head waved towards the bodies of Cannonball and Freeway.  'You
must have frightened them mightily.

Their running cloud was like a tower in the sky!"  cadillac exchanged a
sideways glance with Clearwater.

She bit back a smile, then said, 'He also brought down the capo."

This news brought grunts of approval from Cadillac's clan-brothers.

Convoy counted the branched horns.  'Ten points!  No one has done
better!"  Motor-Head added his grudging approval.  'So, sand-worm - is
wrestling with words not enough to fill your day?

Would you also fight and hunt and run with the Bears?"

Cadillac faced up to Motor-Head's mocking gaze.  'Does not the
branch-worm become a leaf-wing?  Why should a sand-worm not become a
warrior worthy to bear his Name of Power?"

Motor-Head chuckled and planted himself before Cadillac with folded
arms.  'Your tongue strikes sparks, wordsmith.  And now your hands have
held sharp iron.  You have cut down meat, and you have chewed bone."

He turned towards the other warriors.  'How say you, brothers - is he
worthy to be one of us?"

One by one, Hawkwind, Chainsaw, Black-Top, Brass-Rail, Steel-Eye,
Ten-Four and Convoy solemnly thrust out their right arms towards
Cadillac, the fingers clenched, the thumb raised.

Motor-Head took off his feathered head-mask and placed it on Cadillac's
head.  'Welcome, blood-brother Bear!  May your arm strike hard and
true, may your heart be strong, and your name be honoured in the fire
songs of our people!"  'Hey~YUH!  Hey-YUH!  Hey-YUH!!"  chorussed the
others.  Clearwater's eyes glistened with tears of joy as she joined
with the others, raising her arms as they shouted the traditional
accolade.

It was a sweet moment of triumph - which Cadillac spoilt by fainting
from loss of blood.

FOUR

The joint centenary celebration and graduation ceremony was held in the
Academy's giant Free-Flight Dome.  The bare rock from which it had been
hewn was hung with flags and bunting, and criss-crossed with
computerised coloured laser beams that had been programmed to create
dazzling, ever-changing, patterns of light.

When the five thousand spectators had filed into their allotted seats,
the nine squadrons of cadets and the Academy staff paraded to the
stirring synthesised sounds of brass, LIFE and drum, then lined up with
geometrical precision for inspection by the visiting dignitaries from
Grand Central.

This was followed by squadron displays of marching and countermarching,
weapon handling, assault training demonstrations, gymnastics and
quarterstave combat drills.

The ground events, interwoven with highlights from the video-record of
the Flight Academy's history and achievements projected on a giant
screen, were climaxed by a flying display in which Steve Brickman took
a leading part.

After the ceremonial presentation of wings, prizes, a video-address by
George Washington Jefferson the 31st, the President-General of the
Federation, and seemingly interminable speeches by members of the
Amtrak Executive who had shuttled from Houston, the amplifiers boomed
out the opening chords of 'The Wild Blue Yonder', the Academy's
historic battle-hymn.  Five thousand spectators rose to their feet and,
with one voice, joined the two hundred-strong choir in the verses and
chorus that accompanied the final march past.  Tears flowed ashamedly
down the cheeks of veteran Trail-Blazers in the stands as the voices
and music soared to fill the huge circular arena; the sound merging, as
if by magic, with the rhythmic pulsing of the lasers, to create a
heart, mind and gut= gripping audio-visual experience; the crowning
moment of a triumphantly successful anniversary parade.

As the last words of the last ringing chorus faded, and the tears were
wiped away, the hymn was reprised in voiceless diminuendo.  The First
and Second Year cadets marched out of the arena to the sound of
retreating drumbeats, and the three Senior squadrons, now proudly
bearing their newly-won wings on their tunics, were halted and
dismissed in front of the packed reviewing stand.  After nearly four
hours on the parade ground, the Third Year cadets broke ranks with
broad smiles of relief as their guardians and kinfolk - some of whom
had travelled from the farthest reaches of the Federation - left their
seats and streamed down the steps to greet their wards with hugs and
handshakes, and shoot off more videotape for the unit album.

'How ya doing, Wonder-Boy?"

Steve ducked out from under the enthusiastic embrace of his kin-sister
and smoothed his uniform.  'Hey, Roz, come on - grow up will you?"

'I am grown up.  I was fifteen last February, remember?"

'Sure, I remember."

'Could have looked in on me.  Or at least sent a vee-gee."

'I forgot, Worm.  Happy Birthday whenever.  Okay?"

'And not a bleep from you when I passed my Inter-Med."

'Steve hardly ever looks in.  You should know that,' said Annie
Brickman.  Her voice was entirely devoid of malice or reproach.  It was
just a plain statement of fact.  Annie, Steve's guard-mother, stepped
aside as her kin-brother Bart Bradlee eased Jack Brickman's wheelchair
through the crowd.

'I was gonna send a vee-gee, but it got kind of busy."

'We know that, boy."  In the three years since leaving home his
guard-father's voice had faded to a husky whisper.

Steve lifted his guard-father's hands from the arms of his chair and
squeezed them gently.  Jack Brickman's fingers responded to the contact
like palsied chicken claws.  It was hard to believe that these hands,
and the wasted body they were attached to, had once been packed with
lean hard flesh and enough muscle power to knock many bigger men clear
across a room.

'Good to see you, sir.  I really appreciate you taking the trouble to
make the trip."

'If we hadn't brought him, he'd have got someone to tie him to the
chair and had himself shipped out as freight,' said Bart.  He patted
Jack Brickman's shoulder.  'Ain't that so, old timer?"

The 'old timer' answered with a wry, gasping laugh.

Steve's guard-father was thirty-four years old.  Jack knew he would be
dead from radiation sickness within a year.  They all knew.  But no one
felt sad about it, or thought of it as tragic.  His tenacious survival
thus far was little short of miraculous.  Very few Trail-Blazers made
it past thirty.

Indeed, most Trackers assigned to overground operations were dead long
before that; killed in action or through pulling a trick or, more
regrettably, executed before the tv cameras for a Code One default.

Undergrounders had a greater life-expectancy but even they didn't live
for ever.  Annie, who was also thirty-four, and her kin-brother Bart, a
twenty-nine-year-old staff-officer, had never been posted overground or
suffered a day's illness, yet both would die soon after their
forty-second birthday.  For despite the spectacular advances in the
life sciences over the last three centuries, the secret of longevity
still remained to be discovered.

The oldest Tracker on record had died at the ripe old age of
forty-five.

The oldest ordinary Tracker that is.

The current President-General of the Federation was - to judge from his
video appearances - a vigorous sixty-five, and his predecessor had
lived into his eighties.  No one had ever given Steve a satisfactory
explanation of why this should be so.  That was the way it was.  The
Jeffersons were the First Family because they lived longer than
everybody else.  And they lived longer than everybody else because they
had been born to rule the Federation.

That was what it said in the Manual.

Steve embraced .his guard-mother.  'I really did work hard, Annie.  Can
you forgive me?"

Annie laughed.  'For what - coming fourth?"

'I should have been first."

'Fourth sounds pretty good to me,' said Annie.  'Jack wasn't even in
the top twenty."

'The Eagles took three out of the top four places,' said Bart.  'Never
been a squadron that has done that before."

Steve turned to Bart.  'You don't understand, sir.  I should have been
first.  I should have been Honour Cadet.  I was shafted."

Bart's face muscles hardened a little around his good-natured smile.

'Now that's a real bad thought for you to have, Stevie.  The system
doesn't make mistakes like that."

'No harm in the boy wanting to be best,' said Annie.  'We trained him
to think that way before he could even walk.  Roz tOO.".

Bart shook his head.  'Wanting to be, and being, is different sure
enough.  But that's not what a girl and boy should set their mind to.

Trying to do their best, that's something else.  That's what's expected
of each and everyone of us.  Just like it says in The Book."

Steve nodded respectfully.  Bart held the powerful post of
Provost-Marshal for the territory of New Mexico.  Young men planning to
make their way up in the world did not argue with Provost-Marshals.

Even if they were kinfolk.

'I tried, sir."

Bart patted him on the shoulder.  'That's all a man can do.

It's all been worked out, boy.  The Family's had their eye on you from
the day you were born.  Same way as they look after all of us.  A
Tracker doesn't need to question the order he's given, or the place
he's been assigned to.  The only thing he has to ask himself is - "Am I
trying hard enough?  Am I doing the best I can?"' 'Amen to that,' said
Annie.

Jack Brickman waved a frail hand.  'You passed.  That's the important
thing.  The marks don't matter a damn.

Combat is the only way a wingman can prove himself."

'Exactly."  Roz linked arms with Steve and her guard-mother.

'Now will somebody please shoot a picture before my brother gets too
famous to talk to me?"

The rest of the afternoon was spent sight-seeing.  As with every annual
passing-out parade, the Flight Academy complex was thrown open for
inspection by the kinfolk of the senior classmen.  Food and drink were
freely available in the mess halls, where the first year Squabs were on
duty as waiters.  Second year cadets provided conducted tours of the
classrooms and other training areas, giving practical demonstrations on
the flight rigs, simulators and weapon ranges.  Steve took over control
of his guard-father's wheelchair but, an hour into the tour, Jack
Brickman's face clouded over as the sharp-toothed serpent within him
crept out of its secret lair and began to gnaw away at another part of
his body.  Annie gave Jack a couple of Cloud-Nines and cradled his head
until the drawn sinews on his scrawny neck slackened and he fell into a
drugged sleep.

Seeing what had happened, Chuck Waters, a buddie from B-flight invited
Steve's kinfolk to join his own ten-strong bunch of Okies.  Steve took
Jack Brickman up in the elevator to the quarterdeck and wheeled him
into his shack.  Putting a pillow on the chair back, he gently eased
the gaunt openmouthed skull onto it, crossed the limp wizened hands,
then sat down on the stripped bunk and gazed impassively at the man who
had raised him.  The only sign of life was a thin gasping sigh as air
passed in and out of his guard-father's throat.  Sometime next year,
the sighing would stop.  The bag-men would call, his body would go down
the gaspipe and his name would go up on the Flight Academy's wall.

Another good man gone.

Steve sat there a while longer then got up and began packing his
clothing and personal equipment into a big blue trail-bag.

'Okay if I come in?"

Steve looked over his shoulder.  Donna Monroe Lundkwist, a slim,
fair-haired wingman who had, in Steve's calculations, been his only
serious rival for first place stood at the door.  The blue and white
tasselled Honour Cadet lanyard was looped over her right shoulder; the
big metallic-thread Minuteman badge was sewn on her left breast pocket
under the silver wings.

Steve folded the last of his shirts into the trail-bag.  'What can I do
for you?"

'Nothing special."  Lundkwist sat down casually on the bunk next to
Steve's trail bag.  'Just dropped in to say "goodbye"."  She nodded
towards Jack Brickman.  'Your guard-father?"

'Yeah..."

Lundkwist registered the two gold, double triangles on Jack Brickman's
sleeve and gave a low whistle.  'A double-six!

Twelve tours and two White House lunches with the President-General.

How come you never told anybody your guardian was an ace wingman?"

Steve shrugged.  'That kind of information is dispensed on a strictly
"need-to-know" basis."  He zipped up the side pockets of his trail-bag
and wedged some more of his gear into the middle section.  'How was
your lunch?"

'Oh - you mean with the Academy-General?  Interesting.

He gave me the inside track on my first assignment.  I'm being posted
to Big Red One."

'That's good,' said Brickman, flatly.

Big Red One was the popular name for the Red River wagon train.  It was
known throughout the Federation for the spectacular success of its many
expeditions against the Mutes; its Trail-Blazer crew had an unrivalled
combat record and as a result of their renown, the Red River wagon
master was able to cream off the top layer of graduates from the combat
academies and specialist schools.  For the last twenty years, the top
three cadets from the Academy had joined the Trail-Blazer team aboard
Red River.  Steve had planned to be one of them this year.

'I asked about you."

'And ... ?"

'You've been assigned to The Lady from Louisiana -she's based at Fort
Worth."  Lundkwist paused.  'Gus White too."

'That should make his day,' grunted Steve.  Service aboard Big Red One
was traditionally regarded as the all-important first rung on the
promotion ladder.  He turned to face her, 'Does he know yet?"

Lundkwist shook her head.  'I thought you'd enjoy telling him."

'I will."  Steve closed the long zip on the middle section of his trail
bag.  As he moved the zip tag towards Lundkwist she laid a finger on
the back of his hand and drew a slow,

exploratory circle.  Their eyes met.

'How about putting the bomb in the barrel?"

Steve ran the zip tag the rest of the way while he thought about it.

'You mean here?  Now?"

Don Lundkwist's eyes flickered towards the sleeping figure of Jack
Brickman.  'You worried about him waking up?"

'Not really.  He's on Cloud-Nine."

'So ... ?"  Lundkwist looked at him expectantly.

'So - maybe some other time."

Lundkwist pointed to the sleeping Jack Brickman.

'Listen.  You are not going to be upsetting this guy.  In twelve years
on the wagons he must have walked past some heavy traffic.  Right?"

Steve mulled the situation over.

Lundkwist tugged at Steve's parade suit, forcing him to take a step
towards her.  She closed her trousered thighs against his legs.  'Come
on, Brickman, I never made it with you.  And after today, I may never
see you again."

'Nothing I can do about that."

'Oh, yes there is."  Lundkwist stood up, slipped her arms round his
waist and gently ground his genitals with the point of her pelvis.

'Five weeks from now I could be on a wagon train heading into Mute
territory.  Six weeks from now I could cease to exist.  Eight weeks
before my seventeenth birthday.  If I'm going to go into the meat
business I want the satisfaction of knowing I've been with the best."

Without waiting for Steve's answer she lifted his trail-bag clear of
the bed, closed the sliding door to the shack, unzipped his tunic then
swiftly peeled off her own uniform and climbed onto the bunk.

Steve glanced at his guard-father.  Jack Brickman's head was slumped
sideways on the pillow, his open mouth accentuating the hollowness of
his cheeks.  He lifted his guard-father's hand a few inches then let it
go.  It fell back limply onto his lap with the lifelessness that
characterized deep sleep.  Steve turned back to Don Lundkwist and
undressed in his own good time.  He ran his eyes casually over her
naked body.  Neat.  A strong neck and good square shoulders,
well-defined muscles without that bunchy look that some of the guys
went for.  He lay down beside her.

Lundkwist ran an appraising hand along his shoulder, then down the side
of his chest onto his hips.  'I really get off on you, Brickman.  How
come we had to wait three years for this?"

Steve shrugged.  'Busy, I guess.  Okay, how do you want it?"

Don teased his mouth with her tongue.  'Every which way.

The works."  She turned around and backed into him.

Underneath the deep UV-tan, her shoulders were covered with freckles.

Even though they had often been under the showers at the same time it
was something Steve had never noticed before.  He snaked one arm
underneath her and up over her slim breasts.  Don grabbed his other
hand before he had decided what to do with it, and slid it down between
her legs.  'Oh, yes,' she murmured.  'Oh, yes!"  She arched her neck
and rubbed her face against his.

Steve closed his eyes and pictured her making it with that creep Gus
White.  And the other guys.  Saying the same thing, reacting the same
way.  It was an accepted fact that by the end of the course almost
everybody had made it with everybody else.  It was no big deal.  If you
were that way inclined - and most guys were - you just went the rounds
on a regular basis.

Brickman was not so inclined.  But don't get the wrong idea about this
young man.  He was not lacking any vital parts, suffering from
dimensional deficiency, or bereft of the normal urges that come upon
young people of his age.

His voluntary celibacy merely reflected his pragmatic approach to
life.

Brickman had not gone the rounds for the simple reason that - while it
might afford some welcome relief- it was not part of the curriculum.

There were no marks awarded for jacking up, or bombing, one's fellow
cadets.  It was not even regarded as a reliable way to make friends and
influence people.  Consequently, it figured lower than nowhere on his
list of priorities.  On the other hand, being Brickman, he could not
bear the thought of doing anything badly and now that he had allowed
Don to get to him, Steve wanted to do it right.

He held on like a limpet as Don ground her rump into his belly.  It
felt like someone had lit a fire in his lap.  It wasn't the first time
but it was the first time in years.  He had buried the memory of how it
had felt at the back of his mind.  Now it came flooding back, warming
his body and for a while, he forgot that his guard-father's wheelchair
was parked less than two feet away and that at any minute, the rest of
his kinfolk might walk in through the door.

Haft an hour, or maybe an hour later, after they'd done everything but
bounce off the walls, they lay alongside each other breathing deep and
hard.  Where their bodies touched the skin was tacked together by a
thin film of sweat.

Lundkwist caught her breath and put her mouth against Steve's ear.

'D'you wanna drop another one in?"

'llh-uh,' said Steve.  'This is where I bail out."

'Okay."  Lundkwist sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the
bunk.  'That was good.  Right on the button."  She ran a hand down her
throat, between her slim breasts and onto her flat hard stomach.  'Need
a shower but, uh, somehow I think I'm gonna have to leave that till I
get home."

Steve nodded.  'Long ride to Wichita,' he observed.

Lundkwist came from the northernmost Federation base -Monroe Field in
Kansas, opened up in 2886.  Which also made it the newest.  'Your
kinfolk here?"

'Are you kidding?"  said Lundkwist.  'They brought the whole base
along."  She began to dress.

As Steve put his clothes on he studied Lundkwist and thought about what
they had done.  It had set his brain and body fizzing with feelings and
desires he had long since put a cap on.  Putting the bomb in the barrel
with her had provided an undeniable moment of pleasure but that was
something he could live without.  Allowing yourself to need other
people in that way - to let them get that close was a dangerous
luxury.

It made you vulnerable.

'So ..."  said Steve, 'It's "goodbye" then."

'Yeah ... we're booked out on the four o'clock shuttle."

Lundkwist checked her watch then zipped up her parade tunic and
adjusted the tasselled Honour Cadet lanyard.

Steve could have cheerfully strangled her with it.

'Good luck and, uh - good hunting."

'You too."  Brickman established firm eye contact and smiled warmly as
they shook hands.  'And take it easy, okay?

You made the Number One spot.  You don't have to prove it all over
again to the Mutes."

He patted her shoulder as she turned away.  Lundkwist looked back at
him from the doorway with a tightlipped smile.  'You know how to make a
guy feel good, Brickman, but underneath that whiter than white smile
you really are one mean sonofabitch."

Steve eyed her steadily and continued dressing.  'Part of my survival
kit."

'.You know what your trouble is?"  Lundkwist didn't wait for him to
reply.  'You think you're different.  You're so busy working at being
Number One you've got no time to be one of us.  It frightens people.

And that's bad - because one day you may need a friend."

'Anything else?"  asked Steve imperturbably.

'Yeah,' said Lundkwist.  She tapped the Minuteman badge on the breast
pocket of her tunic.  'You and I both worked our asses off to win
this.

I just want you to know that whatever it was you did wrong, in my book
you're still the top gun."

Steve shrugged modestly and zipped up his pants.  'Time will tell
..."

'It will indeed,' said Lundkwist.  She stepped away from the door then
leaned back in.  'Oh, by the way - happy birthday."

FIVE

Two days after his triumph against Shakatak D'Vine, Cadillac went with
Clearwater and Mr Snow deep into the forest.  They found a glade by the
edge of a stream where they squatted crosslegged, facing each other on
a carpet of red leaves.  Behind them, on all sides, the black-brown
trunks of the redwoods stood guard, like giant warriors.

Here and there, rose-coloured shafts of sunlight pierced the thick
canopy of leaves, casting bright pools of light on the sea of ferns
that washed against the gnarled roots of the trees.

Cadillac listened attentively as Clearwater put questions to Mr Snow
about her newly-discovered power which, like Cadillac's prodigious
memory, was a gift of the Sky Voices, sent with the blessing of their
great mother Mo-Town.  Mr Snow explained many things, emphasising that
the effort needed to guide the power and shape it to his, or her, will
drained the life-force from the summoner.  Thus, the greater the force
unleashed, the greater the power needed to control it.  Great power
should only be summoned in extremis because it could, in untrained
hands, result in the death of the one who sought to wield it.

This was why Clearwater had fainted when she had saved Cadillac from
Shakatak; the summoner was left weakened after the power had passed
through their body.  He, or she, had then to wait until their
life-force had been restored before the power could be used again.  It
followed that, in times of danger, the skill of the summoner had to be
employed judiciously otherwise he, or she, might find their powers
depleted when they were needed most.

When it was Cadillac's turn to speak he said, 'I am troubled that I do
not hear the Sky Voices."

Mr Snow smiled.  'You will hear them when you are ready to listen."

'Then teach me how to listen."

Mr Snow shook his head.  'The heads of the young are filled with the
sounds of the world.  The trumpets of vainglory.

The dark murmur of earth-longings.  With age, your tuner ear may learn
to shut out such noises.  Only then will you discover that the great
truths are gifts that come wrapped in silence."

'I have a gift of which I have not yet spoken,' said Cadillac.

'A pupil should not conceal knowledge from his master,' said Mr Snow.

Cadillac laughed.  'Nothing is hidden from you, Old One."

'True,' admitted Mr Snow.  His eyes twinkled.  'Though I do not send my
mind into your hut at the dark of the moon."

Clearwater put her hands over her nose and mouth and eyed Cadillac over
her fingertips.

Cadillac took a deep breath to avoid stammering from embarrassment.  'I
did not speak because I was not sure whether it was a true gift or
nothing more than dream-stuff fashioned by a haft-empty mind."  He
hesitated.  'I see pictures in the stones."

Mr Snow nodded soberly.  Clearwater listened, wide-eyed.

'Not all stones,' explained Cadillac.  'Only those which are ..."  He
groped for the right word.

'... seeing stones,' said Mr Snow.

'Yes."  Cadillac reached towards the bank of the stream and picked up a
smooth rock the size of a large apple.  'This one says nothing."  He
ran a finger round its circumference.

'The seeing stones have a ring of soft golden light.  I cannot always
see it but if I hold one of these stones in my hand and take its
essence into my mind, I see pictures.  Whether they are in the stone or
in my mind I cannot tell but -' Cadillac shook his head and sighed
regretfully, 'I do not understand them."

Mr Snow nodded again.  'The power is difficult to master.

The pictures you saw could have been from the past, or from the
future.

They are of the place where the stone lies.  Stored memories, visions
of things yet to come, sealed like reflections of the cloud-filled sky
on the surface of the endless River of Time."

'Can you teach me to make sense of these things?"

Mr Snow shook his head.  'No.  The art of seer-ship cannot be taught.

He who has the gift must learn to use it himself."

'So,' said Cadillac.  'I am wordsmith and seer.  Might not the power of
the summoner enter me in the days to come - as it has been given to
Clearwater?"

'It might,' said Mr Snow.

Cadillac weighed up the old man and squared his shoulders.  'The shadow
of Talisman is upon me,' he said boldly.  'Am I to be the Thrice-Gifted
One?"

Mr Snow closed his eyes as if seeking guidance.

Clearwater reached out silently and took hold of Cadillac's hand.

Their eyes met briefly then returned to Mr Snow but he did not reply,
or open his eyes for several minutes.

'That is not a question I can answer,' he said finally.  'I conceal
nothing.  I do not know.  There have been many times when I have felt
the finger of the Sky Voices pointing at you but I now know that my
thoughts were coloured by my desire to see Talisman enter the world
before I go to the High Ground and -' Mr Snow chuckled,' - the unworthy
notion that I had been chosen to be his Teacher."  He sighed.

'You may be."  He indicated Clearwater.  'She may be ' 'But she is not
a wordsmith!"  cried Cadillac.  'Does it not say that the Thrice-Gifted
One shall be wordsmith, summoner and seer?"

'That is indeed the prophecy,' admitted Mr Snow.  'But six days ago,
which of us knew of the powers that Clearwater possessed?  And how long
ago did you find your first seeing stone?"

'Two or three years,' replied Cadillac grumpily.

'Let me remind you of the prophecy,' said Mr Snow.

'Man-child, or woman-child the One may be.  And none will know who is
the Thrice-Gifted One until the earth gives the sign."

Cadillac eyed Mr Snow disappointedly.  His voice was tinged with
resentment.  'Are you sure the Sky Voices have not spoken of this more
directly?"

Mr Snow threw up his hands in mock despair and gave them both a
long-suffering look.

Clearwater smiled sympathetically.

'They have spoken but the meaning of their words is clouded,' replied
Mr Snow.  'I cannot put your mind at rest."

'Let me be the judge of that,' said Cadillac.

Very well,' said Mr Snow.  'They have told me that Talisman will be
someone known to you."

Cadillac exchanged a look of surprise with Clearwater then turned back
to Mr Snow.  'Someone known to me now - or someone I will come to
know?"

Mr Snow uncrossed his legs.

'Wait!"  cried Cadillac.  'Does that also include me?"

Mr Snow shrugged and got to his feet.  'It means what it says.  You are
a wordsmith.  Work it out."

SIX

Within minutes of arriving at his kinfolk's quarters, Steve fell into
bed and slept for two whole days and nights.  The relentless pace of
his last year at the Flight Academy, plus the extra adrenalin that had
been pumped into his system during the final run-up to the exams and
his overground solo had put his mind and body into permanent
overdrive.

It was only when he finally slipped under the quilt with the knowledge
that he would not be awakened by an electronic trumpet blast that the
months of pent-up fatigue were released.  As he lay back, he felt the
aching tiredness flood out of his bones and into the surrounding flesh,
spreading out in every direction like a slow-burning fire until his
body was suffused with a dull, prickly pain that penetrated every
fibre; oozed out of every pore.  At the point when it became
unbearable, darkness enveloped him.

Roosevelt Field - the place where Steve had been reared and schooled
and with which he was identified by his middle name - was the
operational headquarters and home base of a ten thousand-strong
division of Trackers.

Compared to Grand Central, it had the no-frills homespun atmosphere of
a frontier town but it was nothing like anything ever built in the
pioneer West.  Roosevelt Field was a self-contained multi-level
mini-city.  An air-conditioned colony of human termites with tv in
every burrow, situated fifteen hundred feet down in the bedrock under
the pre-Holocaust city of Santa Fe.  Like all the other once great
cities of the Southern United States this was now nothing more than a
dot on the map of the overground but its name had remained in use
because it marked the geographical location of the Federation base in
the earthshield below.

The layout of Roosevelt/Santa Fe followed the standard concentric
ground plan developed by Grand Central engineers in the eighth
century.

Basically, it consisted of a central plaza surrounded by two circular
transit tunnels (Ringways) at a radius of one and two miles.  Eight
more transit tunnels (Radials) arranged like the spokes of a wheel
linked the plaza with the 1st and 2nd Ringway.  At each intersection
there were huge vertical shafts (2-Level Rises or 4-Level Deeps) with
accommodation units, workshops and community areas built into the sides
- rather like skyscrapers turned inside out.  The domed hub of
Roosevelt Field was known as New Deal Plaza; Annie and Jack Brickman's
quarters were on Level Three-8 at N.E. and 2nd - the shaft known as
Tennessee Valley Deep.

Steve woke on the morning of the third day.  The aching tiredness had
vanished but, in the process, his bones had turned to jelly.  He felt
drained of all energy and did not need much persuasion from Annie to
stay in bed.  Roz, his kin-sister, brought him a breakfast tray from
the Level Three mess deck, and put the remote control handset for the
tv within easy reach.

The Federation provided Trackers with nine tv channels.

1 and 2 gave access to the Archive/Data Bank; 3, 4, 5, 6 provided Study
Programmes covering a wide range of subjects; 7 offered Vocational
skills; 8 was a Recreation channel offering a variety of combative
video games, such as the popular 'Shoot-A-Mute'.  Feeling he had earned
a break from studying, and having trained for the last three years to
kill Mutes, Steve selected Channel 9 - the Public Service Channel
something he rarely watched.  PSC broadcasts were composed almost
exclusively of inspirational programmes, banal blue sky balladeers, and
the networked news from GC, interspersed with mind-deadening 'local
interest' items from the home-base station.

One such item was on the screen now.  An on-the-spot report about Young
Pioneer work teams.  An earnest stringer from Roosevelt Field who
insisted on being called Ron, put the next of a series of penetrating
questions to a sweat-stained, dusty, politely attentive
thirteen-year-old Group Leader.  'So, how many yards of rock do you
think your team of boys and girls has dug out today, Doug?"

Thank you, and goodnight.  Click.  Steve ate the rest of his breakfast
facing a blank, grey-faced screen.

After four days of virtual inactivity, Steve's natural energy level was
restored and he began to feel restless.  He would have liked to talk
more with his guard-father but Jack was unable to sustain a meaningful
conversation.  After two or three exchanges his voice would become
faint with exhaustion and he would lose track of the subject under
discussion.

Annie Brickman, in between looking after Jack, was working behind the
counter on the Level Three South mess deck.  With the exception of
senior staff officers - like Bart everybody on a Tracker base,
regardless of their qualifications, had to put in a fixed number of
Public Duty hours every month.  In theory, PD entailed anything and
everything to do with the running of the base; in practice, it usually
meant one hundred hours on a work squad assigned to repetitive
low-grade tasks ranging from food preparation and laundry work to
road-sweeping and garbage disposal.

Steve wandered into his kin-sister's room.  Roz was packing her
trail-bag, glancing every now and then at the tv set on the table by
her bunk bed.  She was running a videotaped Inter-Med lecture on
genetics.

Steve stacked up the pillows and made himself comfortable with his feet
up on the bed.  'When do you plan to pull out?"

'Tomorrow,' said Roz.  'Enrolment at Inner State U doesn't start for
another week but I want to take a look around Grand Central while I've
got some free time."

'Yeah... they say it's really something."  Steve gazed idly at the
coloured diagram on the tv screen.  The soundtrack was pure
gobbledygook.  'Is that what you're going to specialise in genetics?"

Roz nodded.  'It's the only area where there's still a chance to come
up with an amazing discovery that could change the future.  Can you
imagine what it would be like if we all lived twice as long - till we
were eighty - wouldn't that be something?"

'Yughh - it would be terrible."

Roz smiled.  'Actually, I've chosen genetics because the Life Institute
is the only medical centre with unlimited research facilities.  Who
knows?  I just might make a name for myself."

'You just might,' agreed Steve.

'Always provided I qualify, of course.  The bottom third of each
graduate year are automatically wiped out.  That's it."  Roz drew a
hand across her throat.  'No retreads."

Steve shrugged.  'So what.  You still have your Inter-Med.

If you don't want to tap chests and prescribe pills in a base clinic,
you can always join a front-line surgical team on one of the wagon
trains."

'And end up like Poppa-Jack?"  Roz wrinkled her nose.

'Maybe,' said Steve.  'But in the process, you might save your big
brother, or some other guys like him."

Roz smiled.  'You'll survive.  From what I've heard, those Trail-Blazer
expeditions are a cake-walk.  Okay, maybe the air burns you up, the way
it did Poppa-Jack, but don't start telling me how dangerous it is to be
out there fighting Mutes.  You know what?  When I see those pictures of
'em on the history programmes and hear about the way they live, I feel
sorry for 'em.  They're as ugly as bugs and we crush 'em out of
existence as if they were bugs -' 'They're no better than,' interjected
Steve.

'Okay, I accept that,' said Roz.  'And I step on bugs the way you do.

But as my heel goes down, I sometimes ask myself if bugs ain't got the
right to live the same as we do.  If not - why are they running around
in the first place?  Maybe whoever it was who created the First Family
made the bugs too.  And maybe they made the Mutes along with 'em."

Steve studied his kin-sister.  'You know something?

Since we've been raised together you've come out with some pretty weird
ideas but that has to be the weirdest yet."

'But it could be so, couldn't it?"  insisted Roz.

'It could be,' replied Steve.  'But I'm not going to let it worry me.

I've been training for the last three years to go out there and kill
Mutes and that's what I intend to do."

'Go ahead,' said Roz.  'I know it takes courage to face the
overground.

The Federation needs people to push out its frontiers and put down
way-stations.  There's danger in that - in just being out there - and
I respect you for putting your life on the line.  But just as I
wouldn't feel sorry if you were to break your toe stomping on a bug, I
am not going to treat you like a hero for killing a bunch of
defenceless Mutes ' 'What d'you mean "defenceless"?"  said Steve
hotly.

'Those lump-heads kill people.  Everybody knows what they do to dead
Trail-Blazers.  They cut their hands and feet off.

Plus all the other odds and ends too.  And if you're captured, they
skin you alive, smoke you over a fire to keep you nice and sweet then
eat you slice by slice through the winter.

"Defenceless" ... huh!  They got weapons, Roz.  And they know how to
use them."

Roz gave a quick laugh.  'Come on, Steve.  You know that's just
Trail-Blazer pep-talk.  Those lump-heads - as you call 'em - don't even
know what day it is."

'Okay, I admit they're not too smart.  But they aren't as dumb as you
make out either.  I don't get it.  What are you trying to prove?  And
what the heck!  I mean - whose side are you on, anyway?"

Roz sat down on the bunk-bed and fisted Steve's shoulder.  'Yours
dummy.  It's just that -' Roz grimaced sadly.  'I don't know.  It's
just that when you get into this business of genetics and you get right
down to whatever it is that creates life, you start to think about
things.  Ask questions.  And when you realise just how little we know
about how life is created, and the incredible complexity of even the
simplest type of cell - just one of billions that go to make up the
human body - you can't help feeling that maybe we ought to ask
ourselves if we're doing the right thing to send guys like you out to
kill off more Mutes."

'But Mutes aren't people, Roz.  That's not something I dreamed up.

Jack spent years out there.  Have you forgotten the stories he used to
tell us?"

Roz shook her head and smiled.  'Some of them still keep me awake at
nights."  She got up, closed the door, switched on the tv with the aid
of the handset, upped the volume then sat down on the bunk-bed.

Steve frowned and pointed to the tv.  'Do we have to have that on?"

'Yeah."  Roz moved closer to her brother.  'Do you wanna hear some
music?"

Steve leaned back cautiously into the stacked pillows.

'What kind?"

'The kind that gives you a real buzz.  Blackjack - what else?"

'Are you crazy?"  hissed Steve.  'I wouldn't go within a mile of that
junk.  Shaft it, Roz.  Get rid of it - fast."  An alarming thought
struck him.  He sat up straight.  'Where is it?  Have you got it with
you?"

'Of course not."  Roz pushed him back against the pillow.

'Relax.  There's this guy -' Steve put his hand to her lips.  'I don't
want to know about him, or it, or anything.  Don't get involved, Roz.

You know what the score is.  Anyone caught tuning into that garbage is
in big trouble."

Roz smiled.  'You could be' right.  The word is this guy only handles
Code One material."

'Keep your voice down,' said Steve.  'And stop kidding around.  It's no
joke."

'Have you ever plugged any blackjack?"

'No.  And I'm not going to."

Roz smiled.  'Because it's against the rules?"

Steve eyed her silently then looked away.

'Have you ever asked yourself why it's against the rules?"

Roz pulled his chin round, forcing.  Steve to meet her challenging
look.

'You know why we have rules,' replied Steve.  'It's the only way people
can live together."  His mouth tightened as she sighed wearily.  'Come
on - that's Page One stuff."

'I know what the Manual says.  But it's not the only way,' insisted
Roz.  'If people are given a set of rules to live by limits they
mustn't overstep - it means there must be a whole different way of
living on the other side of the line."

'Sure,' said Steve.  'People tried it a thousand years ago.

And what happened?  Anarchy, disorder, chaos.  The cities burned.  The
blue-sky world be'came one great poisonous hell-fire that spawned the
Mutes."

'Yeah, I know how the history programme runs,' whispered Roz.

'Something bad must have happened, but none of us know what - or how
bad it really was.  We only know what the First Family's seen fit to
tell us.  Maybe,' she hesitated - 'maybe, in some ways, life was better
than it is now."

Steve snorted.  'Are you crazy?  Without the Jeffersons there would be
no life!  If the First Family hadn't laid down the rules for everyone
to follow, the Federation wouldn't exist."

'Yes, but, Steve ' 'Drop it, Roz,' hissed Steve.  'I don't want to hear
any more of this shit."

'Okay, forget it,' replied Roz with a sniffy laugh.  'Don't worry, I
won't do anything to damage your career prospects."

'I was thinking about yours,' snapped Steve.

Roz looked unconvinced.

'I'm not kidding,' said Steve angrily.  And to be fair, at least twenty
per cent of his concern was temporarily directed towards his sister.

He took hold of her hands.

'These wild ideas - this renegade talk.  You can't go jumping the rails
like this once you get to Grand Central.  What's got into you?"

Roz pursed her lips then tilted her head to one side as she looked down
at their clasped hands.  'Maybe I need my big brother to look after
me."

Their eyes met and held each other fast.

'That can't happen, Roz,' said Steve quietly.  'I know I'm real bad
about getting in touch but - I do think about you and ..."

'... how it was when we were in high school together?"

'Sometimes.  Things change.  People too."

'I'm people, and'nothing's changed."  Roz leaned forward and gave him a
long tender kiss on the mouth then sat back with a sigh.  'D'you
realise after this week we may never see each other again?"

Steve smiled.  'That's life, Roz.  Crying won't change anything."

'I wasn't about to cry."  Roz took a deep breath.  'There was something
I wanted to tell you."  She paused hesitantly.

'About us."

'Oh, yeah - what about us?"

'You and I are different.  We are, uh - we're not like Jack and
Annie.

Or the others.  I feel close to you in ways I can't explain.  I don't
mean how it was before you went up to the Academy.  I mean in ways I
don't understand.  Haven't you ever felt that?"

Steve felt suddenly apprehensive.  'I'm not sure.  Give me a
for-instance."

Roz tightened her grip on his hands, and drew her teeth over her bottom
lip.  Finally she said, 'D'you remember the day before yesterday when
you finally woke up and I brought you breakfast?"

'How can I forget?"  said Steve.  'It was the first time ever in my
whole life."

'Be serious,' snapped Roz.  'You remember later on telling me about
going up to Level Ten for your solo flight and how you felt when you
saw the overground?"  Roz lowered her voice.  'Those things you felt
inside you?  The fear of coming back in?"  She saw Steve's eyes
widen.

'Don't worry, I won't ever tell anyone about that.  But do you remember
me asking what day and what time it was you made that flight?"

'Yes,' whispered Steve.

'And you told me.  But you never asked why I wanted to know."  Roz
fixed her eyes on his.  'Do you know why I asked?"

Steve gazed back at her.  'Why don't you tell me?"

Roz's answer came in a hesitant whisper.  'Because I - I knew you were
up there.  I felt everything you felt - when it happened.  I felt the
same fear of being buried alive when you hesitated before taxying back
under the ramp door.  I was in the path lab with the rest of my
class.

I suddenly cried out.  I - I thought the ceiling was going to fall in
and crush me.  Everyone thought I'd gone crazy.  I've never had that
kind of feeling in my whole life before."

Steve tried to draw his hands away but Roz held on to him with
unexpected strength.  The words came spilling from her lips.  'I saw it
all, Steve.  The red trees, the mountains, the sun shining on the
water, the clouds, the waves of white sand.  I was up there with
you."

An unknown terror sent Steve's heart pounding.  'Did you try to speak
to me through your mind?  Was ityour voice I heard?"

'It may have been.  There were other voices too."

'Yes,' he whispered.

'Where do they come from?"

'I don't know,' said Steve.

'Why is it happexing to us?"  whispered Roz urgently.

'Why are we different?"

Steve felt giddy.  There was a roaring in his ears.  He felt his lips
moving; heard a far-offvoice saying, 'I don't know.  I don't know.  I
don't know."  But another part of him knew that the wave of terror that
had swept through his body had been generated by the knowledge that the
answer to Roz's questions lay locked within his mind.  Behind a door
that he dared not open.  A door that had been locked by others because
it concealed a secret that could destroy the Amtrak Federation.

Rising early on the following day, Steve went to the Provo office in
New Deal Plaza where - with the help of a video-gram from Bart - he got
his movement orders amended to allow him to accompany his kin-sister to
Grand Central before reporting to the Trail-Blazer depot at Nixon-Fort
Worth.  Annie Brickman brought Jack down to the subway to see them
off.

The shuttle from Phoenix slid to a halt at the platform.  Roz and Steve
put their trailbags aboard then turned and embraced their guardians.

'G'bye, Poppa-Jack,' said Roz.  She planted a kiss on his forehead and
ran a hand gently through his hair.  Jack's lips moved in response, but
no sound came out.

'Goodbye, sir,' said Steve.  He went down on one knee by the wheelchair
and threw an arm round his guard-father.

Jack's trembling grip on his other hand suddenly became firm and
strong.  It was as if the dying man had summoned every last ounce of
energy in his exhausted body for the last embrace; the one his ward
would remember him by.

'G'bye Annie."  Steve and Roz embraced their guard-mother.

Annie's high cheek-bones filled with colour, and her usually firm jaw
trembled.  'Ok.  ay, you two - take care of yourselves.  And always do
what's right.  You got that?"

'Don't worry, Annie,' said Steve.  'You're going to be real proud of us
before we're through."  He grasped his guard-mother's hand briefly and
stepped aboard the shuttle as the air hissed into the rams that closed
the sliding doors.

Roz bussed Annie hurriedly on the cheek and stepped inside the door of
the compartment.  Annie held onto the doors as they slid dosed, letting
go at the last minute.  Roz shouted through the glass.  'I'll look in
on you tonight!"  Annie nodded tight-lipped, and waved both hands as
the shuttle carried them away.

The compartment for which Steve and Roz had been issued tickets was
only a quarter full.  Most of the other passengers slept, or watched
one of the overhead tv sets, listening to the soundtrack through
earphones plugged into their seats.  Saddling the monorail track, and
driven by powerful linear induction motors, the shuttle sped eastwards
through the close-fitting tunnel whose grey blankness was relieved only
by the regular flash of white as the mile marker bands flipped past.

Even though the nearest passenger was four rows away, and there was no
possibility of being overheard, neither of them referred to the secrets
they had exchanged on the previous day.  Lacking any knowledge of
telepathy and unaware that the word-concept even existed, Steve and Roz
were more than a little frightened of the powers they had unwittingly
unleashed - or become prey to.  To be 'different' in a society whose
structure and values were based on a cloying conformity, co-operative
group action, and monolithic unity of purpose could, if discovered,
lead to undesirable consequences.  Deviant behaviour- the mark of a
potential renegrade - was a Code Two default which could lead to arrest
and extended treatment - known as 'reprogramming'.

Neither of them wanted to risk that.  Steve knew that Roz had her own
plans and dreams for the future; was aware that success lay in jumping,
like well-trained dogs, through the approved pattern of hoops.  As Bart
had said - the system did not make mistakes.  Only people made
mistakes.  It was people who failed, not the system.  Trying to buck it
only led to trouble and, for persistent offenders, could even prove
fatal.  Steve was already a past-master at dissimulation.

Indeed, he had understood at a very early age that, in a society whose
members were constantly encouraged to exhibit in every facet of their
lives the Seven Great Qualities of Trackerdom (Honesty, Loyalty,
Discipline, Dedication, Courage, Intelligence and Skill) possession of
the 8th Quality - Duplicity - was vital for anyone planning to claw
their way to the top.

Roz was different.  For a long time, she had actually believed that the
Seven Great Qualities immortalised by the sacrifice of the Minutemen
and the Foragers, and now said to be enshrined in the First Family,
were the guidelines by which everybody should live; that this, in fact,
was the way everybody did live.  But now even she began to bend the
rules.  She was learning.  Fast.

Steve and Roz spent three days together going round the capital of the
Federation.  Everything was much bigger and grander-looking than at
Roosevelt Field and even though he had now seen the overground, the
sheer size and glittering magnificence of John Wayne Plaza made Steve
gasp in wonder.  The huge deeply-vaulted central dome - a mile across
and half a mile high - opened onto five lofty tunnels, each a mile
long, and known as Vistas.  These ran out from the dome to form the
points of a star - the symbol of Texas, the Inner State, founder member
of the Federation.

The new deeps that were being opened up were different too.  At
Roosevelt Field, where functionalism was still the keynote, the
accommodation units were built round the sides of the shafts but at
Grand Central - at the brand spanking new San Jacinto Deep - a huge
freestanding circular tower with staggered clusters of balconies had
been built in the middle of a vast shaft whose walls had been carved to
form a series of inter-linked, landscaped terraces planted with
evergreen trees, bushes and lush foliage.

From the top of this vertical rock garden, water cascaded down over
rocks, was gathered in pools, ran in streams, rivulets and
mini-cataracts between mossy banks, splashing and dashing its way down
through the greenery into a small horseshoe lake wrapped around the
cobblestone base of the tower.  Access to the building on Levels Two
and Three was via slim arched walkways.

Steve gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the falling plumes of water that
spilled over the cleverly arranged ledges, filling the rock pools which
in turn overflowed into others below before making the final plunge
over a smooth wall of stone into the foaming edge of the lake at his
feet.

Roz started back from the water's edge as she saw several dark drifting
shapes make a sudden movement under the surface.  'Steve - look!

There's something in there!"  'Yes,' said Steve.  'Fish."

'Fish?  Really?  That's fantastic."  Roz stared into the water as if
mesmerised.  'Oh, Steve, look at that big dark brown oe!"  'Yes,' said
Steve.  'That's a good one to eat."

Roz shuddered.  'llggh!  Christopher Columbus!  That is really and
truly gross, Steve.  Makes me feel quite sick."

'I was kidding,' said Steve.  He took her arm and led her off the
bridge.  As they walked back along the throughway towards John Wayne
Plaza, Steve puzzled over what had prompted him to make such an
outlandish remark.  Like Roz, he had never eaten, or ever thought of
eating a fish before.  In fact, he had only known what the moving
shapes were from having seen pictures of fish during an Academy lecture
dealing with the main types of overground flora and fauna.  Fish had
only merited a passing reference, the main point of the lecture had
been a review of the dangerous snakes, and the various other beasts of
prey that might be encountered on a Trail-Blazer expedition.  Yet as
they had stood looking down into the water, he had had the distinct
impression that somewhere at the back of his mind was the name of that
particular fish, plus the knowledge that under the dark spotted skin,
the flesh was pink and tender - and remarkably tasty when roasted over
a wood fire.

Since their minds had not joined on this particular occasion, Steve
decided not to say anything to Roz.  She was still troubled by the
shared sensations of his overground flight for which neither had any
explanation.  With the start of the gruelling three-year Medical
Doctorate course now less than a week away, his fifteen-year-old
kin-sister had enough to worry about.

SEVEN

When you finally come face to face with a wagon train, the thing that
hits you first of all is its size.  They're enormous.

They make the rail-based MX missile trains that provided shelter and
transport for the founders of the Amtrak Federation look like those
narrow gauge miniatures that the kids used to ride on in pre-Holocaust
amusement parks.

The Lady from Louisiana - which Steve stood gazing up at - was a
space-age, multi-section, articulated vehicle over six hundred feet
long!  It was believed to be another example of the genius of First
Family design engineers but it was not, in fact, an original concept.

It was a direct development of the US Army's experimental overland
train prototypes built in the 1960s.  The technical specifications and
design details had survived the Holocaust because they were stored in
the prodigious memory of COLUMBUS, the giant computer that was the
guiding intelligence of the Federation; the inexhaustible well-spring
of 20th century science and technology from which the First Family drew
their inspiration.

The Lady consisted of two command/fire control cars standing some
thirty-five feet high to the roof of their raised cabs and situated at
the head and tail of the wagon train, two power cars, and twelve
weapon, cargo and accommodation cars - all connected by flexible
passways.  Each forty foot-long section was mounted on four huge low
pressure tyres, twelve feet in diameter and twelve feet wide, capable
of traversing most types of terrain.  Hydrogen-fuelled turbines mounted
in the power cars produced electricity for the drive · motors attached
to each of the sixty-four wheels.

Camouflaged in black, brown and two shades of red, the wagon train's
moulded SuperCon shell was lined with lead to provide protection
against radiation.  Each car had several small shielded periscope ports
fitted with armoured glass that could be uncovered in an emergency but
under normal conditions external vision was via clusters of remotely
controlled tv cameras.  Long-range surveillance was provided by a
section of ten Skyhawks flown by wingmen like Steve.  The train was
also equipped with air guns, laser weapons plus a variety of other
electronic devices and - for close-quarter defence - invisible
superheated steam jets that could blast human flesh straight off the
bone in seconds.

Gus White joined Steve by the side of The Lady.  He was still as mad as
hell at not having been assigned to Big Red One but he was doing his
best not to show it.  'What do you think?"

Steve shook his head in wonderment.  'Even though we trained all year
on a full-sized mock-up of the launch car and lived inside that
simulator for a week, when you finally see it all in one piece it's
..."  Words failed him.

'... big,' said Gus.

'You can say that again,' agreed Steve.  'No wonder the goddam Mutes
head for the hills when they see one of these things coming."

'Yeah,' grinned Gus.  'They call 'em "iron snakes".  I can't wait to
see their faces when this little o" snake starts breathing on them with
some of that superheated steam."

Side by side, they wandered along the length of the train, noting the
multi-barrelled weapon turrets mounted on the sides and the roofs of
the cars.  Squads of engineers were checking out the motors on the huge
wheels, and testing the movement of power controls.

Gus edged under the wagon train and glanced warily at the evil-looking
jets on the sloping underside of the car which blasted out the
super-heated steam.  'What a way to go,' he muttered.  He rejoined
Steve and together they walked around one of the huge wheels,
inspecting the interlinked slabs of tungsten steel that made up the
tread on the massive tyre.

'Can't be much fun getting run over, either,' observed Steve.

'Hey, you two!"  said a flat, hard voice.

Steve and Gus turned to fred themselves looking down at a stocky,
tight-lipped girl in a blue wingman's jumpsuit.

She had dark, close-cut hair, a smooth, oval, not unattractive, face;
the peak of her cap was pulled down over deep set grey eyes that looked
half closed but missed nothing.  She wore the triple red stripes of a
section leader on her sleeve.  Above her left breast pocket was a pair
of golden wings with five gold stars underneath; the printed tag over
her right breast pocket identified her as 7571

KAZAN.J.

'Finished your tour of inspection?"  asked KAZAN J. in a voice that
meant business.

'Yess-surr!"  chorussed Gus and Steve.  They snapped rigidly to
attention and saluted with synchronised movements.

Kazan's return salute rivalled theirs for zeal and correctness.

As they stared blankly into the middle-distance, Kazan read off their
name tags and eyed them in turn.  'White and Brickman ... Ahh, yes
...

the smart ones."  She walked a slow circle of inspection round them but
could not fault their turnout.  'Where's Fazetti and Webber?"

'We haven't seen them, sir,' said Steve."They weren't around when we
booked in,' said Gus.

'I'll tell you where they are,' said Kazan.  'They're in the briefing
room where the wagon master is about to deliver his pre-embarkation
address!"  'B-But sir,' stammered Gus.  'That's scheduled for ten
fifteen hours."

'It's been moved forward thirty minutes,' snapped Kazan.  'Don't either
of you watch the screens?"  She pointed to the nearest overhead tv
monitor.  An announcement about the revised time was being flashed on
the screen in sync with the usual red prompt light beneath the
console.

Ordinarily, there was no way either of them should have missed it.

Steve and Gus stared at the monitor with embarrassment.

'No, obviously not,' concluded Kazan.  She adopted an air of bitter
resignation and shook her head.  'Three years at the Academy and all
you can do is behave like kids on a junior school tour."

'It won't happen again, sir,' said Steve.  He allowed himself a brief
smile.  'I guess we were both kinda bowled over by The Lady."

'Save that pretty boy charm for barrelling squabs, Brickman,' snapped
Kazan.  'And you can put away those teeth.  If I see 'em again, you'll
be picking 'em up off the floor.  Got that?"

Steve's face became a mask of stone.  'Loud and clear, sir!"  'Good."

Kazan drew their attention to the diagonal rank stripes on her arm.

'See these?  They're to remind you of three things."  She laid a finger
on the top stripe.  'First, that I'm your section leader.  Second, when
I shout, you jump.

Third, I don't take any shit - especially from wet-feet.

Comprendo?"

'Yess-SURR!!"  chorussed the two wingmen.

Kazan dismissed them with a jerk of the head.  'Okay.  Get your asses
over to Block Eighteen."

Steve and Gus gave Kazan another precisely synchronised salute and
doubled away.  'One of those,' muttered Gus, as they ran.

Kazan's voice floated after them.  'Yeah!  One of those!"  The two
young wingmen reached Block 18 with one minute to spare.  They paused
outside the door to recover their breath, then walked in to join the
crowd of nearly three hundred men and women that were settling down on
the rows of chairs.  Rick Fazetti leapt up and waved them over to where
he and fellow graduate Webber had saved two seats for them.

'We just met our section leader,' muttered Gus.  He roiled his eyes as
he edged past them.

'Did you see she had five stars?"  hissed Fazetti.

'Yeah,' said Steve.  'One for each guy she's eaten alive."

Each star, in fact, represented one twelve-month operational tour.  One
more would earn her a Lucky Six - a double golden triangle on her lower
sleeve - a call from the White House, and lunch with the
President-General.

As Steve sat down, Kazan walked in casually and took her place with the
other section leaders in the front row.

'How old do you think she is?"  said Webber.

Gus White shrugged.  'Five tours ... she must be at least
twenty-two."

Steve stared through the rows of crew-cut heads to where Kazan sat with
her back to them.  'Anyone know what the "J" stands for?"

'Jodi,' hissed Fazetti.  'Jodi Kazan."

Okay, Jodi, thought Steve.  You want to play it tough.

We'll see how tough you are ...

There was no doubt about the physical strength of the man who stepped
up onto the platform at the front of the briefing room.  He was a big,
barrel-chested guy with hands big enough to squeeze your head like a
lemon.  He had a deeply tanned, aggressive face set on a powerful neck,
yellow hair cropped close to the scalp, and he was dressed in olive
drab fatigues with one broad diagonal red stripe on each sleeve, and a
stetson bearing the star and bar badge.

The crewmen fell silent as the man positioned himself beside the
lectern with his feet apart, and his fingers round the ends of a short
gold-topped switchstick.  It looked like a deluxe version of the sticks
carried by DI's at the combat academies.

The man surveyed the room.  'So ... we meet again.

Mostly the same, tired old faces I see."  He pointed his stick at a
nearly bald-headed man sitting a few rows from the front.

'Tino's back again without getting his haircut ' There was a ripple of
laughter from the veteran TrailBlazers in the room.

'- and the rest of you are still laughing at my tired, old jokes.  Keep
at it.  Flattery'Il get you nowhere but there's no harm in tryin'.

However - since we have a batch of wet-feet shipping out with us for
the first time, maybe I'd better introduce myself."  He cast his eyes
towards the back of the room and upped the volume a little.  'The name
is Buck McDonnell - sometimes referred to in the dead of night as Big
D. I'm the Trail Boss on The Lady.  The guy you come to when you've got
problems.  That's why I've got such wide shoulders.  I've had so many
people cryin' on 'em."

His speech was punctuated by a hollow laugh from the veteran crewmen.

'Play it by The Book and you'll find me a very understanding guy.  Get
on the wrong side of me -' He tapped his rank stripe with his
switch-stick.  '- and you're liable to end up with a backful of
these."  McDonnell paused briefly to allow this threat to sink home.

'My main job is to make sure that the orders of the wagon master and
his execs are carried out - to the letter.  And aided by your section
leaders, I am also responsible for on-board discipline.  Any wet-foot
who thinks he can relax because he's not shipping out on Big Red One
had better think again.  You won't find a tighter train than The Lady,
so keep your noses clean and your wagons trim -' McDonnell caught a
signal from a lineman standing by the door.  He snapped his feet
together, swept his switch-stick under his left arm and grasped the
gold top between the thumb and palm of his left hand, fingers extended
rigidly along the axis of the stick.  'Wagon-train... READY!"  he
boomed.

Everybody jumped to their feet and braced their shoulders as Commander
Bill Hartmann, the wagon master, entered the briefing room followed by
his ten executive officers.  All of them wore chrome yellow,
long-peaked command caps and, with the exception of the Flight
Operations Officer, olive drab fatigues.

As they mounted the platform and Hartmann reached the lectern,
McDonnell's voice boomed out again, 'Wagon traa-i-nn..."

'HO I I' chorussed the crew.  The ground shook as the three hundred men
and women thundered to attention and punched their right arm upwards in
a clenched fist salute.

McDonnell turned smartly towards Hartmarm and brought his right arm up
with jack-knife precision to the brim of his stetson.  Hartmann's
acknowledgement had a touch of CFI Carrol's famous fly-swipe about
it.

Steve felt reassured.  He didn't mind drills and the attendant bullshit
as long as it was backed up by brains.  It was hard to be sure at this
distance but the grey-haired Hartmann exuded an aura of thoughtful
intelligence.  He was a couple of inches taller than McDonnell, with a
lean, square-jawed face whose most arresting feature was a large white
mustache.  Standing alone, one would have judged him to be well-built
but juxtaposed with McDonnell's bull-necked bulk he looked positively
anaemic.

McDonnell turned to face the crew of The Lady.  'Wagon train... EASY?

The men sat down, backs upright, their faces turned towards Hartmann.

His execs formed two staggered lines behind him.

Gus leaned into Steve.  'They call him Buffalo Bill,' he whispered.

Hartmann laid his peaked cap on the lectern, placed a pocket video memo
pad next to it, ran a hand through his silver grey hair and smoothed
his mustache.  'Good morning, gentlemen."  He paused and weighed up his
audience.  'I see we have what looks like a full house so it's obvious
we gave you more than enough home leave.  I don't know about you, but
after two weeks I start to get the TrailBlazer blues, after three I'm
almost ready to volunteer for PD, and by the end of the fourth week I
feel like calling in the bagmen."

There was a murmur of agreement from the audience.

'Fortunately, that's when I usually get the green line from the
Tactical Plans Board.  Once I get that roll-out date I'm as happy as a
wet-foot with a head in each hand.  But then -' Hartmann paused and ran
his eyes over the first few rows, '- you trail-hands have heard all
this before.  It's the new generation who must be wondering just what
the hell I'm talking about."

Hartmann glanced down at his video memo pad then aimed his voice
towards the back half of the room.  'I understand we have fifty
replacement linemen and four new wingmen shipping out with us on this
trip.  I will have an opportunity to meet you individually later so,
for the moment, I'll just say to you all - "Welcome aboard".  Even
though you've all undergone familiarisation training on simulators you
will probably find things a little strange at first.  You may know how
it all works and where everything's supposed to be but somehow even the
best mock-ups can't duplicate the feel of a real wagon train.  They can
never recreate the atmosphere for a start."  The Commander's face
creased into a smile.  'Three hundred horny trail-hands generate a lot
of static - and it's not the kind that can be simulated
electronically."

