The Amtrak Wars - Book 3 - Iron Master 

By: Patrick Tilley

Synopsis:

The year: 2990 AD.  The centuries old conflict between the hi-tech
underground world of the Trackers and the primitive, surface-dwelling
Mutes continues with unabated ferocity.  Steve Brickman, a Tracker
wingman whose heart and mind is torn between the two cultures, embarks
upon his most dangerous mission yet: the rescue of Cadillac and
Clearwater, two gifted Plainfolk Mutes held captive by the mysterious
Iron Masters.  It is a nightmare journey into the unknown but, once
again, a shadowy presence guides Steve's footsteps and endows him with
superhuman speed and strength in moments of mortal danger...

Also by Patrick Tilley."

	PATRICK TILLEY MISSION THE AMTRAK WARS BOOK 1: CLOUD WARRIOR THE
AMTRAK WARS BOOK 2: FIRST FAMILY THE AMTRAK WARS BOOK 4: BLOOD RIVER
THE AMTRAK WARS BOOK: 5: DEATH-BRINGER THE AMTRAK WARS BOOK 6:
EARTH-THUNDER AMTRAK WARS: ILLUSTRATED GUIDE FADEOUT

STAR WARTZ

The Amtrak Wars Book 3."  Iron Master

For Sophie, Mike and Adrienne

An Orbig Book First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd
1987

Reprinted 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1991

Reprinted by Warner Books 1993

Reprinted 1993, 1995

Reprinted by Orbit 1998

Copyright () 1987 by Patrick Tilley Words quoted from the song 'South
of the Border' on p. 293

) Peter Maurice Music Co.  Ltd

Reprinted by permission of EMl Publishing Ltd, London we2H OLD 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 I 8723 537 1

Printed in England by Clays Ltd.  St Ives plc

Orbit

A Division of Little, Brown and Company (ilK) Brcttenham House

Lancaster Place

London we2E 7EN The following list is a guide to the names given by
major towns and locations in Book 3.

Aribani 	Albany.  NY 	Keipakoda Aridina 	Reading.  Pa 	Koneitika
Arigeni 	Allegheny River 	Manatana Arisaba 	Harrisburg, Pn 	Mnh-ina
Arongiren 	Long Island.  NY 	Marnbara Atirantikkasita 	Atlantic City,
NJ 	Masachusa Awashitana 	Washington, DC 	Meisuri Awirikasaba 	Wilkes
Bane, Penn 	Midiritana Awirimasaporo 	Williamsport.  Penn 	Mirawoki
Awoseisa 	Worcester, Mass 	Mi-shiga Barukarina 	Brooklyn, NY
	Nofoskosha Baritimoro 	Baltimore.  Md 	Nyagara Basatana 	Boston.  Mass
	Nyojasai Bei-sita 	Bay City, Mi 	Nyoporo Bu-faro 	Buffalo.  NY
	Nyoyoko Du-aruta 	Duluth.  Minn 	Orienita En-siren 	Ellis Island
	Ohiyo Fin 	Philadelphia.  Penn 	Porofidanisa Fyahjina 	Virginia
	Pi-saba Gofo-nasa 	Governor's 1. NY 	Rodiren Hui-niso 	Windsor,
Ontario 	Sa-piryo lri 	Lake Erie 	Sarakusa lyunisteisa 	United States
	Skaratana 	(of America) 	Statana Karn-li 	Carlisle.  Penn 	Taro-ya
Karifaran 	Cleveland, Ohio 	Udasona Karorina 	Carolina 	Uti-kn the Iron
Masters to

Cape-Cod.  Mass Connecticutt River Manhattan I. NY Maine Marlboro.

Mass Massachusetts Missouri River Middletown.  Penn Milwaukee.  Minn
Lake Michigan Nova Scotia Niagarn Falls New Jersey Newport, RI New York
City.  NY Orient Pt.  LI Ohio River Providence.  RI Pittsburgh.  Penn
Rhode Island Lake Superior Syracuse.  NY Scranton.  Penn Staten 1. NY
Troy, NY Hudson River Utica.  NY THE SEVENTEEN DOMAINS OF NE-ISSAN
2990

AD

$HITA

'MA

]"OH --ĽOTA

The following extract is drawn from the First Family's private
archives stored within COLUMBUS, the guiding intelligence of the
Federation.

RELEASE LEVEL: it-1 thru 5 ONLY

IRON MASTER/S (generic noun of Mute origin) A race of clear-skinned
hairless anthropoids inhabiting the eastern coastal strip of America
from Maine to North Carolina.  The overground area under their control
(known as Ne-Issan) includes the western flank of the Appalachian
mountain range and extends across the Ohio state line as far as
CleveAand, a navref point on the shores of Lake Erie.

Iron Masters have their roots in illegal immigrant communities of
various asiatic sub-types that managed to infiltrate the major
north-eastern urban centres during the pre-Holocaust era.  Between AD
2300 and 2400, there was a small but significant influx of
'boat-people'; asiatics who spoke a language known as 'Japanese'.

Allying themselves with the resident groups of similar origin, the
boat-people rapidly seized power and have remained the dominant racial
group ever since.

On the evolutionary scale, Iron Masters are positioned halfway between
the Trackers and the Mutes, who are inferior to both.  Officially
categorised as a subhuman species, Iron Masters are, nevertheless,
literate, numerate individuals with a high degree of manipulative
skills, proficient in agriculture, fishing, wood- and metal-working
(esp: weapons), weaving and building with dressed stone.

Through a process of genetic mutation common to all sub-human species
and the lower animal orders, Iron Masters have become immune to
atmospheric radiation but, once again, acquisition of immunity has had
a negative impact on other vital functions.  In the case of the Iron
Masters, the most obvious side-effects are their diminutive stature,
yellow-tinted skin, and total lack of body hair, but the greatest
damage has been to the circulatory system.  This manifests itself in a
high incidence of haemophilia, and weak-walled blood vessels which can
rupture under stress, bringing about a fatal haemorrhage.

Through bushido (see following reference) these inherent defects have
acquired positive values, engendering a calm, disciplined approach to
life and an unquestioning acceptance of death.

Iron Master society is a pyramidal class structure based on a
17th-century model ruled by warriors (samurai).  Below them, in
descending order, are - administrators and scribes, craftmasters,
merchants, farmers.  The base of this pyramid is underpinned by a large
reservoir of slave labour; Mutes obtained through barter deals.  At all
levels of society, women are allocated a secondary, subservient role as
consorts, housekeepers and child-bearers.

Supreme power is vested in the shogun, head of the leading samurai
family and titular head of the government (bakufu).  The shogun is, in
theory, supported by the heads of the other samurai families who hold
the title of domain-lords.

As their title suggests, these individuals derive their power and
wealth from their territorial possessions and the population under
their direct control.  They also lead and maintain private armies
pledged (again in theory) to the service of the shogun and the
maintenance of law and order.

As expected, the main features of such a society are (a) its martial
character and (b) its respect for authority and tradition.  Over the
years, these attitudes have been codified into a belief-system
(bushido) which lays great emphasis on duty/obligation to one's
superiors (giro, to which any human feeling (ninjo) takes second
place.

The result is unquestioning obedience and loyalty, first to one's own
domain-lord and through him to the shogun.

Succession is through the male line, and some shogunates hold sway for
several generations before being displaced by a stronger rival.  As the
leadership of the First Family is unchallenged and inviolate, the
systematised impermanence requires clarification.  For Iron Masters,
the shogun is regarded as 'first among equals'; a domain-lord whose
family has won pre-eminence by the consent of his peers or by force of
arms.  As a result, the power of the shogunate ultimately depends on,
and is maintained by, alliances with other domain-lords whose loyalty
is spiced with a large measure of self-interest - a pernicious
by-product of all 'open' systems.

Although ruled by a warrior caste, the Iron Master's principal activity
is internal trade.  Mineral resources, agricultural produce and
manufactured items are shipped on a supply-and-demand basis from one
area to another.

All domain-lords are required to make annual support payments (taxes)
to the shogunate.  The amount paid by each represents a percentage of
the assets of their domain.  Since the valuation is carried out by
government agents, this has, in the past, proved to be a potent source
of disaffection.

These payments, together with the sale of trading licences and
manufacturing monopolies, provide the revenue needed by the bakufu to
carry out the various functions of government.

All surplus goods are bought and sold via a pre-Holocaust

medium of exchange known as 'money'.  This takes the form of small,
thin, rectangular sheets of compressed wood pulp (dollars) and small
metal discs (yen), each representing a given number of exchange units
(currency) which confers an equivalent purchasing power upon the holder
and gives rise to the curious notion of personal 'wealth' - an outmoded
concept that the Federation has wisely dispensed with.

EXTRACT ENDS

See related entries: CHINKS, DINKS, GOOKS, JAPS, MEATBALLS, NIPS,
SLANTS, V-C, YELLOW PERIL.

PROLOGUE

Cadillac handed his bathrobe to his servant, stepped into the deep tub
and sank down until the steaming water lapped his chin.  Two more
female dead-faces, naked except for their white cotton headscarves,
stood in the water on either side of him, waiting to cleanse and
massage his bronzed body.  He motioned them to begin, then closed his
eyes and reflected, once again, on his good fortune.  Even though he
was able to read the future in the seeing-stones, they had not revealed
that, in a few short months after leaving the Plainfolk, everything he
had ever wished for would be within his grasp.  Power, responsibility,
a task worthy of his talents, and - most important of all - standing.

His life had been utterly transformed and, for the first time, he felt
truly content.  The warmth of the water pervaded his body, gently
dissolving the flesh and bone.

With his eyes still closed against the flickering yellow light of the
lanterns he had the sensation of floating, formless, like a
spirit-being poured by Mo-Town into the womb of its earth mother.

He cast his mind adrift...

Shortly after Steve Brickman had soared into the dawn sky, pursued by
several posses of Bears, Cadillac began the construction of a second
arrowhead from the parts which the clan had kept hidden from the cloud
warrior.

Armed with the skills and the knowledge he had drawn from Steve's mind,
he found it proved a relatively simple task.  It was also immensely
satisfying, for his arrowhead was sleeker and stronger than Bluebird,
the ramshackle rig he had helped Steve to build and on which he had
been taught how to fly.

Cadillac smiled as he remembered how careful he had been not to learn
too quickly.  Brickman had gone back to the dark world of the
sand-burrowers without realising he had given away the key to a
treasure house of information.  Using the power granted by Talisman, he
had made a mental carbon copy of everything the cloud warrior knew;
every fact he had acquired, every learning experience since birth.  The
entire range of Brickman's talents, skills and knowledge were now his
to command.

Yes... the loss of Clearwater's soul was a small price to pay for such
gifts.

The craft was powered by an electric motor culled from one of the
Skyhawks that had fallen in the battle with the iron snake.  It was the
same motor that Brickman had fitted to Bluebird and then discarded just
before his escape because he could not make it work properly.

Cadillac did what Steve, in his haste, could not be bothered to do; he
took it to pieces, checked every part, rebuilt it with loving care, and
then continued to work on it until it functioned perfectly.

Now the equal of Brickman in the air, he took off from the bluff above
the settlement, skimming with the same lack of fear over the edge of
the steep escarpment into the void.  He felt the wind embrace him, felt
its cool sweet breath upon his face; was overcome by a rapturous sense
of freedom as he was borne upwards in great sweeping spirals like the
golden eagles who nested on the nearby mountain peaks.

Higher and higher he went, into the sky-world with its ever-changing
sunlit terrain, climbing and diving between the towering walls of the
cloud canyons.  From afar, they looked like vast impregnable
wind-carved snowdrifts, but the curving terraces and lofty pinnacles
that cried out to be explored melted away as he approached, dissolving
into a soft formless veil that enveloped his craft and swallowed the
sun - like the dawn mists that shrouded the earth at the Yellowing.

For this was the domain of the Sky Voices; a magical landscape that
existed only in the mind's eye - serene, awe-inspiring, majestic;
endowed with the same fugitive beauty as a rainbow - forever beyond the
grasp of mortal man.

Looking down, everything seemed so small.  The problems that were so
burdensome on the ground shrank into insignificance.  The sense of
release was so overwhelming, he stayed aloft for two whole hours.

Even after landing, he was on such an emotional high, his feet hardly
seemed to be touching the ground.

Mr Snow, in his characteristically sly way, let him wallow in the glow
of self-adoration for a few days then brought him down to earth with a
bump by telling him about the bargain he had struck with the Iron
Masters.

He made it sound so simple: an arrowhead complete and undamaged plus a
cloud warrior in similar condition in exchange for new, long, powerful
sharp iron.

Rifles...

Cadillac responded with a baffled stare.  There was no arrowhead.  The
wrecks of the craft launched from the iron snake had been picked to
pieces.  And the cloud warrior was long gone.

Mr Snow, seated on the other end of the talking mat, read his thoughts
and answered with a glum nod.  'You're right.  I guess that means it's
down to you."

Sweet Sky Mother.  Cadillac went cold at the thought.

For no Mute had ever returned from the Fire Pits of BethLem.

Mr Snow brushed aside his objections.  Such ingratitude.

Was this how he rewarded Talisman - who had made him a wordsmith and
seer, and had now made him the equal of any cloud warrior?  Gifts such
as these were given to be used on behalf of the Plainfolk.  'Don't ever
forget what I'm about to tell you,' he said, solemnly wagging
his-finger.  ,There is no such thing as a free lunch."

'Free lunch..  '.?"

Mr Snow brushed aside the question and proceeded to explain the plan in
greater detail.  Cadillac was to fly north to the Yellow Stone river,
then turn east towards the trading post in the lands of the San'Paul.

From there he was to follow the shoreline of the grent river, the first
of several.  The last, which ran north to south, was called In.

Beyond its eastern shore lay the land of the Iron Masters and the
domain of Yama-Shita, lord of the wheelboats.  To reach the trading
post would mean a perilous journey across hostile turf held by the
D'Troit and the C'Natti, but by flying high he could evade the bolts
from their crossbows.  And although it was asking a great deal, it
would be safer still if he was prepared to fly when the world slept
under Mo-Town's starry cloak.  By leaving at sunset before the next
full moon he would - if all went well - reach his destination sometime
during the following day.

At this point, Mr Snow broke off and rummaged through his untidy pile
of possessions.  After much cursing he eventually unearthed two folded
pieces of cloth which, when opened out, proved to be rectangular
banners made of fine white fabric.

In the centre of each was a blood-red disc - the mark of the Iron
Masters.  The banners - which had been brought from Beth-Lem aboard one
of YamaShita's wheelboats - were to be fixed beneath the wings of the
arrowhead where they could be seen by people on the ground.  To ensure
its safe reception, the craft was also required to give off a trail of
white smoke as soon as it reached Iron Master territory.  Green rockets
- which Cadillac had seen fired into the sky on his last visit to the
trading post - would signal where he was to land.

So far so good.  The Iron Masters appeared to have covered all the
angles.  All except one - the possibility that Mr Snow might proceed to
embellish the agreed plan with a few details of his own.  Cadillac was
to shed his body-paint and go disguised as a Tracker, wearing the
clothes of one of the fallen cloud warriors whose head was now staked
outside Clearwater's hut.  With his clear skin, his newly acquired
knowledge and a short haircut, no one would suspect he was not a
Federation wingman.  But there was more.  The ribbon sewn above the
right-hand pocket of his tunic would identify him as '8902

BRICKMAN S.R."

The irony of the situation triggered a burst of shared laughter,
obliterating all thoughts of danger - and the equally daunting prospect
of losing his long black hair.

While Cadillac tried to strike a mental balance between the risks and
the benefits that might flow from accomplishing such a challenging
task, Mr Snow unveiled his final surprise.  The craft Cadillac had
built would need an extra seat for his armed escort.

Clearwater.

Dressed as a She-Wolf, with her unblemished olive skin hidden under
swirling patterns of black and brown, Clearwater would pose as an
emissary from the clan M'CalI.  Her real task was to provide moral
support and if the need arose - use her formidable powers as a summoner
to protect him and ensure their safe return.

Cadillac bit his lip, choosing not to speak of what he had seen in the
stones- that the bond between Clearwater and himself had been broken.

Despite the outward pretence, she was no longer his soul-mate.  Her
thoughts and earth-longings were now centred on the cloud warrior; the
Death-Bringer who was fated to return and carry her away on a river of
blood.

The blood of the Plainfolk.

At the time when Cadillac had drawn this knowledge from the stones, he
had also seen the place where Mr Snow would give up his life so that
he, Cadillac, might be saved.  In his grief he had shed bitter tears,
cursing the gift of seership, and he had silently vowed never to pick
up a seeing-stone again.  The Wheel turned, the Path was drawn.  If
nothing could be changed then it was better not to lift the Veil.  Let
the future hold its secret sorrows; the pain of the present was burden
enough.

In the days that followed, as he lengthened the slim fuselage pod and
fitted a second seat behind his own, Cadillac tried to come to terms
with what had happened.

Standing on the bluff with Clearwater and Mr Snow, watching the cloud
warrior rise on the freshening wind and turn over the hills towards the
south, he had decided there would be no accusations, no
recriminations.

The true warrior did not allow himself to be deflected by such unworthy
emotions as envy or jealousy.  But Cadillac had only just begun to take
the first few faltering steps along The Way and had not yet attained
the necessary degree of philosophical detachment.

Clearwater's infatuation with the cloud warrior had hurt him deeply.

Already persuaded by his own inner demons that he lacked standing, he
could not bear the idea of being second-best.  Had he wished to avenge
his honour, he could have denounced her in front of the assembled clan
and demanded her death.  By the laws of the Plainfolk, her trial would
have been a mere formality.

But that route was not open to him.  Even now, Cadillac would have
gladly given up his own life to save hers.  The bonds of friendship,
rooted in the shared pain and joy of their childhood and nurtured by
their special 'otherness', could never be broken until Mo-Town called
their spirits back into the luminous crystal waters that filled the
great Cup of Life.  Moreover, he had no proof Clearwater had betrayed
him.  She had not confessed her guilt.  Indeed, her manner towards him
had hardly changed.  But he knew!  He knew!  Her clouded blue eyes told
him that her mind and heart had parted company with his.

He also knew that, as a fellow-summoner, Mr Snow was bound to leap to
her defence, leaving him completely tongue-tied.  The degree of respect
and obedience demanded by the ancient code of the wordsmiths made it
impossible for an apprentice to contradict his master publicly.  To do
so would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette.  But even if he
had been foolish enough to try, he could never have won an argument
with Mr Snow.  Far from gaining any sympathy, he would find himself
being mocked by those who envied him and sought to bar him from the
ranks of the Bears.

The simplest solution was to drop out of the contest; give up all claim
to Clearwater.  But even this had its dangers.  If she ceased to visit
his hut, eyebrows would be raised, tongues would start to wag.  And if,
as he suspected, she and the cloud warrior had laid between the fox and
the wolf, it would not remain secret from her clan sisters for long.

Women had a way of knowing these things.  They were also unable to keep
a secret.  Once the news spread it would not be long before both of
them were called to account before the clan elders.

No.  Regardless of his feelings, the most sensible course of action was
to take her with him to BethLem.

By so doing the truth could be concealed from the clan until their
return - perhaps for ever.  Given time, a reconciliation was not
impossible.  His pride had been hurt but he was not too proud to admit
that her presence on such a perilous journey would still be welcome.

What had happened was the will of Talisman.  So be it...

But understanding had not dulled the pain.  Even now, almost nine
months later, when his mind and his days were happily filled with the
myriad problems that arose from his new responsibilities, the invisible
wound would occasionally open, spoiling his newfound contentment.

Fortunately, the Iron Masters had a potent cure for this type of
affliction - a fiery liquid called 'sake' that gave him a new, reckless
courage, gave his tongue a new edge, and awakened desires that his
body-slaves eagerly satisfied.  And when all passion was spent, and the
bittersweet pain had been numbed...

Oblivion.

1!

CHAPTER ONE

The summer palace of Yoritomo Toh-Yota was situated at Yedo, on
Aron-giren, a huge tract of land that he had christened his 'floating
domain'.  Yedo was a place-name plucked from the distant past of his
own race; Aron-giren was the name given by the people of a long-dead
nation which had once inhabited the land on which his palace stood - a
fish-shaped island with a ragged forked tail reaching out into the
Eastern Sea.  A hand-painted silk map on the wall of his book-lined
study showed its great shark head lying close to the mainland, with
several smaller islands trapped like tiny minnows in its gaping jaw.

Long slender reefs of sand hugged the line of its belly like pilot fish
hoping for scraps from the feast.

Several other islands lay between Aron-Giren and the mainland; Sta-tana
and Mana-tana were the largest; others, like Govo-nasa and Eris-iren,
were very small.

These too formed part of Yoritomo's domain and, depending on their
size, had one fortified harbour or more, garrisoned by sea-soldiers.

Day or night, no vessel, be it sea-going junk or one-oared dory,
escaped inspection by the everpresent watchboats that patrolled the
surrounding waterways, and no one was allowed to dock on Aron-giren
when Yoritomo was in residence without a special pass.  The vigilance
of the sea-soldiers prevented his island retreat from being invaded by
what were politely termed 'foreign bodies', and ensured safe passage
for Yoritomo, his family and their high-ranking entourage on their
journeys to and from his vast estates on the mainland.

The Toh-Yota, who had emerged as one of the leading samurai families in
the previous century, had held the reins of power for the last
eighty-two years.  Yoritomo, its present head, was the sixth successive
member of the family to assume the title of Shogun, supreme ruler of
Ne-Issan, Land of the Rising Sun.  The Toh-Yota had gained their
pre-eminence by the matchless skill of their warriors and with the help
of their allies - other domain-lords who had risked the heads of their
entire families by placing their banners alongside those of Yoritomo's
great-great-grandfather.

In the old days, the task of ruling Ne-Issan had been easier.  In that
first period of rapid conquest, after the landing of the boat-people
the historic 'Seventh Wave' - there had only been a handful of
domain-lords but, over the succeeding centuries, new warrior families
had emerged in the border regions, planting their banners on the
Western Hills and in lands to the south of Awashi-tana.  Now, there
were seventeen powerful domain-lords; seventeen warrior families backed
by their own armies of samurai, each one bound to him by sacred oaths
of fealty; some bound closer still by ties of blood.

Since the basic structure remained unchanged, the governing of Ne-Issan
should, in theory, have presented no problem.  As Shogun, Yoritomo
could command the instant obedience of his subjects, from the most
powerful domain-lord to the lowest peasant farmer or fisherman.

He held the power of life and death, and his decisions in such matters
were unchallenged.  With a simple, dismissive gesture, and without any
explanation, he could order a samurai to commit seppuku, ritual
disembowelling - an appallingly painful self-inflicted death reserved
exclusively for samurai and to which they readily submitted with the
most admirable fortitude.

In practice, things were not that simple.  If they were, the Shogunate
would have no hidden enemies and the shores of Aron-Giren would not
need to be guarded against 'foreign bodies'.  The one-great Da-Tsuni
would still be in power, and the Toh-Yota would still be hewing timber
amid the lake-strewn hills on the northern marches.  The supreme
authority of the Shogun could only be maintained if the holder of that
office displayed resolute, forceful leadership combined with an
unswerving regard for tradition and an iron will.  But it was equally
true that those who did not pause to consider the possible consequences
of an irreversible decision did not, as a rule, remain in power for
long.  Action begat reaction.  It was a fundamental law.  The stone in
the water.  The Shogun might be revered as a figurehead by the mass of
his lower-ranking subjects but to his fellow domain-lords he was first
among equals, not an untouchable god-emperor.  Despotic behaviour was
no longer tolerated.  Nowadays, the art of government consisted in
striking the right balance.  And despite the stark philosophy of
bushido, the choice, more often than not, was no longer simply between
right and wrong, but between the lesser of two evils.

As Shogun, Yoritomo's decisions were influenced by an unceasing flow of
information brought to his trusted advisers by a large network of
government spies.  He knew that the outward calm imposed by the code of
bushido, the formal etiquette of court procedures and the restrictive
ordinances issued by the governing council of ministers formed a screen
that concealed a brooding pit of vipers, restless with dreams of power,
their forked tongues charged with venomous rumours, forever hatching
murderous conspiracies.

Once, loyalty had been given unstintingly, without question.  But those
were the lean, hard days, when the survival of Ne-Issan was at stake.

The establishment of the first Shogunate by the Da-Tsuni, the leaders
of the 'Seventh Wave', was a model of purity.  Their overthrow had been
followed by two centuries of turbulence; periods of uneasy peace
interspersed with bloody civil wars.  The rise to power of the Toh-Yota
had restored the previous authority of the Shogunate, bringing firm
government and more than three-quarters of a century of relative peace
and prosperity.

But even peace had its dangers.  It had enabled the domain-lords to
grow richer and ever more powerful.

The annual taxes they were required to pay into the coffers of the
Shogunate had also increased the already considerable wealth of the
Toh-Yota family, but now loyalty, like everything else, had its
price.

For prosperity brought not only a change in a society's material
wealth, it also changed its values.  It awakened the desire for
progress, and progress was a two-edged sword that, in the wrong hands,
could destroy Ne-Issan just as the world of their ancestors had been
destroyed.

Yes, reflected Yoritomo, these were troubled times.

Absolute power was a dangerously seductive brew that had to be handled
with caution - even more so when it was absolute in name only.  There
were moments when the task of governing became a crushing burden.  On
the nights when he lay awake, trying to decide on the correct course of
action, Yoritomo often found himself wishing he could exchange his life
for the quieter and more rewarding existence of a saddle-maker, an
armourer, or a swordsmith.  Being Shogun was an awesome responsibility
- especially when you were only twenty-eight years old.

It was towards the Shogun's summer palace at Yedo that Toshiro
Hase-Gawa now journeyed aboard a ferryboat from Nyo-poro, a fishing
village on the coast of Rodiren.

The boat - a wide-hulled barge with steam-powered paddles - steered a
westerly course close to the shore, then headed out across the channel
following the line of islands that led to the north-eastern tip of
Arongiren.

Despite the fact that the ferry was flying his two personal banners
which identified him as a government official, they were intercepted
within sight of land by a watchboat, and boarded by a detachment of
sea-soldiers.

Once a gangway had been secured between the two vessels, the
watch-captain hurried aboard the ferry where, after a deferential
exchange of greetings, he courteously asked for further proof of
Toshiro's identity.

When Toshiro's papers bearing the Shogun's personal seals had been
reverentially examined, and the ferry thoroughly searched, the
watch-captain withdrew his men and offered his profuse apologies for
the inexcusable delay.  Toshiro responded in similar vein.

Had the watch-captain been less zealous, and the search less thorough,
he would have had cause to be angry.  The sea-soldiers were only
carrying out orders and their exemplary bearing brought honour to their
regiment and, above all, to their commander.  Et cetera, et cetera.

An hour later, the flat, drawbridge bow of the ferry was lowered on to
the slipway at On-enita, whose only virtue lay in the fact that it was
situated at the point where the northern road met the sea.  Alerted by
the banners carried above the ferry's small wheelhouse, the lowly
harbour officials and the few fisherfolk who happened to be ashore
gathered expectantly on either side of the road leading away from the
beach.  The atmosphere of expectancy increased as two sailors carefully
removed the banners from the roof of the wheelhouse and took them
below.  Shortly afterwards, the crew of the ferry assembled on the
foredeck and sank to their knees as Toshiro Hase-Gawa appeared in full
ceremonial armour astride a proud, stout-legged pony.

They were an imposing sight.  Toshiro's body-armour was made up of
black lacquered plates edged with gold and fastened together with cords
of crimson silk; on his head, a matching helmet with a wide, flaring
brim.  On the front of the helmet, cut from a circle of polished
bronze, was the emblem of the present Shogun - the raised wings, breast
and crested head of a long-necked wading bird.

The pony's trappings were of the same stamp and splendour.  Its dappled
body was caparisoned in black and gold; its mane and tail braided with
crimson cords and tassels.  The bamboo poles carrying Toshiro's
personal banners were now mounted in leather sockets attached to the
backplate of his body-armour, the tall narrow bands of silk fluttering
and snapping in the sea-breeze.

The spectators on shore fell to their knees as Toshiro directed his
steed down the ramp, then pressed their foreheads to the ground as he
passed by.  Their obeisance was a sign of the reverence accorded to the
Shogun and the government officials who, under his guidance, ordered
the affairs of their nation.  A reverence accorded but also demanded.

Had Toshiro been ill received, he could have called for the immediate
execution of anyone deemed guilty of insolent behaviour and indeed, as
he had demonstrated in the past, was quite capable of carrying out the
sentence himself.

Toshiro let the pony take him slowly through the village at a pace
known among samurai horsemen as the 'parade trot' - a jaunty,
high-stepping walk.  The laws that obliged the lower ranks to push
their noses into the dirt also obliged their superiors to conduct
themselves with a certain style.  When he had passed the last prostrate
inhabitant, he spurred the pony into a canter along the winding road
that led to Yedo.

The road swung from side to side of a narrow, ragged peninsula which,
in the mind of the Shogun, formed the upper half of his fish-island's
forked tail.  To Toshiro's right, waves from the Eastern Sea broke
gently on the smoothly curving shore.  To his left, the land was eaten
away by backwaters and bays, some of which had joined to form islands
linked at low tide by threads of rock and sand.  Ahead lay a forty-mile
stretch of open road.  The pony, responding to his urging, lengthened
its stride.

Behind him, the tall slender poles arched gracefully, their narrow
banners with their word-signs and emblems ironed flat by the wind.

Toshiro Hase-Oawa was a Herald of the Inner Court, one of a small,
select band of samurai who received their instructions from and
reported directly to the Shogun.

Although such messengers were not of exalted rank, this privileged
access to the summit of power meant that Toshiro and his colleagues
enjoyed the favour of senior and sometimes envious - court officials.

It also meant they were accorded similar treatment in the houses of the
powerful domain-lords, whose hospitality was often designed to loosen
tongues.

Heralds of the Inner Court were the Shogun's eyes and ears and spoke
with his voice, carrying his innermost thoughts to the furthest corners
of his realm.  Because of their highly public role they were not
officially viewed as being part of the Shogun's network of spies and
informers but, amongst the schemers and the power-hungry, they were
known to act as a conduit for sensitive information gleaned by
important government agents; men (and women) who played many roles and
assumed many guises.

If an imaginary line were to be drawn through the Shogun's fish-island
from tip to tail and the island then divided into three equal parts
along the line, Yedo would be found close to the line dividing the
second section of the body from the tail.  Situated on high ground,
almost equidistant from both shores, the multistoreyed summer palace
stood aloof from the neat clusters of low-lying dwellings that had been
built near by.  Under an edict issued by the bakufu, no dwelling place
could be erected within a league of its walls, and no home within ten
leagues could be inhabited by any family unless one or more member of
the household was in the direct employ of the Shogun or his court
officials.

Built from mortared blocks of stone from the quarries of Baru-karina,
the sloping walls of the Yedo palace rose from a huge square moat.

Perched atop the walls, fifty feet above the surface of the water, was
the first layer of its wood, stone and tile-roofed superstructure.  The
towers at each corner rose another sixty feet into the air and these
were joined together by an intricate maze of screened galleries, with
ornate cross-beams and curving rooflines.  The feeling it conveyed to
an approaching visitor was one of wealth, solidity and power; the
precise qualities that its first owner - Yoritomo's grandfather had
demanded of his architects.

The entrance, with its wide, gently arched bridge, was guarded by two
keeps; one at the end of the approach road, the other set on a stone
island halfway across the moat.  This palace, with its pleasure gardens
and artfully sculptured rock pools and waterfalls, was also a fortress
with secret stairways, exits and entrances.

Toshiro had no need to show his papers at the outer keep.  The
guard-captain, alerted by a keen-eyed sentinel, recognised him with the
aid of a spyglass and rode out with two other samurai to meet him.

Captain Kamakura and Toshiro exchanged the usual salutations, but their
voices lent a warmth to the formal exchanges.  They were old friends
despite the difference in their ages.  Kamakura, the senior by some
fifteen years, had helped Toshiro to perfect his swordmanship and would
practise with him, or counsel him, whenever asked.

Over the last two years, Toshiro had been constantly on the move,
arriving with eagerly awaited information only to find himself
dispatched on some new errand with barely time to catch his breath.  As
a consequence, the two men had seen less of each other than they would
have liked but their friendship remained undimmed.

Kamakura, a samurai cursed with five daughters, treated him like a
surrogate son.  Whenever Toshiro came to Aron-giren, the captain and
his wife Yukio received him into their household with the utmost warmth
and generosity.  Although Toshiro had never doubted his mentor's
sincerity, it was only natural to assume that at the back of this
charming couple's mind was the hope that one of their daughters might
find favour in his eyes.  It was evidently a hope shared by their
offspring because, over the years, all but the youngest, who was not
yet thirteen, had taken it in turns to favour him with a more intimate
form of hospitality.

Their nocturnal visits which, by custom, one was not expected to
refuse, had been executed with an admirable discretion equal to that
practised by the ladies of the court.  And their subsequent behaviour
gave not the slightest hint of what had occurred.  Each one had
remained as courteous and respectful as before.  Toshiro had said
nothing to their father.  He preferred to think that the good captain
had no idea what was going on.

However, the expertise his daughters had displayed could not have been
achieved without some degree of parental guidance.  Although it was
something that he and Kamakura had never discussed, Toshiro knew that
their mother had once been a courtesan.  It was a well-known fact that
the warmth of their embrace was often fuelled by a burning ambition.

The two horsemen who had ridden out with Kamakura dismounted and
rejoined the guard as Kamakura and Toshiro trotted their ponies through
the arches of the outer and inner keeps and went on into the main
courtyard of the palace.  Civilians - mainly tradesmen of low rank who
found themselves on the bridge fell to their knees and pressed their
faces to the close-fitting planks.  The iron-shod feet of the ponies
sent thunderous echoes through their heads as the riders passed by.

As a member of the house of Hase-Gawa, Toshiro had his family home on
the seaward edge of the northern marches.  Only two domains were
equally remote - the Fu-Ji and the Na-Shuwa, whose lands lay to the
north-west and north-east of the Hase-Gawa.  Beyond them lay the Fog
People.  Kamakura, on the other hand, resided on Aron-giren.  As a
close friend and his swordmaster it was only natural to offer his house
to the younger man, even though accommodation was always available for
Heralds whenever they arrived and wherever the court happened to be.

The Shogun had four other palatial fortresses on the mainland and
numerous other residences on the Toh-Yota family estates.

Toshiro thanked Kamakura for the invitation and promised to dine with
him at the earliest opportunity.

Unfortunately, he could make no plans until he had reported to the
Shogun.  Only then would he know whether he would have time to sample
the delectable joys of family life in the Kamakura household before
being dispatched on some new errand.  In the meantime, he begged the
good captain to convey his respectful yet tender greetings to Yukio,
his wife, and her five daughters whose peerless beauty, selfless
devotion and pristine decorum reflected nothing but credit upon their
parents.  Et cetera, et cetera.

Kamakura wheeled away and headed back across the bridge, his honour
satisfied.  Since his respect and friendship for the young man
pre-dated Toshiro's elevation to the rank of Herald he knew that his
offer of hospitality would not be construed as an attempt to curry
favour.  Nevertheless, as his wife constantly reminded him, any one of
their eligible daughters would make an ideal match for Toshiro.  And
with a Herald for a son-in-law, the marriage prospects for the
remaining girls would be immeasurably increased.  One noble scion was
the least they could expect.  Maybe two!

Women!  Despite their supposedly submissive, secondary status, it was
rare to find one able to resist the lure of social advancement.  It was
just as well they had a multitude of domestic tasks to attend to:
otherwise their days would be filled with all manner of vainglorious
dreams, In his years of service with the Shogunate, Kamakura had seen
enough to know that, unless governed by an acute and disciplined
intellect, bodies freed from the daily grind of physical labour or the
demands of soldiering soon became breeding grounds for discontent.

Idleness led first to the unbridled pursuit of pleasure, then, when
jaded appetites could no longer be whetted by the most deviant
perversions, the ladies of the court turned into malicious gossips and
schemers.

Having destroyed their own sense of moral worth, they set out to
destroy those around them.  There were men of privilege who fell into
this category too - and it had led to the collapse of more than one
Shogunate.

Nobility, reflected Kamakura, was not all it was trumped up to be.  It
was the samurai ethic that was the bulwark against mental and physical
corruption, and he was thankful that the new Shogun was the embodiment
of all he held dear.  Unfortunately, Yukio, his wife who, as a young
concubine, had pleasured the present Shogun's father did not share this
jaundiced view of the nobility even though her lord and master, in a
fit of generosity, had presented her to Kamakura in return for services
rendered.  Yukio, then a slim girl with a flawless, resilient body, had
submitted dutifully as her status demanded but, like all women, she had
found ways to convey her resentment.

That was in the beginning.  Their relationship had improved in the
intervening years for, with time, he had proved a reasonable catch,
especially when Yoritomo, on his accession to power, had promoted him
to the rank of guard-captain and, at the same time, had swept the
remaining sybarites out of his father's 'pleasure dome'.

But the gilded life of the Inner Court leaves an indelible mark.

Kamakura knew that, in her heart of hearts, Yukio wished she could have
married into the nobility which, for a daughter of a well-to-do
merchant family, had not been beyond the bounds of possibility.  There
were times when even Kamakura wished he could have been born with a
silver cup to his lips.  But he was old enough and wise enough to know
that the fledgling heirs to wealth, power and privilege often found
themselves holding a poisoned chalice.

Entering the palace, Toshiro presented himself to Ieyasu, the Court
Chamberlain, and learned that word of his arrival had already reached
the Shogun.  The Herald was to join him in the pebble garden as soon as
he had cleansed his travel-stained body.

Ieyasu, a tall angular man with a lined, cadaverous face, prided
himself on his efficiency.  How it was achieved was something of a
mystery to Toshiro.  Ieyasu never seemed to do anything and on the rare
occasions.

Toshiro had seen him in motion, each gesture, like his speech, was
slow, deliberate and precise.  He exuded a quality of stillness - and a
disquieting degree of menace like a female spider poised at the centre
of an invisible web of power.

Toshiro thanked the Chamberlain in the customary manner and exited
backwards from his presence.

Ieyasu made his way to the window and watched Toshiro swagger across
the small courtyard below followed by the two pages who carried his
travelling bags.  Such energy!  Such muscular dedication!  Where would
it all end?  Under the previous Shogun, Ieyasu had acted as a filter
for the information that the Heralds had carried to and from court.

But Yoritomo had changed all that.  Nowadays, this new band of
jumped-up jack-a-knaves reported to the Shogun in person - and in
private!  An unheard-of and most unwelcome break with ancient tradition
which opened the way to a further dilution of the powers held by the
office of the Chamberlain.

Ieyasu was one of the 'old school'.  He had held the same post under
Yoritomo's father and, barring some unforeseen disaster, was widely
expected to remain in office until he became senile; a state which some
of his critics felt he had reached already.  On his accession, Yoritomo
had pensioned off many of his father's staff, along with the
inhabitants of the 'pleasure dome'.  The sybarites and the obsequious
self-serving leeches that somehow always manage to gravitate towards
the centre of power had gone.  But Ieyasu had remained.  A new broom
can never sweep entirely clean.  And contrary to accepted wisdom, some
old dogs are remarkably adept at learning new tricks.

In a nation built upon ancient traditions and held together by the
rigid observance of age-old customs and protocols, changes are seen as
a threat to the fabric of society - to be resisted at all cost.  They
can only be introduced gradually, if at all, and when making them, the
wise leader does so whilst maintaining a strong sense of continuity
with the past.  Ieyasu was not the person Yoritomo would have liked as
his Chamberlain but he was, without doubt, the best man for the job.

The sly old fox knew everything and everybody and Yoritomo then only
twenty-three - was quick to see that he had to ally himself with Ieyasu
until he had made his own position more secure.  As a result, his
cleansing operation had removed the froth and the scum but, when calm
returned, the basic mixture was very much as before.  Apart from the
new status of the Heralds - a point which the old fox had deemed
advantageous to concede - Ieyasu's power and influence remained
unchanged, and most of the key positions were still occupied by
like-minded place-men.

Yoritomo was aware of the situation, and although there were other
means by which Ieyasu could have been removed he was content to leave
things as they were.

Palace revolutions were destabilising events, which sent shock-waves
through the country and gave people ideas.

Besides which, he enjoyed pitting his wits against the wily old
campaigner.  Time was on his side, and it was precisely this - his
extreme youthfulness - that was the root of the problem.  The
Chamberlain, with his wealth of experience, honestly believed that
someone as young as Yoritomo should not make any decisions without
first seeking his advice and approval.  He was, after all, his
granduncle.

As one of the family, Ieyasu's loyalty to the Shogunate was beyond
question but he was, above all, an influence-pedlar who knew every step
of the way along the corridors of power; a man who could dispense
sought-after privileges and preferments - and was not averse to
enriching himself in the process.  In so doing, the Chamberlain
embraced an earthier tradition which pre-dated the rise of the samurai
ethic by many thousands of years and which, given time, Ieyasu felt
that Yoritomo would come to recognise as the only one worth preserving:
the exercise and maintenance of power in a world of increasing
complexity.

A problem that was as old as Time itself.

It was laudable of the young man to seek a return to the purer forms of
conduct as prescribed by bushido: it was right that he should place new
emphasis on its central tenet, girl - the sense of duty and
obligation.

Without it there would be anarchy!  But the drive to impose a stricter
morality was counterproductive.

Human beings were flawed creatures that could never attain the
perfection of the higher kami.  Their inherent venality always surfaced
sooner or later and, deplorable though it might be, it was through
their weaknesses that they could be more effectively controlled.

Sinners were easier to do business with.  And also much better
company.

Despite his advanced years, Ieyasu had not forgotten how to enjoy
himself.  And in his case, it was not only the spirit that was
willing.

The pebble garden was made up of a subtle arrangement of rocks set amid
an undulating sea of fine gravel which had been raked into a seamless
pattern of lines and whorls.  Each morning at first light, and at
various times throughout the day, leaves, twigs and all other
extraneous matter were assiduously removed by a team of light-footed
gardeners who raked the gravel back into place as they made their
exit.

When the Shogun came, the garden was always magically restored to
pristine condition.  It was a landscape frozen in time, an exquisitely
harmonious arrangement of line and tone, texture and mass which, like
all great masterworks, constantly revealed new depths to the eye of the
beholder.  It induced serenity and invited profound contemplation,
rewarding and restoring those whose minds were able to achieve the
necessary degree of stillness.

Yoritomo was one of those who drew strength from the garden - a
treasured re-creation of a fragment of a past life in a place known to
the chroniclers as The World Before.  Yoritomo had fallen under its
magic spell at the age of nine, and from then on had made daily visits
to the same spot on the top step of the veranda whenever his branch of
the family had been in residence at Yedo.  His feelings toward it had
not changed- only now, no one else was allowed to sit in his chosen
place which, upon his accession, had assumed the status of a shrine.

Although austere by nature, Yoritomo was not, and had no wish to
become, an ascetic saint-like figure.

During his adolescence, his periods of contemplation had been
sandwiched in between the normal activities and youthful excesses one
would expect a young nobleman to indulge in.  Sensual delights, while
not encouraged, were not forbidden and although young samurai were
taught that the companionship of other warriors was preferable to that
of women, they were not always able to resist the lure of a sentimental
- and sometimes illicit - relationship.

And neither could the new Shogun.

Toshiro, now clad in a broad-shouldered kimono of dark-toned brocaded
silk, approached the guard-captain whose men were posted round the
perimeter of the pebble garden.  Both samurai wore white headbands
fastened at the nape of the neck over wigs made of Mute hair, swept
upwards to form the traditional top-knot.  The guard-captain's headband
bore the usual blood-red disc flanked by two word-signs denoting his
rank and function.

On Toshiro's headband, the Shogun's bird emblem took the place of the
red disc.  A long and short sword, housed in gently curving scabbards,
were thrust through the sash around his waist.

Had he been anyone else, he would have been obliged to remove them
but, as a Herald of the Inner Court, he had the right to bear arms in
the presence of the Shogun.

It was a sign of the extraordinary trust Yoritomo had in this band of
young men.  It was not entirely by chance that Toshiro happened to be
the same age as the Shogun.

None of the new Heralds chosen by Yoritomo was over thirty; the
youngest was twenty-five.

The guard-captain led Toshiro along the path towards the open-sided
summerhouse where Yoritomo sat crosslegged, lost in contemplation of
the stone landscape.  The five samurai seated behind him in a
semicircle sprang silently to their feet, then relaxed their grip on
the handles of their long-swords when they saw who it was.  These men,
like the guard around the garden, had been raised from birth in the
Toh-Yota family household and were totally dedicated to the protection
of the Shogun.  The guard-captain bowed low and backed away as Toshiro
mounted the wide lower step of the veranda and knelt down in line with
the Shogun's left shoulder.  Yoritomo continued to stare straight ahead
at the garden.  Toshiro placed his forehead on the straw matting
covering the top step and waited.

'What kept you?"  said the Shogun, in perfect American-English.  It was
a language he and his Heralds were able to speak fluently - although
they were not encouraged to use the same colloquial mode of address.

The five guards, now ranged on the far side of Yoritomo, spoke only
Japanese.

Toshiro assumed a cross-legged position.  'There were certain aspects
of the situation that needed further investigation, sire.  It wasn't
easy.  They're playing the cards close to their chest."

'Are they holding many aces?"

'I'm not sure, but.  there's a joker in the pack."

Yoritomo dragged his eyes reluctantly from the pebble garden and let
them rest briefly on Toshiro.  The Shogun also wore a wig made from
Mute hair but it was a more imposing arrangement made of coiled plaits
combined with a small, flat pill-box hat and lacquered wooden combs - a
design exclusive to his rank as the overlord of

Ne-Issan.  'Is this going to be as bad as I think it is?"

Toshiro bowed low.  'It's not good."

Yoritomo sighed and returned to his contemplation of the stone
landscape.  'Okay, let's have it..."

CHAPTER TWO

During the past six months, Toshiro's principal task had been to
monitor the work being carried out at the Heron Pool - a new craft
centre that had been set up to the west of Ba-satana.  At the beginning
of the previous year Lord Yama-Shita, who held the licence to trade
with the Northern Mutes, had persuaded Yoritomo of the need to
rediscover the secrets of powered flight.  His plan had been to seek
the aid of the Mutes in obtaining a flying-horse and its rider.  Much
could be learned from a close examination of both, saving months,
perhaps even years, of fruitless experimentation.

In pressing his case, Yama-Shita had emphasised that there was little
time to lose.  The desert warriors of the south - called lone-dogs
because of their height and their angular, bony features - were poised
to move north into the lands of the Plainfolk.  In a few short years,
their powerful weaponry might be turned against Ne-Issan.