This got a big laugh from the old 'Blazers.

Hartmann held up his hand.  'The same goes for combat drills.  You'll
find it feels a lot different when you're actually faced with killing
and being killed - for the first time."

'I can't wait,' muttered Gus.  Steve, too, felt a sense of
anticipation.  Sitting there surrounded by the rest of the three
hundred-strong crew he could feel an undercurrent of excitement flowing
through the room; an electric force passing through their bodies,
linking them together.

Something that, in older times, had been known as 'esprit de corps'.

'I can see from your faces,' continued Hartmarm, 'that you'd like to
know where we're going.  So here's the broad outline.  The Lady will
load and make fast in the next five days and roil-out on six, making a
couple of supply runs to way-stations in Kansas and Colorado.  These
first two sorties - which will be load-out load-back - will provide the
new crew-men with ample opportunity to shape up under operational
conditions.  The second phase of our mission is where it gets
interesting."

The whole room held its breath as Hartmann paused.

Everybody was on the edge of their seats.

'The Lady has been selected to make the first deep-penetration raid
into Plainfoik territory.  We're going hunting, gentlemen - northwards
into Nebraska, Wyoming and South Dakota -' 'Yeee-hhohaaa!  I' The old
rebel yell came simultaneously from three hundred throats as the crew
of The Lady leapt to their feet, faces glowing.  Steve, Gus, Fazetti
and Webber stood up with them, their hearts pounding.

Buck McDonnell stepped to the edge of the platform.

'Who's for The Lady??  he boomed.

'We are - HOW roared the crew.  Three hundred right hands punched the
air.

'Are we ready and able?!"  boomed McDonnell.

'YAY!!"  roared the crew, punching their right arms up again.  'Lets
GO-GO-GO!!"  Hartmann and his execs responded to the men's cheers with
the same exultant clenched fist salute.

The next five days passed quickly, night blurring into day as the
entire crew of The Lady worked round the clock shifts; switching weapon
cars for unarmed cargo containers; loading them with material, stores
and bulk food concentrates for the way-stations; filling the overhead
and underfloor storage bays of the other cars with ration-packs,
equipment, ammunition and other supplies needed by the wagon train;
checking and re-checking the range of onboard functions communications,
environmental, weapon, power, control and emergency back-up systems.

Apart from their normal role in the above, the particular task of
Steve's section was to check the twelve Skyhawks two.

of which were reserve airframes - before folding their wings and
stowing them in the flight car of The Lady.  In addition to the nine
wingmen under her command, Jodi Kazan was also in charge often
ground-crew whose primary task was to help erect, launch, retrieve,
stow and maintain the aircraft.

Like the other graduates from the Academy, Steve had been trained as a
ground crew-man and flight engineer.  He could service, repair or, if
necessary, rebuild an aircraft.  In the event of an emergency, he could
also function in a number of other categories including ground-combat
duties as a lineman.

Some of the specialist lineman grades also had this multi-role
capability.  And given a relatively simple aircraft such as the
Skyhawk, many more Trackers could have been trained as pilots.  But
learning to fly was not the problem.  There was another reason why
wingmen rightly regarded themselves as CFI Carrol had said - as the
lite force of the Federation.

The thing that separated wingmen from other Trackers was their ability
to act independently at long range, for days at a time if necessary.

The wingmen were the highly disciplined lone wolves; the sole permitted
aberration in a tightly regimented society which placed unceasing
emphasis on group identity, group effort.

Linemen on Trail-Blazer expeditions were able to function beyond the
reassuring confines of the wagon train as members of a combat-group but
it should be understood that many of them had a residual fear of the
sheer vastness of the overground.  Isolated from his unit, or
companions, an ordinary lineman started to come apart in a matter of
hours.

He would undergo progressive disorientation and, if isolated for
twenty-four hours or more, his movements would become increasingly
lethargic.  He would seek cover, in a cave, or by digging a hole under
a rock, and stay there unable to move further.  Linemen had been found
after several days in a completely comatose condition.  If not found,
they simply died - from exhaustion or starvation.

Trail-Blazer records contained reports of men having been found dead
from thirst under rocks on the banks of rivers.

In other instances, when no cover was available, it had been known for
Trackers to bury themselves alive.

The work during the pre-embarkation period was organised on a four-hour
on, four-hour off basis, with each section divided into two work squads
to allow specialist maintenance tasks and equipment tests to continue
without interruption.  The four off-duty hours were known as
'Stand-Down'; the all-too fleeting moment when crewmen caught up with
their personal chores and grabbed some sleep.

It was also the time when Steve and the other 'wet-feet' questioned the
old trail-hands about what it was like 'up top'.  Depending on your
attitude to things military, it may be sad, or reassuring, to learn
that, despite the Holocaust, soldiers have not changed since time
immemorial.  Steve and the other young wingmen were treated to the
traditional blood-curdling tales of hand-to-hand combat and the
primitive savagery of their wily enemy - the half-idiot, half-magical
Mute.

'D'you know what those lump-heads sometimes do if they catch you?"

said one grizzled trail-hand, concluding a particularly hair-raising
catalogue of Mute atrocities.

The eight wet-feet who sat round him, most of them with open mouths,
shook their heads silently.

'They carry you on a pole back to their village, strip you off and peg
you out with your arms and legs apart, then they set this bunch of
beavers onto you."

'What's a beaver?"  asked Steve.

'A female Mute,'.  said the trail-hand.  'You never heard talk of
bouncin' beaver?"

'No,' said Steve.  The others silently shook their heads.

The trail-hand eyed them all and nodded soberly.  'I can see you guys
have got a lot to learn.  Anyway - five or six of these dick-eaters set
themselves around you - right?  And you're lyin' there lookin' up at
these big jaws and big teeth some of 'em have got and you're prayin'
that one of 'em's going' to do you a favour and tear your throat out.

But no.

You know what they do?  They take turns to stick their tongue in your
belly button.  True as I'm sittin' here, that's what they do.  Then bit
by bit, two of 'em start working their way up to your shoulders and
along your arms and two more work down to your feet.  A lick here, a
little nibble there.  By the time the bottom two are kissin' your
kneecaps you start thinking - "Hey, what the hell?  This ain't so bad
after all."  and maybe you start to jack up a little."

By this time, his audience was leaning forward with rapt expressions,
hanging on every word.

The trail-hand ran his tongue round his lips and continued, his voice
becoming softer.  'That's what they've been waiting for.  One of 'em
sits on your chest with her ass in your face, and brings you up real
good.  "Oh, mother!"  you say to yourself.  "How come this ain't in The
Book?"

That's when the four of'em grab a hand and a foot and start bitin' off
your fingers and toes.  And you holler, boy.  Oh, Columbus!  You hit
high C. It hurts, believe me."

The trail-hand raised his hand and extended the fingers.

Both the middle fingers had been severed at the second joint and the
tips were missing on the third.  'That's for openers.

Just when you think you can't stand the pain, the one on your chest
bares those big teeth and chews your jack off the way a mountain lion
tears the leg off a buffalo.  And while she's doing that, another
beaver sneaks up behind your head, grabs you by the ears and sucks your
goddam eyeballs out!"  Steve felt a cold shiver pierce his loins.  Gus
White, who had been sitting between Fazetti and Webber, went green
about the gills, leapt to his feet and was sick in the corridor
outside.  The story-teller, a Lucky Six known as Bad News Logan,
turned to Steve with a contented grin.  'You sure your friend is up to
this trip?"

Thinking it over afterwards, Steve was inclined to dismiss a large
proportion of what he had heard but he was intrigued by the sotto-voce
tales of Mute magic.  Encountering Jodi Kazan when they were both stood
down a couple of days later, Steve decided to risk asking for her
opinion on the subject.  To his surprise, he discovered that, when off
duty, Kazan's belligerence dropped below boiling point and while she
could not be described as friendly she was, at least, approachable; her
manner dry, her conversation laconic.

She admitted that 'some strange things have been known to happen' but
was clearly unwilling to discuss the subject further.  When Steve
pressed her for details she held out her hand.  'Gimme your ID."  She
got up from the table where they had been drinking java and, using his
sensor card, called up the Public Archives on the nearest VDU.

Steve walked over and looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through
the index of the Historical Section.  'I've read everything in that,'
he said.

'Not everything,' said Kazan.  'There are different levels of access
depending on where you are - and who you are.

Didn't you know that?"  She looked up at him.  'Obviously not."

'You mean - there's data in there that we don't know about?"  said
Steve, thinking back to what Roz, his sister, had said.  The
possibility that more information existed had never occurred to him.  A
store of hidden knowledge!

Kazan's casual announcement of the fact came as a startling
revelation.

'That's - incredible."

Kazan shrugged.  'What you don't know you don't miss.  You get access
to another level when someone in the White House defides y°u're ready
for it.  When they do, they mark your card.  Upgrade it."  She keyed in
a seven-digit call-code and brought up the reference she was looking
for.  She got out of the chair.  'Make yourself comfortable."

Steve sat down and studied the printed extract on the screen.  It was
headed '922-854-6/MUTE MAGIC'.

'There are a couple of words I haven't come across before."

'Never mind,' snapped Kazan.  She sat with one leg up on the edge of
the table.  'Just read it out loud."

Steve took a deep breath and began.  'Mute magic.  From time to time it
is rumoured that Mutes possess paranormal - ?"

'Keep going,' said Kazan.

'- para-normal powers of communication and the ability to control the
forces of nature.  This claim can be confidently discounted.  Repeated
investigations have proved that the temporary tactical successes gained
by Mute clans in attacks on wagon trains and way-stations are, without
exception, due to the incompetence, of the failure of will, of wagon
masters and their crews.  In every case examined by the Assessors, the
attribution of - mystical - powers to the Mutes has been found to be a
device employed by defaulters to rationalise their own failure in the
vain hope of avoiding punishment."  Steve swivelled round to face
Kazan.  'The only force to be feared is that of the Federation."

'That's official,' she said.

Steve wiped the text, retrieved his ID-Sensor card and put it back in
its protective wallet.  'Yeah, but - is it true?"

Kazan's eyes narrowed.  'I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

On the sixth day, the depot was crowded with the kin-folk of crew-men
from nearby Nixon Field.  Harried by Provos, they streamed in orderly
fashion across the roads - the long, pillared bays where the wagon
trains were housed - and pressed three deep against the crush barrier
to watch the crew form up, section by section, alongside The Lady under
the gaze of Hartmann and his ten execs.

On the booming command of Buck McDonnell, the crew snapped to attention
and the flag-waving crowd fell silent as the familiar, heart-stirring
Fanfare for the First Family echoed through the depot's loudspeakers.

The face of George Washington Jefferson the 31st appeared on the
ubiquitous television screens and delivered a short, inspirational
address in a firm, well-modulated voice - to which the crew of The Lady
and the crowd responded with a thunderous 'HO!  I'.

On the command 'MOUNT WAGONS!"  the crew climbed quickly aboard and
took up their stations.  The airtight hatches were locked down; the
waving crowd became an electronic image on the train's visicomm
system.

Up in the saddle - the control centre of the lead command car Hartmann
settled in the Commander's chair, called a systems read-out and spoke
the eagerly awaited words into the mike.  'Wagons ROLL!"  The clusters
of jumbo-sized turbines whined shrilly up to full revs.  Power flowed
through the drive motors.  The giant steel-clad tyres began to turn,
easing the camouflaged, serpentine bulk of the wagon train out of its
parking bay, and past the crowd of flag-waving spectators.

On the screen above him, Steve saw the crowd break up and run
alongside; heard them cheering; felt the glow of excitement as the
music flooded through the depot and the wagon train; joined in the
singing as The Lady from Louisiana began the long haul up the
one-in-twelve gradient towards the overground to the echoing strains of
the Trail-Blazer anthem, 'The Yellow Rose of Texas'.

EIGHT

Within a few days of the time predicted by Mr Snow, a posse of Bears
returned to the settlement and announced breathlessly that they had
seen arrowheads in the sky.  They pointed to the south; to that part of
the sky where the dark rainclouds and the thunder were stored beyond
the rim of the world.

'How far away were you when you saw them?"  asked Mr Snow, when the
Bears faced the hastily gathered clan-elders.

'Two days running,' said Mack-Truck, the leader of the hunting party.

'Does this mean that the iron snake comes?"  said Cadillac.

He sat in his appointed place, beside the silver-haired wordsmith.

With the exception of those Bears manning the outlying guard posts of
the settlement, the rest of the clan was gathered round them.

Mr Snow nodded.  'Yes, this is the one predicted by the Sky Voices.

The cloud warriors seek the best path for the snake.  He paused, then
added grimly, 'They also seek us."

An awed murmur came from the squatting crowd of Mutes.

'Should we not run?"  asked Long-Tooth, a clan-elder.

Mr Snow shook his head.  'We cannot outrun the cloud warriors.  They
can soar over mountains like eagles, and can see as far.  But we should
hide our huts from the sky.  We must move the settlement into the
forest that lies four bolts north of where we stand."

Plainfolk Mutes did not like forests.  They preferred to sleep under
open skies.  'It will be dark,' said a warrior called Hershey-Bar.  'I
have seen this place.  The trees are set close one upon the other and
the branches press heavy on our heads.  We will not be able to
breathe."

'The darkness will hide us,' said Mr Snow.  'And it is good that the
trees stand close.  The iron snake will not be able to enter.  It is
the fear of the forest voices that puts a tight band round your
chest.

You must master that fear.  Make the green spirits your friends and the
forest will shelter and protect you.  And you will soon find you can
breathe as easily as on a clear mountain peak."

The clan elders accepted Mr Snow's advice.  Drawing in the M'Call
warriors from the hilltop guard posts, the clan quickly folded their
small hide and timber huts, wrapped their pots and other possessions
into mats made from plaited grass and loaded everything on trucking
poles - a contraption made of saplings and carried on the shoulders of
four people like a palanquin.  Within a couple of hours, the two
thousand strong M'Call clan was assembled in two long files with Bears
stationed at the head, middle and tail of the column.  Rolling-Stone,
the once-great warrior who was now the aging but alert chief eider gave
the order to move; the clan broke into a jog-trot, then opened their
stride to assume the loping gait of Mutes on the move.  At the rear of
the column, Bears dragged branches to cover the tracks made by the two
lines of runners.

When the M'Call settlement had been reestablished around a small
clearing several hundred yards in from the southern edge of the forest,
the clan reassembled, squatting around the clan elders in their various
groups; the warrior Bears, the males over fourteen years old; the
She-Wolves, female warriors of the same age group who in times of
extreme danger could fight alongside the Bears but whose main role was
defence of the settlement; the Cubs, children of both sexes aged from
six to fourteen, with their pack leaders; the Den Mothers,
child-bearing women whose offspring were five or under; and the Clan
Elders - all those over fifty years old.  Everybody - except the
youngest children, who were carried - moved under their own steam, on
their own two feet.  Anyone over fifty unable to do so was left to
die.

In Mute parlance, to refer to someone as 'legless' meant they were
dead, or near death.

Mr Snow sat to one side of the clan-elders, in case they should wish to
consult him.  Cadillac sat close behind him.

His eyes sought out Clearwater, sitting with her clan-sisters among the
She-Wolves.

The subject under discussion was how the clan should react to the
imminent arrival of the iron snake on their turf.

Iron-Maiden, a clan-elder, was speaking - and advocating a hasty
retreat.  'It is said that the snake's breath turns men to bone.  That
sharp iron cannot pielce its skin.  That it has eyes in its head and
tail that can see in the dark and -' Motor-Head snorted and leapt to
his feet.  'Why do you fill our ears with the tales of faint-hearts,
old woman?!

Those in the south are not Plainfolk.  They live under the heel of the
sand-burrowers.  Let us have no more of their yellow words.  The names
of their clans are dirt in our mouths I' He spat on the ground; the
ritual gesture of defiance.

Mr Snow held up his hand, staying Iron-Maiden's angry reply.  'We
should not condemn them.  Even though they are not of the Plainfolk,
many of our Southern brothers fought long and hard with sharp iron and
died with the name of their clan on their lips."

Motor-Head planted his legs astride and folded his heavily muscled
arms.  'They do not fight as we fight."

'Hey-yah!"  chorussed the massed warriors.

Mr Snow smiled.  'No one fights like the M'Calls.  That is a truth
carved on the heart of the world.  But those in the south who chose
life know the darkness ofdishonour.  Their hands and feet are tied with
iron ropes and they work under whips from sunrise to sundown like the
tame buffalo of the Old Time."

'Oyy-yehhh ..."  The clan groaned in unison, rocking from side to side
in the traditional response to bad news.

Rolling-Stone, the chief elder turned to Mr Snow.  'What do the Sky
Voices say?"

Mr Snow closed his eyes briefly as the gaze of the clan fell upon
him.

'They say there are two ways to go.  We can withdraw into the high
hills where the iron snake cannot pursue us - or we can stay and fight
on ground of our own choosing.  If we head for the hills, we will have
to abandon our bread stalks and the other earth food we have planted.

For if the iron snake reaches this place unchallenged you can be sure
that all we have sown will be destroyed before the Gathering."

'We cannot give up the growing places,' said Buffalo Head.  'We need
ripe seed to plant in the New Earth."

'Have we none in store?"  asked Cadillac.

'A handful,' she replied.  'The rest has been fouled by the grey
dust."

Buffalo-Head was the chief among the women charged with organising the
M'Call's food supply.

'Oyy-yehh ..."  groaned the clan.

'But if we stay and fight,' said Sting-Ray, another elder, 'many of our
clan-brothers will die."

'That is certain,' agreed Mr Snow.

'But if we move to the hills,' said Buffalo-Head, 'there will be
nothing in our huts when the White Death comes.

The Bears will have to raid other settlements.  There will be blood on
the meat.  Our soul-brothers will not let us take the food from their
mouths without killing."

This time, it was Hawk-Wind who leapt to his feet.  'We are not afraid
to die,' he cried.  'But if we are to kiss sharp iron, we should do it
over the bodies of sand-burrowers!"  'Hey-YAH!"  roared the warriors.

Cadillac rose.  'My brother Bear speaks with the wisdom of a great
warrior.  We must defend our turf against those who have not laid the
hand of friendship upon us but if we cut down those we have made our
soul-brothers, we are no better than the flesh worms that devour the
dead.  The Plainfolk will become as dust, scattered by the four winds
across the empty land."

Mr Snow nodded approvingly as Cadillac sat down again.

'Well said.  If this should happen, not even the power of Talisman
could bring us together again.  Our turf is sacred but we must always
remember that the Plainfolk are brothers under the sky.  Even those who
are dirt in our mouths will one day stand at our side against the
sand-burrowers."

'Those are good words,' said Rolling-Stone, the chief elder.  'Let us
hope that day may come."

'But not before we have filled our head-poles?  cried Convoy from the
rear of the massed warriors.

'Hey-yah!"  replied the warriors, amid peals of laughter.

'You will all chew bone before the moon turns its face away,' said Mr
Snow.  'And if Mo-Town our mother does not drink from your
life-streams, your poles will be heavy with the heads of
sand-burrowers."

'Hey-YAH!"  chorussed the Bears.

Rolling-Stone exchanged a worried glance with the other clan-elders.

'Is this the counsel of the Sky Voices?"

'The Sky Voices advise caution,' replied Mr Snow.  'It will take more
than the hot-blooded strength of our Bears to stop the iron snake.

Cunning and magic are the weapons we must use."

'But can you still summon the earth-magic?"  asked Long-Tooth.

'If Talisman wills it,' said Mr Snow.  'But even if he strengthens my
hand, many who now sit before us will not hear their fire songs.  This
is the year that Mo-Town sits in the Black Tower of Tamla.  Her heart
is filled with love for the She-Kargo but her throat is dry.  She
thirsts - and when she drinks, many streams will run dry."

'She will also have blood to drink from the necks of sand-burrowers,'
growled Motor-Head.

'Hey-yah,' murmurmed the warriors, with the same low, throaty growl.

Rolling-Stone held up both hands for silence.  'Enough talk.  Let those
who would head for the hills stand up and be counted!'

Nobody moved.

'The M'Calls have spoken,' said Rolling-Stone.  'We hold fast to our
ground and fight the iron snake!"  Everyone, from the youngest child in
Mr Snow's story circle to the grey-haired elders leapt to their feet
joyously, arms raised, beating the air with their fists.  The forest
around them seemed to shake with their thunderous roar of assent.

'Hey-YAH!  Hey-YAH!  Hey-YAH!!"  In the evening of the same day,
Cadillac knelt at the door of Mr Snow's hut and asked permission to
enter.  Mr Snow told him to come on in.  They sat cross-legged, facing
each other, on the mat of buffalo-skin.  Mr Snow filled his pipe with
rainbow grass, lit it from his flame-pot, puffed contentedly then
passed it to Cadillac.  They had shared his pipe for a year now.  The
rainbow grass gave the things of the world colours that Cadillac had
not seen before.  Sometimes he saw pictures of a world that was not of
the Plainfolk.

Perhaps it was the sunset islands; perhaps another world beyond the
roof of the sky - like the dream world he entered when his body
slept.

Often, when he drew the smoke from the rainbow grass into his body, his
mind seemed to burst out of his head and float among the stars.  When
that happened, there was a timeless moment of great joy when he seemed
to understand all things.

'Speak."  Mr Snow's voice came from a long way away.

Like a call from a clan-brother floating on the air from the other side
of a valley.

'I would run with the Bears in the battle with the iron snake,' said
Cadillac.

'Are you out of your mind?"  said Mr Snow.

Cadillac giggled at the question.  'The grass gives my head wings but I
speak from the heart.  I would fight at the side of my
clan-brothers."

Mr Snow waved the smoke away from his face and shook his head
vigorously.  'No way, my son.  The Sky Voices forbid it."

'But I have chewed bone,' cried Cadillac.  'My brothers have accepted
me as a warrior.  I have a pole with two heads outside my pad ' '- and
Motor-Head has let you wear his hat,' concluded Mr Snow.  'Why do you
waste breath telling me things that even the hills know.  Was your fire
song not sung loudly enough?"

'I was not boasting, Wise One.  By talking of these things I hoped to
persuade you to -' 'o to ignore the Sky Voices?"  interjected Mr
Snow.

He took the offered pipe and drew smoke into his chest.  'Not content
with breaking your oath, you seek my help to break it a second time!

Did not Clearwater remind you?  Why do you now make me waste my breath
- forcing me to speak to you as if you were like the others with
nothing between their ears?  Their heads have no pockets to hold the
past.  Words trickle through the holes in their minds like water
through their fingers.  But you -' He stabbed the bowl of the pipe
towards Cadillac's heart, '- you are a wordsmith!  Your brain is not a
lump of buffalo cheese to be spooned out of your skull before it is
stuck on the pole of some roving bonehead!  It is a jewel - to be
treasured, to be guarded night and day!"  'You use strange words,' said
Cadillac.  'Jewel, treasured o what do these things mean?"

'They are words from the Old Time,' replied Mr Snow.

'Jewels were stones dug from the earth and fashioned by those with the
High Craft.  They were small, like eyes, and glittered as if filled
with the light of stars.  Others were filled with red, green and blue
fire.  Men and women of the Old Time loved them greatly and longed to
possess them for they were things of great beauty.  They carried them
tied round their necks and round their fingers.  It was a sign of great
standing."

Cadillac gave a perplexed frown.  'They had standing because they
carried stones?"

Mr Snow shrugged.  'They had many strange customs then."  He paused and
stared reflectively at the firelight flickering in the hollowed
stone.

'Clearwater is a jewel that you must treasure."

Cadillac considered this, then nodded slowly.  'I think I get the
picture.  Will you tell me more words from the Old Time?"

'Some other day,' said Mr Snow.  'First you must show greater regard
for the needs of the clan and less to your own."

'Your words bring me down,' said Cadillac.

Mr Snow smiled.  'There is a saying that comes from the Old Time - "It
is hard to fly with eagles when you work with turkeys"."  He drew on
the pipe, closing his eyes as he swallowed the smoke.  When he opened
them, he saw the uncomprehending look on Cadillac's face.  'Forget it,'
he said, offering the pipe to Cadillac.  'Let's hit the sky."

.The next day, Mr Snow and Cadillac went back to the

plateau and sat amongst the rocks overlooking the plain while a group
of clan-women tended the strips where the bread stalks and the
earth-food had been sown.  Small mixed posses of Bears and She-Wolves
watched the sky for arrowheads while pupil and teacher continued the
conversation they had begun the night before.

'The M'Calls are a clan that have been favoured by the Sky Voices,'
said Mr Snow.  'Consider this.  The D'Vine have no wordsmiths yet we
have two!  But my stream will soon run dry.  That is why you must never
join battle with the sand-burrowers, or challenge the warriors of other
clans, why you must never, ever, put the gift of words at risk.  You
are the guardian of the clan's past and the light of its future.  Your
brain must serve those who have nothing between the ears.  When
Buffalo-Head forgets what the seeds of bread-stalks look like and when
they should be planted, it is you who must remind her.  With the help
of the Sky Voices, you are their guiding spirit.  Since Black-Wing
brought you to the door of my hut, I have poured my mind into yours."

He tapped Cadillac's forehead.  'Nine hundred years of Plainfolk
history is stored in that little bone box.

You know all that I know ' 'Not everything,' said Cadillac quickly.

Mr Snow waved his hand airily.  'What I have not told you, the Sky
Voices will.  The great secrets of the earth cannot rest in the hot,
bubbling brains of young men.  They will only enter when the passing
years have brought a calmness to your thoughts.  When the mind lies
open to the sky like the darkly mirrored surface of a deep mountain
lake, still and unruffled by the winds of desire.  Only then will the
great secrets enter, alighting like white waterbirds in the cool of the
evening."

His eyes fixed on Cadillac with a sudden intensity.  'These are the
birds of wisdom.  Their wings have the power to move heaven and
earth.

Be ready to receive them when they come."

'I will be."

'And be patient also,' said Mr Snow.  'These things are not given to
all men -even those with such gifts as yours."

'What of Clearwater?"

'Ahh, yes ..."  murmured Mr Snow.  'She, too, has a precious gift that
Mo-Town, the great mother of the Plainfolk, has given into the hands of
the M'Calls.  As you can never be a true Bear, she can never be a true
She-Wolf."

Cadillac frowned.  'But she has great power.  Is it not the task of a
summoner to aid the clan in battle?"

'Yes,' said Mr Snow.  'But like you she was born in the shadow of
Talisman.  The Sky Voices that spoke at her birth told me that she was
linked to the Thrice-Gifted One.  Just as your life-stream runs
alongside hers, both merge with the great river from which Talisman
draws his strength.  The elders, your clan-brothers and sisters know
this.  Know that you.  are among the Chosen Ones.  That is why you have
no need of standing.  Even though Motor-Head may mock your manhood, he
and the other warriors are ready to lay down their lives for you.

Every man, woman and child in this clan is prepared to die to protect
you."

Cadillac sat back on his haunches, stunned by this revelation.  'I did
not know this.  Talisman!  Is that the truth?"

'I never speak anything else,' said Mr Snow.

'These words are heavy,' muttered Cadillac.

Mr Snow smiled.  'You have strong shoulders.  You will learn to bear
them."

'But -' Cadillac wrestled with this new burden.  'What must I do?"

Mr Snow held up his left hand and counted off his fingers.  'Listen to
the sky.  Seek wisdom, not glory.  Act prudently.  Love your
brothers.

Be worthy of their sacrifice."

They gazed silently at each other for a moment then Cadillac nodded
towards Mr Snow's raised little finger.

'And the sixth thing?"

'Go easy on the grass,' said Mr Snow.

When night fell, the moon glow did not reach the forest floor, and few
stars could be seen through the tree tops.  This enveloping,
suffocating darkness was something that the Mutes feared.  Perhaps it
was a race memory of a distant time when many of their ancestors had
been entombed after the War of a Thousand Suns.  Whatever the cause,
most of the Mutes abandoned the huts they had set up amongst the huge
trees and crept to the edge of the forest where they could look up and
see the sky.  There they slept, wrapped in their fur skins, the
children snuggled against their blood-mothers, all of them secure in
the knowledge that Mo-Town the Sky-Mother of the She-Kargo, watched
over them shielding them from danger with her star-studded cloak.

Cadillac was one of the few who, like Mr Snow, did not go to the edge
of the forest.  He did not fear the whispering, rustling language of
the trees, or the sudden shrill cries of the night birds.  He lay under
his skins and watched the wavering patterns of light and dark thrown on
the roof of the hut by his flame-pot.  Mr Snow had told him that in the
Old Time, people used to sit in huts made of stone that were too heavy
to move and had no doors.  They sat in these houses day and night and
watched pictures of the world outside that they kept in a box.  A magic
box made of frozen water, that glowed with colours and was filled with
the sound of music.

Cadillac's thoughts turned to his duel with Shakatak and his renewed
promise to Mr Snow to avoid risking his life in the coming battle with
the iron snake.  He had shown he possessed courage that had not failed
him even at the point of death but he could not avoid the knowledge
that it was the power summoned by Clearwater that had killed the two
D'Vine warriors whose pierced heads now sat on the pole by the door to
his hut.  Despite everything that Mr Snow and Clearwater had said, he
felt that his manhood was diminished by his enforced non-combatant
status.  Fate might have set aside a place for him in Plainfolk history
but what Cadillac wanted more than anything was to prove himself a
hero.

Not at some indefinite time in the future, but right now.

NINE

Two hundred and fifty miles to the south of the forest in which the
M'Calls now lay hidden, The Lady from Louisiana neared the
pre-Holocaust state line between Colorado and Wyoming.  Catapulted from
the wagon train, Steve Brickman soared up into the late afternoon sky
followed by Gus White and their section leader, Jodi Kazan.  Their task
was to scout ahead of The Lady, searching the ground for hostiles
before 'circling' the wagons for the night.  Steve and Gus had flown
regular patrols during the two re-supply runs but from here on in they
could not afford to make a mistake.  The Lady was about to enter
Plainfolk territory to begin the eagerly-awaited second phase of her
mission: hunting Mute.

During their patrol, the three wingmen roved independently in wide
sweeps on either side of their allotted course, keeping in contact with
each other by radio.  Apart from scattered herds of buffalo, deer and
antelope, they saw no movement across the overground.  Square mile
after square mile of the vast plains that they had half-expected to be
dotted with fearsome groups of Mutes massing to repel The Lady
contained nothing more hostile than bright red buffalo grass.  Even so,
Steve's sixth sense told him that the seemingly-innocent emptiness
below was unnatural.  He had the distinct impression that the
overground - and its denizens - lay crouched like a stalking beast;
lying in wait for them.

As they approached the pre-holocaust site that had borne the name of
Cheyenne, the three Skyhawks converged to fly in loose arrowhead
formation with Kazan in the lead.  She called up The Lady to get a
check on its latest position.

The wagon train had been trying to follow the route of the old
Interstate 25 highway running from Denver up through Fort Collins in
Colorado to Cheyenne and Caspar in Wyoming.  On the Navigation
Officer's maps, these names were printed in capital letters, but the
ground sites were nothing more than uneven hummocks of earth which the
prairie grass, scrub and trees had reclaimed and held for nearly a
thousand years.  Interstate 25 had long since crumbled into dust, and
the wagon train's progress has been slowed considerably by the
unchecked eastwards expansion of what had once been known as the
Roosevelt National Forest.

Steve was constantly amazed by the number of population centres marked
on the pre-Holocaust maps they now had access to.  If they had all been
as densely packed as a Tracker base, or one of the larger way-stations,
there must at one time - have been tens, perhaps hundreds of millions
of people living in America.  Looking down at the emptiness below the
Skyhawk's wheels, Steve found it difficult to imagine it crammed with
people; teeming with life.  The history videos called it the greatest
country in the world.

The only country in the world.

Since joining the wagon train, he had learned that America lay
surrounded by sea on a spinning globe that sailed through space,
circling the sun once a year.  To someone like Steve, whose horizons up
to his overground solo had been limited by the dimensions of a world
carved from what was known as the earth-shield, the idea that behind
the sky there was even more space that went on for ever was absolutely
mind-blowing.  Even though he had now been flying the overground for
three months, his mind and body still welcomed each sortie with the
same secret, guilty pleasure.  He resented the hours he was forced to
spend in the confines of the wagon train but he could not, dare not,
share this feeling with his crew-mates.  They regarded it as a safe
haven.  A home from home to which they returned with relief from the
awesome vastness that stretched away on all sides.

Jodi Kazan circled overhead while Gus and then Steve lined up on the
wagon train and lowered their arrester hooks.  Throttling back to
twenty miles an hour for the final approach, Gus skimmed along the rear
section of the train, engaged the arrester wire and touched down on the
roof decking of the flight-car.  The plump rear tyres flattened under
the impact, then the nose-wheel hit with its usual jarring thud as the
aircraft rolled forward nose down under the braking action of the
arrester wire.  As Gus cut the motor, five ground crew-men scrambled up
from the side-platforms, unlocked and folded the wings of the Skyhawk
and went down with it as the front lift-section of the flight-deck
retracted into the car beneath.  The Skyhawk was rolled clear and
stowed; the lift came up smoothly on cantilevered rams and locked into
the deck; the second .group of ground-crewmen crouched on the side
platforms on what was known as 'the duck-holes' - ready to receive
Steve.  He skimmed along the tail of the wagon train, 'landing on' just
ninety seconds after Gus's arrester hook had engaged the wire.  Behind
him, Jodi Kazan's Skyhawk angled in on the final approach.

The three wingmen went forward to the lead command car for the usual
debriefing session with the Flight Operations Officer - a dry-mannered,
stubby guy called Baxter.  Steve told him he had seen what looked like
crop patterns about fifty miles to the north-west of the wagon train's
present position.  The three of them checked their own maps against the
bigger one on the plotting table in the ops room.  Gus's general line
of flight had been too far to the east, but Jodi confirmed Steve's
report.

The F.O.O. marked the agreed location on The Lady's battle map and
reported the find to Commander Hartmann.

The wagon master came down to the ops room with his Navigation Officer,
Senior Field Commander, and Trail-Boss Buck McDonnell.  Hartmann and
the two execs took a quick look at the map, noting the contours of the
terrain around the position marked by the F.O.O. on the southwestern
flank of the Laramie Mountains.

'Did you see any settlements?"  asked Hartmann.

'No, sir,' said Steve.

Gus shook his head too.  'It's hard to spot anything from fifteen
hundred feet.  If we'd been allowed to go lower ' Both wingmen had
taken care to stay above the minimum altitude Kazan had given them
before beginning the patrol.

Hartmann nodded understandingly.  'You'll get your chance to cut
grass."

'It can't come soon enough for me, sir,' said Gus.

'They're down there,' said Kazan.  'When Brickman called me up to
report those cultivated strips, I went on over and took a closer
look."

Steve groaned.  'Are you going to tell me that there were huts as
well?"

'No, but there had been,' said Kazan.  She favoured him with a
tight-lipped smile.  'You can see a lot more when you're six feet off
the ground."  She turned to Hartmann and the execs.  'Whoever was there
moved out in a hurry.  An attempt was made to clear the campsite but it
wasn't good enough.  There were dozens of post holes that hadn't been
filled in and there was quite a lot of ash and charred firewood
scattered around.  When Southern Mutes move camp they usually bury all
that along with the camp refuse.

There were also several long-handled wooden tools lying by the side of
the crop fields.  In my experience Mutes don't throw tools away.

They're too valuable.  I think someone failed to cover them up
properly."  She paused, then said, 'Those crops are still being
worked."

'So they're still around,' said Moore, the Senior Field Commander.

Buck McDonnell leaned forward.  'Any idea of numbers?"

'Hard to say, sir,' said Kazan.  'A few hundred, certainly.

It was a big settlement.  The cropfields are quite extensive."

'Which is an indication that the clan is a strong one,' said
Hartmann.

Kazan nodded.  'Yes, sir.  Those recent intelligence reports indicated
we could run into clans able to field a thousand warriors."

Gus White nudged Steve.  'More than enough to give everybody a piece of
the action."

Kazan tapped the map with her finger.  'I have a hunch they could be
holed up in these woods."  She checked off the distance with the
plotting ruler.  'Two miles ..."

'Close enough for them to run for cover when they see us coming,' said
the F.O.O. He saw Steve's frown.  'Mutes have terrific eyesight,' he
explained.  'They can pick up a Skyhawk at over five miles."

'Which means,' said Kazan, 'that they're off and running before you get
anywhere near them."

'So how do we catch 'em?"  asked Gus.

'With great difficulty,' said the F.O.O.

'You've got to draw them out,' growled Buck McDonnell.

'You've got to lay ground bait.  A downed Skyhawk.  A patrol that looks
like it's lost its way.  You sucker them out into the open, get round
the back of 'em so they can't run, then you hit 'em hard."

'We may be in luck with this batch,' said Kazan.  'It's too late in the
year to start in with new planting.  A few firebombs should bring 'em
out into the open."

The F.O.O. nodded in agreement.  'Right."  He turned expectantly to
Hartmann.

The wagon master looked carefully at the map and weighed up the options
open to him.  He didn't take long to reach a decision.  'We'll begin a
search and destroy operation in the area of Rock River tomorrow morning
- starting with a napalm strike on those cropfields and the forest."

He turned to Baxter, the Flight Operations Officer.  'The attack on
both targets will be made simultaneously using all nine aircraft."

Baxter stiffened to attention.  'With your permission, sir ' 'Yes?"

said Hartmann.

'I'd like to fiy one of the reserve aircraft and take part in the
attack."

Hartmann eyed Jodi Kazan and saw there was no conflict.

'Very well.  Five aircraft under Section Leader Kazan will make the
attack on the cropfields.  You will lead the others against the
forest."

Baxter, the F.O.O saluted.  'Thank you, sir."

'Sonofabitch!  This is it!"  crowed Gus.  He pummelled Steve's arm.

Buck McDonnell, the Trail-Boss straightened up from the table and
slapped Gus hard across the face.  The force of the blow snapped his
head sideways and rocked him on his heels.  Recovering, he leapt to
attention, his swelling lips drained of colour.  Steve braced himself
at the ready.

McDonnell poked the polished gold top of his switch-stick under Gus
White's trembling nose.  'This is the operations room of The Lady from
Louisiana, Mister - not some third rate base canteen full of
red-heads!

Don't ever let me catch you mouthing off like that again in front of
the Commander!  D'ya hear me?!"  he thundered.

'Loud and clear, SAH!"  cried Gus, in a cracked voice.

As darkness fell, the wagon train turned round on itself, parking nose
to tail with its sixteen cars forming a circle.

Secure behind The Lady's formidable defences, the crew pulled down
their folding bunks and went to sleep.  A small guard detail in the
front and rear command cars manned the tv screens linked to the wagon
train's electronic sensing devices.

Despite their sophistication, they did not reveal the presence of Mr
Snow and a large posse of M'Cail Bears studying the wagon train from
the stony ridge of the nearest ground.

Mr Snow turned to Motor-Head.  'The iron snake sleeps.

We will go south.  Bring Cadillac."

Motor-Head nodded silently and disappeared into the darkness with
eleven of his clan-brothers.

Taking care to avoid high ground, Mr Snow and the rest of the posse
made a wide detour south and then westwards until they picked up the
trail left by the giant steel-clad tyres of the wagon train.  They
found some cover and squatted patiently until Cadillac arrived with his
heavily-armed esCOrt.

Mr Snow took Cadillac by the arm and led him to the trail left by the
wagon train.  'This is the path of the iron snake.

Walk along it and search for a seeing-stone.  If you fred one the snake
has passed over, take it into your mind and tell me what you see."

Cadillac wandered up and down both sets of tracks.  Mr Snow followed at
a discreet distance.  After sighing heavily several times and throwing
up his arms in supplication and to express varying degrees of despair,
Cadillac found a seeing-stone.  He picked it up and showed it to Mr
Snow.

The stone, which had as far as Mr Snow could see nothing to distinguish
it from those around it, was about the size of a baby's head.  Mr Snow
examined it reverently.  'Is this really ringed with a golden light?"

Cadillac took the stone back.  'Don't mock me, Old One."

'I was never more serious,' said Mr Snow.  'This is a great power that
you have.  One that I have longed for all my life.

Let us hope that you will master it quickly and become skilled in its
use.  What knowledge does the stone hold?"

Cadillac knelt on the ground between the tracks.  He closed his eyes,
cupped the stone in his hands and placed it against his forehead.

After a while he lowered the stone, letting his hands rest against his
thighs.  'What knowledge do you seek?"  he asked in a far-away voice.

His eyes opened but they were blind to the outside world.

'I would know the iron snake,' said Mr Snow.  'Tell me how it is
fashioned.  Tell me what lies within its belly."

Cadillac closed his eyes and gripped the stone tightly.

'Many things,' he said, distantly.  'Strange things.  I have no words
to say what they are."

'llse the words you have,' said Mr Snow.  'The Sky Voices will help me
see beyond them."

Motor-Head and the posse of M'Call Bears split into two groups, one on
each side of the trail, and crouched alertly, their eyes and their
heightened senses, probing the enveloping darkness.

Cadillac stood up and retraced his steps up and down the track of the
wagon train, the seeing-stone clutched tightly in his hands.  Mr Snow
followed.  Cadillac stopped and looked upwards with unseeing eyes, lips
drawn back over his teeth, his face contracted with fear.  'The iron
snake passes over me.

It is full of hate ... death.  its belly is full of warriors who thirst
for our blood."

'How many warriors?"  asked Mr Snow.

'A great number.  They lie in every part of the snake."

'Count them,' ordered Mr Snow.

Cadillac frowned.  'It is difficult.  I cannot -' 'Don't argue,' said
Mr Snow.  'Just do it."

Cadillac knelt again and pressed the stone against his forehead.  'I
can see nothing.  The stone is clouded with the blood of our southern
brothers."

'Wash it clean and start again,' said Mr Snow patiently.

He squatted down beside his pupil.

Cadillac sighed heavily.  He lowered the stone and held it level with
his waist, gazing at it fixedly.  After several minutes of silence,
punctuated by sighs of frustration, he said, 'The chief warriors sit in
the head and the tail of the snake."

'Find me the capo,' said Mr Snow quickly.

'I see him,' said Cadillac.  'He has pale hair under his nose."

'Fix his face and his soul in your mind,' said Mr Snow.  He moved
around on his knees until he was facing Cadillac.

'I hold him,' said Cadillac.

Mr Snow reached out and placed his hands on either side of Cadillac's
head.  'Give him to me.  Pass the image of his being into my mind."  He
closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  'Good.  Well done."  He dropped
his hands and gripped Cadillac's shoulders briefly.  'You have true
power.

Read the snake.  I would know more."

Cadillac's sightless eyes rolled up under his lids.  'The snake has two
bellies filled with pipes that roar with hunger and are full of
flame.

These are also at the head and tail of the snake where the chief
warriors live.  The sand-burrowers feed grey dirt to the snake.  It
turns into bad air and is sucked down the pipes through rows of red-hot
flashing teeth.

These flame-pipes are also its heart.  They send power through its
veins to make its body work.  A power like the white fire from the
sky.

It gives life to the snake, it makes its eyes see, and turns its great
iron feet."

'Wheels,' said Mr Snow.  'Probably powered by electric motors."

'I do not know of these things,' said Cadillac.

SMore words from the Old Time,' muttered Mr Snow.

'Don't worry about them.  Just keep going."'The snake has eyes on all
sides of its body.  Some for looking at things close by, some for
far-seeing - like eagles.

The sand-burrowers have many boxes of frozen water which show them
pictures of what the snake sees."  Cadillac paused to decipher a new
set of images.  'There are both men and women in the snake's belly.

The women are like our She-Wolves.

They also thirst for our blood.  They have.  strange sharp iron.

Things that throw bolts like our crossbows but filled with a great
wind.  Not bows.  hollow reeds that spit out bolts like iron rain.  At
the head and the tail of the snake there is more sharp iron.  Things
which send out long shafts of sunlight that burn like the white-hot
brands at the heart of a fire."

'Look again,' said Mr Snow.  'Do they use these things to make the
darkness like day?"

'No,' replied Cadillac.  'They have no need.  They have lanterns that
send out red light which we cannot see but which fills our body and
draws our image into their magic picture boxes."

Even though he knew many things of the Old Time, Mr Snow did not
understand Cadillac's attempt to describe the infra-red nightscopes
carried by The Lady.  Undeterred, he kept plugging away until Cadillac
had sent his mind's eye into every part of the wagon train and come up
with a head-count of the crew.

Three hundred sand-burrowers.  Mr Snow considered the problem.  If it
came to the crunch, the M'Call clan could field over a thousand Bears
and She-Wolves.  But that combined total would include everyone; from
fourteen-year-old fledgling warriors who had not chewed bone to the
elders aged fifty and over.  The courage of the very young would not
compensate for their inexperience and despite their agility,
Rolling-Stone and the elders would no longer be the equal, in
single-handed combat, to the warriors in the belly of the iron snake.

Pressed for more information, Cadillac described the deadly, invisible,
breath of the snake that hissed out of holes in its belly, and told Mr
Snow of the multiqayered hull, impregnable to Mute crossbow bolts.  The
hatches in the underbelly and sides were sealed from within and
protected by the all-devouring breath of the snake.  Mr Snow was forced
to admit that - as his Southern brothers had already found out - a
wagon train was a tough nut to crack.

Cadillac pulled more pictures from the stone.  This time of the
arrowheads; the twelve Skyhawks, neatly racked with folded wings in the
flight compartment and, in the adjacent car, the ten cloud warriors and
their ground crewmen.

'It is strange,' said Cadillac.  'Their faces are shrouded in
darkness.

All except one.  Him I see.  His face and heart are strong but Death
sits on his shoulder.  Is he the cloud warrior the Sky Voices
prophesied?"

'He may be,' replied Mr Snow.  'If you have been shown his face when
those of the others around him are hidden, the vision must have some
purpose.  Mark him well, then break your bond with the seeing-stone and
return to the time of this present earth."

Cadillac appeared to make an extra effort of concentration then his
head sagged backwards.  His fingers opened limply; the stone rolled
forwards over his knees onto the ground.  Mr Snow picked it up and
examined it again but could see nothing.  He tossed it aside with a
frustrated sigh, stood up and hauled Cadillac to his feet.

Cadillac's eyelids fluttered open.  He seemed unable to focus on his
surroundings; his legs were like rubber.  'What happened?"  he gasped,
making an unsuccessful attempt to stand upright.

Mr Snow got his shoulder under Cadillac's left arm and held him around
the waist.  'You did well.  You drew many pictures from the stone."

Cadillac smiled unsteadily.  'Truly?"

'Why do you keep asking me that?"  snapped Mr Snow.

'When you were a child, you accepted everything I said without
question.  Now you believe nothing and you make me repeat myself.  At
my time of life I don't have time to fill my mouth with empty words."

'I am sorry, Old One."

'And don't start saying "sorry",' grumped Mr Snow.

'That's an even bigger waste of time."

'My tongue wanders, Old One.  The stone has loosened the bond between
my mind and my body."

'It happens,' said Mr Snow.  He patted Cadillac on the back.  'Take it
easy.  For the first time out that was a good trip but you are going to
have to work on it."

'What must I do?"  asked Cadillac, sagging in Mr Snow's arms.

'Well, it's no good waking up and asking me what happened,' said Mr
Snow.  'I may not always be here.  You're the one that sees the
pictures.  From now on you're going to have to try and remember
them."

'It is difficult,' said Cadillac.

'It's never been any other way,' replied Mr Snow.

Motor-Head strode over to them.  'It is time to run, Old One.  The sun
wakes under his grey sleeping furs by the eastern door."

'Okay, let's move,' said Mr Snow.  'Can you carry your clan-brother?"

Motor-Head hoisted the unprotesting Cadillac into the air and dumped
him over his shoulder like a side of beef.

'The stone has drained his strength,' explained Mr Snow.

Motor-Head snorted disdainfully.  'Magic ...!"  'Don't knock it,' said
Mr Snow.  'If that Mother in the sky delivers, it may save your
gravelly, hide."

When Steve and the other wingmen woke with a tingle of anticipation to
the electronic bugle blast at six am, they found that there had been a
radical change in the weather.  In contrast to the clear, heat-laden
skies of the previous weeks, the temperature had dropped sharply
overnight.  A heavy mist now surrounded the wagon train cutting
visibility to less than thirty yards.

Hartmann unwound The Lady, parked her in a straight line ready to begin
the advance north then called Kazan and the Flight Operations Officer
up to the saddle.

'What do you think, gentlemen?"

Jodi Kazan grimaced.  'It's not good, sir.  I've been up on the flight
deck.  You can't even see the front and rear command cars from the
middle of the train.  It's really weird.

I've seen mist this thick but never at this time of year.  On the other
hand ' '- we've never been this far north before,' said Baxter, the
F.O.O.

'Local variation, perhaps?"  suggested Hartmarm.

You weren't supposed to shrug in response to questions from the wagon
master but Kazan let one .slip.  'It's just possible that it could be
some kind of off-beat temperature inversion.  But ' 'Weather is
weather, right?"  said Hartmann.

'Right,' agreed the F.O.O. He knew what Hartmarm was getting at.

Three hundred years of meteorological data had been fed into COLUMBUS
since overground operations began.  The computer's vast memory bank
also contained a pre-Holocaust model of global weather patterns.  By
observation of the terrain and the prevailing atmospheric conditions it
should always be possible by reference to the stored data to come up
with a reasonably accurate forecast.

Experience told them that heavy morning ground mists at this time of
the year usually burned off as the sun's heat built up.

'We'll give it an hour,' grunted Hartmarm.  He told the First Engineer
to hold the turbines at tick-over, ordered a half-watch and put the
rest of the crew on make-and-mend.

Steve, and the other new wingmen, all of whom had been unable to sleep
properly because of the excitement, fretted at the delay.  Gus White's
face now sported an ugly bruise where McDonnell's back-hander had
caught him.  The old hands in Kazan's section quietly checked their
survival equipment.  The ground crew tested the operation of the racks
fitted to either side of the cockpit that would each carry three
canisters of napalm.

An hour later, The Lady was still enveloped in thick mist.

Steve and Gus went up onto the flight deck with Jodi Kazan.

The air was cold and damp on their faces.  There was no sign of the
sun.  The wagon train was enveloped in a leaden grey nothingness; the
camouflaged metal hull was coated with a thin beaded film of moisture
which ran in dark rivulets down the steeply sloping sides.

Kazan put on her visored crash helmet and adjusted the mask inside the
chin guard so that it fitted comfortably.

Wingmen's 'bone-domes' resembled the helmets worn by pre-Holocaust
racing drivers and motor-cyclists.  All that had been added were
earphones, two small mikes inside the chin guard and an anti-radiation
air filter.  Like the others, she was dressed in black, brown and red
camouflaged flight fatigues and lightweight combat boots.

On the forward section of the deck, her Skyhawk stood hitched on one of
the two steam catapults with its engine running.  A three-barrelled
high-velocity .25 calibre air rifle that could be switched from triple
volley to full auto, hung from the flexible mounting above the
cockpit.

A ground-crewman checked the two racks inside the cockpit filled with
180-round magazines, that Kazan had loaded herself.  It was a tradition
among wingmen.  That way, if you got a jammed round at a vital moment,
you had nobody to blame but yourself.

Kazan fastened the neck strap of her helmet.  'I'm just going to check
how thick this crap is.  If it's half-way fl.vable, we'll put up a
forward patrol."  She jabbed a finger at Gus.

'Tell Booker and Yates to stand by."

Gus snapped to attention.  'Yess-SUR!"  He saluted then leapt off the
deck into one of the duck-holes - the balconies built into the sides of
the flight car around the access hatches.

Booker and Yates were two of the five wingmen already serving aboard
The Lady when Steve and the other 'wet-feet' had joined it at
Nixon-Fort Worth.

Kazan caught Steve's questioning look as she turned towards the
Skyhawk.  'What's bugging you now, Brickman?"

'How will you fred your way back?"

Kazan pointed fore and aft.  As if in response to her gesture, a
pencil-slim shaft of red light shot vertically upwards from the roof of
the lead command car; a similar beam of green light appeared from the
roof of the tail car.

'Soft lasers,' she explained.  'They go up to twenty-five thousand
feet.  All you have to do in bad weather is head owards 'em and spiral
down around till you hit the deck."

'Got it,' said Steve.

Half an hour later, Kazan hooked on to The Lady and reported to
Hartmann.  The blanket of mist wrapped around the wagon train went up a
couple of hundred feet.  Above that was a heavy overcast; the cloud
base was down to four hundred feet.  Kazan had climbed to three and a
half thousand feet before breaking out into clear sky.  Climbing
higher, she discovered that the area of mist and low cloud extended
over a ten-mile radius around the wagon train.

Beyond that, the sky was clear and the weather conditions matched those
of the previous days.

Hartmann exchanged a loaded look with his chief exec and ordered Kazan
to launch a forward patrol.  She told the F.O.O. that she would go up
with Booker and Yates.  Like her, both wingmen had considerable
experience of bad-weather operations.

As two more Skyhawks were lifted onto the flight-deck, Steve and the
other new wingmen listened while Jodi Kazan briefed Booker and Yates.

When she'd finished, Steve jumped in with a question that had been
bothering him.  'I heard one of the guys say that you don't allow
wet-feet to fly if the cloud-base is below four hundred feet.  That
still gives us plenty of air space - so how come?"

'It's because of the danger from Mute ground-fire, said Jodi.  'The
field reports from the forward way-stations in South Colorado indicate
that at least one in ten of the Plainfolk Mutes may be armed with a
crossbow.  In some clans it may be as high as one in four.  That's a
lot of sharp iron.  One of these days, we're going to find out where
they' re getting them from.  They're too dumb to make 'em on their
own.

But until we get a lead on that, we stay high - especially you
silver-wings."

'You mean unless the terrain allows us to fly low with an element of
surprise,' said Steve.

Jodi eyed him narrowly.  'What I mean, Brickman, is that you follow
orders.  If I catch you pulling any stunts, I'll have your ass in a
sling.  And it'll be me that'll put it there.  I don't need Big D to
keep you guys in line.  These Mute crossbows may have a lousy rate of
fire but in the hand of a skilled marksman, they're deadly.  Don't ask
me how they do it but the best of 'em can shoot a barbed ten-inch bolt
with pinpoint accuracy up to a range of a thousand feet."

'Is that why we were told not to fly below fifteen hundred?"  asked
Steve.

'Yeah,' replied Jodi.  'But don't think you can sit back and enjoy the
scenery.  One of those bolts is still travelling fast enough to kill
you at two thousand feet - if it hits you in the right place."

'Thanks,' said Steve.  -'Shouldn't you have told us this before we set
out?"

Jodi grinned as she stepped past him.  'I didn't want to spoil your
trip."

Kazan's Skyhawk was catapulted into the clammy grey blanket of mist.

Booker followed seconds later from the starboard catapult, then Yates's
aircraft was rolled forward and locked onto the port ramp as steam
hissed through pipes and vents, building up the pressure that would
launch him into the air at forty miles an hour.

Watching the screens in the command car, Hartmann saw Yates's Skyhawk
lift off and fade into the mist as he passed overhead.  The NavComTech
manning the radio established contact with Kazan.  Hartmann gave the
command 'Wagons ROLL!'; The Lady moved off in a north-westerly
direction past the now vanished site of Laramie, towards Rock River and
Medicine Bow.  Like Laramie, they were just names on the map; nothing
more than reference points for finding one."s bearings.

After travelling fifteen miles, The Lady was still enveloped in dense
mist.  Kazan, Booker and Yates, circling at five thousand feet around
the line of advance reported that the pancake-shaped blanket of low
cloud and mist had moved with the wagon train.  The NavComTech
acknowledged Kazan's message, routed it through the voice-print
convener and keyed it through to Hartmann's signal screen.

The wagon master read the signal and hit the relay button which put it
on the station screens of the executive officers positioned round the
saddle.  Buck McDonnell was the first to swing round and meet his
eye.

The others were quick to follow.

Hartmann surveyed their tense faces.  He knew what they were
thinking.

'Interesting,' he said.  'Anyone got an explanation?"

Nobody said anything.  Nobody dared.  They realised, as Hartmann
realised, that there was only one explanation for what had happened.

The Lady was facing a clan a reed with Mute's secret weapon - magic.

The Mute's ability to manipulate natural phenomena was something that
the Federation refused to acknowledge.  Indeed, any public reference to
the subject was a punishable offence.  Yet everyone facing Hartmann
believed that the mysterious summoners did exist and were, reportedly,
to be found among the Plainfolk.

'Do you want to put up more Skyhawks?"  asked the F.O.O.

Hartmann drew the ends of his mustache in towards his mouth and
weighed his reply.  'Not yet.  I think we ought to wait until the
weather improves."

The F.O.O. got the message.  So did everyone else.

'Tell Kazan and her two wingmen to circle the edge of the cloud cover
and report any movement of hostiles,' continued Hartmann.  'I have a
hunch that someone may be planning to pay us a visit."

Buck McDonnell, the square-shouldered Trail-Boss straightened up
expectantly as Hartmann swung round in his chair.

'Batten down the hatches, Mister McDonnell.  I want everyone in battle
order, all weapons cocked and ready.  Put ten rounds through each
barrel."

McDonnell swept his gold-topped stick under his left arm and saluted.

'Yes, sir."

Hartmarm ordered The Lady forward at a cautious five miles an hour then
turned on the exec charged with the organising of the close-quarter
defence of the train.  'Pipe steam, Mister Ford."

The exec activated the system that blasted the invisible jets of
super-heated steam out of the nozzles in the outer skin of the wagon
train then checked each car, triggering a five-second burst.  The
lethal shafts shot out some fifteen feet before materialising as a
searingly hot cloud that merged quickly with the clinging mist.

Throughout the night, Cadillac had sat with Mr Snow while the old man
prepared himself mentally for the moment when he would attempt to
summon up the earth-forces.  In the eerie light of pre-dawn when the
watching eyes that studded Mo-town's dark cloak began to fade, Cadillac
had been amazed to see the mist gather around the iron snake, and the
layer of grey cloud from overhead.

No chilling sound had issued from Mr Snow's throat as it had from
Clearwater.  He had simply squatted crosslegged as he often did, hands
resting on his knees, face turned to the sky, his sight turned
inwards.

Now and then his breath came in gasps.  The sinews of his wiry body
tightened and he clenched his jaw and fists as if trying to contain
some inner force that caused his whole body to judder violently.

Around dawn, he was shaken by a particularly violent spasm that caused
his back to arch and finally toppled him over.  Cadillac pulled him
into a sitting position and cradled his head.  After a few minutes, Mr
Snow's eyelids fluttered open.

'Are you all right, Old One?"  asked Cadillac anxiously.

'Sure,' said Mr Snow.  He breathed deeply.  'Clouds are easy."

Jodi Kazan flew at a height of five hundred feet round the ragged,
circular edge of the cloud that sat obstinately on top of the wagon
train.  She altered course constantly, zigzagging from side to side,
occasionally turning back into the cloud, emerging at a higher or lower
altitude and on a different heading so that, even'though she was
dangerously low, it was virtually impossible for a Mute crossbow-man to
draw a bead on her.

In her skilled hands, the Skyhawk was a like a kite jinking on the end
of a line in a stiff breeze.  This was where her accumulated combat
experience came into play.  Maneuvering the aircraft was now totally
instinctive in the same way that her body drew in breath without
conscious effort on her part.  The Skyhawk was as much part of her as
the lungs and heart within her chest.  All her attention was directed
towards the ground, searching it with the sharp-eyed concentration of a
bird of prey; the fingers of her right hand curled lightly around the
pistol grip of her rifle, ready and able to bring down a running Mute
in mid-manoeuvre with the aid of what the First Family weapon designers
proudly termed 'an auto-ranging laser-powered optical sight' that threw
a red aiming dot on the chosen target.

Any wingman who flew in a straight line and took more than ten seconds
to line up on his target was liable to find a ten-inch crossbow bolt
spoiling his digestion.  If they didn't go straight through you, the'
barbed points made it impossible to pull them out without tearing
yourself apart.

They had to be cut out, preferably by a field surgeon, and it was said
that they were often dipped in some kind of shit that caused a
non-fatal wound to turn gangrenous.

Jodi had been shot at during punitive actions against groups of
runaways from Mute work-camps.  Where they got their weapons from was a
mystery.  There had been unconfirmed reports that small bands of
Tracker renegades were involved but, to Jodi, such stories did not make
sense.

With overground radiation levels still dangerously high, why would any
foot-loose Trackers waste time setting up a trading operation when they
would not survive long enough to enjoy any benefits that might
accrue?

And what could they possibly hope to gain?

Despite the ruthless pacification of the overground above the Inner and
Outer States of the Federation, none of it beyond the guarded
perimeters of the work camps and way-stations could be regarded as one
hundred per cent 'safe'.

Even though Trail-Blazer expeditions might have killed everything that
moved several times over, groups of hostiles kept infiltrating the
fire-zones where, despite the danger, they stayed holed-up, waiting for
an opportunity to make a sneak attack on a way-station or a
lightly-armed wagon train on a re-supply mission.

Acting on an inexplicable hunch, Jodi cut the motor and side-slipped
silently out of the low cloud.  She was startled to see two large
groups of Mutes break from the cover of the tree line.  They were
moving in the direction of the wagon train.  Jodi yanked back on the
control colunm pulling the Skyhawk into a steep climbing turn.  Her one
thought was to reach cloud cover.  No crossbow bolts followed her into
the cold damp greyness but that was no guarantee she had not been
spotted.  Mutes rarely wasted their precious crossbow bolts.  The Field
Intelligence reports she had read all stressed this point.  The bolts
were greatly prized and in desperately short supply like the crude but
highly efficient bows that fired them.

Back inside the low layer of cloud, Jodi switched on her motor, flying
at the slowest (and quietest) speed she could without losing
altitude.

She called up Booker and Yates and told them to join her above the
northern edge of the cloud bank then radioed a brief report to The
Lady.  Hartmann told her to hit the Mutes before they could mount an
attack on the wagon train.  Hoping that the thick cloud would muffle
the noise of her motor, Jodi pushed the throttle wide open and climbed
southwards through the murk.  Breaking out into the clear, brilliant
blue sky above, she made a one hundred and eighty degree turn, cut the
motor again, and glided back towards the advancing Mutes.  Below her,
away to the left, she saw a tiny arrowhead silhouetted against the
white cloud tops.  It was ¥ates, converging on the rendezvous point.

The Skyhawks, with their inflated aerofoil section wings possessed
excellent glide characteristics and, in optimum weather conditions,
could soar on a rising current of air, staying aloft for hours without
using their motors.  Silent soaring flight offered a measure of
tactical surprise but speed and direction were dictated by the
prevailing weather and the thermals were not always where you needed
them.  It was best suited to long-range, high-altitude patrols.  When
you were contour-flying, hugging every rise and fall in the ground,
shooting from the hip, you needed maximum revs and then some.  What was
known to wingmen as 'melting the wires'.

As Jodi circled over the northern edge of the pancake cloud covering
The Lady, Booker and Yates angled in towards her, the metallic blue
solar cell fabric atop their wings glinting in the sun.  They closed up
on her, Booker tucking himself just under her port wing-tip, Yates to
starboard.  They wheeled silently in arrowhead formation, keeping the
same precise distance; close enough for Jodi to recognise the smiling
faces under the raised visors of their red and white lightning-striped
crash helmets - the mark of wingmen from The Lady.  Both sat strapped
into blue cockpit pods slung from rigid struts under Skyhawk's wing.

On the nose of each pod was the red, white and blue star and bar
insignia of the Federation, followed by a white aircraft number.

Flying like this in tight formation, banking through the cool, clear
air above the clouds was something that Jodi never tired of.  It gave
her a constant charge; awakened feelings inside her that she savoured
without attempting to analyse them, or put them into words.  Like Steve
on his first flight, Jodi did not know that she was responding to the
beauty of the skyscape, the overground world; an overwhelming sense of
freedom.  She only knew it felt good.

Almost as good as killing Mutes.

TEN

With Jodi in the lead, the three Skyhawks flew in a silent descending
curve that took them over the line of the Laramie mountains.  Jodi's
intention was to come round behind the advancing Mutes, firing a lethal
burst into their un§uspecting backs before slamming the throttle
forward and jinking away under full power, returning from different
directions at low level to pick off the remainder.  In previous actions
against the Southern Mutes she had found that they were as terrified
of'cloud warriors' as they were of the 'iron snake' and, if subjected
to a determined, vigorous attack, usually turned tail and fled for
cover.

Like the execs to whom she had reported, Jodi had not allowed the idea
that Mutes might possess magical powers to take root in her mind.  The
interaction of earth-forces; ground and air temperature, humidity,
atmospheric electricity, the movement of air masses over differing
terrain were part of a logically constructed system of cause and effect
which could be recorded, analysed and understood.

Like Hartmann and his officers, Jodi had found it strange and slightly
unnerving - that the mist and low cloud that had formed overnight
around and above the train should still persist several hours after
sunrise.  And not only persist; actually appear to move with the wagon
train when it had begun its advance.  Jodi was not an expert but she
preferred to think that there was a simple, rational,
meteorologically-sound explanation for what had occurred.

Back in Nixon-Fort Worth, she had been irritated by Steve Brickman's
probing questions about the rumours of so-called Mute 'magic'.  Odd
things had happened in the past but when the facts were considered
carefully and coolly - as in the incidents investigated by the
Assessors - it was clear that most of the things people claimed had
happened either didn't happen at all, or were nothing more than a
strange coincidence.  A haphazard conjunction of events which, in the
heat of battle, had seemed extraordinary.

What everyone carefully ignored was the fact that many hardened
trail-hands stoked up on illicit caches of Mute 'rainbow grass'.  It
was a Code One offence but that did not appear to deter the users from
getting blocked out of their skulls - usually before making an
overground sortie from the wagon train.  Given the hallucinogenic
effects of the grass it was not surprising that some trail-hands had
weird experiences.  And since they could not own up to smoking it, what
better than to claim they had been victims of Mute 'magic'?  The idea,
and the lurking fear of it, was a real morale sapper.  It was little
wonder that it had been ruthlessly stamped on by the First Family.  In
the world they had laboured unceasingly to create, all was explained
and inexorable logic prevailed.  Despite the odd, occasional doubt,
Jodi had clung stubbornly to the official viewpoint.

She refused to consider the possibility that 'summoners' really
existed.  The idea that the Plainfolk clans had people who could
manipulate the weather at will was plainly ridiculous.

As this thought passed through her mind, Jodi heard an ominous rumble
of thunder.  She looked up through the clearview panel in the wing.

The sky was clear.  But it had been hot and humid for days.  When that
happened you often got a build up of pressure and static and then...

Jodi checked the movement of the rifle mount and the ease with which
she could pull the weapon into her shoulder and take aim, squeezing off
imaginary shots on the uncocked trigger at rocks on the slopes of the
mountain below.  Satisfied, she stretched out her arms and pointed
three times at Booker and Yates.  They veered away obediently, opening
out the formation to fly three wingspans from their section leader.  As
they assumed their new positions and turned their faces towards her,
Jodi raised her right hand and brought it down in a slow chopping
motion over the nose of her Skyhawk.  It was the signal to go into what
was known as a free-firing attack.  Jodi brought her dark visor down
over the chin piece of her helmet, grasped the pistol grip of her rifle
and pulled the butt into her shoulder.  Booker and Yates did the
same.

With their propellors windmilling silently behind their backs, they
swooped down over the western flank of the Laramie mountains like three
giant birds of prey.  The tops of the forest of red trees that carpeted
the lower slopes rushed up to meet them.

To the south, The Lady continued to advance cautiously, still blinded
by the heavy mist.  Unknown to Hartmann, the wagon train had wandered
two or three miles off course.

What he took to be the eroded remains of Interstate 80 which had once
run from Cheyenne, through Laramie and then westwards to Rawlins, was
actually a dry, shallow, river bed.  As they followed its winding
course northwestwards, Hartmann noted that the ground on either side
was rising steadily.  He made his second mistake of the day in thinking
that they were passing through a cutting.

From the hour before dawn when the mist had formed round the wagon
train, a small group of Mutes camouflaged with scrub had been trailing
it, sending reports of its progress to Mr Snow by runner at regular
intervals.  Mr Snow knew of Hartmann's navigational error.  Indeed,
with the knowledge Cadillac had given him, Mr Snow had reached into
Hartmann's mind and.  had created the confusion that had made the
mistake possible and then prevented the wagon master from realising
what he had done.  The rumble of thunder that Jodi had heard when she
turned west over the mountains had been a trial blast by Mr Snow,
clearing his throat for the big event.

Escorted by ten Bears, Mr Snow ran, Mute-fashion, some way behind the
two large groups that Jodi had spotted.  Cadillac and Clearwater had
been ordered to stay hidden in the forest with the She-Wolves - the
female warriors - the M'Call elders, the den mothers and the
children.

The remaining Bears were moving under cover of the trees to a point
nearer the wagon train.  This much larger group constituted the clan's
strategic reserve and would be committed to the battle as conditions
required.

The whole of Mr Snow's remarkable mind was concentrated on the task he
had set himself.  He had produced the cloud and sown a degree of
confusion in Hartmann's mind but he was worried about his ability to
summon, control and ultimately survive the immense power he was about
to draw from the earth and sky.  As a consequence, the soundless volley
of rifle fire that mowed down the running warriors around him came as a
complete surprise.

A bullet struck him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Miraculously, the needle-pointed round hit a cluster of knuckle-bones
threaded on one of the plaited loops of white hair.  The force of the
impact drove them against his skull, shattering two in the process, and
knocking him temporarily senseless.  As his body rolled onto its back
amidst his wounded and dying escort, he saw the three blue arrowheads
flash overhead.

'You dumb bastard,' he thought.  Darkness overcame him.

Jodi and her two wingmen achieved a similar surprise when they caught
up with the advance groups lead by Motor-Head and Hawk-Wind.  Both were
running, on an almost parallel front, in open formation, glancing every
now and then at the sky.  In their case, however, the operative word
was 'up'.  They did not look directly over the ground behind them and
thus were caught in mid-stride as the three Skyhawks soared into view
from a dip in the ground, slammed on full power and swept them,
wing-tips clipping the grass, guns firing right, left and centre.

The stream of bullets from their three-barrelled rifles cut a deadly
swathe through the mass of startled warriors.  For Jodi and her wingmen
there was no heady smell of cordite, or blazing barrels; only a harsh,
staccato 'chuwittchuwittchuwitt!"  that was never heard by the quarry
when flying at altitude and was now drowned by the shrill whine of the
motors.

The leading wave of Bears untouched by the attack, turned back, their
faces twisted in expressions of incredulity and anger.  A volley of
crossbow bolts fired from the hip hummed past the Skyhawks as they
climbed away, banking in different directions.  A couple of bolts
passed through Booker's port wing, deflating a section of the aerofoil,
a third went through the clearview panel above his head.

Yates's aircraft took a bolt in the nose of the cockpit pod.  It
punched through the thin metal, passed under his raised legs and tore a
gaping hole in the other side.  Yates's stomach went cold at the
thought of the screaming pain he had so narrowly avoided.  A couple of
inches higher and it would have passed through both knees ...

Jodi flew through the first volley unscathed.  She pressed the transmit
button on the control column and spoke to her wingmen.  'Stay up, keep
moving, start picking them off.

I'm going down to roast their fannies."

Booker and Yates wheeled and side-slipped across the sky in
unpredictable flight patterns that made them difficult targets to aim
at.  With a comparatively high rate of fire of one hundred and eighty
rounds a minute, they were able to direct an almost continuous rain of
nickel-coated lead at the Bears below and - like all wingmen - they
excelled at snap shooting.

Diving away to one side, Jodi banked low behind a line of trees then
flew back up the slope at zero feet.  The M'Call Behrs armed with
crossbows were firing at Booker and Yates; the others stood their
ground, stabbing the air defiantly with their knife-sticks, or
brandishing stone flails seemingly oblivious of the clan-brothers
falling dead around them.

Approaching the battleground, Jodi pulled the control column hard back
and over to the right.  As her aircraft went into a steep climbing turn
she released the three small napalm canisters from the port rack in
quick succession, lobbing them over a wide arc.  The canisters flew
lazily through the air tumbling end over end then fell amongst the
Mutes, erupting in an explosive burst of flame that spurted forwards
from the point of impact, engulfing the unwary warriors in their path
and sending searing tendrils of flame out on both sides.  Motor-Head
and his clan-brothers, most of whom had somehow remained untouched by
the guns of the circling arrowheads, stared aghast as the ball of flame
and thick black smoke rolled towards them.  They broke and ran for
their lives, with the screams of their brother Bears ringing in their
ears.

It was at this moment that Talisman, or the Sky Voices, or whatever
power it was that plots the course of the world and the men who serve
it, brought Mr Snow back to his senses and gave him the earth-forces to
command.  Swept by a terrible premonition of danger, he staggered to
his feet then, as the strength flooded back into his limbs and his mind
cleared, he ran forward, down and up over the rise, reaching the crest
in time to see the three napalm canisters burst among the M'Call Bears;
saw the flame blossom and unfold like the black-edged petals of a giant
flower, heavy with the scent of death.  A jolting current galvanised
his leg and stomach muscles; made him gasp for air.  He became rooted
to the earth as the forces flowed through him.  He flung out his arms,
fists clenched at the sky and a blood-chilling ululating cry burst from
his throat.

The response was almost immediate.  A shrill whistling rushing sound
built up to a frightening crescendo.  It was as if the whole sky had
become the mouth of a giant sucking in air then expelling it with
terrible force.  A mighty wind swept down from the mountains behind Mr
Snow, tearing at the tops of the trees.  It whirled and screamed around
his head then swept upwards, sending Jodi's Skyhawk cartwheeling across
the sky like a kite that has snapped its string.  As she fought
desperately to regain control, she heard a sharp dry cracking sound
like a felled tree tearing itself loose from its almost severed
trunk.

The sky exploded with a terrifying, ear-splitting roar; was filled with
blinding light.  As the Skyhawk whirled round, a searing image burned
itself into Jodi's brain like a night scene suddenly revealed by a
photographer's flash-bulb.  A great shaft of lightning ripped across
the heavens, divided in two, and struck Booker and Yates.  The
split-second horror was slowed by Jodi's brain into a gruesome
slow-motion sequence as the two Skyhawks burst apart like ripped bags
of confetti, then were immediately enguffed in an explosion of flame as
their load of napalm ignited.  Two great splashes of orange were
suddenly smeared across the blue canvas of the sky, incinerating the
pilots and the falling debris.  The bits that remained were scattered
by the driving wind, like flurries of sparks from burning pine
branches.

A new blast of wind hit Jodi, this time from the west, creating a
maelstrom of turbulence as it met the storm-bringer from the east.

Clouds built up at a terrifying rate and, in what seemed like a matter
of minutes, a towering anvil-head of cumulo-nimbus rose to blot out the
sun.  More lightning forked out of the sky.  Jodi quickly pulled the
lever that would jettison the three napalm tanks she was still carrying
and tried to fly her way out of the bad weather.  It was a losing
battle; some malevolent force seemed to be drawing her into the heart
of the storm.

Down on the ground, the thunder and lightning that had destroyed Booker
and Yates and put Kazan in peril had been heard but the noise had been
muted by the multi-walled skin of the wagon train.  The persistent
layer of mist and low-cloud also prevented Hartmann and his execs from
being aware of the storm clouds forming over the valley.

They did, however, detect the onset of the rain.  And it was about the
same time that Hartmann began to take increasing note of the steepening
river banks and decided to check their position on the map with the
Navigator, Captain Ryder.  Hartmann was also worried about the sudden
increase in radio static which had rendered transmissions from Kazan
virtually unintelligible.

A few moments' intensive study of the route taken by Interstate 80
showed no match with their present position and the rapidly growing
feeling that they were rolling along a dry river bed was reinforced by
the growing stream of water now washing round the bend ahead and
between the sets of huge wheels.  Hartmann realised that he could quite
easily go into reverse.  Both command cars had the full range of
controls.  Like many pre-historic streetcars, the head and tail of the
'snake' were interchangeable.  Hartmann decided instead to press on.

It was, arguably, his third mistake of the day.  What he was hoping to
find around the next bend was a break in the bank through which The
Lady could climb out and get back onto course.

The wagon train nosed round the next bend and was met by a shrieking,
howling wind that ripped away the mist, replacing it with driving rain
that hammered along the length of The Lady like an unending fusillade
of bullets.

Hartmann pressed forward for another mile.  The rain poured down
relentlessly; bolts of lightning split the sky to be greeted almost
simultaneously by earth-shaking thunderclaps: a sign that the raging
storm was directly overhead.

The depth of water rushing beneath the wagon train increased rapidly.

It was no longer a stream, it was a river and one that Hartmarm was
suddenly anxious to get out of.

Rounding another bend, he found the right hand bank less steep than
before.  He sent The Lady rolling up it.  The tyres of the command car
skidded wildly.  The rain had turned the slope into a mud-slide.  This
in itself was not an insurmountable problem.  As long as there was
twenty-five per cent traction, the wagon trains could usually push or
pull themselves over most obstacles and out of trouble rather like a
centipede.  All wheels, however, have certain limitations; even those
designed by the First Family; especially in mud.

Urged on by Hartmann, The Lady angled up the bank, the skidding lead
cars pushed by those at the rear.  A few yards from firmer ground, the
wagon train began to slip sideways.  The helmsman turned the wheels,
Hartmarm called for full power.  The huge cleated tyres spun wildly,
'sprayed mud, slipped even further to the left then shuddered to a halt
as the left front wheel sank into a hole.

Hartmann told the helmsman to straighten her up and tried to roll her
out using front and rear-end traction.  The offending wheel merely dug
itself in deeper, blocked from going forward by something immovable
probably a rock.

Hartmann cut the drive to the front-end wheels and tried again.  The
Lady edged forward a few feet and stopped again.  The First Engineer
got a red light from the strain gauge on the front left axle.

'We're going to have to back down and take another run at it,' he told
Hartmann.  'Otherwise we're going to tear that wheel off."

Hartmann cursed under his breath and passed control of the steering to
Jim Cooper, the Deputy Wagon Master stationed in the rear command
car.

Cooper eased The Lady off the slope, ran her two hundred yards down
river and gave her back to Hartmann.  The wagon master was determined
to roll her out, mud or no mud.  He took her out of the deepening river
up on to the shallow slope at the foot of the steep left-hand bank so
that he could curve round across the bed of the river to hit the mud
slope at a better angle.

And that, although he couldn't really help it, was his fourth mistake
of the day.  As The Lady moved back across the river with the body of
the wagon train angled over on the slope behind him, he and the rest of
the crew became aware of a low, rumbling roar that built up rapidly
into a thunderous crescendo.

It was a flash-flood.

An angry foaming, twenty foot-high, mud-coloured wall of water crashed
against the outside bank of the upriver bend then careened crazily down
towards them, carrying trees and boulders in its wake.  'The raging
torrent exploded against the exposed flanks of the first five cars in a
great cloud of spray then swept over and around them to engulf the rest
of the train.  Huge trees swept down river, slamming, like floating
battering rams, into the sides of the lead cars with tremendous force,
causing branches as thick as a man's body to crumple like matchwood.

The Lady reeled under the repeated blows.  The lead cars tilted over
and stuck at a crazy angle as boulders carried along the river bed by
the current became wedged underneath the wheels, held in place by the
unbroken branches of the trapped trees.  Startled trail-hands in the
lead cars picked themselves up off the floor.  Buck McDonnell's voice
boomed through the train telling everyone to hold fast and stay at
their stations.

Up in the saddle, Hartmann hauled himself upright.  The execs around
him balanced awkwardly on the sloping floor and ran through the
well-rehearsed damage control procedure.  Conditions were verging on
the chaotic but nobody lost their cool.

'We're jammed fast,' yelled Barber, the First Engineer.

'All wheels are underwater, rear end has only ten per cent traction and
we've got a ruptured passway between cars five and six!"  'Is that
where we've angled over?"  asked Hartmann.

'Yes sir!'

'Any radiation inflow?"

'Not enough to show on the dial,' said Barber.  'The hatches on both
sides close automatically when the air seal is broken."

Hartmann nodded and put himself on the visicomm circuit to address the
crew.  'Now hear this.  A course error caused by the thick mist we woke
up has put us in a dry river bed.  What began as bad weather has got
worse and we've been caught in a flash-flood.  The Lady has taken some
superficial damage and we have lost traction due to a buildup of flood
debris.  But the worst is over.  This storm will soon blow itself out
and then we'll get The Lady back on the road.  So sit tight and look
chipper."  He grinned· 'This command has never had a wagon train sink
under it yet."

His words brought a smile to Steve's face.  He looked around him and
saw that the tight, strained faces of the other crewmen had also
cracked open.

Just as Hartmann finished speaking, the NavComTech picked up a low
strength call from Jodi Kazan sandwiched between several bad bursts of
static.  'Have attacked Mute ·..  broken up ... Booker and Yates have
gone down ... hit by .  .. Request ..."  There followed the warbling
tone of the automatic Mayday distress signal.

The NavComTech responded by switching on the fore and aft Navigation
lasers.  He left the red beam on the lead car pointing vertically
upwards and put the green on what was known as 'sweep and creep'.  This
caused the beam to rock back and forth, quartering the sky, North,
South, East and West, from horizon to horizon, then repeating the same
pattern, 'creeping' round in a clockwise direction at five degree
intervals.  The laser was, in effect, performing a similar function to
the rotating beam of a pre-Holocaust lighthouse.  And if Kazan picked
it up - as she was bound to if she was within range - all she had to do
was fly down the beam towards the source of the light.

Baxter, the F.O.O sounded the alert in the flight-car, told the crewmen
of Kazan's imminent arrival, and ordered them to prepare for
landing-on.  Buck McDonnell, who had wriggled through the emergency
hatches on either side of the broken passway passed through the flight
car to check that the weapon turrets in the rear cars were correctly
manned.  He buttonholed Steve and the other wingmen and told them to
take their rifles up top to cover the ground-crew waiting to receive
the incoming Skyhawk.  'It's blowing a storm out there so it may take
all of you to hold her down.

The guns are in case some Mutes decide to hitch a ride."  He passed
through to Car Nine.

Steve hurriedly donned his helmet, took his air carbine out of the
rack, checked the magazine and the compressed air bottle under the
barrel, packed a couple more mags into his breast pockets and went out
through one of the starboard hatches.  Inside the cars the sound of the
storm had been muffled.  Now he faced its full fury.  The wind tore at
his clothes, made him gag as he tried to draw breath, and pinned him to
the balcony rail.  Below, the flood waters swirled past at breakneck
speed, sweeping broken trees and bushes downstream.  Ahead, he could
see the lead cars of The Lady curved across the torrent, twisted over
like the broken wall of a dam.  She rocked violently in a burst of
spray every time she was struck by another uprooted tree.

Gus tugged at his sleeve.  'Here she comes!"  he yelled.  He pointed
across the flight deck.

Steve peered through the rain-swept murk and saw two disembodied
lights; the landing lights of Jodi Kazan's Skyhawk.  She appeared to be
about a hundred yards away on the port side of the wagon train, heading
up river into the teeth of the gale.  As she crabbed nearer, Steve was
able to make out the aircraft more clearly; its swept-back wings
rocking wildly from side to side.  Now he could see the red and white
dot that was Jodi's helmet in the slim cockpit pod underneath.

'She's never going to make it,' yelled Steve to the grizzled
crew-chief, who was crouched on all fours on the deck above him.  The
wind was gusting from seventy to over ninety miles an hour.  What the
hell was she going to do?  The maximum speed of the Skyhawk was
eighty-five miles an hour.  Simple arithmetic told him that Jodi was
going to end up flying backwards.  A conventional landing over the rear
cars and onto the flight deck was impossible.

Jodi had evidently come to the same conclusion and, in the few vital
seconds when the windspeed slackened, she edged ahead of the wagon
train.  She evidently planned to drift in sideways at full power,
letting the wind carry her back level with the flight-deck.

Steve suddenly understood what she was trying to do and was quietly
appalled at the prospect.  It would mean standing up on the exposed
flight-deck in the teeth of a howling gale that threatened to blow him
off his feet and into the water.  It would mean reaching up and
literally grabbing her out of the air as she drifted across.  The
Skyhawk was not heavy - half a dozen guys could easily handle it, and
her ground speed would, with luck, be virtually nil.  But her motor
would be turning at full revs.  If they weren't careful, someone was
going to be shredded by that goddam propellor... Steve blotted the
gruesome image from his mind and leapt up onto the deck, leaning into
the wind beside the crew-chief and his men.

'This could be tricky!"  yelled the crew-chief.  He had broken out some
lengths of rope and the ground crew stood ready to lash the Skyhawk
down.  But first, they had to pull her out of the air.

Gus White clambered out of the duck-hole and grabbed Steve's arm.  Like
everyone else, he was drenched to the skin.  'Shee-yitt!"  he
screamed.

'She's still loaded with nap?

Steve stared through the lashing rain at the bucking Skyhawk.  One of
the containers was still clipped to the starboard rack.

Gus pulled at his arm.  'If she hits hard and that goes up - I' He took
a step towards one of the duck-holes.

Steve grabbed the neck of Gus's fatigues and hauled him back.  'Stay
right here, you yellow bastard!"  Gus tore himself free angrily and
stood his ground, stung by Steve's accusation.  'Why the hell d'she
come back now anyway?  Why couldn't she have ridden this out and come
back when it was all over?"

There was no time to reply.  Jodi Kazan's Skyhawk swept in towards them
on a level with the flight deck.  When it was about twenty yards away,
the wind suddenly slackened.

Instantly, Jodi cut the motor.  She'd obviously thought about that
too.

The Skyhawk rocked from side to side, slipped backwards and lifted,
putting the three wheels six feet off the deck.

This was it.  There was only one bite at this cherry.

Steve, Gus, and the ground crew leapt up and dragged the Skyhawk out of
the air.  Somehow Steve managed to get his hands over the edge of the
cockpit oblivious of the fact that his left elbow was resting on the
racked napalm canister.  He hauled downwards, adding his full weight to
the aircraft.

Gus got one arm over the nose.  As their heads came level with the edge
of the cockpit they saw why Jodi had come back now instead of
waiting.

Her flight fatigues were soaked in blood that seeped out of a hole
above her right breast pocket.

Steve had little more than half a second to register the scene.  He
glimpsed the barbed point of a crossbow bolt sticking out through the
back of her seat.  To judge from the angle, it must have come up
through the floor between her legs.  Jodi's head lolled forward.  With
the dark visor of her helmet clipped shut it was impossible to tell if
she was still alive.

The ground crew struggled to lash the Skyhawk down.  A howling,
shrieking, demonic blast of wind lifted it off the deck, tore it from
their grasp, turned it over and slammed it upside down against the roof
of the car behind.  Steve and the others stared horrified and helpless
as the wings crumpled under the impact, struts sheared, and the cockpit
toppled sideways, crunching like the pendulum of a disintegrating clock
into the side of the wagon train.  A great burst of orange flame
streamed back along the car as the napalm canister exploded then, an
instant later, the wind swept the blazing wreckage into the raging
waters.

And she was gone.

'Smokin' lumpshit ..."  murmured Gus.  The wind tore the words from his
mouth.

Steve and the other crewmen crouched on the deck in a state of shock at
their narrow escape, staring in disbelief at the smoke streaming from
the heat-blackened, blistered skin of the next car; the only sign that
Jodi Kazan had been there, just seconds before.

'We had her,' muttered the crew-chief.  'We had her!"  Overhead the
thunder roared for the last time.  Steve felt it sounded like a
triumphant, faintly mocking finale.  To what his sixth sense told him
was merely the overture.

Motor-Head, who was the leader of one of the two groups attacked by
Jodi, Booker and Yates gathered the scattered survivors and brought
them to where Mr Snow sat.  The storm had subsided.  The dark clouds
that had gathered had been torn apart by the wind, washed white by the
rain and dried by the emerging sun into fluffy, soft-edged shapes that
faded into the blue sky as they drifted westwards.

The Bears from the other group, under the command of Hawk-Wind joined
them.  Many of the warriors had suffered splash burns, some had been
burned more extensively.  All bore the pain stoically as was the custom
among Mute warriors but it was clear to Mr Snow that several would not
survive their silent ordeal.  He could do nothing to help them.  They
needed surgical skills that exceeded those he possessed as the clan's
medicine man.

'I need a drink,' he whispered painfully.

Motor-Head sent a warrior to fill a skin-bag with water from a nearby
stream.  The Bears squatted patiently in a half-circle before Mr Snow
while the water was brought to him.

Mr Snow swallowed the bagful without removing it from his lips.  He
wiped his mouth and throat then let out a long, world-weary sigh.  His
head still hurt.  He felt the bump gingerly and addressed Motor-Head
and Hawk-Wind.

'How many of your warriors kissed sharp iron?"

'Four hands plus one,' said Motor-Head.

'Six hands,' said Hawk-Wind.

Fifty-one dead.  It could have been worse, reflected Mr Snow.  If the
arrowheads had managed to drop all their fire-eggs ... It was
unfortunate that Cadillac had not found pictures of these things in the
seeing-stone.

'Convoy and Brass-Rail, my clan-brothers, fell to the cloud warriors,'
said Motor-Head.  His eyes glistened with tears.  While it was not
worthy of a warrior to yield to pain, it was perfectly acceptable to
express grief.  'I would be revenged."

'Now is your chance,' said Mr Snow huskily.  His throat felt as if it
had been reamed out with red-hot fish hooks.

Every bone, every fibre of his lean, hard flesh ached, burned, felt
consumed by power that had passed through him.  'The iron snake is
trapped in the Now and Then River."

He pointed down the slope in the direction of the lower line of
trees.

Three columns of smoke rose where the grass still burned from Jodi's
napalm strike.  'The sand-burrowers in its belly must come out to free
the snake.  That will be the killing time.  But you must be wary.  They
have sharp iron that-strikes long blows with the speed of a rattler's
tongue.

You must be brave but not foolish.  You must hunt them as you would a
fast-foot - quietly and with great cunning."

Motor-Head leapt to his feet and crossed his arms angrily.

'She-ehh I Are the Bears to hide when their blood runs hot?  I'
'Hey-YAHH!"  roared the warriors.  Even those with burned faces and raw
swollen lips joined in the traditional response.

Mr Snow rose painfully to his feet, steadied his aching legs and jabbed
a warning finger under Motor-Head's nose.

'Listen, bonehead!  There is to be no fancy, toe-to-toe knife work.  I
didn't just give this my best shot to have you all mown down!  This is
not a rumble over a piece of turff.  We are taking on an iron snake
full of sand-burrowers.  They don't fight the way we fight.  There's no
stand-off.  They are not going to wait while you spit on the ground."

He swept his eyes over the rows of squatting warriors.  'The moment
they see the end of your nose they are going to try and blow your heads
off!"  He waved an arm in the air.  'The way the cloud warriors struck
from the sky!  That's the way you must fight today!  You must be as
brave as Bears but you must strike like coyotes I We have to wear them
down.  Pick them off, one by one."

'Heyyy-yaahhh ..."  The response came as a reluctant growl from the
warriors' throats.  It was clear that they, like Motor-Head, were not
happy at the prospect, but Mr Snow's authority could not be challenged
when expressed in this forthright manner.

'Go - quickly!"  ordered Mr Snow.  'The river runs dry.

And remember - the sand-burrower is not a man, but an animal.  You do
not fight animals.  You hunt them."  He stretched his left arm towards
them, his hand extended, blessing the path they would take to the
river.  'Go!  May the great Mother guide your arm.  And may she drink
the blood of our enemies and not from your cups!"  'Hey-yahh!"  cried
the warriors.  They leapt to their feet and shook their weapons at the
sky.  'Hey-yah!  Hey-yah!

Hey-YAHH!!"  Mr Snow watched them lope away towards the trees and the
Now and Then River that lay in the valley below.  A party of
clan-elders summoned by a runner from the settlement's forest hide-out
joined him and together they set about the doleful task of despatching
the dying.  This was done with the aid of a narcotic shag, the dried
shredded fragments of a psychedelic mushroom the Mutes called Dream
Cap. Taken onto the tongue and swallowed, Dream Cap quickly induced a
state of anaesthetised euphoria.

When it could be obtained, it was used in the crude bone-setting
operations and basic surgery performed by some medicine men.  Its
purpose here was not primarily to ease the pain of dying but to loosen
the bond between the warrior's spirit and his earth-body.

The elders gave the drug a few minutes to take effect, then aided by Mr
Snow, killed the hideously burned warriors with a quick knife thrust
through the heart.

It fell to Mr Snow to despatch Little-Feet, a young, fourteen-year-old
Bear whose left leg had, in places, been burned through to the bone.

He placed his hand on the boy's forehead and put the point of his knife
on the slim chest.  His hand trembled.  His eyes glistened with
tears.

Little-Feet's drugged eyes fluttered open.  He made an effort to focus
on Mr Snow.  'Will I go to the High Ground, Old One?"

'Yes,' said Mr Snow.  'When the sun goes through the western door, you
will walk the golden islands in the sky and when you are rested you
will come again to our people as a child of the earth and do mighty
things in our name."

'But I have not chewed bone,' said Little-Feet.  'I have no
standing."

'In the eyes and the heart of Mo-Town our great sky-mother, you have
great standing,' said Mr Snow.  'She has told me this.  You have braved
the fire of the cloud warriors and are truly a great Bear."

'I would have standing in my eyes also,' said Little-Feet.

'Let me die with my hands on sharp iron."

Mr Snow took the boy's hands and placed them over his own on the handle
of the knife.  Little-Feet gripped his hand and wrist tightly.

'Now!"  he cried, pulling hard on the knife.

'Drink, Sweet Mother!"  Mr Snow thrust the long blade swiftly and
cleanly into Little-Feet's heart.  'Mo-Town drinks,' he said,
quietly.

He sat back on his heels and watched the boy's life ebb away.

And wished yet again that, with the help of the Sky Voices, he might
truly understand why the world was ordered thus.

ELEVEN

The storm which had swept over the wagon train cleared with the same
mysterious rapidity with which it had developed.  Less than an hour
after the flaming wreckage of Jodi Kazan's Skyhawk had plunged into the
raging flood waters, the Now and Then River had been reduced to a
narrow ankle-deep stream linking a chain of muddy pools, leaving The
Lady from Louisiana high and dry, its lead cars lying tilted across the
river bed, trapped amidst a crazy tangle of trees, boulders and sodden
vegetation.

Hartmann, the wagon master, was relieved to see clear skies overhead
but he, like Steve Brickman, sensed that The Lady's ordeal was far from
over.  He ordered Colonel Moore, the Senior Field Commander to despatch
his linemen to form a defensive perimeter around the wagon train while
Stu Barber, the First Engineer, took-a party out to inspect the flood
damage.

Steve had a word with Ryan, the wingman who had been made acting
section leader following the loss of Kazan, then sought out Buck
McDonnell and asked permission to take a small party downstream to look
for Jodi.

The big Trail Boss turned him down flat.  'She was skewered, roasted,
then drowned in mud sauce, Mister.

Nobody walks away from that.  Besides which, we don't waste wingmen on
bag jobs.  Get back to your post and get ready to fly."

Wearing sealed helmets fitted with armoured glass visors, moulded face
plates, air fdters and two-way radios, and clad in flexible body armour
that gave them the fearsome anonymity of warrior ants, the linemen ran
down the ramps dropped from the belly of the train and formed quickly
into eight-man combat squads.  Each man was armed with a
three-barrelled air rifle and bayonet.  Spare magazines, six
canister-type flame-grenades, a machete, reserve air bottles and
rations were carried in belt packs and pockets on the chest and
thigh.

The force was led by Captain Virgil Clay, the Junior Field Commander
and they were followed out of the wagon train by Barber, the First
Engineer, Buck McDonnell, and the twenty-strong damage control party.

Clay, known by his radio call-sign 'ANVIL TWO', sent two squads
upstream, two down, and sent three more squads up each bank to cover
the open ground on each side.  Aboard The Lady, the rest of the crew
manned the weapon turrets, or stood ready to reinforce the groups on
the ground should the perimeter come under attack.

They didn't have long to wait.  Ginny Green, the first lineman to clear
the mud-slide on the right-hand bank took a bolt through the chest.

The impact of the ten inch-long missile lifted her clean off her
feet.

Arms outstretched, her body did a sloppily executed back-flip and hit
the ground like a sack of rivets.  The seven linemen behind and on
either side of her hit the deck, shoved their rifles out in front of
them and peered cautiously over the top of the bank.  The first guy to
poke his head up got a bolt through the back of his neck.

'Shit!"  cursed the squad leader.  He ducked below the top of the slide
and flipped the transmit switch on his helmet from the squad channel to
the Field Commander's.  'Anvil Two, this is East Side One.  We have
struck out twice and are taking fire from both banks.  Advise.  Over!'
Clay's voice came back through his earphones.  'East Side, this is
Anvil Two.  Mow the lawn.  Standby to jump-off.

Out."

'Mow the lawn' was lineman jargon; a call for an extended, heavy burst
of out-going fire in which a stream of bullets were pumped into every
hummock of grass, every bush or piece of scrub in the fan-shaped area
that formed a group's immediate front.  Anything that could furnish
cover for a Mute warrior was riddled with lead.

Stu Barber, the First Engineer, moved under one of the wagons and spoke
to Hartmann via one of the outside tv cameras fitted for that
purpose.

Buck McDonnell, toting a three-barrelled air rifle, stood guard beside
him.

'It looks a real mess,' he reported.  'But apart from a few dents and
that broken passway seal, we don't appear to have suffered any
structural damage.  The big problem is the debris that's piled up under
the wagons.  We're not going to be able to move until that's cut away
and I reckon it'll take a good six hours.  Maybe more.  I'm going to
need at least a hundred men out here if you want The Lady back on the
road by sundown."

Hartmann chewed over his reply.  'You've got twenty out there now.

I'll give you another forty.  If Clay's force is sufficient to contain
this attack, I'll release more men later.

Mr McDonnell, will you come aboard and organise the work-party?"

'Right away, sir!"  McDonnell stepped up to the camera.

'llh, I don't know whether you've noticed but these river banks are a
mite too high for comfort.  We don't have a clear horizontal field of
fire from the top turrets to back up our perimeter defences."

'I'm aware of that, Mr McDonnell,' replied Hartmann.

'But we are facing an undisciplined lightly-armed enemy.

Individually brave and tenacious, but without any overall military
organisation.  I'm sure our men can hold the line until we dig
ourselves out."

'Yes sir!"  McDonnell threw a salute at the camera and hurried
aboard.

Another screen picked up the Trail Boss as he ran up the ramp into the
wagon train.

A few minutes later, Big D entered the saddle.  He was just in time to
hear Anvil Two come on the air with the news that they 'had hostiles
wall to wall'.  Both up- and down-river sections had reported incoming
fire and the men on the east and west banks were pinned down.  Five
linemen had been hit, three fatally.  As yet, no visual contact had
been made with the enemy.

'I thought these lump-heads were supposed to stand up and fight,'
muttered Colonel Moore, the Senior Field Commander.

'Maybe we have to stand on their toes first,' said Buck McDonnell.  He
turned to Hartmann.  'Our boys have got to storm those banks and break
out, sir,' he urged.  'We mustn't let 'em pin us down in the river
while we're trying to move The Lady."

'The thought had occurred to me,' said Hartmann drily.

He hit the transmit button.  'Anvil Two, this is Lady Lou.

Message.  Over."

Clay responded instantly.  'Anvil Two loud and clear.

Over."

Hartmann leaned towards the mike.  'Push on, Mister Clay.  I want a
secure five hundred yard perimeter around The Lady by midday at the
latest."

'Anvil Two.  Roger.  All groups Wilco.  Out."

Hartmann turned to the Trail Boss.  'Pick forty strong men, Mr
McDonnell."

'I tapped them on the way up here, sir,' said the Trail-Boss.

'Okay."  Hartmann looked towards the tv image of his engineering
exec.

'Put them to work with your damage control party, Stu, and let's get
this train back on the road."

Barber reached up to lower the visor of his helmet.  He looked
distinctly unhappy.  'Are you sure you can't spare any more hands?

Sixty is nowhere near enough.  The more men I have, the sooner -'
Hartmann cut him short.  'Just do the best you can, Stu.

Put everybody on the rear end.  If Coop can take four or six wagons
down river and up onto either bank it'll give us the firepower we need
to cover the spadework."

'On my way,' said Barber.

I-Iartmann broke the connection with the external monitor screen that
Barber was watching and swung back to the Trail Boss.  'Drive 'em hard,
Mr McDonnell."

Urged on by Captain Clay, the combat groups on the river banks charged
over the top with their rifles switched to full auto.  Several more men
went down before both elements reached a stretch of undulating ground
that provided some semblance of cover but, as they threw themselves
down, Mute warriors' leapt out of shallow grass-covered holes in the
ground behind them and attacked them with knife-sticks and stone
flails.  The hand-to-hand fighting was short, sharp and bloody.

Several linemen fell to the lightning-fast knife-work of the Bears but
in the end, the firepower and the disciplined cohesion of the Tracker
combat squads triumphed.

The suicidal attacks by small numbers of Mutes on the flank units
continued.  Harried by a constantly retreating enemy, the linemen were
drawn further and further from the river bank.  Captain Clay whose own
small command group had been trying to coordinate the action while
killing its own share of M'Call Bears was slow to realise that the lead
flank elements had overshot the five hundred yard radius perimeter line
ordered by Hartmann.  Thus, when the main force of Mutes hit and
overwhelmed the two eight-man up-river squads and swept down the
winding muddy bed towards The Lady, the bulk of his force was spread
all over the landscape.

Hartmann, and his two field commanders, had not fully appreciated the
danger of an all-out attack from this direction.  The relief they had
felt at having weathered the flash-flood combined with their
unshakeable faith in The Lady's impregnability had caused them to
overlook the fact that, with The Lady lying curved across the riverbed,
only the port-side gun positions of the first five wagons could be
brought to bear on an enemy advancing downstream.  But, of the ten
revolving six-barrelled weapons pointing in the right direction only
three possessed their normal field of fire.  The movement of the other
seven was partially, or totally, blocked by piled-up flood debris which
had also collected round the port-side tv cameras.  The other eleven
wagons lay in a line down-river, close to the steep left-hand bank and
below the level of the ground on either side.  And because of the angle
at which the front five wagons were tilted over, the guns in the
turrets on the wagon roofs could only be depressed to within seven
degrees of the horizontal and were, consequently, useless - as was the
considerable firepower on the unaffected starboard side.

Reacting with commendable swiftness, Moore, the Senior Field Commander,
led the rest of his combat squads down the ramps and attempted to hold
a line up-river of The Lady.  Hartmann called up Clay and told him to
fall back to the river banks where he could support Moore with
enfilading fire, and cut off the Mutes' line of retreat.

Hartmann turned to his execs with an exultant smile.  Once that was
blocked it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

The port-side gunners in the first five wagons swept the river bed as
best they could with continuous fire and managed to cut down several
dozen Mutes.  The merciless hail of bullets failed to stop the
advance.

Dozens more unscathed warriors jumped unhesitatingly over the fallen
bodies and surged forward.  As Colonel Moore's linemen emerged
confidently from under the train and fanned out, firing from the hip,
the running, leaping, screaming wave of M'Call Bears burst upon them
like the flash-flood upon the train..

'Close the ramps?  yelled Hartmann.

The systems engineer responded instantly, sealing the belly of the
train.  In the whole history of TrailBlazer operations no Mutes had
ever succeeded in boarding a wagon train but it still remained a
nightmarish prospect that filled every wagon master with dread.  The
trains, and their sterile, air-conditioned interiors were an extension
of the Federation and, as such, were sacrosanct, inviolate.

Captain Virgil Clay contacted his scattered combat squads on the east
and west banks of the river and told them to fall back towards The
Lady.  The two South Side squads he had sent downstream had been pinned
down by fire from hidden crossbow snipers and had then been badly
mauled in hand-to-hand combat.  Now down to half-strength it had,
nevertheless, achieved a kill-ratio of at least fifteen to one.

Clay called up The Lady and requested additional firepower to be sent
down-river to cover the fall-back.  The North Side had earlier
signalled that they were under heavy attack and had broken off in
mid-transmission.  Clay had tried repeatedly to renew contact but his
radio messages had remained unanswered.

The MCall Bears who had overrun and killed the two eight-man squads
holding the line upstream did not have time to figure out how the
Tracker's 'long sharp iron' worked.  Without Mr Snow's help, it was
unlikely they would have managed it in a week.  To the warriors, the
three~ barrelled air rifles were nothing more than odd-shaped clubs.

The machetes, however, were a real prize.  The belts and scabbards were
quickly stripped from the fallen linemen and clipped around the waists
of their proud new owners - of which Motor-Head was one.

The screaming charge down the debris-littered river bed was accompanied
by the eerie howling noise made by wind-whips.

Perforated strips of wood tied to short sticks which, when whirled at
great speed, emitted a variety of chilling tones; others made harsh,
dry clicking noises like cicadas.

To the raw wet-feet in the combat squads, the first sight of the M'Call
Bears with their bizarrely-clad, striped and spotted malformed bodies
the legacy of generations of mutant genes - was like a vision of
hell.

A gut-shrivelling eruption of primal savagery allied to mindless brute
strength.  A seemingly unstoppable threat to everything the Amtrak
Federation stood for.  The horror was increased, etched deeper upon the
psyche by the sight of the severed heads of their comrades, still
encased in their helmets, bobbing on the end of stakes above the
advancing throng.

There was a fleeting moment when time stood still, when the brain
froze, then the months of rigorous training, the years of
indoctrination from cradle to combat academy came on stream,
transmitting red-alert signals to brain, eye, limb and trigger-finger;
sending adrenalin surging through the system to line the stomach with
steel; flooding the heart with cold, implacable hatred.  What the
linemen saw then were deranged travesties of humankind; the despoilers
of the blue-sky world, whose poisonous presence filled the air with
lingering death.  Nobody faltered.  Nobody flinched.  Wet-foot and
trail-hand gave vent simultaneously to an exultant rebel yell and
charged forward into battle.

Deafened by the buzz of chainsaws and the noisy clatter of a small,
tracked excavator, Barber and the sixty-strong party working under the
rear wagons did not hear the chilling battle sounds made by the
advancing Mutes.  The first warning they had that fighting was about to
engulf The Lady was an over-the-shoulder glimpse of Colonel Moore's
linemen charging down the ramps of the wagons on either side of the
flight section.  The next sign that things weren't going too well was
the reappearance, on the river bank, of Captain Clay and what was left
of his perimeter force.  Clay's squads had been obliged to fall back
over open ground harassed by sporadic fire coming from both front and
rear as Mute crossbow men, positioned behind the main force fired at
them from the cover of the river bed.  Barber kept levering away at the
flood debris clogging the drive motors but, like the rest of his men,
he found it difficult to concentrate when it became apparent that the
four squads which had doubled downstream were covering the retreat of
the force despatched earlier.  His concentration was further diminished
when the driver of the excavator was blown out of his seat by a bolt
that went in under his right armpit and came out between the collarbone
and shoulder blade on the other side.  Barber threw down his crowbar,
grabbed his rifle and took cover behind one of the huge, steel-clad
wheels.

The rest of the damage-control party did likewise.

Buck McDonnell ran under the length of the train to where Barber knelt
and drew his attention to the pitched battle he had just left and which
was raging less than a hundred yards upriver of the lead wagons.  The
Trail Boss pulled the empty magazine from his rifle, threw it aside,
clipped in a new one then checked the reserve air pressure.

The short bayonet fixed under the barrel was smeared with fresh
blood.

'These lump-heads are a bunch of real ballsy guys,' he breathed
hoarsely.

Barber's fingers flexed nervously around his own rifle.  'Is Moore
going to be able to hold them?"

Buck McDonnell replied with a grim smile 'If he doesn't, we may end up
with stiff necks."

This grisly reference to the Mute's habit of carrying the severed heads
of defeated Trackers on stakes wasn't really the kind of thing the
First Engineer wanted to hear.

Looking back downriver, Barber and McDonnell saw Clay's men on either
bank launch a counter-attack against a Mute force that was hidden from
the wagon train by a bend in the river.  They saw the orange flash from
exploding flame-grenades and the rising plumes of black, oily smoke.

Three wounded linemen stumbled back up the muddy river bed towards The
Lady.  One of them sank to his knees and pitched forward face-down in a
shallow pool.  The Trail Boss tapped three men and led them downstream,
covering them while they picked up the prostrate lineman by the arms
and legs and ran him back towards the cover of the train.

As they reached the rear command car, a Mute warrior leapt into view on
the right bank, sighting down his crossbow.  McDonnell, his reflexes
honed by twelve years of overground combat, whirled round and dropped
the Mute with a single triple volley.  When the wounded had been passed
up through an emergency escape hatch into the hands of The Lady's
paramedics, McDonnell rejoined Barber in the shadow one of the huge
wheels.  'I had a feeling when I woke up this morning that it was going
to be one of those days."

Barber was not in a mood to take things so lightly.  'This is murder.

What are we going to do?"

'Well, these guys shouldn't be sitting here on their asses, that's for
sure,' growled the Trail Boss.

'But we can't clear this shit while we're under fire,' protested
Barber.  'It's impossible!"  McDonnell shook his head.  'Not
impossible.

Just difficult.  If we can free this tail end back to the flight
section, we can roll right over these bastards."  He pointed to the
small excavator that had run driverless halfway up the steep slope of
the right-hand bank before stalling and slapped Barber on the back.

'You drive, I'll ride shotgun."

Lieutenant Commander Barber swallowed hard, tightened his grip on his
rifle, and doubled across to the excavator with McDonnell on his
tail.

They climbed aboard, the big Trail Boss bracing himself behind the
driver's seat, rifle at the ready.  Barber brought the excavator's
motor back to life and reversed down the slope.

The tracks churned up the mud as he worked the levers to bring the
machine round to face The Lady.  It took him a couple of minutes to get
his act together then he lowered the shovel and trundled forward to
clear another load of sawn tree sections and boulders.

McDonnell raised his visor as they neared the wagon train and waved
vigorously at the linemen crouching underneath.

'Okay, come on!  Everybody back to work!"  he bellowed.

'Let's put some life in this Lady!"  Responding to their example, the
linemen laid aside their rifles, picked up crowbars, shovels, machetes
and chainsaws and set about clearing the rest of the debris.

Up in the saddle, Hartmann, the wagon master, fought a silent battle to
clear the mental sludge that had clogged his brain since rising at
dawn.  He had no doubt about the ultimate outcome of the battle.  The
Lady would emerge the victor even if she lost most of the linemen now
committed to battle.  She would triumph because the Mutes did not
possess any weapons that could cause her irreparable damage.  The crew
inside merely had to sit tight and ride out the attack with the aid of
the wagon train's own defences.

'Sitting tight', however, did not form part of the TrailBlazer's combat
philosophy.  The most favoured posture was one of aggressive pursuit of
hostiles in which the wagon train acted as a mobile fire-base giving
close support to its linemen on their overground sorties.  Ideally, the
combat squads were used to flush out hostiles from unfavorable terrain,
like beaters putting up game, and for mopping-up operations.

The Southern Mutes he had dealt with hitherto usually avoided pitched
battles and whenever a stand had been made, he had always been able to
bring the fearsome firepower of The Lady to bear.

It was for this reason that Hartmann was unhappy about the jam The Lady
was in.  The wagon master was convinced that the clan now attacking
them possessed a summoner.

The storm had been too swift and, like the cloying mist, too localised
for it to be part of a larger weather pattern.  There was also another
disquieting factor.  The tactical movement of the Mute warriors showed
an unnatural coordination.

From the secret talks he had had with other wagon masters, Hartmann
knew of only one explanation for this: the Lady's attackers were being
controlled by an over-mind - the mark of the highest known grade of
summoner.  If so, he was facing an intelligent and highly dangerous
opponent able to summon up immense and totally unpredictable forces.

It was this last thought that prompted Hartmann to order the Skyhawks
to make the planned attack on the Mute cropfields and forest
hide-out.

The dawn raid, delayed by the weather, would create a diversion that
would sap the morale of the attacking Mutes and might even cause them
to break off the engagement - giving Hartmann's men a much-needed
breathing space in which to right the battered wagon train.  There was
the further possibility that the attack might incinerate the summoner
who was orchestrating the movement of the Mutes and was responsible for
The Lady's present perilous condition.

The klaxon sounded in the two wagons that made up the flight section.

Everybody turned towards the nearest overhead tv monitor.  The head and
shoulders of Baxter, the Flight Operations Officer appeared on the
screen.  'Ryan?"

The senior wingman who was now acting section leader hit the button
which put him on camera.  'Sir!"  'Okay, hear this,' said Baxter.  'We
have a green on the strike planned for this morning.  Prepare to launch
eight aircraft.  You will lead the first group - consisting of
Caulfield, Naylor and Webber - against the forest.  I will lead the
other group and fire the cropfields.  Get Murray to rig and load one of
the spare 'hawks for me."

Murray was the grizzled crew-chief.  He nodded and indicated to Ryan
that it would be no problem.

'I want the first plane off the ramp in fifteen,' concluded Baxter.

'Loud and clear, SIR!"  snapped Ryan.

The flight section erupted into a controlled flurry of activity.

Ground crewmen hurried to ready the aircraft for lifting onto the
flight deck; the crew-chief ordered a detail to prepare a Skyhawk for
Baxter, then called up the rear power car and asked for steam to power
the catapults.  Steve and the other wingmen grabbed their helmets, made
sure the folded maps in the clear pockets on their thighs showed the
correct section of terrain, checked that their holstered air pistol was
secure, that their combat knife was firmly clipped in its scabbard on
the outside of the right calf, and that the zips on the leg and chest
pockets holding their emergency water filter and survival rations were
properly closed.

Ryan called them to attention.  'Okay - Webber, Caulfield, you're
number one and two to go.  I'll follow, with Naylor on my tail."  He
turned to Steve, Gus White and Fazetti.  'Baxter will give you the
line-up.  Meantime, I want you and as many guys as Murray can spare up
in those duckholes ready to pump lead.  This could be tricky."

It was.  Webber and Caulfield were both hit in quick succession as
their Skyhawks sat poised on the catapult ramps.  Oblivious of the
danger from the hidden Mute marksmen, Steve and fellow-graduate Fazetti
leapt up onto the flight deck and aimed repeated volleys of fire up
over the river banks while Murray and three of his ground-crew freed
the two pilots from their safety harnesses and lifted them out of the
cockpit pods.  The seventeen-year-old Webber had been killed
outright.

Caulfield was not so fortunate.  A bolt had entered the side of his
helmet just behind his left eye, driving the barbed point through his
head and out through the matching spot on the other side.

When the crew-chief lifted Caulfield's visor to check if he was still
alive, Steve glimpsed the full horror of what had happened.  The shock
wave generated by the bolt's impact had blown his eyeballs out of their
sockets.  While the battle raged around them, Caulfield sat, silent and
uncomprehending, his grotesquely dislocated face streaked with blood.

It was only when the ground-crewmen attempted to move him that he began
to kick and scream.

Steve helped hold Caulfield down while the crew-chief tied his arms and
legs together then lowered him over the side to Gus White and the three
medics sharing his duckhole.  'Get him to the surgeon-captain,' shouted
Murray.  He returned dragging Webber's limp body.  'And put this one in
a bag."

Undeterred, Ryan climbed into the cockpit of Webber's Skyhawk and
quickly satisfied himself that the controls were undamaged.  Naylor,
the remaining wingman in the first wave tried to restart Caulfield's
plane but failed.  One of the ground-crew found a vital lead that had
been severed by a second bolt.

Naylor jumped out and helped pull the disabled aircraft off the
catapult.  'It's good to know they miss now and then!"  he said, with a
quick, edgy laugh.

Crouched on the deck to Ryan's right, Murray signalled

to him to wind the motor up to full power then swept his arm forward
as the catapult was released.  The Skyhawk soared into the air, climbed
steeply to the right, then rolled on its back at about two hundred feet
and went into a corkscrew dive.  The sickening crunch of Ryan hitting
the ground was obliterated by a muffled boom as his load of napalm
exploded.  Steve and the other people on the flight-deck winced with
horror but watched with morbid fascination as a searing burst of
brilliant orange fire ballooned outwards from the point of impact then
rolled in on itself and lifted to become a mushroom cloud of black
smoke, leaving the mangled carcass of the Skyhawk silhouetted in the
middle of a circle of blazing grass.

Steve made an effort to swallow but his throat was dry.  He was not
squeamish at the sight of blood, or ruptured flesh, and was confident
of his ability to kill when the time came but he could still not get
used to the frightening rapidity with which someone like Ryan, a
living, thinking human being, who had been there talking to him only
moments before, could be transformed into an unrecognisable lump of
charred meat.  Jodi, Booker, Yates, Webber and now Ryan.  He recalled,
with a flash of anger, his sister's words back at Roosevelt Field
'don't start telling me how dangerous it is to be out there fighting
Mutes'.  Roz should be here now, prizing what was left of Ryan out of
the smouldering, twisted cage of struts up there on the river bank.