Through his contacts with the Mutes, Yama-Shita knew that the
flying-horses were an important element in the long-dogs' military
strategy.  Ne-Issan must equip itself with its own airborne cavalry in
order to meet the threat when it eventually came.

Yoritomo promised to think the matter over.  It all made sense, of
course.  Lord Hiro Yama-Shita - who, with the merger between the
Yama-Ha'and the Matsu-Shita families, had become the single most
powerful domain-lord in Ne-Issan - was a hardheaded realist.  Any
proposal put forward by him merited serious consideration.

It had been the Yama-h and the MatsuShita, builders of the first
wheelboats, who had opened up the lucrative western trading routes and
had tapped into the seemingly exhaustible supply of Mutes - the
strangely marked half-humans that made up the bulk of Ne-Issan's labour
force.  The licences, which gave them a virtual monopoly on trade with
the west, had been granted by Yoritomo's grandfather.  The Yama-Ha and
MatsuoShita had long been allies of the Toh-Yota and had supported them
in their bid for the Shogunate.  But the unprecedented marriage between
the two houses had resulted in an unwelcome concentration of power and,
if one looked at the map with the eye of a military commander, their
combined domains were poised like a dagger at the heart of the
TohYota.

Fortunately, the forty-year-old Yama-Shita seemed to be more interested
in trade deals than political alliances, but it was a situation that
had to be kept constantly under review.  The country had been riven
more than once by factional disputes, and despite the era of firm
central government instituted by the Toh-Yota, the domain-lords had
kept a jealously guarded measure of independence.  While all had sworn
oaths of fealty to the Shogunate, there were some whose word could not
be taken entirely at its face value.  As a result, Yoritomo, like the
previous holders of high office, kept two lists in his head - one
headed fudai, those considered loyal and trustworthy; the other,
tozama, unreliable.

Hiro Yama-Shita, despite his family's links with the Toh-Yota, occupied
a grey area in between.

After consulting Ieyasu (the Chamberlain had known Hiro since he was a
boy), Yoritomo agreed to the acquisition of a flying-horse and its
rider.  Through Yama-Shita's trading activities, a number of long-dogs
'had fallen into their hands.  Their interrogation had enabled the
Shogun to build up a partial picture of the strange underground domain
known as the Federation.

But their testimony was flawed.  These captive long-dogs were
criminals, renegades - like the small bands of rootless ronin that
lurked in dark recesses of the forests blanketing the slopes of the
western hills.  The pale warriors of this underground world could also
be disloyal to their masters.  Even so, the threat from the south
could not be ignored.  Hence the chosen strategy, put into effect
through Yama-Shita, to arm the Mutes, who were numerically superior to
both sides.

Because of their alien culture and backwardness, the Mutes could never
be considered as allies, but their concept of warrior-hood was worthy
of respect.  The years of trading had brought about a state of friendly
neutrality.  No pledges had been exchanged, no plans were ever
discussed but, over the last few years, Plainfolk territory had become
a buffer zone protecting the frontiers of Ne-Issan.  The warrior clans
were now armed auxiliaries who, if everything went according to plan,
would wear the long-dogs down in a slow war of attrition.

On Ieyasu's advice, Yoritomo had awarded the manufacturing licence for
the flying-horses to Kiyomori Min-Orota, whose lands, bordering the
Eastern Sea, lay just across the water to the north of Arongiren.

Kiyomori's father had married one of Yoritomo's aunts and the Min-Orota
were on the list markedfudai.

As the snows deepened, burying the old year, Toshiro had returned with
his first dispatch: a flying-horse had landed near Bu-faro, a harbour
on Lake In on the western border of Lord Yama-Shita's domain.  It
carried two riders: a long-dog called Brickman and his escort, a female
Mute warrior from the clan M'Cail, who were the donors of this
long-awaited object.

Without more ado, the craft and its riders had been shipped via the
canal and river system to Ro-diren and from there by road to the aptly
named Heron Pool, the site chosen for this new enterprise.  The
workshops had not yet been constructed at the time of Toshiro's first
visit, but he had brought back sketches of the alien craft together
with verbal portraits of Brickman, the brown-skinned long-dog, and
Clearwater, his blue-eyed Mute escort.

After an initial hesitation, Brickman had proved remarkably
co-operative and eager to please.  The Mute, on the other hand, had
informed Yama-Shita - with all due deference and through the usual
intermediaries-that the clan M'Call had delivered the flying-horse on
the understanding that she and the long-dog were to be shipped back to
her homeland when the wheelboats made their next voyage across the
great lakes.

But there had been no such understanding.  The eventual fate of those
delivering the craft had never been raised by the white-haired leader
of the M'Call's trade council.  And Yama-Shita had no intention of
renegotiating the agreement with a female Mute.  Once they set foot in
Ne-Issan, Mutes were slaves; non-persons with no rights whatsoever.

But even if this had been the case, by the very nature of the
enterprise, Clearwater's request was bound to fall on deaf ears.  It
was vital that the Federation should remain unaware of what was afoot
for as long as possible.  If she and the long-dog were to return to the
Plainfolk and subsequently fall into enemy hands, it would be a secret
no longer.

As the Mute had no further part to play, she had been placed in the
custody of Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba, nephew to the domain-lord
of that name.

Nakane was the permanent representative of the Shogun to the House of
Min-Orota.  Military men, appointed by Yoritomo, held similar posts in
all subject domains.

They occupied imposing residences on private estates maintained by the
Shogunate and which also served as a base for a team of provincial
administrators, tax inspectors, and a regiment of government
soldiers.

At the Heron Pool, the necessary buildings were completed and a team of
long-dogs, recruited from mines and quarries, was set to work under the
supervision of local craftsmen.  The dark-haired, brown-skinned
Brickman quickly revealed himself to be' an ideal overseer, totally
dedicated to the task he had been assigned.  He was, moreover, endowed
with a formidable intellect and displayed a keen interest in, and
appreciation of, every aspect of Iron Master society; its art, culture,
custom and tradition, its spiritual ethos.  His grasp of these matters
was so instinctive, Min-Orota was moved to seek permission to allow him
to be taught Japanese.

Ieyasu had passed his written request to the Shogun with an appended
note recommending its rejection.  For once, Yoritomo and his
Chamberlain found themselves in agreement.  Despite his willingness to
share his skills and knowledge, the long-dog was an alien, a renegade,
and was thus without honour.  The language of Ne-Issan was a sacred
relic from The World Before that had to be zealously protected.  Never
again was it to be debased by foreign influences and, above all, it
must never be allowed to issue from the mouths of the unworthy.

Yoritomo, like his Heralds, might speak what the long-dogs called
'Basic' but that was merely a means by which they could discuss
confidential matters in the presence of others.

Brickman, unaware of the representation made on his behalf, continued
to work like a man possessed, and by early March, a much-improved
version of the craft he had delivered was ready to take to the air.  It
was to be launched from high ground, gliding like a sea-bird from its
clifftop nest.  Preparations had also been made to produce several more
but, before they could be completed, a suitable mechanism had to be
found to move them through the air.  Steam was a possibility, but none
of the existing engines was small enough, and the craft could not be
fuelled by logs or coal whilst in the air!  If steam was the answer,
then a special lightweight engine using entirely new principles would
have to be created.  Undaunted by the problems, Brickman set to work.

Lord Kiyo Min-Orota, impressed by Brickman's energy and his impeccable
demeanour, which was the equal of a samurai's in every respect, sought
some way to reward him for the host of useful devices created by his
restless pen.  This was a goose driven by some inner compulsion to lay
golden eggs.  The bird must be kept well-fed and given a comfortable
nest until it was time to wring its neck.

Like Mutes, long-dogs had traditionally been accorded slave status, but
Min-Orota felt that Brickman was a' special case meriting more
favourable treatment.  And so it was, as if by magic, that Brickman was
installed in a small but elegant dwelling-house, staffed by Korean
female body-slaves.  Lord Min-Orota accepted his effusive thanks
without telling him that Koreans, along with Thais and Vietnamese, were
one of the 'unpure' breeds who inhabited the lower strata of Iron
Master society.  To a true Son of Ne-Issan - a samurai from a noble
family the provision of such inferior servants would have been a mortal
insult; to the long-dog, unaware of such subtleties, it was an
undreamt-of luxury.

During an earlier visit, Toshiro had tactfully conveyed to the
domain-lord the Shogun's feeling that Brickman's unprecedented
elevation from slave status was both unnecessary and inappropriate.

Lord Min-Orota had been at pains to reassure him that it was purely a
temporary arrangement which could bring important material benefits not
only to his house but to the Shogun himself.

And the long-dog's eventual fall from grace would provide an amusing
diversion.

But there were other aspects of the present situation which were less
amusing and it was upon these that Toshiro proceeded to report.  The
female Mute who had been taken into protective custody by
Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba had mysteriously dropped out of
circulation.

By diligent detective work and with the help of the local network of
agents and informers, Toshiro had uncovered an illicit sexual liaison
which, although disturbing in itself, had turned out to have far more
sinister ramifications.

Toshiro reported on Brickman's latest work, then made a casual
reference to the fate of his Mute escort.  'I regret to tell you I have
received information from an unimpeachable source that the
Consul-General of Masa˘husa and Ro-diren has given a new meaning to the
phrase "protective custody"."

The Shogun reacted with a sharp-eyed glance.  'Are you sure of this?"

'Absolutely.  By all accounts he has been gripped by a grand
passion.

The, ah... "lady" in question has been set up in some style with her
own body-slaves.  Picked from the gutter, of course."

The Shogun's face showed no sign of the wave of revulsion that swept
through him.  His eyes remained fixed on the garden.  'Where?"

'His estate includes a lake with a small island in the middle.

Apparently there is a house on it.  The trees which surround it make it
difficult to see from the shore.  I believe it has been put to similar
use before."

The Shogun nodded.  His face remained impassive but Toshiro knew the
mental anguish his news had created.

Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba was married to one of Yoritomo's
sisters.  To visit her bedchamber after coupling with a Mute slave was
an affront to her honour and one which, at the appropriate moment,
would have to be avenged.

'It's not quite as bad as it seems,' said Toshiro.

'You mean.  that's the good news?"

'Yes, sire.  The bad news is... she's not a Mute."

The Shogun closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  'How come you didn't
notice when she arrived?"

'I had no reason to suspect anything.  We had been told the long-dog
would have a Mute warrior escort.  Who could have figured she was
decked out in body-paint?  I don't know what prompted her to remove her
disguise, 'but she's clear-skinned -just like Brickman.  They're two of
a kind."

'Both long-dogs..."

Toshiro watched the Shogun as he weighed up the implications.  Their
eyes met.  'Why the deception?"

Toshiro chose his words carefully.  'Perhaps the deal that Lord
Yama-Shita claimed to have set up with the Mutes was a... cover for a
more direct arrangement with the manufacturers."

'The Federation...?"

Toshiro bowed under the Shogun's piercing gaze.  'It's the only
explanation that makes sense, sire.  On the other hand, you may know
something I don't."

'I wish I did."

'Lord Yama-Shita is a man who likes to make deals."

'And he's also ambitious.  But to suggest he may be in business with
the Federation..."  Yoritomo left the sentence hanging in the air.

'I am aware it's a serious charge."

'The worst kind of treason.  Death for him and his immediate family,
plus the confiscation of his entire domain.  But before I put Ieyasu on
the case I'm going to need-more than inspired guesswork."

'Given time, I think I can get proof.  But that doesn't solve the
problem of how to put the collar on him."

'Exactly.  Is Kiyo Min-Orota involved?"

'Let me put it this way.  I find it hard to believe he doesn't know who
the Consul-General is spending most of his afternoons with.  Even if
the family weren't in on the deal with the long-dogs, they must have
put two and two together by now."

The Shogun sighed regretfully.  'That's all I need."  His mouth
tightened.  'How long has my dear brother-in-law been...?"

'Since early January."

'And you've only just found out...?"

Toshiro bowed.  This was not the moment to make excuses.

'I just don't understand,' mused Yoritomo.  'My sister and her children
were here just a few weeks ago.  She never gave the slightest hint that
anything like this was going on."

'She may not know, sire.  The reason it took me so long to get on to
this was that certain people have gone to great lengths to keep the
whole thing under wraps."

Yoritomo breathed out sharply through his nose.  'If he wasn't part of
the family he'd be on the mat tomorrow morning.  How could he do this
to me?  It's unforgivable."  He regained his calm and a measure of
rueful good humour.  'On the other hand, I can't say it's all that
surprising.  I've known for some time that he has some what eccentric
tastes in that department."

A silence descended as Yoritomo considered the moves that were open to
him.

'I suppose we could always put a stop to it by putting something in her
rice bowl.  Or maybe catch them both together.  Make it look like a
suicide pact."

Toshiro answered with a shake of the head.  'Bad move, sire .  . ."

'Are you suggesting it can't be done?"

'Not at all.  Compared to Lord Yama-Shita, the Consul-General is a
reasonably soft target.  I just don't think that killing any of the
players at this stage of the game would be to our advantage.  If the
hit was traced back to you..."

'Ye-ess."  The corners of the Shogun's mouth went down as his face
darkened.  'What a mess.  We've always known that Yama-Shita's family
would be the focal point of any move against the Shogunate.  And it was
clear that my brother-in-law was the kind of idiot who would eventually
self-destruct, but..."  He sighed, then said, 'The person I feel most
let down by is Kiyo.  Are you absolutely sure he's in on this?"

'I'll stake my life on it, sire."

Yoritomo shut his eyes tightly as if trying to ward off this
revelation.  In a slow, deliberate movement he drew both hands down
over his face, wiping it clear of all emotion, then placed them palm
down on his splayed knees.  'So... we may have lost the Min-Orota.  And
one of my Consul-Generals is in their pocket too."

'Not totally.  I don't believe he knows what they're planning.  He may
not have been minding the store properly but he's still on your
payroll, and he/s family."

'Don't remind me..."

'Lord Yama-Shita's prepared to take chances but he's no fool.  Can you
honestly see him conspiring with a man who's prepared to lay everything
on the line in order to hump a long-dog?"

'No, I guess not.  So how does it play?"

'If Yama-Shita/s in bed with the Federation then he must have known who
was delivering the winged pony."

'So it was a setup."

'It has to be.  But whichever way you slice it, the Consul-General had
a chance to blow the whistle when he found out what was under the
body-paint.  He didn't take it.  From there on in he was on the hook.

What can Lord Min-Orota tell you?  I'm sure he and Lord Yama-Shita can
produce a string of witnesses to swear they handed over a female
Mute.

And we can't check out the Plainfolk clan that Yama-Shita claims to
have done a deal with because -' 'He's our only contact."

'End of story.  Toh-Shiba's the one in the hot-seat.

He's been caught with his stick out and they're aiming to use it to
gain some leverage."

'Like persuading him to order his garrison to look the other way if and
when the Min-Orota decide to move against me .  . ."

Toshiro shook his head.  'There's a long way to go before we reach that
bend in the road.  They haven't even begun to consider the military
options yet.  Even with the help of the Min-Orota, Yama-Shita and his
friends are not strong enough to topple the Shogunate with one, swift,
bloody stroke."

'They might if Toh-Shiba's family was to change sides."

'We must make sure they don't."

'So, in other words, I must let sleeping dogs lie."

'I'm sure we can come up with some ploys that'll give them a few
restless nights.  But even if the TohShiba went over, it still wouldn't
guarantee Lord Yama-Shita a clean hit.  Neither side wants to get
bogged down in another long-running civil war.  We've all got too much
to lose.  No - what we've got on our hands right now is a battle for
hearts and minds."

'The most difficult kind of battle to win."

Toshiro bowed.  'Sire, with you at the helm..."

'Is that aliT' 'Not quite."

Yoritomo sighed again.  This time, the air of regret had been replaced
by a note of weary exasperation.  'Tread carefully, my friend.  You're
beginning to spoil the view."

Toshiro accepted this philosophically.  The risk of incurring the
Shogun's wrath by being the bearer of bad tidings went with the
territory.  'A rumour, sire, nothing more.  I just thought you ought to
know about it."

'I'm waiting."

Toshiro steeled himself.  Rumour it might be but it was still
dynamite.

'The flying-horse was driven through the air by an engine whose
workings could not be fathomed."

'I know.  Yama-Shita ordered it to be destroyed."

'It wasn't."

The news raised the Shogun's painted eyebrows.

'Nothing's happened yet, but the word is our friends in the north have
decided to ask their tame long-dog to reveal its secrets and help them
devise ways to ' 'To what...?"

'To recapture the..."  Toshiro's throat dried.

'... The Dark Light."  The words conjured up a chill spectre of death
and disaster.

The five samurai guarding the Shogun did not understand what he was
saying, but they sensed the feeling of dread in his voice and looked at
each other uneasily.

Toshiro averted his eyes as Yoritomo willed himself to remain calm.  In
this situation, the laws of etiquette forbade him to look at the
Shogun.  He had to kneel with his head bowed until Yoritomo addressed
him.

As the present holder of the supreme office and guardian of the sacred
principles and traditions that governed the world of the samurai, the
Dark Light was the thing Yoritomo feared most.  It was the evil force
that had led to the destruction of The World Before; the power that
must never again be allowed to fall into the hands of men.  Its secrets
had become hidden knowledge, shunned and feared like the magic spells
cast by the wizards and witches of ancient times.

The long-dogs were masters of the Dark Light and also its slaves.  It
gave strength to their awesome weapons and controlled their thoughts.

It was the lifeblood of their underground world; its beating heart.

But it was a diseased organ; within it were the seeds of a plague that
weakened the body, paralysed the brain and destroyed the soul.  In
time, the Sons of Ne-Issan would find a way to tear that heart from its
earthly body.  And once it was stilled, the long-dogs would be trapped
like maggots in a buried corpse, forced to feed on each other in the
darkness until the last were overcome by suffocation and the stench of
decay.

But first, their advance had to be halted with the aid of the
Plainfolk.  Only then, when a way had been found to overcome their war
machines, could they be driven back into their desert lair and sealed
off for ever from the rest of mankind.

The Dark Light was both beautiful and terrible.  It seduced and
corrupted, and made prisoners of all who tried to master it.  The fools
who now sought to resurrect it would first be driven mad, then be
utterly destroyed by the demons that dwelt within it.  From the moment
the warriors of the Seventh Wave had stormed ashore, those demons had
been banished from the lands bordering the Eastern Sea, and those that
haunted the minds of the long-dogs had been kept at bay far beyond the
Western Hills.  But now, moved by blind ambition, a cabal of
domain-lords was planning to let them loose again!  It was insane!

Yoritomo felt himself gripped by a deepening despair.  Was history
forever bound to repeat itself?.

Like all true Sons of Ne-Issan, Yoritomo knew the story well.  It was a
cautionary tale that had been handed down through the ages; a lesson to
which, from early childhood to his accession, his parents, teachers and
advisers had constantly returned.

Ne-Issan, the Land of the Rising Sun, lay on the eastern shore of a
vast continent that, in The World Before, had been called
Iyuni-steisa.

In those far-off days, the warriors whose descendants had given birth
to the Sons of Ne-Issan had lived in a distant place that had also been
called the Land of the Rising Sun.  A land of great beauty, whose
people had risen to great wealth and power and had then lost their
souls to the spinners and the weavers of the Dark Light.

The Dark Light was the earth-bound brother of the white sky-fire that
split the heavens when the evil kami of the cloud-world tried to storm
the castle of Ameratsu, God of All.  The blinding flash was made up of
the chain of sparks that flew from his sword as he struck down 10,000
of his foes with one fearful blow.  And the fire that fell to earth and
flowed through the world was filled with his divine power.

The spinners found secret ways to draw this power from the forests and
rivers, the stones and the grass, and from the air men breathed.  They
captured it on magic wheels and bound it fast with metal threads as
fine as silk.  The weavers took these threads and wove them into thin
ropes from which they made a giant net which, in time, encircled the
globe.  No one resisted because, in the beginning, they were entranced
by its magical power.

At the snap of a finger, the ropes brought light where there had been
darkness, provided warmth for cold bones, and filled the air with
music.

These were good things, but it did not stop there.  New ways were found
to throw the Dark Light through the air.  A second net was woven across
the sky using invisible threads.  The world was made prisoner by
stealth but once again no one resisted, for the spinners had built ever
more powerful magic wheels and the weavers had devised ways to release
men from his labours.  The Dark Light turned drills, drove saws, raised
hammers, forged iron and joined metals with a single spark of fire.

For the dull-brained layabouts and the'erdo-wells this, too, was a good
thing.  Idleness became a virtue.

But the craft-masters soon found no market for their skills.  Their
nimble fingers were replaced by the metal talons of headless slaves
with tireless arms of steel.  Fed by the Dark Light, oblivious of the
seasons or whether it was night or day, they fashioned objects in the
twinkling of an eye out of materials which had not sprung from the
natural world.  Such objects, fashioned without love, had no soul.

They were worthless baubles, passing fancies for people who would pay
any price to cloak the growing emptiness of their lives.

It was the weavers who had created the emptiness and now they worked
ceaselessly to fill it.  The world of nature was replaced by a world of
illusion: a world of false hopes and hollow dreams which grew ever
stronger as it fed on the energy stolen from the old.

Within less than a century, the earth was turned into a giant pleasure
dome filled with magic windows that seduced the eye and siren sounds
that lured all but the strongest from the Way of the Warrior.  Fantasy
became the new reality.  Men lost all sense of honour as sensation
replaced sensibility.  The principles which underpinned the samurai's
code of ethics were discarded; the fruits of ancient wisdom withered
untended on the vine.  Wives neglected their family duties; husbands
abandoned their trades and professions and all sense of honour to take
part in absurd games and trivial pursuits, eagerly submitting
themselves to public ridicule and humiliation in the vain hope of
winning worthless prizes.  Fool's gold.

The spinners and weavers grew richer and ever more powerful.  Anyone
who resisted was pilloried and crucified.  Rulers played host to them
and sought their favours; governments acquiesced or fell.

Given the example of their parents, it was inevitable that the children
born into the Age of the Dark Light would reject the moral and
spiritual traditions of the past.  As for the future, it did not
exist.

They lived in a lurid world which offered instant, mindless
gratification and where Time was eternally present.  They became
shadow-people, rising with the moon to roam the streets, gathering
together in their thousands when offered some new sensation.

Pain or pleasure, it mattered little.  Jammed back and front and
shoulder to shoulder in the gaudy temples of the dream-makers, they
swayed like river-weeds in the grip of a flood tide of sound, their
arms and eyes raised in adoration to the images created by the light.

They were in the power of the weavers and their dress reflected their
condition.  Their bodies were strapped and chained, they had rings
through their ears and noses, and needles stuck in their arms.  Their
hair stood up on end like the quills of demented porcupines and their
faces were striped like rainbow-coloured Mutes.  In a world without
meaning, style was all.  Like strutting peacocks, outward display was
their only concern; eccentricity the ultimate goal.

Freed from the restraints imposed by moral and spiritual laws, men and
women became prey to criminal elements which pandered to their worst
instincts, drawing them down into a morass of licentiousness and
corruption.  Terror ruled the cities, cowards attacked the weak and
defenceless, armies lost the will, to fight, government became a
meaningless ritual, kings and their ministers were publicly mocked and
scorned by scribes and merchants and the lowest rapscallions.

Ameratsu-Omikami, the great sky-spirit, sickened by the evil in the
world below, hurled the sun into the sea where it exploded with a
mighty roar, setting the oceans aflame.  Those who dared to look upon
the scene were struck dead with terror.  The waves bubbled and boiled
like molten gold.  Driven by a twisting wind with the voice of a
thousand storms, they rose high in the air, clawed at the layered
clouds with glowing fingers, then crashed down upon the shore,
consuming everything in their path.  No one was spared, not even those
who had fled to the summit of the sacred Mount Fuji.

Only the boat-people survived, hidden behind the iron walls of their
floating villages among the snow mountains beyond the Southern Seas.

They saw the fire in the sky but the flames did not reach them, for
Ameratsu, who wished to spare them, summoned cold white winds to draw
the heat from the waves.  For these were the chosen ones.  Within their
souls dwelt a spark that would become a flame.  The flame that would
one day temper the steel in the heart and mind of a new nation of
samurai.

Time stood still.  The sun had vanished, swallowed up by the oceans
leaving a fugitive after-image in the sky; a dull red ball which
occasionally pierced the leaden gloom that had descended like a funeral
shroud.

As they drifted silently amid the pillars of grey ice, the boat-people
slowly became aware that the world they had known had vanished.  The
earth had been turned into a charred wasteland where nothing moved and
nothing grew.  The clouds sucked up the death-laden dust and cast it
down upon the sea as poisonous rain.  Since their only source of food
was the fruits of the ocean, the boat-people reaped a deadly harvest.

Many perished, but not all.  Some, blessed by Ameratsu, fell sick then
recovered a measure of their former strength.  Their numbers dwindled,
but a nucleus survived and were joined by other ocean-wanderers who
spoke their tongue and shared their dreams.

The odyssey lasted for more than two centuries.

Generation after generation was born and buried at sea, but the
descendants of the chosen ones never lost hope, and gradually they grew
stronger.  They kept the memory of their once-glorious past alive in
the minds of their children, made eyes dulled with hunger, sickness and
resignation sparkle with tales of heroic deeds by bold, fearless
samurai for whom the thought of death was 'as light as a feather'.

They also handed down precious knowledge of the world that had been,
and the skills that would be needed to build a new one when the earth
had begun to heal.

Above all, they passed on the code of bushido; the spiritual laws which
governed the thoughts and actions of the Warrior and set him apart from
ordinary humankind.

And they entrusted to them a sacred task: to root out and destroy the
Dark Light and banish it from the world for ever.

It was a task that the Sons of Ne-Issan had never abandoned.  On the
establishment of the first Shogunate, it had assumed the form of an
edict.  The Dark Light was the greatest enemy of mankind; to seek to
recapture it was the greatest crime.  Successive rulers of Ne-lssan had
carried on the fight with crusading fervour and the present Shogun was
no exception.

Yoritomo knew that if the rumour proved to be true, then those involved
would have to be ruthlessly eliminated.  But how widespread was the
conspiracy?

Prior to Toshiro's return, the Min-Orota had been regarded asfudai
loyal allies of the Toh-Yota.  It was an extremely delicate
situation.

With the forces in the opposing camps so finely balanced, the Shogunate
could not risk making any overt moves against the conspirators - if
that was what they were.  Even if he ordered his brother-in-law, the
Consul-General, to commit seppuku - as family honour demanded - it
could, given the present climate of intrigue, have unforeseen
consequences.

No ... The insult to his sister and his own house would be avenged but
at a time of his own choosing.

For the moment, it was wiser to let the pot simmer.

CHAPTER THREE

Once again, Toshiro Hase-Gawa had demonstrated his remarkable flair for
information-gathering, drawing together the loose strands from his
network of agents and informers: eyewitness reports, tell-tale
documents, pillow talk, drinking-den gossip and bath-house rumour.

But the picture the herald had woven for the shogun was seriously
flawed.  Domain-lords Yama-Shita and Min-Orota had entered into a
covert alliance, they were contemplating the construction of devices to
recapture the Dark Light, and Consul-General Nakane TohShiba was
involved in an illicit sexual liaison.  But YamaShita was not in league
with the Federation or its agents.

Toshiro had drawn the wrong conclusion from the information presented
to him.  The scenario he had constructed was based on one fundamental
error: his assumption that the love-object - Clearwater - was a
long-dog.

It was a mistake which Toshiro could not be blamed for making.  Like
most Iron Masters, his knowledge of Mutes was limited to those he had
encountered in Ne-Issan; dull-eyed slaves who were fed and watered like
cattle and who worked better under the whip.  They were primitive
outlanders whose place in Iron Master society was on a par with
field-oxen and, at times, they were accorded even less consideration.

As a samurai and Herald of the Inner Court, Toshiro was bound by strict
social conventions.  It was unfitting for him to converse with such
individuals, he could only give orders.  And, had he owned slaves,
those orders would have been transmitted through an intermediary.

As a result, he knew next to nothing about their customs and traditions
or their unfettered mode of existence in the vastness that lay beyond
the waters of the O-hiyo and Mei-sun.  In particular, he was unaware of
the existence of 'super-straights'; Mutes whose bodies were not only
straight-boned and smooth-skinned but who were also clear-skinned like
long-dogs and the Sons of Ne-Issan.

He was not alone.

Lord Hiro Yama-Shita had made exactly the same mistake some months
before - despite the fact he knew more about the Plainfolk than anyone
else in Ne-Issan.

Over the years, Yama-Shita had amassed a considerable body of
information about the nomadic Mutes, but only senior members of his own
family had access to it.

The annual expedition by the wheelboats across the Great Lakes was one
of the many enterprises that had made the Yama-Shita rich and
powerful.

The Mutes were not only a source of cheap labour; the goods they
supplied helped to feed and clothe their captive brethren.  The facts
at his command were trade secrets; knowing his clients' strengths and
weaknesses enabled Yama-Shita to extract the most favourable rates of
exchange, and the rivalry between the various clans usually meant his
trade-captains got the best of the bargain.

Unlike the majority of Iron Masters, Yama-Shita did not despise the
Mutes, even though he personally found their disfigured bodies somewhat
repugnant - in particular, their hairy armpits and bushy sexual
organs.

But, despite their bizarre appearance and their lackadaisical approach
to hygiene, they possessed a certain nobility and, in their natural
state, were strong, fearless individuals with their own code of honour
which, in many ways, paralleled that of the samurai.  They also had
sufficient good grace to recognise and defer to a higher authority
namely himself and his entourage and the wit to realise that the
continuing exchange of goods and people for arms and artefacts was a
profitable enterprise for both parties.

The picture they presented to outsiders was that of a largely untutored
race endowed with a certain low cunning, but with more brawn than
brains.  However, there were some Mutes - notably the wordsmiths - who
displayed a keen intelligence and an unexpected degree of subtlety.

The individual named Mr Snow, the wordsmith of the clan M'Call, was one
of them, and it was to him that Yama-Shita had turned for help in
acquiring a flying-horse.

The domain-lord was also familiar with the unsubstantiated claims that
certain Mutes possessed supernatural powers: mysterious gifted
individuals known as summoners and seers.  The Iron Masters, who
worshipped at shrines dedicated to AmeratsuOmikami, believed that the
world of nature was permeated by the spirit-world - the realm of the
kami - but YamaShita treated the stories of Mute magic with derision.

In his view, the Mutes posed no danger to the Iron Master.

Despite their vast numbers, the fragmentary nature of the clan system
and the traditional hostility with which the rival factions viewed each
other made it impossible for them to mount a large-scale military
action against their benefactors in the east or their enemy in the
south.

The Plainfolk were fiercely territorial but they were not
empire-builders.  That was why it was safe to supply them with
rifles.

Their implacable hatred for the long-dogs, and the guerrilla tactics
they employed, were ideally suited to counter the probing advances of
the Federation's overground war machines.

Yama-Shita sometimes wondered if the Plainfolk realised they were being
manipulated, but it never occurred to him that they might also be
inspired by a sense of destiny.  He had never heard of the Talisman
PropheCy but, had it been brought to his notice, he would have given it
short shrift.  His curiosity about the Mutes was blinkered by the
innate belief in his own superiority and that of the system he
represented.  In his view - which was shared by all Iron Masters from
the Shogun downwards - there was nothing to be learned from the Mutes,
one could only learn about them.

Yama-Shita was not an anthropologist, nor was he a student of
comparative religion; he was engaged in resource-management.

This selective garnering of information meant that Yama-Shita, like the
Herald, was completely unaware of the existence of 'super-straight'
Mutes.  He was thus fated to draw the same wrong conclusion and, when
the news of Clearwater's unexpected transformation from multicoloured
Mute warrior to unblemished long-dog reached him at the end of January,
he had shared the Shogun's present sense of betrayal.

In the case of Yama-Shita, his anger had been directed against two
targets: Mr Snow, for attempting to deceive him, and the Consul-General
for his weakness and stupidity.  When Kiyo Min-Orota had informed .him
of what had taken place, his first impulse had been to have Clearwater
dispatched by an assassin, but Kiyo had reassured him that, when all
the circumstances were taken into account, neither of them could be
accused of complicity.

On reflection, Yama-Shita had agreed but, like the Shogun, he now found
himself on the horns of a dilemma.  The concealed presence of the
female long-dog was simultaneously an unwelcome embarrassment and a
heaven-sent gift.  The Consul's inexplicable desire to tup females from
the lower social orders had finally rendered him vulnerable to
blackmail.  The man was a degenerate clown but his high-level
connections, through his marriage to one of the Shogun's sisters, made
him a valuable pawn in the dangerous game that was now afoot.

Mr Snow, the obliging wordsmith, was another problem entirely.  What
game was the sly old lump-head playing?  Since it was he who had
undertaken to deliver a flying-horse in exchange for a shipment of
rifles, it followed that he must be party to the deception.  Did that
mean he was in league with the Federation?  If he was, the request by
the disguised female long-dog to be returned to the M'Calls with the
cloud warrior when he had accomplished his task now made sense.  She
and her

50

partner were obviously expected to report on all they had seen: the
craft skills of the Iron Masters and their ability to adopt new
techniques, the methods by which they would power the flying-horses,
and their mastery over them in the air.  No wonder the cloud warrior
had requested that he and his escort be allowed to remain together.  It
was a clever ruse, but no Mute or renegade Tracker who had entered
Ne-lssan had even emerged to tell the tale - and this impudent pair
would share the same fate.

But one important question remained unanswered: why would the
Federation voluntarily hand over the secrets of flight to a potential
enemy?  The gift had, admittedly, been delivered in the guise of
damaged goods, but that merely lent plausibility to Brickman's claim to
have built it from salvaged bits and pieces while held captive by the
Mutes.  Despite its somewhat battered appearance, the craft was still
capable of carrying two people through the air, and it had arrived
bearing two objects of immense value: a rider who was eager to explain
in detail the function of every part and the theory behind its design,
and a working example of an engine powered by the Dark Light.

To Yama-Shita - a born entrepreneur - this had proved too good an
opportunity to miss.  After hiding it away, he had used considerable
ingenuity to fake its destruction under the watchful gaze of the
Shogun's representative in a spectacular bonfire containing
	crackerjacks 	and several concealed charges of 	gunpowder.

The mistake over Clearwater's true identity - which was later to lead
the Herald, Toshiro, into believing that Yama-Shita might be in league
with the Federation prompted the domain-lord to evolve his own
elaborate scenario around Mr Snow.  In Ne-Issan, no one attained the
position of power that Yama-Shita enjoyed without being ruthless and
cunning - and he was no exception.

Like most domain-lords, he had a naturally suspicious mind and a
penchant for labyrinthine conspiracies.  He was certain that Mr Snow
had not expected the female long-dog to reveal her true colours.  And
there was no way the wordsmith could have known she would be placed in
the custody of Nakane Toh-Shiba, nor could he have foreseen what was to
follow.

So what had been intended?  Was the delivery of the craft with its
intriguing engine and its obliging rider an attempt to solicit further
interest as to what other items might be on offer?  After years of
trading with the Mutes, Yama-Shita was clearly a person one could do
business with.  And his wheelboats offered a secure delivery system for
goods and people.  Was it possible that the Federation was seeking to
make contact with him via Mr Snow?

To respond to such a move would be high treason.  It was also high
treason to flout the sacred edict concerning the Dark Light.  But
Yama-Shita did not see himself as a traitor.  He wished to preserve
Ne-Issan - but not necessarily in its present form.  Peace and
prosperity were not enough.  Yama-Shita wanted progress.  To achieve
it, he would have to become Shogun.  That meant displacing the
Toh-Yota.  If the knowledge that lay behind the Federation's war
machines could help him do that, then, under the right conditions, he
might come to an arrangement.  And when he had achieved absolute power,
he would use that same knowledge to defeat the long-dogs, destroy their
underground kingdom and remove all trace of their presence from the
face of the earth.

Yama-Shita knew that any kind of deal with the Federation was fraught
with danger, but he was already running an immense risk in
contemplating the capture of the Dark Light.  He was not even sure if
he had the courage to translate such thoughts into action.  Were he to
do so, he would be forced to obtain the devices used by the spinners
and weavers.  These forbidden objects, and the materials from which
they were made, could only be brought into Ne-Issan when his position
was unassailable.

In the meantime, there was no harm in keeping his options open.  He
would keep his word and deliver the promised shipment of rifles to the
M'Calls.  He would not seek to punish Mr Snow or his clan for
attempting to deceive him; he would not seek to reproach him or even
ask for an explanation.  He would simply bring the old fox and the
female long-dog face to face and watch what happened when he saw the
change in her dress and appearance and heard, from her own lips, that
she and the cloud warrior were being well treated and that neither yet
wished to return to the Plainfolk.

From the moment he set eyes on her, Mr Snow would bereft in no doubt
that he, Yama-Shita, the most powerful domain-lord in Ne-Issan, knew
everything.  But the wordsmith would be able to read nothing from his
face, for that would be hidden behind a black and gold mask.

He would address his visitor with the same elaborate degree of courtesy
he would offer to a fellow-samurai; his voice and demeanour conveying
no hint of approval, or disapproval.  It would be up to Mr Snow and his
unknown associates to interpret his silence on the subject, and make
their next move accordingly.

Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General, had been under strict
instructions to say nothing to the long-dog apart from disclosing that
she was to be transported to another location, but it was all to no
avail.  Plunged into despair at the thought of their coming separation,
he had been hopelessly indiscreet.  Knowing that the man's tongue was
as restless as his dong, Lord Min-Orota had taken care not to tell him
the whole story, but the moment Clearwater knew she was to meet
YamaoShita at Kari-faran, she had guessed that the domain-lord must be
taking her to see Mr Snow.  April was the month when the Plainfolk
began to prepare for the 'walk on the water' - the name they gave to
the brief period of peace when the rival clans gathered at the trading
post at the edge of the Great River.

Since Cadillac was, apparently, quite content to remain at the Heron
Pool, Clearwater knew she would have to return to Ne-Issan.  In fact,
she had no choice in the matter.  When she had turned on the tears at
the news of their forthcoming separation, the Consul-General had been
quick to console her.  He had, he assured her, extracted solemn
guarantees from YamaShita that she would be provided with every comfort
and returned to him unharmed.

Clearwater knew there was no time to lose.  She begged to be allowed to
take a small token of his affections with her.  Something she could
caress in the hours, the days, the weeks they would be apart.  A small
lacquered box, perhaps, decorated with images of her own choosing...?

And once again she had fixed him with that look.  So appealing, so
ardent, so full of promise.

Toh-Shiba had been unable to refuse.  Those eyes, ah!

Her eyes were like shimmering jewels.  At one moment, they were
sharp-edged emeralds, filled with blue fire, and in the next, they
softened, melting into liquid azure pools.  Had he been a stone, he
would have plunged willingly into their mysterious depths.  He had lost
count of the number of women whose sexual favours he had enjoyed - or
made use of - but none had ever satisfied his physical desires or
darkest fantasies in the way this long-dog had.  She was, quite simply,
the most skilled practitioner he had had the good fortune to
encounter.

But she was more than just beautiful, her whole being exuded a
mysterious, vibrant sexuality.  She was the embodiment of carnal
desire.  And Toh-Shiba was so besotted with her, he was prepared to do
almost anything she asked.

Within reason, of course.

The truth was somewhat different.  The Consul-General had, without any
shadow of doubt, penetrated Clearwater's body, but every time he did
so, she penetrated his mind, imposing her will upon the fevered images
within.  Fantasy became reality.  TohShiba's wildest imaginings took on
physical form as she became whatever he desired; yielding and
submissive at one moment, ravishing and devouring him the next.  His
nerve-endings went into overdrive.  Sight, sound, touch, smell - every
sensation was magnified, then moulded to marry with his deepest
needs.

His weapon, already nobly proportioned by nature, was expanded by his
mind's eye into an awesome ivory shaft which he wielded with the thrust
and vigour of a stallion and the stamina of a pack-mule.  Time became
distorted so that when the climax came the delicious jolt that filled
every fibre of his being was transformed into a flood-tide of exquisite
satisfaction on which his mind and body seemed to float for a joyous
eternity.

In sum, the Consul-General thought he was enjoying himself a great deal
more than he actually was.

Clearwater drew no pleasure from their encounters, but she was obliged
to use her body in order to maintain her hold over his mind.  The
Consul-General was totally unaware that, whenever he lay with her, his
eyes, his ears, his tongue, his fingers and his indefatigable dong were
sending back signals that had been generated by his own lascivious
brain.

The power Clearwater had used was the same power that Mr Snow had
employed to cloud the brain of Hartmann, the commander of the first
wagon-train to enter Plainfolk territory.  But Mr Snow had no need to
encounter the sand-burrower in person.  As a Storm-Bringer he held the
Seventh Ring of Power and this enabled him to make contact through the
mental image of Hartmann that Cadillac had drawn from the
seeing-stone.

Clearwater's abilities were formidable, but they were far below those
of Mr Snow.  The powers that flowed through her did so by the will of
Talisman; they were not hers to command.  That was why she knew her
present actions had his blessing.  She had been driven into the liaison
with the Consul-General by the need to stay close to Cadillac.

Toh-Shiba's estate was not far from the Heron Pool.  If Cadillac had a
change of heart and turned his mind back to her and to thoughts of
escape, she would be in a position to help.

The Sky Voices had told her the wrath of the Iron Masters must fall on
the sand-burrowers, not the Plainfolk.  That was why her power - if it
had to be used openly - must appear to be that of the Federation.  She
had been distressed by Cadillac's apparent indifference to their
separation, but she quickly realised she had been fated to fall into
the hands of the Consul-General.  She had also seen enough to know
that, as a Mute, she was beneath consideration and that, despite her
well-formed body, her multi-coloured skin would condemn her to a harsh,
degrading existence as a beast of burden, .  staggering under the
weight of baskets filled with stones and earth, hauling cartloads of
excrement to the paddy fields, or yoked to an irrigation wheel.

Clearwater did not despise the condition to which her kinfolk had been
reduced, she deplored it, and had shed many bitter tears since her
arrival in Ne-Issan.  But she could not improve their situation by
sharing it, and she had no need to share it to understand what they
were going through.  Her task was equally arduous, and her humiliation
at the hands of the Consul-General was no less than theirs despite the
relative luxury with which she had been surrounded.  If what Mr Snow
had said was true, 'The Lost Ones' - the Mutes held by the Iron Masters
- would be freed when Talisman entered the world.  Mr Snow had also
said that Cadillac and she were the sword and shield of the
Thrice-Gifted One.  He had not explained what that meant, but he had
stressed that the prophecy which spoke of his coming and of the victory
of the Plainfolk over their oppressors would only be fulfilled if they
followed the path that had been drawn for them.

Part of her task was the protection of Cadillac, mainly from himself,
for dark forces were at work within him.

And so, when she had been briefly paraded before Nakane Toh-Shiba, she
had realised what was required of her.  Their eyes met only for a few
fleeting moments but it was all she needed.  Her mind pierced his,
uncovering his unfulfilled desires to possess the body of a long-dog.

She also sensed an element of lustful curiosity in his cursory
appraisal of her, but even the Consul-General had his limits.  Mutes
were beyond the pale.  Despite this, she was able to plant in his mind
the idea of placing her in solitary confinement with a supply of
running water and the small bag of possessions she brought with her.

Toh-Shiba obliged her by giving the necessary orders, but did so with
the slightly hesitant air of a man who was not quite sure if he was
doing the right thing.

'Each evening, when the guards grew lax and ceased their prowling and
peeping through the barred spyhole in the door, Clearwater used her
supply of pink leaves to remove the patterning on her body, starting
with the parts hidden by her walking skins.  On the fourth day of her
confinement, the transformation was complete.  The guard who brought
her meagre breakfast was so startled he almost dropped the tray, After
bringing his immediate superior to confirm the evidence of his own
eyes, the news was quickly relayed up the chain of command and, within
the hour, the Consul-General himself had entered her cell and ordered
her to be stripped naked.

Clearwater offered no resistance, standing with downcast eyes as
Toh-Shiba slowly circled her, drinking in every detail of her body.

Finally, he had ordered one of the guards who was standing behind her
to pull back the long dark hair that was shrouding her face.  As the
white-stripe drew it over her shoulders and twisted it roughly together
on the nape of the neck, her chin came up and her eyes met the
Consul-General's.  TohShiba had expected to see the cringing look of an
inferior creature filled with fear or apprehension; what he saw were
two lightning bolts of blue fire that skewered his soul like a fish on
a spear.

And from that moment onwards he was held in thrall by the power given
to her by Talisman.

$7

Despite Toh-Shiba's previously insatiable appetite for women,
Clearwater was confident she would not be replaced in her absence.  His
illicit desires were now totally centred on her and would remain so
even though they were to be parted for several weeks.  However, there
was no point in taking chances.  On the eve of her departure, while
Toh-Shiba lay in her embrace, trembling with ecstasy as he ran through
his latest round of imaginary sexual gymnastics, she directed his
thought back to the marriage-bed by overlaying her own image with one
of his wife.  It was, therefore, not surprising that the Shogun's
sister had little to complain about during her visit to the Summer
Palace at Yedo.

The power Clearwater had used to manipulate the Consul-General also
enabled her to direct the hands of the craft-master who had prepared
the lacquered box.

Without knowing, he had decorated the tops and sides of the box with
pictures that would speak to those who were to receive it: Mr Snow and
the golden-haired cloud warrior, whose destiny was inextricably
entwined with hers.

To the Iron Masters, who remained in total ignorance of her powers, it
was nothing more than an empty box.

An object of some worth and beauty, but nothing to compare with the
exquisite works of art that adorned the great houses of the
domain-lords and the palaces of the Shogun.  But the wood of the box
was filled with her being and the pictures were cunningly disguised
maps which could direct Steve to the Heron Pool and to the concealed
lake-house where she was held by Nakane Toh-Shiba.  When it was placed
in Mr Snow's hands he would feel her presence, her voice would enter
his mind, and the images would reveal their secrets.

In the middle of May, a flotilla of giant wheelboats, led by
Yama-Shita's own gilded vessel, had sailed from their home port of
Bu-faro, by the thundering waters of Nya-gara.  They ran south-west
along the shoreline to the port of Kari-faran in the neighbouring
domain of the Ko-Nikka - close allies of Lord Yama-Shita.  The
wheelboats anchored offshore at sunset and then, when darkness masked
all movement from prying eyes, a dory brought the female long-dog out
to Yama-Shita's vessel in a sealed carriage-box.

At dawn, the wheelboats resumed their westward journey.  The trip had
been uneventful.  As they crossed Lake Huron, Yama-Shita dispatched a
vessel to Bei-sita, and another to Mira-woki, to trade with minor
gatherings of Mute clans who trekked up annually from that
southlands.

On the tenth day of their outward journey, they sighted the usual vast
crowds of Mutes camped around the trading post at Du-ruta, at the
western tip of the Inland Sea.

During the week of brisk trading that ensued, Mr Snow, the M'Call's
wordsmith, had made several attempts to raise the subject of the cloud
warrior and his escort, but Yama-Shita had kept him on tenterhooks
until the eve of their departure.  Only then did he take the
unprecedented step of inviting the wordsmith and two clan elders on
board his own vessel.  The Mutes were, of course, obliged to submit to
a thorough cleansing before being allowed into his presence and had to
relinquish their foul-smelling animal skins and furs in favour of
cotton smocks and trousers.  By all accounts, they had not found it too
great an ordeal, and Yama-Shita was gratified to observe that Mr Snow,
when properly clad and with neatly dressed hair, carried himself with a
certain dignity.  Indeed, had it not been for the lumps on his
forehead, the bark-like skin on his forearms and the irregular pattern
of black and brown that covered him from head to toe, one might have
said he looked and behaved like a real human being.

As planned, Yama-Shita had confronted him with Clearwater - now richly
dressed in clothes provided by her ignoble benefactor.  She had been
warned what not to say under pain of instant death, and two hidden
archers were poised to carry out the sentence the instant he gave the
command.  They had only been allowed a brief audience, but it had been
most revealing.

Yama-Shita could tell that Mr Snow was clearly taken aback by her
changed appearance, but his expression was one of surprise, not
astonishment: the uneasy surprise of someone who knows he has been
found out, not the genuine astonishment of someone presented with a
totally unexpected transformation.  From that moment on, the Mute
wordsmith had proceeded gingerly, choosing his words with the utmost
care.  Their guarded conversation contained phrases whose meaning
escaped Yama-Shita, but he was not perturbed.  Mr Snow, on the other
hand, never recovered his initial composure.

Yes, thought YamaoShita.  Let that be a lesson.  I am a man who keeps
his word but I am not easily deceived.

Your move, my lump-faced friend .  . .

Besides delivering the box, Clearwater had another reason to look
forward to the journey.  Having left the Consul-General squirming with
anticipation at the end of a psychic fishing line, she was now hoping
for an opportunity to sink her hooks into the man at the centre of this
affair.  Yama-Shita - who, with the snap of a finger, could order their
return to the Plainfolk.  But she quickly discovered that the
domain-lord was no easy catch.  Throughout the journey she saw
virtually no one, apart from the two house-women who had been appointed
as servant-guardians.  The carriage box which had carried her from
Bo-sana to Kari-faran had been sealed while on the road, and the only
thing she had been able to see through the ventilation holes were small
slivers of sky.  At night, when the road convoy stopped to rest at inns
- known as post-houses - she emerged from the carriage box to find
herself in a room which offered no view of the outside world.

She had been similarly confined on the wheelboat and, as a result, did
not set eyes on Yama-Shita until the screens were drawn back to reveal
Mr Snow, Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck, kneeling on coloured straw mats
and dressed up like low-ranking Iron Masters in dark cotton smocks and
trousers.  His directions on how she was to behave and what she was to
say had been relayed by his samurai interpreter, a supremely cold fish
whose voice and manner made it perfectly clear he would not have chosen
to speak to her unless ordered to do so.  It was almost as if, by
conversing with her, he felt he was exposing himself to some dreadful
airborne infection.

-The samurai's attitude was understandable.  The ordered world of the
Iron Masters was based on the concept of superior and inferior beings
whose status was decreed by the circumstances of their birth.  It took
the form of a multilayered pyramid with a few fortunate individuals at
the top and a great many less-fortunate bimbos at the bottom.  But
while people could descend through the ranks, there was very little
movement in the opposite direction.  Rank, function and the attendant
privileges depended on the degree of racial purity and nobility of your
parents.  Your career possibilities were defined at birth.  Only top
people got the top jobs.  If your folks were at the bottom of the heap
then, in most cases, that was where you stayed.  Like all aliens,
Clearwater was excluded.  She was not only a social outcast, her
liaison with Nakane Toh-Shiba had made her a social leper.  She was a
danger to all who came into contact with her.

The few other Iron Masters she came face to face with on the outward
journey were not privy to the secret, but they all reacted in the same
way.  Her eyes rarely met theirs and when they did it was by
accident.

But even then, Clearwater could not force an entry into their minds.

There had to be a way in.  A half-open door, an unbarred window.

Toh-Shiba's undisguised lust had made it easy to penetrate his
defences; likewise the craft-master who, following the instructions
from his patron, had been eager to please.  But YamaShita's entourage
looked upon her with contempt.  To them she was a pawn that would be
discarded when her usefulness came to an end.  And she sensed that the
Consul-General was viewed as an errant knight who would also be
sacrificed when the time came.

As for Yama-Shita, he was the ice-king himself.  Cold, calculating,
implacable.  The image that came into her mind when in his presence was
that of a steel-jawed pike drifting imperturbably among the minnows,
maneuvering into position with barely visible movements of fin and
tail, then striking with electrifying speed.  YamaShita could not be
lured into the same trap as the sex-crazed Consul-General.  The walls
around his mind could be breached - but only by blowing them apart.

And this was not the moment to strike.

With Yama-Shita and his samurai listening to every word, she had been
unable to explain why she had removed her body-paint or why she was now
clothed in richly coloured silks.  She could only say what she had been
told to say, and hope that her few brief words would speak volumes.  It
was clear that Mr Snow was under similar constraints, but she had
understood the veiled references to what had been seen in the stones
and to the seed which had been carried away on the wind and which had
now sprung again from the earth.

The cloud warrior had returned and would be sent to rescue her.  It was
the news she had been waiting for and it meant the gift she had been
allowed to offer Mr Snow would not be wasted.

On the return journey, as on the outward leg, Clearwater was kept
incommunicado, attended only by the Vietnamese house-women.  From time
to time, Yama-Shita observed her with cold-eyed detachment through a
secret panel, usually when she was taking a bath.  The sight of her
naked body did not arouse anything other than curiosity.  Yama-Shita
had never been overly fond of the female sex even though he had a wife,
and two daughters amongst his five children.  Marriage, for him, was a
domestic necessity; a strategic alliance of interests.  Women were
merely a means to an end.  And an inferior one at that, for in Ne-Issan
even high-born ladies took second place to males of equal rank.

The noble, comradely love of one warrior for another was laudable, but
to allow your thoughts and actions to be dominated by a physical desire
for an inferior person and that included your own wife - was utterly
demeaning.

Love and the delights of the flesh were temptations the true samurai
constantly strove to master.  Given his natural inclinations and the
fact that, since early adulthood, his mind had been entirely occupied
with the expansion of his family's wealth and power base, YamaShita's
warrior psyche was untainted by such weaknesses.

The long-dog was tall, straight-boned and we!l-proportioned but, on
Yama-Shita's scorecard, she had three strikes against her: she was
female, she was an alien non-person, whose place lay below the bottom
rung of the social ladder, and she had repellent, hairy loins like a
Mute.  And in all probability carried the same infestations.

Hhhhawww!

The thought of dallying in such an unwholesome environment never failed
to raise a shudder.  If Nakane Toh-Shiba felt the need to couple with
this gutter-animal the least he could have done was to have her body
shaved but, even then, what on earth had driven him to possess her in
the first place?

Good question.  Unfortunately, having derided the stories of Mute
magic, Lord Yama-Shita had blinded himself to the answer: the
Consul-General had not possessed Clearwater; it was she who had
possessed him.

When the three wheelboats passed back through the

narrows at Hui-niso and were heading eastwards across Lake In towards
Kari-faran, Yama-Shita ordered the vessels to heave to.  Eight Mutes
four males and four females - were ferried over from the flank boats
and lined up on the stern with their backs to the long, iron-strapped
blades of the immobile paddle wheel.

Following the example of their escort, they bowed their heads to
Yama-Shita, who sat facing them on a raised section of decking.

Clearwater was brought out on to the deck by two red-stripes
sword-bearing functionaries who ranked below samurai.  Clearwater's
face was concealed behind the traditional rouged and chalk-white mask
of a courtesan.  Her head was shadowed by the cowl of a long, closed
cape, and her hands were covered by long gloves.  She bowed low as soon
as she saw YamaShita, then knelt on a mat to his left, between her
escorts.

Facing her across the deck were six more red-stripes, their left hands
resting on the hilts of their gently curving swords.  Twelve
white-stripes armed with whipping canes stood guard over the prisoners;
Lord Yama-Shita was accompanied by his usual guard of high-ranking
samurai - all wearing the ferocious metal masks that had caused the
Mutes to christen them 'dead-faces'.  Those worn by the reds and whites
were more modest affairs made of lacquered papier which6, like
Clearwater's, the sole decoration being a band of colour 'running down
the middle from forehead to chin.

On Yama-Shita's command, his interpreter turned to Clearwater.  'My
lord wishes you to choose a male and female from among these slaves."

After several painful lessons, Clearwater knew better than to ask
why.

The interpreter waved her to her feet and, after she had bowed once
again to YamaShita, directed her over to the lineup.

All eight Mutes looked utterly wretched.  They had already been afloat
for nine days and, like most of their kin-folk, had been suffering from
motion-sickness.

Clearwater had been sick several times during the first half of the
outward journey, but since then had only experienced bouts of
queasiness.  It was a very different feeling that gripped her now; a
feeling that something awful was going to happen.  She selected a young
man and woman at random, then returned to her place on the mat as the
couple were brought out and made to kneel before the raised decking.

They were both strangers: their clothes, which would have identified
their clan group - She-Kargo, D'Troit, San'Paul, M'Waukee - had been
replaced by a cotton loincloth.  Neither looked as if they gave much
for their chances of surviving beyond the next few minutes, but they
faced the prospect with the stoicism that was the hallmark of the
Plainfolk.

Through his interpreter, Yama-Shita asked, 'Are you satisfied you have
picked the strongest."?"

Clearwater bowed humbly.  'I believe so, sire."

'Lord Yama-Shita wishes to make certain,' said the samurai
interpreter.

'A person of your importance deserves only the best."  He barked out a
brief, unintelligible command.

With terrifying suddenness, the red-stripes facing Clearwater burst
into action, hurling the chosen couple back into line.  The red and the
lower-ranking whites then waded into the shackled Mutes, flailing away
with their whips, brandishing their swords, and screaming Iron Master
gobbledygook.  They were like a frenzied pack of coyotes yapping and
snarling at a group of cornered fast-foot.  The pointing swords and
canes made it clear what they wanted, but several of the masked guards
spelt it out in fractured Basic.

'up!  Up!"  - 'On wheel!"  - 'Now!  Now' - 'Monkey go for ride on
merry go-roun'!"

The eight Mutes were forced up on to the paddle wheel and were made to
stand in a line along the blade that had stopped in a horizontal
position: women on the left, men on the right, with an arm's length
between them, faces to the wheel.  The paddle blade was broad, but
their foothold was precarious.  The wood was dripping wet and their
movements were hampered by

the chains around their wrists and the heavy metal collar

around their right ankles.  Those who glanced nervously over their
shoulder to see what was going to happen next received several whip
lashes on the backs of their thighs.

Clearwater's feeling of dread deepened as she realised what Yama-Shita
was proposing to do.  The domain-lord waved brusquely to a subordinate,
who shouted to another minion standing by an open hatch.  The order was
promptly relayed below.  There was a loud hi ss of escaping steam, then
the deck trembled as the two huge wooden beams which drove the paddle
wheel took up the strain, one pushing as the other pulled the wheel
over and down towards the watching Iron Masters.

Guh-CHOONG-going, guh-CHOONG-going, guhCHOONG going .  . .

The paddle wheel had turned into a giant treadmill, forcing the eight
Mutes to climb up the descending blades in order to escape the whips
and jabbing sword points of the Iron Masters below.  But an even worse
fate awaited them.  If, through error or exhaust ion, they missed their
footing, they would be carried down by the blades and crushed in the
narrow space between wheel and the surrounding deck.

	Guhchoongah-join, 	guhchoongah-join, 	guhchoongah-join .  . .

The laboured ascent of the wheel turned into a mad scramble as it began
to move faster.  When it had achieved a relentless but not impossible
rate, another order was relayed to the engineers in the bowels of the
boat - presumably an instruction to keep the boat at the same speed.

Yama-Shita was running a sadistic endurance race; a race which only the
fittest and most agile could hope to survive.

Clearwater agonised over what to do.  The Sky Voices had told her that
she must not reveal her gift to the Iron Masters, but had they foreseen
a situation like this?

Should she ignore their warning and try to summon up the earth
forces?

Would they respond?  The wheelboats were now out of sight of land, and
a fathomless ocean lay beneath them.  If Talisman did give her the
strength to wreck havoc on her tormentors and tear their ship asunder,
what then?  It would not save the Mutes on the wheel and would also
bring certain death to any other Plainfolk held in chains below.  Her
heart sank.  She could do nothing.  Her first duty was to Mr Snow, to
honour her vow to do all in her power to protect Cadillac and bring him
safely back to the clan.

The first to fall was a man.

The white-stripes shouted excitedly as the Mute lost his footing and
made the fatal mistake of throwing himself lengthways along the
descending paddle blade in a desperate effort to climb back up, instead
of throwing himself clear.  His scream of terror and pain was cut short
as the massive blade scythed downwards, severing his right arm and leg
as it drove his mangled body into the sea below.  Amid roars of
laughter, two white-stripes picked up the limbs, waved them mockingly
at the Mutes on the wheel, then threw them over the side.

Rather than share the same horrific fate, two of the three remaining
men decided to throw themselves overboard.  The first - the nearest to
the right-hand rim of the wheel - scrambled over the top, ran with
amazing sure-footedness over the rising blades and leapt into the
sea.

He bobbed to the surface, floundered briefly, then sank beneath the
weight of his chains.  The second, following hard on the heels of the
first, reached the top of the wheel, then slipped and fell between the
blades into the maze of supporting timbers inside.  Trapped helplessly
in the narrow V formed by the junction of two beams and the huge axle,
he was plunged into the seething cauldron below.  When the same beams
rose out of the water, he was seen clinging to one of the paddles like
a waterlogged hamster.  Unable to get through to the sea beyond and
fearful of being carried higher, he fell back into the swirling
water.

At some point death overtook him, but the wheel continued to dredge up
his limp body.  Each time, it tumbled back down the rising blades or
slid down the dripping spoke beams towards the axle - which tipped him
forwards into the water and the whole grisly cycle began again.

The women were not slow to follow.  As the men made their leap for the
sea, the woman placed nearest the left-hand rim of the wheel tried the
same escape route.

Just as she was about to jump off, she also lost her balance.  Arms
flailing, she toppled sideways on to the deck, landing back-first
across the huge iron-strapped and bolted beam that drove the left-hand
side of the paddle wheel.  Her spine snapped with an audible crack that
sent an electrifying quiver through Clearwater's body.  The woman she
had chosen began to lose ground.

She cried out despairingly, begging for someone to help her.  She was
close to the middle of the wheel but the sole surviving man on her
right was too far away.  Oblivious of the danger, her nearest companion
reached out towards her.  Their hands closed round each other's
wrists.

Clearwater willed them to succeed.  To find the strength to climb over
the top and make that final leap into the sea beyond.  It was not to
be.  Within seconds, the woman was clinging with both hands to the arm
of her helper as she made one last frantic attempt to get her feet back
into step with the moving blades.  It was hopeless but she refused to
let go and, an instant later, they both tumbled to their death beneath
the wheel.

A new command from Yama-Shita was relayed to the engine room.  The
wheel slowed rapidly and, when it came to rest, the white-stripes
ordered the two weary survivors to climb down, laughing and patting
them on the back.  The young man was the one Clearwater had chosen.

The sudden switch from sadistic brutality to apparent sympathy at
having survived the terrible ordeal had left him and the remaining
woman confused and close to tears.  The six armed red-stripes moved in
and hustled them towards YamaShita.

On the order of the samurai-interpreter they turned the pair towards
Clearwater and forced them to their knees.

'Lord Yama-Shita wishes to know if you are happy to accept the gift of
these two individuals now that they have given proof of their
fitness."

Clearwater bowed in the direction of the domain-lord.

'I am deeply honoured to receive any token- be it great or small - from
the hands of the most high lord, and will do all within my power to
make my undeserving self worthy of his unparalleled generosity."

The samurai interpreter turned back to YamaShita expectantly.  The
domain-lord nodded.  The samurai bowed, then spun on his heel.  'They
will be brought before you shortly."  He barked out another
unintelligible order to the red-stripes and waved Clearwater to her
feet.

She paid the usual courtesies to YamaoShita and was escorted back to
her cramped quarters.

That evening, at the time the two house-women usually brought her
something to eat, the door was unlocked by the usual red-stripe but
instead of the two small dark-eyed women, Su-Shan and Nan-Khe, the
samurai interpreter entered followed by two white-stripes carrying two
circular dishes covered with domed lids.  Clearwater knelt as she was
required to do when in the presence of a samurai.

The whites placed the dishes on the low table in front of her and
withdrew.

The samurai motioned to her to lift the lids from the dishes.

Clearwater did so and found herself confronted by the severed heads of
the two Mutes who had survived the ordeal on the paddle wheel.  That,
in itself, was bad enough, but they had not simply been beheaded, they
had been savagely mutilated as well.

Clearwater was no stranger to either death or violence, but the cruelty
that had been inflicted on this luckless pair made her senses reel.

The samurai bowed.  'Lord Yama-Shita wishes you to reflect on the fate
of your Mute friends."  He placed a subtle emphasis on the word
'friends'.  'If such things can happen to those who did nothing to
incur my lord's displeasure, then the fate of those who betray him will
be terrible indeed."  So saying, he picked up the domed lids and
brought them together sharply, smashing them to pieces.

Clearwater flinched as the fragments of porcelain showered over her.

'You will never speak of this journey to anyone.  Nor will you ever
reveal what you have seen or who you have spoken to since you left the
presence of Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba.  In particular you will
never confess to having been in the presence of Lord Yama-Shita.  Is
that understood?"

Clearwater nodded meekly, and tried to avoid looking at the charred
sockets that had once framed the eyes of the two young Mutes.  'Yes,
sire..."

The samurai gestured to the severed heads.  'Neither you or your
house-women are to touch these.  They will remain here, uncovered, on
this table, until you are ordered to leave this vessel.  Is that also
understood, long-dog bitch?"

'Yes, sire."  Clearwater remained with her head bowed until the samurai
left the room.

And I also swear by Mo-Town, the great Sky Mother, and by the might of
Talisman, the Thrice-Gifted One, that the deaths of my brothers and
sisters will be avenged a thousand times over...

CHAPTER FOUR

At the beginning of June, Toshiro Hase-Gawa returned from yet another
fact-finding mission.  The Shogun received him, as before, in the
pebble garden.  Toshiro began with a progress report on the work at the
Heron Pool, and the problems encountered in trying to find a suitable
propulsion unit for the flying-horses now under construction.

The Shogun listened with his usual attentiveness, but it was obvious he
was more interested in getting an update on the affair between his
brother-in-law and the latest resident of his notorious lake-house the
female long-dog.

'She is no longer there, sire."

'No longer there...?"

Toshiro bowed under the Shogun's impassive stare.

'According to the information I have, she disappeared from the
Consul-General's estate towards the end of April ' 'So in other words,
you've caused me considerable anguish over the plight of my sister
without providing one tangible piece of evidence, and you are now
telling me it's over and done with,' said Yoritomo brusquely.

'Uhh... not quite."

Yoritomo's mouth tightened.  'What do I have to do to get the rest of
this story - drag it out of you with red-hot pincers?"

Toshiro bowed again.  'Towards the end of April, a sealed carriage-box
carrying an unidentified female personage of high rank joined a road
convoy at Nyo-poro.  That, at least, was the impression formed by the
few people who managed to catch a glimpse of her.

My informant was the wife of the convoy-master.

According to her, the lady in question also bore the mask of a
courtesan."

'Go on..."

'The name on the travel documents was given as Yoko Mi-Shima, the
portage fees were paid by a merchant known to have connections with the
Consul-General, and her final destination was Karifaran."

'One of the ports of call for Yama-Shita's wheelboats.

And you think this woman was....9' 'It works for me."

'Incredible... Did you check the local registers to see if there is
such a person, or was this name pulled out of a hat?"

'Well, I've never heard of her - but that doesn't mean very much.  And
I couldn't bandy her name around in case I gave the game away.  Your
grand-uncle, Ieyasu, might know.  It is said that the Lord High
Chamberlain -' 'Ye-esss..."  Yoritomo turned his eyes back to the
garden.  'Where is the monkey man right now?"

'Out west."  In the Iron Master's native language, the Mutes were often
referred to as saru - grass-monkeys and it had become the Shogun's
nickname for YamaShita.

'Do we have a return date?"

'Not a firm one,' replied Toshiro.  'But the ferry-captain did tell me
that a vessel was being readied at Nyo-poro to take one of Lord
Min-Orota's house-captains down to Fin.  The town is hosting a slave
auction in about a month from now."

'Which means the wheelboats should be docking at Kari-faran in the next
few days..."

'Kari-faran first, then Pi-saba.  That's the main unloading for the
goods to be sold on the open market."

'And you think this female will be on one of the boats?"

'Yes, sire.  No one else has been moved into the lake-house.  That in
itself is not significant but, if he was not expecting to see her
again, why would the Consul-General send her gift-wrapped to Kari-faran
at his own expense?  If he wanted to get rid of her, he could have had
her buried under the nearest dung-heap - or chopped up and fed to the
pigs."

'You're right.  But if, as you suggest, Yama-Shita has taken great care
to stand well back from all this - I mean, the way you tell it, he and
Min-Orota are practically fireproof- right?"

'It certainly looks that way..."

'So why would the monkey man compromise himself by taking the long-dog
for a boat-ride?"

'Good question, sire.  It depends what the initial deal was.  She may
have to report back - or maybe she's taken a shopping list of things
that they need at the Heron Pool.  There could be all kinds of
reasons.

Let's face it the risks are minimal.  You've given me to understand
that what happens aboard his wheelboats is a closed book ' 'It's true
that, up to now, we have never been able to get any of our people on
board."

'Then provided no one catches the lady actually getting on or off the
boat, he's in the clear.  Once she's back in the box, the only person
she can be linked to is to the Consul-General."

'Mmmmmm..."  Yoritomo pulled slowly at his bottom lip.  'It's a neat
theory but - let's face it, my friend - it's pure supposition.  Don't
get me wrong.  I'm not trying to wish this conspiracy away, but, so
far, you haven't presented me with one shred of hard evidence.

You haven't even come up with any firsthand information - it's all
hearsay."

It was a harsh judgement, but Toshiro was obliged to take it on the
chin.  He bowed.  'That's the way the system works, sire.  I am only a
conduit for information not a government spy."

'I know, I know.  I'm not questioning your competence.

And I have every faith in the people we have out there in the field,
but... I'm not entirely convinced you've interpreted the information
correctly."

'I share your concern, sire.  But I can name names.  Three, to be
precise.  If you were to bring them to the boil I'm sure they would
only be too happy to confirm that the female in the Consul-General's
lake-house is a long-dog.  With dark hair and blue eyes."

'Is there any other way we can get at the truth?

Something a little more devious, perhaps?"

'I can think of one way.  But it will take some organising and we would
have to move fast."

'Shoot."

'Our people at Kari-faran and Pi-saba will have to be alerted to
maintain a day and night watch on the wheelboats bringing in the new
shipment of Mutes.

They'll have to keep tabs on everybody who comes ashore from those
boats - and that includes any captured long-dogs.  We also need to know
in advance who is booked to travel on any of the eastbound road
convoys."

'That's a tall order."

'It is, sire.  But I do not believe it is beyond the power of the
Shogunate.  Our chief agents can be alerted by pigeon post."

'Okay.  Let's assume we do all that and find that some generous soul
has paid the portage fees for a certain "Yoko Mi-Shima" - or whoever.

What then?"

'Somewhere between Pi-saba and Bo-sona the road convoy has the
misfortune to be waylaid by lawless elements and -' Toshiro spread his
hands - 'the lady is kidnapped.  It's deplorable but, even under your
firm leadership, a certain level of criminality persists."

Yoritomo's eyes hardened.  'Do you realise what you're asking?"

'Yes, sir.  People are liable to get themselves killed.

But those who lose their lives will die in the service of the
Shogun."

'And if it turns out you're wrong about this woman?"

Toshiro inclined his head meekly.  'Then, no doubt, I shall also have
the honour to make the same sacrifice .  . ."

'I may take you up on that,' said Yoritomo as the Herald's eyes rose to
meet his.  'But let's suppose you're right.  What happens next?"

'Nothing, sire.  Once we have proof that she is a long-dog, we arrange
to have her put back into circulation without delay."

Yoritomo frowned.  'Wait a minute.  Aren't you going to question
her?"

'No, sire.  That would be fatal.  I am assuming that the, uhh outlaws,
if captured, will not confess they were in your employ."

'No chance..."

'Then it will work.  It is common knowledge that lawless bands of ronin
often attack road convoys in search of plunder, sometimes carrying off
highborn travellers to hold them for ransom.  On this occasion they
will find their prize is worthless - and they will turn her loose."

'Go on..."

'When the lady is recovered by her present owner and his patrons, they
will ask her what happened, and she will tell them what little she
can.

Since they are all party to the deception - and to a larger conspiracy
- they are bound to be suspicious about the real motive for the
kidnapping.  They're not going to be happy with her story.  They may
not even believe it.  They'll begin looking for evidence that points to
you but, if we don't ask her any questions, they've got nothing to go
on.

They'll be left wondering if they've been rumbled, how much you know,
who blew the whistle, and - best of all whether we are now running the
Consul-General's lady friend."

'I like it,' said Yoritomo.  'You'd better get moving."

'Uhh - me, sire?"  Toshiro was unable to hide his confusion.  'This
kind of operation is way out of my league.  The hit on the road convoy
would probably have to be made in Lord Se-Iko's domain.  That's not my
territory.  And besides, I don't have the authority."

'You do now."

Toshiro bowed low and tried to sound sincere.  'I'm honoured, sire.

But I beg you to reconsider your decision.  I am already known to be
your eyes and ears in the lands of Lord Min-Orota.  If, by some
mischance, he and his associates came to hear of my involvement in the
kidnapping of the long-dog, it ' '- would blow the whole deal .  . .

Yes, okay, we'll talk about it later."

At Kari-faran, the three wheelboats dropped anchor briefly before
making the run through the canal system to Pi-saba.  While stores were
being taken aboard and a certain amount of cargo was unloaded,
Yama-Shita was invited ashore to a lavish reception laid on by members
of the Ko-Nikka family.  During the meal, a senior lieutenant of the
absent domain-lord advised YamaShita that the known agents of the
Shogun were displaying a greater interest than usual in the movements
of goods and people in and out of the docks.

Yama-Shita thanked him and altered his plans accordingly as the
wheelboats proceeded on their way.

Most of the spies working for the bakufu were employed by the Shogun's
tax collectors; their task was to keep tabs on the volume of trade, who
was selling what to whom, and into whose pockets the money was going,
so that the usual swingeing demands could be made twice a year.  But
one could never be too careful.

There were other government agents looking for different fish to fry.

Yama-Shita had received word that the Shogun's Herald to the house of
Min-Orota had been trawling the sinks and stews around Ba-satana and
the newly built Heron Pool at Mara-bara.  Could a whiff of what was
afoot - or rather abed - in the Consul-General's lake-house have
reached the nose of this tiresome bloodhound?  Only time would tell.

Meanwhile, he and Min-Orota must do everything they could to distance
themselves in the public and private eye from Toh-Shiba and his hairy
gutter-animal.

From Pi-saba, Yama-Shita had been planning to make his usual ceremonial
progress along the Great East Road, the highway that, in the dim
distant past, had been known as the Pennsylvania Turnpike.  This was
the route that Side-Winder had recommended Steve to follow in the
belief that - by tailing Yama-Shita's party he would eventually find
his way to the Heron Pool.  But Steve was to be left high and dry for,
by the time the wheelboats arrived at Pi-saba, the canny domain-lord
had decided to take evasive action.  Only the long-dog and her fellow
renegades destined for the Heron Pool would return along the Great East
Road; he and his massive entourage would take the northern route (the
pre-Holocaust Highway 80) to Wirimasaporo before turning north into his
own domain - and he would leave a week before they did.  It would mean
missing the planned reception at the house of his southern neighbours,
the Se-Iko, but he had no doubt he would be royally entertained on the
way.

Reasoning that any government spies would redouble their surveillance
as darkness fell, Yama-Shita decided that Clearwater should be put
ashore in broad daylight.

Better still, she would be the first item to be unloaded.

He ordered her to be bound with strips of cloth into a foetal position,
then hidden inside a bundle of furs.

Concealed behind a pierced screen on the uppermost deck, he watched as,
amidst the usual feverish activity, it was carried down the gangway on
the shoulders of a sturdy Mute and dumped into a handcart.  Those
following him threw their loads on top then, when the cart was full, it
was hauled away into one of the warehouses.

After a bone-shaking ride, the crushing weight that had threatened to
suffocate Clearwater was removed.

Several more stops and starts followed.  Voices and footsteps came and
went.  Clearwater felt the cart move off again.  It rattled over
cobbled streets, then the bundle of furs in which she lay hidden was
hoisted on to another strong back.  She felt herself being carried up a
flight of stairs and was once again dumped unceremoniously, this time
on to a floor.  Despite the thick cocoon of furs, the impact drove the
breath from her body.  Doors slid shut and were barred, making it clear
that her period of incarceration was not yet over.  Even so, she was
relieved to be back on dry land.

Eventually the door opened again and she heard the familiar sing-song
voices of Su-Shan and Nan-Khe.  They untied the bundle of furs and
Clearwater emerged to find herself in another windowless room.  It was,
however, larger and better furnished than the cabin which she had
occupied on the wheelboat and which, for the last three days, she had
shared with two severed heads.  She had tried to avoid looking at them
but the room was so small, they hovered constantly at the edge of her
vision.  At mealtimes there was no escape: the house-women had been
instructed to place her meals on the table between the heads and wait
until she had eaten every last scrap.

It was not the heads that upset Clearwater.  Headpoles were a common
sight in any Mute settlement and were the visible proof of a warrior's
prowess.  The heads of two cloud warriors had been placed on poles
outside her own hut in recognition of the part she had played in their
downfall.  What she found hard to stomach was the hideous way in which
the two victims had been mutilated.  And that, in turn, reminded her of
how the other six had died on the great waterwheel, and the cruel
laughter their deaths had provoked.

The Plainfolk did not kill in cold blood, nor did they attack the weak,
or defenceless.  Where was the honour in that?  Warriors of both sexes
fought only to defend their turf against rival clans.  When it came to
killing, the dead-faces were as ruthless as the sand-burrowers.  They
were two of a kind and both would suffer the same fate when Talisman
entered the world like an avenging angel.

And that day would come.  Towards the end of the voyage and even now,
as she sat imprisoned in another gilded cage, Clearwater sensed that
the cloud warrior was already in Ne-Issan.  The golden one who had
captured her soul was here!  Close by to where she now lay!  Her mind
had picked up the faint vibrations that emanated from his presence
reflections of the power she had poured into his bladed quarterstaff to
help protect him from the dangers that lay ahead.  The stones had not
lied.  He had returned with death hiding in his shadow and would carry
her away on a river of blood.

What had been foretold would come to pass: the Plainfolk would become a
bright sword in the hands of Talisman their Saviour.  And that sword
would reap a grim harvest under a blood-moon.  The weeds and thorns
that threatened to choke the seed of the Plainfolk would be cut down.

Their roots would be torn from the earth and consigned to the fire;
their ashes would be ground to dust.  And from that dust a new
generation of Plainfolk would rise, straight and strong as the Heroes
of the Old Time.  The world would be made whole, the blood would drain
from the earth and the land would be green again.

For Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso, who, along with thirty other renegades,
had been captured and traded by the clan M'CalI, the relief at being
back on terra firma more than outweighed the harsh treatment meted out
by their guards.  Like all Trackers, Jodi had been trained to cope with
physical violence, constraints and abuse, but an extended sea-journey
and the debilitating effects of prolonged motion-sickness had been a
nightmare trip into a totally new dimension.  For ten days and nights
she and the others had sat huddled together on the quivering
through-deck of the wheelboat, listening to the rumbling thunder of the
paddle wheel and taking turns to be sick in a wooden bucket.  Whenever
it had fallen to Jodi to empty it into the endless, undulating
grey-blue wastes that surrounded them, she had been sorely tempted to
follow its contents over the side.

During the voyage, the relatively small number of renegades travelling
with the Mute journeymen had been taken away in turn for
interrogation.  The questions had been detailed and far-ranging,
covering everything from their name, rank, number and technical
qualifications to the operational capabilities of wagon-trains and the
conditions inside way-stations and the underground divisional base that
had been their home-station.

The fact-finding sessions were conducted with the same thoroughness as
any of the operational debriefings that Jon had attended, but the Iron
Masters' information-storage methods were right out of the Stone Age.

Each of the chief interrogator's questions were translated into Basic
for the benefit of the renegades; their replies were then translated
back into gobbledygook and meticulously noted down by a wizened clerk
on sheets of yellowish material resembling plasfilm using a brush and a
pot of black liquid.  The signs the dinks made were as incomprehensible
as the sounds they uttered, but Jodi found the whole process
fascinating to watch.  It might be a crazy way to do things, but the
old guy was certainly a whizz with a paintbrush.

At the end of the session a short length of coloured tape had been
threaded through a slot in the metal ID plaque that she, and everyone
else, now wore fastened round their right arm.  When all the renegades
on their boat had been processed, Jon and Kelso found they were the
only ones with blue tapes.  As wingmen, they had always considered
themselves something special, but the thought that they had now been
singled out from their fellow-breakers made them feel distinctly uneasy
about their future prospects.

The port of Kari-faran had marked the beginning of the scenic route
that took them across country through a system of locks and canals.  It
also marked the end of their period of enforced idleness.  Mutes and
Trackers were formed into work-parties and herded down gangplanks to
help open the lock gates and haul the huge wheelboats through the
sections where the gates were bunched close together.  Jodi had a hunch
the vessels could have manoeuvred under their own steam, but doing it
the hard way gave the Iron Masters an opportunity to knock the new
batch of 'guest-workers' into shape.

Those who weren't hauling ropes or heaving open lock gates were divided
into small groups and made to jog up and down from bow to stern until
they had completed ten circuits of the deck.  Jodi and the others did
this fun-run twelve times in the two and a half days it took to get
from Kari-faran to the inland port of Pi-saba.  Their wrist shackles
and the drag-weight clamped round their right ankle did not make it
easy or enjoyable but it did at least give them a chance to get a
breath of much-needed fresh air and take a look at the brave new world
they were soon to be part of.

The trio of wheelboats reached Pi-saba about four hours before
sunset.

There was a lot of traffic on the river .  Besides several smaller
steam-driven wheelboats, Jodi glimpsed square-sailed barges,
shallow-draft ferries and small, one-oared dorys going up and down and
back and forth across the waterway.  Columns of dark grey smoke drifted
up into the sky from an area where there seemed to be several large
fires.  Finally, the paddles slowed, stopped, then went into reverse.

Ropes were thrown ashore and anchored round bollards by teams of
waiting men and, after much heaving and shouting, the wheelboats
drifted gently into contact with the woven rope bumpers hanging from
the wooden jetty.

It was the signal for a mini-horde of white-stripes and boot-licking
Mute overseers to go on the rampage.  They ran through the closed deck,
cracking their whipping-canes across the shoulders of their human
cargo, yelling at them to get to their feet and form up in the groups
to which they had been allocated.

Having helped to pull the huge wheelboats through the canal system, the
Mutes and Trackers were now given the privilege of unloading their
cargoes.  But first, their wrist shackles were removed.  Every item
carried aboard at the trading post had been checked, labelled and
listed by tally-masters, and now the whole laborious process went into
reverse as the bales and bundles were carried down the gangways to be
carted away and piled neatly in stone-walled storage units that had
curious sloping roofs.

The only overground constructions Jodi had seen before coming to
Ne-Issan were the almost featureless way-station bunkers, the
forbidding work camps with their towers, traps, and wire cages, and the
fortress-like access ramps at places like Nixon/Fort Worth.  She had
never seen any buildings whose design pre-dated the Holocaust - in this
case by several hundred years- and the video archives she could access
with her ID card contained no record of them.

The unloading was completed as darkness fell, the final checks and
tallies being made by the light of lanterns while the newly arrived
additions to the labour force devoured a generous ration of steaming
rice, shredded vegetables and meat balls, washed down with a draught of
hot, pale green liquid.

It didn't taste anywhere near as good as java but what the hell,
thought Jodi, it's no good pining for the tastes of yesteryear.  We
ain't ever gonna get our lips round a cup of that again.

As she watched the tallymasters and their clerks comparing their stock
lists with the bills of lading, Jodi found herself wondering why some
bright spark hadn't gotten around to generating electricity.  After
all, they had steam power, everything she had seen so far had been
beautifully made, and the way the clerk had keyed all that data on to
the page was proof of their amazing dexterity.

It was really strange.  They had all the skills and the tools 'they
needed, and it wasn't as if they didn't know it existed.  The present
batch of renegades were not the first to be interrogated, and the
questions she and the others had been asked showed that they were
anxious to discover what made the Federation tick.

So how come they were still in the dark ages?

When the brief meal-break came to an end, Mutes and Trackers were
ordered to wash their thin metal cups and bowls in big wooden tubs
before putting them away in the small cotton bags that had been
distributed with the eating utensils.  The bags had ties so they could
be fastened around the waist.  There were no knives, forks or spoons.

You ate with your fingers and licked or drank whatever was left.

The next thing on the schedule was a clothing issue.

The Mutes had been stripped down to a cotton loincloth and their
moccasins; the Trackers had been allowed to keep their T-shirts - if
they had them - and their camouflage trousers and boots.  The night of
10 June 2990 was mild and dry, but they were all issued with ponchos
woven from coarse strands of jute, wide cone-shaped straw hats, and a
thin cotton quilt.  As with everything the Iron Masters did, the
distribution was smoothly organised, the strange sign and number on
their armplate being quickly stencilled on their poncho, hat and quilt
as they waited in line to pick them up.

Once they had been kitted out they were ordered to reassemble in their
respective colour groups.  Being the only blues, Jodi and Kelso decided
to stay well behind everybody else.  As people milled around in an
effort to find their place, they managed to catch sight of Medicine-Hat
and several other breakers from Malone's outfit.  They exchanged silent
but expressive farewells, then stood up straight and tried to fade into
the background as the white-stripes began chivvying people into neat
lines with their whipping-canes.  The canes were made from several thin
sharp-sided strips of bamboo bound together to form a flexible rod not
much thicker than your little finger.  When it landed, it married
itself to the curve of your back, transmitting its force along its full
length.  The edges cut deep into naked skin and it hurt, man, it really
hurt.

Encouraged by a chorus of screams, shouts and a flurry of blows, the
luckless Mute journeymen and women were formed into a long column and
then marched off to whatever fate awaited them.  Jodi watched them
trudge past but was unable to feel any sympathy for their plight.  The
lumpheads had been sold down the river by their own kinfolk; the same
four-eyed bastards who had traded her and the other breakers for a few
pots and pans.  She had had no choice in the matter, but these guys.

hell, you had to be pretty stupid to let someone swing a number like
this on you.  Serve 'em right.

A masked samurai and four red-stripes approached the goon in charge of
the assembled renegades.  Since docking at Pi-saba, the lower echelons
of Iron Masters had dropped the Phantom of the Opera routine, exposing
their flat-featured, yellowish faces and their curiously shaped eyes.

At first Jodi couldn't figure out why they looked so odd, and then the
penny dropped: they had no eyebrows - and the hair the samurai wore
wasn't their own.

In the ten miserable days spent at sea, Jodi and the other breakers had
learned the basic rules of Iron Master etiquette the hard way.  You
went down on your hands and knees whenever a samurai came by and you
put your nose to the floor and kept it there till he left town.  Above
all, you never looked 'em right in the eye.

It wasn't exactly a new situation.  The Deputy Provos back home
regularly roughed up defaulters who came on strong in the eyeball
department, but with these high-flyers it was fatal.  Federation
justice was thought to be swift and tough but it was a slow-motion
replay compared to what happened when these dinks got on your case.  If
you stepped out of line that was it, you got it right there and then.

Jodi had seen a breaker and three Mutes get their cards cancelled and,
from the few words they had managed to exchange with guys from the
other flank boat during the meal-break, it was clear they weren't the
only ones.  Whatever the treatment being handed out, the dinks allowed
no protests.  They expected total submission, and the best way to stay
out of trouble was to walk around with your head permanently bowed.  So
far it had worked.  There had been a few occasions when Jodi had toyed
with the suicidal idea of sinking her teeth into the cotton-clad
tootsies of the pugnacious pygmy that towered over her, but she had
wisely kept her mouth shut.

The red-stripes set down a stepped box in the middle of the assembly
area.  The samurai mounted it, surveyed the kneeling renegades, then
addressed them in Basic.

'Now you a-SITA!"  Everybody sank back on their heels and placed their
hands on their thighs.  Most kept their eyes down, chins on their
chest.  Those that didn't got a whip laid across their neck.

'Arr those wiv baroo arma-ribbon wee-rah now stair fo'wah!"  Baroo
...?

Jodi and Kelso exchanged hesitant glances, then leapt to their feet as
they saw several white-stripes converging on them with raised canes.

They ran through to the front and knelt, as directed, before the
samurai.

'Ah-raise ah-rye han' i-fuh you know how fly-uh sky ma-shin."

Kelso extended a clenched fist With a sinking heart, Jodi did the
same.

A similar procedure was employed during training in the Federation to
recruit 'volunteers' for shitty details like swabbing down the john.

The samurai switched into Japanese and issued a string of instructions
to his sidekicks.  Jodi and Kelso were hauled to their feet and hustled
away.

Jodi cursed inwardly.  Oh, Dave, you meathead!  Fancy telling those
dinks on the boat you were a wingman!  And persuading me to do the
same!  They'd never have known if you hadn't gone and opened your big
mouth.  What a dumb thing to do...

The red-stripes ran them at the double down a confusing maze of
alleyways, some lit by solitary lanterns, others in darkness.  They
stopped before a stout door.  It was quickly unlocked and they were
pushed inside.  As they ducked their heads, wooden-soled feet slammed
painfully into their backsides, propelling them headfirst on to a pile
of straw.  The door closed with a bang.  A key turned in the lock,
bolts slammed home.

Jodi and Kelso dragged themselves into a sitting position against the
wall and listened as the jabber of voices faded away.  It was too dark
to see one another but she could hear Kelso gulping down air as he
tried to recover his breath.  When he finally lapsed into silence, Jodi
heard her own heart pounding.

'At least we're still in one piece,' she murmured.

'For the moment,' grunted Kelso.  'Fucking Brickman..."  He spat into
the darkness.  'If you hadn't gone back for him, we wouldn't be here!

I must have been crazy to let you talk me into it."

It was a familiar refrain.  'It wasn't just you and me, Dave."

'Damn right!  You dropped Medicine-Hat and Jinx in it too!"  'Gimme a
break.  There were plenty of other guys who got picked up - and they
were miles away."

'Yeah, and we could have been miles away too!  If we'd stuck with
Malone, we might still be out there!  Instead of which we walk right
into it!  Christo!  That fucking Brickman was waiting to meet those
lumps!"  He laughed bitterly.  'I heard of guys bouncin' beaver but,
boy - I never thought I'd live to see a true blue dolled up the way he
was!"  'Yeah, I know,' said Jodi tiredly.  'I asked him about that.  He
said it was all in a good cause."

'Yeah, well, friend or no friend -' 'Dave, how many times do I have to
tell you?  He's no friend of mine."

'So you say.  But if our paths ever cross again I swear I'm gonna kill
that lump-sucking sonofabitch stone dead."

'I hope it's soon, Dave, I really do."  Jodi wriggled deep into the
straw.  Maybe then you'll quit bellyaching...

A carrier pigeon, landing in the loft atop the western tower of the
Shogun's summer palace at Yedo, brought news of Lord Yama-Shita's
arrival at Kari-faran.  A second confirmed his docking at Pi-saba; a
third announced his departure for Wirimasa-poro.  None of them made
mention of any untoward activity.  Using the abbreviated secret code,
the third message also reported that two long-dogs had been selected
for dispatch by road convoy to Lord Min-Orota.  One red-haired male,
one female, her face and neck disfigured by pink scar tissue.  There
was no mention of the mysterious Yoko Mi-Shima, or any other
unidentified voyager.  ˇ Toshiro began to feel uneasy, and took to
pacing the upper stone terrace along the outer wall, scanning the sky
for the next arrival.

Since carrier pigeons were arriving at frequent intervals from all
parts of Ne-Issan, his hopes were first raised and then dashed as the
incoming birds failed to deliver the news which could make or break his
career.

It was that crucial.  He had laid accusations of treachery on two
counts against the most powerful domain-lord in the country, had
accused a second, a close ally of the Toh-Yota, of disloyalty and
conspiracy with the first, and had accused the Shogun's brother-in-law
of dishonouring his wife by coupling with a long-dog.

If he now failed to substantiate any or all of these claims he could to
use a phrase from the ancient language of Iyuni-steisa - find himself
well and truly up Shit Creek without a paddle.

Six agonising days after Yama-Shita's reported departure for
Wirimasa-poro by the northern road, a courier pigeon finally winged its
way out of the west and brought a glimmer of light to the end of
Toshiro's tunnel.

The message came from Pi-saba.  The carriage-box transporting a certain
Yoko Mi-Shima had been booked into a road convoy travelling along the
Great East Road.

Ox-cartage had also been reserved for her two Vietnamese house-women.

The carriage fees had been paid by a merchant connected by marriage to
the Ko-Nikka family.  The given destination was Fin, but travelling
with the same convoy were two long-dogs bound for the Heron Pool at
Marabara.

The Shogun passed Toshiro the tiny slip of rice paper without comment
and watched with an expressionless face as his Heraid's eyes hungrily
devoured the almost microscopic text.

Toshiro was swept by an overwhelming sense of relief.

He was not out of the woods yet but he sensed it was all coming
together.

'What do you think?"

'I think we've got 'em, sire."  A quick laugh broke from his lips.