She would realise that Trail-Blazer expeditions were not the
'cake-walk' she had claimed them to be.

Hartmann, the wagon master, who had seen the slaughter on the flight
deck and Ryan's death dive on the battery of screens in the saddle
quickly decided that to have three wingmen taken out of the air in
under five minutes was an unacceptable loss-rate.  He put himself on
the visicomm system and faced-up with Baxter.  'Put the air strike
on"hold" and call everybody in off the flight deck.  We're going to try
and break up this attack another way.  Stand by to launch two and
two.

You're to stay on the ground.  With the kind of luck we've had so far
today I'm not prepared to risk the whole of my air force."

Baxter, the F.O.O acknowledged the revised orders and halted the lift
taking Naylor's Skyhawk up to the flight-deck.

Naylor, who was already seated in the cockpit, steeled for his turn at
Russian Roulette on the catapult, unstrapped himself and jumped out
with evident relief.  Baxter felt relieved too.  Like all pilots, he
was prepared to face death in the air, on a mission; that was the
constant risk all fliers faced.  But nobody wanted to get himself
killed sitting in a grounded aircraft.  That was about as useless as
tripping over the bathroom mat and drowning with your head jammed down
the john.

Hartmann radioed Colonel Moore and told him to fall back with his men
towards The Lady and form a new defence line beyond the five wagons
jammed across the river bed.

'Anvil One, all groups wilco, out,' said Moore.  He understood
immediately what Hartmann intended to do and hoped like hell that he
would wait until his loyal Field Commander had got clear.

The wagon master then contacted Captain Clay and ordered him to pull
his squads out of the main engagement so that he could reinforce and
hold the downstream line.

Finally Hartmann managed to get Barber in front of one of the external
cameras and told him what was about to happen.  'How's it going?"  he
asked.

Barber sounded exhausted.  'The three tail cars are clear."

'That's not enough, Stu,' snapped Hartmann.  'I asked for six."

'We're doing the best we can,' replied the harassed First Engineer.

'I've got eight dead, another fifteen men wounded and -' Hartmann
interrupted him.  'Stu, I don't need statistics, what I need are
results, okay?  Just do it."

Clay's voice came over the speakers.  'Anvil Two downstream and
holding."

'Roger, Anvil Two,' said Hartmann.  'Just grind them down.  No pursuit,
over."

Clay came back on the air.  'Anvil Two.  Don't worry, Lady Lou.  I
wasn't planning on going anywhere.  Too out of breath."

His words broke the tension in the saddle and brought grins to the
faces of the execs.

'Stand by on one to eight, Mister Ford,' said Hartmann.

The Second Systems Engineer activated a bank of switches on his control
panel and checked the readouts.

'Head on eight."

Hartmann's throat felt constricted.  'Put up the CQ's, please."

The fingers of the VisiCom Tech flickered nimbly over the line of
switches giving Hartmann a comprehensive picture of the underside of
the train and the ground on either side of it.  The wagon master and
his execs could see Moore's combat squads falling back, locked in a
running fight with the hordes of Mutes.  Downstream, under the rear
wagons, the damage control party worked feverishly to clear the
remaining debris.  Hartmann recognised the broad-shouldered figure of
the Trail-Boss perched behind the driving seat of the excavator that
Barber was now handling with confident ease.

'Anvil One moving back under the train."

Hartmann watched tensely as Colonel Moore and his four-man command
group appeared on screen, firing from shoulder and hip as they passed
under the lead wagons.  The linemen followed in waves, each turning to
cover the retreat of the one behind.  Their passage under the train was
not as smooth as Hartmann had hoped.  With the Mutes hard on their
heels, the battle continued as they struggled through the piled-up
debris; a primeval swamp landscape of tangled branches and shattered
tree trunks, clogged with mud and festooned with long sheaves of sodden
grass interlaced with limp foliage; a grotesque web woven by a giant
drunken spider which trapped and hindered and which, as Tracker and
Mute shot, hacked, stabbed and killed one another, quickly became a
Dante-esque vision of hell.

Hartmann waited a few moments more until the bulk of the Trackers had
fought their way clear of the lead wagons.

Several screens went blank as M'Call warriors smashed the external
cameras with their stone flails.  The remaining screens were filled
with Mutes.  'We'll try one to six, bottom line port and starboard,
Mister Ford,' said Hartmann, in a matter-of-fact voice.

'Head on six, bottom line,' replied the Systems Exec.

'Pipe steam!"  The sound pierced the layers ofarmoured steel, lead,
heat and sound insulation that lined the shells of the wagons, and for
those outside it was far more terrifying than the weird noises made by
the Mute wind-whips.  It was a chili, shrill, ear-piercing shriek.  A
hideous, ball-shrivelling banshee wail that drilled into the brain,
froze the heart.  Invisible, laser-thin jets of high-pressure steam
shot from the rows of nozzles along the curving'undersides of the lead
wagons; cutting through the air at supersonic speed, with the keenness
of a surgeon's scalpel and the irresistible, tearing force of a
buzz-saw.

The impact of the steam jets upon the Mute warriors surpassed the
horror evoked by Dante and indelibly engraved by Dor& Caught completely
unawares, locked in hand-to-hand combat with the last, unlucky linemen,
and with escape hampered by the debris in which they found themselves
entangled, a great mass of Mutes were blown · apart.  Skin, flesh,
muscle were shredded, blasted from the bone; limbs were severed, bodies
cut in half, their contents splattered in all directions, blood spurted
onto some of the watching camera lenses, throwing a red curtain over
the carnage.

Even those who escaped the pulverising impact of this unseen fury were
not totally spared.  As the scything jets cooled to the point of
visibility, the survivors were enveloped in clouds of scalding,
blinding, blistering steam.

The rear ranks of the M'Call Bears wavered, then turned on their heels
and fled; those warriors who had been scarred by the breath of the
snake but who were still on their feet ran, stumbled or tried to drag
themselves to safety.  Most were cut down by Colonel Moore's men and
The Lady's gunners.

'Clear the screens,' said Hartmann.  He covered his face and pressed
his fingertips against his closed eyes in a vain effort to wipe the
blood-stained images from his retina.  His fingers could not reach deep
enough.  What he had witnessed had already imprinted itself on his
brain: had become another gruesome page in his own private war diary
that would haunt his mind's eye in the darkness when sleep eluded
him.

He composed himself and addressed the Systems Exec.  'Cap the line, Mr
Ford."

The Second Systems Engineer shut down the jets.  'One to six,
capped."

Hartmann called up Clay.  'Lady Lou to Anvil Two.

Report combat-sit, over."

'Anvil Two.  Remaining hostiles withdrawing northeastwards under fire,
over."

Colonel Moore came on the air.  'Anvil One to Lady Lou.

It's all over.  They're on the run."  His voice was shaky but
exultant.

'Roger, Anvil One.  Hold your position."  Hartmann suddenly felt
weighed down by the responsibility he carried as wagon master yet, at
the same time, he was also sharply aware of the advantages of his
position.  He had been able to wipe the horror from the screens but
there was no escape for his men out there on the ground.  They had
fought and died, had been subjected to the gruesome spectacle of a
couple of hundred Mutes being turned into boiled mince right under
their noses and were now faced with having to clean up the resulting
mess before The Lady could get underway.

Hartmann put himself through to the flight section and faced up with
his F.O.O. 'How many 'hawks can we put up, Mr Baxter?"

'Four sir.  Naylor, and three silvers.  Brickman, Fazetti and White."

Hartmann hesitated.  'This'Il be their first real operation.

Will they be able to handle it - I mean, after what's happened?"

'They can't wait to go, sir,' said the F.O.O.

'Okay.  Launch the air-strike."  Hartmann cleared the screen and called
up Lieutenant Commander Cooper, the Deputy Wagon master, stationed in
the rear command car.

'Mind the store, Coop.  I'm going outside."

TWELVE

The four remaining wingmen climbed into their cockpit pods with
expressions of grim determination and were lifted up onto the flight
deck where the ground crew unfolded the wings, locked them into place
and ran the aircraft in pairs onto the port and starboard catapults.

Once they were hooked onto the slings, the catapult booms were cranked
up fifteen degrees before hurling the Skyhawks into the air at a speed
of fifty miles an hour.  Naylor led Fazetti off the deck and set course
for the forest; Steve Brickman followed Gus White towards the
cropfields.

Baxter, the F.O.O watched them disappear with mixed feelings.  In terms
of casualties, it had been a catastrophic day.  In all previous
operations against the Southern Mutes, it would have been considered a
disaster to lose eight wingmen in a month.  Even if those now in the
air returned safely, The Lady would have to make for one of the
frontier way-stations to off-load the wounded and await the arrival of
reinforcements.  Baxter wondered how the result of The Lady's first
engagement with the Plainfolk would be received in Grand Central.  The
Amtrak Executive showed LITTLE sympathy towards wagon masters who put
their trains in jeopardy; costly tactical errors and failures in
leadership were dealt with harshly.  And it was not only wagon masters
whose lives were at stake.  If a team of Assessors came on board,
nobody was safe.  Everybody's performance was evaluated.  Right down
the line.

The scarred, defeated M'Call Bears straggled back over the hilly ground
to the east of the Now and Then River.

Reaching the comparative safety of the tree-line beyond a steep
escarpment, they flung themselves down in the shade.

Some drank thirstily from a swift running stream while others, who had
been scalded, splashed the cool water ineffectually on their raw,
blistered skin.  Slowly they gathered in dispirited groups, trying to
estimate how many warriors had fallen to the iron snake.

Given the disparity between the weaponry of the Trackers and the Mutes
it was a miracle that any of the attacking M'Calls had survived.  But
as many an old soldier can tell you, Lady Luck - or her shadowy sister
Fate - spares some in circumstances which defy comprehension; like
English infantrymen who survived four years of trench warfare in World
War One, or the US Marines who, against all odds, made it across the
beaches of Guadal canal and Tarawa in World War Two.

Of Cadillac's clan-brothers, Hawk-Wind and Mack-Truck had fallen;
Motor-Head had survived, along with Black-Top, Steel-Eye and
Ten-Four.

Motor-Head had passed under The Lady seconds before Hartmann had given
the order to pipe steam.  A billowing cloud had engulfed him, searing
his back and arms just as he faced sure and certain death under the
guns of three linemen.  His attackers had turned and fled.  Terrified
by the ear-splitting scream that obliterated the shrieking death
agonies of his brother warriors Motor-Head had run blindly through the
burning clouds up onto the bank.  There he had paused long enough to
glimpse the hideous slaughter wrought by the breath of the snake, had
hurled his stone flail at the nearest sand-burrower in a last gesture
of defiance, then had run away.  · Motor-Head was brave to the point of
foolhardiness but he had enough wit to perceive that the iron snake and
its masters were strong in ways that the Plainfolk did not
understand.

Mr Snow had given wise counsel but, in one respect, he had been
mistaken.  The sand-burrowers were not animals.  They fought valiantly,
like men.  Motor-Head knew that, in single-combat, the Plainfolk were
the stronger but the sand-burrowers had strange, powerful sharp iron
whose crafting and function he could not even begin to comprehend and
against which the bravery of the Bears was like rain before the wind.

The Plainfolk were the greatest people on the earth but they were not
greater than the iron snake and its masters who lived beneath it.

Not yet.  But there would come a time when the sand-burrowers would be
defeated in battle.  The time prophesied by Mr Snow when Talisman, the
Thrice-Gifted One, would assume the leadership of the Plainfolk.

Mr Snow appeared.  A pale, grey, wizened figure, moving with faltering
step and the aid of a long, knotted staff, among the trees.  He moved
among the exhausted warriors, greeting them with words of comfort, his
face stricken with anguish at the sight of their raw wounds and scalded
limbs, swollen as if balloons had been inserted under the skin.  He sat
down facing Motor-Head.  'The Bears did well this day."

'.Not well enough,' muttered Motor-Head.  'We ran from the
sand-burrowers.  We have lost standing."  Tears trickled down his
cheeks.  'The Bears are nothing."

'The Bears have braved the breath of the snake, and the sharp iron of
its masters,' countered Mr Snow.  'Only the greatest of the Plainfolk
could have done that.  From this day you must learn a new kind of
courage - the courage to face failure, yes, even defeat."

Motor-Head's eyes flared angrily.  'She-ehh!  Where is the standing in
that?"

'Listen to me,' said Mr Snow firmly.  'Mark my words well.  It takes
great courage to fight bravely unto death.  The Bears possess this
courage.  Our clan-mothers give birth to heroes.  The M'Calls have
strong hearts.  Their fire songs have sung of their greatness since The
War of a Thousand Suns.  But it takes even greater courage to taste
fear, defeat and shame and still remain strong!  To face the power of
the sand-burrowers with your warrior's pride unbroken, ready to fight
again more bravely than before!"  Motor-Head eyed him stubbornly.  'You
told us we must have the courage of Bears but fight like coyotes.  Must
we also learn to run like fast-foot?  Must we turn tail, as they do, at
the first scent of danger?"

'Times are changing,' replied Mr Snow.  'The iron snake, the
sand-burrowers..."  He sighed.  'How can I make you understand?  This
is a whole new hall-game."

Motor-Head frowned.  'You talk in riddles, Old One.  The earth renews
itself, yellows at the Gathering and becomes old before the White
Death.  The clan-elders age, die, and are reborn in different bodies.

But some things do not change.  The love of Mo-Town, the Great Mother,
for her people.  The courage of the M'Calls whose fire songs you guard
within the head that we were born to defend.  A warrior who shows fear,
who runs from battle is without standing.  He must bite the arrow
before he is worthy to bear sharp iron again."

'I accept that,' said Mr Snow quietly.  'But you must also accept
something.  The old ways are finished.  The Plainfolk must learn new
ways to guard the earth until Talisman comes."

Clearwater was at the edge of the forest with a group of her sister
warriors when the four arrowheads were seen in the western sky.  Mr
Snow had ordered her to guard the clan-elders and the den-mothers who
had been persuaded to go deep into the forest with their newborn
infants and all children under five years old.  The She-Wolves - the
young, female warriors - were dispersed at various points around the
western edge of the forest ready to defend the hidden settlement if it
came under attack.  Clearwater was worried by the sight of the distant
arrowheads.  She had seen the burnt warriors brought back by the elders
and had learned of the deadly fire-eggs carried by the cloud
warriors.

If they should fall upon the forest...

Obliged by his renewed oath to stay out of the battle-lines, Cadillac
had helped to organise defence of the crop-fields.

This task had been given to the Bear Cubs - the M'Call children aged
from six to fourteen grouped under pack-leaders and reinforced by a
sizeable posse of She-Wolves.

Since the chin's treasured stock of crossbows had been taken by the
Bears to attack the wagon train, the remaining M'Calls were poorly
armed.  Cadillac possessed the only crossbow - the proud trophy he had
won in his combat with Shakatak D'Vine; the rest were equipped with
knife-sticks, sling-shots and stones, all virtually useless against an
attack from the air.

Like Clearwater, Cadillac had seen the devastating effects of the fire
from the sky.  If the cloud warriors returned there was little the Cubs
could do to stop them.  He and Mr Snow had agreed that the clan's
efforts should be directed towards limiting the damage caused by the
fire.  Neither had dwelt on the possibility that the cloud warriors
might not fly away immediately after dropping their eggs.  Cadillac had
put the thought resolutely from his mind and had concentrated on
teaching the Cubs and SheWolves how to make long-handled flat brooms
from bunches of red-leafed twigs and young saplings with which to beat
out the flames.  He did not appreciate that the carefully designed
adhesive qualities of napalm would render such precautions totally
ineffective.

The M'Call Cubs, their pack-leaders and the She-Wolves took up their
allotted stations; some around the edge of the cropfields; others at
strategic points within it.  The very young children ran from group to
group, bringing more stones to add to the piles which lay ready to be
hurled at any attacker.  The mood was one of defiant bravado mixed with
apprehension - not from any fear of the cloud warriors, but from the
worry about how they would acquit themselves.

Snake-Hips, a young She-Wolf, flung a pointing finger in the air and
called to Cadillac.  'Look!  They come!"  Cadillac turned and saw the
arrowheads circling over the mountains to the east; saw the sun flash
off their graceful wings as they dipped and swung round towards him.

Gripped by a tense feeling of excitement, Steve Brickman find Gus White
swooped down from the hills and banked low over the cropfields.  Gus
dropped a smoke-canister to check the strength and direction of the
wind; Steve studied the layout of the fields, trying to determine the
best place to lay down the napalm to cause maximum damage.  They were
met by a rising barrage of missiles.  Most of the hand-delivered ones
fell short; some of the sling-shot projectiles bounced noisily off
their cockpit pods or drummed against the taut wing fabric without
causing any damage.  One struck Gus White painfully in the side of the
neck.

'Little bastards,' he croaked to himself.

From his first low pass over the cropfields, Steve saw that the
hostiles were nothing more than a bunch of mainly unarmed kids who,
despite their show of defiance, posed no threat.  On the other hand, if
they did not move from their present position among the orange
cornfields, they stood a good chance of being barbecued when he and Gus
dropped their loads of napalm.

Steve passed this observation to Gus over the radio and suggested that
maybe they ought to try and scare the kids out of the fields first.

Gus's reply was swift and caustic.  'They ain't kids, god buddy.

They's little-bitty hostiles that grow up into big mean mothers.  We've
got to stop 'em now while we've got the chance.  As my old guardee used
to say, "There ain't nothin' that smells better than Southern Fried
Mute".

Yeee-HAH!"  Gus signed off with a rebel yell, did a fast wing-over and
fire-bombed the down-wind corner of the Mute cropfields.

Steve circled, stricken by a sudden reluctance to kill.  He was
conscious of being assailed by inexplicable, conflicting emotions as he
watched the young children, some of them on fire, run from the
spreading flames.  Others began falling with an untidy flurry of limbs
as Gus began picking them off with volleys from his air rifle.

Swallowing hard, Steve quickly regained his usual iron control and
headed back across the target area, dropping his own load of napalm in
an arc ahead of the fleeing children so as to cut off their escape.

'Look out!"  yelled Gus over the radio.  'One of those lumps has a
crossbow!  The sonofabitch just missed me by a whisker!"  Steve rammed
the throttle wide open and went up in a climbing turn, searching the
terrain below for the marksman.

Cadillac cursed himself for having missed the cloud warrior.  He cast
aside the bow and ran into the blazing cornfield to rescue a group of
panic-stricken Cubs.  Blinded by the rolling clouds of smoke and seared
by the terrible heat, their earlier bravado had turned into a
paralysing fear, rooting them to the' spot.  Cadillac somehow managed
to smother the sticky fire that was eating into some of their bodies
and shepherded them through the waist-high corn.

Despite his efforts, several of the children were gunned down by the
wheeling cloud warriors as they reached safety.

Seized by a terrible rage, and oblivious of the bullets that zinged
past him like angry mosquitoes, Cadillac ran to where he had dropped
the crossbow.  He snatched it up and, with a strength born from his
rage and desperation, tensioned the firing mechanism with one swift,
brutal movement.  With trembling fingers he scrabbled in the pouch on
his belt for his last remaining bolt.

Gus White, in the middle of a steep turn around his port wing-tip,
spotted Cadillac loading the crossbow.  Pulling his rifle into the
shoulder, Gus brought the red aiming dot out by the optical sight onto
Cadillac's chest and pulled the trigger.  Nothing happened.  His gun
had jammed.

Gus uttered a string of obscenities, rolled quickly over to starboard
and began to jink across the sky in the manner of the late Jodi
Kazan.

Steve heard the tail-end ofGus's imprecations followed by the news of
his jammed gun and the location of the Mute crossbowman.  The vital
details entered his ear while he was flying in precisely the opposite
direction.  Twisting round in his seat, Steve spotted Cadillac on the
ground behind him.

He threw the Skyhawk into a steep right-hand turn.  The last targets he
had fired at had been to port so his rifle, hanging on its overhead
mount was on the left side of the cockpit.  He reached over and grasped
the pistol grip to bring the mount and the rifle across and into his
shoulder.  The manoeuvre was only half-completed as he banked round
towards his target.

In the vital second before Cadillac came into Steve's sights, Cadillac
fired his crossbow.  The bolt shot skywards with terrifying speed,
punched through the upper part of $teve's raised right arm and pinned
it to his flying helmet.

Entering the helmet at a steep angle above the ear, the bolt gouged
through Steve's scalp, striking his skull a grazing blow and came to
rest with the barbed point poking out through the crown.  Stunned by
the force of the blow, Steve fought to retain consciousness.  The world
began to spin; became a blur as he lost control ...

In Unit 18, Gallery 3, on Level One of Inner State U at Grand Central,
Roz Brickman, who had been filled with a sense of foreboding all day,
tried to blot out yet another confused image of blood, broken bodies
and flames that threatened to engulf her.  It was a losing battle.  She
felt a sharp blow on the head and, in the same instant, a searing pain
shot through her upper right arm forcing an involuntary scream from her
lips.  The startled students working on either side saw Roz leap up
from her seat in front of an electron microscope with her right arm
folded across her head.  She spun round, her eyes turned up under the
lids then collapsed, unconscious, hitting the floor before anyone could
catch her.

Summoned from his adjacent office, the medical supervisor in charge of
the class found that Roz was bleeding from a shallow scalp wound which
he assumed had been caused through her fall to the floor.  He was,
however, unable to account for the additional loss of blood which, when
her lab coat had been removed, was found to be issuing from deep wounds
in her upper arm.

Cadillac watched impassively as the arrowhead spiralled down and made a
crash landing in the middle of the burning cornfield.  Five hundred
feet above, Gus White was still trying to unjam his rifle.  He swore
through clenched teeth as he tugged at the solidly locked breech but
could not find a way to free it.  Now that he had nothing to shoot with
- apart from the air pistol that was part of his survival kit - Gus did
not feel like hanging around.  He knew it meant leaving Steve in the
shit but with a Mute marksman somewhere underneath him he stood to get
a bolt coming up through his seat at any minute.  In any case, Steve
was probably dead.

Unaware that Cadillac had fired his last bolt, Gus jinked back across
the cropfield to take stock of Steve's situation.

'Blue Seven to Blue Three.  Come in.  Over."

After a moment's silence Steve came on the air.  'Blue Three, have
been, uh - hit.  Can you, uh - can you - cover me?"

'No chance, good buddy,' said Gus.  'My gun's still out.

The only thing I can hit 'em with is a pair of dirty socks and I can't
get my boots off.  How are you fixed for taking out that lump with the
crossbow?"

A long gasp preceded Steve's reply.  'Can't reach my rifle."

'That's tough,' said Gus.  'You hurt bad?"

'Yeah, but - as far as I can tell it's, uh - nothing that Keever can't
handle."

Keever was the surgeon-captain who led the medical team aboard The
Lady.

Gus made a wide circle around the burning cropfield.

'Okay, listen - you hang on in there, good buddy.  I'll go get some
help."

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Gus rock his wings in salute as
he climbed away in the direction of the forest.

The anaesthetising shock of the bolt's impact was beginning to wear off
and Steve was now increasingly conscious of the pain emanating from his
right arm.  He also found it difficult to breathe.  He was lying on his
left side, with his left leg twisted at an odd angle in the crumpled
wreckage of the cockpit pod.  Steve managed to undo his safety harness
but found that any attempt to move his left arm in any other direction
generated an excruciating pain in his shoulder.  He could also feel
blood seeping out of the wound in his scalp.  It was running down over
his face and neck.  He managed to get his left hand up far enough to
unclip his visor but he could not raise it more than halfway.  Its
movement was blocked by his pinned right arm.  He began to fumble at
the helmet chin straps.  If he could loosen the helmet and somehow get
it off his head he might then...

He stopped for a moment, breathing with short quick gasps, willing
himself not to cry out in pain.  It was going to be all right.  Gus
would come back with Fazetti and Naylor.

He would come back and...

When it was clear that the remaining cloud warrior had turned tail and
fled, Cadillac and several of the She-Wolves plunged back into the
burning cornfield to rescue more of the M'Call Cubs.

Hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, Steve saw a straight-limbed
Mute run past him without giving him a second glance.  The thought that
he was going to be left to burn to death filled him with dread.  He
could already feel waves of heat from the approaching flames and was
beginning to choke on the acrid smoke drifting over him.

Cadillac passed the broken arrowhead with a group of singed,
smoke-stained children.  They stopped and looked down at the trapped
cloud warrior with expressionless faces.

Steve stretched his left hand out towards them in a pain-filled gesture
of supplication.  'Help me,' he gasped.

' Please..."

The straight-limbed Mute eyed him for a moment then ushered the silent,
dull-eyed children out of his line of sight.

Steve cursed them silently.  Bastard, fucking lumpheads.

His thoughts drifted back to his own predicament.  What an end to all
his high hopes!  And what a dumb way to go roasting in fire that he had
helped start!  The irony of the situation did not escape him.  He clung
desperately to the hope that all was not lost.  He could not really
trust that yellow sonofabitch but if Gus did manage to unjam his gun he
might come back with Fazetti and Naylor.  All it needed was someone
with enough balls to land and pull him out while the other two flew
cover.  A Skyhawk without any ordinance could carry a passenger.  It
would mean a fresh air ride on the external racks but he was prepared
to risk that if...

A searing wave of heat struck Steve.  With his right arm pinned to his
helmet he could barely move his head.  He arched his body and succeeded
in edging it round a few inches.  A violent stab of pain shot up
through his chest.

Looking to his left through his half-raised visor he saw the flames
begin to consume the corn around the port wing-tip of the Skyhawk.  The
fabric started to smoulder.  Ignoring the pain in both his arms, Steve
clawed frantically at his rifle, trying to pull it near enough to be
able to shoot himself before the flames reached him.  His efforts
proved hopeless.

He could not get a firm enough grip to free the gun from its
mounting.

Steve took several painful breaths and, with increasing desperation,
tried again.  The straight-limbed Mute and two young lumpheads moved
back into his field of vision.

Acting on the command of an inner voice, Cadillac leaned forward and
forced open the dark head shield of the fallen cloud warrior.  The face
beneath was covered in blood.

Cadillac studied it carefully.  It matched the one revealed to him by
the seeing-stone.

Steve's hopes began to rise.  He had not forgotten the horrific tales
of Bad News Logan; he was just clinging, with total illogicality to the
hope that somehow, something would happen to save him.  If he could
just get out of the cornfield...

The straight-limbed Mute stepped back with a grunt.

Steve's hopes plummeted as the Mute turned his attention to the air
rifle.  He tugged, heaved, fiddled with locking devices and finally
managed to wrestle it off its mount.  With blurring vision, Steve
watched'the Mute inspect the weapon cautiously, fingering the trigger,
then looking down the three barrels.  Steve let out a sobbing,
pain-wracked laugh.

Oh, Columbus, what a stupid world!  Brought down by an idiot who's
going to leave me here to burn because he doesn't know how to shoot
me...

The Mute tossed the rifle to the young lumphead on his right.  The kid
clutched it proudly across his chest, trigger guard up, barrels down.

The other two Mutes moved out of sight.  Steve felt someone tugging at
the airframe.  It was being twisted around and dragged away from the
flames.

The movement caused him to flop about like a rag doll.  He let out a
scream of pain.  The straight-limbed Mute returned and leaned over him,
a knife clenched between his teeth.

Oh, jeeze, yes, of course, thought Steve, remembering his talks with
Kazan.  Crossbow bolts are in short supply.  This guy wants his back
and so he's - going to cut my fucking arm off.  Great.  Steve viewed
the prospect with a curious detachment.  Time seemed to have slowed
down.  The pain throbbing through his body was now so intense it had
surpassed his capacity to react to it.  His nerve-endings had become
overloaded.  Nothing mattered anymore...

Cadillac and his helpers had turned the arrowhead around so that the
wings lay between them and the flames but even so, they were
uncomfortably close.  He took the knife from his mouth and slid the
point under the chin-straps of the cloud warrior's helmet.  The warrior
shuddered as the blade touched his throat.  Cadillac cut through the
chin-straps and slowly eased off the helmet and the arm pinned to it.

The warrior's blood-soaked head lolled onto his left shoulder; glazed
eyes wandering under half-open lids.

Cadillac considered the problem of the bolt.  It was stuck firmly
through the helmet in two places.  The helmet itself was crafted from a
strange material, like polished bone, upon which his knife made little
impression.  Cadillac beckoned to Three-Son of T-Rex and told him to
take hold of the cloud warrior's right arm.  Three-Son gripped the arm
on either side of the bolt and braced himself.  Grasping the helmet
firmly with both hands, Cadillac put a knee against the cloud warrior's
chest and yanked hard, pulling the bolt with its sharp stubby fins
through his arm.

It did not come out easily.

Steve's eyes almost popped out of his head.  He bared his teeth, mouth
opening wide, sucking breath into his chest to fuel a tortured
scream.

It never came.  He blacked out instead.

Having climbed beyond the normal range of Mute crossbows, Gus White
switched radio channels and tried to raise Fazetti and Naylor.  The net
result, after several attempts, was a deafening silence.  Circling the
forest area at two and a half thousand feet Gus could see no sign of a
napalm strike on the vast red canopy of leaves below him.

He cut his motor and criss-crossed the area in a series of shallow
glides, losing fifteen hundred feet of altitude before levelling out.

Eventually he spotted a ragged patch of blue.

On closer investigation, Gus saw that it was the tangled wreckage of
two Skyhawks speared on the upper branches of one of the closely packed
tall trees.  He called up The Lady, reported the successful firing of
the cropfields then gave them the bad news; Steve's crash landing and
his sighting of what looked like the wreckage of the Skyhawks flown by
Naylor and Fazetti.

The reply from the wagon train was uncommunicative.

'Roger, Blue Seven.  Return to base.  Out."

terse and

Above the escarpment, where the surviving M'Call Bears had gathered, Mr
Snow saw the black smoke rising from the direction of the cropfields.

High above him, a lone arrowhead glided silently westwards across the
blue.  Mr Snow eyed it with a mixture of caution, envy and cold
hatred.

He would have dearly loved to have been able to scramble the cloud
warior's brain and bring him plummeting.down but he was fresh out of
magic.  It would be several days, perhaps even a week before he could
summon up the powers of the earth again.  He hoped it would be longer
for it was an ordeal he did not relish.

With nearly two hundred and fifty warriors left dead and dying around
the iron snake, plus those killed earlier by the cloud warriors, the
fighting strength of the clan had been cut by over a third.  Although
seriously weakened, the M'Calls were still numerically stronger than
many neighbouring clans but another full-scale assault on the iron
snake was out of the question.  Alliances would have to be
considered.

Mr Snow did not relish the prospect of the endless negotiations
involved.  If only Talisman would come!  In the meantime, however,
there was only one thing to do: head for the hills.

They had to find a secure, sheltered base where they could heal the
wounded and rebuild the shattered confidence of the Bears, and they had
to find new stocks of food to see them through the White Death.

Two She-Wolf messengers reached him in quick succession.  One had been
sent by the small rear guard that had stayed to watch the iron snake.

She reported that the snake had broken into two pieces.  The tail had
become a new head; half its body had crawled out of the river and was
heading towards the escarpment, puffing out clouds of its burning white
breath.  Deep-Purple, the other She-Wolf, sent by Cadillac, brought the
bad news that the cropfields had been almost totally destroyed by
fire.

She also had a second message for Mr Snow from Cadillac.  The cloud
warrior the Sky Voices had spoken of had been delivered into their
hands.

When Gus White reached the Now and Then River, he found that the rear
command and power cars plus nine of the wagons had been freed and were
now parked up on the east bank from where its guns could command the
surrounding area.  Gus buzzed the mobile element of the train - which
included the flat-topped flight section - then turned and made a low
pass back along the river.  He saw Barber's men swarming round the
front five wagons.  They still lay across the river bed but were no
longer tilted over.  A few of the guys in the work party stopped and
waved to him as he flashed past.

Gus called up Flight Control and got the green to land on.

Baxter, the F.O.O met him as he came down on the lift.

Gus pulled himself out of the cockpit of his Skyhawk and saluted.  'Has
the Chief transferred over too, sir?"

'No,' said Baxter.  'He's outside giving the boys a hand."

He led the way to the Ops Room of the rear command car and put Gus
through the normal debriefing procedure.  Gus described the successful
strike on the cropfields and explained how his rifle had jammed at the
crucial moment when Steve was hit and brought down.

'So you left him in the burning cornfield."  Baxter's voice carried no
hint of condemnation.

'I had no choice, sir,' said Gus.  'The place was crawling with
hostiles who were none too pleased with us for roasting t. heir com.

Without my rifle..."

Yes, sure..."

'I figured if I could get Fazetti and Naylor to fly cover for me ' 'But
you couldn't raise them..."

'No, sir."

'Was Brickman alive when you left?"

'Just about.  He didn't sound too chipper."

'Okay.  We'll write him off."  Baxter made an entry on his electronic
notepad against Brickman's name.  PD/ET/ BNR: 'Powered down in enemy
territory.  Body not recovered'.  Baxter added the date and keyed the
fate of Brickman.  S.R. into the pad's memory, leaving the small flat
grey screen clear.

Baxter then listened as Gus reported, in greater detail, his sighting
of the tangled wreckage of two Skyhawks in the forest.  'Must be
Fazetti and Naylor,' he observed, when Gus concluded his account.

Gus looked bewildered.  'What happened?"

'We're not quite sure,' said Baxter slowly.  'All we know is we got a
Mayday call from Naylor saying that Fazetti had flipped his lid and
started shooting at him.  The Chief told Naylor to shoot back."

'Columbus I' breathed Gus.  'And?"

Baxter shrugged.  'Who knows?  Naylor must have been slow on the
trigger."

Gus gave him a stunned look.  'But - I mean - why would - ?"

'Good question,' replied Baxter.  'All I can tell you is that little
item won't be reported to Grand Central.  It'll just be a straight
PD/ET entry like Brickman's."

'Wow ..."  breathed Gus.  'Nine Skyhawks down in one day.  If the
Federation's going to lick these Plainfolk Mutes into shape we're going
to have to do better than this."

'Damn right we are."  Baxter stood up from the table.  Gus leapt to his
feet.  The F.O.O. eyed him.  'I should warn you that if that jam in
your rifle turns out to have been caused by faulty rounds you could
draw a spell in the tank.

"Negligence while on active duty"."

Gus stiffened to attention.  'Yes, sir, I'm aware of that, sir.

It would mean that you'd be the only one aboard capable of flying
forward air patrols."

Baxter's expression did not change.  'I'll bear that in mind when I
receive the armourer's report.  Dismiss."

Gus saluted smartly, turned on his heel and left.

In the forest, Clearwater watched with hated breath as a group of
She-Wolves clambered up through the branches to the wrecked
arrowheads.

The bodies of the cloud warriors were cut free from their retaining
straps and dropped unceremoniously to the ground.  An attempt was made
to dismantle bits of the aircraft.  Various wires and control leads
were ripped out but the larger items proved difficult to dislodge.

Most of the scavenging Mutes contented themselves with pieces of the
metallic blue solar cell fabric.

Returning to earth with their trophies they gathered round the two dead
cloud warriors and watched as their visored helmets and clothes were
removed.  The pale, olive-pink bodies were almost hairless.  A jostling
crowd of spectators gathered to view the bodies then the heads of the
sand-burrowers were hacked off and mounted on stakes outside the hut
which Clearwater shared with three of her clan-sisters.

Ultra-Vox, the leader of the tree-climbing expedition, gravely
presented one of the cloud warrior's helmets to Clearwater.  It was a
tribute, in recognition of the powers she had summoned forth to bring
them tumbling from the sky.

Clearwater squatted outside her hut between the heads of the cloud
warriors with the prized helmet cradled in her lap.

She felt drained by the power that had passed through her but, this
time, she had not been weakened to the point of collapse.  Even though
Mr Snow had said that the Sky Voices had chosen her to receive this
priceless gift she was still afraid of the mysterious strength that now
lurked within her.  She was also troubled by the striking resemblance
between her own body, and Cadillac's, and those of the
sand-burrowers.

Their young faces which now stared sightlessly from the stakes on
either side of the doorway had the same even teeth; the same slim
jaw.

It was as if they had been cast from the same mould.  She knew she
should have felt elated by this victory but she did not.  She felt
saddened and confused.  It was as if, with their deaths, part of
herself had died.  And the fact that she had fallen prey to such
thoughts disturbed her even more.

Buck McDonnell, the Trail Boss, led the cheers as the front wagons of
The Lady rolled up the now-dry mud slope onto the bank of the Now and
Then River.  Fifteen minutes later, the two sections were hitched
together and she was ready to roll.  With only one wingman to provide
cover, over sixty wounded linemen and another thirty-seven lying under
the floor in body-bags, Hartmann decided to head back to one of the
main way-stations to seek assistance and await reinforcements.  He
ordered Captain Ryder, the Navigation Exec to set course for Kansas.

When Roz Brickman recovered consciousness some ten minutes after
hitting the floor she found herself undergoing a detailed examination
by the Assistant Chief Pathologist at Inner State U. Both wounds had
ceased to bleed and the agonising pain had beenreduced to a dull
ache.

The A.C.P.

obse?ved that the upper right cranium had been scored by a fibbed metal
object and, by means of a probe, was able to establish that her right
biceps brachii and the surrounding epidermis had been pierced
laterally.  Close inspection of the entry and exit points revealed that
the wound had probably been caused by the passage of a pointed metal
rod approximately one centimetre in diameter with four small vanes at
the tip.  A similar object could have caused the scalp wound.

Despite a thorough search of Unit 18 and a body check of the students
and staff present when the accident occurred, no such object was found,
nor was anything else that might have caused a similar injury.  The
right sleeve of Brickman's lab coat was also found to be intact.

Neither the Assistant Chief Pathologist, nor anyone else associated
with the preliminary investigation was able to explain how any object
could have passed through Roz Brickman's arm without first passing
through the woven fabric of the surrounding sleeve.

Eight hours after collapsing, no trace of either injury could be
discerned.  Roz was hospitalised and kept under observation for
twenty-four hours and a Confidential report on the incident was
transmitted to the White House.  The Amtrak Executive responded
immediately by despatching two special investigators, one male, one
female.  Despite skilful and outwardly sympathetic interrogation Roz
did not reveal the terrifying visions that had assailed her, especially
the last one in which she felt herself falling out of the sky.

After a final examination of her now-healed arm and head, the two
investigators returned to the White House.

On the following day, Roz learned that the incident file had been
closed.  She was formally discharged from the intensive care unit and
told to resume her course studies.

When she rejoined her class, she found that - apart from asking how she
felt - her fellow students were unwilling to discuss the incident.  Roz
didn't mind.  She didn't want to talk about it either.  It was too
dangerous.  Who would believe that she knew, with utter certainty, that
her kin-brother had been hit by a crossbow bolt?  Had crashed.  Been
injured, and was now in the hands of the Plainfolk ...

THIRTEEN

When Steve recovered consciousness, he found himself lying in
semi-darkness, wearing only his underpants, on a layer of furry animal
skins.  His air-conditioned sense of smell was immediately overwhelmed
by the strange odours.

He tried to close his nostrils to filter out the foulness that hung on
the air but could not prevent it entering his lungs.

He gagged silently; felt nauseated.

A small, lean-bodied Mute with long, braided white hair knelt over him,
tending the wound in his scalp.  Still woozy, Steve raised his head far
enough to glance down at his body.

His chest, both shoulders and his upper arms were bandaged; his left
leg was held, from thigh to heel, in a rudimentary splint.  Beyond it,
sitting crosslegged on a buffalo skin, was the straight-limbed Mute who
had pulled the bolt out through his arm.  He met Steve's eyes with the
same impassive expression he had worn when rescuing him from the
burning cropfield.

Steve laid his head back on the furs.  He let out a long sigh and
coughed, trying to clear the rising bile from his throat.

The environmental stink hung so thick on the air it seemed to have
coated his tongue; filled every pore.

'Welcome back,' said the old Mute.

The shock of hearing the Mute speak the same language in a clear,
comprehensible voice brought Steve's senses back in a rush.  Stung by
the sudden realisation of what was happening to him, he jerked his head
away from the old Mute's ministering hands.  It was an automatic
reflex.  All Trackers knew that Mutes had diseased skin which, if
touched even briefly, caused your own body to rot.

The old Mute sat back on his heels with a patient sigh.

'Don't you want me to fix your head?"

'There's no point,' muttered Steve.  'If you touch me, I'll die
anyway."

The old Mute's weathered face creased into a smile.  He chuckled into
his beard then jerked his head at the straight-limbed Mute.  'Hold this
nit-wit down, will you?"

Cadillac uncrossed his legs and knelt on the opposite side of Mr Snow's
patient.  He placed one hand firmly on the cloud warrior's chin, and
the other on the crown of his head.

The warrior's lack of self-control had been a great surprise.

He seemed terrified, his eyes rolled wildly, but he was unable to put
up much of a struggle because of his injuries.

Were all sand-burrowers like this?  Maybe, thought Cadillac, their
courage has been swallowed up by their powerful sharp iron.  If so, the
Plainfolk had nothing to fear.

'I'll give him five threads of Dream Cap,' muttered Mr Snow.  'That
should quieten him down a bit."  He addressed the cloud warrior.

'You're a very mixed-up young man."

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the white-haired Mute rummage
amongst various bags and baskets, finally producing a small skin pouch
from which he extracted a few short strands of a greyish-brown
substance between thumb and forefinger.  He held them out to Steve.

'Chew this."

Cadillac forced the cloud warrior's mouth wide open.  Mr Snow inserted
the shredded dose of Dream Cap, then Cadillac clamped the warrior's jaw
shut.

'Okay, don't chew it,' grumped Mr Snow.  'It makes no difference.

You'll have to swallow it eventually."

Steve held out for about a minute then relented.  He chewed the strands
briefly then steeled himself to swallow them.  The taste was strange,
but not unpleasant.  Ahhgh, what does it matter?  he thought
bitterly.

He was going to die anyway.  The idea that he might somehow escape
death, his confused appeal for help in the cornfield, had been part of
a pain-filled fantasy.  Someone, probably the old Mute, had tended his
injuries with unsuspected medical skills but it didn't make sense.

unless they were saving him for the big event.  The Annual Torture
Stakes - which he was no doubt destined to win by a head.

Terrific...

In spite of such dire prospects Steve began to find that his anxiety
was fading.  The pain from the broken parts of his body was also
gradually easing.  He felt agreeably lightheaded; weightless; could no
longer feel the ground beneath him.  He didn't feel like struggling any
more.  He just lay back and let himself float.

Cadillac let go of the cloud-warrior's head.  He sat back on his heels
and watched Mr Snow carefully unwrap the bandage on his patient's right
arm.  He peeled off a mash of red leaves and examined the raw, gaping
wound.  'Hmmphh ... he's lucky it was one of your bolts.  If it hadn't
been clean..."

'Is it bad?"  asked Steve, in a faraway voice.

'It'll take a while to heal, but it's clean.  Whether or not you'll
recover the full use of your arm is up to you but at least you'll have
something to hang your right hand on.  Okay...

hold still."  Mr Snow used a sliver of wood to poke a fresh mash made
from pulped herbs into both ends of the hole and bound up the wound.

Steve eyed the straight-limbed Mute.  His attention was fixed on what
the old guy was doing.  Steve looked back over his head and saw, to his
right, a yellow flame flickering in a small hollowed-out stone.  He
took closer stock of his surroundings.  The three of them were in a low
eight-sided hut made out of wood and what he presumed were animal
skins.  The light poles that edged each panel curved over some five
feet off the ground and sloped inwards to meet its neighbours in the
centre of the shallow pitched roof.  The poles fitted into a wooden
ring which was open in the centre and was evidently some type of flue;
no doubt to provide badly-needed ventilation.  There were a number of
untidy bundles and baskets piled round the inside edge but nothing that
Steve could recognise as furniture.  Compared with the ordered,
antiseptic layout of his shack on the quarterdeck of the Academy the
hut was, frankly, a mess.

Steve could hear voices and sounds of activity coming from outside the
hut.  And music of a kind he had never heard before but which recalled
the wind whips used in the attack on The Lady.  It had a strange,
haunting quality that reached deep into his psyche, evoking a troubling
response.

He turned his attention back onto the young Mute kneeling by his left
side and noticed that he only had four fingers and one thumb on each
hand.  Steve's mood was too detached to ponder deeply on the
significance of this discovery but it occurred to him that, apart from
his long hair, the only physical feature that distinguished the Mute
from himself-or any other Tracker - was the random pattern of black,
brown, dark-cream and olive-pink that covered his skin.

The old, white-haired, bearded Mute was a true six-fingered lumphead
with an uneven row oftumour-like bone growths across his forehead.  His
vari-coloured skin was further disfigured by strange knotted patches on
his arms and cheekbones but, contrary to what Steve had been led to
expect, the old Mute's eyes sparkled with intelligence - as did those
of his young companion.

'What's wrong with the rest of me?asked Steve, as the old Mute
completed his skilled inspection of Steve's injuries.

'You've got a simple fracture of the left shin-bone, a badly sprained
ankle, at least three cracked ribs, severe bruising of the left
shoulder and a slight dent in your skull.  You may have what used to be
called a hairline fracture.  In the Old Time, there were things for
looking through bones but they don't exist anymore."

'X-ray machines,' said Steve.

The old Mute nodded.  'Is that what they were called?"

'They still are,' replied Steve.  'All the medical centres of the
Federation have them.  We've got all kinds of electronic scanning
equipment."

'I see, well, you're going to have to get by without all that,' said Mr
Snow.  'Not to worry.  Your brain's still in one piece."

Steve lay on the furs, his body limp, unresisting.  'Feels like it's
leaking out of my ears."

'That's the Dream Cap,' said Mr Snow.  'It's good stuff.

Helps you to loosen up."

Steve nodded.  'We have pain killers too.  Small pills called Cloud
Nines."

Cadillac looked surprised.  'You have clouds in your burrows?"

'No, of course not.  Clouds are part of the blue-sky world.

And let's get one thing straight.  We don't live in burrows.

Those are for animals.  We live on bases - like big cities.  In clean
quarters with plenty of room, light, fresh air."  Steve waved his left
hand limply.  'A heck of a lot better than this lousy dump."

Mr Snow had never heard the words 'lousy dump' before but he guessed
their meaning from the tone of the cloud warrior's voice.  'Tell me,'
he said affably.  'Do you have a name?"

'I've got a name and a number,' answered Steve.

'29028902 Brickman, S.R. or, if you prefer to be less formal, Steven
Roosevelt Brickman."

Cadillac repeated the number with awe.  '29028902...

Talisman!  That is a powerful number!  More than all the raindrops in
the sky.  More than all the stars in Mo-Town's cio.  ak."  He looked at
Mr Snow.  'Did you know there were so many people under the earth?"

Mr Snow did not answer.  He turned to Steve.  'This number, and the
names you bear.  What do they mean?"

'I don't know what you're getting at,' said Steve.  'They're just
names."

'No name is just a name,' replied Mr Snow quietly.  'Every word has
meaning.  There must be a reason why you were given this number and
these names."

'Ahh, I get it,' said Steve.  He continued to gaze up at the flickering
light on the roof of the hut.  '29028902 is my personal identification
number.  The number on my ID Card -' His hand went automatically to the
appropriate chest pocket then he remembered that he'd been stripped of
everything except his underpants.

'ID Card?"  queried Cadillac.

'My identity card,' explained Steve.  'It's to let people know who I
am."

'Do you not know who you are?"

'Yes, of course I do.  The card is to prove I am who I say I am."

Cadillac's puzzlement increased.  'But - why would you say you were
someone else?  Are you not known to your clan-brothers and sisters?"

I'm talking to an idiot, thought Steve.  'Look -' he began, then gave
up.  'Forget that.  The real reason we have a card is so that we can
access the services controlled by Columbus.

It's a big computer ' 'Computer?"

'A word from the Old Time,' observed Mr Snow.

'A machine that runs things,' explained Steve.  'With thousands of
access points all over the Federation.  That's why you need a number.

You feed your card into a slot and the number and other magnetic data
on it is passed to Columbus.  That's how it knows who you are.  With
the help of the computer you can - depending on your credit rating
access all kinds of services: food, databanks, transit systems,
video-communications.  Your number allows you to establish an
interface.  You can't exist without it."

Cadillac nodded thoughtfully.  'So many strange words, strange ideas.

I cannot get my mind round them."

'His world is not ours,' said Mr Snow.  'It will take time to
understand these things."  He turned to Steve.  'Tell us about your
names."

'Steve - Steven is my Family name, given to me when I was born by the
President-General; Roosevelt is the name of the base where I live
"Roosevelt Field".  Brickman is my kin-folk name.  The name of my
guardians."

'Guardians?"  Mr Snow raised his eyebrows.  'Were you kept as a
prisoner on this - base?"

Steve replied with a wry laugh.  'No.  My guardians were the two people
assigned to look after me when I was born."

'Do you not have an earth-mother and father?"  asked Cadillac.

Steve did not fully understand the question.  'My guard-mother carried
me for the first nine months of my life.  My father was the
President-General.  Head of the First Family.

The father of all life within the Federation."

'President-General - is this the name you give to your chief elder?"

asked Cadillac.

'No, that's his title.  His name is George Washington Jefferson the
31st."

'If he is more powerful, why does he have less numbers than you?"

Steve smiled.  'It's a different kind of number.  He doesn't need an ID
Card.  He is the thirty-first Jefferson to head the Amtrak
Federation.

The Jeffersons have run things from the very beginning.  They were the
beginning.  That's why they're called the First Family."  The words
tripped off Steve's tongue.  'They gave us the light, and the air we
breathe, they invent things, they design our cities, they can do
anything.  They taught Columbus everything it knows.

They are our leaders, our teachers, our counsellors, our guides on the
path to the Blue-Sky World."  End of lesson.

'The President-General is their chief elder.  The top man."

'The capo th capi,' murmured Mr Snow.

'The what?"

'Capo th capi,' said Mr Snow.  'Chief of the chiefs.  The godfather.

The top man.  Do you not know all the words from the Old Time."

'Not that one,' said Steve.

Mr Snow smiled.  'Then perhaps you may learn something from us.  As we
hope to -' Cadillac, impressed by the catalogue of the Jefferson's
gifts forgot his usual deference and cut in impatiently.  'This great
chief you speak of.  You say he is - your father?"

Steve dropped his head back on the furs.  'I already told you.  He's
everybody's father."

Cadillac gave Mr Snow a questioning look.  Mr Snow raised his
eyebrows.

'Must be a busy man..."

Cadillac looked down at Steve.  'Which of your three names is your Name
of Power?"

'I don't know what you're talking about,' murmured Steve.  His eyes
wandered over the roof of the hut.  He was finding it increasingly
difficult to answer the pointless questions these two oddballs kept
coming up with.

'You are a cloud warrior,' explained Cadillac.  'Do you not have a name
which gives you the strength to fight?"

'I don't need one,' replied Steve.  'I've been trained to fight.  Names
have nothing to do with it."

'But you have just told us of your great chief.  Is Jefferson not a
name of power?"

'Not in the way you mean,' replied Steve.  'I could be called Pete,
Dick, Jim, Larry, anything.  It's just a handle.

Whatever I was called I'd still be me.  And so would the
President-General."

Cadillac was perplexed by Steve's answer/He looked at Mr Snow for
guidance.  Mr Snow said nothing.  Cadillac looked down at their
prisoner.  'But your name is the essence of your being.  A name of
power enables your spirit to draw strength from the earth and sky."

'Maybe for you,' replied Steve amiably.  'We don't need any of that
garbage."

Cadillac raised his eyes to Mr Snow.  'Garbage...?"

'It must be another word from the Old Time,' said his mentor.  He
whispered it to himself.  'Garbage...mmm, not bad..."  He made a mental
note to ask the cloud warrior to explain its meaning.

Cadillac tried another question.  'Do you not believe that there are
powers in the earth and sky.>' 'There are forces,' admitted Steve.

'Gravitational forces, geomagnetic forces, static electricity, wind and
water power.  The way it all works is very simple.  We know how the
world functions.  But when you talk about "essence, spirit, names of
power", I don't know what words like that mean.

Ideas about there being something else, some invisible power, are a
waste of time.  It's all nonsense - like the magic you people are
supposed to have.  If you can't see it through a microscope or prove
something works by the laws of physics, or whatever, then it doesn't
exist."

'That's an interesting point of view,' mused Mr Snow.

'It's the only point of view,' muttered Steve.  He felt burned out by
the effort needed to maintain a coherent conversation.  He gazed up at
the roof of the hut again.  His captors squatted silently on either
side of him.  Steve got the impression that they were waiting for him
to say something enlightening.  He made an effort to focus on their
previous conversation.  'Roosevelt was a very powerful man,' he
ventured helpfully.  'He was President of America.  A great warrior who
ruled the blue-sky world for a long time."

'Ahhh,' said Cadillac.  'Now I understand.  Roosevelt is your name of
power."

'If you say so,' replied Steve.  'It doesn't make any difference to
me."  He raised his head.  'What are you called?"

'My name is Cadillac of the clan M'CalI, First-born of Sky-Walker out
of Black-Wing."

'cadillac... is that a name of power?"

'Yes."

'Cadillac..."  repeated Steve.  'I never heard that word before.

Interesting."  He turned to the old, white-haired lumphead.  'How about
you?"

'My name is Mr Snow."  ' 'Is that on account of your hair?  Or is that
a name of power too?"

Mr Snow shook his head.  'I am not a warrior.  My name was taken from
the words of an ancient song."

'From the Old Time,' added Cadillac proudly.  'Before the War of a
Thousand Suns."

'I guess you must be talking of what we call the Holocaust.  Nearly a
thousand years ago..."

Mr Snow nodded.

'-So what are you - the doctor for these people?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'Among other things."

'Like what?"

'He is a wordsmith,' said Cadillac with a proud sweep of his hand.

'The greatest and wisest of them all."

Mr Snow shrugged modestly and motioned his pupil to be silent.

Cadillac, intent on extolling his teacher's virtues, pressed on
regardless.  'His tongue reaches back beyond the beginning of the
Plainfolk to the world that was lost in the fire-clouds.  He knows of
ice-huts piled one upon the other until they touched the clouds, giant
beetles with men in their bellies, square baskets of frozen water full
of music and pictures ' 'You mean television sets ' 'And jewels!"

cried Cadillac, flaunting his newly acquired knowledge.  'All these
things and more.  Much more than even your President-General!"  'I
doubt it,' countered Steve.  'Can he read?  Can he type?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'You already know the answer.  It is true that my eye
does not know the signs for the words I speak, and that my hand cannot
draw them in the earth.  But we of the Plainfolk have other gifts.  The
wisdom of the Sky Voices is greater than the all words that lie buried
in your dark cities.  We pass on knowledge in other ways."  He reached
out to touch Cadillac's head.  'This is the book on which I have made
my mark.  It has more leaves than the greatest forest."

'It's a book that can be destroyed,' observed Steve.

'If Talisman wills it,' admitted Mr Snow.  'Man, and the works of man
pass away like flowers before the White Death.  This Columbus of which
you speak and which knows so much is also the work of men.  It too can
be ground to dust ' 'I doubt it,' said Steve.  'Columbus survived the
Holocaust.  It was built in what you call the Old Time and it's
constantly being rebuilt - bigger and better than before.

It will last for ever."

Mr Snow shook his head.  'Nothing lasts forever.  And when the day
comes for it to return to the earth, the power you draw from it will
pass through your fingers like the wind.  But consider this: your iron
snake sent many of our warriors to the High Ground.  It may return with
others and succeed in killing us all.  Our past may perish with us, but
you will never destroy true knowledge.  That is the gift of the Sky
Voices -and they are beyond the reach ofevenyour long sharp iron."

Steve felt a pang of remorse.  He had been party to the killing the old
Mute spoke of.  Whatever his final fate might be, these so-called
savages had not left him to burn.  'Listen, before we go any further, I
just want to say thanks for straightening out my leg and everything.

After what happened back there in the cropfields..."

'Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks,' said Mr Snow quietly.

'Well, I guess you both know what I mean."  Steve looked at each of
them in turn then dropped his head back with a resigned sigh.  'Are you
guys going to kill me?"  In his present mood of sedate euphoria, the
prospect did not concern him unduly.

'Not unless there's a change of plan,' said Mr Snow.

'Great,' replied Steve, He yawned sleepily.  'Keep me posted."

The will to live is the crucial factor which enables certain
individuals to survive in situations where others, in some cases their
companions, quite literally 'give up the ghost'; surrender without a
fight.  Jodi Kazan had that will; a tenacious, unquenchable spark of
life that continued to glow feebly, against all odds, inside her burned
and broken body.

When her Skyhawk had been blown off the flight-deck, Jodi had smashed
her fist against the quick release plate of the safety harness which
held her in her seat.  But when the cockpit pod crunched against the
side of the wagon train, she found herself trapped by bent struts and
crumpled metal.  Despite this, and contrary to Buck McDonnell's belief,
Jodi had not been incinerated by the exploding napalm.  The shrieking
wind that tore her Skyhawk out of the hands of Steve and the
ground-crew was also her unintended saviour.  The spectacular blast
that appeared to engulf her had, in the same instant, been whipped away
by the falling pod into a long fiery plume; a giant blowtorch whose
searing heat blistered the painted flanks of the rear cars.

Badly but not fatally burned, Jodi only just escaped being drowned as
the cockpit pod plunged into the raging current and sank under the
weight of the rear-mounted motor.  The mangled pod, with Jodi inside,
was carried along the river bed by the force of the waters, rolling and
tumbling end over end until it finally tore itself to pieces.

Only then did Jodi finally surface, to be washed up some three miles
down river from where The Lady had been trapped by the flash-flood.

Jodi lay, half-dead, half-buried in mud and debris on the bed of the
Now and Then River for two whole days, unable to move.  Her legs were
trapped under a pile of debris, both arms were broken, her neck and
chest severely burned; the Mute crossbow bolt was' still lodged under
her right collarbone.  The visor of her helmet had protected her face
against the flames and subsequent injury, just as the tangle of
branches under which she lay now protected her from the circling birds
of prey.  The coat of mud that covered most of her body dried out in
the sun.  She became part of the landscape.  Insects swarmed over her,
flies hovered, drawn by the smell of her charred flesh.  When they
began to feed on her Jodi thought she would go mad.  She fainted - from
the heat, from thirst, from the pain and the screaming, itching horror
of the bugs that threatened to devour her.