'Can you imagine - I mean, using the same name both ways?  Unbelievable
. . ."

'So... what now?"

'We have to lift her and the two servants while the convoy's passing
through Lord Se-Iko's domain.  As I understand it, you have him down
as, uh - neutral."

'Not exactly.  If the balloon went up, Se-Iko would probably wait to
see how things were going then come down on Yama-Shita's side of the
fence."

'Then it's the best place.  It would be safer once they cross over into
Mitsu-Bishi territory, but they're one of the pillars of the
Shogunate.

It would look too much like a setup."

'True.  But how about this?  Take them out of the convoy while it's
travelling through Se-Iko's patch, hold them overnight, then cross over
the border and release them on the other side.  That way we can
stage-manage whatever.  judicial response is required."

'Meaning?"

'My dear Toshiro, we cannot allow such lawlessness to go unpunished.

I'll ask Mitsu-Bishi to gather up thirty or more common criminals,
dress them up as ronin, chop their heads off to exhibit by the
roadside, and have him claim his men caught the people involved.

Before anybody gets to question them, of course."

'Who is going to make the raid on the convoy?"

'A very reliable group led by a man who answers to the name of Noburo
Naka-Jima.  A real pro."

'May I ask, sire, if he knows what is expected of him?"

'Not yet.  I'll set up a meeting.  The most convenient place is the
post-house at Midiri-tana.  Just south of Ari-saba.  You'll need a
disguise, of course.  Ieyasu will provide you with false papers and
give you all the details."

Toshiro sat back on his heels, his mouth opening and shutting like a
stranded carp.  'M-me, sire?  B-but ' 'Yes, I know what you said, but
I've decided it's better not to have too many people involved.  That's
why I want you to handle this personally.  After all, it is your
conspiracy.  And if anything goes wrong, I'll know who to blame."

'B-but sire.  Ari-saba is ' '- miles away.  That's right,' said
Yoritomo.  'You'd better get moving."

Toshiro placed his forehead on the top step of the veranda, then rose,
backed down the path for the required ten paces and turned and hurried
away.

Yoritomo watched him until he disappeared behind the neatly trimmed
shrubbery.  He knew that when the Herald had recovered his composure,
he would tackle this assignment with his usual vigour and dedication.

His hunch about Yoko Mi-Shima, the itinerant courtesan, was probably
correct.  Toshiro had a flair for sensing the ins and outs of this kind
of situation.  Even so, success was not guaranteed.  The risks were
considerable but it was worth the gamble.  If the Herald had proved to
be right, Yama-Shita and his friends would be severely, perhaps
fatally, compromised and his dear brother-in-law, Nakane, the
Consul-General, of whom he had never been particularly fond, would
finally get his well-deserved comeuppance.

And it was not that much of a gamble.  Yoritomo had taken steps to
limit the risks.  Noburo's 'ronin' could be relied upon to die without
revealing their connection with the Shogunate.  Indeed, not all of them
were aware they were in Yoritomo's employ.  His Herald was another
problem.  If things did not go as planned and Toshiro was caught in the
subsequent fiasco, he could be recognised and the Shogun's hand would
be revealed.  It was for this reason that Yoritomo had made separate
arrangements with the head of his own very private team of assassins
for Toshiro to disappear without trace if circumstances required it.

Yoritomo might, in Ieyasu's eyes, still be wet behind the ears, but no
one ever became Shogun without first learning to cover his ass.

It was not the way Yoritomo would have liked to conduct the business of
government, but his scope for action was limited.  The Yama-Shita could
not be brought to heel by direct confrontation.  They were too
powerful, their influence too widespread.  Yoritomo could not afford to
have the authority of the Shogunate openly rebuffed and the alternative
- armed conflict was out of the question.  The years of peace under the
Toh-Yota had sapped the desire for large-scale conflicts.

But it had not stilled ambition.  The struggle for power continued, and
the secret weapon Hiro Yama-Shita had turned against the Shogunate was
far more destructive than the greatest army ever raised.  It was called
progress.

Yama-Shita was a cunning, ruthless individual.  He was also highly
intelligent and capable of great subtlety.

Given the present situation, his plans had to be countered by equally
devious means.  The unsuspecting Herald who would soon be galloping
westwards, changing horses at the post-houses on the way, had likened
it to a poker hand.  It was an apt comparison.

Yoritomo weighed up the odds and concluded that the only way he could
win this particular game was to play a wild card.

As he came to that decision, the young Shogun had no inkling that the
wild card he sought lay hidden in a forest on the western flank of the
Ari-geni Mountains, above a road that had once been known as the
Pennsylvania Turnpike.

It took the shape of a hungry, dirt-stained fugitive armed with a knife
and a primitive halberd.  His body bore the swirling patterns that
identified him as a Plainfolk Mute.  But he was no ordinary lumphead.

His bones were well formed, the skin covering his young hard body was
as smooth as saddle leather and he had not been ringed or branded.  The
hard blue eyes were those of a warrior at bay, not a hunted slave, and
a keen observer would have noticed that his dark brown hair had turned
blond at the roots to match the growth around his mouth and along the
line of his jaw.

His name was Steve Brickman but, unlike the industrious long-dog at the
Heron Pool who answered to the same name, he was the genuine article:
2102-8902

Brickman, S.R. from Roosevelt/Santa Fe, New Mexico: graduate of
Lindbergh Field Air Force Academy, Class of 2989.

Trained as a wingman, Steve was now a 'mexican', one of a select group
of undercover agents controlled by AMEXICO, an ultra-top-secret unit
working directly for the President-General of the Amtrak Federation.

Officially he was dead, killed in action over Wyoming Territory.  The
fiction was not all that far removed from the truth.  He had been shot
down during a combat mission over Wyoming and, since hitting the
ground, had come close to death on more than one occasion.  In an
action-packed year, Steve had found himself in some tight corners and,
once again, he was in all kinds of trouble.

CHAPTER FIVE

For the past two weeks, Steve Brickman had been living dangerously as
an illegal immigrant in a foreign country whose people spoke an
incomprehensible language and acted with extreme hostility towards
strangers.  It had quickly become obvious that he could not have chosen
a worse disguise.  The Iron Masters treated Mute journeymen as slaves
who, when not working under the whips of overseers, were herded into
prison compounds; the groups he had seen moving along roads had been
chained together and closely guarded.  He had not come across any
renegade Trackers but, on the evidence so far, they were probably
getting a rough ride too.

Unable to make contact with anybody who could help him, Steve had
become a scavenger, stealing scraps of food whenever he could.  But
there were soldiers and officials everywhere checking the movement of
goods and people.  It was like trying to move around one of the
Federation's underground bases without an ID card.

Steve's basic dilemma was this: he could not move openly without
becoming part of the system, but if he did find a way to become part of
it as a Mute he risked ending up in a chain gang unable to move at
all.

In one of his more successful sorties he had managed to steal a padded
cotton blanket to help ward off the bone-chilling hours before the
dawn, but on his last two scavenging expeditions he had almost been
caught and had only escaped by the skin of his teeth.  To evade his
pursuers, he had taken refuge deep in the forests and there he had
remained, living on whatever wild game he could catch, and moving
mostly at night.  Steve had discovered that the hours between dusk and
dawn were the only time the Iron Masters ceased their relentless round
of activity.  Even so, it was too dangerous to light a fire; anything
edible he managed to catch or steal had to be eaten raw.

The day, now drawing to a close, had been warm and sunny but, for
Steve, it had been as tense and frustrating as the day before.  And the
day before that.  The mission that had brought him to the land of the
Iron Masters and which he had entered with hopelessly inadequate
preparation - seemed doomed to failure.  Steve had come to Ne-Issan to
find Clearwater and Cadillac.  His only lead was a reported
conversation which had mentioned a place called the Heron Pool.  With
no idea where that might be, he had been working his way across country
in a more or less easterly direction in the vague hope that something
might turn up.  Up to now, his luck had failed him and there was no
point in trying to kid himself any longer.  He had no idea where he was
or in which direction he was supposed to be heading, and the only thing
he had to look forward to was another night of fretful sleep on an
almost empty stomach.

When darkness fell, Steve curled up under the stolen blanket with his
bladed quarterstaff clasped in his arms.

His excuse for not being on his feet and on the move was the clouds
which, for the second night running, covered the sky; the truth was
that his body yearned achingly for a brief respite.  One half of his
brain agreed; the other half refused to co-operate, keeping one ear
open and the alarm bells jangling.  For a time it worked, causing Steve
to twist and fidget, but finally, when it became clear that he was no
longer responding, the obstinate grey cells turned in for the night and
whiled away the hours with dreams of food: hot, spicy Mute stews, dried
meat twists, new-baked flatbread and juicy yellow-fists.  The menu even
included a mountainous, mouth-watering pile of soya bean-burgers fresh
from a giant microwave.

Steve woke as the new day dawned, springing to his feet with the
alertness of a wild animal, all six senses attuned to danger.  He
slowly relaxed his grip on the quarterstaff.  The only sounds that
filled the air were the natural sounds of the forest: the cries of
birds, some shrill, some harsh, some melodic; an improvised pastorale
underscored by the staccato chatter and snuffling grunts of their
four-legged neighbours and played to a whispering audience of leaves
stirred by the wind.  The keen listener could also hear the creaks and
groans of trees flexing their sap-filled timbers as they continued
their yearly cycle of growth; trunks thickening inch by imperceptible
inch to support the upward climb and outward spread of youthful
branches; roots forever seeking a firmer foothold, wriggling snakelike
through the earth, splitting buried rocks with a primeval power that
defied comprehension.

The next move, now part of his daily ritual, was to check the tiny
radio transceiver hidden in the handle of his combat knife.  Under the
wooden side-pieces was a marvel of microcircuitry with an alphanumeric
keyboard on which you could enter text or data for high-speed
transmission at a pre-set time.  Incoming messages were preceded by a
signal that switched on the electronic memory.  Steve unclipped the
tiny stylus and activated the recall button which caused any stored
messages to scroll across the fifteen-character liquid crystal
display.

Eleven familiar letters marched across the screen from right to left
and halted.  MEMORY CLEAR.

Side-Winder, the undercover agent who had helped him stow away on the
wheelboat, had hinted that Karlstrom had been concerned by Steve's
failure to keep in contact.  There had been reasons for that, but now
he had been given the means to do so he had no excuses and no wish to
increase the nagging doubts about his loyalty to the Federation.

Unaware that the device had been rigged to transmit his call-sign at
regular intervals, Steve had programmed it to broadcast HGFR in Morse
code for ten minutes twice a day so that a fix could be obtained on his
position.

When giving him the knife, Side-Winder had said, 'The Family always
keep one ear close to the ground."

Steve, ever curious, had been trying to figure out how.

The maximum range of the radio knife was fifty miles.

But he was now, at the very least, more than a thousand miles from the
nearest way-station or wagon-train.  If the First Family were able to
track him, they must have installed some kind of secret network on Iron
Master territory which allowed them to pick up and relay the signals he
was pushing out.  So far, he had drawn no response.  Okay.  Maybe that
was because he had not filed any progress reports or asked for help.

Even so, they could have let him know that somebody was on the other
end of the line.

Despite his years of training at the Flight Academy, Steve's knowledge
of radios - like that of most Trackers - was limited to their
performance specifications, how to operate them and how to replace
faulty circuit boards.

Elementary stuff.  All you needed was to be able to read.

The communications equipment issued to Trackers contained diagnostic
displays which told you which bits needed replacing.  You got a
requisition order, drew them from the stores, and plugged 'em in.  It
was with the circuit boards that the mystery began.  The knowledge,
skills and processes that had led to their design and manufacture, and
the fundamental scientific principles on which it was all based
remained the exclusive preserve of the First Family.

Steve closed up the handle of his knife and replaced the strip of rag
that had been wrapped around it.  He knew his transceiver was
operational but was the network?  The only sure way to find out was to
send a mayday call - the one thing he dared not do.  He was in urgent
need of a map of Ne-Issan with a large 'X' marking the location of the
Heron Pool, and a videotape containing an instant course in Japanese.

But AMEXICO could supply him with neither.  Even if Karlstrom
condescended to bail him out, a skyhook - MX slang for an airborne
rescue - would serve no useful purpose, and the arrival of a backup
squad would only make things more complicated than they were already.

No.  He was responsible for the present situation and the only way to
come out looking good was to solve it on his own.

Steve made a long roll of the blanket, tied the ends together so that
he could carry it looped over his shoulder, and set off in search of a
stream.  In these hills they weren't hard to find.  He filled his small
drinking-skin, then slapped water on his face and arms and attempted to
rub off some of the accumulated grime.

The black and brown markings on his body remained intact.  Once
applied, the paste-like dye, first concocted by a long-lost generation
of Mutes, was impervious to sweat, did not stain or fade, and resisted
normal wear and tear.  Mr Snow had told him it could only be removed
with the aid of special five-fingered pink leaves.

When scrubbed vigorously against the skin, the crushed fibres released
a chemical substance that changed the nature of the dye so that it was
no longer waterproof.

Steve had not had time to check out the removal process himself, but he
knew it worked and had brought a bundle of the leaves with him in case
he needed to make a quick identity switch.

He thought back to the memorable day he had secretly watched Clearwater
and Cadillac 'come clean' and re-ran the subsequent events across the
screen inside his head.  Connecting with her eyes on the night he had
bitten the arrow had been a fantastic sensation, but the discovery of
her unflawed beauty was the moment when his life had changed; had taken
on new meaning.  Events had conspired to force them apart but on his
return to the Plainfolk, Mr Snow had revealed they were destined to
come together.  Knowing what he had been sent to do, Steve had tried to
push her from the forefront of his mind, but whenever he saw sparks of
sunlight trapped in the ripples of a crystal-clear stream her name
sprang to his lips.  When he knelt to drink in its coolness, the
reflection that rose to touch his lips was hers, not his own.  She was
everywhere.  The unbroken blue of a cloudless sky recalled her calm,
unwavering gaze; the slim-legged deer carried themselves with the same,
lithe, sure-footed grace, the scent of wild flowers recalled the
garlands in her hair.  Nothing had changed.  His feelings now were just
as strong, just as overwhelming as on their last night together when
she had slid her naked body between his sleeping-furs...

Hard-edged reality staged a comeback, bringing the curtain down on his
soft-focus reverie.  The unfulfilled longings aroused by such thoughts
were better buried.

Rising from the stream, Steve fastened his combat knife to the inside
of his left forearm, then wound a second grimy strip of rag around it,
making it look like a rudimentary splint.  By the time an assailant got
close enough to see what it really was, the blade would be at their
throat.

.The rising sun had not yet cleared the crest of the hill in front of
him.  There was still enough time to find a safe vantage-point from
where he could observe the lie of the land and spend the rest of the
day plotting out his next moves.  As he set off through the trees,
Steve made a conscious effort to clear his mind.  Dwelling on the past
did nothing to resolve his present predicament.  The rescue of
Clearwater and Cadillac was only one part of the problem.  When that
had been accomplished a stark choice awaited him.  If he made good his
promise to Mr Snow then Roz, his kin-sister, might end up dead.  The
alternative was to do what the Federation had demanded and risk losing
Clearwater for ever.  The situation was made worse by the fact that he
was equally bound, for differing reasons, to both women.  The prospect
of losing either was something he steadfastly refused to contemplate.

He would find a way to save both.

Or a way would be found for him...

Since graduating a year last April from the Air Force Academy under the
sands of New Mexico, Steve had seen and heard enough to convince him
that his life was being shaped by forces that neither he nor the
Federation had the power to control.  According to Mr Snow, he had been
born in the shadow of Talisman, the Thrice-Gifted One; the
all-conquering hero who, according to Mute prophecy, would enter the
world as the Saviour of the Plainfolk.  The Federation did not believe
in prophecy; the Mutes did.  For them, the Path was already drawn.  The
Wheel turned.  The Federation also had a dream of the future, but
Trackers used computer modelling and critical-path analysis to make it
happen.  Mutes had faith in invisible spirit beings; Trackers had faith
in themselves, in the system.  For them, the physical world had finite
dimensions and properties which could be quantified, potential
resources that could be exploited.  For the Mutes, the world of nature
was like a walled garden with a door, beyond which lay a vast
cloud-rimmed land offering everchanging vistas of unparalleled
splendour: snowcapped mountains with swift-running streams, tree-lined
valleys heavy with fruit, carpeted with sweet-smelling earth and tall
bread-grass, rolling plains rich with game.  Their cosmos stretched
beyond the ceiling of the stars, beyond time and space, to encompass
spiritual realms of immeasurable dimensions.  Trackers might agree that
earthly life was as a spark rising from a fire, flaring briefly as it
spirals heavenwards to be snuffed out an instant later, but the Mutes
believed the sparks were constantly reborn in the leaping flames.

Birth, death, rebirth - the cycle was endless: the ocean of being at
the end of the river of time revolved around an eternal sun, whose
fiery radiance was at the heart of all creation.

In the past few months, and especially during the last few weeks, Steve
had had few opportunities to ponder these mysteries.  Everything he had
been taught as a Tracker ran counter to such ideas.  The Federation
dealt in facts, not abstractions.  But his conversations with Mr Snow
still echoed through his mind.  Despite past and present dangers, they
had triggered something within him, sympathetic vibrations which had
brought his body into tune with the overground.  The alien world which
he felt instinctively was his real home.

As he continued his upward journey through the woods, Steve saw a small
furry animal with a bushy tail clinging to the trunk of a tree a few
yards ahead of him.

He froze in his tracks and slowly drew his hidden knife.

Raising his arm with the stealth of a praying mantis, he took aim and
thwokk!  The knife hit the exact spot vacated by his breakfast in the
previous millisecond with the speed of greased lightning.  A few
minutes later Mo-Town, the great Sky-Mother, offered him a new target
of opportunity.  His roving eye glimpsed the tail end of a snake
sliding away under a layer of rotting leaves.  Steve took a firm grip
of his quarterstaff, swept it round at shoulder height and - wrap!

Although the snake had vanished between the leaves, the blade struck
the head off cleanly.  Once again the quarterstaff moved with a speed
that surprised him - he'd first noticed it in the fight with the doomed
back-up squad.  It had vibrated in his hands and seemed to be pulling
the wooden shaft after it - almost as if it had a mind of its own.

Trembling with excitement, Steve quickly skinned and gutted the snake
and sank his teeth into the flesh along its spine, oblivious to
anything but the sensation of filling his mouth and gullet with
something he could chew and swallow.  He gasped with pleasure, and
nearly choked.

Oh, bliss!  Slinging his quarterstaff across his back, he moved on,
gnawing his way out from the middle of the snake towards both ends.

Reaching the crest, Steve climbed into the upper branches of the
tallest tree he could find and took stock of his surroundings.  The sun
now hung above a tree-covered ocean.  Wave after wave of forested hills
stretched away towards the eastern horizon, their undulating crests
running north and south as far as the eye could see.  Along the floor
and lower slopes of the adjacent valley were scattered clearings, some
with dwelling places; others enclosing square ponds and terraced
cropfields.

Smoke climbed from the chimneys of the dwellings, reminding Steve that
others, more fortunate than himself, were preparing to face the day
fortified by something more appetising than raw snake meat.  If he
decided to traverse the valley he would have to take great care to keep
out of sight.  Safer to wait till dark and hope for a clear sky.  The
moon was a thinning crescent and would soon disappear altogether, but
that didn't matter.

If the stars were out, he could use the roads.  Provided he kept clear
of dwelling-places and the guard-posts that controlled access to
bridges and ferry crossings, it was not as dangerous as it sounded.

And it was a lot faster than blundering through a pitch-black forest.

The Iron Masters rarely moved along the roads at night.  When they did,
the travellers were always accompanied by several dozen foot-soldiers
and everyone carried lanterns on the end of long poles.  They also made
a surprising amount of noise, banging sticks and small drums, blowing
on horns and talking at the top of their voices.  The din they created
could not have endeared them to the people living along the route who
were trying to grab some hard-earned shut-eye, but it meant that Steve
always had plenty of warning of their approach.

From his perch at the top of the tree, Steve saw a stretch of the
winding highway that cut through the mountains.

Its western end met the Allegheny River, running on, via the ferry,
towards navref Pittsburgh - the Fire Pits of Beth-Lem.  Since it was
wider than the other roads he had encountered and surfaced with tightly
packed stones, Steve had concluded, not unreasonably, that it must lead
to other places of similar importance.  Persuaded - for want of a
better idea - that the Heron Pool might be located at or near one of
them, Steve had steered a course roughly parallel to the highway,
dividing his attention between the landscape and the sky.  Cadillac and
Clearwater had been here for a good six months.  If the Mute had picked
his brains he ought to have something airborne by now.  Something that
he, Steve, could get a bearing on.  So far, there had been nothing up
there but the birds - and today's dawn patrol wore feathers too.  He
drank in the fresh breeze sweeping through the treetops, and headed for
the ground.

Since beginning his eastward journey, Steve had made a point of
spending part of each day noting the type and level of traffic along
the highway and the behaviour patterns of the people at work in the
fields and around their dwelling places.  What he saw confirmed the
impression he had formed of the Iron Masters back at the trading
post.

They ran a tight ship - afloat and ashore - and they were highly
organised.  Perhaps over-organised.

And it had occurred to Steve that he might have discovered their weak
spot.  Field-work and domestic activities were dovetailed into a
strictly daily routine, but their schedule also included rest periods
when people gathered in groups to chew the fat and - to judge from the
faint sounds of laughter that reached him - generally have a good
time.

Whether their Mute slaves found anything to laugh at was another
matter.

Having now walked and run nearly 200 miles - much of it over difficult
terrain - Steve had begun toying with the idea of waylaying one of the
lone horsemen who sometimes passed by.  If he found himself unable to
ride the beast, he could always eat it.  It was an agreeable fantasy
but nothing more.  The handsomely dressed warriors who rode back and
forth - sometimes singly but more frequently in groups - were a
superior kind of Iron Master whose appearance caused local pedestrians
to hit the dirt.  To take one of them out would cause the shit to hit
the fan in triplicate.

Steve had seen video pictures of horses, but the discovery of their
continued existence had been the biggest surprise to date.  The
Federation archives listed them as one of the many species that had
become extinct during the Holocaust.  But it was not true.  In the past
three weeks he'd seen close to fifty - always with samurai in the
saddle.  Horses were clearly a status symbol, reserved for the
privileged classes.  Everyone else walked, or rode on pushcarts or on
larger four-wheeled vehicles drawn by smooth-skinned buffalo.  Really
important people - to judge by the accompanying procession -were
carried shoulder-high in lavishly decorated palanquins.  Iron Master
society obviously had a pecking order just like the Amtrak Federation,
running down through the ranks from their version of the First Family
and the high-wire Execs in the Black Tower to' the greaseballs in the
A-levels.  Despite the vast cultural and technological gap, Trackers
and the Sons of Ne-Issan were cast from the same mould.  The arms and
accoutrements of the samurai showed they were gripped by the same
unbridled passion for hardware: they also subscribed to the idea of a
master race - and thought they were it.  But despite this potential
source of conflict it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that, at
some point in the future, the Iron Masters might decide to cut out the
middleman and deal directly with the Federation.  If they did, Talisman
and the Plainfolk would have to get their act together.  Fast.

Keeping to the western flank of the mountain - still shaded from the
sun - Steve headed in the direction of the highway.  It lay at the
bottom of a man-made gorge whose smooth sloping sides were now covered
by a tangled carpet of vegetation.  At some time in the past, a wide
band on either side of the highway had been cleared of trees, but the
forest above was slowly reclaiming the lost ground.  Several
generations of saplings had sprung up amid the bushes and the long
grass, and the strongest were beginning to elbow the weaklings out of
the way in the race to grab the biggest chunk of sky.

Before Steve could select a proper hiding place, a motley group of
horsemen burst out of the trees on the far side of the highway and
zigzagged down through the belt of saplings.  Caught on the wrong foot,
Steve froze awkwardly, 'unsure whether to duck or run.  His surprise
turned rapidly to panic as the riders clattered across the road and
came thundering up the slope towards him, their slung weapons bouncing
off their backs.  The fact they kept looking over their shoulders
suggested that they, and not he, were the quarry but Steve was not
about to hang around for confirmation.  It was time to get the hell
out.  MOVE it, Brickman.t Powered by a surge of adrenalin, Steve turned
and sprinted back up through the trees, pausing to check the scene
behind him as he reached the crest.  The rising steepness of the slope
had obliged the riders to cut back and forth across its face, slowing
their mad gallop to a laboured canter.  The wild bunch had become a
strung-out line and now the home team - approximately double in number,
and decked out with banners and matching armour - were streaming out of
the woods, firing volleys of arrows across the gorge as they galloped
down towards the highway.

And scoring hits.  Ouch!  A horse reared up and fell backwards on top
of its rider.  Steve accelerated rapidly.

There was no point in getting caught in the crossfire.  His frantic
dash through the trees reminded him of the afternoon he had been chased
through another forest by a posse of Mutes.  He had given them the slip
by diving into a rock pool and hiding close to the bank among the
reeds.

Given the chance he'd have done the same thing now but he was too high
up.  Every stream he came across was no more than ankle-deep.  The only
thing he could do was keep going.  He settled down into the loping
stride he'd picked up from running with the M'Call Bears.  The
accumulated aches and pains of the past weeks merged, becoming an
exquisite burning sensation that enveloped him from head to foot as he
pushed his body to the limits.

It went past the point of being unbearable and induced a strange kind
of euphoria that damped down all physical sensation.  He could barely
feel his feet thudding against the ground, or his pain-wracked lungs
that, only moments before, had felt as if they were about to explode
inside his chest.  He was conscious of being outside himself.  It was
as if his brain had parted company with his body and was floating just
above and behind him, saying, 'You go right ahead and do what you have
to do, fella.  Don't worry about me.  I can't feel a thing."

Steve had been there before and knew from experience that he could
maintain the same relentless pace for several hours.  But he could not
outrun a galloping horse - and that was fast becoming his most pressing
problem.  He had changed direction several times but whichever way he
turned, the fugitive riders who were obviously as confused as he was
always' seemed to end up heading in the same direction!

The only solution was to take to the trees and stay there till the
excitement died down.  But what would he do if the home team spotted
him and took him for one of the opposition?  He would be trapped, out
on a limb like a treed mountain-cat.  But then, if they caught him it
wouldn't matter who they thought he was.  The jig would be up.  It was
a chance he'd have to take.  He shinned up the leafiest tree he could
find, pulling his legs up out of sight as the ground shook under the
hooves of the front runners.

The gaps in the leaves provided Steve with a few brief snapshots of the
riders as they sped by, crouched low over their horses.  Their faces
and arms were smeared with dirt, and their dress was as varied as the
ragtag uniforms worn by Malone's renegades.  Some wore armour, but
nobody seemed to own a full set.  Two or three had small square shields
fixed to their shoulders.  Most had helmets of one sort or another,
some with wide sweeping brims and what looked like metal horns or
crescent moons attached to the front.  A few had a tangled mess of
shoulder-length hair streaming out from under headbands of cloth.  All
the riders Steve caught a glimpse of wore curving swords- the mark of
samurai- plus a variety of other weapons: spears, halberds, two-bladed
axes and bows and arrows.  Were these outlaws?  Did the Iron Masters
have their own brand of breakers?

Moving to a higher branch, Steve saw another sizeable bunch gallop
through the small clearing, followed a short while later by a handful
of stragglers.  The last one had turned round in his saddle and was
shouting hoarsely in the Iron Masters' nonsense language.  From his
gestures it was clear he was urging on someone who had fallen behind.

He paused briefly, his sweating horse pawing the ground nervously, then
rode on.  A few seconds later Steve caught sight of another rider.  But
this guy was in trouble.  His horse had slowed to a trot and he was
hunched up in the saddle with two arrowshafts sticking out of his
back.

Now that, thought Steve, must hurt.  He lost sight of the rider as he
crossed the clearing, then heard a sharp crack and a dull thud rolled
into one.

Peering down the line of the trunk, Steve saw that the guy had fallen
off and now lay at the foot of the tree.  His wide-brimmed helmet and
the shanks of long hair that went with it had rolled to one side,
revealing a head that was completely bald.  The riderless horse moved
restlessly back and forth near by, snatching hurried mouthfuls of
grass.  Steve was filled with a strange feeling.  This has to be fate,
he thought.  It was totally mad.  Insane.  But a voice that was not his
own urged him on.  Quickly!  Before it's too late!  His mind
resisted.

But I don't know how to ride these things!  Never mind, said the
voice.

Just do it/ He dropped out of the tree and took a quick look at the
fallen Iron Master.  He had landed on his back, flattening the
lacquered wooden arrowshafts beneath him.  The impact had driven the
bladed points out through his chest.

He wasn't dead, but he soon would be.  Steve relieved him of his sword,
then scooped up the long-haired helmet and put it on his head.  Pulling
the plaited strap firmly under his chin, he gathered up the reins of
the horse, took a deep breath and hauled himself aboard.

Okay, sweet Sky-Mother, let's go.t The horse took off with Steve
bobbling around in the saddle like a ping-pong ball in a shooting
gallery.  But Mo-Town - or some other benign deity - kept him in his
seat until his feet found the stirrups and some innate sense of rhythm
brought his undulating backside into partial phase with the rise and
fall of the horse beneath him.  What Steve wanted to do most of all was
stop and get off, but he didn't know which buttons to press.  The
alternative was to throw himself off, but he was too scared to try.

The horse was going too fast and he was too high off the ground.  If he
failed to get clear and fell under its hooves...

Steve drove the thought from his mind.  It was clear he had made a
serious tactical error.  He had shinned up the

Ł

tree to get out of the way of the wild bunch - and here he was hard on
their heels!  In fairness, it had to be said it was not of his own
volition.  His entire energies were concentrated on staying upright in
the saddle and avoiding getting his brains knocked loose by low-hanging
branches.  There was no way he could steer at the same time - even if
he had known how.  Steve had, in fact, lost the reins and was hanging
on, white-knuckled, to the front edge of the saddle.  His feet kept
springing out of the stirrups and every time they banged against the
horse's ribs, it tensed up and made another wild surge forward.

Christo!  What on earth had persuaded the Iron Masters to use such a
capricious means of transportation?  No wonder they had no hair.  They
must have torn it all out trying to figure out how to stay on top of
the goddamned things.

Steve could see that a horse offered certain advantages: if you had a
lot of ground to cover it was the animal that did most of the work in
getting you there.

But jeeezzz - the pain!  The sinews in his thighs were zinging like
overstretched rigging wires, and every time his ass collided with the
horse it felt as if a red-hot knife had been driven into the base of
his spine.  The discomfort was something he could cope with.  What
worried him most was the fact he was now the meat in the sandwich: if
he tried to slow the horse down the home team might catch up with him;
if it went too fast, he could land himself in the arms of the wild
bunch.

Unaware of the problems it was causing its rider, the horse galloped
on, weaving its way through the trees without the slightest
hesitation.

Since there was no trail beneath its feet, it must have been following
an internal route map.  Which indicated the animal was not as stupid as
it looked - even if the route did not always contain sufficient
headroom for the person on its back.  Within a short time, Steve's face
and limbs were striped, bruised and bleeding from the searing
whiplashes delivered by bush and branch along the way.  The headlong
dash for freedom was also taking its toll of the horse.  Its breathing
was harsh and laboured, and its quivering flanks were covered with a
soapy lather, but somehow the animal found the stamina to keep going
mile after mile, driven on by the same herd instinct Steve had seen
demonstrated by fast-foot and buffalo.  Rider and mount were possessed
by the same urgent need to reach some place of safety.  But where might
that be?  It was the kind of situation he always did his utmost to
avoid.

So what's happening here, Brickman?  I mean, aren't you the guy that
likes to plan ahead?  Y'know -figure out all the angles... ?

Yeah, right, but,Never mind the 'buts'!  Come on!  it'S about time you
got a handle on this situation.  Let's see some positive action here!

Easier said than done.  Steve was still the guy who liked to figure out
all the angles, but he had noticed that ever since Clearwater had
crossed his path he had become prey to sudden, dangerous impulses.  The
off-the-cuff decision to stow away on board one of Yama-Shita's
wheelboats without asking even the most elementary questions about what
he might find when he got to wherever they were going was a prime
example.

Leaping astride this animal was another.  It was just not like him.  Or
was it?

From the very beginning, entering the blue sky-world was like coming
home.  What he had experienced ran counter to everything he had been
taught.  It was like being torn in two.  He had become impatient and
increasingly rebellious, had discovered feelings he could not put into
words and was now driven by the need to find his rightful place in the
whole great scheme of things.  This inner conflict had given birth to
the sure and certain feeling that it was the overground that held the
key to the questions which plagued him.  It was here that he would
discover not only the truth about himself but also the dark secrets so
jealously guarded by the First Family.  Perhaps, in allowing the horse
to carry him wherever it had a mind to, he was being given a sign.  A
gentle warning to stop trying to manipulate people, to always be in
control.  Perhaps he was being asked to put his life in someone else's
hands - to allow them to manipulate him.  It was an interesting
proposition, and one he would definitely give some serious thought
to.

But not right now.

The shouts and trumpet calls of his pursuers slowly died away, and
there was no sign of the wild bunch up front.  The fear that had turned
Steve's balls into frozen walnuts slowly melted away.  After a while,
the forest began to thin.  Soon there were more bushes than there were
trees, more sky than leaves, and the only thing smacking him in the
face was fresh air.  Ahead of him was a rise in the ground.  Steve
gathered up the reins and managed to get the horse to stop short of the
crest so that, by standing up in the stirrups, he could take a peek at
what lay on the other side.

The ground fell away unevenly into a rock-strewn river valley.  On the
far side there was more broken ground rising up to meet a heavily
forested slope which ringed a mountainous, flat-topped chunk of bare
rock.

Its deeply fissured sides were only a few degrees off the vertical and,
from a distance, it looked like the stump of a giant stone tree rooted
in a mound of red moss; a fossilized relic of some bygone age.

Anxious to reach its chosen destination, the horse moved forward,
straining at the bit.  At the same instant, the wild bunch - or at
least some of them - made their second appearance of the day.  This
time, however, they were not heading towards him - at least not yet.

They came out between the trees on the far side of the river, angling
down from left to right across his front.  Once again they were closely
pursued by flag-carrying comrades, although now the numbers looked
roughly equal.

Steve hauled back savagely on the reins, pulling the horse's head round
to the left.  The animal circled, stamping its hooves nervously and
tossing its head in an effort to tear the reins from his grasp.  Steve
fought back, cursing the wretched beast for making him divide his
attention at such a crucial moment.

Twisting from side to side in his saddle, he caught brief glimpses of
the wild bunch as they raced along the river bank to where the broad,
placid current rippled over a pebble bed.  He felt a sudden pang of
anxiety as they crossed over towards him in a cloud of spray, but they
promptly veered off to his right, fanning out in three different
directions - presumably in an effort to throw off or divide their
pursuers.

The ruse didn't work because the home team also had a few tricks up
their sleeve.  With a dramatic suddenness which took Steve totally by
surprise, a second group of beflagged samurai burst out of the forest
from which he himself had just emerged.  Fortunately, they were way
over to his right and, by some miracle, had failed to spot him.  Even
so, the unexpected chorus of bloodcurdling yells was a real
heart-stopper.  Co-lumbus!  To think he had just been sitting there
right out in the open!

Having now discovered how the reins worked, Steve urged the horse
towards the river, going down to his left, away from the action.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the samurai's pincer movement
had cut off the wild bunch's escape route, causing them to wheel about
in confusion, swords waving in the air.  A fold in the ground blocked
Steve's view of the ensuing clash of arms, and by the time he had
managed to get safely across the river the sight and sounds of battle
had faded.

Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some...

Whichever side carried the day was immaterial to Steve.  He had no
reason to believe that renegade Iron Masters treated Mutes any better
than their law-abiding kin.  Only one thing mattered: he, Steven
Roosevelt Brickman, was still up and running.

And so was the horse.  Once they were .clear of the fire-fight, Steve
had allowed it free rein and it now moved forward purposefully along
the steepening forest trail towards the forbidding ramparts of the rock
tower which Steve had mentally christened 'Big D' in affectionate
memory of Buck McDonnell, the crewcut, granite-jawed Trail Boss on the
wagon-train known as The Lady.

The great stretch of landscape that now lay below and beyond the trees
reminded him of the view from the cockpit of his Skyhawk.  His thoughts
drifted back to the moments of danger he had shared with McDonnell and
the rest of the crew during the Battle of the Now and Then River.  Jodi
Kazan, his Flight Leader, swept overboard, wrapped in a white-hot ball
of fire while attempting to land her Skyhawk during the height of the
storm.  Gus White, fellow-graduate wingman, who had flown away leaving
him to die in a blazing cropfield.  And the rest of the flight section
who had all perished on the same fateful day.  Booker and Yates,
consumed like moths in a flame when their aircraft were hit by
lightning.  Webber, killed in the take-off ramp.  Caulfield, his head
transfixed by a crossbow bolt, hauled from the cockpit with his
eyeballs hanging out of their sockets.  Ryan plunging to earth,
incinerated on impact by his own planeload of napalm.

Lou Fazetti and Naylor who, seized by a sudden, inexplicable madness,
shot each other down.

By a combination of luck and circumstance, Jodi, her face and neck now
disfigured by scar tissue, had survived with the help of a band of
Tracker renegades.  But her luck had run out at the same time as
theirs.  She was now in the hands of the Iron Masters and on her way to
Heron Pool.  Prior to her capture and trade-in by the clan M'CalI, she
had saved Steve's life, and he had made up his mind to rescue her along
with Cadillac and Clearwater -just as he had vowed to get even with Gus
White.  And the others.  The people who had conspired to deny him the
graduation honours that were rightfully his.  The memory of past
injustices, and the cynical way he had been pressured by the threats
against his kin-sister Roz, put the iron back in his soul.

So many scores to settle.  So much still to do...

As the horse emerged above the tree line, Steve looked down towards the
valley.  Most of it was obscured by the forested slope he had just
climbed, but he could see, almost directly below him, the stretch of
broken water where the wild bunch had crossed over the river.

From his previous flight experience he judged himself to be some 800
feet above it.  The horse moved on, picking its way along an
increasingly precipitous trail through the scrub that clung like a red
foam to frozen cascades of fallen rock.

Trees and rockfaces held no terrors for Steve.  He had a good head for
heights and flying like a bird was the greatest thrill of all.  But
this was something different.  He was not standing on his own two feet
and his hands were not firmly on the controls.  He was balanced
precariously on top of a strange beast that might stumble and lose its
balance at any minute.  That unsettling thought, plus the constant
swaying back and forth, was making him feel distinctly queasy.  More
than once he felt compelled to get off and bring up his snake-meat
breakfast but, by the power of positive thinking, he succeeded in
holding down the bile that kept rising in his throat and stayed on
board.

The horse worked its way slowly towards the eastern flank of the rock
tower.  Steve looked up and scanned its weathered face.  Big D looked
unassailable - like the man it was named after.  The animal must know
what it was doing but, as far as Steve could see, there was nothin up
there and no way to go but down.  He had the impression the horse had
come to the same conclusion.

It was certainly not in any shape to go much higher.  Its pace had
slowed to a plodding walk and its neck sagged under the weight of its
head.  With increasing frequency it missed its footing, causing Steve
to rock alarmingly in the saddle, but it just wouldn't give up.  An
admirable stubborn streak drove the exhausted animal onwards and
upwards until they reached a deep fissure.  They had already passed
several, but it evidently knew which one it was looking for.

Steve glanced back down towards the river as they turned off the trail,
but a curve in the rock slope now blocked off the valley, leaving only
a distant view of the surrounding landscape.  They were now about 1,000
feet up and, at a rough guess, had climbed two-thirds of the way
towards the summit.  Once they were a few yards inside the fissure all
he could see of the outside world was sky and, pretty soon, not much of
that.  The fissure was not just a narrow vertical fault-line it was a
deep cleft that went not only into the rock tower but all the way up to
the top.  At another time and place it was the kind of feature Steve
might have been tempted to explore - except for one unsettling
detail.

During, or after the formation of the cleft, several hundred tons of
rock had come loose from the sides and were now wedged some fifty feet
above the narrow floor.  The ceiling of rock appeared to be anchored in
place by several enormous boulders, but all it needed was a sizeable
jolt of what the Mutes called 'earth thunder' and the whole lot could
come crashing down.

Heedless of the possible danger, the horse plodded along a series of
rising S-bends.  A leaden gloom replaced the last vestiges of daylight,
and as they climbed deeper into the belly of the mountain the jagged
ceiling of boulders got lower and lower, until its menacing bulk was
only a few feet above Steve's head.  After a few more twists and turns,
he found himself sitting hunchbacked in the saddle facing a wall of
rock.  It was a dead end.

Brilliant... There was not even room to turn the horse round.  Which
bit did you have to kick or pull to engage reverse gear?  What a
pain!

While Steve fumed silently, his borrowed helmet jammed against the
roof, the horse stood patiently with his nose against the rock wall.

Then, when his ungrateful rider failed to take the appropriate action,
he pawed at the wall, first with his right hoof, then with his left.

Steve got the message.  The horse wasn't as big a dummy as he
thought.

It was trying to tell him this wasn't a dead end.

What looked like a solid wall of rock was a door- but how the eff-eff
did you open it?  He slithered out of the saddle and discovered he was
unable to stand upright.  Arching his back, he staggered about
bent-legged, clutching his kidneys as he tried to get his knees
together.  His thighs had locked and his butt-bones were...

Kristopher Columbus.

Gritting his teeth, Steve ran his hands over the rock, testing its
surface.  It was the real thing all right, but when he ran his fingers
down the corners where it met the side-walls he thought he detected a
slight draft.

Cunning bastards.  it was a door!  Steve pulled out his knife and tried
to insert it between the end wall and the uneven rock surround.

Whoever had put it together had done a good job.  It was a real tight
fit.  But there had to be a handle or a secret catch somewhere.  Steve
pushed the horse back out of the way and scrabbled around amongst the
loose rocks and rubble lying against the foot of the wall.  He then
checked the side-walls again and peered up at the ceiling.  No rope
pulls, no hidden levers or handles.  Nothing.

Shit...

Steve sagged against the wall bent-legged, still unable to straighten
up.  The pain that began at his knees had now spread all the way up his
spine and out through his shoulder-blades.

Fucking horses...

He eyed the foam-flecked animal as it returned to scrape a hoof against
the end wall, tossing its head impatiently.  Just you wait, fella.  If
we get through this and clear of whatever's behind it, I'm gonna turn
your ass into beefburgers...

The horse snorted dismissively.

Steve mastered his frustration and tried reasoning with himself.  Come
on, Brickman!  A smart guy like you should be able to figure this
out.

These dinks may know how to join two pieces of wood together but their
technology is still in the stone age.  There are only so many ways this
stone can move and you can bet your last meal credit they've gone for
the simplest solution.  If this is a secret entrance then you've got to
be able to open it in a hurry.

The first glimmerings of a possible solution came into Steve's mind.

Elbowing the horse out of the way, Steve re-examined the rock face inch
by inch.  The fact that the passage was in semi-darkness didn't help,
but he eventually discovered something he'd missed first time
around.

The rock face was made up of irregular terraced layers whose edges ran
mainly in a vertical direction.

About eighteen inches from the right-hand wall his fingertips
encountered an edge that was a little deeper than the others and
appeared to be undercut at chest height.

Tingling with excitement, Steve probed the undercut section with his
knife.  With the handle laid flat against the rock face, the blade
slipped in easily.  By working it around he quickly discovered a
V-shaped slot which narrowed as it went in.  The sides of the V were
angled at roughly ninety degrees.  As he pushed the blade all the way
in, Steve heard the sound of metal on metal.  He moved the tip of the
knife around the obstruction in an effort to divine its shape and
function.  It was rectangular and hollow.  Some sort of tube or ...

socket - that pointed downwards at the same angle as the bottom edge of
the V-shaped slot.

Sockets had only one function- they were made to have things stuck in
them.  This was it.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Steve found the opening and tried to insert
the blade of his knife.  The point went in and then stuck fast.  Held
flat, the main part of the blade was too wide to go in.  Steve pulled
it and tried inserting it on the diagonal.  It fitted perfectly,
leaving only the handle protruding from the V. There was only one way
it could go - and that was up.  Steve wriggled his fingers between the
handle and the rock face, got as firm a grip as he could, took a deep
breath and pushed.  It took some effort and removed the skin from his
knuckles but, as the knife handle cameinto line with the top edge of
the V, Steve felt the right-hand side of the rock face move.

The horse dug his nose between Steve's shoulderblades.

He leant back and tried to brush it aside.  The horse persisted, this
time sticking its muzzle under the rim of his helmet, pushing it
forward over his eyes.  Steve turned and threw a punch but the horse
jerked its head out of the way.

Bloody animals...

He threw his weight against the door.  The massive slab swung away from
him on groaning timbers and came to rest against the left-hand wall,
revealing the passageway on the other side.  It was still roofed in but
the jagged ceiling of boulders didn't get any lower.  And it wasn't
dark any more.

Ye-ess... it's all so simple when you know how...

As he stood there, hands on hips, admiring his handiwork, the horse
brushed past him and trotted on up the narrow cleft and out into the
daylight beyond.

ood riddance...

Having sat astride the beast for close on six hours, Steve was in no
condition to catch it - and he certainly didn't intend to get on
again.

He turned back and took a closer look at the door.  The slab of rock
matched its surroundings perfectly but it was only a few inches
thick.

It had been fixed to a massive timber frame which was lined with
several densely packed layers of cotton waste - presumably to stop the
slab sounding hollow.  It pivoted on thickly greased black iron
bearings, its weight being partly supported by a line of wheels running
on radiused timbers buried in the floor.

The door was locked in position by two vertically mounted timbers that
engaged square sockets in the roof and floor.  A lever on the inside
face of the door performed the same function as Steve's knife.  When
lowered, the lever caused the iron-shod bolts to engage, and to retract
when raised.  Steve made a mental note of the locking mechanism, tested
it once more, then withdrew his knife and put it away.

Swinging the door back across the pathway, Steve wedged a small rock in
front of it, leaving himself enough space to slip through in case he
had to get out in a hurry.  Up to now, he had let the horse carry him
in whatever direction it chose and, by a combination of luck and
circumstance, he had managed to stay on it and out of serious
trouble.

But from here on in he had to move carefully.  Steve's knowledge of
horses did not extend much farther than knowing they had a leg at each
; corner, ate grass, drank water and were absolute murder to ride, but
he was bright enough to realise that the animal's urge to get through
the rock door was fuelled by a homing instinct.  The upward path the
horse had followed could only lead to one place - the hide-out of the
wild bunch.  You don't need to have graduated from the Flight Academy
to figure that out.  But that obvious conclusion merely led to another
question.  Was anyone at home?

The answer - if affirmative - was likely to appear at any moment.  The
horse, which he had been glad to see the back of, would soon - if it
had not done so already come to the attention of whoever was up
there.

And since it could not open the door by itself, someone whether driven
by idle curiosity or neighbourly concern - was bound to come looking
for the rider.  Yet another bad tactical error.  Hence the partly open
door.

Steve weighed up the options.  From the way things were going when he
left the valley, it was highly unlikely that any of the wild bunch
would make it back home.

That left their reserve team, or supporters, if they had any, or ...

maybe servants.  Slaves.  Plainfolk Mutes, who might give him a hand.

The horse's eagerness to get through the door was proof there was
something up there.  And it was crazy to have come all this way without
taking a look.  Especially after enduring so much discomfort.  An
unattended base might yield rich pickings.  Like food, for instance.

Steve's mouth watered at the prospect.  It was no good staying where he
was.

The distance between the walls was less than the length of his
quarterstaff and, with no place to hide, he would be an easy target for
a bowman.  He could either beat a hasty retreat or go forward to give
himself room to manoeuvre.

Acting on the dictum that attack was the best form of defence, Steve
advanced swiftly, quarterstaff held at the ready.  Fifty long-legged
strides brought him out into the daylight beyond the rockfall that had
turned the cleft into a tunnel; another thirty brought an amazing sight
into view.  The flat-topped mountain had a hollow core with a roughly
circular base fringed with fallen rocks.

Steve clambered quickly up into the untidy pile of huge boulders that
lay to the left of the entrance ramp and made a rapid appraisal of the
scene that now confronted him.

The interior walls of the mountain rose steeply upwards like the sides
of Tennessee Valley Deep - the accommodation shaft at Roosevelt/Santa
Fe where Steve's kinfolk were quartered.  The resemblance was
heightened by the three tiers of caves which ringed the uneven rock
floor.  Whether they were man-made or natural was hard to tell, but the
network of inclines and terraces that allowed access to the upper level
was, without doubt, the work of Iron Masters - and there were dozens of
them, swarming all over the place!

The horse which had carried him into the heart of Big D was walking
slowly towards the far side of the arena.

Steve shrank back into a small pit formed by three massive chunks of
rock as several Japs ran out to meet the exhausted animal.

Well done, Brickman.  This time you really have excelled yourself... He
checked the skyline in case any guards were posted round the rim.

Nope.  No danger from that direction.  If there had been anyone on top
of Big D he would have been met by a reception committee at the door.

Had they caught him in possession of the horse, helmet and sword of one
of their compatriots they would, in all probability, have put two and
two together to make five, and gone on to mark his card in no uncertain
fashion.

To prevent any future misunderstandings, Steve stuffed the helmet and
its straggling hairpiece into a nearby crevice and slid the sword into
another.  Having got over the initial shock of the latest twist to an
event-filled day, his brain began to register the finer details.

As far as he could tell, there were only four fully active members of
the wild bunch on duty; a fifth was hobbling towards the animated
group around the horse with the' aid of a stick, helped by a sixth who
had what looked like a bandage around his head.  All the rest - maybe
fifty or sixty people in all - were women and children of various ages,
some babes-in-arms.  There was no need to make an accurate
head-count.

All that mattered was that there were just too goddamn many!

Steve mentally kissed goodbye to the prospect of several square meals
and a night in a comfortable bed, and started to climb out of his
hiding place.  Two of the able-bodied men were now striding
purposefully across the arena towards the entrance where he lay hidden,
followed by two women and a small group of kids.

It was time to get going.  When they found that the missing rider was
not lying in the passageway and that the door had been propped open,
alarm bells would start ringing.

Steve started to ease himself out of his hidey-hole.  The two Japs at
the head of the search party were still about fifty yards away.  Just
enough time to get clear.  When he was halfway towards the rear edge of
the rockpile he heard what sounded like several horses clattering up
the passageway.  Christo!  He dived back under cover and watched with a
mixture of horror and surprise as eleven be-flagged samurai galloped up
the entrance ramp and skidded to a halt in the arena.  From the way
they jerked around in their saddles they were clearly as surprised as
he had been.  Pulling out their swords, they wheeled about, jabbering
excitedly.  Steve couldn't understand a word but it was clear that
these guys realised they'd hit the jackpot.

Their sudden appearance on the scene caused everybody else to panic.

With shrill cries of alarm, the women with the two front men picked up
the two smallest children and herded the rest towards the caves around
the edge of the arena.  Everybody else ran for it too, including the
remaining men - presumably to get something to fight with.

The pair that had been walking towards the entrance froze and went for
their swords.  There wasn't much else they could do.  They were only
yards away from the leading horses.  It was a brave but futile
gesture.

Before their swords were clear of their scabbards both were cut down
with blows that severed one side of their neck from shoulder to
clavicle.

The first wave of horsemen split into two and swept round both sides of
the arena, riding down the stragglers; panic-stricken kids and women
who had stopped to gather them up.  Unable to reach safety, others ran
back towards the centre and were mown down when several samurai in the
second wave started firing arrows with deadly accuracy.  Two dismounted
and rapidly got to work with their swords on the people who had been
bowled over by the charging riders.  Some women reappeared with
halberds and attempted to fight back, but it only made things worse.

Barely thirty seconds had elapsed and there were now bodies
everywhere.

Steve felt torn in two.  It wasn't his fight and there were no medals
to be won by sticking his nose in, but he couldn't stomach the way
these gooks were enjoying themselves.  A year ago he had dropped napalm
canisters on a cropfield which Mute children were trying to defend by
throwing stones at his Skyhawk.  He had done so with some hesitation,
but he had still pulled the release handle.  A lot had happened since
then.  But what could he do?  He couldn't take on all eleven of them I
The leader of the samurai wheeled his horse and shouted to one of the
riders.  Once again, Steve could not understand the words but he was
able to grasp the meaning as the rider sheathed his blood-stained sword
and headed back towards the entrance.  He was being sent back to
announce their find to the rest of the home team.

It was now or never.

CHAPTER SIX

Steve leaped out of his hiding place and dropped down behind the
rockpile on to the entrance ramp.  He would hide behind the door and
nail the messenger as he dismounted to pass through.  He had to take
sides.  At the back of his mind was the nagging thought that he was
responsible for the massacre now taking place.  The samurai had
probably been on his tail all the time.  Not only had he unwittingly
led them to the camp, he had obligingly left the door open!

Taking a firm grip on his quarterstaff, he sprinted down the shallow
incline, passing under the rock ceiling into the darkened section of
the narrow passageway.  As he rounded the final curve and came in sight
of the door, he skidded to a halt.  The door had been jammed wide open,
and there was a twelfth samurai, armed with a bow and arrow, standing
guard on the other side I Sheeitt.

For a split second, the samurai was just as surprised as he was, then
he shouted to Steve in Japanese and prepared to fire.

At that range and in such a confined space there was no way he could
miss.  For Steve, faced with certain death, everything went into slow
motion.  He knew he couldn't turn and run - the horseman behind him
would be coming round the last bend at any second!

Everything came into extra-sharp focus.  He saw, with dreadful clarity,
the samurai raise and draw the bow; saw the faint glint of light on the
wide-bladed, razor-sharp steel point, felt his heart miss a beat as his
chest tensed in anticipation of the fearful, piercing blow.  And all he
could hear was the thunderous crescendo of hoof-beats as the rider came
racing down the tunnel behind him.

In that same split second, the quarterstaff came to life, vibrating in
his hands, filling his limbs with a tingling energy that swept the
ice-water out of his veins.  Brain, hand and eye reacted with
undreamt-of speed and precision as his body became a supercharged
fighting machine.  Steve was less than ten yards from the archer, but
as the bow-string was released and the arrow sped towards his chest, he
advanced the curving blade of the quarterstaff and swung his body to
the left.

The steel-tipped point struck the angled blade and was deflected
upwards.  Steve saw it as a moving streak of light as it flashed past
his right shoulder, then heard a strangled cry.  Looking back, he saw
that the arrow had embedded itself in the throat of the rider behind
him.

The sword which he had been intending to plunge into Steve's back fell
from his hand as he toppled backwards out of the saddle.

Steve flattened himself against the wall as the horse's forward
momentum carried it past him towards the open doorway where it collided
with the samurai.  The Jap, who was in the process of fitting another
arrow to his bow, was thrown against the opposite wall as it clattered
past, and the impact knocked the arrow loose from the bowstring.

Realising he was suddenly at a disadvantage, the ' samurai cast the bow
aside, drew his sword and rushed towards Steve with a fearsome yell.  A
bad move.  Just as in the fight with the back-up squad, Steve's blade
moved faster than the eye could register.  The first forward thrust
severed the samurai's sword hand at the wrist, the ˇ second drove the
curved end of the blade sideways through his throat, cutting his neck
clean through to the spine.

Two down, ten to go...

Ordinarily, such odds would have given him pause for thought, but
Steve's killer instinct was now well and truly roused.  He dragged the
blood-drenched body of the samurai out of the way, shut the door firmly
and headed back up towards the arena past the second casualty.  The
Jap lay on his back, choking on his own blood as he clawed feebly at
the arrow in his throat.  Steve eyed him without compassion.

Boy... what a fluke shot that had been.

An image of Clearwater came into his mind and a voice told him it was
she who had used her gifts as a summoner to give the bladed
quarterstaff its power.  But was it a finite charge?  If so, how long
would it last?  Was that the gist of the message her clan sister,
Night-Fever, had been unable to remember when she had presented the
staff to him on his return to the clan?  Jeeezz!  Steve ran on, hoping
like hell that the Mute magic was not about to fade out on him like the
power in a battery pack.  With the kind of odds he was facing he needed
all the help he could get.

Racing back into the centre of the arena, Steve saw that the odds had
dropped to seven to one.  A considerable number of arrows, fired by
unseen defenders, were now flying in all directions without finding a
target.  An intermittent series of loud bangs followed by puffs of
smoke told him that somebody was using one of the primitive
drum-magazine rifles that the Iron Masters had supplied to the
M'Calls.

The smoke issued from the mouth of a cave on the third her but the
rifleman's aim was bad and his ineffectual shots only served to
increase the samurai's anger and bloodlust.

Only the leader now remained on horseback, directing operations.  Two
archers covered him, firing at anything that moved on the terraces.

Armed with burning brands, the other four were now systematically
attacking the ground-floor caves on the right of the arena.  Smoke
billowed from the interiors of those that were already alight.  As the
panic-stricken women and children ran out in a vain effort to escape
the flames, they were struck down.

This, thought Steve, has gone on long enough.

Running towards the centre of the arena, he planted his feet firmly on
the rocky ground and yelled defiantly at the mounted samurai.  There
was no more than fifty yards between them.  To judge from the shrill
reaction, the sight of an armed Mute seemed to give the rider'
apoplexy.  Wheeling his horse round to face Steve, the samurai ordered
the two archers to cut the insolent lumphead down.

Once again, Steve made two incredible deflections, catching the
converging arrows on either side of the blade and sending them winging
past him with an adroit flick of the wrist.  And again.  And again!

Zzzikk -zzzokk!

Pow-Pow.t ,Away they went.  His reaction time and his perception seemed
to have speeded up by several thousand per cent.  The arrows appeared
to float slowly towards him, giving him plenty of time to bat them out
of the way.

Hhhhawwww!  The head samurai practically fell out of the saddle.  His
startled archers had another cause for worry.  With all the previous
mayhem they were now out of arrows.  And Steve was closing in the gap
between them, moving in for the kill.  Out came the swords, but neither
man was keen to make the first move against what was clearly a serious
contender.  The rider, however, figured he had a clear advantage, and
spurred his horse forward, psyching himself up with a tongue-twisting
battlecry.

Steve waited until he got up some speed, heaved a rock at him, then
sprinted rapidly off to the left towards the terrace of boulders that
formed the edge of the arena.  His path was angled past the oncoming
samurai, forcing him into a choice between making a wide galloping
turn, or hauling back on the reins in order to hang a sharp right.

Unsettled by the rock that bounced off his breastplate, he made a
manoeuvre which fell somewhere in between, by which time Steve was
standing on top of a boulder, brandishing his quarterstaff above his
head as if he was playing king of the heap.

The boulder on which Steve was standing was about the same height off
the ground as the rider's stirrups.

The size of the boulders and the manner in which they were clustered
together made it impossible for the samurai to pursue Steve over them,
should he decide to retreat further.  He had to take him to where he
stood.  To make sure Steve stayed there, he ordered the two archers to
get round behind him.  The Japs split up and began their pincer
movement as the samurai positioned his horse for another charge.

Meanwhile the mindless slaughter over on the other side of the arena
continued.

Pow!  The rifleman in the upper cave finally got a round on target.

One of the advancing archers was knocked flying by the heavy metal
slug.  He stayed down, sprawled across a rock, one leg jerking
feebly.

Six down, six to go...

Riding in from right to left across Steve's front, the samurai curved
in towards the rocks, sword poised, the shield on his left arm raised
to parry Steve's counterblow.

He and the horse were clearly used to working together.

Steve, who now stood head and shoulders above the samurai, guessed
correctly that his attacker would try to cut the legs from under him.

The slashing blow when it came was lightning fast, but Steve was even
faster.  Leaping clear of the sweeping blade, he twisted his body round
to the left, spinning like a top as the samurai sped by.  The
quarterstaff, extended at a downward angle, and rotating with the speed
and force of a helicopter blade, passed under the rear of the samurai's
helmet and came out under his plaited chin-strap.  With the head still
seated inside, the wide-brimmed helmet lifted into the air and
described several backward somersaults before hitting the ground.  The
rest of his body swayed drunkenly in the saddle as the horse galloped
on.  Steve did not have the time to watch what happened to it.  His
attention was now focused on the surviving archer.

Realising he was next in line, the Jap turned in his tracks and beat a
hasty retreat.  Steve raced after him, leaping effortlessly over the
jumbled heap of rocks like a mountain goat.  The archer fell awkwardly
off the last rock into the arena, picked himself up and scuttled
towards the four remaining samurai, yelling at the top of his voice.

With a few, swift, bounding strides, Steve caught up with him.

Realising he had to make a stand, the Jap gave one last despairing
shout to his companions, then turned and assumed a fighting stance,
with both hands on the hilt of his sword.  But by this time, Steve was
moving forward like a steam train.  As the Jap began to bring his sword
down, Steve - who was holding his quarterstaff level across his chest
punched both arms upwards to parry the blow.

Yahhh!!  The thick wooden shaft hit the underside of the Jap's arms
with the impact of an iron bar, shattering both elbows.  The force of
the blow, added to Steve's initial momentum, lifted the Jap off his
feet and sent him flying backwards.

By the time he hit the ground, Steve was already bearing down on his
next target: a samurai who had just cut down a young woman fleeing from
a burning cave and was about to kill another who had tripped and fallen
with a small child in her arms.  She was now on her knees, pleading for
mercy.  Some chance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw more trouble on the way.  The
three other samurai, now fully alerted to his troublesome presence,
were running towards him.

But first things first.

The nearest samurai had also seen the danger from Steve but his mind
was already committed to making a killing stroke that would dispatch
both woman and child.

For a fleeting instant, his raised sword wavered.  It was the chance
Steve needed.  Coming in from the side, he thrust his quarterstaff
forward, driving the full length of the blade in through the Jap's
exposed armpit into the chest cavity beyond.

Nine down, three to go.

He turned to face the final trio.  They were a gruesome sight.  With
the samurai who had just had his card cancelled, they had done most of
the close-quarter killing, and their body armour and swords were
smeared with blood.

And the next blood to be spilled will be yours, thought Steve.  Come on
staff!  Don't fail me now!

Emboldened by his spirited attack and the dwindling number of samurai,
the camp-women began to reappear.

Some of them picked up the halberds lying by the bodies of the earlier
defenders; others gathered up arrows and fitted them to bows.  Over on
his left, two women finished off the stunned samurai whose arms he had
broken.  The rest formed a ragged but resolute semi-circle behind the
trio of swordsmen facing Steve.

The scent of victory was in the air and they wanted to be in at the
kill.  Steve waved to them to stay back.  After the way those arrows
had been flying around earlier, he did not want to risk getting in the
way of a near miss at this stage of the game.

While the two outside samurai edged outwards, figuring how best to take
Steve, the guy in the middle spun on his heel and advanced on the
women, hopping from one foot to the other like a bandy-legged bogey
man, shouting angrily and brandishing his sword.  For a minute it
worked.  Two or three turned and fled.  The rest wavered and took a few
paces backwards but then rallied and held their ground.

Steve knew he had to strike while the middle man had his back turned.

The two on his right and left were clearly planning to take him from
both sides.  A frontal attack on one would leave him exposed to the
other.

Steve leapt through the space between them, twisting round in the air
so that he landed squarely on his feet behind both men, facing his
previous position.  It was a tremendous jump.  From a standing start he
had cleared over twelve feet.  If his body had not been energised by
the power in the quarterstaff he would have been lucky to cover half
that distance.

As the startled Jap on his right turned to bring his sword to bear,
Steve swung the iron-shod butt of his quarterstaff up and round,
delivering a lethal uppercut to the base of the jaw.  It landed at the
point where the hangman places his knot and produced the same effect a
broken neck.  Then, in one continuous movement, he caught the sword
blow from the second Jap on the cross-piece set below his own blade,
and swung the butt forward and upwards in between the samurai's splayed
legs.  The impact lifted him clean off the ground.  As he came back
down and crumpled forwards under the pain, Steve snapped his head back
with another iron-butt-blow under the chin, then, sensing danger, he
spun round to face the attack of the advancing middle man.

The last samurai's sword was still poised above his head as Steve's
blade punched deep into his stomach.  It was only when he toppled
forwards that Steve saw why the Jap's reactions had been so slow.  A
shower of arrows had turned his back into a pincushion.

,Well done, ladies...

Steve turned back to make sure the other two were out for the count and
was just in time to see the woman whose life he had saved plunge the
first Jap's sword into the throat of the second.

Noburo Naka-Jima, leading the forty-six survivors from his band of
ronin through the secret door to his camp, was alarmed to find the
bodies of two of Lord Se-Iko's samurai lying in the passageway
beyond.

Urging his horse into a gallop, he raced up the entrance ramp into the
arena just in time to see a tall Mute plunge what looked like a spear
into the belly of yet another of Se-Iko's samurai.  Smoke poured from
five of the ground-floor caves and By the blessed kami, there were
bodies everywhere,t His men, following in single file with their three
prisoners, spread out on either side of him and cried out in horror as
they caught sight of the dead women and children, liyyyehhh!  And
alongside them, their comrades who had been left to guard the camp!

Old Ishido, who had slipped from the upper terrace after drinking too
much sake and had broken his leg; Narita, who had been thrown from his
horse and had split his head open.  But they had given a good account
of themselves.  Twelve of Se-Iko's samurai had also fallen.

The ronin cantered forward and hurriedly dismounted as their womenfolk
and the surviving children rushed towards them uttering heartrending
cries.  The tearful lamentations and the mournful howls of women
beating the limp bodies of their young offspring alternated with shouts
of joyous relief as the unharmed found their kinfolk.  Fathers gathered
up their precious sons and hugged them fiercely as they listened to
shrill accounts of the dreadful slaughter that had taken place - and
the courage of the mysterious intruder who singlehandedly had killed
five of the blood-crazed attackers.

And the two in the secret passageway?

Ah, in that case, seven,t And who was this base individual who dared to
court the wrath of the Iron Masters by bearing arms?

No one knew.  He had appeared, as if by magic, when Ishido and Narita
and the other men had been killed and the terrible wrath of Se-Iko's
samurai had been turned against young and old.  And despite his base
origins, the outlander had conducted himself like a true warrior, with
the martial skills and courage that only samurai were thought to
possess.

And there was more!  He had saved Kiri, Noburo's wife, and their son,
Itada as they lay helpless under a samurai's blade!  Was that not so?

Kiri Naka-Jima agreed it was so.  The crowd parted to make way for her
as she carried Itada towards his father.  One hand supported her child,
the other gripped the hilt of the samurai's sword, red with the blood
of the Se-Iko.  Noburo took charge of the boy and embraced him.  Their
tears mingled as he showered kisses on his tiny face.  Placing the
point of the sword on the ground, Kiri folded her hands together over
the hilt and inclined her head respectfully.  Noburo reached out and
gripped her shoulder.  Normally samurai did not embrace women or
display any signs of affection in public.  It was deemed unseemly but,
on this occasion, he found himself overcome by emotion.

As Steve stood there, in the midst of the carnage, he realised that he
had won a hollow victory.  There was little cause for celebration and
he was unlikely to be given a hero's welcome.  If anything, his
intervention had placed him in an even worse predicament than before.

Not only was he an armed alien intruder, he was now an uninvited guest
at a wake, who would soon be called to account for his presence.

The unkempt warriors - who must have belonged to a different group from
the one he had seen trapped in the valley - were clearly aghast at what
had taken place in their absence, and those whose kin had been killed
soon gave vent to their grief.  And there were many women who were
visibly distressed when they failed to find their menfolk among the
horsemen.  Questions were asked and answers were given.  Mainly about
him.  In between bouts of grief-stricken gobbledegook, the women kept
pointing in Steve's direction, and when the men had got over the
initial shock of the devastating attack on their camp he was quickly
surrounded.

With so much sharp iron pointed in his direction, the only thing Steve
could do was to keep absolutely still and hope that he'd done enough to
earn himself a fair shake.

From the fierce glares he was getting he had the feeling he was
supposed to be on his knees.  Screw 'em... He had done nothing he
needed to apologise for.  He stayed right where he was, feet apart,
body nice and loose, and with the quarterstaff cradled against his
chest.

Since he was almost a foot taller than the group around him, Steve was
able to look over their heads and thus avoid direct eye contact.  Three
of the group hadn't dismounted.  Two were small dark-haired,
olive-skinned dinks, the other was a taller, cowled figure whose face
was covered by an oval chalk-white mask.  All three were blindfolded.

Their wrists were bound to a rounded post.

at the front of their saddles and their ankles had been fastened
together by a rope passed under the horse's belly.  Something drew his
eyes back to the figure in the white mask.  The quarterstaff vibrated
in his hands, causing a shiver to run down his spine.  Not of fear,
but of excitement.

No - surely - it couldn't be.  It just wasn't possible,t The ring of
sweat-stained warriors around Steve parted to let through the man who
had led them into the arena.  He was bigger than the rest and was
followed by the woman and the small boy.  The child was now back in her
arms, his face buried shyly against her neck.  Now and then his small,
slanted black-button eyes would dart towards Steve.  His guard-mother's
gaze was more steady, but it was hard to tell what she was thinking.

Her dark eyes reflected neither gratitude not hostility.  Now she had
recovered her composure, her face was completely devoid of
expression.

They were all the same.  Side-Winder had told him Iron Masters had
amazing self-control.  They prided themselves on their ability to
suppress all outward signs of emotion.  And, apparently, they were
pretty cool characters on the inside as well.  As a.result, it was
virtually impossible to tell from their faces what they were thinking
or what their next move might be.

Steve realised he must present a weird sight.  Apart from his patterned
skin, he had dark, tangled hair, and a golden four-week growth of
beard.  Plus hair on his forearms and the exposed parts of his legs.

Whereas these dinks had, as far as he could see, absolutely no hair of
their own at all.  The straggling pieces the wild bunch wore must have
come from Mutes.  And Steve remembered that several sackfuls of hair
had been among the items that the M'Calls had carried on their trucking
poles to the trading post by the 'great river'.

The big man circled Steve slowly, then came back and stood in front of
him.  He was about six inches shorter than Steve, but his stock frame
was all muscle and bone and his dark eyes didn't waver.  'You
understand my words, grass-monkey?"

'Yes, I do'

'You kill these samurai?"

'Some of them."

Noburo Naka-Jima held out his hand for the quarterstaff.  Steve gave it
to him.  He passed it on to one of the men standing near by, then took
hold of Steve's left arm and ran his eyes over the dirt-stained
bandage.

Steve let his arm hang loose.  This was no time for last-ditch
heroics.

Noburo slid the combat knife out of the hidden scabbard, pulled the
strip of rag from around the hilt and inspected the finish and
sharpness of the blade.

Without waiting to be asked, Steve unwrapped the scabbard and removed
it from his arm.

Noburo handed both items to another of his sidekicks.

'How did you find way in here?"

Steve was ready for that one.  The whole story had started to come
together in his mind.  'I was on the mountain.  I saw a horse with no
rider go into a split in the rocks.  The twelve samurai were following
it."  He shrugged.  'So I followed them."

'Why?"

Steve shot a quick glance at the white-masked figure sitting astride
the horse about ten yards from where he stood.  The strange sixth sense
that had helped him from time to time in the past put the words on his
tongue.

'You were someone I had to meet."

Noburo nodded, but his face gave no indication as to whether or not he
accepted Steve's explanation.

Reverting to his own language, he delivered a staccato string of
nonsense-words to his gang.

Four of the men surrounding Steve grabbed him and hustled him across
the arena towards one of the ground-floor caves.  Steve looked over his
shoulder towards the three bound riders.  They were being pulled down
from their horses.

The cave mouth towards which they were heading was wider than it was
high.  The interior was screened off from floor to ceiling by a wall
made of slatted timbers, with two split doors constructed in the same
manner.

Judging from their height, they were designed for diminutive dinks.

One of the guys unbolted the lower half of the right-hand door and
gestured to Steve to enter.  Steve toyed with the idea of asking them
to open the top half as well, then swallowed his pride and crawled in
on his hands and knees.

The accommodation was spartan, but not as bad as he expected.  At least
the walls and floor were dry and the place wasn't crawling with
bug-uglies.  The only items of furniture were a woven straw mat and a
box with a hinged lid.  Inside it was a plank seat with a cutout
beneath which was a two-handled pot.  It looked like a primitive type
of john, but Steve decided not to use it in case it turned out to be
something the dinks served soup in.  The fact that he had ended up in
the slammer was proof they weren't about to hand out medals but Steve
who, despite the snake, had a huge backlog of hunger to assuage - was
persuaded that, at the very least, his efforts on behalf of the
camp-women deserved to be rewarded by a square meal.  Christo!  Back
home, even guys in the condemned cells got a bite to eat before they
got the bullet.

Steve sat cross-legged on the mat with his back against the slatted
partition that separated the two cells, and recalled some of the
delicious odours he smelt wafting on the night air when he'd been
prowling around the dinks' dwelling places in search of some scraps to
eat.

His reverie was broken by the sound of bolts being withdrawn.  Peeping
through the finger-wide gap between two planks, Steve saw both sections
of the door to the next cell being opened.  The two small dark-haired
women walked in carrying bedding rolls followed by the taller cloaked
figure in the white mask.  She held a bedding roll too.

All three were still blindfolded but, as the door slammed shut, one of
their gaolers shouted something in Japanese.  The two women dropped
their bedding rolls and quickly removed the cloth covering their eyes,
then removed Whitey's blindfold.  The cells were in semidarkness, but
now that she was closer Steve could see the details on the mask - the
tiny, pouting mouth, the two thin strokes representing the eyebrows,
raised in perpetual surprise, the red blush on the cheekbones, and the
angled eye slits.  And behind them, a tell-tale flash of blue.

Clearwater laid her bedding roll against the partition and sat down
with her back to Steve.  She pulled back the cowl.  Her flowing dark
hair - which, when he last saw it, reached down to the middle of her
back - was now drawn up and pinned with combs in the style of the Iron
Masters.

Steve caught his breath.  The smooth, olive-tinted skin on the back of
her neck was unmarked.  What had caused her to remove her body-paint?

A whiff of her natural body odour reached his nostrils.  The memories
it brought back sent a zing through his loins and made his mind reel.

Clearwater pulled off her glove, placed the fingers of her right hand
on her shoulder and rested the chin of her mask on them.

Steve's movements mirrored hers.  Leaning back against the partition,
he slid his left forefinger through the gap in the planking and
breathed - 'Hello, stranger..."

The only answer was a slight pressure on his fingertip.

But it was enough to send a megavolt charge up his arm.

Oh, Mo-Town!  You sweet mother!  The Amtrak Federation's vocabulary did
not include the word 'love', and the education syllabus did not include
any reference to sexual chemistry, but this was the real thing right
enough.

Yess-sirrree .  . .

'What happened to your -' Clearwater dug a fingernail sharply into his
skin.

Steve interpreted it as a warning not to talk to her while the two
women were there.  For the next hour or more, he had to be content with
maintaining fingertip contact.  It was no hardship.  When the chemistry
is right, it is amazing how suggestive ten digits can be, and when he
rang the changes by tracing tiny circles on her shoulder her body sent
the same ardent message through the layers of cloth.

The sun had disappeared from the circle of sky above the campsite a
long time ago, and now the light began to fade as Mo-Town drew her dark
cloak across the world.

Within a short time, the gaps between the planks were almost as dark as
the planks themselves.  No one came to check up on them, but every so
often yellow lanterns wandered by, proving they had not been totally
abandoned.

Steve tried to master his frustration.  Less than twenty-four hours ago
he had gone to sleep tired, hungry and dispirited, his mission doomed
to failure.  Now here he was, only inches away from one of the two
people had had come to rescue!

He knew why he had been thrown in the slammer, but why had Clearwater
been taken prisoner?  And why was she now clear-skinned and dressed up
like a Jap?  The questions crowded in.  Who were the two women with
her?  Both wore identical outfits made of plain dark brown material:
baggy trousers gathered into cuffs just above the ankle, and
high-collared smocks with full sleeves fastened in similar fashion
around the wrist.  The full-length cape hid what Clearwater was
wearing, but the cape itself was made of the same glistening material
used to clothe Yama-Shita - the top Iron Master that Steve had seen at
the trading post.

From his observations so far, he knew that Iron Masters were dressed
according to rank - unlike the almost-universal Federation jumpsuit.

The drab uniformity of the women's clothes indicated that their status
was inferior to Clearwater's - so why was she unwilling to talk in
front of them?

Steve sensed something was going down.  She had been captured by a
raggedy-assed bunch of Iron Masters who had been vigorously pursued by
the forces of law and order.  Taken in transit, perhaps, from one of
those groups of drawn vehicles and people he had seen moving along the
east-west highway.  He deduced this from the mask and the outer
clothing that concealed the fact that - to an uninformed observer - she
had the body of a Tracker; an outlander whose social rating was only
marginally higher than the Mutes.

Why had someone been at pains to conceal her identity?  Whoever it was
had to be someone important; her clothes were proof that she was in
contact with at least one high-flyer.  And the two women - were they
there to see she didn't give the game away?  The fact that it was they,
and not she, who had removed her blindfold, plus her reluctance to
speak in their presence, suggested this was the case.  There was
something else.  All three had been brought into the camp
blindfolded.

That could only be for one reason: to prevent them from identifying
their captors and describing where they had been held prisoner.  Which
meant they were due to be released at some future date.

The plot thickened - and became even more intriguing when Steve began
to consider the reasons why Clearwater's mask had not been removed.

Her blindfold had been tied over it and around the outside of the cowl
that concealed her dark, lustrous hair and her neck, whose skin-colour
would have revealed it all.  To his devious mind, it suggested that
only some of the wild bunch were supposed to know the true nature of
the person they had carried off.  Or, alternatively, perhaps none of
them knew.  Either way, it implied that they had not captured
Clearwater for themselves but for someone else.

From what Side-Winder had told him, Steve knew that the life of a
Tracker - or a Mute - was not worth a soyabean.  Yet here she was - a
Mute who, in terms of appearance, was indistinguishable from a Tracker
dolled up like an Iron Master out of the top drawer, with two personal
minders to do the fetching and carrying.

Oh, yes ... something was going down all right.

There was a lot more Steve needed to know, but the big question was
could he get in on the action and turn the situation to his
advantage?

A pair of approaching lanterns cast their warm glow through the
slatted timbers.  Steve glimpsed a quartet of orange faces fringed with
shanks of Mute hair.  Four hard cases from the wild bunch.  Clearwater
quickly pulled the cowl back into place and replaced her glove.  The
Japs stopped outside the door to the adjacent cell and shouted
something in Japanese.  Peering through the slats, Steve saw the
diminutive female minders adjust each other's blindfolds.  When the
knots were securely tied, the door was unbolted and they were led
away.

As darkness enveloped them once again, Steve knelt facing the partition
and thrust both sets of fingers through the gaps in the timbers.  The
middle fingers got no further than the second knuckle.  There was a
rustle of garments on the far side of the wooden wall; a cool swish of
limbs moving inside rich silk brocade - something he had never heard
before.

This time she had taken off the mask as well as the gloves.  She kissed
the tips of his fingers then slid her face against them.  Her own slim
fingers wriggled through the gaps and touched his nose, then caressed
his mouth.  He held each one in turn, lightly between his teeth.

'Oh, cloud warrior,' she whispered.  'If you only knew how much I have
longed for this moment."

The too,' said Steve.  'All I've thought about is being alone with you
in the dark, but.  this isn't quite what I had in mind."

'Be patient, beloved.  Our journey together has just begun."

Yeah... Question is - where are we headed... ?

Steve saw a single lantern approaching - held aloft by a man.

'Watch out, someone's coming!"  They both moved away from the
partition.

Steve looked through the slats of the door.  The Jap wore a mask like
the samurai at the trading post, but Steve recognised his build.  It
was the stocky guy who had ordered him to be thrown into the slammer.

He unbolted the door to the other cell and entered, closing it behind
him.  Steve kept well back but was able to see Clearwater-mask, cowl
and gloves now back in place - shuffle round on her knees to greet her
visitor with a respectful bow.

The Jap transferred the lantern to his left hand so that, from where
Steve sat, Clearwater was thrown into silhouette.

'Stand up."

She did so.

'Remove outer garment..."

Clearwater unfastened the collar that kept the cowl closed tightly
round the edges of her white mask, lifted it over her hair and let it
fall back.  She then undid the front of the cape and cast it aside to
reveal another long robe underneath with wide three-quarter-length
sleeves and a low-cut collar that showed off her pretty neck.  A deep
sash wrapped round her waist and midriff was tied in a big bow at the
back.  The white gloves that hid her unblemished hands and forearms
reached up inside the sleeves of her robe.

'Now gloves and mask."

Clearwater removed them and stood with her chin lowered.  What's this
guy going for?  wondered Steve.  A complete strip-down?  He was seized
by a sudden, irrational wave of anger at the pending violation of what
he felt was his own private preserve.  Irrational to Steve, that is,
because jealousy and possessiveness were two more of the many
word-concepts that did not feature in the Federation's vocabulary.

Once again, as when he fell in love and could not describe the feeling,
he did not know what was eating him.

The Jap raised the lantern, lifted Clearwater's chin and inspected her
face and throat closely.  He then walked around her, peered at the back
of her neck, ran his fingers over the roots of her swept-up hair, then
came around the front and examined her hands and arms.

'Now you will dress as before."

He watched silently as Clearwater became the white-masked woman again,
then, as she knelt submissively before him, he uttered a grunt of
approval and left, bolting the door behind him.

Ahah, thought Steve.  So that's how it plays.  It's only the boss man
who's got the inside track on this.  The rest of the bunch are just
spear-carriers.  When the light faded away, he moved back to the
partition and reestablished contact with Clearwater.

'Did you ride across the waters on one of the wheelboats?"  she
whispered.

'Yes.  How did you know?  And why are you whispering?"

She raised her voice slightly.  'I felt your presence near by soon
after I came ashore."

'You - you were on one of the boats?"  stammered Steve.  'You actually
came to the trading post?!"  'Did Mr Snow not tell you?  Did he not
show you the box?"

'What box?"

'The box with the hidden pictures that were to guide you to the place
where Cadillac and I are held.  I gave it to him the night before we
sailed back to Ne-Issan."

Steve began to understand.  'When he came out to Yama-Shita's vessel
.

. ."

'Yes - with Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck."

Steve responded with a dry, sighing laugh.  'So that's what he was up
to.  Trust me to do things the hard way.

When I saw him go by I was already on board one of the other
wheelboats.  I found a place to hide and stayed out of sight until we
docked at Pi-saba."  Steve didn't volunteer any further details.  'Did
the Old One know he was coming to see you?"

'No.  He seemed taken aback.  Perhaps because I was unskinned."

'llnskinned' was the term Mr Snow had used to describe the true
appearance of Clearwater and Cadillac in the brief period between
washing off their camouflage and applying a fresh coat of paint.

'Yeah, I wanted to ask you about -' Clearwater cut in quickly.

'Yama-Shita was present.

We were not free to say what we wished, but his hidden words told me
you had returned and would try to rescue us.  He did not say how or
when."

'I was going to travel with the M'Call journeymen but Mr Snow wouldn't
let me take any weapons on board.  So I made my own travel
arrangements.  There was no way I was going to leave my quarterstaff
behind - not after what you'd done to it."

'Did it help?"

'Are you kidding?  If it wasn't for your magic act, I wouldn't be
here.

You've saved my life several times over."

'Not I, golden one.  The power was given to me by Talisman."

'Maybe.  You I know, him I don't."  Steve's voice lightened.

'If he's so keen on helping me he could at least have arranged for us
to be on the same boat.  We could have spent some time together.  Would
have made the trip a lot more enjoyable."

'It would have been utter madness.  What you did was dangerous
enough."

She sounded concerned- and a touch severe.

Steve kept it casual.  'No worse than the jam I'm in now.

But - on the other hand - here you are.  Fate, I guess."

'Did you get back to your own people?"

'Eventually."  There was no point in lying.  He had already told Mr
Snow the whole story.  Or most of it.

'They weren't too pleased to hear that the Plainfolk weren't as stupid
as they thought."

'Did you tell them about me?"

The lie tripped easily off his tongue.  'No, I didn't.

You're my secret weapon.  When I'm with you I feel as if I could
conquer the world."  That part, at least, was true.

'Perhaps you are meant to,' she whispered.  'Is that what Cadillac has
seen in the stones?"

'He has seen many things."

Steve felt his skin prickle.  'Such as... ?"

'That you would return in the guise of a friend, with Death hiding in
your shadow, and carry me away on a river of blood.  Is that why you
have come back?  To take me down into the dark world of the
sand-burrowers beneath the deserts of the south?"

'Are you crazy?  I came back to be with you!"  He squeezed her
fingertips.  'Are you sure the stones said I would take you back to the
Federation?"

'No.  Cadillac didn't say where to.  Just that you would carry me
away."

'That's right,' said Steve hurriedly.  'That's why I'm here now because
I promised Mr Snow I would get both of you out of here I The rest makes
sense.  I am in the guise of a friend because I'm hoping to do a
pretend-deal with these people.  As for the "death hiding in my
shadow", I'd say that fits the hidden power you poured into the
quarterstaff.  Take it from me, it's lethal.  I'm sure these Japs won't
let us get away without a fight, so maybe I will carry you away on a
river of blood.  But that blood will be running out of the veins of the
Iron Masters.  And the only place you're going is back where you
belong."

'I belong to you, cloud warrior.  As long as we are together I do not
care where you take me.  But Cadillac must go back to the Plainfolk."

'You're both going back.  Trust me."

She drew her finger down over his lips and found the tip of his
tongue.

'Do you think Talisman would put his power into your hands if you meant
to harm us?"

It's not Talisman I'm thinking about.  It's the other people in this
game.  And they're not using the same rule book...

Steve answered with another dry laugh and changed the subject.

'Amazing, isn't it - the way things work out?  I came to the trading
post because I wanted to be the first to welcome you back.  I must have
spent hours pacing up and down that beach, staring at those boats,
willing you to appear.  Why didn't you show yourself?"

'I was not allowed to do so.  In the last two months I have seen almost
nothing of the outside world."

'Who's been keeping you locked up - this guy YamaShita?"

'When I was on the boat, yes.  But since I came to Ne-Issan with
Cadillac I have been held by another."

'Held how?  Who by?"

Her voice faltered.  'A lord who lives by the Eastern Sea."

'Is he the guy who gave you those fancy clothes?"

She answered by kissing the tips of his fingers.

'And is that why you washed off your body-paint?"

His question met with a pregnant silence.  He tried again.  'You want
to tell me about it?"

Her reply, when it came, was in a barely audible whisper.  'What has
.

. . happened is .  . . is the will of Talisman."

'Yeah, sure, I understand all that,' said Steve.  'Just take me through
it from the top of page one."

They did not have long before Su-Shan and NanKhe returned with three
trays of hot food, but it was time enough to make Steve wish he hadn't
pressed her for an explanation.  Knowledge might indeed be power, but
whoever coined the maxim omitted to mention that there were some things
it was better not to know.  Steve was learning that young men who seek
truthful answers to every question often find the process extremely
painful.  On top of which, the delicious aroma from the assortment of
goodies the trio next door were preparing to tuck into was absolute
torture.

He did not have to endure it for long.  As the door to the next cell
was slammed shut, the bottom half of his door was opened and he was
ordered out.  Mentally bracing himself for some sort of physical
assault, he exited on his hands and knees - and was not disappointed.

A leg hooked his hands away and a kick in the butt sent him sprawling
face down in the dirt.  It didn't look promising, but the subsequent
flurry of blows proved to be something less than a serious attempt to
injure him.  If the four armed dinks had wanted to break a few bones
they could have done so easily.  No.  They were just out to ruin his
composure.  Show him who was boss.

Grinning broadly, they hauled him to his feet and continued to roust
him all the way across the arena.

Steve could not see much of anything beyond the circles of light cast
by the swaying lanterns, but it looked as if all trace of the earlier
mindless slaughter had been removed.  His escort pushed him up a flight
of rough-hewn steps on to the terrace linking the second her of caves
and brought him face to face with the main man.  He was sitting
cross-legged on a mat laid against the side-wall.  There were another
ten or twelve guys with him.  The cave was lit by more yellow lanterns
and the air was thick with smoke which caused Steve to cough on
entering.

Several of the dinks had pipes like the one used by Mr Snow.  They
weren't smoking rainbow grass, but Steve's nose told him that a touch
of the old happy valley weed had been added to the mixture.  The wild
bunch were also swallowing capfuls of the pale yellow liquid
Side-Winder had introduced him to.  Sake.  His escort pushed Steve down
on to his knees in front of the honcho and helped themselves to some
juice.

In view of what had taken place earlier everyone seemed cheerful
enough, but Steve could sense an undercurrent of tension.  The jovial
atmosphere had a brittle, knife-edge quality which gave him the feeling
that they could - at any minute and with equal cheerfulness - tear him
limb from limb.  One misjudged word or gesture was all the pretext they
needed.  Mindful of Mr Snow's warning to avoid prolonged eye-contact,
Steve tried to ignore the ring of strange, hairless faces with their
dark, almost jet-black eyes.  He focused through on to the wall behind
them and willed himself to stay calm.

Come on, Brickman!  You've been in tight corners before.  You can face
these guys down.  They're like the death-birds.  Show yourself weak and
defenceless and they move in for the kill.  You've already shown them
you're a top gun.  Be strong!

Nothing to it...

His hairless host drained his cup and held it out sideways for someone
to fill it.  'Do you have a name, grass-monkey?"

Steve looked him straight in the eye.  'Yes.  Brickman."

'A-barick a-man-uh..."

'No, it's all one word.  BRRickmaNN."

'Ahh-so... Barickmann-uh."

'Right."  What the hell...

The stocky Jap snapped his fingers and pointed to Steve.  A hand came
out of left field and stuck a cup of sake under his nose.

'I'd rather have something to eat."

'Later, perhaps.  First we drink to your courage, then we.  talk.

After that - who knows?"

One of the dinks said something.  Everybody fell about.

'What's so funny?"  asked Steve.

'He say you may find you have no stomach for food."  Ohh, yeah.

Boy... what a terrific sense of humour .  . .

Steve took the offered cup and raised it level with the Jap's.

'Kanpai!"  Steve took his cue from his host and downed the contents of
the cup in one gulp.

In introducing him to sake, Side-Winder had omitted to warn Steve about
the alarming impact alcohol can have on the central nervous system when
poured into an empty stomach.  The sake exploded inside him like a
small bomb.

Steve felt the heat rise back up his gullet and set fire to his ears.

His eyes went out of focus.  He swivelled his head round sharply in an
effort to unclog his brain and regained a measure of control by sheer
willpower.  He had to squint in order to see straight but, when the
smoke cleared, he was left feeling extra-sharp, supremely confident and
utterly fearless.

Steve favoured his host with a gracious bow from the waist.  'May I be
permitted to know who I have the honour of addressing?"

The Jap hesitated.  It was probably the first time a Mute had asked him
a question.  'I am samurai-captain Noburo NakaJima."

'Then permit me to salute you, Captain."  Steve bowed again, then met
Noburo's eyes as he straightened up.

'And which domain-lord do you serve?"

Noburo chewed over his response.  This grass-monkey would pay dearly
for his insolence but first, it was necessary to ask him certain
questions on a man-to-man basis, however distasteful that might be.

Torture could have produced the answers and might yet have to be used
by others, but Noburo was constrained by the samurai code of
behaviour.

The reason this outlander now sat facing him instead of being skinned
alive then slowly dismembered a joint at a time was because he had
single handedly vanquished seven of Lord Se-Iko's samurai.  However
honourable his motives, he would eventually have to be put to death,
but his redoubtable courage and skill as a fighting man and his proud
beating demanded a certain measure of consideration from his peers.

'We have no domain-lord,' he said finally.  'Lord Naka-Jima is dead,
his family dispossessed.  We are ronin.  Wanderers who owe allegiance
to no one."

'You surprise me, Captain,' replied Steve.  'You say you are a samurai
- but do the noble warriors of NeoIssan venture forth to capture
women?

And can one believe that you would sacrifice thirty to forty of your
valiant men to secure such a worthless prize?"  He saw the puzzlement
in Noburo's eyes and added: 'I saw them fall to their pursuers in the
river valley.  Samurai from the same house as the men who found death
here."

The Jap's face hardened.  'The fate of my kinsmen is none of your
business, grass-monkey.  Let us discuss yours."

Steve set down the empty cup and bowed.  'I am at your service,
Captain."

'Grass-monkey,' began Noburo, 'I find myself in, uhh -' He broke off to
search his limited Basic vocabulary for the right word - 'delicate, uhh
situation.

You saved many here from certain death.  In particular, my wife and son
Itada.  Because you did so at risk of your own life, I am bound to you
by a debt of honour - from which I can only be released by performing
similar action.  You understand me?"

'Yes.  What's the problem?"

'Grass-monkeys are forbidden, under pain of death, to carry arms in
Ne-Issan.  And it is even greater crime for slave-person to kill Iron
Master - especially samurai.  So there is conflict here.  As long as
the debt of honour remains, uhh.  undischarged, I am obliged to defend
your life - even at the cost of my own.  But, equally, you cannot be
permitted to go unpunished."