The hours passed.  Jodi hovered on the edge of consciousness, now and
then sinking back into merciful oblivion.

On the second night, a prowling coyote found her.  He sniffed her
mud-covered body cautiously then nosed with obvious relish the raw
flesh where the flies had feasted.

When he began tugging at her camouflaged fatigues, Jodi set her teeth
against the pain, reached down with the fingers of her right hand and
teased her air pistol out of its holster.

Her fingers closed round the butt.  In her weakened state she found the
pistol incredibly heavy.  To move it even an inch sent stabbing shafts
of pain zigzagging from wrist to shoulder, across her chest, and up
into the base of her skull.

Jodi persisted, pushing and pulling the pistol onto her belly as the
coyote siezed her broken left arm in its jaws and tried to pull her
from under the sheltering tangle of branches.

Jodi almost fainted with the pain.  A scream broke from her throat; a
harsh, raw, animal cry.  With one last desperate effort, she willed
herself to remain conscious and took a firm grip on the butt of the
pistol.  Her fingers felt as if they were on fire.  She pushed the
pistol across her chest in the general direction of the coyote,
summoned up her last ounce of strength to raise the barrel and pulled
the trigger.  One, two, three.  she lost count...

When she woke at half-light, Jodi found the coyote lying with its neck
across her left arm.  One of her shots had entered its skull just above
the right eye.  The socket had already been picked clean.  Two huge
black crows were tearing at the coyote's exposed entrails.  A third sat
patiently on the broken branch above Jodi's head.  She became conscious
of the weight of the pistol that lay on her chest, her fingers still
curled round it.  It was like being trapped under a rock.  She found it
difficult to breathe.  She could no longer move her right arm.  The
left lay under the dead coyote.

When the sun came up, the insects returned; flies settled on her
swollen blistered neck and crawled over her visor, trying to find a way
in.

On the third day, in one of her brief moments of lucidity, Jodi
realised that her chances of being found by a search party from The
Lady were fast approaching zero.  She had been written off.  Given the
circumstances of her disappearance, it was not an unreasonable
supposition.  When the waves of pain built up to yet another unbearable
peak Jodi began to seriously consider the idea of killing herself
before the rest of the coyote pack came looking for their missing
brother.  She had the means even if, at that moment, she did not have
the strength to turn the pistol on herself.

She knew that if the decision was delayed too long she would be too
weak to act upon it.  Yet, in spite of the hopelessness of her
situation, she hesitated.  She simply refused to admit that death was
the only option open to her.

Towards sundown, when Jodi was trying to focus her fading energy into
the fingers lying limply across the pistol, she heard stealthy
movements around her.  The protective scrien of broken branches was
pulled away from her head and chest and she found herself looking up
into the craggy, weather-beaten face of a Tracker.  But this was no
TrailBlazer.

tie wore a battered wide-brimmed straw stetson with a ragged brim, his
lean square jaw was fringed by an untidy beard.  The sleeves were
missing from his faded red, black and brown camouflaged fatigues, and
they were covered in patches.  A home-made bandolier of the same
material with pockets shaped to hold magazines and air bottles were
slung over each shoulder.  The only thing about him that did not look
worn and shabby was his three-barrelled air rifle.  Its pristine
condition told Jodi that this raggedy-ass was still a soldier; someone
she could relate to.

The bearded Tracker laid down his rifle and knelt beside Jodi.  His
first move was to relieve her of her air pistol.  When this was safely
stuffed in his breast pocket he raised the visor of her helmet and
studied her face.  'How's it going, soldier-boy?"

Jodi tried to speak but the words died half-formed in her throat.  She
rolled her head from side to side.

The Tracker carefully peeled back the charred collar of her tunic,
lifted out her dog tags and read off her name.

'Ohh-kayyy, friend..."  He straightened up on his knees and cupped his
hands round his mouth.  'Hey, Ben!  Roy!  Come take a look-see!"  The
Tracker dropped back on his haunches, fingered the protruding tail of
the bolt then began to examine Jodi's arms and torso, whistling
tunelessly under his breath.  His touch was sure but gentle.  He sat
back and pushed up the battered brim of his stetson.  'Mmmhmmph.  you
off that wagon train that got its ass kicked three days ago?"

Jodi signalled silently with her eyes and mouth that she was.

'Well, they took off, good buddy.  Last we saw 'em they was headed
Kansas way."  He sighed and scratched his beard.  'So unless you want
to wait here for the Mutes or the coyotes, I guess that makes you one
of us, Jodi."

'What you got, Beaver?"

Jodi could not see the owner of the voice.

Her bearded saviour spoke across her.  'We got us a woman, that's what
we got."

'No shit..."

Two other raggedy-asses peered down at her.  One to her left, the other
over Beaver's shoulder.  Jodi guessed that they were Ben and Roy though
she didn't know which was which.  The one on the left was wearing a
wingman's bone dome.  It had been smeared with mud to hide the bright
blue and green stripes but Jodi could see enough of the pattern to
recognise it as once belonging to a crewman aboard the wagon train
called King of the Pecos.  The guy looking over Beaver's shoulder wore
a crumpled yellow command cap.

The long peak was frayed and the woven badge was missing.

'Are you sure?"  asked Yellow-Hat.

'What kind of damn fool question is that?"  Beaver looked up at
Yellow-Hat and chuckled.  'You think I've forgotten what they look
like?  Start moving that shit off her legs."

Yellow-Hat went to work.  Beaver pulled the stopper out of his skin
water-bottle, eased Jodi's head off the ground, and tipped a little
water onto her parched lips.  Jodi licked them dry and opened her mouth
for more.

'Thanks..."  she wheezed.

'She don't look so hot,' said Bone-Dome flatly.

'No.  She's broke up pretty bad,' admitted Beaver.  'But she'll mend.

Make no mistake, this is one tough lady."

'She'll need to be,' said Bone-Dome.  He seized hold of the dead coyote
and flung it aside.  'Okay, let's get her to Medicine Hat."

Jodi had been found by a scavenging party from a band of Tracker
renegades.  S he had known about them for years.  As a youngster, she
had seen several who had been captured and brought back to the
Federation for trial, confess the error of their ways before being shot
on tv.  Later, during her time as a wingman, she had also seen the
bodies of about a dozen renegades killed by patrols from The Lady.  Men
and women that she had helped hunt down.  Beaver and his two friends
were the first live ones she had ever met face to face.

She remained conscious until they lifted her onto a makeshift stretcher
then slipped into a coma.  For a time, Jodi knew nothing of the outside
world, but deep within her subconscious mind the ordeal continued.  Her
inner eye was continually assailed by jagged, abstract images of pain;
a limitless form of mental torture that drove her, screaming
soundlessly, to the edge of madness.  Eighteen hours later she emerged
from the fevered coma to find herself in the hands of Medicine Hat.

Someone holding a clean worn rag mopped her brow.  She looked up at the
sky and took a deep breath, savouring the sweetness of the air.  Oh,
Columbus!  It hurt.  Her whole body burned from head to toe.  It didn't
matter.  She was going to live/ For Steve, the next weeks seemed to
blur together, making it hard to place specific events.  He could only
remember being fed a thick soup twice a day from a wooden bowl held by
Cadillac, Mr Snow, and a number of female lumpheads who ranged from the
simply plain and unattractive to the hideously grotesque.  At first,
the thought of eating Mute food filled Steve with revulsion.  He
refused it for a couple of days then became so hungry that he ate what
he was offered - and was promptly sick.

After several more days of mental and intestinal discipline, he found
he was able to keep the food down without feeling nauseated and,
eventually, began to look forward with growing relish to the next
strongly flavoured dish.  He did not, however, ask what he was
eating.

His progress was rewarded by a meal he could recognise - a fish with
succulent pink, flaky flesh, roasted over a wood fire.

Exactly as in that flash of memory he had had at Roz's side in San
Jacinto Deep.  As he ate the fish, he wondered how he could have
acquired that knowledge.  Perhaps, he conjectured, it did not stem from
a memory of past events but was a glimpse of the future.  Perhaps he
had foreseen this moment - in the same inexplicable way that he had
often been able to predict the direction of the course marker lights
when flying in the Snake Pit.

Mr Snow visited him from time to time to inspect and dress his
wounds.

Sometimes Cadillac came with him; at other times, the straight-limbed
Mute would enter alone and squat silently by his side.  Occasionally,
Steve would engage them in desultory conversation; desultory because he
was given regular small doses of Dream Cap which kept him in a state of
drowsy euphoria.  Twice, or maybe three times, Steve was vaguely aware
of being lifted onto a stretcher of wood and skins which was then
carried through the darkness.  He half-remembered feeling the cool
night air on his face; seeing the wondrous twinkling brilliance of
countless points of light scattered across a black velvet sky.

From the overheard snatches of conversation that entered his fudged
brain, he understood that his Mute captors were moving camp under cover
of darkness and lying concealed by day to avoid discovery by the
arrowheads that now regularly crossed the sky.

Once, as he lay under a loose covering of branches, he saw, through a
ragged gap in the leaves, two of the graceful Skyhawks dip and wheel
across the sky; saw the white wingtip panels and recognised them as
coming from The Lady.  Steve realised that she must have returned
re-equipped with a new section of wingmen to continue her thrust into
Plainfolk territory.  He wondered if Gus White was one of the pair now
above him and whether they were looking for him, or whether they were
just hunting Mute.

He felt a sudden pang of regret at being grounded then consoled himself
with the thought that, against all odds, he was still alive and in one
piece, being fed and cared for.  If he could manage to stay alive, if
his body mended, he could begin to plan his escape - always provided
his captors didn't find themselves on the receiving end of another
napalm strike.  Despite the fudging effects of the Dream Cap, this
thought was a salutary reminder that he, Brickman, S.R.

was now one of the hunted.  His fate was bound up with that of his
captors.

After about a month, Mr Snow stopped feeding Steve threads of Dream
Cap. Steve found he was able to sit up without too much discomfort
from his mending ribs.  His left shoulder was still painfully stiffbut
he was able to make limited use of his left arm.  His right arm was
still in a sling but the livid, gaping wound had closed.

Mr Snow pronounced himself satisfied with Steve's general progress.

'You should soon be ready to start moving around on that leg.  I'll see
if we can knock you up something to walk with."

'You mean a pair of crutches?"

'Yes, crutches,' said Mr Snow.  'We must talk some more.

You must know a whole lot of forgotten words."

'You must know a lot I've never heard of,' replied Steve.

'If you've got time, uhh - maybe we can learn each other's language."

'Maybe,' said Mr Snow, noncommittally.  'A lot of the words I use won't
mean anything to you.  You live in a different world; see things in a
different way."

Steve shrugged.  'You could teach me to see things your way."

Mr Snow smiled.  'I doubt it.  What, for instance, do you mean by the
word "understanding"?"

'"Understanding"?"  Steve reflected for a moment.  'llhh, knowing what
someone means when they give you an order.

Knowing how something works, or what to do if anything goes wrong."

Mr Snow nodded.  'How about "Love"?"

Steve hesitated.  'Is that a Mute word?"

'No, it's from the Old Time.  It was a word that was constantly on
people's lips.  Not that it changed anything."

Steve shook his head.  'Couldn't have been very important.  If it was,
we'd use it in the Federation.  What is it - some kind of swearword?"

Mr Snow let out a throaty chuckle.  'I can see you've got a lot to
learn."

Steve grinned.  'Listen - Cadillac hadn't heard of "television sets",
you hadn't come across "crutches", and I didn't know about "love".

Maybe we can make a trade.

Think about it."

Mr Snow's eyes twinkled.  'I will."  He patted Steve on the shoulder
and ducked out of the hut.

Now that he was no longer being fed Dream Cap, Steve began to think
more clearly and was quick to realise that his conversations with Mr
Snow and Cadillac could be his lifeline.  He had been told about
wordsmiths in the Field Intelligence briefing the crew had attended
before their departure from Nixon-Fort Worth.  In a race of idiots, the
wordsmiths were the bright guys.  Rare, gifted individuals who acted as
the communal brains for the Mute clans which harboured them.  It was
known that Mutes could not read or write and since most were dum-dums
who didn't know what day it was they were totally reliant on the
memories of their wordsmiths.  According to the three-man FINTEL team
who gave the briefing, the cleverest of these guys carried up to nine
hundred years of history around in their heads.  They also possessed
the ability to put chunks of it to music - what were known as 'fire
songs' - plus a mental compendium of general knowledge that enabled
Mutes to survive!

In the decimation of the Southern Mutes in the centuries after the
Break-Out many wordsmiths were believed to have perished.  Those who
escaped death during pacification and resettlement of the New
Territories had either moved north or were keeping an extremely low
profile.  Figures were not available but it was believed that
wordsmiths were more numerous among the Plainfolk but not every clan
had one and those that did guarded them well.  Apart from the obvious
advantages of owning a walking encylopaedia, it had become apparent
that possession of a wordsmith gave a clan a vital edge over their
rivals in other ways; ways which were still not fully understood.  One
thing, however, was clear: a definite correlation had been established:
the more gifted the wordsmith, the more powerful the clan.

Having been told repeatedly from the age of three that Mutes did not
take prisoners, Steve could not understand why his life had been
spared.  He longed to know the answer but it was theone question he
studiously avoided asking his captors.  At the back of his mind was a
lurking fear he might learn that their calendar might include some
bizarre festival at which the entire M'Call clan solemnly dined off
roast cloud warrior.  If that was what was waiting at the end of the
road he preferred not to know about it.  Steve contented himself with
expressing his appreciation to all the Mutes who helped nurse him back
to health and congratulated himself on his luck at being shot down by
Cadillac.  Apart from being intelligent and good-humoured, he and Mr
Snow were insatiably curious.  Great.  Couldn't be better.

Steve was prepared to assuage their thirst for learning.  He would feed
them the entire Tracker vocabulary one word at a time, plus everything
they wanted to know about the Federation in the minutest detail.  And
what he didn't know, he would make up.  He would spin out the material
by getting them to tell him everything they knew.  As long as they felt
they were onto a good deal they would keep him alive.  After all - who
else did they have to talk to?

In the long periods when he was left alone, Steve dwelt on the
possibility of escape.  He wondered if the wreckage of his Skyhawk had
been abandoned or whether any bits of the airframe or equipment had
been kept as trophies.  It had not escaped his notice that one of the
female lumpheads assigned to bring him food had blue and red electric
cable threaded through her plaited hair.  Maybe someone had ripped out
the radio.  Although normally powered by the motor, it carried its own
battery pack for use in an emergency.  There was also the survival
equipment he had been carrying: air pistol, combat knife, map, food
concentrates, flares, and a portable pocket-sized emergency radio
beacon that enabled the wagon train to home in on a downed wingman.

Steve had been stripped of everything except his underpants but he had
seen Cadillac wearing the top half of his flight fatigues.  The pockets
had been empty.

That meant the goodies they held were probably stashed away
somewhere.

If so ...

Steve spent many happy hours devising elaborately detailed escape
scenarios - all of which ended in triumph with a suitably thunderous
welcome at Grand Central.  It was an agreeable fantasy.  No Tracker
who had fallen into the hands of the Mutes had ever lived to tell the
tale.  As the days passed and the strength gradually returned to his
body, Steve became convinced that he wis going to make it.  He would be
the first.  His skill and daring would more than make up for his
failure to gain top marks and the coveted Minuteman Trophy.  His master
plan would be back on course.

Set down outside Cadillac's hut for the first time in daylight, Steve
discovered the source of one of the smells that had plagued him.  The
decaying heads of two Mute warriors were stuck on six-foot stakes set
in the ground on either side of the doorway.  Steve studied them with
morbid fascination noting the wide, powerful necks and lower jaws, the
primitive helmets with their pattern of pierced stones, and the way the
point of each stake, roasted iron-hard over a fire, had been hammered
through the top of the skulls.  Steve looked towards the other huts
scattered under the nearby trees and saw that several of them had
stakes outside the doors loaded with similar grisly trophies.

Around noon, Cadillac appeared carrying two freshly-caught salmon
trout.  He used his flame-pot to kindle a fire, gutted the fish,
threaded them on his knifestick and proceeded to roast them over the
flames.

Steve's sense of smell had, by this time, adjusted itself to
accommodate the appetising aroma.  His saliva glands began to work
overtime.  He noticed that Cadillac was wearing his digital watch.  A
calendar alarm model - strapped upside down on his left wrist.  Steve
twisted his head round in an effort to read the date, failed, thought
about asking for the watch back and decided to wait for a more
appropriate moment.  He drew Cadillac's attention to the head impaled
on the stake to his right.  Shakatak.  'A friend of yours?"

Cadillac dropped his eyes onto the roasting fish, turning the
knife-stick so that they cooked evenly.  'He tried to invade our
turf."

'So you killed him?"

'Both of them,' said Cadillac.  It wasn't strictly true but to tell the
whole story would mean explaining Clearwater's contribution.  Mr Snow
had told him that the cloud warrior must not learn of her powers or her
presence in the settlement.

'And if you kill somebody else, will his head end up on a pole too?"

'It will join these,' answered Cadillac.  He broke up some more
branches and fed them into the fire.  'Each pole holds ten heads.  A
full head-pole is the sign of a mighty warrior."

'I see..."  Steve glanced at Shakatak's sightless head.  'I guess that
means you've got some way to go."

Cadillac responded with a quiet smile.  'I am forbidden to run with the
Bears.  But in their eyes I have standing.  I have chewed bone."

'Chewed bone?"

'Killed in single combat.  Taken the head and eaten of the knife
arm."

Steve felt queasy.  'Jeer - you mean you ate the arm of this poor
sonofabitch?"

'No,' said Cadillac.  'Our forefathers did many long years ago.  The
arm and the leg.  Now, Plainfolk custom demands that, on the first
kill, a warrior bite the fore part of the arm that wields the sharp
iron through to the bone."

'Columbus ..."  Steve shuddered and lapsed into silence.

When the fish were cooked, Cadillac slid them off his knife-stick onto
a flat stone, cut off their heads, wrapped them in large red leaves and
handed one to Steve.

'Thanks..."  Steve took it in his left hand and edged his right hand up
to help hold it.  A sharp stab of pain pierced his torn biceps.  He
gasped, then inhaled the aroma of the roast trout and forgot about his
sore arm and the artless savagery of his companion and concentrated on
assuaging his hunger.

He brought his lips gingerly onto the fish.  It was still too hot to
eat.  'Smells good.  Did you catch these?"

'Yes."  Once again, it was not strictly true.  Cadillac had gone
fishing with Clearwater and it was she who had gently stroked them into
immobility and lifted them triumphantly by the gills from the rock
pool.

Steve gave a quiet laugh.  'It's crazy, you know.  I've seen fish like
this in the Federation.  Swimming around in pools.

But they're just decoration.  No one would think of eating one any
more than - ,' he hesitated, '- than they'd think of eating someone's
arm."

'A warrior who chews bone takes the strength of his enemy into his own
body."  Cadillac blew on the charred scales of his fish and bit into
the pale steaming flesh.

Steve replied with a hollow smile.  'You don't really believe that, do
you?"  He shook his head.  'I really can't work you guys out.  You go
to the trouble of pulling me out of the cornfield, and putting me back
in one piece and at the same time, you - ,' he gestured towards
Shakatak's impaled head, '- you do this kind of thing and -' Cadillac
cut in.  'The sand-burrowers have taken many heads from our Southern
brothers."  · 'Yeah, that's true,' admitted Steve.  'But it's not done
all the time.  It's a kind of initiation thing for wet-feet, linemen on
their first trip - warriors who have not chewed bone - and the only
reason it's done is because you started it."

Cadillac nibbled at his trout.  'Do you not kill?"

'Yeah, sure,' replied Steve.  'We have to.  We're trying to win back
what belongs to us.  The blue-sky world.  But you guys kill each
other."  He gestured at the heads of Shakatak and Torpedo.  'These
fellas are Mutes, like you!"  Cadillac considered Steve's words.  'In
our world, all those who are not blood-brothers and blood-sisters of
the clan M'Call are rivals.  We must defend our turf.  The M'Calls are
descended from the ninth daughter of Me-Sheegun and the ninth son of
She-Kargo.  Many of the Plainfolk clans accept our greatness for our
seed goes back to the Heroes of the Old Time.  But there are those who
envy our greatness and wish to take it from us.  If we are challenged
then we must fight to the death or lose our standing.  Without standing
we are less than dust."

'Why?  What's wrong in running away, then sneaking back later and
nailing the other guy while he's asleep?"

Cadillac did not understand the question.  He shrugged.

'This is not the way of a Warrior.  If he is of the She-Kargo, he must
follow the path laid down by Mo-Town, our great Mother."

That's your tough 'luck, thought Steve.  'And where do we, uhh
"sand-burrowers" - fit into all this?"

Cadillac eyed him solemnly.  'You are known by many names.  The Beasts
from the Bowels of the Earth, the Creatures of the Dark Cities, the
Smooth-Skulled Worms that ride in the belly of the Iron Snake, the
Death-Bringers, the Slave-Masters, the Evil Ones, the Servants of
PentAgon, Lord of Chaos and Scourge of the World."

Steve did his best to keep a serious face.  'Fascinating.

Back in the Federation we think we are the good guys.  You are the ones
who brought about the Holocaust that wrecked the blue-sky world."

'I know nothing about this Holocaust or the blue-sky world of which you
speak."

'Oh, come on,' insisted Steve.  He swept an arm across the landscape.

'This is the blue-sky world!  You burned the cities and laid waste the
land.  That's what we call the Holocaust.  It was you, the Mutes who
poisoned the air 'and drove us to take shelter within the
earth-shield!"  'No, you are wrong,' said Cadillac.  'It was PentAgon
who unleashed the War of a Thousand Suns through you, his servants.

That war destroyed the Earth and almost every living thing upon it.

We, the She-Kargo and our soul-brothers and sisters now known as the
Plainfolk, were spared.  We were chosen by Mo-Town to grow strong in
body and great in number, to guard the Earth until the coming of
Talisman."

'Look,' reasoned Steve, 'we both can't be right.  I know what
happened.

It's all recorded in our archives.  What proof have you got that what
you say is the truth?"

'The proof is on the tongues of our wordsmiths.  The history of the
clan M'Call is sealed forever in the fire songs of our people."

Steve laughed.  'I don't believe it.  I don't care if Mr Snow is the
greatest wordsmith of all time.  Nobody can remember everything that's
happened in the last nine hundred years] It's impossible.  The Amtrak
Federation deals in facts billions of bits of verifiable data stored on
silicon chips not a collection of stories made up out of a mish-mash of
old folks memories."

'You use many strange words,' said Cadillac, 'but my mind begins to
grasp their meaning.  Because of the war, many of our people are born
without pockets in their heads.

Their minds cannot hold the past or the knowledge needed for the high
crafts but to some, whom we call wordsmiths, Mo-Town gave the power of
a hundred minds and a thousand tongues."  Cadillac squared his
shoulders and lifted his chin proudly.  'I too have been given this
power.  I know of the valiant deeds of the M'Calls, the history of the
Plainfolk from their beginnings, and the workings of the world.  I have
learned these things from Mr Snow who speaks with the Sky Voices.  You
say you have this Columbus - a thing made with the High Craft which
hold the past of your people ' 'Yes, computer archives,' interjected
Steve.

'The words have a dead sound,' said Cadillac.  'No matter.

If you remember nothing how can you be sure of what these - computer
archives - tell you?"

'That's easy,' replied Steve.  'Computers like Columbus don't forget,
and they don't make things up.  A computer is a machine -' Steve
paused.  'You know what a machine is?"

Cadillac shook his head.

Steve searched their surroundings for something which might explain the
concept.  He pointed at Cadillac's crossbow.  'You see that?  That's a
machine.  It throws bolts.

You could use your hand and arm to throw a bolt but the crossbow throws
it further and faster.  That's why we build machines.  To do things
better and faster than people can do them.  Computers are machines that
think.  Mechanical brains that store information.  "Mechanical" means
machine-like.  You feed in the facts and they remember them.  They also
do all kinds of other things which you wouldn't understand."

'Perhaps it is not necessary to understand these things,' said
Cadillac.

Steve smiled.  'Are you kidding?  When we started, the Amtrak
Federation was little more than a hole in the ground.  Now, thanks to
the First Family and Columbus, we have twelve bases with more building,
linked by linear-drive monorails.  We have two-way video, geo-thermal
power, hydroponic farms with automated weather systems, lasers, powered
flight, the technological know-how to do whatever we want and you
you're still in the stone age."

Cadillac smiled.  'And yet, in spite of these marvels, here you are."

It was the kind of observation Mr Snow would have made and it pleased
Cadillac immensely.

'A lucky shot,' said Steve.

'And the other cloud warriors that fell?"

'Freak weather plus a few bad breaks.  None of that makes any
difference.  It's time you faced up to the facts.  No one can resist
the power of the Federation.  You've seen what The Lady can do.  We
have twenty wagon trains like that and we're building more all the
time.  Ten years from now we'll have a hundred.  In twenty, we'll have
way-stations from coast to coast.  We'll be unstoppable.  We are the
future.  You are the past that's about to be swept away.  You're living
in a make-believe world - Sky Voices, Mo-Town, Names of Power ...

you've all been swallowing too much Dream Cap. I don'iknow where Mr
Snow got his version of history from but, believe me, it didn't happen
like that."

'Are you not sand-burrowers?"  countered Cadillac.  'Do you not live in
the Dark Cities beneath the Great Desert of the South?"

'They're not dark,' replied Steve.  'How many times do I have to tell
you?!  We have electricity.  Neon tubes.  Long sticks that give off
light like the sun."

'They cannot banish the darkness in the mind,' said Cadillac.  'This is
what we mean when we speak of the Dark Cities.  The truth stands in the
words of the Plainfolk.  After the War of a Thousand Suns, Pent-Agon
and his servants you, the sand-burrowers - were buried beneath the
earth as punishment for your crimes against the world."

'We must have been let off for good behaviour,' said Steve lightly.

'It may not have come to your notice but the Federation has had
way-stations on the overground for nearly two hundred years.  And the
way things are going, in another hundred, the whole of America will be
ours once again."

Cadillac shook his head.  'It will not happen.  The Sky Voices have
spoken to Mr Snow.  The iron snakes will be defeated.  You will be
driven back into your burrows, and

your dark cities will be crushed beneath the desert."

'Really,' said Steve.  'And when is this supposed to 'happen?"

'When the Earth gives the sign,' replied Cadillac.  'The Plainfolk
shall be as a bright sword in the hand of Talisman, their Saviour."

Steve frowned.  It was the second time this name had come into their
conversation.  'Talisman?  Who's he?"

'The Thrice-Gifted One,' said Cadillac.

Steve's curiosity was aroused but his young benefactor ignored his
questions and left without offering any further explanation.

In the days that followed, Steve had a series of conversations with
Cadillac and Mr Snow.  They questioned him endlessly about the
Federation, how it was organised, what it was like to live in an
underground city, what people did, what they wore and what they ate.

Steve, in turn, asked them about the history of the Plainfolk and how
the M'Calls had come to be regarded as one of, if not the greatest of
the She-Kargo warrior clans, along with more practical questions about
food supplies and how they survived the long months of winter; the
period the Mutes referred to as the White Death.

Sometimes, three or four, or as many as half-a-dozen Mutes, clan elders
or Bears and She-Wolves would gather round them and sit silently
listening to their conversation.

Now and then one of them would rise abruptly in mid-sentence to be
replaced by a new listener.  Steve got the impression that their
audience did not fully understand what was being said; they were just
listening to the sound of his voice and that of the two wordsmiths;
letting the flow of conversation wash over them as one might sit
listening to the rippling murmur of a mountain stream.

Mr Snow was particularly interested in what the Federation termed its
'pacification programme' for the New Territories.  Steve described in
detail how the early TrailBlazers had reconquered the overground above
the Inner and Outer States.  The resistance offered by the Southern
Mutes had been sporadic.  The clans that had fought had been wiped out;
those who had opted to surrender had been reduced to serfdom.  The
majority of the surviving clans had been relocated in work-camps built
around the semi-subterranean way-stations; where this was impractical,
they had accepted to pay annual tribute in the form of work gangs, or
fixed quotas of metallic or chemical ores, timber, or other raw
materials.  These were ferried by wagon train to overground sawmills,
smelting and processing plants crewed by Mutes with Tracker overseers
from the way-stations then hauled down to manufacturing plants within
the earthshield.  Mining operations located near Tracker bases were
accessed directly from the underground levels by groups of Young
Pioneers as they had been in the past before the Break-Out; the
historic moment in 2464 when the Trackers opened up their first
permanent interface with the blue-sky world.

Steve also told Mr Snow about 'yearlings'.  Following the Break-Out it
had been discovered that now and then, Mute females sometimes gave
birth to a 'straight' - a Mute child free from genetic malformation and
with a uniform skin colour.  For some unexplained reason straight Mutes
were, without exception, males.  Since any clan found harbouring an
undeclared straight faced immediate annihilation, all such children
were handed over to the Trackers at birth.

In return, the fortunate clan was released from its obligation to
supply its quota of ore, timber or work gangs for a period of twelve
months.  Hence the name 'yearling'.

The new-born Mutes were taken to a special centre known as The Farm
where, as far as Steve knew, they were subjected to various tests in
connection with the Life Research Programme and then disposed of.

'Have you ever talked with any of our Southern brothers?"  asked Mr
Snow.

Steve shook his head.  'You can't talk to them.  It's hard enough
getting them to understand what work they're supposed to do.  As a
wingman on a wagon train I was never close enough to 'em.  But I must
admit I never tried.  First because, if it's not your job, it's not
encouraged; second, because it's, well, uhh - not healthy to hang
around them too long; third because it just wouldn't enter my head to
talk to a lump -' He broke off with an embarrassed smile.  'I mean,
they're not like you and Cadillac.  They're..."

'Stupid...?"  volunteered Mr Snow.

Steve shrugged.  'If you want me to be honest, yes, most of them
probably are.  They don't know anything and they can't learn
anything."

Steve hesitated then concluded lamely, 'Well - that's what we were
told."

Mr Snow nodded with an understanding smill.  'How do you think they
feel?"

'Feel...?"  Steve looked puzzled - as if he couldn't quite grasp the
idea that a Mute could feel anything; could have expectations of
anything other than the life to which history had condemned him.

'Yes,' said Mr Snow.  'How do you think they feel about working in
slave-camps?"

Steve pursed his lips and pondered the question.  'I don't know.

They're alive aren't they?  They get regular meals.

They don't have to fight other clans."

'They are also bound with iron ropes."

'Iron...?  Oh you mean chains,' said Steve.  'Yeah, that's true.  But
not everybody.  Only the troublemakers."

Mr Snow nodded then said quietly, 'Why do you think they make
trouble?"

Steve responded with a quick laugh.  'I guess they don't like work."

'Maybe they have a different way of looking at the world."

'Maybe they have,' said Steve.  'What they have to learn to do is look
at it our way."  He smiled to take the hard edge off his words.  'This
is our world.  This country belongs to us.  The Mutes in those work
camps are there because they lost out.  They had a choice - and they
chose not to die."

'Are those the only two options we have?"  asked Mr Snow.  'Slavery or
death?  We think, we feel, we draw breath.

Don't we have a right to exist?"

Steve chewed over his reply.  'I don't know quite how to put it."

'Put it anyway you like.  Shoot to kill."

'Then the official answer is "No".  Not in the eyes of the
Federation.

We've been raised to think of you as lower than animals; that it is our
duty to Wipe you off the face of the earth.  But..."

'But what...?"

'Now that I've met you and Cadillac I'm not so sure.  I'm - well, kind
of- confused.  I mean you talk like a - real person."

Mr Snow chuckled.  'Thank you."

'And Cadillac - if you ignore the colour of his skin ' '- looks like a
real person.  Yes, I can see the problem.

Never mind."  Mr Snow patted Steve's shoulder.  'I'm sure you'll work
it out."  He uncrossed his legs and stood up.  He began to walk away,
then turned back.  'What would you say if I told you that the ancestors
of the Plainfolk were people from the Old Time - straight-limbed
people, many of them with skins the same colour as yours?"

Steve decided it was time to be diplomatic.  'After meeting you I'd
have to say that anything is possible."

Mr Snow chuckled heartily.  'You're a smart cookie, Brickman.  You'll
go far,' As he watched Mr Snow walk away he had the distinct feeling
that the old wordsmith and his heir apparent were stringing him
along.

Steve had always prided himself on staying one step ahead of the game
and it annoyed him to be kept in the dark.  It was Mr Snow who was the
smart cookie.

It occurred to Steve that, just as he had been able to 'predict'
certain minor events a few seconds before they occurred, his two
principal captors might also possess some means of knowing what was
passing through his mind - such as his firm intention to escape at the
earliest possible moment.

Maybe that would account for the amused expression with which Mr Snow
listened to what he had to say.  On the other hand, it was just
possible that they actually enjoyed his company despite the fact that
he had made no attempt to curry favour.  Steve was a survivor but he
was not, by nature, a groveller.  So far, his robust approach seemed to
be working.  They did not seem to mind his outspokenness, in fact, they
seemed to encourage it.

As a consequence, and totally against his better judgement, Steve found
himself looking forward to his daily conversations - what the Mutes
called 'rapping'.  He could hardly bear to admit it to himself but, in
an odd sort of way, he was beginning to warm to his hosts.  This was
not, as so often in the past, a calculated act of deception; the
feeling was quite genuine.  He still viewed them as little more than
primitive misshapen savages who stank like an A-Level garbage line but
they had a relaxed life-style that was in marked contrast to the
tightly-structured Developmental Activity Programme which had ordered
his life within the Federation from Day One.  His Tracker psyche was
being torn in two.  One part chafing at the lack of discipline and
vigorous organisation, repelled by an alien way of life; the other part
succumbing to the insidious attractions of overground existence.

Despite years of indoctrination some long-buried instinct had been
aroused; was responding - as on his first solo flight - to the blue-sky
world.  It had, admittedly, been a privileged kind of existence thus
far.  He hadn't yet been obliged to hunt for food, or cook over open
fires in pouring rain or a snow storm.  He had enjoyed room-service and
the attentions of a string of nurses, and the clan had not had to
defend its turf since he crash-landed amongst them.  That said,
compared to the Federation, it was still like living on a five-star
dung heap.

But there was something else.

The one great discovery Steve had made as a captive of the M'Calls was
the quality of stillness.  An almost narcotic calmness had crept into
his mind.  There was noise but it came from natural sources; the sound
of wind through the trees, running water; the human voice in speech and
song; living sounds; children laughing, crying, being comforted with
soothing murmurs; the haunting music made by blowing through wooden
pipes, vibrant notes that hung on the air, created a disturbing
resonance within him.

Such a simple device yet something quite unknown within the Federation
where all music was produced electronically and - except for blackjack
- under the total control of the First Family.  But, above all, up
among the Plainfolk there was no hassle; there was no one riding herd
on your ass; the eye and ear was not being constantly battered by
inspirational videocasts yet, in spite of the complete absence of
exhortation from some central ruling body, there was a unity of
purpose; a cooperation in time of need without any overt sign of
discipline.

A kind of togetherness.  An unspoken kinship.  An...

Awareness.

The word-concept came fully into Steve's mind, catching him by
surprise.

FOURTEEN

The day after Steve's conversation with Mr Snow, Cadillac appeared with
an elderly lumphead called Three Degrees.

Both Mutes carried several freshly cut saplings and the lumphead was
equipped with a machete, paring knife and awl, a bone needle and coarse
handmade binding thread.

Cadillac got Steve to draw the design of Federation-issue crutches in
the dirt outside the hut.  As these were made in metal, certain
modifications were inevitable and after some discussion Steve made a
revised sketch which - although he could not know it - resembled the
old wooden frame model that had supported the wounded in the first half
of the twentieth century.  Steve watched with undisguised admiration as
Three Degrees wielded his primitive tools with skilled precision.

Prompted now and then by Cadillac he quickly fashioned a pair of
crutches with firm neat-fitting joints and arm rests padded with
fast-foot skin.

Cadillac helped Steve to his feet and stood by him as he took the first
few halting steps with the aid of the crutches.

His left leg could not yet bear any weight, his left shoulder and
wounded right arm were still painfully stiff but the pleasure of
regaining a measure of mobility more than outweighed any discomfort.

Three Degrees watched with a delighted grin as Steve got the hang of
one-legged walking and began to move more rhythmically.  'Is good?"

Steve nodded approvingly.  'Terrific."

Three Degrees looked at Cadillac uncertainly.

'A word from the Old Time,' said Steve.  'It means very good."

'Numero Uno,' explained Cadillac.  'Prima."

'Ahh, dig.  Right on."  Three Degrees smiled broadly as he gathered up
his tools.  'Have a nice one."  He patted Steve on the arm and ambled
away.

One of the female Mutes who had brought Steve food on several occasions
approached carrying his camouflaged flight fatigues rolled up under her
arm.  They had been washed and inexpertly sewn together where they had
been torn in the crash.  Cadillac helped Steve back into them.  All the
pockets that held his survival equipment were depressingly empty.  It
made Steve feel half-naked.

'How far am I allowed to go?"

'As far as you want,' said Cadillac.  'But for your own safety it might
be better if you stayed within the bounds of the-settlement."  He
smiled.  'The overground can be a dangerous place."

Steve nodded.  'Is that all?"

'No.  Don't go into any huts without being invited, don't pick up any
sharp iron or tools you might find lying around, don't take any food
unless it is offered to you."  He smiled again.  'There are people here
who would dearly like an excuse to put your head on a pole.

Capeesh?"

'Terrific,' said Steve, mentally filing 'capeesh', 'dig' and the other
new words he had just heard from Three Degrees.

He had discovered that the Mutes had two distinct speech modes.  The
first was a kind of ceremonial language with a curious elliptical
syntax in which the words were full of imagery.  Mute songs were
written in this style - probably the reason why it was known as
fire-speech.  It was the favoured speech mode of warriors when greeting
people, in formal discussions and in encounter situations.  Cadillac,
who seemed very concerned with status and protocol, had used it a lot
in the beginning but now he and the old wordsmith were conversing in a
mixture of Mute and Basic - the language of the Federation they had
picked up from Steve.  The second, more informal, speech mode known as
'sweet-talk' was closer to Basic, and possessed the raw juicy
directness that characterised Trail-Blazer jargon.  Sweet-talk also
embraced a fascinating sub-set known as 'jive'.  A semi-secret warrior
tongue which was almost impossible for a stranger to understand without
an interpreter.

Steve adjusted the crutches comfortably under his armpit

and set off on his first walk through the settlement.  The M'Call huts
were scattered across a high wooded plateau where the days dawned crisp
and clear.  The adjacent slopes were thinly covered with the same dark
red-needled trees; to the west, a further range of hills rose even
higher.  Steve remembered being moved at least four times.  From his
general knowledge of the area gleaned from study of the maps aboard the
wagon train he reckoned that the clan had moved in a westerly
direction.  The trouble was that, without a map, he had no idea how far
they had travelled but the fact that many of the huts had been set up
on open ground without any attempt to conceal them from the air implied
that the clan now judged themselves to be beyond the range of the
patrolling Skyhawks.

As he hobbled around the M'Call settlement, Steve began to discern the
daily pattern of Mute activity.  Each morning, posses of Bears and
She-Wolves went out on hunting expeditions, returning soon after
sundown with game of various kinds - mountain deer with thick curving
horns, and, once, a buffalo.  The She-Wolves specialised in snaring
birds and fish.  Other mixed groups of warriors chosen for guard duty
squatted motionless on high ground around the settlement or patrolled
the limits of what the clan deemed to be their turf.  Evading these
sharp-eyed sentinels when he made his planned escape was yet another
problem he had to overcome.

In between his exploratory walks, Steve sat in on several of Mr Snow's
classes for the young Mutes and admired the patience with which he
dispensed the rudiments of knowledge.  After a few sessions he realised
that many of the lessons and stories were repeats of previous
material.

The long question and answer sessions with the two wordsmiths who, up
to that point, had been his principal interlocutors had caused Steve to
overlook this basic flaw in the Mute make-up.  He was reminded again of
their congenital forgetfulness when he ran into Three Degrees on one of
his walks.  The old lumphead failed to recognise his handiwork and it
was obvious that he only had a hazy recollection of who Steve was.

The young M'Call Cubs continued to regard Steve as an object of
curiosity and source of innocent amusement.  Like Three Degrees, they
seemed to have forgotten his role in the fire-bombing of the
cropfields.  Steve found that a lot harder to forget, especially when
the bodies of the children who trailed behind him on his walks were
indelibly scarred by the napalm he had dropped with reluctant
precision.

Some of the older children behaved more aggressively, jostling him as
they ran past; dancing round him, pulling faces and jeering.  Others
played a boisterous game of tag wherever he happened to be walking,
running into him at full tilt while attempting to evade their
pursuer.

Steve was 'accidentally' knocked to the ground several times and once,
as .he was sent sprawling, two thirteen-year-olds grabbed his crutches
and swung them wildly round their heads, smashing them together like
quarter-staves.  It was just another game, of course, but the intention
was clear: they hoped to break the crutches and send Steve crawling
back to his hut on his hands and knees.

Fortunately, Mr Snow happened by.  He restored order and helped Steve
back onto his feet.  'Just high spirits..."

'Yes, sure,' said Steve.  There was no point in complaining.

He altered his exercise schedule so that his walks coincided with Mr
Snow's classes for the young Mutes and kept close to the hut he shared
with Cadillac when they were out of school.

The majority of the adult Mutes - and that included everybody from
fourteen up - treated him with a mixture of courtesy and
circumspection.  They didn't go out of their way to avoid him but
neither did they seek out his company unless it was to eavesdrop
silently on his conversations with Mr Snow or Cadillac.  A number of
male and female warriors showed their hostility more openly by turning
their backs on him whenever he approached.  If they were sitting
talking in a group, they fell silent until he was out of earshot.

The classic cold shoulder.  He was like a stray dog whose presence is
tolerated but not actively encouraged; who is given odd scraps to eat
but never becomes one of the family with his own bowl and a place by
the fire.

His talks with the two wordsmiths continued on a more or less regular
basis but Steve found he was left to his own devices for the greater
part of each day with very little opportunity to do anything except
think and exercise his body.  He concocted his own programme of
physiotherapy, spending up to six hours each day in strenuous physical
workouts.  As he sweated to build up his stamina and strength Steve
continued to plan his escape, modifying various details as he gradually
built up his knowledge of the claws activities and the layout of the
settlement.

As time passed, Steve became increasingly certain that the M'Calls had
no particular fate reserved for him.  Roast cloud warrior was not on
the menu.  There was no Plan X.

They were just waiting for something to happen.  As a child of the
Federation, Steve was totally baffled by the clan's attitude towards
him.  He could accept the undercurrent of hostility but he could not
understand the almost total freedom he was accorded.  He was, after
all, their prisoner, yet he was not shackled or guarded; he had no
escort, no one asked him where he was going or where he had been, and
the restraints upon him were minimal.  On the face of it, if he wanted
to escape, all he had to do was to walk out of the settlement.  But how
far could he get?  It was this very lack of overt surveillance that led
Steve to conclude that escape on foot would not be that easy.  If there
were no bars to his cage it was because the M'Calls were confident that
they could hunt him down as quickly and efficiently as they did the
fast-foot and the buffalo.

Steve applied himself to his programme of exercises with his usual
diligence and was finally rewarded by being able to stand on his own
two feet.  Cadillac and Mr Snow were on hand to applaud the moment when
he cast aside his crutches and walked around the hut with a confident
stride.

Returning to where they stood by the head-poles bearing the decaying
skulls of Shakatak and Torpedo, he punched the air exultantly with his
right fist.  As his arm snapped straight in the traditional
Trail-Blazer salute, a stab of pain shot through the still tender
muscle, punishing him for such an arrogant gesture.

Steve concealed the pain beneath a tight-lipped grin and found the
grace to thank his benefactors.  'I'd like you both to know that I
really appreciate what you've done for me."

He paused and took a deep breath.  'I may regret this but, uh, I have
to ask - why have you gone to so much trouble to keep me alive?"

'I don't have time to get into that,' replied Mr Snow.  He cut Steve
off with a wave of the hand.  'Don't worry about it.

You'll find out soon enough."

Steve refused to let it go.  'That sounds ominous."

Mr Snow laughed quickly.  'What can I tell you?  Right now, the word is
you're going to live.  Okay?"

'But - if you know what's going to happen,' persisted Steve.

Mr Snow sighed patiently.  'Look, young man, if I told you, you
wouldn't believe me.  You have a good mind.  It has a great deal of
potential but it is not open to the things of this world.  You do not
see it as it is, but as you think it should be."

'You've lived under the ground too long,' said Cadillac.

'Your eyes and your ears are full of sand."

Mr Snow squatted in front of Steve and ran his hands gently up and down
his left trouser leg between the knee and ankle, barely touching the
fabric.  'Mmmm, feels good..."

He stood up, took hold of Steve's wrist and flexed his right arm,
checking the movement of the muscles as he did so.  'I wish all my
patients healed as well as this."  Mr Snow gave Stove's arm a friendly
pat.  'Keep on with those workouts.

Another haLf-moon or so and you'll be ready to make the big break."

The old wordsmith chuckled at Steve's confused expression.  He looked
like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  It was
a saying from the Old Time that Mr Snow had treasured ever since he had
first heard it fifty-two winters ago.  'Relax.  It's only natural for
you to want to get back to your burrow."

'The overground doesn't frighten me,' snapped Steve, annoyed at being
caught off guard.

'No, it doesn't,' agreed Mr Snow.  'It should.  The word from the South
was that you people like to stay close to one another.  Like a herd of
fast-foot.  But it doesn't seem to affect you.  I wonder why?"

'I'm a wingman,' replied Steve.  'We're different.  The pick of the
bunch.  We're trained to operate alone."

Mr Snow nodded gravely.  'I see.  well, just remember that Cadillac
and I can't protect you once you step off the edge of our turf.

Capeesh?"

'Don't worry,' said Steve lightly.  'I'll let you know when I'm
planning to leave."

'Good..."  The old wordsmith's eyes twinkled mischievously.

'Let's get one thing straight, Brickman.  I never worry."  He turned on
his heel and walked away, followed by Cadillac.

When they were out of earshot, Cadillac asked, 'Was it wise to reveal
that you know what he is thinking?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'In this case, yes.  Our devious young friend is one
of those people who thrives on a challenge."

When his leg felt strong enough, Steve added jogging to his exercise
routine.  Day after day, he gradually extended the length of his run,
varying his route over the M'Call's turf to build up his knowledge of
the surrounding terrain.  One particular day, while resting at a
vantage point that gave him a good view over the slopes below, Steve
saw a posse of Bears leave the main settlement on some errand.  They
set offwith an easy, loping stride, running nimbly down the slope - and
kept on running, for mile after mile across the plain below until they
were lost from sight.  Steve completed his planned circuit, returned to
the same spot and waited patiently.  Five hours later, his vigil was
rewarded.  The posse of Bears reappeared, covering the ground with the
same robot-like stride, running back up the slope with the same ease as
they had run down.

Steve raced back to the settlement in time to see the Bears arrive.  He
expected them to collapse, red-faced and exhausted, but they weren't
even gasping for breath.  The runners strolled about, chatting
unconcernedly with their families and other clan members who had been
on hand to welcome their return.  Some even ran to join in a strange
game in which two teams punched an inflated skin ball back and forth
across a high strip of net strung between two poles.

It looked like it might be fun to play.

Steve realised now why he had not been closely guarded.

If he planned to make a break for it on foot he would not only have to
be in top condition, he would also need at least a week's start on his
pursuers.  The discovery of the Mute's amazing stamina necessitated a
drastic revision of his escape plan.  There was only one surefire way
to evade his captors and that was to fly out.

The notion had first occurred to him when he had been flat on his back,
daydreaming about his triumphal return to the Federation.  He had
dismissed the idea then as totally impractical but now, he began to
consider it as a serious possibility.  The M'Calls had, after all,
brought down at least three Skyhawks near their original settlement
above Route 88.out of Cheyenne.  His own in the cropfield; Fazetti and
Naylor over the forest - the claws presumed hiding place.  In the
several weeks he had lived amongst them, Steve had seen dozens of Mutes
wearing strips of the blue solar cell fabric and plaited lengths of
cable.  He had even seen instrument dials sewn onto some of the
warriof's leather helmets and some of the kids had been rolling one of
the small landing wheels around.

Steve had neither the hope nor the means of reconstructing a full-blown
Skyhawk but - if the clan had hoarded enough bits of one or more of the
basic airframes there might be sufficient material to build a
hang-glider.

Through his concentrated studies at the Academy, Steve had the
knowledge and the technical skill to build something that would fly.

But not without tools - and there was no way such an enterprise could
be carried out in secret.  He would need to make friends and influence
people.  That was no problem.  If enough materials could be salvaged,
he would offer Cadillac the chance of learning how to fly.  The young
wordsmith took himself very seriously and was obsessed with his status
- what the lumpheads called 'standing'.  He would jump at the
opportunity.  Through him, Steve would be able to get the help of
M'Call craftsmen like Three Degrees.  Maybe there were others with
abilities unknown to the Federation.  Building the glider would provide
an opportunity for discovering just how bright the Plainfolk really
were.

Steve sauntered along one of the settlement trails, putting the final
details together in his head.  He could see it clearly just like a
videotape.  A craft would be constructed to his design; would need to
be tested before instruction of his eager pupil could begin.  His
helpers would marvel at the faultless take-off, would cheer as he
swooped sleek-winged over their heads, would swell with pride as he
gained height like a soaring eagle - blissfully unaware that his
test-flight would end a couple of hundred miles away at the nearest
way-station.  He'd leave 'em standing, open-mouthed, like the idiots
they were.  Best of all, the two wordsmiths, who thought they were such
wise guys, would be totally shafted.

It was a good plan.  It had style.  And it was a hell of a lot better
than trying to outrun a bunch of screaming lumpheads.

When Cadillac joined him for supper that evening, Steve used the
opportunity to talk about his three years at the Flight Academy in New
Mexico, culminating with an eloquent account of his first overground
solo.  Cadillac listened attentively.  Afterwards, when Steve had gone
to sleep, he went to Mr Snow's hut.  They sat crosslegged on the
talking mat and shared a pipe of rainbow grass.

'He wishes to build an arrowhead so that he may teach me to ride the
sky like a cloud warrior."

'I know..."  The old wordsmith's voice floated through the smoke that
curled lazily between them.

'Is there any reason why this should not be?"

'None at all."  Mr Snow pulled deeply on his pipe, inhaling the
smoke.

His face froze in a half-smile for several minutes while his vocal
chords waited for the air to clear.  'He follows the path laid down for
you by the Sky Voices."

Cadillac took the offered pipe and drew more smoke into his body.  His
head began to take wing.  As a consequence, there was some delay before
his brain managed to make contact with his mouth.  'To help build an
arrowhead will give me knowledge of the High Craft, and to fly like an
eagle will bring me great standing.  You are my teacher."  He passed
the pipe over.  'It is not fitting that I should receive these gifts
without them first being given to you."

'You go ahead,' replied Mr Snow.  He waved the pipe in the air.  'This
is the only way I'm leaving the ground."

Steve was right in thinking that the clan had moved further to the west
but he was not entirely correct about the reason for their retreat to
the relative safety of the high ground.

While the clan elders were anxious to avoid further attacks from the
arrowheads until they had learned to resist the fire from the sky and
the long sharp iron wielded by the sand-burrowers they had a second,
equally pressing, reason for moving westwards: the elders wanted to
avoid having to answer any challenge over the M'Call's turf until the
Bears had regained their standing.  By running from the battle with the
iron snake they had - like the Japanese samurai of old - 'lost face'.

Without 'standing', they were - by the unwritten laws of the Plainfolk
- unworthy to bear sharp iron and engage other warriors in single
combat.  Since the M'Call's turf was now threatened with incursions by
the D'Vine - the clan to which the dead Shakatak and his three
companions had belonged - Roiling-Stone had given the order to withdraw
westwards into the great mountains until the shamed Bears were ready to
'bite the arrow' - the traditional proof of courage by which they
regained their warrior status.

Steve was invited by Mr Snow and Cadillac to sit in on the ceremony.

Seeing the flames leaping from the big bonfire and hearing a rumbling
background beat of drums, he thought he was finally going to hear one
of the long-awaited fire song sessions.  Instead, he found himself
watching a macabre ceremony of self-mutilation.  Mr Snow explained to
Steve the reason why, since his capture, he had only heard solo voices
singing a keening lament, sometimes accompanied by a haunting melody
played on reed pipes; the rousing fire songs, which recalled the epic
deeds of the M'call's, could not be sung in honour of warriors who had
lost their standing; they had first to bite the arrow.

Sitting beside Cadillac, Steve watched with morbid fascination as the
first of the M'Call braves knelt before Rolling-Stone, the clan elder,
and presented him with an arrow.  Each brave was required to make his
own, whittling the straight shaft and honing the four blades of the
iron head to razor sharpness.  Rolling-Stone held the arrow above his
head, flexing the shaft as he displayed it to the watching clan.  This,
Cadillac explained, was to prove that the shaft had not been
weakened.

The warrior then stretched out his arms towards two clan elders who
knelt facing him on either side and laid the palms of his hands on
theirs, fingers stretched out and closed lightly together at shoulder
height.

'Watch his hands,' whispered Cadillac.

Steve fixed his attention upon them.  The drumbeats and the clicking
from wooden percussive instruments became sharper, more insistent,
assuming an almost hypnotic intensity.  They were joined by an unseen
chorus in the darkness beyond the fire.

The kneeling brave filled his chest with air and let out a great
shout.

'Hey-YAHH!"  With one swift movement, Rolling-Stone drove the arrow
point through the left cheek of the brave and out through the right."

Steve shuddered at the thought of how it must feel.

He expected the brave's hands to ball into fists but he bore the pain
stoically.  His outstretched fingers quivered a little but his palms
did not lift from those of the elders.  The brave rose and turned to
face the clan, arms still outstretched, his teeth clamped firmly on the
shaft of the arrow.  Keeping his elbows at shoulder height, he swept
his outstretched palms slowly forward then inwards and gripped the head
and tail of the arrow.  With a sharp downward jerk, he broke it between
his teeth, pulled the two ends of the shaft out of his face, held them
aloft with a showman's flourish, then stepped forward and spat the
remaining piece into the bonfire.

'HEYY-YAHH!!"  roared the clan.  Their chorus of approval merged
harmoniously with the sonorous background chant.

Steve sat there, silently appalled.

One by one, the M'Call warriors who had been at the Battle of the Now
and Then River stepped forward to bite the' arrow.  Motor-Head,
Black-Top and Steel-Eye, Cadillac's surviving clan-brothers, then
Hershey-Bar, Henry-K, Average-White, Curved-Air, Osi-Bisa, Seven-Up,
Burger-King, Gulf-Oil, Camp-David, and the rest whose names of power
Steve did not yet know.

After fifty or so braves had had their faces skewered, just as Steve
had overcome his initial revulsion, he witnessed a new horror.

Good-Year, a warrior who Steve guessed was in his mid-twenties - with
Mutes it was hard to tell - crapped out.  As Rolling-Stone plunged the
arrow through his cheek, Good-Year balled his fists and half-closed his
outstretched arms with a convulsive jerk.  The kneeling clan elders on
either side of him grabbed hold of his wrists, stood up and pulled his
arms behind his back, forcing his head down.

Almost before Steve had time to realise what was happening, another
clan-elder stepped out of the darkness behind Rolling-Stone, lifted a
hefty stone hammer and brought it down with tremendous force on the
back of Good-Year's skull.

'Christopher Columbus!"  breathed Steve.  He grabbed Cadillac's arm.

'Don't any of these guys get a second chance?"

Cadillac didn't answer.  Four warriors who had passed the test with
flying colours leapt up, grabbed Good-Year's body by the arms and legs
and threw it onto the fire.  There was a shower of sparks and a hideous
crackling noise.  The flames leapt higher.  The drumming, the clicking
and the chanting rose to fever pitch.

They are all mad, thought Steve.  Or they are all so brain-damaged they
feel no pain.  But then he cast his mind back to the river battle: to
Trail Boss Buck McDonnell standing up behind Barber, the engineering
exec, on the bulldozer with crossbow bolts zipping round his ears: to
Caulfield in his Skyhawk on the flight-deck, a crossbow bolt through
his temples and his eyeballs hanging down by his nostrils, yelling as
they hauled him out of his cockpit, 'Leave me alone!  I'm okay, I'm
okay.  Let's go!  Let's get at these bastards!"  The M'Calls had
summarily executed GoodYear for failing the test of a warrior - but
Grand Central put guys up against a wall and shot them in front of the
video cameras for crapping out on operations.  It could even be
happening to Hartmann, commander of The Lady, right now.  The smell of
roasting human flesh assailed his nostrils.

It was a salutary reminder that he himself had committed the same act
in reverse.  He had dropped bonfires on people; made of napalm and
aimed at the children of the people he was sitting with.  We are all,
thought Steve, as mad as each other.

Good-Year's body, blackened and charred, merged with the blazing embers
as more wood was heaped on the fire and slowly crumbled into
oblivion.

The ceremony continued far into the night, with the clan roaring its
approval as each Mute presenting himself for reinstatement as a
warrior, broke the blood-stained arrow held between his clenched teeth
and spat the third piece contemptuously into the flames.  The other two
pieces, Cadillac explained, would be attached to a necklace; a badge of
courage to be worn with pride.

Steve lost track of time.  He was becoming tired.  The incessant
drumming and chanting had become, to his ear, monotonous,
overwhelming.

He longed to get up and stretch, to creep into the fur-skin bed he had
been given and go to sleep but he felt constrained to stay where he
was.  With the whole clan in a hyped-up state there was no knowing what
might happen.  Steve had an odd sense of foreboding.

All it needed was for some of those Bears who'd been giving him
mean-eyed looks to decide to have a little fun and...

He decided it would be safer to stick close to Cadillac and Mr Snow.

Cadillac leaned into him and pressed something in his hand.  'Take
this,' he muttered.  'Just in case ..."

Steve glanced at his neighbours but nobody appeared to have noticed the
transaction.  He brought his right hand casually up to his face, rubbed
his nose with his thumb and forefinger and glanced down at what
Cadillac had put into his palm.  It was shredded Dream Cap. Steve
slowly rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin, scooped the drug up
with his tongue and chewed it discreetly.  Something about the way
Cadillac had passed over the Dream Cap suggested it was the best thing
to do.  But what did he mean by 'Just in case' ?