'I see what you mean,' said Steve.  'It's a tough one."

'Tough?"

'Hard.  Difficult."

' 'Ahh, so ..."  Noburo held out his cup for a refill.

'Tough for both of us, grass-monkey.  It would have been better if you
had let my wife and son die under sword of samurai."

'I don't understand."

'Obligation to inferior slave-person cause loss of face.

Only honourable solution for samurai family in such situation is to die
by own hand."

'That's crazy,' said Steve.  'There must be some other way."

'There is,' replied Noburo.  'You can kill yourself."  'Kill
myself...?"

'Yes, now."  Noburo drew his short-sword, then leant forward and placed
it reverently in front of Steve.  'Your death by your own hand will
release me from debt of honour and lift shame from my family.  Samurai
of Lord Se-Iko will also be avenged.  Satisfactory, uhh - solution for
everyone."

Except me, thought Steve.  No wonder Noburo's wife didn't look
overjoyed.  'Loss of face'.  what the effeff was all that about?

Someone reached out to give him a refill.  Steve laid his right hand
over the cup, pinning it to the floor as he waved Noburo down with his
left.  'Hold on a minute.  You've got this all wrong."

'Ahh, how so?"

'First, I am not a slave - second, as a warrior I could not stand by
and let the sons of samurai be slaughtered and third, I venture to
suggest, Captain, that killing samurai can only be considered a crime
by those who live within the law."

Noburo nodded soberly then translated Steve's spirited reply for the
benefit of his companions.  It caused a great deal of laughter and
slapping of thighs.  When the merriment subsided, he addressed Steve
with the hint of a smile.  'Well said, grass-monkey.  But you now pose
another problem.  If you are not slave - what are you doing here?"

This was the crunch point.  Steve took a deep breath and went for it.

'I came to prevent a war between our two nations.  ' Noburo mastered
his surprise and laughed.  'Between the Sons of Ne-Issan and the
grass-monkeys?"

'No, Captain.  Between the Sons of Ne-Issan and the Federation.  The
warriors from the underground world beneath the deserts of the
south."

The faint smile faded from Noburo's face.  'The long-dogs make war on
grass-monkeys.  Why do they send you as peace messenger?"

Steve straightened his back and looked the head ronin right in the
eye.

'I am not a Mute, Captain.  I am a cloud warrior from the Amtrak
Federation.  One of thousands whose sky-chariots will darken the skies
of Ne-Issan and rain fire upon the earth if the enemies who now shelter
in your midst are not handed over to us."

Noburo's bewilderment appeared genuine.  'What enemies?"

'I seek the masked woman you took from the road convoy and her male
companion who is to be found at a place called the Heron Pool in the
lands by the Eastern Sea."

Noburo eyed him impassively for a while, then retrieved his short-sword
and issued a lengthy order in Japanese.

His men got up and filed out, leaving only two guys sitting on either
side of him and a third standing guard by the door-screen fitted across
the mouth of the cave.

Steve smiled inwardly.  His programme was up and running.

The chief ronin squared his shoulders and adopted a forbidding
expression.  'You have the means to prove truth of your words?"

'Yes.  But I will need the knife you took from me."

Noburo asked the man sitting on his right to fetch it.

Leaving the knife in the scabbard.  Steve pressed the concealed catches
securing the wooden side-pieces to the hilt and removed them to reveal
the microcircuitry inside.  He held it out for the chief ronin to see,
then took out the tiny stylus, pressed the recall button and placed the
knife in Noburo's hands.

Holding the knife gingerly between his fingertips, Noburo reacted with
wide-eyed astonishment as the eleven familiar letters marched across
the liquid crystal display.  The two ronin on either side of him looked
equally impressed.  ' Hhhaawww .  . ."

'What you see there is an example of the power of my people,' said
Steve.  'Those signs which appeared represent the sounds of words I
speak.  With that device I can send messages to my masters in the space
of a single heartbeat."

Noburo dropped the knife on the mat in front of Steve with a curious,
almost involuntary gesture - as if he had suddenly received an electric
shock.  He muttered something to his companions.  All three looked
vaguely uneasy.

Steve couldn't figure it out.  He clipped the wooden side-pieces back
into place and laid the sheathed knife before Noburo.  'Let us forget
the debt of honour, Captain.  We both have more important matters to
attend to."

His forthright manner took Noburo's breath away and rocked the other
two back on their heels.  It seemed to indicate that they also had some
knowledge of Basic.

Noburo pointed to the knife.  'What do you wish me to do with this?"

'Show it to your masters."

'We have no masters, Barickaman."  Noburo seemed unable to get his
tongue around words with an 'r' in them.

'We are outlaws."

Steve bowed.  'With respect, Captain, in your nation and mine, there
are men who assume many guises in the service of their lord.  I am one
of them and I believe that you too are such a man.  Show your master
this knife, explain what has passed between us, and tell him that there
are things he and I need to discuss."

Noburo roared with laughter and slapped his thigh.  He quickly
translated the gist of the conversation, then turned back to Steve as
his companions shared his amusement.

'I never thought I should say this to outlander, but you honour us by
your presence, cloud warrior!  And we applaud your courage in face of
death!  Your message will be passed to those who have interest in this
matter.  I cannot promise you, uhh.  deliverance, but - if all your
comrades are as valiant as you - it would be most foolish man who did
not give serious consideration to the words you speak here today."

Clearwater sat up as she saw the light of the lanterns.  The cloud
warrior was returning.  He was carrying a tray of food, and when they
reached the cave his escort opened both sections of the door to his
cell, allowing him to walk in upright.  She glanced at Su-Shan and
Nan-Khe as narrow bands of yellow light swung to and fro across their
faces.  Both were still fast asleep.

The cloud warrior sank down slowly with his back against the partition
as the door was barred, and laid the tray across his lap.  Darkness
filled the cave as the lanterns receded.  She heard him let out a long,
heartfelt sigh.

Clearwater slipped her fingers between the plans and touched Steve's
shoulder.  'Oh, cloud warrior.  when I saw them beating you I feared I
might never see you again.  Are you hurt?"

'Can't feel a thing."  His voice sounded slurred.

'Ssshhh!'

He lowered his voice.  'Don't worry.  It's all going well.

We're on our way, lover."

'On our way where?"

'Out of here."

'How?  I don't understand."

'Explain-a-you la'er,' gurgled Steve, as he scooped up hot rice with
one hand and vegetables with the other.

'Can' spea' now.  Gob my mou' full..."

CHAPTER SEVEN

At some point during the middle of the night, Steve was roused by his
gaolers.  They gave him a moment to shake off the torpor induced by
fatigue, sake and a bellyful of hot food, then instructed him in sign
language to gather up his meagre possessions: the stolen cotton quilt,
his water-skin and the waist-bag containing the bundle of pink leaves
that could turn him back into a long-dog.

Emerging from the cave into a pool of lantern light, Steve saw that
Clearwater and her two minders were back in the saddle, bound and
blindfolded.  A fourth horse awaited him.  Steve hauled himself aboard,
gritting his teeth as his butt hit the unyielding leather.  Deprived of
the electrifying energy that flowed from the quarterstaff, all his
accumulated aches and pains had returned to plague him.  Steve drew
some comfort from the fact that he was now able to cross hunger cramps
off his list of ailments and that - for the moment at least - no one
was threatening to cancel his card.

That had been a bad moment but, with some fancy footwork, he had been
able to sidestep disaster yet again.

He shuddered to think what would have happened if he had taken a second
shot of sake.  He would have to watch that stuff.  Noburo and the other
ronin were able to knock it back like there was no tomorrow, but that
first cup had practically pulled the floor out from under him.  It was
true it had given his tongue a reckless edge, but there had been a
terrifying moment when it had almost lost its way around his mouth.

Close I A dink carrying a length of cord came around the head of the
horse.  Steve offered his wrists to him and was tied to the pommel of
the saddle.  They left his feet in the stirrups and made sure they
stayed there by looping a second length of cord round both ankles.

Steve experienced a moment of anxiety as he thought about the steep
descent they had to make on leaving the camp.

If the horse went down, that was it.  He would go down with it.

Noburo Naka-Jima and eleven mounted ronin appeared out of the
darkness.

Four riders gathered up the reins of the waiting horses and prepared to
lead them out.  Noburo and the three men who had attended the private
interview positioned themselves at the head of the column and moved off
in single file across the arena.

The other four came into line behind Steve.

The door was opened and shut by one of a small group who had been sent
ahead to make sure that it was safe to exit through the cleft on to the
slope beyond.  There was a muttered exchange with each of the mounted
ronin as he passed by, then the foot patrol withdrew, closing the door
behind them.

Clearwater, Su-Shan, Nan-Khe and Steve were led down the bare
precipitous trail under a thinning moon which hung in a cloudless
sky.

Steve felt they were helplessly exposed, and what made it worse was the
realisation that he was sitting there with his hands tied.

But there was no deadly shower of arrows, and no sudden trumpet blast
to signal a ferocious charge like the one he had witnessed in the river
valley.  The nerve-wracking descent seemed to go on for ever and he
remained on/edge, his stomach freezing every time his horse missed its
footing, until they entered the tree-line.

For the next three hours they headed northeastwards, along narrow
winding forest trails, over hill and valley, across streams and small
rivers until finally, in the grey twilight that preceded the dawn, they
descended a tree-covered slope and came in sight of the highway.  The
old Pennsylvania Turnpike that Steve had been keeping an eye on since
leaving the wheelboat at Pi-saba.

Noburo raised his hand, signalling the column to halt.

Clearwater, Su-Shan and Nan-Khe were untied and lifted off their
horses.  Still blindfolded, they were led to within about a hundred
yards of the road, then pushed into a kneeling position and harangued
at some length in Japanese by six ronin.  The female minders bowed
repeatedly, bobbing up and down as if their bodies were on springs,
then prostrated themselves at the ronins' feet, pulling Clearwater to
the ground between them.

Steve, who loved to know everything, found himself wishing he could
understand what was being said.

The six ronin closed in and loosed off a final tirade, underlining
their words with several toe-jabs to the ribs and thighs.  Nan-Khe and
SuoShan lay there, silent and unresisting.  Satisfied that the women
had got the message, the ronin swaggered back to the rest of the party
and mounted their horses.  Noburo led them back up the forested
slope.

Steve glanced back as the trees closed round them and saw that all
three were still lying flat on their faces, their heads towards the
road.

Nan-Khe and Su-Shan counted to one hundred twice as instructed, then
sat up and removed their blindfolds.  The ronin had disappeared.

Untying the cloth covering Clearwater's masked eyes, they ushered her
on to the highway, and set off towards the east.

The ronin had told them they were less than five miles from the nearest
post-house.  Once there, they would be able to discover the fate of the
convoy from which they had been kidnapped.  If it was still in one
piece and had not travelled too far along the road, they might be able
to catch up with it and continue their journey.  After attacks like
these, there were always delays while the local authorities took
statements from eye-witnesses and recorded details of the stolen
goods.

Had they been able to reveal that they were trusted servants of the
Consul-General of Masa-chusa and Ro-diren, brother-in-law to the Shogun
himself, every assistance would have been offered to them without
delay.  But they could not do so.  Their employer had threatened to
have their tongues torn out if they dared to utter his name.  Their
papers identified them as house-women of a dried-fish merchant residing
at Nyo-poro.  If anyone asked, they had been told to say they had
escorted 'Yoko Mi-Shima' to visit her relatives at Kari-faran and were
now returning with her to join said merchant at Fin, where he was due
to attend the next slave market.

But no one had told them what to do if they and their charge were
carried off by ronin.  No one had foreseen a situation in which 'Yoko
Mi-Shima' might be taken from the sealed carriage-box and released on
to the highway where she would be exposed to the prying eyes of the
general public - and to official scrutiny.

It was all very worrying, and things were made even more precarious by
the fact that Su-Shan and NanKhe were duty-bound to report their kidnap
and release to the local magistrates' office - and answer any questions
put to them.  The greatest danger lay in the fact that they had been
left stranded in one of the western domains which easterners such as
themselves regarded as the boon-docks.  If one of these unsophisticated
provincial clerks insisted on seeing who was under the mask, instead of
treating the 'lady of pleasure' with the customary discretion, it could
prove extremely awkward.

And it was bound to happen, because their charge could not speak
Japanese and thus could not answer any questions put to her.  Once the
long-dog was discovered, it would be immediately obvious that her
papers were forgeries.

Su-Shan and Nan-Khe both knew that the use of false documents was a
serious criminal offence.  Trusted servants they might be, but as
Vietnamese, they were permanently relegated to the lower half of Iron
Master society.  In essence, that meant they had neither the social
leverage nor the money needed to halt any legal proceedings.  If the
deception was discovered and they were arraigned before the magistrates
for questioning, they could find themselves facing the removal of
their ears, noses and other extremities if they refused to answer - and
losing their tongues if they did.

Aie-yie-yieee .  . .

The risks were real enough but, on this occasion, their fears proved
groundless.  Unbeknown to them, a member of the Se-Iko family who was
linked through various business enterprises with.  both the Ko-Nikka
and Lord Yama-Shita had ordered his samurai-captains to keep a discreet
watch on the road convoy as it passed through the areas under their
command.  It was for this reason that, when the raid took place, the
response had been unexpectedly rapid.  It was only Noburo's tactical
skill and experience in covert operations that had prevented it from
turning into a disaster.

Hideyoshi Se-Iko, the good neighbour whose task it was to ensure peace
and tranquillity in the domain's southern sector, had not been informed
of the reason why this particular convoy was of interest to
YamaShita.

He had merely been asked by the Ko-Nikka to use his good offices to
ensure its unhindered passage through his family's domain.  When the
news of the raid reached him, he dispatched two trusted officials at
the gallop to advise magistrates and other officials stationed along
the route that any enquiries into the affair were to be made with the
utmost circumspection.

Translated into Basic that meant: 'Don't ruin your career prospects by
trying to solve this one, boys.  If the case lands on your desk, just
close up the office and take a long time over lunch."

For the nervous Su-Shan and Nan-Khe, it meant that when they reached
the post-house at Kara-li and explained what had happened, they found
the innkeeper both sympathetic and concerned.  Although not officially
part of the law and order system, innkeepers were required to keep a
beady eye on all comings and goings.

It was in their interests to do so.  As a result, they usually got the
word on any sensitive issues or investigations ahead of everybody
else.

Such was the case now.

Ordering a room to be placed at the disposal of their mistress - who
was so distressed by the experience that she was unable to speak - the
innkeeper arranged for them to be conveyed to the nearby magistrates'
office and insisted on coming with them.

Filled with trepidation, Su-Shan and NanKhe presented their papers to
the clerk, together with those of their mistress, and recounted their
ordeal at the hands of the ronin.  The innkeeper confirmed that the
lady Yoko Mi-Shima was in no fit state to answer questions.

To their utter surprise - which they hastened to conceal the clerk
appeared to accept this without demur.  He made a note of what little
they were able to tell him about the raid on the convoy and the ronin
who had carried them off, made a cursory examination of their papers,
then handed them back without comment.

Su-Shan and Nan-Khe could hardly believe their luck.

The good kami had certainly favoured them today.

Bowing gratefully, they enquired about the fate of the convoy from
which they had been taken.

The clerk told them that the remaining travellers and wagons had
reassembled and, after giving evidence and filing a list of the
valuables that had been plundered, had been allowed to proceed.  Did
they intend to rejoin the convoy?  They did.  The clerk promptly
provided them with a laissez-passer to get them across the ferry.

It was all quite bewildering.  From past experience, both women knew
that any procedures involving the issuing or examination of documents
usually took hours, sometimes the better part of a day - no matter how
piffling the transaction might be.  Their audience with this particular
clerk had taken less than an hour and they had not even been required
to 'polish the table' - the phrase used to describe the payment of
bribes.  Billed as voluntary donations to assist the widows and orphans
of low-paid clerks, such payments were on a scale which varied with the
importance of the document required, and ensured that paperwork did not
go astray.  It was an entrenched tradition and everybody, from the top
man down, had a hand in the pot.

Bobbing up and down from the waist, Su-Shan and Nan-Khe withdrew from
the clerk's presence and turned to beg the assistance of the kindly
innkeeper.  They had some money that the ronin had not found.  Was it
possible to hire a pushcart for themselves and afinrikisha for their
mistress?  It was.  The goddess of good fortune had smiled on them yet
again.  Both vowed to offer gifts and burn many joss-sticks in her
honour at the next shrine they came to.

Having released the captives, Noburo now led the column on a circuitous
route which took them across the highway west of the three women and
into the trees on the other side..  Dawn came, and soon the forest was
pierced by slanting rays of light.  Pausing only to feed themselves and
the horses, the ronin pressed on throughout the day and the following
night, riding first north, then east across the Susquehanna River where
it swept into a narrow right-hand bend on its way south to Harrisburg
now a ferry-crossing known to the Iron Masters as Ari-saba.  The
Susquehanna was the border between the domain of the Se-Iko and their
eastern neighbours, the Mitsu-Bishi - staunch allies of the Shogun.

Provided they kept a low profile, Noburo and his men were relatively
safe here.

They camped on the top of a forested ridge - one of the many hundred
that Steve had glimpsed from his tree-top perch and had likened to the
wave-crests of an endless tree-covered ocean.  Noburo allowed his men
three hours' sleep then, after a pre-dawn breakfast, the column swung
south in a wide curve around Arisaba.

Steve, who had been noting the various changes of direction, sensed
that their present course would eventually lead them back to the
highway.  As on the previous day, they stayed on the back trails and
rarely broke cover.  Each time they had to cross open ground, they sent
a scout on ahead to spy out the terrain, and when they stopped to water
the horses and let them crop patches of grass, everyone stayed in the
saddle.

In the middle of the afternoon, Noburo gave the signal to halt and
dismount.  Apart from a few mild canters, the horses had covered the
ground alternately walking and trotting, and were thus in fairly good
condition when they were unsaddled.  The same could not be said for
Steve.  As soon as he was released he slid to the ground, sank
gratefully against the nearest tree and stayed there.

Over the last three days, at his reckoning, he had been in the saddle
for almost a day and a half.  At this point, death would have been a
blessed release and the direst threats his captors could utter would
not have persuaded him to get up on a horse again.

As it happened, his mood of grim determination coincided with their
arrival at the place Noburo had chosen to lie up for the rest of the
day.  So for the next eight hours, the only movement demanded of him
was to sit up on the one occasion he awoke to find that a bowl of food
had been thrust under his nose.

While Steve slept, Noburo stripped off his dusty clothes and washed
himself from head to foot in the stream that ran past their camp
site.

After a vigorous towelling, he opened a saddlebag and took out the
travelling dress and wig of a samurai.  Two of his men helped arrange
the folds in his tunic and made sure the wig was seated properly.

Several more swapped the harness on his horse for a more elaborate set
decorated with blue tassels, and laid a black cloth trimmed with blue
over the horse before replacing the saddle.  Noburo slid his two swords
through the folds of the sash around his waist and, when he was assured
that his appearance was correct in every respect, he mounted his horse
and rode away accompanied on foot by two ronin dressed up as
red-stripes.

Their destination was the post-house at Midiritana where he had met
with the Herald Hase-Gawa some ten days earlier.  Hase-Gawa had stepped
out of the darkness swathed in black from head to foot like a ninja,
and would no doubt appear in similar guise tonight.

Noburo smiled at the role the Herald had adopted.

Despite his obvious, flair for intrigue, the young man was a romantic
at heart, with a taste for drama.  In Noburo's view, an ill-fitting
combination.  Nevertheless he was a Herald - and only the brightest and
most capable young men were selected for that prestigious post.  Noburo
concluded that Hase-Gawa must have other, less obvious, qualities to
recommend him.

Flanked by the two red-stripes - the customary escort for a single
samurai - Noburo arrived at the post-house around six in the evening,
intending to make his usual careful check of the location and the
travellers who were planning to stop there overnight.  He knew HaseGawa
was anxious to hear his report on the outcome of the raid and his
examination of the masked courtesan.  The Herald would not be
disappointed - but what would he make of the valiant grass-monkey who
claimed to be a long-dog?

Entering the courtyard of the post-house, Noburo was surprised to see a
large number of loaded ox-wagons, some of which looked vaguely
familiar.  Parked alongside them was a carriage-box.  Passing the reins
of his horse to one of his red-stripes, he dismounted and strode boldly
around the veranda and terraces of the post-house, eyeing the faces of
all those he encountered.  One of them belonged to the master of the
convoy his ronin had raided!  By the sacred kami.t It had reassembled
and was stopping here for the night!

Noburo knew there was no danger of being recognised and accused of
banditry.  He had been masked during the attack and dressed as a
disreputable, down-at-heel character.  But what an odd coincidence!

Making his way back to the courtyard, he met with an even bigger
surprise.  Only yards from where his own horse stood between the two
disguised ronin, the two Vietnamese house-women were helping the masked
courtesan down from a jinrikisha!

This was no longer mere coincidence, decided Noburo.  Fate had
conspired to bring the players in the drama together on the same
stage.

He would make his promised report to the Herald, but he would also
arrange for the young man to discover the truth for himself!

Noburo watched discreetly from a distance as the two house-women were
brought to the convoy-master, who welcomed them back into the fold and
helped them secure the best possible accommodation for their
'mistress'.  When she had been whisked out of sight, Noburo sought out
the innkeeper and his wife and announced that he wished to discuss a
matter of some importance with them in private.

The innkeeper, who - like all men who plied his trade - was the social
inferior of the samurai, led Noburo into his private quarters with the
usual bowing and scraping, to which his wife added her abject apologies
for the miserable state of their abode, et cetera, et cetera.

Once the niceties had been observed, Noburo adopted a cross-legged
position facing the kneeling innkeeper.

His wife knelt in her traditional place, facing her husband's left
shoulder.  Noburo began by explaining that his previous visit to the
post-house had been to verify its reputation as a clean, well-run
establishment.

He had been gratified to discover that everything he had heard was
true.  The high standards of service and heart-warming hospitality
offered to weary travellers reflected nothing but credit upon its
proprietors.  Their honesty and zeal was, said Noburo, an example that
the rest of their profession would be hard put to emulate.

Praise indeed.

While the surprised couple searched for the correct form of words to
express their unworthiness to be the recipients of such a fulsome
accolade, Noburo produced a wad of high-denomination notes and placed
them on the mat in front of the innkeeper.  The man and his wife
exchanged a startled glance, then both stared openmouthed at what was
clearly a small fortune.  Unable to believe his eyes, the innkeeper
reached out towards the notes with trembling hands, then jerked them
away.  By the rules of etiquette he could not pick up the money until
Noburo gave him permission to do so.

After receiving solemn assurances that they would treat what he was
about to say with the utmost discretion, Noburo revealed that he was
acting on behalf of a young nobleman of high birth who greatly desired
to meet the masked lady - who they had only just received into their
house.

Warming to his tale, Noburo painted a tragic picture of a young man's
awakening love - in this case reciprocated by the lady in question.

But because of his family's exalted rank the liaison could not be
allowed to continue.  Arrangements had been made for the young man to
marry a daughter from one of the many branches of the Toh-Yota family
the rulers of Ne-Issan.

Hhhhaaawwww...!  The innkeeper and his wife looked impressed.  To think
they were caught up in such great events!

For this reason, continued Noburo, the lady had been banished from
court circles and was now on her way to become the chattel of some
common east-coast merchant.  This meeting - assuming that the innkeeper
and his wife would graciously allow it to take place under their own
roof- was their last chance to be together.

The innkeeper's wife, a warm-hearted woman whose life had been entirely
devoid of such grand passions, listened avidly to the ronin's story.

Her husband only had one aim: to make a profit out of every
transaction.

His fingers, which could flutter with incredible grace and speed over
his abacus, no longer knew how to caress her body.  As a consequence,
her romantic appetite fed vicariously off the details of other people's
love affairs.

The gift of money satisfied the husband, and the heart-rending tale
brought tears to the eyes of his wife.

On retiring to bed she would be able to close her eyes and project
herself into the role of the courtesan locked in a last desperate
embrace with her noble young lover.

Always providing, of course, that her dull lump of a husband did not
shatter the illusion by snoring his head off.

But, in the meantime, how could they help?  The question was put
timidly to Noburo through her husband.

Noburo explained that the two women acting as her chaperones were in
the employ of the merchant.  The fact that he had provided two
Vietnamese women was an insult in itself and showed what an uncouth
fellow he was.

The innkeeper and his wife, who were both of Chinese dscent and thus
superior to everybody except the Sons of Ne-Issan, were quick to
agree.

Having ascertained that he could rent the small pavilion he had used on
his previous visit, Noburo produced a small vial of powder - a potent
sleeping draught that was to be mixed in two cups of sake that the
innkeeper would generously offer the courtesan's servants with their
supper.  When they were soundly asleep, and the other travellers had
retired for the night, he would, with their consent, introduce the lady
into the pavilion where her noble lover would be waiting in the hope
that she would receive him with a generous heart and a giving nature.

By morning he would be gone, never to see her again, the lady would be
back in her chamber and her chaperones would be none the wiser.

The innkeeper gazed misty-eyed at the money and agreed it was a most
excellent plan; his wife swore to guard the secret with her life and
managed to convey by a lingering sidelong glance that while the master
lay in the arms of his loved one she would not be averse to pleasuring
his trusted servant.  For Noburo, nothing was less likely but, aware
she was his principal ally, he responded with an equivocal glance and
withdrew, leaving her in a lather of pleasurable anticipation while her
husband's eager fingers riffled through the sweet-smelling pile of new
dollar bills.

By the time the wafer-thin crescent moon had risen, Steve's body felt
rested and his mood had mellowed considerably.  Which was just as well,
because the ronin had begun to saddle their horses.

With a huge yawn, Steve got to his feet and stretched his limbs, then
leapt up to grasp an overhanging branch and hung there to loosen his
spine.  Ohh, yeah, that's better ... Just what the doctor ordered.

Dropping down, he did a few more limbering-up exercises, then scooped
some water out of the nearby stream and splashed it over his face and
down the back of his neck.

Okay, world, I'm good andready.  Do your worst... The worst the world
had to offer was another slow night-ride.  But now there were only nine
ronin.  Noburo was one of those who had gone missing, leaving his two
sidekicks to head the column.  Steve, whose saddle-sore butt was soon
sending out a new wave of distress signals, switched his thoughts away
from the means of locomotion and tried to work out what might lie
ahead.

Even without understanding the language, it was obvious to him that
Clearwater and her two minders had been set free and left to find their
own way home.  But what had been the point of the exercise?  From the
little she had been able to tell him, Steve knew she was now the
'body-slave' of one of the top Iron Masters; a certain Nakane Toh-Shiba
who had just moved into the No.  1 spot on Steve's hit list.  He also
knew she had been transported across Ne-Issan in conditions of great
secrecy, had sailed with Yama-Shita to the trading post and had then
been put back in the box for return to Toh-Shiba.  At which point,
Noburo's ronin had spoiled everything with their raid on the convoy: a
convoy which also contained two long-dogs.  Clearwater had only caught
a fleeting glimpse of them, but she had seen enough.  The itinerant duo
were Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso, en route for the Heron Pool where
Cadillac was now busily at work trying to build imitation Skyhawks.

But not for much longer, amigo.  Your old friend Stevie, who you so
kindly shafted by first picking his brains, then assuming his identity,
is aiming to throw a nice big spanner right in the works.

Thanks to Clearwater, Steve now had three names to work with:
Yama-Shita, old Golden Nose, who had set up the deal with Mr Snow;
Min-Orota, another high-wire in whose domain the Heron Pool was located
and who, apparently, was funding the operation; and Nakane Toh-Shiba,
the Jap who now 'owned' Clearwater.  He was some kind of top-level
government official based in Min-Orota's territory.

Three interesting pieces that all linked together, but how did they fit
into the rest of the puzzle?  Steve had coaxed Noburo into admitting he
was an agent of 'those who have an interest in this matter': his exact
words.

Was that the purpose of this present journey - to meet the person, or
persons, running what amounted to a covert operation against the trio
led by YamaShita?

As the column continued its slow progress across the forested terrain,
threading its way from one dimly lit clearing to the next Steve mulled
over the known elements of the present situation.  If a meeting did
materialise he had to look and sound confident, and be poised to
exploit any opportunity that presented itself.  If he failed to make
the right connections, he was unlikely to get another chance.  The
biggest problem was his crippling lack of knowledge of the present
set-up inside Ne-Issan.  Without these facts it was virtually
impossible to figure out who was doing what to whom.  He had to rely on
the winning combination that had served him so well in the past:
intuition - his elusive sixth sense, the voice that sometimes made
itself heard in the recesses of his mind, and his incredible luck what
Mr Snow and Clearwater kept calling the will of Talisman.

The more Steve thought about it, the more evident it became that it was
Clearwater, not Cadillac, who was the key element in the equation.  For
reasons he did not yet fully understand, her transformation from
patterned grass-monkey to clear-skinned long-dog had made her a
valuable asset; a prize that Yama-Shita and his friends had gone to
considerable lengths to conceal.  But why."?

What made her so different from all the other Tracker renegades held
prisoner in Ne-Issan?  Was it because she was the only female, apart
from Jodi, that had fallen into their hands."?  Or was it because this
Nakane TohShiba found her as stunning to look at as he did."?  Was it
the Jap's present physical relationship with Clearwater that was the
cause of all this clandestine activity."?  Was TohShiba breaking the
rules - and were his friends Yama-Shita and Min-Orota involved in the
coverup?

The raid on the convoy was proof that' somebody was on their case:
somebody with sufficient clout and resources to employ close on a
hundred 'ronin' operating from a secure, well-established base-camp.

That 'somebody' Mr X - was opposed to or, at the very least, concerned
about what was going on: concerned enough to gamble men's lives in
order to find out who was behind the mask.

And powerful enough to command the loyalty of men prepared to die, as
more than forty of them had, in order to satisfy his curiosity.  Noburo
had asked Clearwater no questions; the house-women had been ignored.

He had merely inspected his hard-won prize and, to judge from his
outward reaction, had not been overly surprised to find what looked ike
a long-dog, clothed in Iron Master finery.

Steve thought back over what Side-Winder, his fellow-Mexican, had told
him about Ne-Issan, searching for clues as to who 'Mr X' might be.

Toh-Shiba, the Jap now waiting to repossess Clearwater's body, was a
government high-wire.  Yama-Shita and Min-Orota were domain-lords.

Were they plotting something."?  Were the aircraft that Cadillac was
attempting to build to be used in a bid to seize power."?  Side-Winder
had talked of an 'undercurrent of conspiracy'.  Were they plotting
against other domain-lords or ... against the government."?

Could the 'someone' whose identity Steve was trying to establish.

could 'Mr X' be... the Shogun."?

Steve felt his brain quiver as he came to this realisation.

It was as if an ice-cool electric current had suddenly connected all of
his several billion brain cells.

Yep... that's how it plays, Brickman.  You just hit the jackpot.

The column halted.  Two ronin appeared out of the darkness and untied
Steve's wrists and feet.  Through the trees, Steve could just make out
several faint points of orange light arranged in a regular cluster.

From his scavenging expeditions he knew they came from the lighted
windows of dwelling places.  This, then, was the rendezvous point.

The two ronin brought Steve to the head of the column where Noburo
Naka-Jima now stood illuminated by a thin ray of light from a masked
lantern.  He had dispensed with the ragtag look and was now dressed
like a man of some distinction.  He wore a black outfit trimmed with
blue.

Several white word-signs and symbols were arranged across the chest and
back of his jacket.  His bald head was partly covered by a wig swept up
at the back into the top-knot that was the exclusive hallmark of the
samurai.

'You will now take off clothes and wash body,' he said, pointing to a
wooden bucket full of water.

Steve stripped off his walking skins and stood shivering in his blue
wingman's underpants.  Noburo motioned to him to take those off too.

The sight of the hair that ran down from his navel then spread out
across his pelvis brought some muttered comments from the dinks
standing around him.  Someone handed him a square block of fat and made
rubbing motions as another guy emptied some of the water over his
head.

Steve worked up a rich lather.  The block was a solid version of the
liquid soap the Federation provided in push-button dispensers.  More
water was thrown over him.  Christopher, it was cold!  He worked the
soap over his body until he reached his toes, got another drenching,
then was handed a towel.  A good hard rub got rid of most of the goose
pimples.

Noburo sniffed the air coming from Steve's direction and gave a nod of
approval.  'Now you dress in different manner."

One of the ronin handed Steve a cotton loincloth and showed him how to
wrap it around his private parts, then another guy brought over a sack
to put his dirty clothes and his other belongings in.  With that task
completed, Steve was provided with a pair of white cotton socks, a
brown, loose-fitting cuffed jacket and trousers like those worn by
Clearwater's minders and a pair of flat-soled shoes.  A square straw
mask with two eye-slits was placed over his face and fastened at the
back of his head and round his throat, then a hooded waist-length cape
made of woven straw was draped over his shoulders and closed by means
of a loop and toggle just below the collarbone.

Finally, another pair of white socks was slipped over his hands and
tucked up his sleeves to hide the telltale patches of coloured
pigment.

Steve's wrists were tied together again, but his horse-riding days were
over.  Two ronin who had changed into red-stripe outfits rode up as
Noburo remounted.  All three horses had been dolled up by the addition
of tassels attached to the harness, their tails had been partly braided
and the body of Noburo's mount was now draped with a black cloth
decorated to match the outfit of its rider.

One of the red-stripes took the free end of the rope that ran around
Steve's wrists and hitched it to his saddle; the other took charge of
the sack containing his old outfit.  Noburo's party waved goodbye to
the nine ronin they were leaving behind and set off towards the distant
points of light.  Steve didn't have time to wave.

He was too busy trying to keep up.

Near midnight, as the inhabitants of the now-silent post-house
slumbered, a figure swathed in black, with only his eyes visible
through a gap in the strip of cloth wound around his head, entered the
darkened pavilion through the half-open screen that gave on to the
garden, and sat down cross-legged opposite the waiting ronin.

It was Toshiro Hase-Gawa.  A small lantern placed on the floor to
Noburo's left provided the only illumination.

Revealing his face to the ronin, the Herald exchanged the customary
greetings and then listened intently to Noburo's account of the raid
and his subsequent discoveries.

The loss of some forty men was regrettable, but it was reassuring to
know his informants had not lied.  The love-object was indeed a
long-dog.

As requested, the ronin had sent separate confirmation of this fact
directly to the Shogun by courier pigeon.

Noburo then announced that the kami who had snatched them from the jaws
of death following the raid on the convoy had intervened in their
favour yet again.  The Herald could now examine the merchandise
himself: 'Yoko Mi-Shima' and her two chaperones had rejoined the road
convoy and were spending the night at the same post-house!

Mastering his surprise, the Herald asked how the examination could be
conducted without giving the game away.

Noburo explained the arrangement he had made with the innkeeper and his
wife who, if she was as good as her last whispered word, was now abed
with one ear cocked for the three owl-hoots which would summon her to
the silent steam-laden bath-house and into Noburo's arms.  She was
destined to be cruelly deceived, but Noburo intended to make a handsome
apology in the morning.  He would blame his non-appearance on the need
to guard the ill-starred couple during their midnight tryst, then leave
with a backward glance that hinted at unfinished business.

Toshiro listened with an amused smile and laughed in all the right
places, but his light hearted manner concealed mixed feelings at
learning of the long-dog's presence in the post-house.  The fact that
she was now here and, thanks to Noburo, could be viewed whenever he
desired called into question the wisdom of his original plan.  Had it
been a rash and futile action?  Had men's lives been uselessly
squandered?

He decided they had not.  Gazing surreptitiously at the body of the
long-dog through a bath-house screen, or from behind the door to her
bedchamber with Noburo beside him as an independent witness, would have
proved his accusations were well founded but it would not have thrown
the conspirators into disarray.

That was the real purpose of the kidnapping.  It raised doubts, it
hinted at the possibility that at least one of their secrets was now
known to others and fuelled the ever-present anxiety that their
conspiracy had been uncovered.

Perhaps Lord Yama-Shita would decide that the long-dog was now too
great a risk and arrange to have her assassinated.

That would certainly eliminate one problem - but it would also end his
hold over Nakane Toh-Shiba.  It might even cause the Consul-General to
turn against him.

Yes... either way there were interesting times ahead.

Toshiro maintained his show of good humour and congratulated the ronin
on his artful handling of the situation.  'So when may I be permitted
to see the lady who has led me to risk all for a last passionate
encounter?"

'Soon, sire,' replied Noburo.  'But first, there is another person I
must bring to your attention."  Without further explanation he
unwrapped a piece of cloth to reveal the combat knife, and proceeded to
tell the Herald about Steve's intervention to halt the slaughter of the
camp women and his subsequent revelations.

Toshiro listened impassively, then reached out and touched the knife.

'Why do you show this to me?"

'Because it is more than a knife.  It is a weapon filled with the power
of the long-dogs.  The .  . ."  Noburo hesitated '... power whose name
we dare not speak."

The Dark Light...

Toshiro examined the knife cautiously.  It was well crafted but the
quality and sharpness' of the steel blade was markedly inferior to the
swords and daggers produced in Ne-Issan.  He offered it back to the
ronin.  'Show me .  . ."

Noburo released the hidden pressure catches and removed one of the
wooden side-pieces revealing the device hidden inside.  He had observed
Steve's actions and had practised opening the hilt several times in
order to avoid looking clumsy in front of the Herald.  He had even
taken out the stylus and used it to press various buttons just as the
cloud warrior had done, but he had not found out how to make the moving
word-signs appear.

What Noburo had done - although he did not know it was to cancel the
automatic broadcast of Steve's call-sign programmed by Side-Winder,
plus the brief twelve-hourly transmissions Steve had keyed in
himself.

The result was to take Steve completely off the air.  For the last two
days, the high-flying ears of the First Family had searched for his
signal and drawn a blank.  The last fix A'MEXICO had on him was in the
area of Big D - the ronin's secret hide-out - but now, no one knew
where he was, or what had happened to him.

Toshiro inspected the microcircuitry inside the handle but was none the
wiser.  'Did the cloud warrior explain the purpose of this device?"

'Yes.  It is like a courier pigeon without wings.  He uses it to send
messages through the skies - and also to receive the commands of his
masters."  Noburo shook his head in wonderment.

Toshiro also found the idea fascinating, but he was acutely conscious
that they were playing with fire.  The hidden contents of the knife
made it a forbidden object whose power might destroy those who tampered
with its mechanisms.  He was obliged to take it with him in case the
Shogun expressed a wish to see it, but its presence in the room made
him feel uneasy.  Toshiro got the ronin to show him how to release and
replace the wooden sidepieces, then told him to wrap the knife up and
place it in another room until they had concluded their business.

When Noburo returned he had the mysterious cloud warrior in tow.  The
tall dark-haired figure whose wrists were tied together went down on
his knees before the Herald and bowed respectfully.

'Remove the mask,' said Toshiro, in Japanese.

Noburo untied the straw mask and adopted a cross legged position
facing them, on the Herald's right.

Steve sat back on his heels and kept his eyes lowered until the
black-clad figure addressed him.  Noburo had given him a crash course
on how to behave, stressing that this high-flyer did not owe him any
favours and was apparently a stickler for protocol.  Social inferiors
and especially outlanders - did not sit in the company of samurai.

They knelt.  Above all, they did not come on like Jack the Bear.

Toshiro studied Steve's patterned face and forearms with a mixture of
suspicion and distaste.  He had never been this close to a grass-monkey
before.  He paused, uncertain what tone to adopt in this situation.  He
thought over what the ronin had said about his extraordinary martial
skills and his fearless responses when questioned and decided to
address him in a firm, but not overbearing, manner.  'I understand you
call yourself a cloud warrior.  What is that exactly?"

Steve was surprised to hear the fluency with which his interlocutor
spoke Basic.  'That's the name the Mutes give to the wingmen of the
Federation.  They are a special kind of soldier.  Cream of the crop.

But instead of being mounted on horses like samurai, they ride into
battle on flying machines called Skyhawks."

'Got it.  So tell me - why would someone as special as that dress up as
a grass-monkey?"

Steve hesitated.

'You find that a difficult question to answer?"

'No, sire, I was just wondering what words to use.  You speak Basic
amazingly well, but the system you operate here is so different to ours
we may not share the same kind of vocabulary."

'Try me,' said Toshiro.

'The supreme ruler of your country is known as the Shogun.  Is that
correct?"

The Herald's throat tightened.  He had not foreseen that the outlander
might have the effrontery to ask him a question.  He mastered his anger
without changing his expression.  'Go on .  . ."

'The supreme ruler of my country - the Amtrak Federation - is known as
the President-General.  I have the honour to be one of a small number
of soldiers selected personally by him to carry out highly sensitive
undercover assignments.  The unit, over which he exercises direct
control, is known as AMEXICO.  The AMtrak EXecutive Intelligence
COmmando.  Its operatives are known as mexicans.  We are the eyes and
ears of the President-General, and it is he who sent me here."

'In pursuit of two long-dogs, I believe -' Steve hit him with the big
one.  'You are mistaken, sire.  The couple I seek are not long-dogs.

They're Mutes."  As he inclined his head, he saw the eyes of his masked
questioner flicker with alarm.

Toshiro exchanged glances with the ronin.  If what this outlander said
about himself was true, then the position he held in his own country
was more or less equivalent to Toshiro's own as a Herald to the Inner
Court.  If that was the case, it was little wonder that he had fought
so well and spoken with such assurance.  But what he had just said
about Clearwater and her companion could totally demolish the scenario
he had constructed for the Shogun.  And that could be very
embarrassing.  A firm response was necessary.

He slapped his thigh and laughed mockingly.  'You spin a good story,
cloud warrior, but I advise you to tread carefully.  You come here
uninvited, threaten to make war on us with fire from the sky if we do
not hand over the two criminals you seek, and now you ask us to believe
that, despite your appearance, you are really a long-dog, and those who
look like long-dogs are grass-monkeys!"  Steve bowed.  It was obvious
this guy hadn't heard about super-straights.  'Yes, sire, I know it
sounds far-fetched, but that's the way it is.  They are a special kind
of Mute that you may not have come across before."

Toshiro's mouth tightened and went down at the corners.  Was this
possible?  Hhhawwwwh!  This conversation was taking a dangerous turn.

He would have to find some excuse to get rid of the ronin so that he
could talk privately with the cloud warrior.  It was vital that this
disturbing piece of news did not reach the Shogun's ears until he had
had an opportunity to prepare the ground.

'Can you prove you are not a grass-monkey?"

'Yes."  Steve indicated Noburo.  'I gave the samurai-captain my
radio-knife."

Toshiro nodded.  'Yeah, I've seen it,' he said flatly.

'The Plainfolk do not possess such devices.  Neither do the Sons of
Ne-Issan.  Only the Federation has the knowledge and the power to
create these things.  I can show you how it works."

And who knows, maybe this time I might get Karlstrom on the other end
of the line.  That would rock them back on their heels.

'The device is of no interest to us."

Steve found his reply bewildering, but then the ronin had also shown a
certain reluctance when presented with the knife.  Steve recalled
Side-Winder telling him the dinks didn't have electricity.  Okay.

Neither did the Mutes.  But these guys were different: they were into
making things in a big way.  They should have been falling over
themselves to find out about it but instead they gave the impression
they couldn't care less.  Maybe they were just scared of new ideaslike
the M'Calls not wanting the Iron Masters' rifles.  Never mind, if he
couldn't blind this guy with science he still had a couple of cards to
play.  'This skin colour comes off.  But I need some water and some
leaves that are in my bag."

Toshiro looked across at the ronin.  Noburo got up and left the room.

As the screen door slid shut behind him, Toshiro said, 'What else do
you know, cloud warrior?"

Steve raised his eyes, hesitated for a moment, then decided to play his
hunch.  'I know that you and the samurai-captain serve the Shogun and
that there are those who seek his downfall.  Lord Yama-Shita is one,
his friend Min-Orota is another."

Toshiro's eyes gave nothing away.  'Go on..."

'If I'm right, maybe you and I can do business."

'What kind of business?"

'I was sent here to take out the Mute who is building flying machines
for Lord Min-Orota."

' "Take out".  you mean kill?"

'My orders were to bring him and his female companion back alive if
possible.  If not .  . ."  Steve completed the sentence with a shrug.

'If I fail, the Federation will be obliged to resort to other.  more
destructive means.

We do not seek a wider conflict, but we cannot allow this enterprise to
succeed.  It's also possible that what is going on.  at the Heron Pool
does not have the wholehearted support of those you represent.  If this
is the case, you may feel that perhaps it would be in the best
interests of all concerned if it was closed down.  Permanently."

'Mmmmm .  . . interesting thought.  Are you making me an offer?"

'It would save everybody a lot of grief."

'Who gave you all this information - my colleague?"

Steve shook his head.  'Apart from disclosing that his name was Noburo
Naka-Jima, he didn't tell me a thing.

He didn't need to.  The Federation has ears and eyes all over the
sky."

That last part was pure invention, but Steve was closer to the truth
than he realised.

Noburo returned with a small bucket of water and the deerskin
waist-bag.  When his wrists had been untied, Steve spread out the
fingers of his left hand towards the man in black and pointed at them
in turn.  'Pick one."

Toshiro said nothing until Steve switched hands and reached his right
middle finger.  'Stop right there."

Pulling one of the five-pointed pink leaves from the bundle, Steve wet
it thoroughly, then scrunched it up in his left hand.  He then dunked
the chosen finger in the bucket and screwed it around vigorously inside
his closed fist.  A couple of minutes and several rinses later, no
trace of the dye remained.  Stretching out his arm, he closed his fist
and extended his middle finger upwards in front of Toshiro's face for
him to examine, The Herald, who was unaware of the symbolic meaning
behind the gesture, stared silently at the pink-skinned digit.

'Satisfied?"

Toshiro managed to control his anger, but it took a great deal of
effort to do so.  He would dearly have loved to cut off the cloud
warrior's arm to punish him for his insolence, but this was not
possible.  Not yet, anyway.  But he had to let this outlander know he
was not dealing with an ignoramus.  'Don't push it, sport."

'Sire, it was your facility with my language that led me to use a more
colloquial form of address.  By doing so, I meant to pay you a
compliment, not to give offence."

'Spare me the bullshit,' said Toshiro.  'I may not be up on the
Federation but I know when someone's trying to put me down."

There was only one thing to do: bow gracefully.

'Okay,' said Toshiro.  'You have the skin and the face of a long-dog.

But so has the woman you seek.  She was painted like you."

'That's true."  Steve indicated the pattern on his arm.

'This stuff is specially made by the Mutes to disguise those born with
clear skins."

'unfortunately we only have your word for that."

Steve shrugged.  This guy's attitude was beginning to get his back
up.

'It's a pity the samurai-captain let the woman go.  If she was here now
she could prove I'm speaking the truth."

The Herald digested Steve's reply then looked at the ronin.  Noburo
responded with a slight nod.  'Very well.

We'll see what she has to say."

It was Steve's turn to be surprised.  'She's here?"

'Yeah.  It's your lucky day."

A real wise guy...

Toshiro turned to the ronin and spoke again in Japanese.

'My friend.  If it is still possible, bring the woman here without
delay and hold her in the next room until I am ready to question
her."

Noburo replied in their native tongue.  'Shall I secure the wrists of
the outlander?"

Toshiro suppressed a smile.  'No.  He is a venomous serpent, but I
think I know how to handle him.  If we could find a way to place him in
the bosom of our enemies he could be of great use to us."

'And afterwards .  . .?"

'I shall have great pleasure in drawing his fangs."

Not understanding your opponents' language was like playing
Shoot-A-Mute with your eyes shut.  Steve watched Noburo bow, then pad
softly towards the door.

For some reason these guys took their shoes off every time they came
inside.  He had been made to leave his oust on the veranda too.

Strange people.  He turned back to the man in black and wondered what
the rest of his face looked like.

'Look, uhh .  . . may I speak frankly?"  No response.

Steve tried again.  'The samurai-captain warned me that outlanders such
as myself are not supposed to ask questions but there are a few things
we need to clear up."

'Like what?"

'Well, it would help if I knew your name."

'That's not necessary."

'Okay, then - just tell me where you fit into the picture."

'You don't need to know that either,' replied Toshiro.

'What you have to fix clearly in your mind is this.  Your life is in my
hands.  If I decide to make use of you then your execution will be
delayed.  If you follow my orders and help bring this situation to a
successful conclusion it may be postponed indefinitely."

'Does that mean I get to go home?"

'That's up to you."  At this stage it was best to keep things fluid.

'Okay.  But let me give you some advice.  I'm happy to work in with
you, but I've been on this case for some time.  I know these two.  I
know how their minds work.

So I may be able to come up with a few ideas you haven't thought of."

The cloud warrior's brash confidence was really quite

insufferable.  From the way he spoke anyone would think they were
equals!  Toshiro gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.  'I think
you're getting a little ahead of yourself, sport.  As yet, there is no
deal.  If you don't manage to convince me that the masked lady is a
Mute, you'll be dead before morning."

Clearwater experienced a moment of alarm when she woke to find a masked
samurai in her bedchamber.  She shrank away as he went down on one knee
beside her, but he indicated by gestures that he wished her no harm.

Putting a finger to his lips, he told her in fractured Basic that a
gentleman who was concerned for her future was waiting near by and
wished to speak with her.  If she came of her own accord, he would
ensure her safe return.  Seeing her hesitation, the samurai assured her
that both her guardians had been drugged and would not wake until dawn
at the earliest, by which time she would be safely back in bed.

Clearwater put her travelling cape over the thin cotton shift she was
wearing, pulled the cowl over her head so that her face was shadowed
and picked up a pair of wooden-soled sandals.

The samurai, whose voice and build she thought she recognised, slid
open the door to the antechamber and ushered her past Su-Shan and
Nan-Khe.  Both women lay sprawled on their futons, breathing heavily
through their mouths.  Stepping barefoot on to the veranda, Clearwater
followed the samurai to the far end past several other guest rooms and
then slipped on her sandals as they stepped down on to a winding
path.

The moon had disappeared, leaving the post-house shrouded in almost
total darkness, but as she was being taken to her room earlier in the
day, Clearwater had noticed that the path led to a small pavilion set
apart from the other buildings.  No light came from the windows but as
they drew closer she saw two red-stripes standing guard outside.  One
of them slid open the door-screen and bowed as she and the samurai
mounted the steps, parked their footwear and went inside.

Standing in the light of a masked lantern was a man swathed in black.

Only his eyes were visible.  As the door slid shut the man stepped into
the shadows.  'Take off your cape and stand in the light."

Clearwater let the cape fall to the floor.  The ankle-length cotton
shift she wore hung from the points of her breasts, moulding itself
softly over her belly and thighs.  Her hair, now unpinned, framed her
face and throat.  She swept it up with her hands and pushed it back
over her shoulders.  ˇ The shrouded eyes of the Man in Black glistened
briefly in the lantern light.  He motioned her to lift the hem of her
shift.

Clearwater reached down and gathered it up around her thighs.

'Higher."

She lifted the hem clear of her pelvis.  The Plainfolk had no complexes
about nakedness.  They dressed and observed a certain decorum, but to
be without clothes was viewed as neither shameful nor embarrassing.

Plainfolk were vigorous and lusty but they were not filled with
prurient curiosity.

'Higher."

Clearwater calmly hoisted the shift up over her breasts.  She felt
nothing because exposing her body to these cold-eyed strangers meant
nothing.  It was the same with the Consul-General.  Even though she had
lost count of the times he had penetrated her she remained inviolate.

For Mutes, it was the inner self that was sacred.  Her soul was pledged
to the cloud warrior and would remain so.

'Turn round."

Clearwater turned to face the masked samurai.  She was sure he was the
same man who had inspected her when she had been held in the cave.  She
sensed that neither of the Iron Masters lusted after her.  If anything,
they viewed her with a certain repugnance.  So why were they so curious
about her body?  The fact that she had hair on her head and belly
where they had none could not be the real reason why she had been
carried off, released without any explanation, and was now once again
in the hands of the same man and yet another of his accomplices.

Yama-Shita and his friends had kept her hidden in a carriage-box and
windowless rooms.  If these men hid their faces behind masks and
wrappings of black cloth then they must be adversaries of Yama-Shita.

Her clear-skinned body had, in some way, become important to both
sides.

'Cover yourself."

Clearwater pulled the shift down over her hips and let it fall.  The
masked samurai handed her the cape.  She wrapped it round her shoulders
and turned to face the Man in Black.

Toshiro switched to Japanese and addressed the ronin.

'Send one of your men to keep an eye on the housewomen.  If they should
wake and raise the alarm .  . ."

'I'll make sure it doesn't happen."

'Good.  I want you to stay out here and keep watch while I talk to
these two.  If I need any assistance I'll call.

Otherwise, there are to be no interruptions.  Is that understood?"

Noburo bowed.  'Absolutely."

The Herald slid open the door-screen to the adjoining room and motioned
Clearwater to enter.  She bowed respectfully to both men, then went
through.  Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw the cloud warrior
kneeling on the mat by the masked lantern.

Steve was equally surprised to see her.

Toshiro pointed to a spot on Steve's right.  'Move over there."

As Steve shuffled round, the Herald motioned Clearwater to take his
place.  When they were both kneeling with bowed heads, he sat down
facing her, cocked his elbows outwards and placed his hands on his
splayed thighs.  'Okay, straighten up!  Let's get this over with."

They sat back on their heels.

Toshiro flicked a hand towards Steve.  'This individual has made
certain allegations which I wish to verify.  You will answer me fully
and with the utmost truthfulness.  Is that understood?"

'Yes, sire."

'Good.  This may not concern you in the slightest but I may as well
tell you that -' he pointed towards Steve again - 'if this person has
lied to me in any material particular you will be a witness to his
immediate execution."

Clearwater bowed and stole a sideways glance at Steve.

Oh, my beloved cloud warrior/What have you said... ?

'Let us begin,' said Toshiro.  'Do you come from the underground world
they call the Federation?"

'No.  I was born under the sky."

'So you are a Mute..."

'I have never claimed to be anything else, sire."

'What is your true name?"

'Clearwater."

'And the names of your parents?"

'I am the blood-daughter of Sun-Dance.  My father was Thunder-Bird - a
great warrior."

'To which clan do you belong?"

'The M'Calls, from the blood-line of the She-Kargo, first-born of the
Plainfolk."

So far so good.  Round Two.

'The individual who came with you from the sky and now works at the
Heron Pool - is his name Steven Roosevelt Brickman?"

'No.  His name is Cadillac.  Like me, he is of the Plainfolk and the
clan M'CalI.  His mother was Black-Wing.

His father was Heavy-Metal."

'What were you hunting when Cadillac first "chewed bone"?"

'Fast-foot."

'What was the name of the warrior who challenged him?"

'Shakatak D'Vine, from the blood-line of the D'Troit."

'Did Cadillac kill him?"

Clearwater hesitated.  'He fought bravely and well."

'I shall only ask you once more.  Did he kill him?"

'No, sire.  I did."

'What is your relationship to Mr Snow?"

'He is my teacher and guardian."

'Is he an agent of the Amtrak Federation?"

'No, sire.  He abhors the Federation and all its works.

He has sworn to pit his strength against it until the last breath
leaves his body."

Toshiro's outward stance did not change one iota but inwardly he was
crumbling as fast as the scenario he had laid before the Shogun.  Every
answer this grass-monkey gave confirmed the claims made by the accursed
mexican.  Instead of giving him sake when he started shooting his mouth
off, Noburo should have cut his tongue out...

He rallied his flagging confidence and tried again.

'Have you or Cadillac, acting without the knowledge of Mr Snow, entered
into league with your enemies?"

'No, sire.  Such treachery would be unthinkable.  We were sent to help
you in exchange for new, long sharp iron."

'Rifles."

'I have not seen these objects but I have heard that word used by the
clan elders."

'Why do you and Cadillac paint your skins?"

'Because we wish to be like our clan brothers and sisters.  To us, who
are of the Plainfolk, it is not a disguise.  That is how we truly wish
to be."

'I see.  Then why - if these are your "true colours" did you remove
them?"

Clearwater hung her head.  'Out of weakness, sire.

When I saw the reduced condition of the Plainfolk that are held here I
hoped to improve my lot by pretending to be a long-dog."

'Is that why Cadillac came here dressed as a cloud warrior from the
Federation."

'Yes, sire.  Besides not knowing that some of us are clear-skinned,
Lord Yama-Shita thinks of the Plainfolk as ignorant and slow-witted.

If he were to discover all the things we know and are capable of he
might not be so eager to trade with us."

Her reply, delivered so mildly, sent a chill running up the Herald's
spine.  By the sacred kami!  He thought of the thousands of Mutes
spread throughout Ne-Issan.

Several subservient generations who had been breeding quietly in
increasing numbers.  Over the last few decades, the bakufu had been
doing its sums and had come to the realisation that the economy was now
dependent on them.  The news that they might not be dull-eyed,
ox-brained slaves but a silent, vengeful army waiting patiently for the
signal to rise up against their masters put a different complexion on
things.

If it were found to be true, the blame could be laid squarely at the
door of the Yama-Shita family, for it was they who had introduced these
outlanders into Ne-Issan, growing rich and powerful on the proceeds.

Perhaps it might form the basis of a new charge that could be levelled
against them - economic sabotage.

'Have you heard of the Dark Light?"

'No, sire.  The words mean nothing to me."  Round three.  You're moving
well, champ .  . . Toshiro pointed to Steve.  'Who is this man?"

Clearwater saw the veiled warning in the cloud warrior's eyes and
understood.  'His skin is marked like that of my clan brothers but he
is not of the Plainfolk.  He is a sand-burrower."

'Sand-burrower...?"

'It is the name we give to the warriors from the dark cities beneath
the deserts of the south.  You call them long-dogs."

'Do you know his name?"

'Yes."  Clearwater gazed at Steve.  'His name is Brickman.  Steven
Roosevelt Brickman."

'The name your clan brother chose as part of his disguise ' 'That was
an act of revenge.  My people call this man the Death-Bringer."

Toshiro's interest reawakened.  'He has been among you?"

Clearwater nodded.  'Last year.  He and the other cloud warriors burnt
our land with fire from the sky.  And the iron snake devoured the flesh
of our people.  Many died."

Toshiro turned to Steve.  'You certainly get around."

Steve accepted this with a nod.  'That's my job, sire.

And after watching the way you operate I've got a feeling we're in the
same line of business."

Toshiro's fingers itched to seize the hilt of his long-sword.  Once
again he controlled the murderous impulse that welled up within him.

He had to find ways to build a new case against Yama-Shita and his
co-conspirators.  But to achieve this he might have to make use of the
outlander.  It was not a prospect he relished, especially since it
appeared that the only way to keep the ill-mannered dog in his place
would be to nail his knees to the floor.

'Did anyone ever tell you you've got a big mouth?"

'Frequently,' said Steve.

Noburo rose to meet the Herald as he brought out the clear-skinned
woman.  Glancing through the doorway, he saw that the cloud warrior had
been left kneeling on the mat.

Toshiro addressed him in Japanese.  'I am deeply indebted to you for
bringing these outlanders before me.

It has been most instructive.  Please make sure she is returned safely
and without incident."

Noburo bowed.

Toshiro turned to address Clearwater.  'It would be in your best
interests to say nothing to anyone of what you have seen or heard
tonight.  And in case you and your clan brother cherish any hopes of
returning home, let me alert you to the fact that Lord Min-Orota
personally assured me that when Cadillac's usefulness comes to an end
he is to be stripped of the gifts and pleasures with which he has been
provided and plunged into utter degradation.  And when he has had
sufficient time to fully appreciate his fall from grace, he will suffer
a lingering death.  Your position is equally perilous.  Your master's
friends regard his desire for your company as a dangerous weakness that
threatens them all.  Do I make myself clear?"

Clearwater bowed from the waist.  'Yes, sire."

Noburo ushered her out on to the veranda and handed her over to the
waiting red-stripe.  'Put her to bed, make sure everything is as it
should be, then bring Tenno back here."

The red-stripe and Clearwater disappeared into the darkness.

'I shall take the outlander with me,' said Toshiro as the ronin
re-entered the pavilion.  'Mask him and tie his hands behind his
back.

And hang that bag of leaves on him somewhere."

Noburo brought Steve to him with the waist-bag hanging round his
neck.

The length of rope that had been used to secure his feet while riding
was now tied round his waist.  Noburo offered the loose end to the
Herald.  'Shall I escort you to your horse?"

'No, you've done enough,' said Toshiro.  'Thank you again, my friend.

It has been an honour to know you.  Be assured that I shall commend you
and your men most highly to the Shogun."

Noburo bowed.  'To serve him is reward enough.  May the kami grant you
safe passage through these troubled waters."  He followed Toshiro out
and watched as the Herald led his prisoner down the planked steps on to
the path, then turned right, going round towards the trees that lay
behind the pavilion.  Noburo walked along to the end of the veranda
but, in those few seconds, they had vanished into the night.

When they had covered a distance of some hundred yards, the Man in
Black who was leading Steve by the rope tied round his waist turned
back to face him.  Steve had a sudden premonition of danger, but even
his reflexes weren't fast enough to cope with the speed of Toshiro's
fist.  The blow, aimed with pinpoint accuracy, landed on a nerve centre
in Steve's neck just below the ear, knocking him senseless to the
ground.  Toshiro quickly bound Steve's feet together, then ran back
towards the pavilion.

Tenno, the other red-stripe who had been given the task of keeping
guard outside the rooms occupied by the courtesan and her house-women,
sprang into an attacking stance on hearing the scrunch of feet on
gravel, then relaxed as he was greeted by three froggy croaks.

He replied in similar vein.  Shida, his colleague, stepped up into the
terrace with the woman.  The cowl of her cloak was pulled forward,
making it impossible in the darkness to see her face.  While Shida kept
watch, Tenno motioned her to keep silent, then slid open the door to
her quarters and guided her past the sleeping house-women to the
shuttered inner room.

Although it was even darker inside than out, Clearwater was just able
to make out the sleeping forms of Su-Shan and Nan-Khe; neither had
moved in her absence.  The red-stripe waited while she hung up her cape
and slipped back under the quilt, then made his exit.

Tenno and Shida returned to the pavilion.  Now that their mysterious
visitor had gone, neither was unduly surprised to see light coming from
the central doorway.

Mounting the steps, they saw that the two masked lanterns had been hung
from the ceiling with the single vertical slit raying its light towards
the open door.  It was then that they saw Noburo's body.  He lay with
his feet towards them, his head pointing towards the sliding screen
that gave access to the veranda at the back of the pavilion.  It was
now wide open - a threatening black square full of unseen dangers.

Tenno and Shida dropped down on one knee on either side of Noburo.  His
throat had been cut from ear to ear.  A square of writing paper had
been pinned to his chest by a needle-like stiletto.  The legend read:
'Thus perish all ronin who dare to challenge the Se-Iko."

Hhhawwwww!

Both men leapt to their feet, hands flying to their long-swords.  As
they began to move across the room towards the opening at the rear the
deathly silence was broken by two sharp, overlapping sighs - like the
hiss of two rival snakes.  It was the last sound Tenno and Shida heard
and it was made by two razor-sharp throwing stars that flew out of the
darkness and embedded themselves in the centre of their foreheads,
killing them stone dead in mid-stride.

A few seconds after they hit the floor, Toshiro's black-clad figure
vaulted over the railing on to the veranda.

Entering the room, he closed the front door-screen, then dragged the
bodies of the red-stripes into line on either side of the dead Noburo
and pinned them to the floor with their own swords.  With that task
completed, Toshiro doused the lanterns and went out the way he came,
drawing the two screens together behind him.

Noburo's assessment of the Herald had been characteristically shrewd
and uncannily correct.  There was a great deal more to Toshiro
Hase-Gawa than met the eye.

As well as the less obvious qualities with which he was endowed, he
also possessed unsuspected skills, and tonight they had served him
well.

Reaching the spot where he had left the outlander, Toshiro found his
prisoner was still unconscious.  He untied Steve's feet first, then
massaged the pressure points on his neck and shoulders to bring him
round.  The process took two or three minutes and Steve was still a
little shaky when Toshiro hauled him to his feet.

'Come on, time to get going,'

'Yeah, okay.  I'm on my way."  Steve shook his head to clear away the
lingering dizziness and worked his jaw around.  'I don't know what I
did to deserve it, but that was a neat trick.  You must show me how you
do that sometime."

The black-clad figure took a step towards him.  Steve tried to step
back out of range and found himself up against a tree.  He was a good
head taller than the Jap but there wasn't much he could do with both
hands tied behind his back.  And even if they'd been free he wasn't
looking to take him on.  This guy was his ticket to ride.

'Listen, Brickman.  To have got this far, you can't be as dumb as you
look.  I keep giving you the message but from the way your mouth is
acting your brains must be out to lunch.  So let me lay it out for you
one last time.

You've already said enough to get yourself killed several times over.

The only reason you're still here is because I'm hoping that maybe you
and I can work out a deal that could earn you a reprieve and give both
of us what we want.  But don't think that makes you fireproof.

Nobody's indispensable.  Not even you.  If you don't start showing me
some respect, I'll cut you loose and go it alone.  And if that happens,
you're going to end up as a pig's breakfast.  Got it."?"

Steve bowed to show a little respect.  'Yes, sire."  You pint-sized,
slant-eyed yellow asshole.  The straw mask concealed his mocking smile
and his voice carried no hint of triumph.  But inwardly he was
cheering.  2102-8902

Brickman, S.R. had cleared another hurdle.  Despite all the
blood-curdling threats, he would live to see another dawn.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the Federation, there had been no sunrise for close on a thousand
years: or sunset either.  Year in, year out, the lights stayed on
wherever people were working.  Life for Trackers was geared to a
twenty-four-hour cycle.  The machinery that made life possible
underground was constantly serviced by succeeding shifts of generation
upon generation of technicians.  For those not engaged on 'night' work,
the passing day was marked by a lowering of the illumination level in
accommodation areas and public plazas to what was called 'twilight'.

The thing that Trackers feared most was darkness.

And some old hands, who were the subversive guardians of an alternative
history that was not to be found in the video archives, spoke in hushed
whispers about a time known as the 'Black-Out' when an apparently
well-planned but ill-fated attempt to mount a revolt against the First
Family plunged the underground into total darkness that lasted
according to some accounts - for several decades.

Thousands suffocated as the ventilation shafts ceased to function,
thousands more went mad and tore each other to pieces like starving
rats trapped in a concrete cellar; the innocent dying with the
guilty.

The few who survived owed their salvation to the First Family Creators
of the Light, the Work and the Way; Keepers of all Knowledge, Wisdom
and Truth.

From that moment on, their authority became absolute.  The elimination
of dissident elements, the ungrateful, the greedy and the disloyal,
removed the worm from the bud that would one day flower in the Blue-Sky
World.  And the progress that had been made towards that dream
confirmed their fitness to lead the Federation, provided visible proof
of the genius that lay behind their vision of the future, and
underlined the sureness of their guiding hand and the truth in the
immortal words of the Founding Father, George Washington Jefferson 1st
'Only people fail, not the system."

Amen...

In the Paul Revere Medical College, which formed part of Inter-State U
- itself an annexe of Houston/Grand Central, Roz Brickman came out of
the neurological lab along with the rest of her classmates to find John
Chisum leaning against the wall opposite the door.  Because of the
heavy workload imposed by the curriculum, Roz had begun to skip some of
the regular Saturday night javaand-jive sessions hosted by Chisum, but
she made a point of visiting the apartment at Santanna Deep at least
once a month.

Chisum had a line into some good grass, and although Roz had cut down
on the amount she smoked, the occasional reef still helped to take the
pressure off.

Chisum also provided the best in blackjack - illicit music tapes that
could earn you a spell in the slammer or, for repeated offenders, drug
therapy and worse.  And there was always the chance that he might have
some news of Steve.

Chisum eased himself off the wall as Roz sidestepped through the
milling crowd of white-coats and gave his outstretched palm a friendly
slap.  'Hi.  What brings you here?"

'Didn't see you last Saturday."

'No."  She grimaced.  'May not be able to make it this week either."

'Same here."  Chisum checked the activity in the corridor, then laid a
hand on her elbow.  'You got a minute?"

'You can walk me to my next lecture.  Will that do?"

'Guess it'll have to."  They headed after her classmates.

'What's the problem?"

'Did I say I had a problem?"

'No but I'm picking up some bad vibrations."

'You're right,' sighed Chisum.  He looked back over his shoulder, then
gnawed at his lower lip.  'I'm being leaned on."

'Who by?"

'This guy."

'You'd better get to the bottom line soon, John.  We're running out of
corridor."

'He didn't give me his name!"  hissed Chisum.  'All I know is he's some
high-wire from the Black Tower."

The headquarters of AMEX - the Amtrak Executive.

.Roz eyed him cautiously.  'I've got a feeling I'm going to regret this
but.  why is he coming down on you?"

Chisum replied with an awkward shrug.  'Somebody must have blown the
whistle on me."

'For shipping grass?  Christopher Columbus!"  Chisum motioned her to
keep calm.  'It's not as bad as 'it sounds.  These guys aren't
Provos.

They promised not to press charges if I was prepared to give them
certain information."

Roz felt her stomach turn over.  'About what?"

'About you and Steve."  Chisum saw the look on her face and spread his
hands defensively.  'I had to do it.  Roz!  They got me over a
barrel!

It wasn't much, honest."

'What did you tell them, John?  About that night Steve and I were
together before he was sent down?"

'They already know everything there is to know about Santanna Deep."

'Columbus!  Does that include the guys from here who've been tunnelling
out every Saturday night?"

'Na, don't worry.  These people aren't interested in piddle-shit stuff
like that.  There's only one thing they want to know about - what goes
on between you two.

C'mon... you know what I mean."

'Maybe.  What was your story?"

'I just gave 'em the few things Steve told me about the way you and
him, uhh..."

Roz turned to face him as the group in front reached the appointed
lecture room and began to file in.  'AboUt connecting?"

'Yeah,' said Chisum hurriedly.  'Stuff like that.  Thing is, they want
to see you.  Ask questions."

'So why didn't they just pick me up?  Why send you, John?"

'Maybe they thought you might not co-operate.  When it comes to thought
transfer, I don't know from shit but it seems to me that it would be
pretty difficult to prove one way or the other.  You could tell 'em
anything you liked."

Roz treated him to a cold-eyed glance.  'What makes them think I'll
talk just to save your skin?"

Chisum shrugged.  'You don't have to do anything, but - ' A new,
sharper note of desperation entered his voice.  'Be fair, Roz.  The
only reason why I'm mixed up in all this is because I stuck my neck out
to bring you and Steve together."

'Yeah."  Roz glanced over her shoulder and saw that they were alone in
the corridor.  'Gotta go."  She backed off.  'You sure know how to make
a girl feel good, John.

Have a nice day."

'Listen ' The door to the lecture room swung shut in his face.

Chisum turned away with a quiet smile and made his way down to Level
One-1.  It shouldn't be as easy as this - especially with someone who
was supposed to be telepathic.

Despite her mental bond with her kin-brother, they had both proved soft
targets.  After the meeting Chisum had set up between them, Steve had
lost his coveted wingman status and had been transferred to the
A-levels.  Steve had been told it was as punishment for expressing
sympathetic concern for Mutes - his former captors and the perpetual
enemies of the Federation but, in reality, it was part of a
softening-up process to get Steve in the right frame of mind for his
next 'assignment'.

Near the end of the third month of his three-year sentence, Chisum had
dressed up as an A-level medic and contrived a 'chance meeting'.  When
Steve had asked the reason for his demotion, Chisum had put the blame
on Roz.  He had swallowed the story hook, line and sinker.

And later, when Karlstrom, the head of AMEXICO, had told Steve that Roz
had come forward voluntarily and confessed everything he had told her
about his time with the Mutes, he had believed that too.

But none of it was true.  Roz had said nothing to anyone.  She didn't
need to: her meeting with Steve at Santanna Deep had been videotaped.

All the lies were part of a plan evolved by the faceless puppet-masters
in the Black Tower.  Roz and Steve were just two of an unknown number
of Trackers whose lives had been manipulated from birth and who would
probably die without ever knowing they were on the Special Treatment
List.

Steve Brickman was a strange young man.  When Chisum had been softening
him up prior to the meeting with Roz, he had been bursting with tales
of Mute magic, yet he seemed wilfully intent on neglecting the mental
powers that he and his kin-sister possessed.  Perhaps that was why it
had been possible to play them off against each other.  Roz's mind was
open and eager to communicate, whereas Steve had pulled the shutters
down.

And who was to say he was wrong?  thought Chisum.

With the First Family telling you what to think every moment of the
waking day it was hard enough just trying to get your own mind sorted
out, without having someone else roaming around inside your head.

Chisum was an undercover agent of AMEXICO, the top-secret organisation
that Steve had joined at the beginning of March.  With only four
months' service under his belt, Steve was still what the organisation
called a 'wet-back', and would be for some time yet.  Chisum had been a
fully fiedged mexican for years but, unlike Steve, he had never been
overground.  He was employed by the section handling internal
assignments - and two of his current files bore the names of Steve and
Roz Brickman.

Following Roz's arrival at Inter-State U to complete the second, more
advanced stage of her medical studies, Chisum had been put on her
case, then when her kin; brother had returned to the Amtrak Federation
in the fourth quarter of 2989, Chisum had gone to work on him too.

The fact that Chisum had a 'file' on them did not mean he knew all
about them.  The First Family, which controlled access to the data
stored on COLUMBUS, only dispensed information on a 'need-to-know'
basis.  No one had thought it necessary to explain to him why he was
required to deceive these two young people.  Apart from being provided
with their basic bio-data and training profiles, the only piece of
inside information he had managed to acquire was the fact that they had
both been programmed at an early age and were classified as
'sensitives'.

That rare attribute was enough to gain them an ST-Listing, but there
might be other factors of which he had not been advised.  They might
not, for instance, be kin-brother and -sister.  The presence of
mind-blocks suggested that maybe it was not the President-General's
seed which had fertilised the eggs placed to hatch in Annie Brickman's
womb.  Or it could be that neither had been implanted in Annie and
carried to term.  They could have been changed without her knowledge
for her own babies at.birth- or she might have agreed to act as their
surrogate guard-mother.

The possibilities were endless.  Chisum knew from previous assignments
that some strange things went on at the Life Institute, and most of the
work was carried out behind closed doors.

Only Fran - their controller and his present boss - had access to the
full story.  And like all controllers, Fran was Family.  Not only that,
she was closely related to the President-General - an indication that
Roz and Steve might be far more important than he realised.

During the evening of the same day, Roz Brickman was summoned to the
Principal's study.  Entering the outer office where, during working
hours, several administrative assistants formed a defensive line
against visitors seeking to enter the inner sanctum, Roz found the
Principal, Russell Waxmann, bent over one of the VDUs, pecking away at
the keyboard.  Roz waited until he tore his attention away from the
screen, then introduced herself and presented her ID card.  He gave it
a cursory glance and told her to go on through, promising to join her
directly.

Waiting for her in the wood-lined, carpeted room were a man and a woman
dressed in black and silver-blue jumpsuits - the standard outfit worn
by AMEXecs.

Roz recognised them as the special investigators from AMEX's Legal
Division who had visited her in the medical school's private hospital
ward, following the appearance of the mysterious wounds in her right
arm and head.  And she realised why Waxmann had elected to stay
outside.  If she was in trouble, he wanted to stand well back to avoid
the fallout.

The man asked her to hand over her ID card.  Roz produced it without
demur.  The female exec then told her that her assistance was required
in connection with an ongoing investigation.  Roz indicated her
willingness to help in any way she could, then, without more ado, she
was ushered into the Principal's private elevator and taken down to the
medical school's own subway station.

After a journey which involved two shuttle interchanges, Roz and her
silent escort reached an unnamed subway station whose walls were clad
with black marble.

An elevator ride took them up to Level Three-1 and into an office
which, to judge from the colour scheme of the subway station marbled
corridors, carpeted elevator and the sleek room furnishings, was almost
certainly in the Black Tower.  This was the lair of the organisation
men and women, the high-wires with the top-rated ID cards and spacious
quarters in the new flashy accommodation deeps.

'Go on through,' said the male exec, breaking his silence.  'We'll
pick you up later."

Roz was inwardly relieved to know that there was going to be a
'later'.

It was the first encouraging word that anyone had offered her since
Chisum had dropped his bombshell earlier in the day.  From that moment
on, her mind had been in a turmoil.  She stepped into the turnstile
door and was rotated through into the adjoining office.

Standing behind the desk was another man wearing a black and
silver-blue jumpsuit.  But this one had sleeves laced with gold wire, a
sign she was dealing with someone from the top deck.

Roz snapped to attention.  The man, who had a high forehead and lean,
angular features, motioned her to sit down in the chair facing the
desk.  The high-wire stayed on his feet.  Placing his hands behind his
back, he stalked slowly round her like a predator circling its
exhausted prey.

'You don't need to know who I am,' said Karlstrom.

'But I can assure you that I know everything there is to know about you
and your kin-brother and you should bear that in mind before replying
to the questions I shall put to you.  Any attempt to conceal
information will have unpleasant consequences.  Is that clear?"

Roz nodded.

'Steven is no longer in the A-levels."  Karlstrom fixed her with his
deep-set penetrating gaze.  'But then I expect you already know
that."

Roz paled but did not reply.

'As I thought."  Karlstrom passed between her and the desk, then snaked
round behind it.  'I have studied the taped reports of the
psychosomatic wounding you experienced when your kin-brother was shot
down last June.  And I am aware that you have been subjected to further
distress since."  He paused expectantly.  'I see.

You prefer to make no comment.  Very well.  Take a look at this."

Karlstrom swivelled a pedestal-mounted video screen towards her and hit
a button on the desk console.  A coloured line appeared and expanded to
fill the entire screen, It was a picture of Roz, taken by a concealed
video camera.  She lay on her side asleep in her bunk, the covers
pulled up to her chin.  The image was sharp, every detail clear; people
studying for medical doctorates slept with the lights on like everyone
else.

Roz saw her sleeping self open her mouth, saw her face muscles tighten
to issue a soundless scream, then saw an invisible arrowhead punch a
hole through her cheek.  The screen Roz rolled her head from side to
side, revealing an exit wound on the other cheek, then she sat up and
clutched her face.  The blood seeped through her fingers and trickled
down on to the back of her wrists.

Kicking aside the duvet, she ran barefoot out of camera range in the
direction of the washroom.

The picture changed.  This next camera had been positioned to cover the
line of hand basins and the communal showers.  Roz found herself
wondering what other activity the watchers had recorded since the
cameras were installed.  Or were these hidden eyes everywhere - not
just for her, but to keep tabs on the whole class?  The whole school
.

. . ?  Where did it end?

Her screen self entered and hurried across to examine her face in the
wall-to-wall mirror mounted above the hand basins.  The palms of her
hands and cheeks were coated with blood.  She opened up both taps, spat
out a mouthful of blood, then pulled some cotton tissues from the
nearest dispenser and swabbed her face and hands.  Roz saw herself
pause and stare at her mirror image, and she silently recalled the
moment and the surprise she had felt then and which her screen self now
displayed.

The hidden camera zoomed in as she examined her face closely.  The
wounds were closing before her eyes.  A minute later, the skin was
whole; only a bruise remained to mark the point where the arrow had
pierced her cheeks.  She took a closer look, clearly doubting the
evidence of her own eyes, then accepted the event with a shrug and
rinsed her mouth to get rid of the last traces of blood.

The tape then switched back to a wide-angled view from the camera aimed
at her bunk-space.  The digital time display in the top right-hand
corner of the screen showed that it was 0630.  Other students moved
past in various stages of undress and alertness.  Roz saw and heard
herself explaining to Gina B!ackwell - the student in the next bunk
that the blood on her pillow was the result of a sudden nosebleed.

Karlstrom hit the 'Off' button.  'Remarkable."  He sat down behind the
desk and gazed at Roz over his steepled fingers.  'May I now take it
you are prepared to concede that this is a true record of what
happened?"

'Yes,' whispered Roz.

'Yes, sir,' said Karlstrom.

'Of course.  I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't mean to -' Karlstrom silenced
her with an abrupt wave.  'Would I be correct in assuming that when
these woundings have taken place you also made mental contact with your
kin-brother?  Would you say, for example, that you were able to
visualise his location as well as the, ahh ...

stressful conditions he finds himself in?"

'To some extent, yes, sir.  Sometimes it's just a vague out-of-focus
impression, at other times it's like actually being there."

Karlstrom accepted this with a thin smile.  'As when Clearwater entered
the hut where your kin-brother was spending the night.  That was one
picture that came over very well."

Roz felt the colour rise to her cheeks.  Her questioner had not been
lying when he said he knew everything.

Which meant they probably had pictures of her trying to get inside
Steve's jumpsuit.  The thought that cold-eyed strangers had been
secretly watching her every move, listening to every word, made her
feel sick.

'Can you speak to each other?"

'Sometimes I hear a voice, but it's not like a conversation.  I feel
his thoughts enter my head, share his emotions, see what he sees.  But
I think it's my own mind that puts it all into words."

'Can he do the same?"

'Sometimes.  It depends."

Karlstrom looked amused.  'On what?"

'On whether he's in a receptive mood.  He doesn't understand why we are
bound together or how it works, and that scares him.  Most of the time
he tries to shut me out."

'But he heard you clearly enough when he was being brought back to
Grand Central on the shuttle.  "They are watching me", I think you
said.  Who were you talking about, Roz?"

Oh, Christopher!  They had taped every last word!  'I I don't know,'
she stammered.  'It was just a feeling that ˇ..  that built up after
the first time it happened.  When Steve was shot down, those two people
who brought me here came to see me over at the medical school and '
'And asked you a lot of questions."

'Yes, sir."

'To which you gave evasive replies."

'I was scared.  I - I didn't want to say anything in case they took me
off the course.  I didn't know what to do.

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before."

'Not the wounding, perhaps.  But don't play games, Roz.  You've known
about this special gift you and Steven share for a long time.  So let's
have nothing but the truth from now on.  A lot of people are depending
on you.  Do you understand what I mean?"

'Yes, sir."  Play ball or Steve, Annie and Poppa-Jack will get
shafted.

Along with John Chisum and her fellow students who had been 'tunnelling
out' with the aid of his Saturday Night Specials.

Karlstrom got up, came round the desk and hoisted his butt on to the
front edge.  He was now only a few inches away from where she sat with
her hands nervously clasped together.  'Can you read my mind, Roz?"

She looked up at him.  This time her eyes and voice didn't waver.  'No,
sir."

'Pity..."  Karlstrom laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder.  'I would
have liked you to discover for yourself the very positive feelings we
have for you and Steven."

'We'?  Who was 'we'?  The First Family?

'You two have always been regarded as ... very special people.  People
with extraordinary gifts who one day - might be able to place the
powers they possess at the service of the Federation.  It would not be
an exaggeration to say that you and Steven, along with...

certain others .  . . could one day tip the scales in our favour in the
battle for the Blue-Sky World."  Karlstrom paused, then placed both
hands on her shoulders.

'Steven is already engaged in that battle, Roz.  He's out there now and
he may be in trouble - although if it was serious, I imagine you would
already know about it."

Roz felt her heart skip a beat.  'What do you want me to do?"

'We've lost contact with him.  It could be simply because his radio has
stopped working.  Or it may be something else entirely."

Like the fact that the devious sonofabitch may have sold out on us...

Karlstrom's fingers tightened their grip.  'I want you to get in touch
with him, Roz.  I need to know how he is, and where he is.  It's very
important."

'I'll do my best, sir,' she whispered.

'Good girl.  I have something here which may help."

Karlstrom went over to a wall-storage unit, pulled a map out of a tube
and unrolled it across the desk top.  'Bring your chair in closer."

Roz slid the chair forward so that her knees touched the inset front
panel of the desk and took a look at the map.  It was printed in greens
and browns to show the physical features of the terrain.  The
right-hand edge met a slab of pale blue.  'Where is this?"

'It's part of the north-east coast of America.  That blue area is
water.  The Atlantic Ocean.  This map shows the way it was before the
Holocaust.  Before the Mutes came and burned everything to the
ground."

Karlstrom pointed to a navref point named Pittsburgh.  'This is where
Steve landed .  . . ' His finger moved from west to east along the
Pennsylvania Turnpike.  'We think he went along this road and-' His
finger stopped at the feature that Steve had christened 'Big D'.  'And
we lost touch with him somewhere around here."

Roz ran her fingers along the route traced by Karlstrom and described
several circles around Big D, then she closed her eyes and reached out
towards Steve with her mind.

Karlstrom's voice continued to filter through.  'He went out to capture
Clearwater, Roz.  That's why we need you to help us.  We want to do
everything to make sure he gets back safely.  If you can help us do
that I promise we will never allow Clearwater to come between you and
Steven again .  . ."

Roz's body suddenly went limp.  Her head dropped backwards, eyes
closed, lips parted.  Karlstrom caught her as she swayed and laid her
gently against the back of the chair, then stood by ready to catch her
in case she was seized by convulsions.  He had never been involved this
closely with a sensitive before, and watching her made him feel
uneasy.

The Federation needed people with these powers in case the Talisman
Prophecy turned out to be an accurate picture of future events.  That
was why the secret breeding programme had been initiated.

The question was - once their powers were officially recognised and
unleashed - would the First Family be able to control them?

Karlstrom came out of his reverie as Roz stirred.  Her eyes snapped
open, widening into an unblinking stare.  Whatever it was she was
looking at was far beyond the confines of the room.  Without looking
down at the map, she reached out and found Big D, then traced her way
unerringly along the circular route Noburo had taken to reach the
post-house at Midiritana.

From there, her fingertips moved north along a route that passed
through a series of navref points -pre-Holocaust Urban areas known as
Mahandy City, Hazelton and Wilkes-Barre - to Scranton, then over the
border into Lord YamaoShita's domain to Binghampton, then to Albany on
the western bank of the Hudson River - now a busy ferry crossing known
to the Iron Masters as Aribani.

'He is here,' murmured Roz.

Karistrom looked over her shoulder.  The map he had given her to work
with did not show the various domains or the limits of Iron Master
territory, but he knew from the data fed back from mexicans such as
SideWinder that everything west of the Hudson river at this point
belonged to the Yama-Shita.  On the eastern side lay the lands of the
Shogun's family - the Toh-Yota - and beyond that, Lord Min-Orota's
domain.

'What's he doing?"

'He sleeps.  He has been running."

'Running?  Running away?  Is someone after him?"

'No, he runs because he chooses to.  He..."  Roz frowned as she
concentrated on deciphering the images she was picking up.  'He has
been given messages to carry."

'Who for?"

Roz tried again, then shook her head.  'I cannot say.

The man who has given him this task has no name."  She made another
attempt.  'His face and body are hidden in darkness.  Only his
eyes..."

She pressed her hands against her forehead.  'He makes false
promises.

My brother knows this man is dangerous but he is also powerful.  By
agreeing to work with him he is able to go where he wishes."

'What kind of shape is Steve in?"

Roz smiled to herself.  'He is tired, but he is fit and well.  He has
found Clearwater ' 'Is she with him?"  asked Karlstrom abruptly.

'Not any longer.  They have met but have not.  been together."

'Does she still feel the same way about him?"

Karlstrom saw Roz's eyes screw up tight.  The blunt question upset
her.

It was meant to.  Her hatred for Clearwater was the McGuffin that would
keep this little pixel in a co-operative frame of mind.

'Yes, she does."

'How about Cadillac?  Has Steven pinpointed his location?"

'Not exactly.  But he knows the.  general area."

'Show me."

Roz's fingers trembled over the map, but the information failed to come
through.  'Near the Eastern Sea.  He must take the road to the east to
the place where the birds are..."

Birds ... the feathered or the man-made variety?

wondered Karlstrom.  He looked at the map.  The road that caught his
eye was the old Massachusetts Turnpike that met the Hudson south of
Albany and ran east through Springfield and Worcester to Boston and the
Atlantic Ocean.  Hmmmm... 'Does he have his radio or any weapons?"

'No.  They were taken from him."

'Does he think of you?  Does he .  . . want to come back home - to the
Federation?"

After a long pause, Roz said, 'His thoughts are only for what he must
do.  I see images of death and destruction.  They- ' She broke off and
tried to shake them from her mind.  'They frighten me."

As she spoke, Karlstrom saw her eyes come back into focus.  She stared
at him with surprise, then looked nervously round the room as if trying
to work out what she was doing there.  A moment later, Karlstrom saw
her relax as the part of her mind that had reached out to her
kin-brother returned and settled into place.

'Uhh, have I... did I?"

'Don't you remember?"

'I know I made contact with Steve, but - did I say anything that made
sense?"

Karlstrom laid his hand on her shoulder.  'A great deal.  I'm very
impressed."  He motioned her to rise and ushered her over to the
turnstile.  'You will, of course, speak to no one about this
meeting."

'No, sir.  But, uhh .  . . the thing is, I don't want for anybody to
get into trouble over this.  John Chisum said -' Karlstrom cut her
short.  'Your friend Chisum has been very foolish and should know
better.  Still, I'm sure we all do things we shouldn't from time to
time.  That doesn't mean to say I approve of what has been going on at
Santanna Deep.  I don't.  But -' Roz opened her mouth, searching for
the words to lift the blame from Chisum and excuse her actions.

Karlstrom motioned her to remain silent.  'The important thing is to do
whatever has to be done for the Federation and the First Family when
the call comes.

Like the way you have helped me this evening.  That won't be
forgotten.

Indeed, I may ask for your help again.  Steven is a very resourceful
young man, but he may not be able to make it back here in one piece
without our assistance.  So remember, I'm counting on you."

'Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  I'll do whatever I can."

'I'm sure you will.  The people outside will give you a special number
to call if you should "hear anything" from Steven."  He patted her on
the back and guided her into the turnstile.  'Now off you go back to
college.  Oh, and, uhh ... congratulations on those good grades you've
been getting.  Keep up the good work!"  Karlstrom pressed the button
which caused the cylindrical compartment to rotate, carrying Roz back
into the adjoining office suite.  The two execs rose from their chairs
to meet her.

CHAPTER NINE

'Roz?"

Steve woke with his kin-sister's name on his lips and his nostrils
filled with the soap-scented smell of her hair.

For a split second or so he was convinced she was in the darkened room
with him.  Or had been, and had just left.

Slowly that certainty faded.  It had been a dream, nothing more.  He
shivered, quickly retrieved the padded quilt that had slipped off his
naked body and snuggled down beneath it.

It was amazing how the brain could create a mental landscape as real as
anything you could see with your eyes open, right down to the smallest
detail.  It could bring you face to face with images of people you
could speak with, reach out and touch, draw to you and embrace.  Not
only that, the dream state allowed you to savour the same emotions, the
same sensations as when you were wide awake: the taste and the moist
softness of their lips, the electric tingle of their skin under your
fingertips, the delicious all-enveloping warmth generated as your body
joined with theirs.

Did their sleeping minds, he wondered, share the same dream?  Did they
merge with yours on one of the invisible planes of existence Mr Snow
had often referred to?  In his dream, Steve had been with Clearwater.

They were back in the hut where she had visited him only hours before
he had made his escape from the M'Calls the Mute clan that had held him
captive during the summer of 2989.  Clearwater's naked body had been
locked round his, but as she drew his mouth down on to hers he found
himself embracing Roz.  And they were no longer in Cadillac's hut.  He
and his kin-sister were lying naked under a quilt in his bunk-space in
the quarters allotted to the Brickman family at Roosevelt Field.  The
room seemed much bigger than he remembered it, and so did the bunk.  It
was then he realised that his kin-sister's breasts had shrunk back into
her body.  Her skin was patterned like a Mute's and she was now no more
than ten years old.

As he drew back from her with mixed feelings of guilt and surprise he
became aware that Karlstrom, the head of AMEXICO, was sitting on the
end of the bed watching them with an amused smile.  A man and woman
dressed in black and silver-blue jumpsuits suddenly appeared.  The man
pulled the quilt from the bed.  Steve tried to hold on to it but his
fingers wouldn't grip properly.  His hands had become weak and
boneless.  The woman exec picked up Roz, only now his kin-sister had
become a five-year-old.

They wrapped her in the quilt and took her away.  By the time they
reached the door Roz was a little snub-nosed baby, eyes screwed up
tight, her toothless mouth wide open - screaming...

Had Roz been trying to get in touch with him?  Was she trying to tell
him something, or was this another message from the furtive stranger
who haunted the dark recesses of his own brain?

Jumbled fragments of his dream drifted through his mind as he began to
doze off again.  The world outside the shuttered log cabin lay quiet
and still.  Inside, the only sound to break the silence was the
sonorous breathing of his sleeping companions- fourteen Mutes who lay
head to head on two neat rows of mattresses.

The cabin in which Steve was passing the night lay near the post-house
at All-bani, and he was here as a result of the deal he had struck with
the man in black - or someone who sounded very like him.  Within four
days of leaving the post-house where he had met Clearwater, Steve had
acquired the papers and ID plaque of a roadrunner.