Another roar of approval.  Another M'Call knelt to have his cheeks
pierced.  The line of waitifig warriors seemed endless.  Steve let his
eyes roam over the closely-packed rows of lumpheads on either side of
him.  Male and female warriors, den-mothers, young Mutes.  What, Steve
wondered, did they make of all this?  On the far side of the huge fire,
partly masked by the rows in front, Steve unexpectedly caught sight of
the most beautifully formed face he had ever seen.  It came as a shock
to realise that it belonged to a female Mute.  It was hard to be sure
in the flickering light but she looked smooth skinned - like
Cadillac.

Her face was patterned with light and dark pigments but otherwise even
at this distance - Steve could see it was flawless.

And her eyes!  Like two points of blue fire...

When they connected with Steve's he felt an inexplicable surge of
excitement.  A shiver ran down his spine.  He felt an insane urge to
get up and make his way round to where she sat but did not dare move
from his allotted place.  As he had to look past Cadillac to see her,
he averted his gaze so as not to reveal the true focus of his
attentions.  He watched the next warrior break and wrench the arrow out
of his cheeks then slowly let his gaze drift round to where she sat.

Her face was turned towards him; her eyes waiting to meet his.

This is crazy I thought Steve.  Come on, get a grip on yourself!

She's a lumphead.  She's probably got a body like a sack of rocks.  And
even if she hasn't what you are thinking is unthinkable.  He tore his
eyes away and silently berated himself.  You're imagining things,
Brickman.  It's the Dream Cap. You've been a prisoner of these lumps
so long, you're beginning to think of them as real people.  Just keep
cool.

Hang loose.

Impossible.  His body was tingling.  He was in the grip of a sensation
he had never experienced before and lacked the words to describe.  He
stole another look past Cadillac.

Several Mutes blocked his view as they got up to take their place in
the queue.  When they had passed, Steve's heart sank.  She had gone.

Motor-Head, Cadillac's fearsome clan-brother, had taken her place.  He
glared at Steve with undisguised belligerence.  Steve avoided his gaze
and searched the rows of firelit faces in front and behind but the Mute
girl was nowhere to be seen.

Without warning, Cadillac got up and walked over to where Mr Snow sat
in the semi-circle of clan eiders.  Steve saw him squat crosslegged
behind the old wordsmith's right shoulder.  He laid his hands on his
kneecaps, closed his eyes and appeared to compose himself.

Once again, Steve was not prepared for what happened next.  When the
last disgraced Mute had bitten the arrow and regained his standing as a
warrior, Rolling-Stone spread his arms wide and addressed the
gathering.  'The blood of our warriors flows hot and strong!  They have
proved themselves worthy to bear sharp iron in battle.  The M'Calls are
once again the greatest of the Plainfolk!"  'Heyy-YAHH!!"  roared the
seated clan.

Mr Snow and Cadillac stood up and moved to stand on either side of
Rolling-Stone.  The clan elder spread his hands again.  'Now let us
bite the arrow to show we are worthy to lead the bravest of the brave
I' 'YAHH!  YAHH!  Y^HH!"  chanted the clan.  The musical accompaniment
which had faded during the clan elder's speech, picked up its former
pace and volume.

I was right the first time, thought Steve.  They are all fruitcakes.

He understood why Cadillac had closed his eyes.

He had been preparing himself mentally for the ordeal ahead.

Interesting.  Did that mean the Mutes had some way to switch off
pain?

That could be a trick that might be worth learning.  No wonder they
kept coming in spite of everything that the crew of The Lady threw at
them.  Too dumb to be frightened, and too numb to know they'd been
hit.

Fort-Knox, a warrior whose own cheeks were streaked with blood, took
the arrow proffered by Rolling-Stone and flexed it above his head for
all to see.  The old Mute knelt before him, his outstretched hands
resting on the raised palms of two warriors.  Just behind Fort-Knox,
Steve could see Motor-Head curling his thick fingers round the shaft of
the heavy stone hammer.  Not that he needed it.  He looked the kind of
guy who could stave your head in with his bare fist.

'Hey-YAH!"  cried Rolling-Stone.

Fort-Knox punched the arrow through the old lump-head's face.

Rolling-Stone's hands.never moved.  Now one step removed from reality
through the Dream Cap, Steve didn't even wince inwardly.  The clan
elder rose, turned, displayed his transfixed jaws to the assembled clan
then broke the arrow.

'Hey-YAHH!"  roared the M'Calls.

Well done, old man, thought Steve.  I'm glad it's you and not me.  It
was no joke being head-man if you had to go through the same
performance every time the clan crapped OUt.

Mr Snow and Cadillac both passed the test with flying colours.  Their
participation surprised Steve.  They were too intelligent to get mixed
up in such a primitive display of machismo.  With a little thought they
should have been smart enough to figure a way out - or to have invented
some new.  rules.

Cadillac broke the arrow out of his face and spat the last piece into
the fire.  The clan roared its approval.  Great, thought Steve,
stifling a yawn.  Now we can all go home.  He began to get up then saw
that everyone else was sitting tight.

He sat back and crossed his legs and felt a chill ripple of fear run
down his spine as Motor-Head fixed his glittering black eyes upon
him.

Grasping the stone hammer under its head, the square, heavily-muscled
Mute strode across the wavering circle of firelight and planted himself
in front of where Steve sat in the fourth row.

Motor-Head flung out his right arm, pointing the hammer at Steve.  'Now
brothers, what shall be done with this carrion crow?!"  Steve could
feel everyone's eyes upon him.  BlackTop and Steel-Eye moved through
the crowd and stood behind him.  Oh boy, thought Steve dreamily.  This
looks like big trouble.  Keep cool.  Let Mr Snow handle it...

Motor-Head appealed to the assembled clan.  'Did not this crow, before
its wings were broken, destroy our cropfields and kill our cubs?  Why
is this carrion allowed to live in our midst?  He takes the food from
our mouths yet is allowed to fill his own.  This wingless worm has no
standing.

I say he should taste the fire he let fall on others -' 'Heyy-yahh...

I' The response came as an angry growl.

Not everybody answered but it was clear a sizeable number greed with
Motor-Head's proposition.

Black-Top and Steel-Eye grabbed Steve by the arms and hauled him to
his feet.  His head woozy from the Dream Cap, Steve struggled drunkenly
in their grip.  'Hey, come on, you guys, what is this?!"  Mr Snow took
a step forward.  Like Motor-Head, his speech was slurred and wooden
because of the fresh wounds in his cheeks.  'Free him!  He has
standing.  The Sky Voices spoke to me of this cloud warrior.  The
shadow of Talisman is upon him!"  Black-Top and Steel-Eye began to
release their grip on Steve.  Motor-Head stopped them with an imperious
gesture.  'The shadow of Talisman does not fall on the unworthy."

Motor-Head turned to the clan for support.

'Does a warrior lay waste to the fruits of the earth?  This carrion
kills those that have not chewed bone yet when Cadillac brought him
tumbling from the sky he begged to be saved from death -' 'Shee-ehhh
..."  hissed the clan.

Motor-Head flung an accusing finger at Cadillac.  'Is that not so,
wordsmith?"

Cadillac hesitated, looked at Steve, then nodded gravely.

'My brother speaks the truth."

Oh, terrific, thought Steve.  Thanks a bunch...

Black-Top and Steel-Eye dragged Steve out in front of the clan, twisted
his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees.  Out of the
corner of his eye, Steve saw Motor-Head heft the big stone hammer.  His
brain was fast losing its capacity to react.  I don't believe this, he
thought.  He let his head hang down limply and slowly realised that it
was becoming weightless.

Mr Snow held up his hands.  'Stay!  His life was spared because
Talisman willed it!"  Motor-Head paused with the hammer resting on his
right shoulder.  'I too have dreamed dreams, Old One."  He pointed down
at Steve.  'This is the Death-Bringer.  If it is Talisman's will that
he treads the earth, let him take the spirit from this crow and put it
in a braver body!"  He gripped the gnarled shaft tightly and swung the
hammer back over his head.  As it arced forwards on the killing stroke
the stone head exploded with a terrifying boom.  It was as if the
hammer had collided head on with an invisible bolt of lightning.  The
mysterious force that struck the hammer .  lifted Motor-Head off his
feet and hurled him backwards.

Mr Snow, Cadillac, Black-Top and Steel-Eye reeled away, trying vainly
to shield their faces from the shower of sharp splinters.  Steve hit
the ground nose first.  By some metaphysical quirk, most of the
splinters were seen to follow the line of the explosion, going behind
Motor-Head and upwards at an angle.  Shocked and momentarily deafened
but otherwise uninjured, they were helped up by the nearest of the
startled spectators.

Mr Snow walked over to where Motor-Head lay on his back, dazed and
winded.  'Perhaps that will teach you not to speak out of turn.  You're
lucky that didn't blow your head off."  Motor-Head sat up groggily.  Mr
Snow turned away to check that Steve was all right, then addressed the
gathering.

'There!  You have seen for yourselves how Talisman protects those who
walk in his shadow!"  'Heyyy-yahhh,' murmured the awed clan.

Motor-Head leapt to his feet, his composure regained, and strode
forward.  Cadillac tried to hold him back but was brushed aside.

'Brothers and sisters I Like you, I bow to the Will of Talisman, but I
still say this crow is unworthy to eat and drink and live as one of
us.

If he draws his strength from Talisman, let him prove he is a
warrior!

Let him bite the arrow I' 'HEYY-YAHH!!"  This time the vote was
unanimous.

Steve swayed as the voices thundered in his ears.  Mr Snow and Cadillac
grabbed him by the arms.  'Hey!  Hey!

Come on!  Stay awake!"  whispered Mr Snow urgently.  'If anyone guesses
you're stoked up on Dream Cap they will call a postponement and thread
your face when you're cold turkey."

'Does it hurt?"  mumbled Steve.

'You won't feel too much,' said Mr Snow.

'Just switch off,' muttered Cadillac.  'Don't think about it."

They marched him over to the clan elders.  'Okay,' whispered Mr Snow,
'Kneel down, stretch out your arms sideways and, whatever happens, keep
your fingers straight and your palms flat on ours."

Steve nodded dreamily.  'I know the drill."

Mr Snow patted him on the back of the neck and hissed.

'Head up!  Keep your head up.  Look sharp!"  Mr Snow and Cadillac knelt
facing each other on either side of Steve and offered up a palm for
Steve to lay his outstretched hands on.

Rolling-Stone stepped up to Steve holding the unbroken arrow made by
the luckless Good-Year.  It was stained with blood where it had pierced
his left cheek.  The four-vaned head gleamed dully.  To Steve's
dislocated senses it looked huge.  Far too big to pass between his
jaws.  In his mind's eye he saw it splintering his teeth, ripping
across his tongue...

Rolling-Stone lifted the arrow above his head.

Breathe.  He had to take a deep breath.  Fill his lungs with air to
power the primal scream that would initiate his ordeal.

Like the warlike cry he had been trained to use when delivering a blow
in unarmed combat.  How much would he feel?  How much would it hurt?

Steve had the impression he was both inside and outside himself.  His
mind was beginning to drift away.  Again he could hear voices.

He heard a far-away echoing cry; dimly recognised it as the defiant
Trail-Blazer yell.  HO !-Oh-oh-oh-oh.  He felt a violent blow against
the left side of his face, just ahead of the jaw muscle.  A harsh
grating noise.  Splayed fingers pressing against the right side of his
face.  Skin tightening, tearing.

Something hard and thin pressing down on his tongue.

Choking... mouth filling with blood.  Rising.  Turning, arms
outstretched.  Hands on his legs, steadying him.  Look alert,
Brickman.

Look sharp.  Don't crap out.  This is your big moment.  Fold your arms
slowly.  Take hold of the arrow.

Shit... driven the point into my hand!  Okay... this is the bit these
lumpheads have been waiting for.  Bite the arrow.

Shit.  That hurts I Break you bastard.  Oh, sweet Christopher, it's
tearing my fucking face apart I Bite harder.  Bite through.

Oh, boy.  couldn't have made it without the Dream Cap. Still don't
know whether I can... Hands are sticky.  Got blood everywhere.  Oh, boy
I Think it's breaking... Going to have to - snap - it - up...wards.

uh!  UHH!

Heyyy-YAHHH I The roar from the assembled Mutes washed over him like a
great wave.  His face throbbed.  The inside of his mouth felt swollen,
shapeless.  Willing himself to stay erect, he walked stiff-legged to
the fire and spat the piece of shaft into the flames.  The rows of
misshapen, firelit faces swayed, blurred...

The next thing Steve was conscious of was waking up inside Cadillac's
hut.  He was lying between his sleeping furs.  Mr Snow and the young
wordsmith sat watching him.

Both their faces bore the livid wounds made by the arrow.

Steve sat up on his elbows.  His face felt as if it was on fire.

'How did I get here?"

'You walked,' said Mr Snow.

Steve touched his cheeks gingerly, measuring the extent of the damage
with his fingertips.  'Thanks for helping me out,' he mumbled.  'If it
hadn't been for that Dream Cap..."

Cadillac pointed to Mr Snow.  'It was his idea."

Mr Snow waved dismissively.

'I don't know how you guys managed without it."

Mr Snow began to smile but it hurt too much.  'The Mutes have learned
to get used to pain."  He leaned forward and gripped Steve's wrist.

'Congratulations.  You did well.

Everybody was very impressed."

'Aww, come on,' said Steve.  'It was a total cop-out.  I'm a fraud."

'True,' replied Mr Snow lightly.  'But only the three of us know
that."

He saw Steve's face fall.  'Don't run yourself down too much.  Not
everyone could have gone through with it - even with the help you
had."

'So welcome to warriorhood."  Cadillac extended his palm.

Steve gave Cadillac's hand the traditional downward slap then offered
his palm in return.  'Laying on the hand of friendship' was the Mute
equivalent of the Tracker handshake - but was not lightly bestowed on
strangers.

'That bit with the hammer,' began Steve.  'The way it exploded just as
Motor-Head was about to knock my brains out.  You ran things a mite too
close for comfort but it was great timing.  How'd you rig that?"

Mr Snow exchanged a look with Cadillac before replying.

'We didn't rig anything.  These things happen."

'You mean -' Steve laughed woodenly.  Like the others, his face was too
painfully stiff to open his mouth properly.

'- that stuff about me being in Talisman's shadows was for real?  Does
this guy actually exist?"

'Talisman has always existed,' said Mr Snow quietly.

'You mean he lives somewhere."

'Talisman lives everywhere."

'Wait a minute,' said Steve.  'Let me get this straight.  Are we
talking about a real live person?"

'Now and then, yes."

'What does that mean?"

Mr Snow sighed patiently.  'When the time comes for him to walk the
earth, Talisman will manifest himself as a human being."

'Okay,' nodded Steve.  'Where is he now?"

The old wordsmith threw up his hands.  'What a dumb question!  What
does it matter where he is?  He's around!"  'Around?"

'Yes!  The way the sky is around the earth.  The way heaven is around
the stars!"  Steve considered this abstraction, trying to make some
sense of it.  'I see.  He's like the other, uhh - person you say lives
in the sky - Mo-Town."

'He is greater than Mo-Town.  She is the mother of the Plainfolk.

Talisman is Ruler of All."

Steve nodded again.  'Got it.  Are they, uhh - related?"

'Yes,' said Mr Snow.  'Talisman is both the son and the father of
Mo-Town."

Steve frowned.  'But that doesn't make sense."

'Not to you,' said Mr Snow.  'Not now, anyway.  But before you laugh
off the whole idea just remember he saved your ass.  Think about
that."

'I will,' said Steve, with as much sincerity as his wounded face would
allow.  He had already earmarked the conversation as eminently
forgettable.  How sad, he reflected that two such amiable ostensibly
bright guys could cherish such batty notions.  On the other hand, it
made life a whole lot easier for the Federation.  While the Plainfolk
were waiting for their great mother and father in the sky to come to
their aid on wings of thunder, the Trail-Blazers would proceed to take
them apart with the aid of some good old-fashioned firepower.  Still,
it was odd about the way that stone hammer had exploded...

Steve mentally pigeonholed the problem and tuned back onto the two
wordsmiths.  'Does the fact that I've got this, uhh, Talisman rooting
for me mean that your friend Motor-Head will be off my back from now
on?"

Cadillac shook his head.  'Not necessarily.  Now that you have both
bitten the arrow it means that he can challenge you in single
combat."

'He could not do that before,' explained Mr Snow.  'In his eyes, you
had no standing.  But now you are a warrior..."  He spread his palms.

'Terrific,' said Steve.  'What are the chances of him pulling permanent
guard duty at your furthest lookout point?"

'Slim,' replied Mr Snow.

'But - can't you tell him to lay off?"  said Steve anxiously.

'I thought you ran things round here."

'Ahh, Rolling-Stone is the chief clan elder.  There are certain areas
where the clan seeks my advice but..."  Mr Snow shrugged.

'So what do I do now?"  asked Steve.

The old wordsmith savoured his reply.  'Well... you can -either start
practising your knife-work - or start praying to Talisman.  Preferably
both."  He uncrossed his legs, patted Steve on the shoulder and got
up.

'I'll see if I can get you a blade,' said Cadillac.  'Meanwhile it
might be better to stay indoors."  He followed Mr Snow OUt.

'Make it a long one,' Steve shouted, as they went through the door
curtain.  'Or give me my rifle back - if you've still got it."  Some
chance.  Still, it was worth a try.  Steve cursed inwardly.  What a
situation.  After all he'd been through.  All that mumbo jumbo - only
to learn that the biggest ape on the campus was out there waiting for a
pretext to jump on his bones.  Christopher Columbus!

When they were safely out of sight of the hut, Cadillac and Mr Snow
slapped hands, pushed each other and fell about laughing until tears of
joy and pain ran down their wounded, swollen jaws.

'Did you see his face?  I' choked Mr Snow.  He collapsed in a new
burst of laughter, clutching his cheeks.  'Oh, dear, this is doing me
no good at all!"  'Do you think we ought to tell Motor-Head to lay
off?"

'No leave it.  Let Talisman look after his own.  Oh, dear...

our Mr Brickman takes things so seriously.  And he's so blind!  Do you
think they're all like that?"  Mr Snow wiped the tears from his eyes
with the back of his hand.  'Yes... I'm going to be really sorry to
lose him."

FIFTEEN

With the aid of a daily application of Mr Snow's antiseptic red leaf
mash, the wounds in Steve's face healed rapidly, leaving pale,
cross-shaped scars.  In the days that followed the 'ceremony, Steve
found that many of the M'Calls who had cold-shouldered him had adopted
a more relaxed attitude.  From being a despised, disarmed intruder he
became an object of good-natured curiosity and for the first time began
to attract a small crowd of followers who, when challenged, revealed
with an engaging shyness that they wanted to ask him questions.  Not
that, as it turned out, they were particularly interested in the
answers, for they would soon be forgotten.  They just wanted to hear
him speak.

Along with this newly-acquired social acceptability, Steve was accorded
the additional privilege of an invitation to Mr Snow's hut where, in
the company of Cadillac, he was introduced to rainbow grass.  Because
Buck McDonnell ran what was called a 'tight train', the whispers about
its availability and covert use by some trail-hands had not reached
Steve's ears while aboard The Lady.

Steve accepted the proffered pipe and sniffed it cautiously before
taking an experimental puff.  Despite the use of grass by Trackers on
overground expeditions, smoking was not a permitted social activity
within the Federation; indeed, to most people, the idea would have
seemed absurd.  Since cigarettes did not exist, the need for them
simply did not arise.

The first intake of smoke made Steve cough and retch.

The second, taken down into the lungs, nearly choked him but induced an
agreeable lightheadedness; the third turned his ears into wings.  The
fourth prompted Mr Snow to take the pipe away from him.

'Hey, hey, hey, slow down.  What are you trying to do start a fire?"

Steve giggled lopsidedly.  'Sorry."

'So you should be,' said Mr Snow severely.  'You and that other
sonofabitch burned a good two acres of this stuff.

We're all still very sore about that."

Having a hole punched through his face produced another, less
desirable, side-effect.  Night-Fever, one of the dozen or so female
Mutes who took it in turn to bring Steve his food, began to favour him
with hot-eyed glances.  She had woven his broken pieces of arrow into a
necklace made of thin plaited strips of buffalo hide and, after
presenting it to him, had taken to squatting for hours on end outside
his hut.

Since, in terms of looks, Steve rated her near the bottom of an
unprepossessing heap, her thinly concealed desires were an unwelcome
development which, added to the lurking danger of an equally unwelcome
attack upon his person by Motor-Head, should have prompted him to put
his plan for building a hang-glider to Cadillac, but he did nothing.

He drifted, gripped by a kind of mental languor, mesmerised by the
luminous eyes that had met his across the clearing; his waking hours
and his dreams haunted by evanescent images of the face he had glimpsed
in the firelight; images that aroused feelings which he was unable to
put into words because - like 'freedom' - they had been deliberately
omitted from the Federation dictionary.

Escape was still Steve's ultimate objective but all his plans and his
byzantine schemes to manipulate his captors had been put on the back
burner.  His primary task now was to find out who that face belonged
to.  He was plagued by an urgent need to assuage the feelings its
mysterious beauty had inspired.  Steve had, quite simply, fallen in
love but, as he had not heard the word mentioned until his conversation
with Mr Snow and still did not properly comprehend what it meant in
practical human terms, he was fated to remain in the words of a song
from the Old Time - bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

Who was she?  And where was she?  Steve was pretty sure he had explored
the whole area in and around the settlement and encountered, at one
time or another, virtually the whole clan but, since the night he had
bitten the arrow, he had not caught even a glimpse of his elusive
quarry.  Since being captured he had learned enough about the Plainfolk
society to know that she was not a visitor.  The fact that she was
being kept apart from the other M'Calls must mean that she was either
regarded as something special by the clan or she was being kept hidden
because of him.

Or both.

What was it the M'Calls did not want him to discover?

As he had promised, Cadillac duly furnished Steve with a long-bladed
hunting knife.  Not the usual Mute sharp iron, but standard
Trail-Blazer issue.  At first Steve thought it was his own but, when he
took a closer look, he found the initials 'L.K.N."  etched on the
handle: Lou Kennedy Naylor, who had been inexplicably attacked by
Fazetti and brought down over the forest.  Steve's hopes that the
M'Calls might also have kept bits of Naylor's Skyhawk and possibly his
own received a fresh boost.  'Thanks."  He hefted the blade.

'Aren't you worried I might kill somebody?"

Cadillac pursed his lips and shrugged.  'llnless you killed in single
combat your death would be inevitable, slow and terrible.  A wasted
gesture.  Where would be the profit in that?"

'When you put it that way, none, but -' Steve hesitated.

'Didn't Mr Snow tell everybody that Talisman's shadow was upon me?

Doesn't that mean I'm under his protection?"

'Yes, it does,' admitted Cadillac.

'Then if he really exists and is as powerful as you guys say he is,
nothing can happen to me."  Steve flipped the knife jauntily into the
air and caught it again by the handle.  'He saved me from death in the
cropfields, and from Motor-Head's hammer, so -' Cadillac's eyes gleamed
as he grasped the thrust of Steve's argument.  'He may save you again
but only if you conduct yourself like a warrior."

Steve watched Cadillac walk away.  There was no doubt about it, the
two mouthpieces for the M'Calls had a whole bagful of great exit
lines.

They probably sat around rehearsing them in Mr Snow's hut.  He
reflected on Cadillac's veiled warning.  These guys and their gods.

They tried to convince you that everything was already worked out,
every move preordained by someone living way up beyond the clouds, but
they always left themselves a way out in case things didn't happen as
predicted.

There was only one power that worked.  Manpower.  And the Federation
knew how to organise that.  When they had won back the overground and
wiped out the Mutes they would change the face of the earth.  The
forces of Nature at the heart of the so-called Mute magic would be
observed, analysed, understood, and harnessed.  The Sky Voices that
supposedly gave Mr Snow his marching orders would find that no one was
listening; Mo-Town and Talisman would be reduced to a couple of
laugh-lines in the history archives.

Peripheral data.  There would be no place for any of that crap in the
New America the Federation was going to build.  Just hard work and good
living.  That was the difference between the smoke-filled fantasies of
the Mutes and the vision that fired the Trackers.  Thanks to the genius
of the First Family, the blue-sky world was within their grasp: could
be won by the strong and the brave.  The bones of the Mutes would be
buried under the gleaming cities that would rise from the empty sunlit
plains.  Yes...

Still, it was odd the way that stone hammer exploded...

Deciding that it was better to be prepared than spend his time trying
to avoid the threatened confrontation with Motor-Head, Steve borrowed a
machete and cut himself a quarterstaff which he carried with him
everywhere.  He constructed a dummy opponent from branches and grass
and practised daily until he could wield the staff as effortlessly as
he had in the Flight Academy.  His use of the staff attracted the
attention and interest of the M'Call Bears, and Steve soon found
himself giving lessons to a class that grew rapidly to around fifty,
and included the fearsome Motor-Head.  The big Mute scorned the
protective pads of wood and leather that Steve had insisted his pupils
must make and wear and stuck with his own stone decorated helmet and
body armour.

In their practice bouts, Steve found Motor-Head fearless, apparently
impervious to pain, and a fast learner.  What he lacked in technique he
made up for in speed and strength and it was only Steve's arduously
acquired superior skill and mental discipline that kept him out of
serious trouble.  His encounters with Motor-Head acquired an extra
edge; became needle matches which, despite Steve's rule that practice
bouts should end after landing two strokes in the alloted 'kill' zones,
were only terminated when Motor-Head was.  brought, temporarily, to his
knees.  It was clear that the powerfully muscled Bear did not intend to
give up until he had regained his position as paramount warrior and had
beaten Steve into the ground.

Steve considered taking a dive to placate Motor-Head's pride but, on
this occasion, his stubborn streak won over his natural guile.  Since
his capture, his corn-coloured hair had grown out of its natural
crew-cut shape and was hanging onto the nape of his neck and over his
ears.  Siezed by an unreasoning defiance, he got Night-Fever to weave a
thin plait in his hair interlaced with a strip of the blue solar cell
fabric, and each time he beat Motor-Head, he added another ribboned
plait.  Steve knew he was asking for trouble by baiting Motor-Head with
such a provocative coiffure but he was confident that his skill with
the quarterstaff allied to his superior intelligence and sixth sense
could outsmart this formidable but half-witted fighting machine.

His instruction of the Bears in the use of the quarterstaff enabled him
to make a more objective assessment of their learning ability.  Like
all Trackers, Steve had been brought up to believe that all lumpheads
were dummies.  Since meeting Cadillac and Mr Snow he knew this was not
the case, but he had had first hand experience of the average Mute's
inability to remember.  The mistake he and the rest of the Federation
had made was in equating a Mute's faulty memory with low
intelligence.

Steve came to realise that his captors could not only absorb
information; they could retain it.  What was missing was the
information retrieval system.

Their brains were like computers into which data could be fed but which
had no print-out facility.  The Mutes could put two and two together
but they couldn't tell you the answer was four because the link between
the memory centre and the speech centre kept breaking down.  In some,
the link was so intermittent as to be virtually nonexistent, in others
- like Three Degrees - the down-time on the memory link was minimal, or
limited to specific areas of knowledge.  The old Mute had thus been
able to acquire his wood-working skills and - as he went on to
demonstrate recognise Steve on some days but not know who the hell he
was on the next.  The limited specific memory facility enabled, for
example, the M'Call Bears to acquire and retain fighting and hunting
skills but even this, it appeared, was prone to the odd line fault.

Which, Steve imagined, could be bad news if it happened in the middle
of a rumble over your home turf.

There was a third memory factor which Steve had noticed but did not
fully understand.  When he had watched Three Degrees make the pair of
crutches, he had noted how Cadillac's presence had aided the old
lumphead in his task.

Somehow, through the odd spoken word or his physical proximity,
Cadillac had helped complete the memory circuits when Three Degrees
hands had faltered.  Steve had already seen enough to convince him that
the clan could interreact without the need for words.  He had ascribed
this ability to a sense of awareness - a word-concept that had come to
him out of the blue.  When he had smoked grass with the two wordsmiths
his vision had been affected to the point where he began to think he
could see some kind of aura, or higher self, extending beyond the
limits of their physical bodies.  Steve's brain began to flounder among
such unfamiliar concepts.  Hallucinogenic drugs, heightened states of
consciousness and sensory distortion were totally unknown within the
Federation.  Did the two wordsmiths play some shadowy role in which,
with their superior intelligence, they acted as a kind of control
mechanism for the clan?  A group memory.  A ... Steve searched for the
word, trying to reach for something he had been aware of during his
trip along the rainbow road.  A kind of...

overmind?  Or were they merely the channel for a power that came from
somewhere else?

Interesting ideas but also dangerous ones.  He would have to observe
his principle captors more carefully; more clinically.  It would not
enhance his career prospects to peddle such half-baked notions on his
return to the Federation.  Facts, Brickman.  That's what they need back
home.  That's all that counts.  Stay alive, note everything you see,
score a few points for the guys that powered down, then hit the road.

But only after you've found that blue-eyed Mute...

In the middle of all this, Steve woke one night to find that Cadillac's
sleeping furs were empty.  The next night, the young wordsmith again
slept elsewhere but joined him for breakfast in the morning as usual.

Steve waited for Cadillac to say something but the young Mute made no
reference to the change in his sleeping habits.  His silence on the
subject merely served to arouse Steve's curiosity.

On the third evening Steve received his second invitation to smoke some
grass with the two wordsmiths.  Later, after his mind had roamed the
rainbow world, and he had heard the same distant voices yet again and
understood many things, Cadillac helped him stagger back to the hut
they shared.

Steve mumbled his thanks as the young wordsmith rolled him into bed
then opened his eyes just in time to see Cadillac slipping out of the
hut.  Pushing aside his furs, Steve shuffled quickly on his hands and
knees over to the doorway and pushed his head out of the flap.  He saw
Cadillac lit briefly by the glow from the dying fire, walking in the
opposite direction to that in which Mr Snow's hut lay.

Summoning up his powers of concentration, Steve willed his brain back
into one piece, rose unsteadily to his feet and headed after Cadillac
as he was swallowed up by the night.

There was no moon.  Beyond the last of the dying camp fires the
darkness became impenetrable.  Steve stopped, made an effort to listen,
thought he heard Cadillac moving down a leaf-covered trail, followed,
tripped over a tree root, crashed to the ground and lay there
wondering with increasing detachment why he was so concerned by
Cadillac's night games.  Whatever curiosity he had started out with was
gently wafted away on a roseate cloud of indifference.  He fell asleep
to wake, some hours later, beneath a drifting blanket of ground mist in
the deep purple greyness that preceded the dawn.

Chilled to the marrow, his face wet with dew, Steve stumbled back to
the hut, frantically beating his arms and body.  Sucking in breath
through trembling jaws, Steve slipped gratefully between his furs.

They were warm.  His brain must have iced up because it took him a few
seconds to figure out why.  As the answer came, a bare arm snaked over
his chest and a body that was hard in some places and soft in others
eased its length against his.  The owner's chin nestled against his
shoulder, their breath warmed his ear.  Steve lay there not daring to
look round, not daring to move in case he woke the intruder.

Filled with foreboding, Steve inched his right hand over and ran it
lightly along the forearm that pinned him down, reading the distinctive
pattern of crinkled patches with his fingers.  He'd seen that arm
enough times when she brought him his food.  His bed-mate was
Night-Fever.

Christopher Columbus!

The skin on the back of his neck crawled at the thought of lying in bed
with a naked female Mute.  Luckily he was fully clothed.  Moving an
inch at a time, his ears straining to catch any change in her deep,
slow breathing, Steve edged round so that his back was towards her.  He
held his breath as Night-Fever stirred sleepily, covering him with her
body.

Her mouth lay half-open against his jugular vein.  Not a good scene.

Night-Fever had fang-like lower canines set in a heavy jaw just like
the claw-toothed bucket of an excavator.

If she woke up and got excited and he said 'no' he could end up with a
permanently engraved windpipe.  Ahh, what the hell ... Steve sighed
resignedly.  He had long since caught whatever he was due to catch and
die of.  Provided he stayed zipped up inside his flight fatigues and
kept his back to her he couldn't come to much more harm.  Our hero was,
above all, a practical young man: the fact of the matter was that,
despite the genius of the First Family, nobody had yet come up with a
better way of keeping warm.

In addition to his exercise periods with the quarterstaff, Steve
continued his self-imposed programme of physical training.  He was now
able to sprint effortlessly, and could do fifty push-ups without
feeling a twinge of pain in his right arm.  He was back at the level of
fitness he had reached on graduation from the Academy.

Striking off down a new trail on an afternoon run, Steve descended
towards the plain.  He wanted to test his stamina against that of the
Bears by emulating their uninterrupted run back up the slope to the
settlement.  Reaching the plain, he ran out to one of the poles marking
the edge of the M'Calls turf then looped back to the foot of the slope
about a mile north of the settlement.  So far so good but, as is always
the case, the bluff he now had to run up looked a great deal higher
than the one he had run down.  Steve's resolve faltered momentarily
then, without breaking his stride, he began to rig-zag back up the
slope.  His intention had been to angle southwards across the slope to
pick up the trail down which he had descended but some rocky outcrops
which he had failed to pinpoint on the way down barred the way.  To
clamber round them would have meant losing valuable momentum so he
turned north again, lost sight of the trail and was forced to pick out
a new route as he went along.  The going got harder, and he wasted
precious breath in a string of curses as he slipped and missed his
footing, scraping his ankles painfully whilst crossing a sharp-edged
patch of scree.

Two-thirds of the way up the slope, Steve realised that he was running
out of steam and wasn't going to make it.  Once again his formidable
self-discipline came into play, driving him on.  Looking up, he saw, to
his right, a feathery plume of water cascading over a ledge of rock.

The idea of running through it, letting it splash over his burning
face, catching some of it in his mouth to relieve the raw dryness in
his throat became irresistible.  He altered his rig-zag path towards
the water course, his earlier nimble step becoming more leaden with
each stride.  His thigh and calf muscles were shot through with rods of
pain - as if every vein was on fire.  Every ounce of his willpower was
now concentrated on reaching the pencil-slim waterfall.  His heart
slammed itself against his ribs like an angry caged animal, the
pounding inside his head blotted out the thud of his feet against the
rocky path; the air he gulped down burned and ripped through his gullet
like red hot sand.  With a desperate weariness, Steve realised that
even if he reached the plume of falling water, the top of the slope was
another hundred yards away.  It might as well have been a hundred
miles.

Stumbling across the rocks, he sank to his knees under the spray, fell
forward onto his hands then rolled over and gave up, content to let the
cool mountain water cascade over him.

Twenty to thirty minutes later, when his heartbeat had slowed and the
band of fever heat had been washed from his brow, Steve crawled
stiff-legged out of the waterfall and peeled off his sodden clothes:
red, black and brown camouflaged trousers, combat boots and flight blue
T-shirt and underpants.  He twisted the garments into tight rolls to
wring out the bulk of the water then beat them, Mute-fashion, against a
flat rock to get rid of the remainder.  The afte.rnoon sun had sunk
towards the western hills, throwing the slope into shadow.  Steve
rubbed himself vigorously with his damp T-shirt then gathered up the
rest of his clothes and clambered barefoot up the steep rockface that
flanked the slim waterfall.  Not the easiest way to the top of the
slope but certainly the shortest.

Stepping into the warm autumn sunshine he spread out his clothes to dry
then sat down in a nearby patch of long yellow-pink grass.  Behind him,
the ground rose in a series of undulating rocky ledges, carpeted with a
profusion of grasses, ferns and moss, until it met a wide bank of tall
red trees.  Concealed within it was the head of the stream that
trickled past the spot where he lay before plunging over the smooth
tongue of rock onto the slope some fifty feet below.

Lulled by the murmuring passage of the stream and the warm earth at his
back, Steve fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun was setting behind the mountain, its last rays
turning the edges of the gathering clouds into liquid gold.  The Mutes
had a quaint idea that the sun went through a door in the sky which,
when closed, left the world in darkness until it entered again through
a similar door set below the eastern horizon.  Seized by a sudden
chill, Steve hauled on his blue underpants, reached for his T-shirt and
stopped, hand outstretched.  Eight small black-skinned ovoid fruit that
Steve now knew to be wild plums were piled neatly on a red leaf that
someone had placed on the chest of his T-shirt.

Steve scanned the high ground quickly, then walked over to the edge of
the slope.  Nothing.  No sign of movement.  No dust trail.  Nobody.  He
walked back, laid the leaf and its gift of-plums carefully aside and
finished dressing.  His clothes were still clammy but would soon dry
offwith his body heat.

He tightened the laces in his combat boots, strapped the knife scabbard
Cadillac had given him through the trouser loops around his right calf,
picked up the plums then - on a sudden impulse - set off cautiously
along the line of the stream, eating them as he went.

As he bit into the juicy flesh, he speculated on the identity and
motive of the donor.  He felt sure he knew who it was but why had she
not woken him?  Was the gift inspired by the simple concern of
providing food for an exhausted runner, or was it something more - a
sign of her presence?  A message saying 'I am here.  I care.  Keep
looking."?

Confirmation that she, too, was consumed by the same ardent
curiosity?

Or had he totally misread the fleeting glances they had exchanged?  Was
it all in his imagination or, worse still, was it some kind of trap?  A
wry smile crossed Steve's face.  With his luck, it would be Night-Fever
he would discover lurking behind the first tree.  Or Motor-Head.

Steve smiled inwardly.  If that mean mother had found him exhausted and
asleep he would not have made him a present of eight wild plums; he
would have left eight rocks piled on his chest.  No, this was nothing
to do with him, but the thought of Motor-Head ser'ied to remind Steve
that he ought to temper his curiosity with caution.  Although Cadillac
told him he could go wherever he liked, it might not prove too healthy
to be caught prowling around in an area the clan regarded as being
off-limits.  But, on the other hand, without being told how was he to
know?  Deciding that his momentary apprehension was primarily inspired
by feelings of guilt, Steve shrugged it off and pressed on.  In some
perverse way, the inherent danger of the situation added spice to the
strange, but by no means unwelcome, emotions that had assailed him ever
since he had first seen her face in the firelight.

Working his way slowly through the tangle of ferns bordering the
stream, Steve scaled the series of ledges towards the first line of
trees.  Every twenty-five paces, he squatted down and carefully checked
his front, flanks and rear.  Holding his breath, he listened intently,
hoping to pick up the sound of some human activity.  Only the shrill
chatter of an occasional bird cut across the constant background murmur
of the stream trickling between the brown lichen-covered rocks.

A hundred yards inside the tree line, the pines closed in on one
another, creating a wall of loosely interwoven branches that began at
knee height.  Several, wrenched from their tenuous hold on the slope by
the downward rush of water from melting winter snow, had fallen at
awkward angles across the stream blocking his path along its banks.

He had to make a detour, but to go forward on foot meant cutting or
crashing his way through the branches, making it impossible to proceed
with stealth.  The only other alternatives were to crawl under them or
find a way round.

Since he was unsure of what kind of a situation he was getting into,
Steve did not want to risk being trapped in a tangle of branches with
his nose in the dirt.  He was just about to give up and turn back when
he caught sight of a broken yellow line up ahead.  Cadillac had told
him about the seasons of the overground year - the New Earth, the
Middle Earth, The Gathering, The Yellowing and The White Death.  It was
too soon for the leaves to turn yellow and fall from the trees.  Steve
suddenly realised that it was dead foliage that had been cut and
arranged as a screen, and his uncanny sixth sense told him that behind
it was what he was looking for.

Taking care to move as silently as possible, Steve circled away from
the stream and crawled between the densely packed pines towards the
suspect yellow foliage.  As he drew nearer, he saw what appeared to be
a long clump of bushes about eight feet high lying to one side of a
grassy oasis; an irregular patch of grass, ferns and chest-high
undergrowth surrounded by the almost impenetrable wall of trees.

Wriggling out from under the last branches, Steve cautiously stuck his
nose above the undergrowth, checked what he could see of the clearing
then tunnelled his way between the stems of a tall bank of fern until
he reached the yellowing leaves.  The 'bush' in front of him was made
of cut branches, loosely woven together.

Steve took another deep breath and lay there for a good ninute, ears
cocked, straining to catch the slightest sound of movement.  All he
could hear was his own heartbeat.

Reaching forward, Steve carefully pulled out one of the branches that
had been stuck in the ground.  The end had been cut at an angle by a
machete.  Pushing it gently aside, he peered through.  A Mute hut stood
in a small clearing enclosed by a circular screen of leaves.  The
doorway to the hut faced a gap in the screen on the opposite side to
where Steve lay, making it impossible to see if the hut was occupied.

There was no sign of smoke coming from the ring plate in the roof and
none of the usual living debris scattered around.  Even so, Steve's
sixth sense told him that someone was inside.  Wait a minute!  He could
hear something.  Was that somebody, humming a - tune?  She was there!

It had to be her.  There was no one else it could be.

With rising excitement, Steve crawled round through the ferns towards
the gap in the surrounding screen and stopped a yard from the
opening.

Moving with the stealth of a praying mantis, he eased another cut
branch out of the ground and gingerly poked his head and shoulders in
under a curtain of withered leaves.  Steve found himself confronted not
by the hoped-for view of matchless beauty, but by the decomposing heads
of Naylor and Fazetti spiked on poles on either side of the doorway.  A
large, dark bird of prey was perched on Fazetti's head, tearing a
sinewy strand of flesh out of one of the gaping eye-sockets.  Steve
recoiled in horror.  The bird, startled by the sudden movement,
flapped

away with a harsh cry of alarm.

Steve swallowed hard and collected his thoughts.

According to Mute tradition, the heads of his fellow-wingmen were the
battle trophies of whoever occupied the hut.  But didn't Fazetti go
bananas in mid-air?  How could she, if indeed it was she who... ?

Another more pressing thought struck Steve.  If whoever owned the hut
had downed the two wingmen maybe they had taken more than their
heads.

Maybe some of their gear was inside.  Like a map, air pistol, flame
grenade, con-food pack.  Useful things that someone planning to escape
would need.  Nerving himself to face his two spiked friends, Steve
pushed his head back through the curtain of leaves.  As he did so, the
flap over the doorway, framed by the two headpoles, was pushed aside
and the owner of the face that had haunted his dreams emerged, stood
up, and stretched with the grace of a waking cat.

It was Clearwater.  Steve, of course, did not yet know her name but, in
the few seconds that she stood there in full view, Steve's eyes roved
over every detail of her naked body; the long, straight-boned, supple
limbs, the slim-hipped torso with its firm, rounded breasts, strong
shoulders and small waist, the smooth skin free of the disfiguring
tree-bark patches and the tumour-like bone growths that afflicted other
Mutes; her whole body unflawed - apart from the swirling pattern of
pigments - from head to toe.  Since art, in the generally accepted
sense of the word, did not exist within the Federation, Trackers were
not overly susceptible to its attendant qualities such as the harmony
of form and colour, the gracefulness of line and proportion.  But
something deep within Steve responded; made him aware that the Mute
female in front of him was-an object of great beauty even though he
could not express himself in those words.  He was seized simultaneously
by two totally conflicting emotions; an irrational desire to possess
her and a sense of shock, disgust even, at feeling thus.  In 20th
century terms, his reaction was akin to a founder member of the
ultra-right wing Afrikaaner Broederbond - that bastion of white
supremacy - discovering within himself a secret prediliction for 'dark
meat'.  What passed through Steve's mind in those few seconds was
unthinkable.  Allowing Night-Fever to serve as a bed-warmer was bad
enough but to actively contemplate ... Come on!  he urged himself.

Snap out of it!

Clearwater re-entered the hut.  Steve heard a peal of laughter, another
voice, muffled but deeper, then more laughter as the door flap was
brushed aside and Clearwater tumbled out backwards struggling playfully
in Cadillac's arms.  The young wordsmith was naked too.

Not daring to move in case he betrayed his presence, Steve watched them
with mixed feelings; disappointment, irritation, toe-curling
embarrassment - and a dash of envy.

They horsed around for a minute or so, kissed briefly, got up, moved
outside the circular screen and began to gather big five-pointed pink
leaves from some kind of plant.  In her search for more, Clearwater
moved nearer to where Steve lay concealed.  Looking up, Steve saw that
the tangle of ferns under which he lay contained several plants with
the same pink leaf.  He had to move before either of them came over.

There was only one way he could go - through the hole he had made in
the screen of leaves into the clearing containing the hut.  But
supposing the leaves were to make soup with?

Where would he hide if they came back in?  Steve resolved to work his
way round behind the hut.  From there he could slip out through the
first hole he had made.  He wriggled under the screen just as the Mute
girl walked over, leaned in and began picking the leaves.  Steve froze
on the other side of the screen.  Close!  A couple of seconds more and
she'd have tripped over him.  Ooops!  Surprise, surprise.  Hey, fancy
running into you guys!  Steve ran through the dialogue of discovery in
his head.  Don't get the wrong idea, folks.

WaLking around on my elbows is part of my physical fitness programme
...

The Mute girl went on picking leaves until she had an armful, then, as
soon as she turned her back, Steve began to wriggle round towards the
rear of the hut.  Luckily the grass inside the clearing was not too
short.  On the other hand it would not serve to hide him if they walked
back in.  Steve worked his way backwards, pressing in under the fringe
of leaves, conscious that his blue T-shirt stood out like a sore thumb
against the orange grass and the yellow foliage.  To his relief,
Cadillac and the girl turned their backs on him and sauntered away from
the hut hand in hand.

As-the two Mutes went out of sight, Steve got up, tiptoed over to the
gap in the screen and peeked through the leaves at the edge.  His
previous worm's-eye view of the area had been limited.  From where he
now stood, he could see a waist-deep rock pool which fed the stream
he'd followed.

Cadillac and the Mute girl were in the pool and, in between fooling
around, she was scrubbing his back with a handful of the pink leaves
they'd picked.  Dipped in water and rubbed on his back, the leaves
produced a thin soapy foam.  Bath night.  Oh, well .  .. Steve, who
would happily have swapped places with Cadillac, sensed that they would
probably be busy for some time.  Now was the moment to search the
hut.

The entrance to the hut, the gap in the leaf screen and the rock pool
were almost directly in line but on crouching down, Steve saw that a
slight rise in the ground blocked the bottom third of the hut from the
view of someone in the water.  Hugging the ground, he crawled through
the grass, circling behind Fazetti's headpole and then in under the
door flap.  He had been with the Mutes so long, he no longer noticed
the attendant smells.  Steve got to his knees, peeked through the flap
to check that Cadillac and the girl were still in the pool then sat
back on his haunches and surveyed the interior.

The hut was not as messy, or as crammed full of junk as Mr Snow's but
there was not a lot of room to move.  Several bundles of clothing along
with various-sized baskets with pot lids, woven from dried orange
grass, were stowed round the buffalo hide walls; bunches of fruit,
dried meat twists, and sweet-smelling flowers hung from the curved
poles that gave the hut its squat beehive shape.  The furs on which
Cadillac and the girl had no doubt been thrashing around lay in
disarray.  To his surprise, Steve saw two other sets of furs, rolled up
- as was usual during the day.  That meant the girl shared the hut
probably with a couple of She-Wolves.

Now that he thought about it, it was obvious.  If, for whatever reason,
the girl was regarded by the M'Calls as a hot property she would not be
left unprotected.  Her two hutmates .had obviously pulled out to avoid
crowding Cadillac.  Steve had discovered that Mutes accorded each other
a greater degree of privacy in these matters.  Which meant that the
Mute's clan-sisters would probably not return until she and Cadillac
had humped each other dry.

But they might not be far away - and the area around the hut was bound
to be regularly patrolled.  Zip!  Steve swore under his breath.  He had
totally ignored that angle when, on a sudden impulse, he'd set off
up-stream in the hope of finding her.  Well, you've found her, Brickman
- and she belongs to the guy you've been planning to get very friendly
with.  So forget the daydreams.  All that was sheer insanity anyway.

Start looking for those hidden goodies and get the hell out of here.

Steve checked out the bathing party again then started rummaging
through the lidded baskets.  If he had to leave in a hurry, whoever
came in after him would not immediately spot there had been an
intruder.  He found the pack of survival rations in the second basket
and the water purifier pack at the bottom of the fifth.  Steve kissed
both items happily then slid them into the pockets provided on his
trousers.  Air pistol... Steve hurriedly ransacked the other baskets.

Nope.  Maybe that was too much to hope for...

Map... that was the thing he really wanted.  Where the hell was that?

He reached for the nearest bundle of clothing, and stuck his hand into
the loosely coiled layers of leather and fur to see if anything had
been hidden inside.  Nothing.  He tossed it roughly back into place and
grabbed another.  A chill warning ripple ran up his spine.  He threw
himself forward towards the door flap, opened it a fraction - and saw
the naked Mute girl walking towards the hut, pushing her wet hair away
from her face and twisting it round on the nape of her neck.

For a split second, Steve lay open-mouthed, spellbound.

Her skin was ...

Tearing his eyes away, he looked past her to see Cadillac climbing out
of the pool.  Christopher!  He was trapped!

Steve looked over his shoulder and considered cutting his way out of
the back of the hut by opening up one of the bound seams.  But that
would give the game away and besides, he might not get out in time.

Steve's mind went into overdrive.  He looked desperately around the
hut.  Hide...

but where?  Under the furs?  No - that's pathetic, Brickman.

Not enough cover.  Try and remember, you're a warrior now.  Let's have
a little dignity.  It would not do to be discovered hiding under the
bed - especially in the middle of some heavy action.  The answer
came.

Brazen it out.  But wait!  Get rid of the stuff!  You don't want to be
caught thieving.  Steve hurriedly pulled the ration pack and the
purifier kit out of his pockets, crammed them into the nearest basket,
threw on the lid, reached up, grabbed a wild plum from a bunch hanging
from a hut pole and dived onto the bearskins.

The door flap was pushed aside and the Mute girl entered.  She went
down on one knee and froze as she caught sight of Steve lying there
nonchalantly, legs crossed, and one hand behind his neck.

Heart pounding, Steve slowly extended his other hand towards the Mute
girl and offered her the plum.  'I saved one for you."

She didn't say anything.  She just moved inside far enough to let the
door flap close behind her.

'Go on, eat it,' continued Steve, trying to hide the slight tremor in
his voice.  'The others tasted real good."

The Mute just looked at him steadily.  Now she was this close, Steve
could see that she was not just a pretty face.  This lump was no soft
touch.  The strong, clear, ice-blue eyes set in the firm, well-boned
face had a surprising depth.  They radiated not only an unnerving
intelligence but also a hint of danger - the kind of shadowy menace you
felt when looking down the three barrels of a loaded rifle.

And her skin was now...

I don't believe it, thought Steve.

They gazed at each other for what seemed a long time but which, in
reality, was only two or three seconds, then the Mute took the plum
from Steve's hand, ate half of it, pulled the stone out with her white,
even teeth and gave the other half back to Steve.

I'm winning, thought Steve.  'Thank you.  Listen - your ' As the words
left his mouth, the basket he'd hidden the gear in toppled off a roll
of clothing, and spilled its contents onto a mat beside the Mute.  She
didn't need to say anything.

He knew she knew neither item should have been in that particular
basket.  And she knew he knew she knew.  There was nothing else for
Steve to do but go on chewing his half of the plum and wait for her
next move.

The Mute girl slowly picked up the ration pack and the water purifying
kit then, quite unexpectedly, placed them within Steve's reach.

Putting a finger to her lips, she motioned him to remain where he was,
gathered up two rolled grass mats and ducked out through the door
flap.

Mastering his surprise, Steve grabbed the two packages and slipped them
quickly into the thigh pockets of his trousers.

Fifteen seconds later, the Mute girl came back in, taking care not to
throw the door flap wide open.  Rummaging quickly through a pile of
stuff at the back of the hut that Steve had not had time to search she
pulled out a folded wad of plasfilm and dropped it on Steve's chest.

Steve picked it up gingerly, hardly able to believe his good fortune.

Fazetti's air navigation map!  His return ticket home!  In his
excitement, he opened his mouth to loose off a rebel yell but, before
he could utter a sound, the Mute girl clamped a firm hand over his
lips.

Holding his head down on the furs, she leant across him and retrieved a
rectangular, woven casket that lay against the skin wall of the hut.

Steve grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her hand away from his
mouth.  'What's your name?"  he whispered.  'Tell me.  I have to know!'
The Mute girl gazed down at him, with the hint of a smile at the
corners of her lips.  Impossible to tell what she was thinking.  'I am
Clearwater, first-born of Thunder-Bird out of Sun-Dance,' she
whispered.

Steve tapped the pocket containing the ration pack and held up the
map.

'These are great gifts.  I shall not forget."

'These things are not from me.  They come from the hands of
Talisman."

Her voice took on a new urgency.  'You must go!"  'Yes, but how?"

mouthed Steve.

Clearwater pointed to the door flap, swept her forefinger round to the
back of the hut then put her hands together to form the wings of a bird
taking flight.  'When you hear me sing."

Steve nodded and stowed the map in another of his pockets as
Clearwater went out through the door flap carrying the rectangular
basket.  It was one that he had opened during his hasty search.  It
contained six pots of thick, coloured paste: One of them was black, the
others were various shades of brown.  His examination of the basket's
contents had been so fleeting he had not understood their purpose until
now.

Steve got to his knees and inched his way over to the door and peeked
through the flap.  Cadillac sat with his back to the hut.  Clearwater
knelt behind him painting a line of black dye onto his shoulder blade
with a little stick.  Steve stared at them, unable to accept the
evidence of his own eyes.

Cadillac's overall skin colour was now a deep copper bronze;
Clearwater's was a velvety olive-brown - just a shade or two darker
than Steve's own sister, Roz.  The random pattern produced by defective
mutant genes which was the indelible mark of the Plainfolk and their
Southern brothers was, in the case of Cadillac and Clearwater, nothing
more than a camouflage to enable them to merge with the rest of the
clan.

Physically and mentally, Cadillac was now indistinguishable from a
Tracker.  He was articulate, intelligent and his memory was probably
superior even though, like Mr Snow, he could not read or write.  There
had been no opportunity to test Clearwater's memory but she had
demonstrated a clear ability to think fast and was probably equally
intelligent.  It was incredible.  They were - they were just like real
people!

Clearwater began to sing softly.

Thrusting all thoughts of this astonishing discovery and its
ramifications to the back of his mind, Steve eased the doorflap open,
ducked out and got to his feet with slow-motion movements.  To his
heightened senses the rustle of cloth against skin, of boot against
grass, and the'pounding of his heart against his ribs seemed magnified
to deafening proportions.  Cadillac must be able to hear him!  Must
know he was there!  But no.  Incredibly, the young wordsmith did not
turn his head, did not budge an inch.  He just sat there crosslegged,
his upturned palms resting on his thighs.

Clearwater glanced over her shoulder.  Her eyes met Steve's briefly
then she turned back to her task.  Running her hand up into Cadillac's
hair, she bent his head forward, and began painting the pattern of
black dye up onto his neck.  Hardly daring to breathe, Steve edged
round to the rear of the hut, slipped out under the screen of leaves,
crawled back through the ferns and in under the low branches of the
surrounding pines.

It was fortunate that the sight of the two extra bedding rolls in
Clearwater's hut had reminded Steve that he should proceed with the
utmost caution.  Having gone to some lengths to prevent him learning of
Clearwater's presence the M'Calls were bound to have taken steps to
guard her against unwelcome intruders - such as himself.  And now that
he had discovered the true nature of their prize exhibit he was in even
greater danger from his shadowy adversaries within the clan.  His
impulsive actions had placed him in double jeop.  ardy for he knew he
would not rest until he had seen her agmn.  But before that could
happen, he had to slip past any guards that might be around and get
back to the settlement before sundown.

Trailcraft was not the Tracker's strong suit but the extra adrenalin
generated by his encounter with Clearwater raised Steve's level of
awareness so that he was able to tune into the sounds of the forest.

His uncanny sixth sense functioned in a way it never had before.  He
heard the overground for the first time; was able to distinguish the
rustle of leaves overhead from leaves being crushed underfoot; was able
to differentiate between the shrill cries of birds and the birdlike
calls exchanged by a patrol of Mutes; was able to discern their
movement north along the slope towards him.  When the trees opened out
sufficiently for him to proceed on foot he moved silently and swiftly
across and away from their line of advance towards the stream.  He
planned to retrace his path down to the edge of the plateau, using the
constant rippling cascade of sound to cover his progress along its bed,
hidden by the wall of ferns on either side.  At the tongue-stone where
it began its plunge onto the slope below he would turn right and pick
up one of the trails back to the settlement.  After that, his biggest
problem would be trying to pretend that nothing extraordinary had
happened to him.

Reaching the stream, Steve turned right and paused, dropping down
behind cover to check the ground to the south.  Nothing moved.  His
adrenalin-charged senses noticed that a curious stillness had crept
over the woods but there was no sign of the Mute patrol.  It was only
when he was about to plunge through the tangle of ferns lining the bank
that his plans started to unravel.  As he rose, and pivoted round,
leaning forward from the waist, he felt a rush of cold air across the
back of his neck and heard a loud zzzjjhonkk.

Glancing round, he banged his forehead against a crossbow bolt embedded
in the tree he had been crouching against.  Close I If he had been a
fraction of a second slower in moving he would have been skewered
through the neck.

Steve didn't stop to see who fired the bolt; the fact that they had
missed meant they were some distance away - and that meant he was in
with a chance.  He changed direction abruptly, dashed up the slope
instead of down, leapt noisily across the stream and went crashing
through the ferns into the woods beyond.  As he ran, he flailed his
arms wildly in the hope of persuading his pursuers that he was fleeing
in blind panic.  Behind him, he heard the Mutes begin to whoop and
whistle as they gave chase.  Steve zigzagged northwards some eighty
yards, then turned sharp right, hurtled down the slope in a series of
flying leaps and somersaults, turned sharp right again, and doubled
back towards the stream, crawling on his belly through the
undergrowth.

He had put up some good times over the assault course during his years
at the Flight Academy but this was probably his fastest eighty-yard
tiger crawl ever.

Plunging headlong into the shallow water, he clawed his way frantically
up over the stepped rock and loose pebble bed.

Reaching a deeper section where the water covered most of his body,
Steve wedged himself against the nearside bank under a loose fringe of
ferns and broad-leaved grasses that hung in graceful curves with their
tips dragging conveniently in the water.

His ruse worked.  Keeping his head down with only his eyes above water
he saw the whooping Mutes leap across the stream higher up the slope
and race on into the trees on the other side.  One, two, three Bears
brandishing knife-sticks, the fourth carrying a crossbow, three
She-Wolves.  Seven...

Zip!  How many more of them were there?  Another Bear carrying a knife
leapt across the stream and ran after his companions.  Eight... Steve
knew he daren't hang on too long.  If the lead Mutes didn't catch sight
of him soon it wouldn't take them long to work out what had happened.

And then they'd be spearing him out of the stream with those
knife-sticks - the way they did with trout.  He was on his hands and
knees with his back half out of the water when two more Mutes leapt
across the stream with a shrill whoop almost directly over his head.

Steve hit the bottom nose first.  Christopher!  He surfaced slowly and
caught sight of a pair of She-Wolves crossing further up.  Twelve.  Two
hands.  That had to be it.  Move, Brickman!

Steve leapt to his feet and plunged down the bed of the stream, blindly
leaping off the series of rock ledges without checking what lay
below.

Several times he lost his footing on the slippery moss-covered rocks
and fell awkwardly, crashing against treetrunks lining the stream,
bouncing off boulders, and sprawling headfirst in the water.  His
newly-mended ribs took a terrible pounding; his elbows, knees and chin
were badly grazed but he didn't stop to inspect the damage and,
amazingly, he didn't feel any pain.  He just picked himself up and
pressed on, stumbling and weaving his way downstream like a drunken
sailor in San Diego on a Saturday night in the myth-shrouded years of
the Old Time.

Reaching the tongue-stone he staggered sideways out of the water and
sank to his knees.  Finding that too painful he sat back, drew his legs
up and tried hugging them.  That's when he found out that his elbows
were on fire.  He lay back on the ground in an effort to recover his
breath and found that hurt even more.  Sitting up, he pulled off his
sodden T-shirt and combat boots, then stood up and stepped out of his
camouflaged trousers and underpants, twisting and beating the water out
for the second time that day.  That hurt too.

Still, it was in a good cause.  He pulled on his damp clothes, fixed
the scabbard of his combat knife through the loops on his trouser leg,
and stowed the map and the other items Clearwater had given him back in
the thigh pockets.

Great... He put his right foot up on a nearby rock and buckled the
side straps on his boot.  With the sun now behind the far mountains the
air had become suddenly chill.

Steve swapped feet and began to buckle up his left boot, allowing
himself a congratulatory smile at the way he had evaded the Mute
patrol.  He stamped his feet on the ground to settle them comfortably
inside his boots and clapped his hands together happily.  Okay.  Time
to hit the trail.  It was at this moment that he suddenly realised that
he had left his quarterstaff lying somewhere outside Clearwater's hut
together with its carrying sling.

Now that, thought Steve, is a real pain...

Before he reached the settlement, Steve stepped off the trail, wrapped
up the ration pack and water purifying kit in broad leaves, buried them
in a hole between the roots of a tree and cut a small blaze-mark on the
trunk with his knife.

He had already decided that he would hide the map between one of the
double-layered mats that served to make up the floor beneath his fur
bedding roll.  Satisfied that the ground showed no sign of having been
disturbed Steve blocked out the jabbing pain in his knees and headed
for home at a fast jog.

Outside the hut hidden by the screen of yellow leaves, Clearwater
laboured lovingly to recreate the swirling body pattern that Cadillac
had adopted as his mark.  When it was finished, it would be his turn to
paint her body.  Although Clearwatef's brain was not the equal of a
wordsmiths, both she and Cadillac had received from Mo-Town the gift of
a photographic memory which included the ability to project a
mind-image of the pattern onto each other's body.

Cadillac's back was like a blank canvas on which Clearwater could 'see'
the exact area of every colour.  All she had to do was fill them in, As
she worked, Clearwater thought about the cloud warrior who had been
sent to them by Talisman and who the Sky Voices, through Mr Snow, had
named the Death-Bringer.

She had first seen his body when it had been brought in, broken and
bloody from the cropfields.  He had not seen her, for his mind slept,
and she had been sent away before he awoke.  The clan elders had told
her that she must live apart from the rest of the M'Calls while the
cloud warrior was held captive.  He was not to discover that she had
been born with a smooth, one-coloured skin like his.  The body of a
sand-burrower.

Like Cadillac, she had suffered as a young child because of her
'otherness'.  It was they who, in their perfection, were the ugly
ducklings, and it was their shared feeling of wretchedness that had
brought them closer together.

Although he was already weighed down with the task of absorbing Mr
Snow's prodigious knowledge, the young Cadillac had always come to her
defence when she had been taunted by the other Cubs.  She, in her turn,
had aided him, hurling herself upon his tormentors and pummelling them
with her tiny fists.  When she was seven, and old enough to understand
that there were other worlds above the blue roof of the sky and below
the grass at her feet, Mr Snow had explained that her body had been
shaped thus because she too had been born to serve Talisman, the
Thrice-Gifted One.  She had accepted this and drawn comfort from it but
had not truly believed until the recent unveiling of her powers as a
summoner, and Cadillac's new-found ability to draw pictures from the
seeing stones.  Mr Snow had spoken the truth: th¢ path of the future
was already drawn.  Most of the Plainfolk could only see that path one
step at a time but Cadillac had the gift of seership.  When his skill
increased and his mind was ready, he would be able to pierce the
time-clouds and see what lay ahead.

Mr Snow knew some of these things already because the Sky Voices spoke
through him.  They, The Masters of All, lived in a world whose horizons
were bounded by the beginning and the end of time, on a mountain so
high they could see below them all that had been and all that would
be.

The Sky Voices had told Mr Snow that, despite the wishes of the clan
elders, her path would meet that of the Death-Bringer.

Never doubting his wisdom, she had done exactly what he had told her to
do.  Even so, she felt troubled at having to conceal her thoughts and
actions from Cadillac.

For had they not agreed to exchange the blood-kiss?  Had they not been
as one between the fox and the bear?  Was he 249

if not the strongest - the bravest, most valiant and stalwart of the
M'C, all warriors?  And if he was not yet as wise as Mr Snow, was not
his tongue like sharp iron, and his head like a bright star?  Did her
heart not warm at the thought of him?

Had she not pledged to guard him through all her days?

Yes... All this was true, and yet she felt confused, guilty.

Ever since she had gazed upon the cloud warrior across the firelit
circle on the night he had bitten the arrow, her heart had been torn in
two.  She felt guilty because her mind harboured thoughts that the laws
of the blood-kiss forbade; images of lying in the moon-dark with the
Death-Bringer.

Images that brought her body to fever-heat.  Cadillac's eyes were dark;
his were blue.  It was like looking into her own eyes, reflected in the
untroubled surface of a shadowed rock pool.  Cadillac's shoulders were
broad and square but were not his broader, squarer?  And was he not
taller?  Cadillac's hair was straight and dark as a raven's wing; his
hair rippled like a field of breadstalks in the wind.  It shone like
grass struck by the rays of the rising sun, and his voice, ah... his
voice was strong and smooth like deep running water.  It made her heart
tremble like the roar of a mountain lion and lit a fire in her belly
that caused the bones in her thighs to melt like snow.

No one had seen her on the occasions when she had crept into the
settlement under the cover of Mo-Town's starry cloak.  She had crouched
outside Mr Snow's hut and listened to all they had said; had heard him
speak of the dark cities under the earth.  The word-pictures he drew
had filled her with terror but she could have sat there for days on end
listening to the sound of his voice.

Some of her clan sisters, who suspected nothing, had said he had the
tongue of a viper, the smile of a coyote, and a heart of stone.  Others
had told her that they had sent Night-Fever to test his manhood and
that he had spurned her.  He fights well with a long stick, they said
mockingly, but there is no sharp iron between his legs: only a broken
twig.

Clearwater had joined in their laughter but chose not to believe
them.

She did not care that his blue eyes were veiled and his spirit
hidden.

She had looked upon him and sensed the power within; had felt his heart
quicken.  And that was enough.  The cloud warrior was, quite simply,
the most beautiful being she had ever set eyes on.

By the tribal laws of the Plainfoik, Clearwater knew that she merited
death at Cadillac's hand for harbouring such desires; knew also that
she would welcome death if it came to her while in the cloud warrior's
arms.  The guilt engendered by these feelings and the torment caused by
their concealment had grown daily.  Amazingly, no one seemed to have
noticed but she was sure that Mr Snow knew, in the same way that he
knew she and the cloud warrior were destined to meet.

Clearwater began to paint Cadillac's chest.  As she charged the flat
sliver of wood with more dye she looked into his eyes and saw they were
focussed on the horizon of a world beyond that bounded by the reddening
sky."  She traced two curving lines down the centre of his chest and
began to fill in the space between.

And she wondered if he knew that it was she who, hidden by the darkness
into which she had retreated, had silently summoned up the power within
her to save the cloud warrior from Motor-Head's hammer.

SIXTEEN

On the day after Steve's encounter with Clearwater, he took the map
from its hiding place and set off into the hills behind the
settlement.

After climbing for a couple of hours, he reached a point which gave him
a panoramic view of the surrounding terrain.  Orienting his map by the
sun, he was able, by careful observation of various topographical
features, to pinpoint his position with some degree of accuracy.  His
hunch that the M'Calls had moved westwards was largely correct.  From
their original encampment north of Laramie, they had trekked some two
hundred miles north-westwards to the eastern slopes of the Wind River
Range from where Steve now looked down towards the head of the
Sweetwater and Beaver River.

To the south, the line of the Rocky Mountains -of which the Wind River
Range was part - opened out to surround the Great Divide Basin, an arid
stretch of bare rock and sand dunes that looked as if they'd been
shipped direct from the Sahara.  From his map, Steve saw that the
Rockies ran southwards through Colorado.  Proceeding on the improbable
supposition that enough materials had been salvaged to allow him, with
the help of his captors, to build a hang-glider, his best bet would be
to fly from peak to peak until he was within striking distance of the
nearest way-station Pueblo, on the Arkansas River, in the southern
quarter of the state.  The steep slopes would provide a plentiful
supply of up-drafts and thermals and, if he .had to come down, it would
be better to land on high ground from which he could take off again.

Steve's flight map only covered Wyoming and Colorado, plus a narrow
strip of Kansas, Nebraska and South Dakota so he could not work out how
far he was from Grand Central.  He did not even know the shape or
extent of the American continent.  It was not, and had never been,
Federation policy to allow Trackers access to more information than
they needed; not even Trail-Blazers.  Each expedition was issued with
the cartographical data covering its specific operational-area, no
more.  Houston, in fact, lay some twelve hundred miles south-east of
where he sat at that moment.

On his way back down the mountain, Steve mulled over how best to
proceed and cursed himself for leaving his quarterstaff lying somewhere
under the ferns at the back of Clearwater's hut.  If it was found, it
might blow his chances of enlisting Cadillac's help.  He considered
going back for it and decided it was too risky.  With luck, it would
remain undiscovered.  The return visit he had inwardly vowed to make to
the Mute with the blue eyes would have to be shelved.  Indefinitely.

Steve's mixed-up feelings about Clearwater hadn't lessened but his near
miss with the cross-bow bolt and the subsequent chase through the woods
had been an all too sharp reminder that he was in enemy hands.  So far
he had not been challenged about the incident or confronted by his
pursuers but that didn't necessarily mean he was in the clear.  Mutes
didn't think the way Trackers did.  There was no knowing what these
lumps might be cooking up.  He had allowed the regular meals, the
good-natured discussions, and the general lack of restraint to lull him
into a false sense of security.  Worse, in his thoughts about
Clearwater, he had permitted himself to indulge in the kind of fantasy
that the Mutes wallowed in all the time.  Pipe dreams...

In reality, his life was balanced on a knife-edge.  A knife which the
two wordsmiths were holding between them.  If he stepped too far out of
line the heat being generated by the head-hunters among the M'Calls
might get too much for Mr Snow.  The old guy had come up with this
great line about him being under Talisman's protection; he could just
as easily arrange for Talisman to change his mind and declare him
surplus to requirements.  It could prove equally fatal to intrude into
the relationship between Cadillac and Clearwater - especially in view
of the cooperation he was about to solicit.

Steve's step lightened as he came to a firm decision.  Even if it never
left the ground, building a hang-glider would provide an alternative
focus for his thoughts and energy.  It would also give Cadillac's mind
something more important to latch onto than Steve's walk in the
forest.

If he and Mr Snow put their weight behind the project then his own
continued well-being was guaranteed until it was completed.

Cadillac had not reacted in any positive way when Steve had first
broached the subject but he was pretty sure that the young wordsmith
would not turn down the chance of learning to fly.  At the back of
Steve's mind lurked the idea that Cadillac might - just might - break
his neck in the process.  Steve banished such thoughts resolutely.  The
loss of Cadillac would be a double tragedy for if the craft was wrecked
in the process it would put an end to all hopes of escape but.  on the
other hand...

No.  Forget it, Brickman.  You can't afford to let it happen.

The clan wouldn't let you get away with it.

Three more days went by.  Cadillac didn't show.

It figures, thought Steve.  Those patterns obviously take time to
apply.  She has to paint him all over - and then he has to paint her.

And so on...

Steve found he didn't like to think about it.  Jealousy was another
word that had been omitted from the Tracker vocabulary.  But, once
again, Steve didn't know that.  He only knew that he didn't like
feeling the way he did.  Back home, if you felt like putting the bomb
in the barrel with one of the guys you just propositioned them.  They
either said 'yes' or 'no' depending on how they felt or whether they
were busy.  Either way it was no big deal.  Nor did it matter who
they'd been with or who you were planning to go with next.  There were
no ties, even when you decided to pair off with somebody and filed a
bond application.  That was primarily an administrative requirement
relating to guardianship.

Provided you and your partner performed that role adequately you could
both jack up whoever you liked.  This was why Steve found himself
tormented and confused by his feelings towards Cadillac and
Clearwater.

He did not like to think of them together; did not like the thought
that Clearwater belonged to someone else.  To someone who had saved his
life and on whom his future well-being depended.

Steve's inner turmoil was compounded by the fact that he had begun to
like the two wordsmiths; had actually felt stirrings of genuine warmth
towards them; had experienced a very real but unsettling sense of
kinship.  And that was bad news.  Such feelings corroded the armour
plate he had riveted around his Tracker psyche.  It made him feel
vulnerable - and he didn't like that.

What Steve needed was something he had never previously contemplated:
someone to confide in.  He had been the confidant of his kin-sister
but, even though they were close, he had always resisted the temptation
to reveal his own secret thoughts or desires.  With a supreme effort of
will, he sought out Mr Snow and found him perched cross legged on a
ledge above the settlement.

'I need to talk."

Mr Snow studied Steve's face.  'Okay, go ahead.  Talk."

Steve squatted down beside him and gave the old wordsmith a hesitant
and heavily-edited account of how, in stumbling across the bathing
party, he had discovered that Clearwater and Cadillac were straight
Mutes.  'It's amazing,' he concluded.  'There they were, right in front
of me but I just didn't see it!  I suddenly realised that I wasn't
looking at the colour of their skin but at them as, uhh - as people."

Mr Snow responded to Steve's confession with an indulgent smile.  'It
happens."

'Who is she?"  asked Steve with what he hoped was beguiling
innocence.

'What's her name?"

'Her name is Clearwater, first of three daughters born to Sun-Dance.

Thunder-Bird, her father, was a great warrior who fell in the Battle of
the Black Hills."

'What is her relationship with Cadillac?"

Mr Snow patted Steve's knee.  'Let me give you some good advice.

Questions like that could be bad for your health."

Steve pretended he didn't understand.  'Why?  You've told me all kinds
of things about the Plainfolk.  I'm just curious to know why she is
separated from the rest of the clan.  What harm is there in that?

Have they exchanged the blood-kiss?"

'Not yet.  But a match has been made."

'What does that mean?"

The old wordsmith sighed.  'They have been summoned before the council
of elders.  It is the clan's wish that - with Mo-Town's blessing - they
bring forth children in their own image."

'The clan's wish?"  Steve saw a possible loophole.  'Does that mean the
two of them didn't have any choice?"

'None of us choose what we will do or not do,' said Mr Snow quietly.

'The exercise of what some call "free will" is a cruel illusion.

Happiness, contentment, stems from recognition of this fact."

It was Steve's turn to smile indulgently.  'Ah, yes, I see.

We're all marching to Mo-Town's music."

'Go ahead, laugh,' said Mr Snow.  'You don't have to believe it.  Maybe
you're destined to have a difficult time on this trip."

Steve replaced the smile with an earnest expression which, this time
round, was genuine.  'What are you trying to tell me?"

Mr Snow moved dismissively.  'What can I tell a man who doesn't want to
listen?"

'I'm trying,' insisted Steve.  'But you don't seem to understand.  Some
of the weird ideas you have about the way things work are, uh - well,
they're kind of hard to take on board."

The old wordsmith eyed him.  'Don't try and tell me how hard it is.

I've been searching for answers ever since you and your guard-father
were no more than gleams in your President-General's eye."  He
paused.

'Tell me - is it really true he billies' every would-be mother in the
Federation?"

'The first President-Generals may have,' replied Steve.

'But now it's all done by artificial insemination.  The real action
takes place in culture dishes at the Life Institute."

'Sounds impressive."

'I'll explain it some other time,' said Steve.  'Let's get back to
Clearwater."

'What is it with you, Brickman?  Too much wax in the ears?  I told you
- forget you ever saw her.  Oh - by the way..."  Mr Snow leaned to his
left, pulled Steve's quarterstaff out from behind some rocks and
offered it to him with both hands.  'She sent you this."

Steve stared at it for a moment, then took it from him and laid it by
his side.  He tried to hide his embarrassment.  'Does Cadillac know?"

'Not yet.  Have you told anyone else?"

Steve shook his head.  'Who is there to tell?"

'Exactly.  However, I think I should warn you - the word has gotten
around.  You were seen."

Steve felt the colour flood through his cheeks under Mr Snow's piercing
gaze.  What was it with this guy?  He had always been able to hide
things so easily before.  'You mean in the woods?"

Mr Snow didn't answer.

'Oh, yeah... I forgot to mention that,' said Steve lamely.

'I was on my way back, walking along minding my own business, when
somebody with a crossbow tried to nail me by the neck to a tree.  I
didn't wait to ask who-whatwhere-why.

I just took off."

Mr Snow nodded.  'In the circumstances I'd have probably done the same
thing.  My brother Bears were under the impression you had reasons for
wishing to avoid them.  Is there anything else you've missed out?"

Steve eyed him.  'This is like being up in front of the Assessors."  He
gave a quick bitter laugh.  'What can I tell you that you don't know
already?"

'Not much,' admitted Mr Snow.

Steve decided that, whatever else she might have told Mr Snow,
Clearwater hadn't mentioned giving him the map, the food-pack and the
water-kit.  'Look, okay, it may have been stupid to run away but it was
you and Cadillac who warned me that not all the natives were
friendly.

I don't know what their story is.  I can only assure you that I haven't
knowingly done anything I was told not to do."

Mr Snow greeted this with an enigmatic smile.  'I'm sure you haven't.

Nevertheless your little jaunt yesterday has made things very
difficult."

'In what way?"

Mr Snow drew his hand down over his beard before replying.  'There are
certain people who feel that you should never have been taken alive and
that you now know too much."

Steve frowned.  'How did they work that out?  If you are the only
person Clearwater and I have spoken to..."

Mr Snow shrugged.  'Certain assumptions have been made."

'One of them being that I must have discovered Cadillac and Clearwater
are what we call "yearlings" - straight Mutes?"

'Yes - you could say that is their principal concern.  They wanted to,
ahh - question you ' 'I bet..."

'... I advised them to wait until you came to talk to me about it."

Steve looked down at his quarterstaff, ran his hand along it, then
looked up at Mr Snow.  'You knew I was coming... How?"

'There's no mystery about it.  I keep telling you.  All things are
known to the Sky Voices."

Steve tried to bite back a smile.  'In that case you must have known
what was going to happen yesterday."

'Not necessarily.  I said "All things are known to the Sky Voices".

That does not mean that I know everything."

Steve breathed an inward sigh of relief.  'Okay.  But why should these
red-heads want to jump on me?  "That path is already drawn" - isn't
that what you keep telling me?  So how can whatever's happened be my
fault?  You can't have it both ways.  If you guys are not happy with
the way things are going why don't you take it up with Talisman, or the
Sky Voices, or whoever it is that's supposed to be running things up
there?"

'Good point,' conceded Mr Snow.

'Here's another,' continued Steve.  'There's no need for anyone to get
worked up about this - not unless they're deliberately trying to stir
up trouble.  If I had bumped into Clearwater on any other day I would
never have known that she and Cadillac were straights.  And even if, by
chance, I had discovered the truth, why should it be such a big
secret?

You and I discussed this weeks ago.  The Southern Mutes have been
trading in straights for centuries."

'Not female straights."

'True,' admitted Steve.  'I overlooked that."

It was a lie, of course.  Steve knew perfectly well that, ever since
the Break-Out in 2464 when the Federation first learned of the
existence of unmarked, smooth-skinned Mutes and the first rare
specimens were found, no female straight had ever been captured or
handed over in lieu of tribute.  Indeed, it was widely believed that,
due to some genetic quirk in an already flawed process, female
straights simply did not exist.  The M'Calls had not only produced one
- they possessed a perfectly formed, highly intelligent, breeding
pair!

It was the kind of hard data that the Amtrak Executive would give their
eye teeth for and was bound to earn him good grades at his next
assessment.  Always assuming there was one.

Steve thought back to something Mr Snow had said in an earlier
conversation.  About the ancestors of the Mutes being straight-limbed
people from the Old Time.  Up to the moment of discovering the true
colour of Cadillac's and Clearwater's skin, Steve had believed that to
be a grotesque lie.  Since birth he had been taught that the Trackers
were the only true descendants of those who lived before the
Holocaust.

The hellfires that had consumed the Blue-Sky World had been ignited by
the Mutes who - according to the Archives - were already subhuman.

But what if Mr Snow's version of history contained an element of
truth?

What if Cadillac and Clearwater proceeded to give birth to their own
kind, and more like them amongst the other Plainfolk clans spawned
succeeding generations of straights?  Mutes would no longer be Mutes.

The whole basis for the centuries-old conflict would disappear.

Christopher Columbus I How would the Federation function if it had no
one to fight?  For over five hundred years, dispensing death had become
the way of life for generations of Trackers.  In every aspect of its
organisation, in thought, word and deed, the Federation was geared to
the conflict with the Mutes.  Since the age of five his own life had
been totally dedicated to learning how to kill lumpheads.

What would wingmen like himself do without a war?

As the complications multiplied rapidly, Steve blocked off this
alarming train of thought and switched back on to Mr Snow.  He found
the old wordsmith watching him with an amused expression.  'You've
overlooked something too.

I'm your prisoner.  You've ribbed me about escaping but we both know
I'm not going anywhere.  Who am I going to tell?"

Mr Snow shrugged.  'Who knows?  Things happen."

Steve wasn't sure what that meant but couldn't be bothered to find
out.

The old wordsmith loved to make things sound mysterious.  Why not?

Keeping people's attention was part of his job.  'Tell me something is
Motor-Head one of the guys who've got it in for me?"

'He's not the leader but, yes - he's one of them.  And you are right.

Despite what I've told them about you being under Talisman's
protection, they have been looking for an excuse to get rid of you.

Your, uhh - how can I put it... ?

Your interest in Clearwater could be the opportunity they've been
waiting for."

'Who said I'm interested?"

'Come on, Brickman - it's written all over your face."

Steve felt his cheeks begin to burn again.

'Don't be embarrassed.  It happens to all of us.  It's nothing to feel
bad about."  Mr Snow stopped and studied Steve intently.  ,I'm wrong.

You really are upset.  Is it because she's a Mute?"

'She's not a -' Steve bit on his lip to stop himself getting in
deeper.

'Yes, I see what you mean."  Mr Snow nodded understandingly.

'It must be difficult for you."

'Look,' said Steve.  'You're way off base, believe me.  The fact that I
now know Cadillac is a straight does not alter the way I feel about
him.  Clearwater is - well, another matter entirely.  I can understand
the clan wanting to keep her under wraps.  Let's face it, she's ..."

'... unique?"

Steve answered cautiously.  'I wouldn't know about that.

She's certainly a rare specimen.  But then you know that.

Just make sure you take good care of her."

Mr Snow chuckled.  'She can look after herself."

'This is nothing to laugh at,' insisted Steve.  'The wagon trains will
be back.  Lots of them.  It's only a matter of time before the
Federation starts treading on your turf.  When they do, the M'Calls may
be glad of the opportunity to trade Clearwater instead of paying
tribute.  She's your greatest asset.  Put her together with Cadillac
and you'll be able to write your own deal."

Mr Snow shook his head.  'The Plainfolk have never paid tribute and
never will.  What you say is true - Cadillac and Clearwater are like
bright jewels in the crown worn by a great king of the Old Time.  But
we possess something of even greater value.  The greatest asset of the
M'Calls is our readiness to accept our destiny.  That demands a courage
be]fond your understanding."

'You're right,' replied Steve.  'I don't understand."

'You will one day."

It sounded more like a threaVthan a promise.  Steve gazed at Mr Snow in
silence then said, 'So... what do you suggest I do?"

'Do?"  Mr Snow shrugged.  'You play it as written.  Life goes on.  The
Wheel turns."

'Is that all?"

'Not quite.  I've taken the liberty of assuring the clan elders that
you will say or do nothing now or in the future that will harm
Clearwater or her relationship with Cadillac.

And that you will not attempt to approach her or converse with her
except in the presence of others and only if requested to do so.  Is
that clear - and do you accept?"

Steve laughed.  'What d'you think I'm planning to do run off with
her?"

He saw the old wordsmith's expression and wiped the grin off his
face.

'I'm sorry.  Yes, of course I accept..  I don't imagine I have much
choice - right?"

Mr Snow waved the question away.  'I've also told them that you will
never, under any circumstances, reveal the existence of either to
anyone outside this clan.  Unreasonable?"

'No, unlikely.  As I already pointed out, I'm a prisoner but, yeah,
sure, I'll go along with that."

Since, in biting.the arrow, Steve had gained the status of a warrior,
Mr Snow briefly considered asking him to swear the traditional
blood-oath to guard the secret with his life.

He decided such a pledge would be meaningless to an individual who
scorned the ways of the Plainfolk and had no concept of honour.  Such
strange people, these sand-burrowers.

And such consummate liars!

Steve's eyes wandered briefly over the random pattern covering Mr
Snow's body.  'If no one is supposed to know their secret, why don't
Cadillac and Clearwater just leave the dye on their skin and paint over
it when it wears off?"

'It has to be removed at regular intervals to prevent their bodies from
being permanently discoloured,' replied Mr Snow.

'But... ?"  Steve looked baffled.

Mr Snow smiled.  'Isn't it obvious?  There may come a time when they
will need to appear un-skinned."

'You mean.  disguised as Trackers?"

'I would not discount that possibility,' admitted Mr Snow.  'As
servants of Talisman they may be required to assume many guises."

Steve nodded.  'Okay, then let me give .you a word of advice in case
you've been picking my brains with the idea of breaking into the
Federation.  Forget it.  Even if they managed to find a way in, they
wouldn't get ten yards without an ID-card.  It's the key to everything
- and they're nontransferable."

Mr Snow digested this valuable piece of intelligence with a thoughtful
expression.  'Thanks for telling me."

A couple of days later, Cadillac returned sporting his new paint job.

As far as Steve could see, it was an exact duplicate of his previous
body markings.  He had even been rubbed down with something - probably
a fine dust - to kill the fresh colour.  Steve took care not to pay him
undue attention, greeting him casually, as if he had been away for
several minutes not several days and did not remark upon, or seek the
reason, for his absence.

Shortly afterwards Steve glimpsed Clearwater moving about the
settlement accompanied by her two sisters, or in a group with other
She-Wolves.  Although he was never conscious of a deliberate effort by
the clan to keep them apart they somehow never managed to meet face to
face.  If their paths crossed it was always at a discreet distance.

Despite his desire to get better acquainted Steve held firmly to the
promise he had given to Mr Snow and contented himself with just looking
at her whenever the opportunity presented itself.  It was very seldom
that their eyes connected and for the most part, her expression
remained neutral but, from time to time, he found himself on the
receiving end of a brief, tantalising glance which, had she been any
closer, would have burnt the soles off his boots.

Steve took care not to let his frustration hinder his growing
friendship with Cadillac.  He introduced him to the quarterstaff and
when the young wordsmith had once again demonstrated the ease with
which he could acquire new skills, put forward the idea of teaching him
to fly.  Cadillac's response was non-committal but, two days later,
Steve emerged from their hut to find the dismantled remains of three
Skyhawks arranged in several neat piles inside a large semi-circle of
seated spectators.

Curbing his excitement, Steve made a casual but beady-eyed inspection
of the various bits and pieces.  Some of the struts and wing spars were
badly distorted but most of the airframe components he needed were
available.  The crumpled, vandalised cockpit pods looked beyond
repair.

The sole surviving engine looked more or less intact but it had a
broken propellor.

Cadillac appeared at Steve's shoulder.  'What do you think?"

'It's a possibility, no more."  Steve's doubt was genuine.

'I'm not sure we have enough wing fabric,' he added, realising he had
torn up strips of the precious material to plait into his own hair.

'But the biggest problem is the fact that we don't have any metal
working tools."

'What kind of tools do you need?"  asked Cadillac casually.

It took Steve several seconds to recover from his surprise.

'You've got tools - here?"

'Some.  We may be able to get others."

'Where do you get them from?"

'The people who make our crossbows.  The iron masters."

'Who are they - Mutes?"

'No, they are unskinned, like you.  But like us in other ways."

Steve tried to make his interest sound casual.  'Where do they live?"

'Beyond the eastern door.  In the Fire-Pits of BethLem."

'Where is that exactly?"

Cadillac shrugged again.  'No one knows.  It is said that there are
many lands beyond the eastern door but the Plainfolk have never been
there.  We trade with the iron-masters when their wheel-boats ride the
great rivers.  The Yellow-Stone, Miz-Hurry and Miz-Hippy."

Steve committed the names to memory.  'When do they come?"

'Once, sometimes twice a year.  Some years not at all."

'And what do you trade?"

'Bread-stalk seed, buffalo meat.  Dream Cap, men, women."

'You trade your own people?"

Cadillac smiled at Steve's reaction.  'Only those who are prepared to
go.  Is that worse than staying and being killed because the clan has
no sharp iron?"

'No, I guess not,' admitted Steve.  'What else can you tell me about
the iron masters?"

'Nothing."

'But why do they trade you weapons?"  insisted Steve.

'Why don't they use them to defeat you and the rest of the
Plainfolk?"

Cadillac answered with a shrug.  'Perhaps because they are too few in
number."

'Okay, in that case, why don't your people attack them, make 'em
prisoner and set 'em to work?  Why trade valuable goods when you can
make slaves of them?"

Cadillac smiled.  'You're thinking like a Tracker."

'Come on,' riposted Steve.  'You kill other Mutes."

'Only in defence of our own turf."

'Yeah, sure..."  Steve realised that it would be a waste of time to
argue the point further.  He fisted Cadillac's arm.

'Let's get to work.  We need a screwdriver, something to drill holes
with, a saw to cut this tubing, a flat file, a-' Cadillac frowned.

'What's a screwdriver?"

Steve sighed inwardly.  'Just show me what you've got..."

Aided by Cadillac, Three Degrees, another skilled Mute with the apt
name of Air-Supply and a score or more of willing go-fers, Steve
proceeded to construct a serviceable airframe.  Throughout the process
of rebuilding, Cadillac worked alongside Steve, helping him every step
of the way.

Once again, Steve was impressed by the Mute's agile brain and his
mechanical aptitude.  The young wordsmith had an almost instinctive
grasp of aviation technology and the theory of flight.  What Steve
didn't know was that Cadillac's mental powers had enabled him to draw
the knowledge and understanding of these things from his own mind.

The wing fabric proved to be the biggest headache but after
sweet-talking the entire clan into handing back every usable scrap of
fabric that had been ripped off by trophy hunters, two sets of panels
were laboriously pieced together.

The overlapping patchwork seams were bonded with pine resin, then hand
sewn and then the two layers were fitted over the wing spars and
securely fastened together with parallel lines of stitching.  There was
no way Steve could recreate the inflated aerofoil section wing of the
Skyhawk he had flown into captivity but, amazingly, the solar cell
fabric still functioned.  Using short strands of wire from multi-cored
power cable held in place with globs of resin, Steve connected the
patchwork of panels in series.  It was a slow fiddly job but finally
the circuit was completed.

Lacking any proper measuring equipment, Steve was forced to
improvise.

He checked that he had a spark across the end of the wires then asked
some Mute children to bring him a live fish from the nearest stream.

They brought back a plump trout in a skin water-bag and watched
curiously as Steve stuck the ends of the wires into the water.  The
trout bent in the middle as if it was trying to bite its tail off then
roiled over and floated to the surface.  Satisfied that he had a modest
amount of power at his disposal, Steve proceeded with the repair and
installation of one of the electric motors for which Three Degrees had
proudly carved a new propellor from dark yellow wood.

Three weeks after picking up the first piece of tubing, a motorised,
forty foot span hang-glider - which they had named Blue-Bird - stood
poised on head-high sapling trestles.  Steve connected the cable,
bringing the current from the wing panels to the motor, then everyone
held their breath and waited for the sun to clear from behind a
seemingly endless bank of dull grey cloud.  After an interminable wait,
the thin fuzzy shadow cast by BlueBird's wings darkened into a
hard-edged arrow as the sun soared into a patch of deep blue and beamed
down its warmth upon their upturned faces.  Steve threw the switch.

Nothing happened.  He spun the prop.  Nothing.  Like churning mud with
a stick.  A disappointed sigh went up from the ring of spectators.

Steve swore quietly and whacked the motor casing with the flat of his
hand.  The propellor turned obediently, blurring into a smooth disc of
spun gold.

'HEY-YAAH!"  roared the clan.

Steve threw a double-handed kiss at the sky.  'Oh, you sweet Mother I'
he crowed.

'Will you have enough power for take-off?"  asked Cadillac.

Steve shook his head as he tightened one of the starboard rigging
wires.  'If the circuit holds, it will help us stay up once we get
airborne but that's all."  But that's enough, he thought exultantly.

With a zero sink-rate, I can wave goodbye to these lumps anytime I
choose...

Blue-Bird was carried with great ceremony to the top ora gentle slope
from where Steve made several test-runs, floating a few feet off the
ground while Mute children raced alongside him laughing and shouting
excitedly.  The fear and pain caused by the arrowheads over the
cropfields appeared to be entirely forgotten.  Steve was pleasantly
surprised to find that Blue-Bird was inherently stable and responded
well to shifts of the control bar and his suspended body.

The first real take-off from the top of a steeply sloping bluff was
perfect.  As he hung in his harness, riding the cool updraft, Steve
experienced anew the exhilaration of flight.

It was like a re-run of his first overground solo; the quickening
heartbeat, the sharpened senses, a new awareness.

He banked round towards the bluff and Went into a series of climbing
figure-eights over the watchers below.

Above him the sky was blue, with scattered white clouds.

Behind him, the motor hummed smoothly.

Because of his stone-age circuitry, the solar cell fabric was
delivering a fluctuating current that - from the level of sound from
the motor - Steve judged to be between thirty and fifty per cent of its
normal potential.  While it did not enable him to climb, it produced
enough power to maintain altitude once he'd got up there by riding into
the wind like a kite, or on the back of a convenient thermal.  As the
watching Mutes below shrank to ant-like proportions Steve realised that
he now had a golden opportunity to escape.  The idea had been lurking
at the back of his mind from the moment his feet had left the ground on
the first test glides.  Before taking off from the bluff he had
concealed the map under his fatigues.  He had not had an opportunity to
recover the buried ration pack and water kit but that did not really
matter.  He could survive for the few days it might take to fly back to
the Federation.  He had been drinking contaminated water and eating raw
fruit for months now; he had also been breathing radio-active air and
been in skin-to-skin contact with Mutes.  Another week either way
wouldn't make much difference.  Since emerging from the days of
semi-drugged sleep way back at the beginning, Steve had gradually
forgotten the invisible death shroud that still enveloped the
overground.  Now and then he remembered the constant danger with a
sense of shock - followed by a moment of perplexity as he realised
that, despite his prolonged exposure, he had not yet suffered any
noticeable signs of radiation sickness.  Steve knew it was bound to
manifest itself sooner or later.  There could be no e§cape.  He would
suffer the same fate as Poppa-Jack.  But how strange!  he thought.

Maybe it's just being up in the air again but it's a long time since I
felt as good as this.

Steve levelled out at an estimated altitude of three thousand feet well
beyond the range of any Mute crossbows below.  If he was going to make
a break for it, now was the time to do it.  A see-saw battle raged
inside him.

Steve knew that, if he chose this moment to fly away, he would be
betraying the trust of Cadillac and Mr Snow.  And there was
Clearwater.

Despite his promises to Mr Snow and to himself, his resolution was
beginning to crumble.  Steve wanted to get close to her again; to talk
to her without being surrounded by a milling crowd of Mutes.  He would
stay, he decided.  He would delay his flight to freedom until he found
some way to meet up with her.  Just once.  Just the two of them.  But
that was crazy too.  He knew it was his duty to escape: knew that, if
he did not, he would inevitably fall sick and die, yet .  . .

Something was wrong.  Something had happened to him.

And Steve knew what it was: it was the same feeling that had gripped
him when he had faced the open ramp doors after his first overground
solo.  The thought of returning to his life underground, a life which
once seemed the normal - indeed the only possible mode of existence,
now filled him with a strange dread.

Cutting the motor, Steve descended, shaving the mountainous rock-face
behind the bluff in a series of daredevil swoops then, before landing,
he made a couple of low level passes over the heads of the
spectators.

To his surprise, he saw that Clearwater had joined Cadillac on the
clifftop.

Both waved to him as he swept past.  Steve wondered how to handle the
situation.  Since meeting Clearwater and talking to Mr Snow, he had not
mentioned her name to Cadillac.

How much did the young wordsmith know?  Was he to pretend he did not
know who she was?  Play it by ear, Brickman...

Steve brought Blue-Bird up into a stall and made a smooth, stand-up
landing, coming to a stop after five paces.

He quickly unbuckled his harness and, in response to a beckoning
gesture from Cadillac, pushed his way through the excited crowd that
surrounded Blue-Bird.  Steve tried to keep his face in neutral as he
came face to face with Clearwater.  Cadillac made no attempt to
introduce him but, on the other hand, did not act as if Clearwater
wasn't there.

He congratulated Steve on his stylish performance then turned away
briefl3/to tell the young Mutes not to tamper with the glider.

Steve took the opportunity to look deep into the Mute's blue eyes.

They blazed briefly as Cleffrwater returned his look, then became
veiled.  'I envy you,' she said.  'How does it feel to fly like a
bird?"

'Fantastic.  You get a wonderful sense of... it's indescribable.  Each
time I go up I never want to come down.

In fact, the truth is, when I circled that peak, I very nearly decided
to go home."

'I'm glad you didn't,' replied Clearwater guardedly.  Again her eyes
flashed briefly.

'Oh, really?"  Steve tried to keep all expression out of his voice and
face as Cadillac turned back to them.

'Yes,' said Cadillac.  'You see - if you had tried to escape, you would
have fallen out of the sky like a stone."

Steve looked at them both and laughed disbelievingly.

Cadillac touched Clearwater's shoulder.  'Show him.

Show our friend the power that, in the hands of Talisman, will drive
the sand-burrowers back into their holes and bury them for ever."

The word 'friend' carried a vague emphasis which made Steve uneasy.

Cadillac had to know something.  Probably knew everything.  Steve tried
to read their faces but neither gave anything away.

Clearwater closed her eyes and appeared to compose herself.  Cadillac
surveyed the ground nearby and picked up a rock about the size of a
basketball.  The sinews in his neck and chest drew taut under its
weight.  'Ready?"

Clearwater nodded, her eyes still closed.

Steve suddenly became aware that the crowd around Blue-Bird had fallen
silent and had turned to watch what was happening.  Cadillac tensed his
arm and stomach muscles and, with a visible effort, heaved the rock
into the air above their heads.  As it went up, Clearwater's eyes
snapped wide open and her right arm shot out, the first two fingers
aimed at the rock.  From her throat, came a strange ululating cry that
curdled Steve's blood.  To his amazement, the rock did not fall.  It
hung there for a moment then shot upwards into the sky as Clearwater
raised her arm higher.

When it was some two hundred feet above them, the wavering, unearthly
sound coming from Clearwater's throat stopped abruptly.  The rock
hovered, held in place by her pointing forefinger.  As Steve and the
others below watched raptly, Clearwater drew a circle in the air above
her head.

The rock began to move slowly round in a wide circle - as if it was on
the end of an invisible length of string.  Clearwater dropped her arm
and turned with Cadillac to face Steve.

Once again, incredibly, the rock didn't fall.  Steve watched
open-mouthed as it continued to circle around in the air behind them.

'Now make it fall,' said Cadillac quietly.

Clearwater made a fist with her right hand and brought it down sharply
on the open palm of her left.  The rock plummeted out of the sky and
smashed to pieces on the rocky slope below the bluff.

'Heyy-YAAHH!!"  roared the watching M'Calls.  'Heyyyahh I Heyy-yahh I
Heyy-yahh I' 'Now do you understand why the Federation can never
conquer us?"  asked Cadillac.

Steve looked at Clearwater, then at Cadillac, and back again, his mouth
opening and closing soundlessly.

Clearwater gazed at Steve with a hint of sadness.  'He sees but he does
not believe."

Cadillac nodded.  'His mind is still chained by the darkness below.  He
cannot understand because what he has seen does not follow the rules of
his world."  He smiled.  'It does not compute."

Steve eyed them silently then sat down on a nearby rock.

Cadillac gripped his shoulder sympathetically then walked away with
Clearwater towards the settlement escorted by their clan brothers and
sisters.  They began to chant a Plainfolk melody using a style of
singing known as mouth music, full of complex counter-harmonies in
which the voices were the instruments.  There were no proper words but
Steve knew as he sat there alone with the abandoned Blue-Bird, that it
was a song of triumph.

SEVENTEEN

Clearwater's unnerving mastery over the rock - the second manifestation
of Mute magic that Steve had witnessed blew away the last vestiges of
disbelief, leaving him totally mystified and more than a little
shaken.

Anxious to know more, but not wanting to play into the hands of the
wordsmiths by appearing overawed, Steve pushed the incident to the back
of his mind and proceeded to give Cadillac his first flying lesson.

'Barely a week later, he found himself watching the young wordsmith
handle the glider with all the ease and confidence of a wingman
graduating after three years at the Flight Academy.  Steve should have
been pleased but he was not disposed to kid himself.  He knew that, as
an instructor, he wasn't a patch on Carrol, yet Cadillac had acquired
his flying skill with chilling speed.  It was uncanny.  But then, no
more uncanny than the power that Clearwater had revealed.

Steve began to understand why Jodi Kazan had been so evasive on the
subject of Mute magic.  Somewhere along the trail during the ten years
she had been flying the overground she must have stumbled across the
truth as he had just done.

And if she knew, then so did Grand Central - even though, officially,
it had been decreed that Mute magic did not exist.

Had he, by pure chance, uncovered another corner of a widespread
conspiracy?  The big brother of the plot that had prevented him from
winning the top honours at the Academy?  How many other things had the
First Family, in its unchallenged wisdom, legislated out of
existence?

What were the untapped secrets gt/arded by Columbus, the Federation's
computer?  How high did he have to go to get the inside story?  How
many levels of access were there?

After Cadillac gained his 'wings', he took Steve over to Mr Snow's hut
for a celebratory pipe of rainbow grass.  It seemed like a good moment
to seek an explanation for what had happened on the bluff.  Had
Clearwater really made a rock fly - or had he imagined it all?  Both
wordsmiths were remarkably forthcoming.  They confirmed that what he
had seen had actually taken place but, when pressed to explain how or
why, neither was able to furnish a response that met the rational
requirements of a mind shaped by the Federation.

Steve concealed his frustration and sought Mr Snow's opinion on the
questions that had begun to plague him regarding his search for the
ultimate reality.  Was it possible ever to know the true state of
things?  How high did he have to climb before he found this elusive
Truth, with a capital T, that Mr Snow had referred to?

'Climbing the mountain is not really the problem,' observed Mr Snow.

'It's being able to appreciate the view when you get to the top.  There
are times during a man's life when he looks upon the Truth but more
often than not he fails to recognise it.  The moment of understanding
passes him by.  It may take many years before he stands once again on
the mountain top; others less fortunate are not offered that second
chance."  Mr Snow indicated Cadillac with a wave of his hand.  'As I
said to my able but headstrong successor shortly before you came to us,
you must learn to ask the right questions.  But your mind must also be
open to understanding - like the deep waters of a lake in the still of
evening.  Only then will the great white birds of wisdom alight upon
its surface.  Until that moment arrives, I suggest, for your own peace
of mind, that you simply accept that certain Mutes are capable of
performing magical acts.  By "magic" I mean the power to manipulate the
forces in the earth and sky - and they are given this power by
Talisman."

Steve listened patiently.  'It's amazing.  you really do believe this
guy exists?"

Mr Snow waved the palm of his right hand.  'Who else do you think split
Motor-Head's hammer?  It was his power that saved you - the same power
that flowed through Clearwater and gave her mastery over that rock."

Steve eyed both of them silently.

'Why do you find that so difficult to accept?"  asked Cadillac.

Steve answered with a shrug.  'Maybe because it's hard for us Trackers
to believe that there are.  invisible people."

'The world will see The Thrice-Gifted One soon enough,' said Mr Snow
quietly.

'Thrice-Gifted - ?"

'It is the other name by which Talisman is known.

Perhaps you may live to see that day."

'And die regretting it."  Cadillac smiled.  'Let him hear the Prophecy,
Old One.  Let him know why we do not fear the iron snakes, or the wrath
of the Federation."

'Prophecy - ?  Oh, yeah, I forgot,' said Steve lightly.  'You guys have
got everything worked out."

Cadillac's eyes flashed angrily then died as he stifled all emotion.

Mr Snow's calm remained undisturbed.  'You're wrong, Brickman.  What we
believe is that it has all been worked out for us.  Some of us are
blessed with an inner ear that can pick up the Sky Voices; a gift
withheld from most of my clan-brothers.

But they believe, as we do, that the pattern of future events is
already drawn.  The Cosmic Wheel turns, taking us along its eternal
path - whether we want to go or not.  You, too, despite your blindness,
have a part to play.  So thank your lucky stars we believe in prophecy,
even if you don't - because it's the only thing that's saved your
ass."

Steve adopted a chastened expression as the old wordsmith readjusted
his cross-legged position.

'I was going to ask you to try and open up your soul to what I'm about
to say but,' Mr Snow eyed him, '... you don't understand."

'I don't even know what the word "soul" means."

'Never mind.  Listen well, and mark this.  It was first t;ansmitted
through a wordsmith called Cincinatti-Red about six hundred and fifty
years ago, and is known as the Talisman Prophecy."  Mr Snow began to
speak in a rich resonant tone he had not used before.

'When the great mountain in the West speaks with a tongue of fire that
burns the sky

and the earth drowns in its own tears,

then shall a child born of the Plainfolk become the Thrice-Gifted One
who shall be Wordsmith, Summoner and Seer.

Man-child or Woman-child the One may be.

Whosoever is chosen shall grow straight and strong as the Heroes of the
Old Time.

The morning dew shall be his eyes, the blades of grass shall be his
ears, and the name of the One shall be Talisman.

The eagles shall be his golden arrows, the stones of the earth his
hammer, and a nation shall be forged from the fires of War.

The Plainfolk shall be as a bright sword in the hands of Talisman,
their Saviour.

Then shall the cloud-warriors fall like rain.

The iron snake shall devour its masters.

The desert shall rise up and crush the dark cities of the
sand-burrowers for heaven and earth have yielded their secret powers to
Talisman.

Thus shall perish the enemies of the Plainfolk, for the Thrice-Gifted
One is master of all.

Death shall be driven from the.air and the blood shall be drained from
the earth.

Soul-sister shall join hands with soul-brother and the land shall sing
of Talisman.

In some inexpressible way, the Prophecy touched an inner chord buried
deep within Steve's psyche.  Hearing it spoken for the first time, in
the flickering light of a firestone, was an indelible experience whose
impact equalled the discovery of Clearwater's remote-control mastery
over the rock.  Although Steve could not have described it thus, the
poetic imagery contained in the lines opened up another world; gave him
a whole new perspective on the people he had been trained to regard as
sub-human.  The wily, poisonous Mute.

But what was truly astounding was the date the Prophecy was alleged to
have been composed.  It meant that the appearance of wagon-trains and
wingmen had been predicted by the Plainfolk some four hundred years
before the Federation had envisaged their use!  It seemed impossible
but, if true - and if the other events that were predicted took place
the Federation's future looked distinctly unpromising.

'So tell me... is Clearwater a - summoner?"

'Yes,' replied Mr Snow.  'As it says in the Prophecy, there are'three
gifts that are given to certain of the Plainfolk through the power of
Talisman.  The first is that of wordsmith, the second is that of
summoner, the third is the gift of seership - the ability to read the
past and future in the stones."

Cadillac squared his shoulders.  'I have this gift."

Steve eyed him with evident disbelief.  'Are you telling me that you
can see pictures in stones?"

'Only certain stones,' explained Mr Snow.  'Seeing stones."  He saw
Steve's expression.  'Don't laugh.  It was Cadillac who read the iron
snake through a stone it had passed over.  That was how we knew you
were in its belly."

Steve looked at each of them in turn.  'Is this why you both went to so
much trouble to keep me alive?"

'Yes.  The Sky Voices had spoken to me of the coming of a cloud-warrior
whose destiny was linked to that of Talisman.

Your face was made known to Cadillac through his gift of seership.

Fate drew your separate strands of existence together and the knot was
sealed by the bolt from his crossbow.  And when he looked upon you in
the blazing cornfield he recognized you as the one revealed by the
stone."

'... and if I'd been just another Tracker?"

'We'd have left you to burn,' replied Cadillac.

Steve thought about that for a moment then asked, 'Why is it that some
of you call me The Death-Bringer?  What is it that Motor-Head who fears
nothing - has seen in his dreams?"

'He is a warrior.  Perhaps the death he dreams of is his own,' said
Cadillac.  He looked expectantly at Mr Snow.

The old wordsmith smoothed his beard and fixed his eyes on Steve.

'There are dreams that mirror the workings of the mind, dreams that
reflect the desires of the body, and dreams that bridge the void
between this world and that of the Sky People.  It is true that over
such a bridge certain knowledge comes but, alas, I am not a seer.  I
cannot say what Motor-Head's words may mean, or know what he has
seen.

What I can say is that there will come a time when the role you are
destined to play in the emergence of Talisman will be revealed to
you."

Mr Snow paused, then added enigmatically.  'At that moment you will
discover not only what it is you have to do but also who you are."

The two wordsmiths watched Steve impassively as he reflected silently
on what he had just been told.  He lifted his eyes to theirs.  'When is
all this supposed to happen?"

Mr Snow spread a palm.  'When the earth gives the sign."

'Yes, I know what the words say,' said Steve, with a trace of
irritation.  'But when is that going to be?  You've been waiting six
hundred and fifty years already!  Maybe the saviour of the Plainfolk
isn't coming.  He may have decided that it's safer to stay where he
is."

Mr Snow's calm remained undisturbed.  'He will come.

Not in my lifetime, perhaps.  But certainly in yours - an event you may
regret, for you are destined to be a leader of your people."

'I, also, shall know Talisman,' said Cadillac, not wishing to be left
out of the discussion of such great events.  'The Old One has told me
this."

Even though Mr Snow's words seemed to confirm his own belief that he
had been marked out for greater things, the conversation did little to
ease Steve's inner turmoil.

Even his basic instinct for survival, which should have been telling
him to head for cover, was being torn in two.  Steve remained
insatiably curious as to what his possible role might be but, at the
same time, was frightened by what he might discover.  Despite his
deep-seated responses to what he had seen and heard, Steve's Tracker
background, with its emphasis on unquestioning obedience,
military-style discipline and rigorously applied logic, made him shy
away from the darker side of the Mute persona with its predictive
visions and its manipulative magic.  The world of the Mutes was like a
giant whirlpool waiting to trap the unwary.  Those foolish enough to
leap into the swirling currents in search of the answers to its
mysteries were slowly sucked towards the dark vortex at its centre and
disappeared without trace.  And yet, and yet... Steve felt himself
drawn back towards it, gripped by a shadowy power beyond his control.

Escorted by thirty Bears, Mr Snow and Cadillac left the settlement and,
over the next three days, ran eastwards going far beyond the clan's
turf markers into the Middle Lands of the Plainfolk.  Twice, during the
outward journey, they encountered the markers of other clans; on each
occasion they altered course to run around the territory involved.

Once, they lay hidden until dark to avoid a large hunting party.  Not
because they feared a confrontation, but because it was unnecessary.

It would have involved a needless waste of life.  After the battle with
the iron snake, the clan needed to husband its strength in readiness
for the next confrontation with the sand-burrowers.  Mr Snow's purpose
was to find a specific location which the Sky Voices had indicated to
him in a recent message.  Eventually, after running nearly four hundred
miles, his inner ear told him that they had reached the approximate
location - the point where the great river whose course they had
followed all the way down from the Western Hills met its sister coming
up from the south-west.  A point which, on pre-Holocaust maps of the
overground, marked the junction of the North and South Platte Rivers in
Nebraska.

Sitting down thanlffully under the wide branches of a tree, he sent
Cadillac to search for a seeing stone.  Motor-Head, who was charged
with organising their escort, ordered them to disperse in pairs to
patrol the area around them.  When Cadillac's search of the north bank
proved fruitless, they crossed over onto the narrow strip of land where
the two rivers ran side by side before becoming one.

Then, when Cadillac again drew a blank, they tried on the far side of
the southern river.

It was here that they found traces of one of the ancient hardways along
which giant beetles had once carried the men of the Old Time.  The
beetles, Mr Snow explained, left a trail of sticky black slime - like
snails, and black horned worms - so they could find their way back
again.  This black trail gradually hardened, becoming thicker and
thicker with each passing beetle as they followed each other in long
lines, jammed nose to tail.  Once laid down, the hardway was used over
and over again because the beetles knew where they were going and could
move faster.

Men of the Old Time, said Mr Snow, were obsessed with speed.  They had
built a huge crossbow that had shot a bolt with men inside it all the
way to the moon.  They had other bolts with wings like huge arrowheads
that could cross the sky faster than the sun.  They were masters of the
world but they never learned to love each other.  And they had
forgotten The Way of the Warrior.  And so, through their ignorance and
hatred, the world had died in the War of the Thousand Suns.  Clans
numbering more than the raindrops in the sky fell like shrivelled
leaves at the Yellowing.  Killed not by their equals in single combat
but by strange secret words spoken by machines made with the High
Craft, hidden deep within the earth - like this Columbus, the
cloud-warrior had talked of.  Sharp iron of unimaginable power wielded
by men who had not chewed bone.

Cadillac pondered these deep and tragic mysteries of the Old Time as he
searched for a seeing stone.  Eventually, as the sun sank towards the
western door, he found one.  Mr Snow squatted cross-legged and watched
intently as his pupil knelt, closed his eyes, raised the stone to his
forehead and began the process which caused the pictures from its
memory to flow into his mind.

'Find me the iron snake,' said Mr Snow.  'Go forward a little way
through the time-clouds and fred me a great battle."

Since his first attempts to make practical use of his gift at the
urging of his teacher, Cadillac had gradually improved to the point
where he now remembered much of what he had seen and spoken of while in
contact with the stone.  He had discovered that far and near memory
could be distinguished by the intensity of the aura which surrounded
them, and his inner eye had begun to recognise the difference between
visions from the past and those from the future.

Still grasping the stone firmly, Cadillac lowered it to his knees.  His
face muscles tightened, dragging the ends of his closed lips back and
down as he shied away from some fearful internal landscape of horror.

'My mind flies forward, but I cannot yet tell how far I journey,' he
gasped, the words hissing out between his clenched teeth.

'Look for Clearwater,' suggested Mr Snow.  'Look for yourself and the
cloud-warrior.  Summon them with all the power of your mind.  Perhaps,
in this way, their images will come to the fore and the others will
remain sealed within the stone."  The old wordsmith sat back
patiently.

Behind him, the wide waters of the two great rivers moved slowly
eastwards.  Several minutes passed.  Cadillac's head rolled from side
to side and his body began to twitch and then was racked by more
violent muscular spasms.  Mr Snow made no attempt to prompt him
further.

Suddenly Cadillac's spine became rigid.  He turned his sightless face
to the sky, his features contorted with anguish.

'The iron snake stands over me!"  he cried.  'Oh, Mo-Town!

Great Mother!  It runs with the blood of our people!"  Cadillac began
to moan, a keening sound that became a harsh sobbing noise as he was
shaken by another spasm.

After a few moments, the convulsions died away.  He slumped forward
awkwardly, crushed under the weight of his grief.

Mr Snow watched him in silence.

For several minutes Cadillac did not move then he slowly sat up, drew
his shoulders back and turned his tear-streaked face towards Mr Snow,
gazing at him with great tenderness.

'There is nothing but pain and sorrow in this stone."  He cast it
aside.

'The world is full of it, my son,' replied Mr Snow quietly.

'It is the burden of the Warrior.  The dark side of existence that
threatens to crush the soul.  Only those strong enough to bear it can
reach the light beyond where true happiness lies."

'Even so, I wish you had not brought me here."

'Why not?"

'Because this is the place of your death, Old One."

Cadillac's eyes filled with fresh tears.  He brushed them away
angrily.

Mr Snow grimaced and drew his hand slowly over his beard.  'When is it
to be?"

'In less than twelve moons.  Near the time of the Yellowing."

The late summer of the coming year.  The old wordsmith lowered his head
and digested this news in silence then raised his eyes and let them
range over his surroundings: the rolling prairie covered with red
buffalo grass that lay north of the river; the billowing towers of
cloud advancing slowly from the eastern door like stately Spanish
galleons under full sail - precious words, those, from the Old Time
while to the south, a low band of dark grey rain cloud threw the long
shadowed stand of tall, white-trunked larches into bright relief, their
orange and yellow leaves aflame in the slanting rays of the sun; to the
west, over his right shoulder, the blue, distant hills to which they
must now return.  Mr Snow swept his hand around the horizon and beamed
at Cadillac.

'Come!  Put away your grief and look around you!  How can you be
saddened by such beauty?  This is a good place to die I' Slapping his
thighs, Mr Snow rose as if he had not a care in the world, threw his
arms out wide and drank in the late afternoon air.

Cadillac had seen many things in the stone at the joining of the two
rivers.  Some were too painful to talk of- even to Mr Snow - but, as
they headed west on the return leg of their journey, he revealed that
the cloud-warrior would have to be set free for it was his departure
that led directly to the events he had foreseen, bringing fulfillment
of the Prophecy one step nearer.

'It will not be easy to arrange,' observed Mr Snow.

'Despite the sign at the Biting of the Arrow, some of our clan-brothers
still seek his death.  They will do all they can to prevent his
escape."

Cadillac shrugged.  'If he follows the path drawn by Talisman, the
cloud-warrior will overcome them."

Mr Snow smiled.  'Spoken like a true wordsmith.  Even so, to stand any
chance of success, the cloud-warrior will have to take the arrowhead.

Can you build another?"

Cadillac nodded.  'If you desire it, yes."

The two wordsmiths exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

Steve could not have picked a more apt pupil.  Cadillac did not need to
be 'taught'; the act of instruction merely provided the young wordsmith
with the opportunity to insert a mental plug into Steve's memory and
make a duplicate record of everything that was stored in the files.

Cadillac had learned to fiy with consummate skill because his brain
circuits now contained the same sensory data that had enabled Steve to
perform so well at the Academy.  And when presenting Steve with the
'remains' of the three Skyhawks, the clan had taken care to conceal the
wing fabric from Steve's own craft.  Although split in several places
and scorched at one wing tip, the panels were otherwise virtually
intact.  The M'Calls had also held back an undamaged motor and
propeller.  Unknown to Steve and his masters within the Federation, the
Plainfolk now possessed, through Cadillac, the knowledge to build and
fly a craft similar to BlueBird.

It was a task Mr Snow had secretly agreed to undertake on behalf of the
mysterious iron masters of Beth-Lem.  They had asked him to deliver a
cloud-warrior and an undamaged arrowhead.  In the event they would get
neither, but Cadillac's newly acquired flying skill and a reconstructed
craft would serve their purpose just as well.  And in return, the iron
masters - whose promises were always honoured would furnish the M'Calls
with new and powerful long, sharp iron...

When they halted for the night, and while Cadillac slept, Mr Snow
stared thoughtfully at the glowing embers of the fire and considered
how the cloud-warrior's departure might be achieved.  Steve had had the
means and the opportunity to escape for nearly a month, but, so far,
nothing had happened.  After pondering the problem at length, Mr Snow
turned to the Sky Voices.  With their help he understood that Steve's
inertia was not due to his fear of Clearwater's powers as a summoner
but because of his unrequited desire for her.  It was the other,
sweeter, kind of death he longed to suffer by her hand.  Allowing them
to come together might, paradoxically, be the best way of securing his
departure.  It would be a minor betrayal of his young protdg, and was
totally contrary to the wishes of the clan elders, but if this was the
will of Talisman, then so be it.

Without disturbing the other sleeping warriors, Mr Snow woke a young
Bear called Death-Wish and told him to return immediately to the
settlement.  A non-stop run of three hundred miles - a day and a half's
running.  He was to bring twelve hands of warriors to meet them on the
eastern edge of the D'Vine turf.  He was also to take, in the utmost
secrecy, a gift to Clearwater.  Opening the bag slung round his waist,
Mr Snow handed Death-Wish a small pouch closed at the neck by a
draw-string tied in a sealed knot around a knuckle bone.  Mr Snow did
not disclose its contents to his fleet-footed messenger but inside was
a thin, standard-issue chain necklace and dog tag bearing Steve's name
and number, and a dozen threads of Dream Cap. The next morning, when
Cadillac discovered Death-Wish's departure, Mr Snow explained he had
been sent to fetch reinforcements to cover their crossing of the D'Vine
turf.  Cadillac accepted this without question.  He had no knowledge of
Mr Snow's secret plan of action but he was now aware, through his
reading of the stone, of Steve's future desire to possess Clearwater.

He had already sensed they were drawn to each other but had not
challenged either of them to deny it.  His indecision on the subject
was due to Mr Snow.  Ever since Steve's 'confession', the old wordsmith
had used his formidable powers to cloud Cadillac's perception in the
same way he had fudged Commander Hartmann's thought processes prior to
the attack on the wagon-train.

Unfortunately, Mr Snow had not been able to beam out the same stealthy
static while Cadillac searched the stone.

As a result, the young wordsmith had been shaken by the unexpected
intensity of feeling that accompanied the images of Steve and
Clearwater.  From his other delvings into the cloudowarrior's mind
Cadillac knew that his own friendship with him was based on genuine
feelings; feelings which were in constant conflict with the dark,
treacherous side of Steve's nature.  Up to now, he had viewed Steve's
dilemma sympathetically but the revelation of the full extent of his
future relationship with Clearwater had a galvanising effect on his
psyche.  When he emerged from his trance-state, Cadillac's mind was
stripped of its previous mental lethargy, and despite the renewed
jamming operation by Mr Snow, remained sharp and clear.

Up to that moment, Cadillac had firmly believed in predestination and
the unquestioning acceptance of the will of Talisman.  But now, pride,
jealousy, a sense of outrage and betrayal, made him a driven man.  He
felt a rebellious urge to do something; to be in control; to impose his
will through some simple, yet decisive, act that would change the
course of future events; would alter the direction of the River of Time
so that the death and destruction he had foreseen would not occur.  He
was aware that, in attempting to tamper with the preordained, he was
setting himself up as the equal of the Supreme Being that watched over
the Plainfolk and he knew it was wrong, but this did not deflect his
growing resolve.  It was a forgivable conceit he shared with numberless
other young men - and many older ones too - who had gone before him.

Towards sundown on the day that Death-Wish had been despatched in the
hours before dawn, Cadillac sought out Motor-Head during one of their
brief halts.  The heavily-muscled warrior was crouched in a stream
splashing water over his face, chest and arms.  Black-Top and
Steel-Eye, his constant companions, lay sprawled on the bank eating
yellow-fists, the Mute name for a type of large, wild apple.

Motor-Head cupped his hands and splashed water over Cadillac as he
hunkered down on the edge of the stream.

'Your face looks heavy, sandworm.  You got something on your mind?"

'Yes.  I would speak with my brother Bear of things I have seen in the
stone."

Motor-Head stepped out of the stream and beckoned Black-Top and
Steel-Eye to come and sit on either side of him.  The three warriors
squatted down facing Cadillac.

Motor-Head snapped his fingers and pointed to Cadillac.

Black-Top tossed him a yellow-fist.  Steel-Eye placed another in his
leader's outstretched palm.  Motor-Head took a huge bite out of it.

'What would you speak of?"

'The Death-Bringer."

Motor-Head spat the chunk of fruit out of his mouth, tossed the other
piece away, then leant forward with his wrists on his knees and fixed
his jet-black eyes on Cadillac's face.  His huge hands hung loose but
his jaw was set, his neck muscles tensed, his killer instinct aroused
by the subject of the cloud-warrior.

'He plans to take wing,' said Cadillac.  'To return to the dark cities
beneath the desert.  And he wishes to take Clearwater with him."

Motor-Head glanced at his two companions then studied Cadillac with
narrowed eyes.  'When is this to be?"

'Soon.  It could be within two or three moon-risings."

'Does the Old One know of this?"

'He has not spoken of it to me,' replied Cadillac.  'Nor I to him."

Motor-Head's eyes glittered as he got the message.  'What do you wish
us to do - clip his wings?"

'Yes.  But in a way that does not harm the arrowhead."

Motor-Head exchanged another look with BlackTop and Steel-Eye and
gained their silent assent.  He turned to Cadillac.  'We will make the
run for home when the others sleep under Mo-Town's cloak.  It will be
hard.  It is more than a day's running.  We may not get there in
time."

Cadillac offered the yellow-fist he'd been given to Motor-Head.

'If anyone can do it, you will."

Motor-Head nodded with visible pride.  'True."  He gripped his knees
and flexed the muscles in his arms and shoulders.  'So - this
treacherous crow fouls the floor of those who feed him.  Is he to be
killed?"

Cadillac considered the idea very seriously.  To delay the
cloud-warrior's departure was a decision that could be reversed; to
order his death was an irrevocable act that might lead to an even
greater disaster than the one he sought to avoid.  It could also render
him totally unworthy in the eyes of Mr Snow.  'No,' he said.  'Don't
kill or cut him.

Just... keep him on the ground."

Motor-Head's mouth turned down sharply.  'You disappoint me,
sandworm.

There is venom in your heart but your tongue lacks bite.  A man who
would take the place of Mr Snow needs iron in his soul.  If he cannot
say or do the hard things, the clan will go under."

Cadillac searched his conscience and found what he felt was the true
answer.  'He who would give wise counsel must know when to take life
and when to spare it.  The Way of the Warrior is not drenched in
blood.

The strength and courage needed to kill your enemy is only the first
step along the Path to Understanding."  · Motor-Head snorted
contemptuously.  'I will not cross words with you, little brother.

Your head holds the star-secrets, my hand holds sharp iron - but we
were both born to defend the Plainfolk in the name of Talisman."  He
waved a finger at the fruit in Cadillac's hand.  'Go!

Sweeten your tongue on that yellow-fist while you wonder at the ways of
the world and leave the cloud-warrior to us."

When darkness fell, Mr Snow's party halted.  After a brief meal around
a small log fire, sentinels were posted and the rest of the party
wrapped themselves in their woven-straw blankets.  Cadillac found it
impossible to sleep.  He twisted and turned restlessly, gnawed by
indecision and guilt.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he sought out the old
wordsmith.

Mr Snow was sleeping deeply and was not in the best of humour when
Cadillac woke him.  'Great Sky-Mother, what is it?"  he grumped.  He
sat up and shivered.  'Talisman!  It's cold!  Uuughh!  I'm getting too
old to sleep outdoors."  He pulled the straw blanket around his
shoulders.  'Is there any wood left to put on that fire?"

Cadillac cast around in the darkness, and found a few pieces.  He
stirred the dying embers and blew on them till the wood burst into
flame.

Mr Snow warmed his hands.  'That's better,' he muttered.

He studied Cadillac's face in the flickering orange glow.

'You look as if the roof's fallen in."

'I have dishonoured you, Old One."

Mr Snow yawned and stretched.  'Let me be the judge of that.  Just
start at the beginning and keep it short and simple."  He dropped his
eyes from Cadillac's face and stared at the flames.

Cadillac recounted his anguish at what he had seen in the stone, then
took a deep breath and told Mr Snow he had sent Motor-Head, Black-Top
and Steel-Eye to punish the cloud-warrior.  He sat back nervously,
expecting his teacher to explode in anger.

For a while, Mr Snow said nothing.  He just stared into the fire for
what seemed like a long time.  When he raised his head he looked old
and tired.  'When did they leave?"

'Soon after we ate."

Mr Snow let out a long, weary sigh then rubbed his face briskly.  'We'd
better get going then..."

'To the settlement?"  Cadillac found himself confused by Mr Snow's low
key response.

'Where else?"

'You are not angry, Old One?"

Mr Snow yawned again.  'Angry?  You bonehead!  You imbecile!  What you
have done changes nothing!  Do you think any of us can deflect the will
of Talisman?  You are an instrument of that will!"  Cadillac uncrossed
his legs and knelt with his head bowed.  'Forgive me, Old One, for
being blind and deaf to your words."

'There's nothing to forgive,' grunted Mr Snow.  'When I was your age, I
also thought I could be master of the world.

But that's not the way it is."  He got to his feet and started to roll
up his blanket.

Cadillac rose.  'Does that mean we must accept dishonour - take no
action, do nothing?"

'Of course not!"  exclaimed Mr Snow.  'You do whatever has to be
done!

But above all, you must try to understand!

Come on - help me wake the others."

'But - Old One - what is the point of going?  If we can change
nothing..."

A mischievous look crept into Mr Snow's eyes.  He chuckled and thrust a
finger under Cadillac's nose.  'We are going to teach you a lesson.

Which I hope won't be wasted, because the run from here is probably
going to kill me."

Clearwater found the small, square package of folded red leaves lying
on the talking mat outside her hut after Death-Wish had chased her two
clan-sisters round the screen of yellow leaves and into the
rock-pool.

Taking it into the hut, she opened it and found the pouch.  With her
hunting knife, she cut the sealed knot and peeked inside.  The musty
odour told her it contained Dream Cap. Pulling out the necklace, she
studied the tag bearing the silent speech-signs of the sahd-burrowers
and recognised it as something that had been taken from Steve.  And
when she held it to her forehead, she knew immediately who it was from
and what she was required to do.  Clearwater's heart alternately leapt
and quailed at the thought of going to the cloud-warrior and the dread
of what might happen if they were found together.

She knew that Mr Snow would not have asked her to risk death and
dishonour unless it was necessary.  She also knew that if she did what
was required without the rest of the clan knowing, the cloud-warrior
would go, leaving her to face Cadillac weighed down by the shameful
knowledge that she had betrayed him.  And that would be like dying
too.

But she was a child of the Plainfolk; of the clan M'CalI, from the
bloodline of the She-Kargo.  And as Mr Snow had said to Steve, the
M'Calls had the courage to accept their destiny.

Death-Wish left to return to the main settlement as Clearwater prepared
the evening meal she was to share with her clan-sisters.  Both sisters
were unaware that their portions contained a liberal dose of Dream Cap.
Cooked with food, it acted as a strong sedative and within an hour both
slipped away gently into a deep sleep.

Confident that neither would wake until the sun was at the head of the
sky on the following day, Clearwater went to the rock-pool where her
clan-sisters had provided Death-Wish with a frolicsome combination of
sex and hygiene and carefully washed her newly-patterned body.

Returning to the hut, she knelt before it on the woven mats and sang to
herself as she braided fresh flowers into her hair and rubbed a
fragrant oil onto her arms, breasts, belly and thighs.  The song she
sang was about a She-Wolf who lay with her young warrior-love through
the time of the New Earth only to lose him at Summer-Dawn when he fell
under the knives of a marauding clan.  A sad, keening lament that
brought tears to her eyes.

And so it was that, on the last night before Cadillac and Mr Snow
returned, Steve stirred sleepily and discovered Clearwater snuggling
down beside him under his wolf-skins.

As his eyes snapped wide open, she laid a warning finger on his lips
and then embraced him.  The touch of her lips on his, the electric
shock that ran through him as her supple body slid sinuously against
his own, nearly blew the top of his head off.  It was unbelievable.

Out of this world.

Putting the bomb in the barrel with Lundkwist was nothing compared with
this.  Steve might not know what the word love meant but he knew how it
felt.  It made his heart leap; made him feel he would suffocate with
sheer joy.  It was all coming true; it was happening; she was here;
lithe, eager, vibrant, sensual, demanding, yet, at the same time, it
seemed totally unreal.

As they lay together in the darkness, tenderly locked in each other's
arms, their love-making had a gentle dream-like quality, far removed
from the sweaty clash of lamp-tanned muscled limbs, the mechanical
thrust and counterthrust, the feeling of disassociation that
accompanied his previous sexual encounters.  They were borne aloft on a
wave of emotion, transported to another plane, another timeless
dimension beyond the bounds of physical reality.

This isn't really happening, thought Steve.  My imagination's working
overtime.  But no.  When he woke again in the first grey light of dawn
he found Clearwater nestled sleepily against him, her legs interlocked
with his.  It took a few seconds to collect his thoughts then the
reality of the situation hit Steve like a sledgehammer between the
eyes.

'Christopher Columbus .  . I' he whispered to himself.

What they had done was the height of folly: if discovered it would
destroy the relationships he had carefully built up, demonstrate his
total disregard of the clan's social values and bring death to them
both.

Clearwater was also full of regrets.  Not for what they had done, but
because her desire for Steve had placed his life in jeopardy.  She took
his face in her hands and told him that there was only one solution to
the jam they had landed themselves in.  He must escape on the arrowhead
he had built.

Steve gathered her into his arms.  'I'm not leaving here unless you
promise to come with me."

Clearwater put her hands on his chest.  'That is madness.

There is no place on the arrowhead for me!"  Steve knew she was
right.

There was no way that BlueBird could carry both of them.  The wing
area, which had been limited by the fabric he'd been able to salvage,
simply would not generate enough lift.  The only other alternative was
suicidal, but he brushed aside all thoughts of failure and seized her
firmly by the arms.  'Okay, then - we'll go on foot."

Clearwater shook her head sadly, her eyes filled with tears.  'Oh,
golden one - think with your head not your heart.

You ask the impossible!  Where could we run to?  Look at me!  I am a
Mute?

Steve ran his hands along the black and brown jigsaw pattern on her
forearms.  'You're not!  Not like the others I' !Yes, I know,
underneath this my skin is like yours, but your people would never
accept me.  And even if they did, I could not live in your dark world
beneath the desert."

'It's not dark!"  hissed Steve.  'There is no night!  Even in the
deepest place the light is as bright as when the sun is at the head of
the sky!  There is no White Death, no rain.

Thousands of us spend our whole lives within the earth-shield.

Happily,' he added, with less than total conviction.

'I could not live in your bright burrows for a day,' whispered
Clearwater.  'Is that what you wish to do with me - take me down there
to die?"

'No, no,' muttered Steve.  He searched his mind desperately for a more
practical solution to their predicament; a more persuasive argument.

Clearwater caressed his cheek.  'Even if I agreed to come with you, we
are doomed from the start.  You would not be able to outrun the
Bears.

They would hunt us relentlessly night and day, even in their sleep."

Steve knew she was referring to the Mutes' ability to run
continuously, with their characteristic loping stride, for twenty-four
hours or more, sleeping on their feet like birds on the wing.  He
thought hard and suddenly had a brilliant idea.  'What about your
magic?  You made that rock fly, didn't you?  You can use that to
protect us!"  Clearwater shook her head again.  'No.  It would be too
dangerous.  I am no match for Mr Snow."

Steve looked at her with a surprised frown.

Clearwater looked equally surprised.  'Did he not tell you he was a
summoner when he spoke of the Talisman Prophecy?"

'No,' said Steve.  'He forgot to mention it."

'There are nine Great Rings of Power,' explained Clearwater.  'I have
barely grasped the first two.  Mr Snow has absolute mastery over the
first seven."

'What about the other two?"

'Only Talisman is strong enough to wield the Nine,' replied
Clearwater.

'But no one among the Plainfolk has the power of Mr Snow.  The Seventh
Ring is called the Storm-Bringer.

Were you not there, aboard the iron snake, when he blinded it with mist
then brought lightning, thunder and the flood waters down upon it?"

'Are you telling me that old man..."  Steve stared at her with stunned
disbelief.  'He did that?  Mr Snow ... made that river flood?  Almost
wrecked the train?"

'Yes!"  Steve tried to cope with this revelation.  Incredible though it
was, he did not doubt a word of it.  He pictured the rock plummeting
from the sky and then he thought about the spiked heads of Fazetti and
Naylor outside her hut in the forest.  'And what did you do?"

Clearwater looked deep into his eyes and read the question in his mind
before answering.  'I did what had to be done.  And I also saved you
from Motor-Head's hammer."

She sealed his lips as he went to reply then took hold of his hands and
kissed them lovingly, holding them against her face.  'You must go!  I
beg you - go now!  Don't wait until Cadillac and Mr Snow return!"  It
was against all Steve's instincts to break and run when the going was
tough but this time he knew it was the smart thing to do.  There was no
way he could hide what had happened - especially from Mr Snow, who had
shown himself expert at piercing the layers of guile that had hidden
Steve's true intentions so well in the past.  He had to go.  Not only
to protect Clearwater and himself, but also for the sake of the
Federation.  He had to find some way to tell them about the Talisman
Prophecy.  They knew about wordsmiths, but not about summoners and
seers.  Or that Mute magic was not a defeatist rumour but a deadly fact
that could no longer be ignored.  It could prove tricky to be the
bearer of news no one wanted to hear.  If he did it right, he could
maybe earn ten promotional grades at one jump; if he did it wrong, he
could find himself getting shot on the Public Service Channel for
spreading alarm and despondency.

And there was also the little matter of him getting even with
Lundkwist, Gus White and the others involved in the conspiracy to elbow
him out of the top spot at the Centenary Graduation.  Yeah...

'It's getting light.  You must go,' she whispered.

'You too..."  They held each other tightly in one last desperate
embrace then he began to dress with swift, practised movements.

Something he'd learned during his three years at the Academy.

'The arrowhead - can you prepare it by yourself?."

'Yeah, don't worry,' he murmured, savouring for one last brief moment
the lingering fragrance of her oiled skin, the softness of her hair and
the warmth of her body as she cradled his head between her cheek and
shoulder.  He pulled away, took her hands from around his neck, stole a
last quick kiss then pushed her out of reach.  'Go on, get going."

Clearwater shook her head.  'No.  It will be safer if you leave
first.

Once you have gone, no one will see me."

Steve was curious to know what she meant, but this was no time for
awkward questions.  He peeked through the doorflap.  Nothing moved
outside.  The place was as quiet as New Deal Plaza during a First
Family Inspirational.  He looked back at Clearwater and saw her
rummaging through the pockets of her walking skins.

'I was given something that belongs to you..."  She held up the
necklace bearing Steve's dog tag.  'May I keep it?"

'Of course.  Here - let me put it on for you."  He took hold of the tag
and showed it to her.  'You see these marks?  This .one here is my
name.  "Steven Roosevelt Brickman"."

'That is good,' said Clearwater.  'It means part of you will always be
with me."  She swept her long hair forward over one shoulder and
inclined her head in a quasi-ceremonial gesture.

Steve slipped the chain around her slim neck, adjusted the hang of it
so that the tag bearing his name nestled in the cleft between her
breasts, then smoothed her hair back into place and took her face in
his hands.  'I'll come back.  I don't know when, or how, but I'll find
a way.  I promise."  And he meant it, too.  'Think of me."

'Always,' whispered Clearwater.  One half of her could not bear to let
him go; the other, more sensible, half did not believe she would ever
see him again; knew it would be better to wipe out what had happened,
to erase him from her mind.  Impossible...

'Ciao,' said Steve, using one of the Mute words for saying 'goodbye'.

Come on, Brickman, he urged himself.  Move!

Hit the road!  He ducked out under the door flap and turned to pick up
his quarterstaff that he'd left lying alongside the hut.  Out of the
corner of his eye he saw something leaning against the left-hand
head-pole.  Steve stared at it, then reached out and touched it
gingerly, as if he was afraid it might vanish.  It was his air rifle!

The one that Cadillac had torn from the Skyhawk!  Seizing it, he ran
his hands over it sensuously, savouring the hard, cold feel of the
barrel cluster, then wiped off the thin film of condensation with his
sleeve and quickly checked the contents of the magazine.

Only three triple volleys.  Shit... still, better than nothing.

He looked at the air pressure gauge.  More than enough.  Oh, you sweet
mother I He toyed briefly with the idea of saying thank you and decided
it wasn't necessary.  If she'd wanted a big speech she'd have brought
the rifle inside.  He started to get up, then, on a sudden impulse, he
stopped and knelt down again.  Pulling a straw mat towards him, he
roiled it lengthwise around the rifle.  Satisfied that it was safely
hidden, he rose to his feet, tucked the mat under his arm, slung the
quarterstaff over his shoulder, and strode off towards the bluff
without a backward glance.

Inside the hut, Clearwater sat on her heels and bit her lip in an
effort to stem the bitter tears that clouded her eyes.  She fingered
the dog tag and thought of the all too brief moment she had spent in
the cloud-warrior's arms then, with a sigh, she drew on her walking
skins.  When she stepped outside she was relieved to see there was
still only the faintest glimmer of light at the eastern door.  Soon
Steve would be winging his way towards the dawn.

Clearwater walked through the sleeping settlement to Mr Snow's hut,
laid down the talking mat she had brought with her, wrapped herself up
warmly in her night fur and squatted down to await the arrival of the
two wordsmiths.

She tried hard to think of Cadillac, but the power within that had made
her a summoner sent her mind's eye soaring towards the bluff.  And
there it circled, like a wide-winged death bird.  Below her she could
see the arrowhead resting on its poles and further away, her beloved
cloud-warrior making his way towards it.

But wait!  What was that?

Eyes closed, Clearwater raised her head clear of the enveloping furs,
her nostrils flared like a fast-foot doe scenting danger.

Reaching the top of the slope above the settlement, Steve was relieved
to see that Blue-Bird was still there, lashed to its supporting
trestles some fifty feet back from the edge of the bluff.  It was also
unguarded.  For some peculiar reason for which Steve had never sought
an explanation, Mutes did not raid rival settlements or go out looking
for trouble at night.  Once the sun went down, they put their knives
away.

The lookouts around the perimeter of the clan's tuff remained in
position but usually slept till dawn with only a nominal guard against
four-footed predators such as wolves, or mountain lions.  Since the
departure of Mr Snow's party, two Mute warriors had been posted to
guard Blue-Bird, but only during the day.  The thought that Steve might
cut and run in the middle of the night had obviously not occurred to
anyone.

As he approached the craft, he saw that someone had made him a present
of a red and white wingman's helmet.  It swung gently from one of the
harness straps.  How odd, thought Steve.  He peered into the
surrounding greyness but could see nothing.  Probably a stray gust of
wind, eddying up over the bluff.  He looked at the name on the
helmet.

It was Fazetti's, one of his Eagle Squadron buddies.

Tough luck, Lou.  Too bad you didn't make it...

Steve laid down the quarterstaff and the rolled straw mat with the
rifle inside and put the helmet on.  He raised the visor and fixed the
neck strap so that it was a good tight fit on his head, then he
loosened the ropes holding the swept back wings onto the head-high
trestles and moved the support out from under the rear-mounted motor.

Drawing his combat knife, he cut one of the ropes in half and dropped
the two pieces onto the rolled mat.  His plan was to tie them round
each end of the roll then fasten it to the bottom section of the
triangular control bar on which his hands would rest.  But the same
impulse that had prompted him to conceal the rifle in the mat told him
to leave that particular job until the very last moment.  If someone
blew the whistle on him he might need to be able to get at that rifle
fast...

All he had to do now was run his eye over the wing fabric to make sure
there were no tears or loose stitching, check the tension and anchorage
of the rigging wires, the fixings and condition of the webbing straps
from which his body would hang horizontally, and the leads carrying the
electric current from the wings to the motor.  With the pre-flight
checks completed, it only remained to buckle himself into the body
harness, stagger forward taking care to keep the propeller clear of the
ground, and throw himself off the edge of the bluff.  Nothing to it.

Steve was conscious that he didn't have a moment to waste but he found
himself in something of a quandary.  Up to now, all his flights had
been in broad daylight and although it was late in the year, the
weather had been warm and sunny - just what was needed to charge the
solar ceils that delivered power from the wings to the motor.  It had
proved to be a fluctuating supply but it provided a useful backup.  And
now here he was, in semi-darkness, surrounded by cold damp air.  Even
if he'd been able to salvage a static charge unit, the weight would
have made its installation impractical.  But no sun meant no power and
that meant, instead of a motor, he was loading himself down with a
useless heap of junk for maybe four to six hours.  More if the weather
was bad.  Should he take a chance and go for it with the complete
rig?

Or should he strip the motor off the airframe?  He had the tools.  It
was half a dozen nuts and bolts and a few leads.  It would mean kissing
goodbye to all those hours of painful circuit mending and testing - but
what the heck...

Steve walked round Blue-Bird a couple of times, weighing up the pros
and cons, squared up to it with his hands on his hips, appealed
silently to the sky, and decided to pull the motor.  Now that his mind
was made up, he worked quickly disconnecting the power leads before
loosening the retaining bolts.  One... two.  three...

four.  two left to go, one on either side of the motor.  It was
ironic.

Dumping the motor had increased the potential payload of the glider.

If he had considered that option before, and if Clearwater had been
willing to leave, he would, with a few last minute adjustments to the
harness, have been able to take her with him.

Steve moved the rear trestle back in to take the weight of the motor
while he pulled the last two bolts.  As he reached up to fit the crude
wrench onto one of the remaining nuts, he felt the skin on the back of
his neck go cold.  He looked over his shoulder and almost had heart
failure.  Motor-Head was standing right behind him, leaning casually on
his quarterstaff.

'Jack me!  Wow!"  exlaimed Steve.  'You know, for a big guy, you're
awful quiet on your feet."

Motor-Head bared his teeth in a grim smile.

Steve had a feeling he was in trouble.  'Where are Mr Snow and Cadillac
- down in the settlement?"

'No, they're not back yet,' said Motor-Head.  'We came on ahead."

'Oh..."  Glancing round, Steve saw two shadowy figures positioned
between Blue-Bird and the bluff.  It didn't look good.  Play it cool,
Brickman.

Motor-Head looked Blue-Bird over.  'Going somewhere?"

The?  Oh, no.  I was just.  fixing a few things.  Couldn't sleep so I,
uh, came up to do some work on the motor."

'In the dark?"

Steve shrugged.  'Just got here.  It'll be light soon."

'Yes... Tell me - why the helmet?"

'It's to keep my ears warm,' said Steve.

'Got it..."  The big Mute aimed a finger over Steve's shoulder.  'Is
that what you call "the motor"?"

Steve eyed him warily.  'Yeah..."

Motor-Head put an arm through the sling of his quarterstaff, then eased
Steve aside and stood with his legs astride facing the hand-carved
propeller.  He placed his fingers on the propeller hub then ran them
out along the blades.  'Why does it have my name?"

What a dummy!  thought Steve.  Still, better kid him along.  'Ah,
that's because, like you, it is strong and powerful,' he said.  'It
makes the arrowhead fly like an eagle."

Motor-Head nodded thoughtfully.  'Ahhahh... interesting..."

Grasping the tips of the propeller he snapped both blades off at the
hub with one swift jerk of his huge hands, examined the two pieces
briefly then dropped them at Steve's feet.  'Now it flies like a lump
of crow-shit."

Steve looked down at the broken blades and knew that there was no
chance of walking away from this one.  He had one good chance.  If
Motor-Head didn't know what was rolled up inside the mat, he could get
to his rifle and drop all three of them.  He raised his head and met
the Mute warrior's challenging gaze.  'Well, you should know.  You're
full of it."

Motor-Head bared his fang-like teeth in a tight smile.

How he regretted his promise not to cut open this carrion!

He spat on the ground.  'You have a quarterstaff.  Beat it out of me!'
This could work out just fine, thought Steve.  'I might just do that,'
he said coolly.  He took a couple of steps backwards then edged
sideways under the wing towards the spot where his quarterstaff lay
next to the rolled straw mat.

Motor-Head pulled his staff out of its carrying sling and whirled it
around in a brief, flashy display.

That's right.  Come on, sucker...

Steve took another couple of steps towards the hidden rifle.  He looked
towards the edge of the bluffand was able to recognise the two shadowy
figures as Black-Top and Steel-Eye.

Black-Top was' holding a loaded crossbow.  Steve considered his chances
of grabbing his rifle and blowing them away before Black-Top nailed him
with a bolt.  Not good.  Not good at all.

And it got worse.  As if reading his mind, Motor-Head tossed his own
quarterstaff towards Steve.  'Take mine.

Your little arms will need a big stick."

Steve caught it across his chest, conscious that the odds against him
getting out alive were lengthening by the second.  Motor-Head fixed him
with his beady eyes then bent down and scooped up Steve's
quarterstaff.

Up to now, everything had gone so wrong, he was half-expecting
Motor-Head to pull open the matting roll, but the big Mute ignored
it.

Steve knew that, provided the fight was limited to quarterstaffs, he
had a hope of winning.  He had already beaten Motor-Head seven times in
a row, and he had the ribboned plaits to prove it.  Motor-Head could
have despatched him easily with a knife but his reputation as a warrior
was at stake.  He had to win with Steve's chosen weapon to regain his
position as paramount Bear.  Steve now realised that, for Motor-Head,
swapping staffs was a symbolic act through which he took some of
Steve's 'power' into himself.  If he could hold him off long enough,
the Mute's psychological need to win might make him angry.  It was this
aggression that Steve had exploited in the past.

Once Motor-Head lost control it would all be over.  The trouble was,
Steve didn't have all day to play around.  He had to floor this hulking
piece of lumpshit in the next fifteen minutes.  Some chance!

It was one contest Steve would have been prepared to concede, but he
knew that if he took a dive the result would be the same as if he were
beaten to the ground.  Sooner or later, Motor-Head was going to kill
him.  It was galling to think that the speedy solution to all his
problems was lying so near at hand.  But the six feet that separated
him from the hidden rifle might just as well have been six miles.

Forget it, Brickman, he told himself.  You're going to have to solve
this one the hard way.  Christo, what a pill!

Grasping the quarterstaff firmly in both hands, Steve backed away from
Blue-Bird to give himself some fighting room.  A vague battle plan was
beginning to coalesce in his mind.  It was no good just winning.  He
had to finish up on his feet, fit enough to fly and within reach of the
rolled-up rifle.  Maybe if he could manoeuvre this big lump to the edge
of the bluff and somehow topple him over...

Motor-Head threw aside the sling of his borrowed staff, flexed it to
test its condition, then assumed the opening, wide-legged stance.

Steve faced up to him, the tip of his quarterstaff angled across that
of his opponent.  BlackTop and Steel-Eye split up, moved back several
yards and crouched down facing each other halfway between BlueBird's
wingtips and the edge of the bluff.

The use of the six-foot long quarterstaff or swordstick, as it was
sometimes called, went back to the Federation's third century when it
was introduced as an exercise weapon by a member of the First Family
called Bruce Lee Jefferson.  As practised by Trackers, it was a cross
between the Japanese martial art form known as kendo, where bamboo
swordsticks were used, and the six to nine-foot long oak quarterstaff
wielded by popular heroes of the Middle Ages such as Robin Hood.  In
the East, it had been used to teach budding samurai the art of
swordsmanship; in the West, for training knights to use the two-handed
battle sword.

In the Federation, trainees wore kendo-style helmets, gauntlets, and
thick pads covering the target areas, with additional protection for
the back, shoulders, pelvis and thighs.  Both ends of the stick could
be used and - apart from the mental discipline, lightning-fast reflexes
and sheer physical stamina required - it was the dexterous manipulation
of the staff, using a parrying stroke as the springboard for a scoring
blow that distinguished the true expert from the talented tyro.

According to the rules governing formal bouts, the only blows that
counted were those striking the top or sides of the head, the sides of
the torso, the right and left forearm and a direct thrust to the
throat.  But this was no formal bout.  This time around, there would be
no rules.

As they faced up to each other, Steve reckoned that this might shorten
the odds in his favour; the hulking Mute was sharp, but he was
sneakier.  He had to get in low and fast and not just because of the
time factor.  Apart from his visored helmet and his flight fatigues,
his body was unprotected whereas Motor-Head was wearing his usual stone
and bone-decorated leather skull mask and body plates.  Steve could
afford to take a few shots to the head but if any of Motor-Head's blows
landed with full force elsewhere it could mean a broken wrist, rib or
collar-bone.  Even if he won, and then managed to take out Black-Top
and Steel-Eye, any injury along these lines would make the task of
flying BlueBird both difficult and extremely painful.  Somehow, Steve
had to block every attack Motor-Head made or, at the very least, sap
the force of each blow before it crashed against his unprotected
body.

Keeping his staff crossed with Motor-Head's, Steve circled slowly to
the left.  Motor-Head matched him with wide-legged mirror-steps to the
right.

Down in the settlement, on the mat outside Mr Snow's hut, Clearwater
saw the danger to the cloud-warrior and felt the power begin to flow
through her body from its secret source deep within the earth below.

It coursed through her veins, pierced her flesh like thousands of tiny
red-hot needles, and sent its fire into the core of her bones.  Every
muscle in her body drew taut and began to jerk spasmodically.  She fell
backwards, eyes still tightly shut, back arched, her legs drawn up
beneath her.  The power inside her began to build with a frightening
intensity, f'filing her body with an explosive pressure like molten
lava inside a volcano that is about to erupt.  With the rapidly
shrinking part of her mind that still remained hers in this moment of
possession, Clearwater realised she was about to become the executioner
of her clan-brothers.  The thought appalled her but she knew Talisman
would stop at nothing to protect his own.  The power doubled, tripled,
in strength, and offered itself to her will.  She tried to resist it,
tried not to cede to the overwhelming desire to save the
cloud-warrior.

One hand flew to her neck, the other clamped itself over her mouth,
fingers digging deep into the skin, in a desperate effort to hold back
the death-dealing cry that was forming in her throat.

On the bluff, the quarterstaffs flashed and crashed together as Steve
and Motor-Head suddenly burst into action.

Thrust/parry/strike/parry, thrust/parry/strike/parry, to the head, to
the side, to the arm, to the leg.  Keep circling, Brickman!  This lump
has been practising.  He is fast!  Only one thing to do... let him lay
one on you and hope it will provide a chance to slow him down...

The opportunity came.  With a frightening yell, Motor-Head brought his
staff up, over and down towards Steve's right shoulder in a blow that,
had it been from a samurai sword, would have sliced him open from neck
to navel.

Steve stepped underneath it, robbing the blow of some of the force with
his own staff before letting it crash onto his helmet.  Instead of
taking it full on the crown of the head, which would have compacted his
spine, and quite possibly have broken his neck, Steve managed to turn
it into a glancing blow on the left side of the helmet, twisting his
shoulder out of the way as Motor-Head's staff bounced off and swept on
down.  But the trap was only half-sprung.

Steve staggered, knees buckling under the blow.  For a fleeting
instant, Motor-Head allowed his killer instinct to relax.  His face lit
up with a gleam of triumph.  It was the break Steve needed.  In that
split-second celebratory pause before the follow-up blow, Steve ducked
in under Motor-Head's guard, landed bone-crunching blows on both knees
and ankles then rammed the end of his staffinto the point of the Mute's
pelvis.

Motor-Head doubled over under the force of the blow.

He staggered, trying to master the shrieking pain in his crotch, knees
and ankles.  Steve sensed it was now or never.

He smashed his staff down across Motor-Head's broad back, once, twice
then landed a third blow across the back of his neck.  The blows
brought the big Mute to his knees but the armoured leather body plates
and the deep rim of his skull mask absorbed most of the damage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Black-Top and Steel-Eye moving
in from the sidelines.  Steve hurriedly brought his staff down again on
their buddie's head in an effort to take him out of the fight before
they reached him.

On anybody else, the blow would have knocked their block off but it
just seemed to bounce off Motor-Head's skull.

With his quarterstaff still gripped in his hands, the big warrior
rested stiff-armed on his knuckles, shook the pain out of his head like
a dog shaking water from its ears, then lifted his left knee and got
one foot on the ground.

Christo!  thought Steve.  This lump's gonna get up!  His own feeling of
imminent triumph rapidly faded into near panic.  Black-Top and
Steel-Eye were practically on top of them.  He swung his staff round in
a sideways arc and slammed it against Motor-Head's right arm just below
the leather shoulderplate.  It hit the Mute's iron-hard biceps with a
dull sickening thwack.  Down, you jack-assed heap of lumpshit!  he
screamed inwardly.  Go down!  Reversing his grip, Steve aimed a similar
blow at Motor-Head's left arm, putting all his strength into a
two-handed slice.  To his surprise, Motor-Head threw his left arm
upwards and outwards, stopped the blow with the palm of his hand, then
closed his fingers round the thick shaft.  Steve cursed and tried to
pull his staff free but found it was stuck fast in Motor-Head's
outstretched hand.

'Gotcha!"  The big Mute's pain-wracked face split into a murderous
grin.  'Step back, Brother Bears.  This mother's mine..."

Raising his right arm, he waved Black-Top and Steel-Eye out of the
way.

The two Mute warriors moved back behind him towards the edge of the
bluff; Black-Top cradling his loaded crossbow, Steel-Eye with his hand
on the hilt of his knife.  Steve tugged viciously on the Mute's
quarterstaffbut Motor-Head didn't let go.  It hurt when he stood up but
he hauled himself onto his feet and took a good grip on Steve's pole
with his right hand.  Mo-Town!  That hurt too!

Steve knew he had to do something but didn't know what.

He had started out with Motor-Head's staff but now the Mute had a grip
on both of them.  Steve knew that to have any chance of recovering the
staff he had to hang on to it with both hands.  Which meant that he had
to stay within range of his own staff, which the big Mute was about to
beat him with.  He could make a grab for it the way Motor-Head had, but
even if he managed to catch it, he couldn't match the strength in
Motor-Head's arms.  The Mute would end up with both staffs in about two
seconds flat.

Adjusting his grip on Steve's quarterstaff, Motor-Head drove it
teasingly into Steve's ribs, then cracked him over the head.  Steve
took one hand off Motor-Head's staff in an attempt to ward off the next
blow.  In a flash, the Mute slid his hand along the pole, pulling Steve
another foot in towards him.  Steve saw what was happening.  He tried
to get both hands back on the pole but was too late.  Motor-Head
laughed throatily and thwacked him hard on the outside of the thigh.

If it had been a two-handed blow, it would have shattered the bone;
even so, to Steve, at that particular moment, it felt like he might
never walk again.

Triple lumpshit!  he thought.  I can't take much more of this I He knew
Motor-Head was only taunting him.  He had to do something.  Motor-Head
was pulling him ever closer, making it almost impossible to stay clear
of the whirling quarterstaff in the Mute's right hand.  Come on,
Brickman!

If you can get out of this, you can get out of anything!  As the idea
came, Motor-Head hauled in some more slack on the pole in his left
hand.  It was now or never.  Okay, this is it, Brickman!  Go for it!

As Motor-Head aimed another taunting blow, Steve threw up his left hand
and caught the end of the staff as it flashed down.  The impact sent a
shock-wave all the way down to his left foot and his palm felt as if it
had burst open.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled down hard on the two
poles as Motor-Head tugged in the opposite direction.  For a split
second, the poles were like two parallel bars.  In the instant that
Motor-Head won the tug-of-war and jerked the poles towards him, Steve
threw his body into the air, arms straight down like a vaulting
gymnast, and drove the heels of his combat boots into the Mute's
face.

'Heyy-YAHH I I' The impact knocked Motor-Head over like a felled
tree.

Steve's body sailed on, curving through the air to land at the feet of
the startled Black-Top.  Before either warrior could react, Steve tore
the crossbow from Black-Top's grasp and slammed the butt against the
side of the warrior's head.  As Black-Top went down, Steve spun round
to find Steel-Eye coming at him with a fistful of sharp iron.  Unable
to find the trigger in time, Steve brought one half of the sprung metal
bow down onto Steel-Eye's knife arm, then leant back, pivoted on his
left heel, swung his right leg up to waist height and snapped it
straight, flattening Steel-Eye's solar plexus against his spine.  The
Bear went down blowing air like a ruptured pressure hose.

'For a couple of seconds, Steve stood there as if mesmerised.  He was
shaking like a leaf.  His head ached from the blow he let Motor-Head
lay on him and his body suddenly seemed full of sharp jabbing pains.

The rifle!  Get the rifle and finish offthese lumps before they get up
again!

Steve turned towards Blue-Bird, stumbled over Motor-Head's outstretched
arm and fell awkwardly to the ground, losing the crossbow as he went
down.  He felt a huge hand grip his ankle.  Steve kicked himself free,
threw himself towards the crossbow, pulled it towards him and scrambled
to his knees.  With his finger now firmly on the trigger he turned
towards his three fallen adversaries and was appalled to find they were
all getting to their feet.

One side of Black-Top's face was swollen; Steel-Eye was half bent and
barely able to breathe; blood oozed from Motor-Head's broken nose and
mouth.  Motor-Head was empty-handed.  The others held long Mute
fighting knives with the dished top cutting edge.

Steve stood up and backed away towards the hidden rifle as they took a
step towards him.  He raised the crossbow and aimed it at Motor-Head's
chest.  'Stay right where you are!"  Motor-Head paused and gave Steve a
lop-sided bloodstained grin.  'You dropped something."  He held up a
crossbow bolt.

Steve stared at it incredulously then glanced quickly down at the
crossbow.  The steel bowstring was still drawn back ready for release
but there was no bolt in the firing slot I Christo I It must have been
thrown out when he'd used it to batter Black-Top and Steel-Eye to the
ground or when he'd dropped it!  Shit!

Flanked by his two clan-brothers, Motor-Head broke the two
quarterstaffs, one over each thigh, and tossed the pieces aside.

'No more games, carrion!"  He took another step towards Steve and held
up his huge, six-fingered paws.  'Take a good look at these hands!

They are going to tear your eyes and your lying tongue out of your
head, then they are going to crush your sharp-edged little face like a
rotten yellow-fist I' Steve edged back towards the hidden rifle.  I am
not going to make it, he thought tiredly.  After all this... I am not
going to make it!  Oh, sweet Christopher!

In the same moment of time that encompassed Motor-Head's step towards
Steve, Clearwater's hands took on a life of their own.  They tore
themselves away from her neck and mouth and pulled her arms outwards
onto the ground.  Her eyes snapped open and the chilling cry of the
summoner issued from her throat.  The earth answered, yielding up its
secret strength.  The full force of the Third Ring of Power flowed into
her body to be shaped by her will...

Below the bluff, about a mile east of the settlement, Mr Snow and
Cadillac led the homeward run across the rolling plain.  Mr Snow did
not hear Clearwater's cry, but his finely attuned senses heard the
earth answer.  He signalled the party of warriors to halt.  They
crouched, listening instinctively for any sounds that signified
danger.

And then they all heard it.  A low, distant, deep-throated rumbling.

But this was not from the sky, this was earth-thunder!  The ground
shivered as some unseen force, like buried lightning bolts, zigzagged
through the earth beneath them in the direction of the settlement.  The
M'Call Bears groaned and fell on their faces, seized by the paralysing
primal fear that afflicted all Mutes; a distant race memory ora time
when the earth rose up and the sky exploded with blinding white
rain-fire that burnt flesh from bone, the grass from the earth, and
turned the world to dust.

Wordsmiths were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

Mr Snow hauled Cadillac off his knees as he babbled a plea to Mo-Town
to spare them all from the wrath of the Lord Pent-Agon.  'No need for
that!  Come on, get those legs moving!  We've got to get back."  Mr
Snow hurried forward, pushing Cadillac ahead of him.  'Go on!  Run!

Run!"  Above them in the settlement, at that self-same instant, the
rumbling earth-thunder grew louder and louder.  The ground beneath
Clearwater shuddered violently, then rose quickly to form a hillock,
overturning Mr Snow's hut in the process, flattening itself abruptly,
then splitting apart on either side of her body with an ear-shattering
roar.  All over the plateau, terrified M'Calls scrambled out of their
huts and threw themselves face down, men, women and children huddling
together as they hugged the earth and begged Mo-Town to save them.

Moving with terrifying speed, a large fissure zigzagged away from
Clearwater's prostrate body across the plateau towards the main cluster
of huts then, before any damage was caused, it turned sharp left and
raced up the slope towards the bluff.

Once again, it was in the same moment of time that Steve decided to
stake everything on one last desperate gamble.

Pulling the trigger to release the taut bowstring, he hurled the
crossbow at Motor-Head's chest and made a break for the rifle.  As the
bow flew through the air and Steve turned and ran towards Blue-Bird,
the drum roll of earth-thunder shook the ridge and caused the three
Mutes to become rooted to the spot.  With a dry, spine-chilling
cracking noise, the fissure reached the bluff as Steve reached the
matting roll and got his hand on the butt of his rifle.  It was as if
the earth was being ripped open by a giant invisible knife.

Before he could catch his breath, a narrow, jagged fissure suddenly
opened up right across the plateau, separating him from his
now-terrified attackers.  There was another deafening explosive roar of
earth-thunder.  The ground shook violently, throwing Steve onto his
back.  Rolling over onto his stomach he saw the edge of the blufftear
itself loose from the rest of the plateau.  The whole strip of earth on
which Motor-Head and his clan-brothers were standing just fell apart
and went sliding down the steep slope, carrying the bodies of the three
Mutes with it in a dust-laden torrent of rocks, pebbles and earth.

Badly shaken, Steve got cautiously to his feet, clutching his rifle.

Close I he thought.  If the 'quake had run a few yards further in, he
and the glider would have gone the same route.  He raised the visor of
his helmet and made a quick inspection of Blue-Bird.  The trestles
under the wings and the now useless engine had fallen over but the
craft itself was undamaged.  Steve put the three trestles back in place
and hurriedly loosened the last two bolts holding the engine in
place.

He found that his hands were shaking and he had to stop to try and get
a grip on himself.  He untangled the harness straps and satisfied
himself that he was ready to go.

It was much lighter now.  Broad bands of purple, crimson, orange and
yellow lay along the eastern horizon.  Faint, confused cries floated up
from the direction of the settlement.

Within seconds of their arrival Mr Snow and Cadillac were quickly
surrounded by a shocked and still panicky crowd of Mutes seeking
reassurance.  When he had recovered his breath, Mr Snow dealt with them
firmly, telling them that if it had been the end of the world - as some
of them obviously thought it was - he would have announced it in
advance.  If they really wished to follow his advice they should all
stop runnin about like headless turkeycocks and go back to the normal
business of the day.  That said, he brushed aside all further questions
and pushed his way through the crowd, shooing away those who attempted
to follow him.

Clearwater sat upright on her talking mat, her face deathly pale under
the patterned blacks and browns.  Her eyes were dilated, and she kept
biting her lips to stop them trembling.

Mr Snow surveyed the wreckage of his hut, his scattered possessions and
the deep narrow fissure that ran away towards the bluff.  'Was this
your doing?"

Clearwater nodded silently then found the strength to speak in a
whisper.  'I did not wish it.  It was Talisman who called."  She held
out her hands to Cadillac.  He put an arm round her and helped her
up.

She wavered slightly then gained control of her legs and held herself
erect without his support.

Mr Snow's face softened.  He placed his hands on her shoulders.  'You
have true power.  You will make a worthy adversary of the
sand-burrowers."  He took hold of her elbow and gestured towards the
bluff.  'Come... walk with us."

Holding his rifle at the ready, Steve advanced to the new edge of the
bluff.  He wanted to make sure that, when he made his leap to freedom,
there would be no last-minute surprises.  He was relieved to discover
that there was now a good steady breeze sweeping up from the plain.

Spitting the dust from his mouth, he saw that there were two bodies
lying twenty or thirty yards down the slope, half-buried under rocks
and earth.  He looked for the third but was unable to spot it.  It went
completely against his better judgement, but some perverse urge made
him slither down towards the corpses in the hope of discovering that
one of them was Motor-Head.

Pushing aside the rubble with the toe of his boot, Steve uncovered
enough to recognise Black-Top and Steel-Eye.

He looked them over but couldn't be sure if they were dead.

It didn't matter.  Dead or not, neither of them were going anywhere.

He scrambled up on a pile of rocks and scanned the lower part of the
slope.  With the possibility of more after-shocks it was a crazy thing
to do.  It was equally crazy to hang around for one second longer but
Steve felt the need to know he'd won.  If he was ever to come back for
Clearwater, it would be better to fix Motor-Head now, once and for
all.

He could see nothing, and there was no more time to look.

He turned and started back up the slope.  When he had gone a fw yards,
Steve's sixth sense sounded the alarm.  Slipping his index finger onto
the trigger, he turned around and saw a Mute pulling himself out of the
dirt near the bottom of the slope.  The distance between them was about
a hundred and fifty yards.  Too far away for Steve to make out the
Mute's face, but it had to be Motor-Head.  He gazed up the slope at
Steve then started towards him.

Steve pulled his rifle into his shoulder and found he'd got the
shakes.

He took a deep breath, aimed at the middle of the Mute's barrel chest
and squeezed off a triple volley.

Chuwittchuwittchuwitt I Motor-Head kept coming.

Christo!  thought Steve.  Steadying himself on the shifting layer of
pebbles that now coated the steep slope, he aimed again, this time at
Motor-Head's belly and fired his second volley.

Motor-Head stopped, fell over, picked himself up and broke into a
stumbling run, his powerful thighs driving him up the steep,
rock-strewn slope.

Smokin' lumpshit!  thought Steve.  This guy is unstoppable I He
scrambled back to the top of the bluff, then turned, went down on one
knee to give himself a steadier firing position and aimed for the base
of Motor-Head's throat.  The rifle wavered in his trembling hands.

Steve took a firmer grip and squeezed off his last three rounds.

The impact jerked Motor-Head sideways but did not break his stride.  He
just kept on coming, powering up the slope like the Trans-Am Express.

Now you're in trouble, Brickman... Move I Move I Move I Steve dropped
the empty rifle, raced back towards BlueBird, kicked away the rear
trestle and started to clip himself into the harness.  If the big Mute
didn't slow down... Oh, you jack-ass, Brickman!  You totalled out I As
he fastened the straps with fumbling fingers, Steve cursed himself for
his incredible foolishness.  He only had seconds left in which to run
Blue-Bird forward and launch himself before Motor-Head reached the top
of the bluff.

Seizing the sides of the triangular control bar, Steve lifted Blue-Bird
clear of the trestles and ran forward.  The stiffening breeze spilled
over the edge of the bluff, rippled over the wing with a dry slap-snap
then put a taut curve in the fabric.  Pausing about five paces from the
edge, Steve leaned against the breeze, bracing himself for the run
forward and leap into space.  He had made dozens of successful launches
from the bluff but each time there was always an element of chance.

This one had to be right...

Check straps... Deep breath... Okay, Brickman.  Go for it!  Steve
firmed up his grip on the sides of the control bar which at this point
was bearing the weight of the wings above him - and ran for the edge.

As he launched himself over the bluff, Motor-Head leapt up in front of
him like a killer whale 'coming out of the water in a vertical climb,
grabbed hold of the control bar and was carried out into space.

Steve fought to maintain control of the glider but with the big Mute
hanging on the bar between his own outstretched hands it was a
near-impossible task.  Blue-Bird rocked violently then dived to the
right, swooping dangerously close to the bluff before rising on a
strong gust of wind.  They were climbing now but Steve knew it was only
a matter of time before they hit the deck.  He looked down between his
arms and saw the crazed murderous look on Motor-Head's broken, bloody
face.  His arms and legs had been scuffed and torn in the rock slide
and he was bleeding from several bullet wounds.  SteVe hadn't missed.

It was the combination of will power and enormous physical strength
that had kept Motor-Head going and had led to this last ditch attempt
to block his escape.  The Mute was going to die, and he intended to
take Steve down with him.

Steve tried to prise Motor-Head's fingers loose with one hand but it
was useless.  He couldn't even budge one little finger.  Blue-Bird
began to slip to the left.  Steve hauled it back on an even keel then
lost it again as it went into a steep dive.  He was out over the plain
now, about eight hundred feet up.  He had to dump the Mute before he
lost any more height.  He was going to have to cut him loose...

Reaching back with his right hand, he tried to claw his combat knife
out of the scabbard strapped to his leg.  He couldn't get a proper grip
on it.

It didn't matter.  The Mute was now struggling wildly to maintain his
grip on the bar.

Motor-Head's eyes widened as he realised that he no longer had the
strength to hold on.  The dying burst of energy he had summoned up in a
last effort to kill the cloud309

warrior ebbed away.  This was the terrible moment he had often dreamed
of; the unspeakable horror that had robbed him of sleep, leaving him
sweating and trembling in the moon-dark.  Falling.  Falling from the
claws of a huge bird with pointed wings, ridden by a warrior with
golden hair and a face like polished stone.  His fingers slowly slipped
from the control bar.  Hanging on with one hand he made one last effort
to grab Steve by the throat then, with a despairing cry, he dropped
away, arms outstretched.

Mo-Town!  Drink, sweet Mother...

Steve soared upwards like a bird released from a cage.

Cadillac, Clearwater and Mr Snow reached the edge of the bluff in time
to see the figure fall away from the arrowhead.

As the body crashed to earth, the watchers heard a brief cry of
anguish, a cry echoed by Cadillac.

'Mo-Towq, forgive me!  I have killed my clan-brother!"  'Not so,'
replied Mr Snow quietly.  'Do you not remember the answer you gave when
the cloud-warrior asked why Motor-Head called him the Death Bringer?"

'Yes.  I said that perhaps the death he feared was his own."

'Good.  Do you now understand that, in sending him here, you changed
nothing?  In attempting to change your destiny, all you succeeded in
doing was to play your part in fulfilling his."

'I shall still grieve for him, Wise One,' said Cadillac.

'We all shall,' said Mr Snow.  'His name shall stand among the greatest
of the M'Calls."  The old wordsmith stepped to the edge of the bluff
and stood between his two young charges, his feet planted firmly
astride, arms folded, his body erect.

On the far horizon, the sky was streaked with yellow and hot rose-pink
as the sun nudged open the eastern door.  No one spoke as the
cloud-warrior was borne aloft on the morning wind.  They watched him
rise into the sky and bank gently towards the Dry Lands of the South.

Cadillac knew he would not speak to Clearwater of what he had seen in
the stone regarding her desire for the sand-burrower.

There would be no accusations, or recriminations.  The Path was drawn;
the Cosmic Wheel turned.  The true Warrior faced his destiny with
courage; he did not allow himself to be deflected from the Path by
unworthy emotions.  The rising sun stretched their shadows into giants
whose heads were lost in the mountains behind them.

Clearwater waited until the arrowhead had dwindled to a mere speck in
the sky then broke the silence.  'Will he come back?"  she asked,
unsure if she really wanted to know the answer to that question.

'Yes, in the time of the New Earth,' replied Cadillac.  'I have seen it
in the stones.  He will come in the guise of a frie.  nd with Death
hiding in his shadow and he will carry you away on a river of blood."

Clearwater gazed out across the plain that descended like a rolling sea
beyond the bluff and up at the clouds rimming the hills on the southern
horizon.  The yellowing sky above was now empty.  Steve had
disappeared.  'Am I to die in the darkness of their world, or will I
live to see the sun again?"

'You will live,' said Mr Snow quietly.  He put his hands on their
shoulders and drew them closer to him.  'You will both live.  You are
the sword and shield of Talisman."

[] The Amtrak Wars Book 2: First Family 	Patrick Tilley [] The Amtrak
Wars Book 3: Iron Master 	Patrick Tilley [] The Amtrak Wars Book 4:
Blood River 	Patrick lley [] The Amtrak Wars Book 5: Death-Bringer
	Patrick Tilley [] The Amtrsk Wars Book 6: Earth-Thunder 	Patrick
Tilley 	£6,99

[] Mission 	Patdck Tilley 	{`5.99

[] FadeOut 	Patrick Tilley 	{'4.99

[] Star Warlz 	Patrick 'llley The prices shown above are correct at
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increase prices on covers from those previously advertised, without
further notice.

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