These were foot-messengers, the first her in the centrally-controlled
postal system which had been set up by the Toh-Yota Shogunate to keep
the endless stream of paperwork flowing smoothly round the country.

The job of roadrunner was now the exclusive preserve of Mutes selected
for their ability to run tirelessly mile after mile, hour after hour.

It was the best job a Mute journeyman could aspire to, and a much
coveted position.  Provided you didn't get lost or lose the precious
satchel of mail and arrived within the time allowed, you were clothed
and fed, and while you were out on the road you tasted the nearest
thing in Ne-Issan to the freedom that was the birthright of the
Plainfolk.  But if you fell sick, or committed some minor infraction,
they took away your badge and sent you back down the road to work on
the nearest dung-heap.

Since they were government employees, roadrunners were based at the
Consul-General's residence - where they were housed in a special
compound - and at small depots attached to certain post-houses on the
major highways, which acted as distribution points.  The post-house had
become synonymous with the wayside inn, because the more enterprising
owners had set up their establishments next door in the hope of
attracting the passing trade.  The arrangement proved mutually
beneficial and, as a result, post-houses and inns moved progressively
closer together.  Now, three-quarters of a century later, the majority
had ended up sharing the same roof.

Roadrunners acted as two-footed packhorses.  They delivered the bulk
mail, which was then collected by local residents.  Official documents
for district functionaries were relayed to the addressee by couriers a
job usually awarded to a 'mainlander' of Korean or Vietnamese
descent.

Top-level communications were carried by a kind of 'pony express'
staffed by samurai.

Alongside this, the ruling families in each domain had their own
messenger service to ensure that 'sensitive' private communications to
relatives and friends did not pass through the hands of government
agents.

Taken together, the system comprised a veritable army of mailmen, from
the lowly roadrunner to the mounted samurai, and above them flew the
courier pigeons bearing cryptically worded ribbons of rice-paPer from
government spies to the Shogun.

Steve was unaware of this last her of communication, but the sheer size
of the system and the volume of traffic caused him to wonder why they
had not opted to go for a hi-tech solution.  Iron Master society seemed
to be suffering from arrested development.  They had raised their craft
and mechanical skills to an impressive level but seemed unwilling - or
incapable - of making the next leap forward.  He was sorely tempted to
show them how, but that would only make it harder for the Federation to
win the battle for the Blue-Sky World.  Better to leave them with their
Stone Age way of doing things.  And to make sure they stayed there by
putting an end to this 'flying-horse' project which - according to the
man in black - Cadillac had succeeded in getting off the ground...

In coming to an arrangement with the cloud warrior, Toshiro Hase-Gawa
was acutely aware that he had put his whole future on the line and he
had done what he had wrongly accused Lord Yama-Shita of doing - making
a deal with the long-dogs.  Nevertheless he felt justified in doing so,
for the basic charge against Yama-Shita still stood.  He and Min-Orota
had conspired together to subvert the Shogun's brother-in-law, and
Toshiro still hoped that he would soon be able to produce some hard
evidence to back up the rumours that Yama-Shita was making preparations
to recapture the Dark Light.

In his own mind, Toshiro did not see himself as acting on behalf of the
Shogun, and he did not view Brickman as representing the Federation.

The deal with the cloud warrior was a private contract between two
individuals: a purely tactical manoeuvre to get himself out of an
awkward corner.  He had let it be understood that if Brickman did all
that was asked of him, he and his two Mute prisoners would be granted
safe passage out of the country.  Brickman had accepted this with
suitable expressions of gratitude, then had the effrontery to demand
safe passage for another long-dog!

Once again, Toshiro had swallowed his anger, agreeing without demur.

Four, fourteen, forty - the number was academic.  Toshiro had not
hesitated to kill Noburo and his two red-stripes in order to conceal
his previous error of judgement; these three troublesome outlanders
would meet the same fate.  Once they were disposed of, there would be
nothing to weaken his case.

The conspirators would be either dead or fatally compromised, his own
position in relation to the Shogun would be strengthened and he would
be one step nearer to achieving that which he most desired.

From the post-house at Midiri-tana, Toshiro had ridden north through
what was left of the night towards Ari-saba, with the cloud warrior
slung face-down over the back of his horse like the carcass of a stag
brought home by a huntsman.  With dawn approaching, the Herald had
taken the precaution of blindfolding his prisoner.  For his scheme to
succeed and to protect his own position, it was vital that Brickman did
not discover the identity of his benefactor.

The twelve-mile journey did not take long.  Waiting for him on the
outskirts of Ari-saba were his own pair of red-stripes - part of the
disguise obligingly provided by Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain, second
most powerful man in the Toh-Yota Shogunate.  While his men held Steve,
Toshiro swapped his black assassin's garb for the travelling costume of
a samurai, then remounted and led the two foot-soldiers and their
prisoner through the dawn mists to the post-house where he had rented
rooms the previous day.  They arrived before the first servants had
begun to stir, and were able to slip back into their quarters
unobserved.

Steve was kept securely bound and blindfolded for most of the following
day.  He knew from the unintelligible conversations that he was guarded
by two Japs, and he could hear the muffled voices of people in
movement outside, but none of it made any sense.  The only thing that
marked the passage of time for Steve was the arrival of two bowls of
rice topped with vegetables.

These were delivered several hours apart by his unseen captors, who
freed his right hand and guided it to the bowl placed on the floor
between his knees.

Toshiro, meanwhile, remained in his own quarters and worked out his
next moves.  When he was satisfied he had every angle covered and knew
what he would say in advance to the cloud warrior, he made his way to
the room occupied by the red-stripes and told them to stand guard
outside while he interrogated the prisoner.

Before he switched into Basic, the Herald rolled up two small strips of
cotton and stuck them inside his cheeks to alter the sound of his
voice.  Adopting the identity of an unidentified colleague of Noburo
and the man in black, Toshiro laid out his plan of action.  The
blindfolded cloud warrior listened attentively and did not raise a
single query or objection.  The Herald found this newfound reticence so
unsettling he felt obliged to enlarge upon the possible dangers,
stressing the points at which he felt extreme caution would be
needed.

Brickman greeted these strictures in the same offhand manner,
dismissing potential problems with the phrase 'Let's cross that bridge
when we come to it."

The young man's assurance was breathtaking.  Toshiro realised that he
would have to be careful not to be misled by his own innate feelings of
superiority into underestimating this ill-mannered individual.

Brickman might come from a different world with totally different
values, but he was endowed with an intelligence that was every bit as
penetrating and devious as his own.

The Herald proceeded to outline his scheme to integrate Steve into the
labour system as a roadrunner.  As soon as he was registered,
arrangements would be made for his immediate transfer to the
government's chief postal depot in Lord Min-Orota's domain.  This would
enable him to move openly and legally across Ne-Issan.

The Heron Pool lay some four hundred miles from their present
position.

The journey would take several weeks to accomplish for, in his new
role, Steve would be required to carry mail along the route that would
be mapped out for him.  However, upon reaching his destination he would
be at the heart of the action, attached to the residence of the
Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba - towards whose aching arms Clearwater
was presently being conveyed.  He would also find himself delivering
and collecting paperwork from the Heron Pool where his prime target,
Cadillac, was busily building a small fleet of flying-horses.

The next meeting, promised Toshiro, would take place in the domain of
the Min-Orota, after Steve had joined the postal staff of the
Consul-General.  When he had had the opportunity to assess the
situation on the ground for himself, they would then consider how Steve
could shed his grass-monkey disguise, and join the staff of the Heron
Pool as a long-dog.

'Supposing I need to get in touch with you before then?"

It was the question Toshiro had been expecting.  'You can't.  From here
on in, it's a case of "Don't call me, I'll call you"."

'I see... I thought we were working together on this."

'We are, but that's the way it has to be, sport.  Don't worry.  I'll
make sure someone keeps an eye on you."

Toshiro was lying.  He could not put the spies and informers who worked
for him in Lord Min-Orota's domain on to Brickman's case.  It was too
risky.  But there was no harm in letting the cloud warrior think he
would be under surveillance from here on in.  It might minimise the
chances of him trying to pull a fast one.

'Okay,' said Toshiro.  'That about wraps it up for today.  We have to
go on to All-dina to get you registered as a roadrunner.  That's where
the Consul-General for this domain is located.  After that you're on
your own.  Provided you watch that lip of yours, there should be no
problem."

'I'll try and remember that.  This, uhh.  place we're going to - is it
a long way from here?"

'Fifty miles."  An alarming thought struck Toshiro.  'Can long-dogs run
that far?  Since you're disguised as a Mute I assumed .  . ."

Steve nodded.  'That's why they picked me for this job."

There was one last piece of business Toshiro had to attend to.  'My
colleague who met with you and Samurai-Captain Naka-Jima told me what
happened when the Se-Iko hit the ronin's base camp.  How about telling
me your side of the story?"

'Do we have time?"

'Sure.  We don't leave here until tomorrow morning."

Steve began with the surprise appearance of the ronin crossing the
highway with the Se-Iko in hot pursuit, and fed him everything up to
the moment when he had sung for his sake in front of Noburo.  The one
thing he omitted to mention was the fact that he had been held in a
cell next to Clearwater for several hours.  Since he was not questioned
about her, Steve could only presume that his unseen interrogator was
unaware that the only thing separating them had been a slatted wooden
screen - or did not view it as important.

Toshiro did not know this but, in any case, his interest had waned by
the time Steve reached the point where he had handed over his
weapons.

The Herald had discovered all he needed to know: the location of the
ronin camp and how it could be entered.  These details would be sent in
a letter addressed to Hideyoshi Se-Iko, the military commander of the
southern district, and signed 'A WellWisher'.

Since his samurai had failed to catch all the raiders of the road
convoy, Hideyoshi could be counted upon to take the appropriate
measures.

With the last survivors eliminated, Brickman would be the only person
who knew of his mistake over the true identity of the 'love object' and
the fake 'cloud warrior'.

The secret was safe with him.  He was unlikely to reveal details of his
mission to anyone else.  If it was successful he would vanish; if it
was not, he would be dead.

The Mute roadrunners attached to the depot at Aribani and their
transient colleagues were accommodated in a sturdy log cabin in the
courtyard behind the post-house.

Food, lodgings and laundry services, all paid for by the bakufu, were
provided by the inn-keeper, who usually kept a Mute family, or a group
of Mute women, for this task.  The idea of higher social orders cooking
for the lowest was out of the question.  That was why Clearwater's two
housewomen had been taken away to prepare their own food.  The reason
Steve had been subsequently fed by the ronin was that they considered
him to be a special case.

Steve was roused at 0500 along with his fourteen overnight
companions.

Reveille was sounded by one of the cabin staff, a stocky, strong-armed
female Mute equipped with a stout pole that came up to her shoulder.

The woman walked up and down the length of the hut between the two
lines of mattresses, pounding the three-inch-thick pole on the planked
floor.  Since everyone was required to sleep with their head towards
the middle of the room, the shock waves generated by the quivering
timbers battered the ear drums and were almost strong enough to shake
your teeth loose.  To a brain dulled by sleep it also sounded like
earth thunder a noise guaranteed to get a Mute up and running in nought
seconds flat.

Steve jumped to his feet and headed across the cobbled yard to the
bathing shed set aside for Mutes.

This was one of the perks of being a roadrunner: as an employee of the
bakufu, in daily contact with Iron Masters, you were required to
maintain the same standards of cleanliness.

Finishing off with a bracing bucket of cold water emptied over his head
by a cheerful boy-child, Steve dried himself vigorously and donned a
clean cotton loincloth as the boy refilled his bucket and got ready to
douse the next Mute out of the steaming tub.

The boy was an 'iron-foot', the term used to describe Mutes born in
Ne-Issan.  It came from the metal leg-restraints that Mute journeymen
and Tracker renegades were often made to wear.  Steve - who had not yet
had an opportunity to converse at length with any adult 'iron-foot'
wondered if these second- and third-generation journeymen still
identified with the Plainfolk.  Since becoming a roadrunner he had
discovered that, in Ne-Issan, the unbridgable gulf between the various
clans had been forcibly broken down.  The D'Troit, mortal enemies of
the She-Kargo, the San'Paul, San'Louis, C'Natti and M'Waukee had been
thrown together without any regard for the enmity they felt towards one
another.

In talking with other roadrunners he had met up with en route for
All-bani, he had learned that the Iron Masters dealt harshly with
inter-clan disputes especially where makeshift weapons were involved.

Steve had encountered some latent hostility from D'Troit and M'Waukee
roadrunners during his overnight stops, but it was all low-key.  There
had been none of the provocative posturing and bragging insults that
had triggered the outbreaks of violence he had witnessed during the
week when the clans had gathered at the trading post.

Mute journeymen still preferred the company of their clan brothers and
sisters, but the decades of slavery had weakened the age-old
traditions.  Living under the heel of the Iron Masters had taught the
Plainfolk something they had failed to learn throughout the centuries
of fratricidal violence - the positive benefits of peaceful
coexistence.  It would be ironic, thought Steve, if the sense of
nationhood spoken of in the Talisman Prophecy was to be born here,
among those to whom Mr Snow had referred as 'The Lost Ones'.

Did one have first to lose freedom in order to gain it?

What did the word - which did not appear in the Federation dictionary
really mean?  Steve knew it had something to do with an absence of
control by a central authority - such as the First Family.  But it was
precisely this lack of control which, according to the Family, had
brought the state of anarchic violence and degeneracy that had led to
the Holocaust.

Was freedom without a collective sense of purpose forever destined to
self-destruct?  Did absolute freedom mean that the monolithic tyranny
of the Jeffersons was replaced by the equally tyrannical behaviour of
individuals, or small groups, each fighting to protect and propagate
their own narrow self-interests at the expense of everyone else?  Did
this kind of freedom lead, in the end, to chaos and a point where the
greatest number of disadvantaged people in such a society came to
regard any form of protest as anathema, and demand a return to
autocratic rule by a central authority?

Perhaps this was the true wisdom of the First Family.

In the closed underground world of the Federation, the unquestioning
obedience which was demanded, and almost universally accorded, gave
everyone a role, a sense of purpose and satisfaction derived from the
knowledge that, through planned, collective action, the efforts of each
individual brought their society one step nearer to the realisation of
the great dream - the return to the Blue-Sky World.  An ordered,
peaceful world under the continuing stewardship of the Jeffersons, not
the factional chaos that had led to the Holocaust.

Ordered not through coercion, but because everyone shared the same
goals, the same ideals: peaceful because the enemies of mankind (of
which Trackers held themselves to be the sole survivors), who had
brought the world to the brink of total destruction, had been wiped
from the face of the earth.

The Mutes believed the Talisman Prophecy was a forecast of things to
come but perhaps, as Steve had first thought, it was an empty
pipe-dream; a yearning for a long-lost sense of purpose.

While the Trackers had carved out their subterranean empire, the
Plainfolk and the southern Mutes had run free across the overground for
close on 1,000 years.  They had enjoyed the freedom that the hardier
renegades found so seductive - but what had they done with it?

Nothing.  And yet, and yet...

Despite the fact that the Plainfolk had not managed to build anything
to compare with the magnificence of the John Wayne Plaza, owned few
material possessions, and were still fighting hand to hand with 'sharp
iron', they were in tune with the external world and in touch with the
primal forces that had led to its creation.  They could not write or
read, but their eyesight was flawless and their minds were open to
visions of other worlds.  They made music on primitive wind, string and
percussion instruments, and they sang songs which they made up for
themselves.

In the Federation, this area of creativity was the exclusive preserve
of the First Family - except, of course, for the illegal trade in
blackjack.  But the Family might even be producing this, controlling
the market for its own devious purposes.

In Ne-Issan, they also made music on hand-operated instruments and
since electronic communications remained to be discovered, a huge army
of scribes penned the data transmitted through the postal system,
recorded transactions and chronicled events for posterity.

But there was also another class of scribe who freely composed strings
of 'ideOgrams' - the name for the incomprehensible signs used by the
Iron Masters to make a permanent record of the spoken word - and,
apparently, these people did not record data, they invented it, drawing
details from life to create imaginary situations in which imaginary
people interacted.  They were like recorded dreams, and when they were
written down they were called 'poems' and 'stories', and they were
given to other people to read.

Steve had seen these various scribes at work, seated in some of the
small open-fronted buildings that lined the main streets of the
villages and townships he had passed through on his way from All-dina
to Ari-bana.  Other 'shops' had housed a staggering variety of traders
and craftspeople: candle-makers and lantern-makers, basket and mat
weavers, dyers, carpenters, furniture-makers, saddle-makers,
wheelwrights, potters, fine metalworkers, blacksmiths, merchants
selling cotton cloth and silk brocades and purveyors of sake and all
kinds of food.

The list was endless.

And he had also glimpsed Iron Masters creating coloured images with
brushes on folding screens made of paper and silk, and on wooden
panels.  The images depicted scenes from the natural world, animals
prowling through forest grasses, birds perched in trees, horsemen in
pursuit of mountain cats, serene landscapes with waterfalls and views
of distant, snowcapped mountains; images filled with life that
surpassed anything created by COLUMBUS.  And there were others carving
strange beasts and squat figures with fierce expressions out of blocks
of wood and stone.

Steve could not understand why anyone would choose to produce objects
which appeared to serve no useful purpose, but something within him
responded to the skill and dedication they brought to their work.  The
forms they produced were pleasing to the eye, but what impressed him
most was the fact that the ruling powers in Ne-Issan allowed their
subjects to create words, images and objects and pass them on to
others.

In the Federation, such a thing would not be allowed indeed, it was not
possible.  Trackers were involved in construction and production
processes, but everything was created and designed by the First Family
- including life itself.

'Art' and 'literature' were two more word-concepts that could not be
found in the Federation dictionary.

The only pictures Trackers had to look at were those that could be
accessed through the Public Archive Channel plus the obligatory
wall-mounted holograms of the Founding Father and the current
President-General.  No one played instruments; the music, produced
electronically, came through the loudspeakers.  Trackers did not
'write', they typed on keyboards.  Besides, even if the idea had
occurred to them, there was nothing to write on - or with.  Paper did
not exist.  The nearest thing to it was the plasfilm used to produce
the maps issued to the commanders of wagon-trains.

Apart from the spoken word, the only method of communication was
through the network of video screens controlled by COLUMBUS.  The
Jeffersons did not produce fiction.  They only dealt in facts, and
every object created by them and produced under their supervision was
designed to perform a specific function.

In the past year, Steve's overground experiences had caused him to
doubt the truthfulness of much of the information fed to ordinary
Trackers by the First Family.

But he did not question their right to secrecy.  The need to conceal
information seemed to be an ingrained part of human nature.  His
personal crusade to discover the truth was not inspired by a desire to
blow the lid off for the good of people in general: he just wanted to
be one of the select band of people who knew what was really going
on.

At least, the darker side of him did.  But there was another side of
his nature that responded to the overground and filled him with
rebellious thoughts.  This other Brickman had begun to view the
benevolent guiding hand of the First Family as an iron fist clamped
around the collective throat of Trackerdom, stifling all independent
thoughts and feelings.  And it was this half of his psyche that wanted
to break their grip, to blow their underground world apart and start
all over again from the beginning.

Returning to the cabin, Steve folded up the straw mattress and quilt
and placed them in a neat pile against the wall.  When the other
occupants had done the same, four low tables were pulled into the
centre of the room, and the cabin staff proceeded to serve breakfast.

It was the established custom for the roadrunners to eat all meals
wearing only loose cotton vests and their loincloths in order to keep
their uniforms as clean as possible.  As part of the deal between the
innkeeper and the postmaster, the Mute cabin staff held a small stock
of uniforms as well as providing a laundry service, so that incoming
roadrunners could exchange travel-stained garments for clean ones
before setting out again.  The one thing the runners did not part with
was their gorget, a plaque of copper shaped like a fat banana that hung
round their neck on a chain.  Stamped into the metal were Iron Master
word-signs and numbers.  This was their ID card, meal-ticket, and
passport to the good life - as good, that is, as a Mute could hope for
in Ne-Issan.

The roadrunners sat cross-legged, four to a table; Steve shared the
table furthest from the door with a brooding member of the San'Louis
friends of the D'Troit - and another She-Kargo Mute, the first he had
come across leaving the trading post.  Deer-Hunter, from the clan
M'Kewan, had been a roadrunner for the last two of his four years as a
journeyman.  He told Steve he had three more years on the road before
his term came to an end.

'What happens after that?"  asked Steve.

Deer Hunter frowned.  'Didn't anyone tell you?"

'Nobody told me anything.  I just got off the boat."

Deer-Hunter raised his eyebrows.  'You move fast..."

Steve tried to sound modest.  'Just lucky, I guess."

'Ain't nothin' to do with luck,' grunted the San'Louis.

'The friggin' She-Kargo get the biggest share of the best jobs 'cause
they got their noses stuck right up the jappo's ass!"  Steve and
Deer-Hunter eyed the Mute but didn't rise to the bait.

'You were saying .  . ."

'You get the chop,' said Deer-Hunter.

'You mean you end up back on the chain-gang?"

'No.  You end up dead."  The prospect did not seem to spoil
Deer-Hunter's appetite.

Steve stared at him.  'Sweet Sky Mother!  Why?"

Deer-Hunter shrugged.  'Search me.  Maybe it's because they didn't
want too many Plainfolk who know their way around Ne-Issan.  A man who
keeps his eyes open gets to see a lot of what goes on.  These
dead-faces are holding down a big piece of turf, but they're awful thin
on the ground."

'Even so, they seem to have things well under control.

In fact it's so tight you almost need permission to breathe round
here."

'True, but if things keep going the way they are, pretty soon there are
going to be more of us than there are of them."

'Interesting thought,' said Steve.  'And thanks for putting me
straight.  If I'd known my neck was on the line I probably wouldn't
have taken the job."

'You'd have been crazy not to.  It's the best there is."

'Yeah, but.  doesn't it get to you?  I mean, knowing you've only got
three years left?"

Another shrug.  'Nobody lives for ever."

'Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks..."

'Exactly."  Deer-Hunter scooped the last fingerful of rice out of his
bowl and licked the rim.  'And in case it still hasn't sunk in, let me
spell it out for you, one last time.  You don't have to do anything
wrong to get into trouble around here.  If one of these dead-faces
feels like killing you, he doesn't need to ask for permission.  He'll
just do it.  And you look like a prime candidate."

'Why?"

'The eyes."  Deer-Hunter snapped his fingers at the young iron-foot who
had doused Steve in the bathing shed.

The boy hurried over with a bowl of water and held it out obligingly.

'It's the way you look at people."  Deer-Hunter rinsed his hands and
mouth, then wiped them dry using the cloth draped over the boy's
forearm.  'The dead-faces don't like sassy Mutes."

'I know."  Steve dipped and dried his hands.  'Several people have
already warned me about that."

The San'Louis Mute, a lumpheaCl called Purple-Rain

from the V'Chenzo clan, took his turn with the bowl, then got to his
feet.  The boy moved on to the next table.

Deer-Hunter weighed up Purple-Rain as the Mute moved away, then turned
his attention back to Steve.

'Maybe you like to live dangerously.  If not, do something about it."

'I will.  Thanks."  Steve rose from the table and began putting on his
uniform - a loose saffron yellow jacket and trousers, and a matching
bandanna which, when folded to the required width, was wrapped round
the forehead and knotted at the base of the skull.

DeerrHunter got dressed alongside him.  'Do the M'Calls have many
smoothies like you?"

FA few."  Steve tied the black sash round his waist and pulled on his
shoes.  They had extra-thick rope soles sewn to heavy-grade cotton
uppers, and laces that fastened round the ankle.

'I'm surprised they let someone like you come here.

They'd have got a much better deal from the sand-burrowers.  If they'd
traded you in as a yearling -' Steve cut him off.  'The M'Calls don't
do deals with the sand-burrowers."

'Maybe it's time they started.  Were you in that battle last year?

Against the iron-snake?"

'Yes."  Steve picked up the waist-bag containing the precious bundle of
pink leaves.  'How come you know about that?"

Deer-Hunter smiled.  'Word travels fast.  They say the M'Calls had a
Storm-Bringer whose magic cut the snake in half.  Many sand-burrowers
died, but their beast escaped by breathing white fire.  It is also said
that Mo-Town drank deep that day."

Steve nodded.  'We'll do better next time."  He left the cabin and
headed across to the post-house.  He did not want to get into a rerun
of the battle between the clan M'Call and wagon-train known as the
'Lady from Louisiana' - especially when he had been fighting on the
other side.

Within a few minutes, Deer-Hunter and the other

roadrunners joined Steve outside the post-house and stood in a
respectful line with downcast eyes: displaying what Mr Snow, in his
parting lecture, had called 'a little humility'.  As a fellow Mute from
the blood-line of the She-Kargo, Deer-Hunter had felt obliged to urge
Steve to tone down the challenging and often contemptuous way he looked
at people.  After three years at the Flight Academy, where student
wingmen were constantly urged to think of themselves as the brightest
and the best, and where Steve was convinced he had been top of the
heap, it was not something that came easily.

Responding to a single hammer-stroke on an iron bell, the diminutive
Iron Master in charge of the depot and his two principal clerks
appeared and went through the usual jut-jawed, mean-eyed routine,
swaggering slowly down the line and back up the rear, making sure that
everyone was properly and cleanly attired, and comporting themselves
with the required degree of deference.

Once the inspection and roll-call was completed, the roadrunners were
allowed to sit on a long bench made out of a single sawn log placed on
the veranda next to the post-house door.  From there, the roadrunners
were called in four at a time to receive the sealed black satchels of
mail they were to deliver.

Deer-Hunter was in the first quartet.  After a short while he emerged
carrying the bulging leather bag on his back.  He drew the hooks on the
shoulder straps together, fastening them across his chest, and walked
back to bid farewell to Steve.

'Where are you headed?"

'llti-ka,' said Deer-Hunter.  'Regular run of mine.

Know it like the back of my hand."  They slapped palms,
warrior-fashion.  'See you around, blood-brother."

'Maybe.  Mind how you go."

Deer-Hunter grinned, then vaulted over the rail of the veranda and ran
off down the road.

Steve was among the third group to be called inside.

Aside from the fact that his job as a roadrunner was bringing him ever
closer to the Heron Pool, being part of the postal service gave him
access to detailed maps of Ne-Issan.  Hanging on an inside wall of
every post-house was a large panel bearing a hand-painted map of the
territory served by that particular depot.  On the facing wall was
another equally large map of the Iron Masters' world, showing the
domains, the major highways and the network of post-houses.  Not only
that, the family names of the domain-lords and the names of places,
mountain ranges and rivers had been carefully recorded in Japanese and
Basic.

Since Mutes had no written language, Steve had been obliged, at the
start of his journey, to pretend he could not read, allowing himself to
be taught how to pronounce and recognise the name of his given
destination and any places en route.  He had then repeated them for the
benefit of the clerk, hesitantly at first, then with increasing
confidence until the dink was satisfied and sent him on his way.  He
had gone through the same routine at each post-house, gradually
improving his 'reading skill', but taking care to make a mistake now
and then so as not to give the game away.

With the help of his photographic memory, Steve now possessed a clear
picture of the country and knew precisely to which part and in which
direction he was heading.

He had also grasped the relative size and disposition of each domain.

Instead of the arbitrary straight-line divisions between the states of
pre-Holocaust America, the domains of the Iron Masters tended to follow
the more natural boundary lines of rivers from their source to their
confluence with other, larger waterways or to where they met the sea.

Yama-Shita's domain was the only one which ran from the Great Lakes in
the west to the Eastern Sea at the mouth of the Uda-sona River.  It was
here that the lands of the Toh-Yota was split in two, and the northern
half - a narrow strip which ran up the west bank of the Udasona to the
Sanoransa River - was sandwiched between the Yama-Shita and the
Min-Orota.

The maps gave no hint as to who would back whom if it came to a
fire-fight, but from the strategic point of view the Yama-Shita were
well placed.  They could not be encircled, and the rivers and lakes
which formed the greater part of their borders severely limited the
number of points where a frontal attack could be launched against
them.

It was not surprising that the mystery 'colleague' of the man in black
had opted for a covert operation which, if it went wrong, could be
blamed on renegade Trackers and Mutes.

One of the clerks beckoned Steve over to the district map and pointed
to a location west of the Udasona.

'Today a-you go this-a place.  Sapirina-fida.  Unnastan'?"

Steve bowed.  'Sapirinafida."

The clerk then pointed to a third map showing the street layout of
Ari-bani.  'Go a-river this a-way.  Take ferry to uh-thah side.  We
give a-you spe-shawl pa-pah to make car-rossinah.  Now a-you show me
way a-you mus' gob."

After pretending to think hard, Steve swiftly traced the route from the
post-house to the ferry, then switched to the larger map and ran his
finger over the road from Albany to the pre-Holocaust urban centre of
Springfield, Massachusetts.

With a grunt of satisfaction the clerk went back behind the counter and
wrote the word-signs stamped on Steve's gorget on to a ferry pass which
he handed over with the satchel of mail.

Steve accepted both with a grateful bow and, keeping his eyes on the
floor, took five backwards steps towards the door, bowed again, turned
left and made his exit.  Slimy little worms...

Steve adjusted the sit of the mailbag so that it lay snugly across his
shoulder-blades, giving the remaining roadrunners a farewell wave and
set off towards the ferry.

Although traditionally regarded as the lowest form of life, Mutes
serving as roadrunners were, nevertheless, servants of the Shogunate.

Acting on the dictum 'the mails must go through', the bakufu had
decreed that roadrunners were not required to kowtow to anyone en route
except mounted samurai and palanquins carrying nobles or high court
officials.  Since these were always escorted by samurai they were easy
to spot.  It was a sensible arrangement: if roadrunners had been
obliged to prostrate themselves every time they encountered a social
superior, the whole postal system would have ground to a halt.

As it reached the river, the road came out on to a long wooden wharf.

Several vessels of varying shapes and sizes were moored alongside.

Upstream to his left was a two-funnelled wheelboat.  Steve glanced at
it casually as he turned towards the boarding point for the ferry which
lay at the far right-hand end.

After he had gone a few yards it suddenly dawned on him that the
wheelboat was decorated in the same colour scheme as the one which had
carried him to Ne-Issan.

He turned back and ran towards it.  It was the same one!

The same pennants and banners fluttered from the masts and gallery
posts.  Side-Winder had said, in parting, that the boats went to all
parts of Ne-Issan.  And here it was!

It was an incredible stroke of luck.  All he needed now was to find
Side-Winder and his day would be made.

And 1o and behold, there he was - standing with his back to Steve,
talking to a group of Mute stevedores, his red bandanna knotted round
his shaven head.

Approaching to within a few yards of the group, Steve turned his
attention to the wheelboat.  As he ran his eyes along its bulk from
stem to stern he slid his left forefinger up behind his left ear,
located the tiny dime-sized transceiver that had been implanted under
the skin just below the line of his skull, and pressed down on it,
activating the transmitter.  The second touch switched it off.  He
pressed it on and off again, sending his call-sign in Morse code:
H-G-F-R.  Hang-Fire...

To anyone watching, Steve appeared to be scratching his neck.

Side-Winder glanced casually over his shoulder as he heard the faint
but unmistakable mosquito-like hum in his ear, and caught sight of
Steve.  He rubbed his neck, sending out the letters M-X to acknowledge
the message had been received and understood.

Steve sauntered slowly back down the wharf.  Now that he was 'legal' he
was in no danger of falling foul of the authorities, but he couldn't
afford to hang around for ever.  He felt a tap on the shoulder as
Side-Winder caught up with him.

'You're the last person I expected to run into."

'Same here,' said Steve.  They slapped palms.

Side-Winder looked him over.  'You wanna know something?  When you left
the boat at Pi-saba, I wouldn't have given a rat's ass for your
chances.  In fact, I told Mother I figured you'd last a week at the
most.  But I gotta hand it to you, amigo.  For a guy who came on like
he didn't know from shit you've wired yourself in real good."

'Just happened to be in the right place at the right time .  . ."

'Maybe."  Side-Winder gave him a shrewd glance.  'I have a feeling
there's more to you than meets the eye."

'Listen,' said Steve.  'I don't have time to tell you how and why but I
lost my radio-knife.  You still in touch with Mike-X-Ray One?"

MX-1 was the code-name for Commander Karlstrom, Operational Director of
AMEXICO.  'Mother' was a sobriquet used by mexicans.

'Yeah, what d'you want me to tell him?"

'Tell him I'm still on the case.  I've located my targets near Bosona
and I'm on my way there now."

'To the Heron Pool?"

'That's right.  You did me a big favour by picking up on that."

'All part of the service.  Need any help now?"

Steve grimaced.  'I might, but - the trouble is, I won't know until I
get there."

'Yeah."  Side-Winder sucked on his teeth.  'It's a tough one.  ' 'There
is one problem you can help me with."

'Okay, let's hear it."

Steve wondered how much he could tell the mexican without compromising
himself.  He decided he had to take a chance.  'Here's how it plays.

I've got to pull two people out of here.  The Heron Pool is at a place
called Mara-bara - west of Ba-satana.  Without going into details, I
think I can handle that end of it.  The problem is how to get out of
this place.  I've been taking a long hard look at the post-house maps
and the distances are gi-normous!"  He threw up his hands.  'I just
don't know how I'm gonna do it!"  'Where d'you wanna get to?"

'Back to the Federation but - here's the killer - I have to go via
Wyoming."

Side-Winder responded with a low whistle.

'Wyoming...?"

'I have no choice.  That's where my third target is."

'You're right, you do have a problem.  They sure gave you one hell of
an assignment for your first time out."

Steve let it pass.  'By my reckoning it must be what about five hundred
miles from Ba-satana to the shores of Lake In?"

'Something like that.  And from there, you got another fifteen hundred
miles to Wyoming.  At least."

'I figured twelve hundred but - what the heck .  . .

another three hundred more or less... ' Steve raised his eyes
skywards.

After a moment's silence he eyed the boat and turned back to
Side-Winder.  'How did this thing get here?"

'Through the canal."

'The same one that took us to Pi-saba?"

'No.  This one runs across Yama-Shita's domain.  Used to be the border
between the Yama-Ha and the Matsu-Shita before the families linked
up.

It starts at Bu-faro on Lake In runs through Uti-ka and comes out at
Taro-ya a few miles upriver from here."

Steve's eyes followed his pointing arm, then swung back on to
Side-Winder.  'Supposing I managed to get my two targets from the Heron
Pool to here, what are the chances of getting a boat ride?"

'To Lake In?"  The mexican pursed his lips.  'Are these guys going to
be kicking and screaming?"

'No.  If everything goes as planned, they're going to be in a hurry to
leave.  That goes for me too.  Is it possible?"

'In theory, yes, but - I may not be here.  But even if I was, I
couldn't handle three stowaways.  I was able to help you get a free
ride, but you'd already managed to get on board by yourself."

'I realise that.  The thing is, there might be four of us.

Do the Iron Masters ship Mutes and Trackers along that waterway?"

'Yes, now and then.  But you'd need papers.  A travel pass and a
document certifying you've been purchased by someone in Bu-faro.  A
slave-dealer would be best."

'Shee-iit.  This is more complicated than I thought."

'It always is."

Steve chewed it over and had the germ of an idea.

'Okay, let's assume I can get the papers we need.  What do they have to
say?"

Side-Winder gave him the standard wording and the name of a
slave-dealer in Bu-faro.  'I don't see what use this is.  You can't
even speak Japanese, let alone write it."

'Let me worry about that."

'Okay, suppose you do get to Bu-faro.  What are you gonna do then?"

Steve grinned.  'Ahh, that's where you come in.  I'm hoping you're
going to be able to set up a skyhook."

'Jack me!  You don't stop, do you?"

'I know it's asking a lot but - you're my only contact with the
Federation."

'Yeah, okay.  when's this likely to be?"

Steve threw up his hands again.  'Can't say.  How long are you going to
be working this route?"  ˇ 'Barring earthquake, flood, shipwreck, acts
of war and civil disorder, we should be on this run for the next four
months.  The turnround point is 150 miles south of here.  A place
called Nyo-yoko.  That's where this river meets the Eastern Sea."

'Yeah, I saw it on the map.  There's a bunch of islands down there."

Side-Winder nodded.  'The Shogun has a palace on one of them.  Did you
know that, before the Holocaust, over twenty-five million people lived
there?  Twenty-five million jammed into a few square miles.  Can you
imagine that?"

Steve shook his head.  'That's probably why they ended up killing each
other."

'Maybe .  . . Anyway, for what it's worth, we sail at midday for
Nyo-yoko, two days later we call back here, then go all the way to
Bu-faro.  There and back takes about three weeks.  Bear that in mind.

If you can time it right, you can hitch a ride with us and I'll do
whatever I can to help.  These dinks can be unpredictable.  The trip
might be easier if you have a friend on board."

'You're right."  Steve fisted Side-Winder's shoulder.

'Gotta go, but - I really appreciate this.  If it hadn't been for your
help on the way in ' Side-Winder waved away his thanks.  'If we ever
meet up back home when I've got these lumps out of my face we'll split
a Korn-Gold and swap case notes.  Buena suerte!"  'You too, amigo.

Hasta la vista!"  Steve set off towards the ferry.

'Hey!  I forgot something!"  Steve halted as Side-Winder ran to catch
up with him.

'You'll have to pay for the boat ride."

'What with?"

'Money.  Didn't anyone tell you about that?"

Steve stared at him, uncomprehending.

Side-Winder grinned.  'Obviously not.  It's like the credit ratings on
our ID cards, only different.  Never mind.  Looks like you got a steep
learning curve ahead of you.  Find out about all that and get your
hands on some.

The trip'll cost you five dollars a head."  He began to back away.

'Plus the extras!  Bring another twenty dollars, just to be on the safe
side?

'Sure!  No sweat!"  Steve signed off with a confident wave and ran down
the wharf past the line of moored boats.  Money... dollars...

Columbus!  As if he didn't have enough to worry about!

Side-Winder stood watching until Steve reached the ramp that led down
to the ferry.  The small twin-paddleboat had just left the far side of
the river and was chugging its way back to the west bank.  In a few
minutes Brickman would begin the next stage in his journey though in
view of the distances involved, 'odyssey' might be a better word.

Meeting him had been a lucky break, but it was not entirely
unexpected.

AMEXICO had alerted him to the fact that Steve had secured a job as a
roadrunner and might be heading in his direction.

How Mother had managed to figure that out remained a mystery, and how
Brickman had managed to get on board the system so fast was an even
bigger one.

Side-Winder had been forced to endure two years of hard labour and
brutal treatment, before being selected to work on the wheelboats, and
it had taken him a further twelve months to claw his way up to head
overseer.  And he had only achieved that distinction by being the
meanest mother on board.  No... Brickman's rapid advancement had to be
an inside job.  Clearly a man to watch.

As he walked back towards the stevedores, SideWinder realised he had
forgotten to tell Brickman that Mutes and Trackers were not allowed to
possess money.

Slaves didn't own anything and couldn't earn anything: food, clothing
and housing came with the job but the rice in your belly, the shirt on
your back and the roof over your head belonged to your master - and so
did you.

Whilst it was less serious than carrying a weapon, to possess money was
still a punishable offence - as Brickman would soon discover if he did
his homework.

The boat tickets would have to be paid for, but they could only be
purchased by an Iron Master.

Side-Winder was not unduly worried.  Anyone smart enough to get himself
promoted from illegal immigrant to roadrunner in less than six weeks
should be able to figure his way round a little problem like that.

CHAPTER TEN

While Steve was heading north for his unexpected meeting with
Side-Winder, the much-delayed road convoy to which Jodi Kazan and Dave
Kelso had been assigned finally reached Fin on the banks of the
Delaware.  The bricks used to build Fin came from the ashes of
Philadelphia, city of brotherly love, incinerated in' AD 2015 - the
year that marked the end of what the Mutes called The Old Time.

For many of the travellers who had joined the convoy in the latter
stages of its journey this little riverside town - now awash with
merchants and traders drawn in by the forthcoming slave-market - was
the end of the line, and as soon as their presence had been registered
by the officials at the western toll-gate, they hurried away in search
of lodgings in one of the already overcrowded inns.

For Jodi and Kelso the long march, which had begun with their capture
by the M'Calls in Western Nebraska, was not yet over.  The two Tracker
renegades were collected from the toll-gate by a pair of sturdy Korean
clerks working for a shipping agent who enjoyed the trust and
commercial patronage of the Min-Orota family.  The clerks, their eyes
compressed into slits by prominent slanting cheekbones, conducted them
through the crowded streets to the agent's office for yet another round
of paperwork.

Through an opened screen which served as a door and window, Jodi could
see a bustling food market crowded with buyers and vendors.  The stalls
had a staggering variety of food stacked on counters and hanging from
their roof' frames.  Some were selling raw items, others were cooking
portions to be consumed on the spot.  A delicious stew of odours
drifting on the summer breeze reached Jodi's nostrils and made her feel
faint with hunger.

A glance at Kelso showed he was similarly affected.

They had been adequately fed en route, but they had covered more than
300 miles since leaving Pi-saba - all of it on foot.  The trek had left
them leaner and tougher than before - and permanently hungry.  They
were destined to remain so for some time.  The agent fed his family and
staff and wined and dined his clients, but he was not in the catering
business.  As far as he was concerned the two long-dogs were just
another consignment to be forwarded.

Armed with the necessary passes for themselves and their charges, and a
monosyllabic command of Basic, the two clerks herded Jodi and Kelso
back out on to the streets and down to a ferry plying back and forth
across the broad stretch of river which snaked past the eastern edge of
town on its southward journey towards the open sea.

As they waited on the jetty for the ferry to complete its return
journey the two Trackers witnessed the arrival of a now-familiar sight;
the sealed carriage-box with its mysterious white-masked occupant and
her two diminutive female attendants, who, like them, had joined the
convoy on its formation at Pi-saba.  Halfway through the journey, a
strong force of mounted bandits had staged a dawn raid on the convoy,
carrying off the White Lady and her two women as part of their
plunder.

Their kidnappers had evidently had a rapid change of heart, because all
three had been put back into circulation and had caught up with the
convoy at Midiri-tana towards the end of the following day.

With no understanding of the Iron Masters' language, Jodi and Kelso
could not make head nor tail of what had taken place, beyond what they
had seen with their own eyes.  And since no one had seen fit to offer
an explanation in Basic they had been left guessing as to what it all
meant - and whether it had any connection with what had followed.  For
the violent assault by close on a hundred ronin in which a handful of
drivers and travellers had been killed had not been the end of the
alarms and excursions.  The morning after the kidnapped trio had
rejoined the convoy, its progress had been further delayed by the
discovery of three dead bodies - one of them a samurai - in the grounds
of the post-house where the drivers of the plundered goods-wagons and
the shaken travellers had paused to take stock and regroup.

For the Iron Masters, the unlawful killing of a samurai was a serious
matter.  Within minutes of the alarm being raised, a mini-hierarchy of
officials descended on the post-house and unleashed a frenzied
investigation, haranguing each other and everyone in sight with a
stream of gobbledegook.  To the untrained ear, it sounded like the
shrill clamour raised by a flock of nesting crows alarmed by a
marauding buzzard.

Staff and overnight guests were rounded up, questions were asked and
statements taken; rooms and baggage were searched; the murder site was
combed for clues.  Jodi and Kelso caught a brief glimpse of the corpses
as they were removed from a garden pavilion and carried back to the
main building, but were not called upon to give an account of
themselves.  Since they had each spent the night in the customary
fashion, bedded down under a wagon with their feet shackled to one of
the wheels, they were not regarded as potential suspects.  Eventually,
after everyone's papers had been scrutinised for the umpteenth time,
the road convoy was allowed to proceed.

Whips and prods were applied to the oxen drawing the wagons in an
effort to get back on schedule, but the efforts of the perspiring
drivers came to naught.  Bellowing under the rain of blows, the
big-boned beasts reluctantly changed up from a leisurely plod to a
lumbering trot, but proved unable to cover more than fifty yards before
dropping back down through the gears.  At which point, the process
began all over again.

After several punishing miles which found the animals

in better shape than their masters, it became clear to Jodi - to whom
all this was a new experience - that the oxen had already made a major
concession in allowing themselves to be put into harness and were
temperamentally opposed to being run off their feet.  The convoy-master
evidently reached the same conclusion and, after a brief confab with
the despairing drivers, they permitted the yoked pairs to proceed at
their own measured pace without further molestation.

Looking back towards the town and the land beyond it that stretched
away westwards to the horizon, and to an infinity of horizons beyond
that, Jodi wondered what fate had befallen the other captured renegades
from Malone's group.  In particular, she wondered about Medicine-Hat,
who had nursed her broken body back to health after three breakers from
Malone's group had found her half buried in mud deposited by the
flash-flood in the Now and Then River.

Kelso had been one of the guys who had helped to dig her out.  A lot
had happened since then.  She had become a renegade through
circumstance, not choice, but her experience of overground life had
awakened new feelings which had left her troubled and confused.

Meeting up with Steve Brickman again hadn't helped.

She had done everything she could to save her former crew-mate's life
and then - jack me - he had painted his body, plaited his hair and
decked himself out in a Mute pebble-suit!  The argument they'd had over
that, and over some of the things she had learned about how the First
Family kept control over the Amtrak Federation, still bothered her.

Jodi had heard a lot that seemed to make sense - but how much of it was
true?  Brickman had dismissed her accusations and had pleaded with her
to trust him.  But how could you trust a Tracker who chose to bed down
with the enemy rather than stick with his own kind?

But then - who could you trust?

According to the First Family, it was the Mutes who were poisoning the
air with their presence.  That was why they all had to be killed - to
make the air safe to breathe again.  But what about the Iron Masters?

Theirs might not be a hi-tech world, but they were a highly organised,
industrious and inventive bunch and quite clearly in a different league
from the Mutes.  And a lot more dangerous.  Where had they come from?

Did the fact that they were surface-dwellers mean they were poisoning
the atmosphere with their presence too?  If they were, it meant they
were next in line for extermination in the battle for the Blue-Sky
World.  So how come there was no mention of them in the public
archives?  The First Family must know about them.  The Family knew all
there was to know about everything.

Before being swept overboard from the Lady in a ball of flame and then
half drowned in the flash-flood, everything had been so simple.  The
world had been neatly divided into us and them; Tracker and Mute.  A
guy knew who the enemy was, and why he had to do what the Family asked
of him.  But the presence of the Iron Masters confused the issue;
spoiled the brutal symmetry.  Okay, they might be flat-faced,
squatty-assed runts but they could hardly be categorised as subhuman.

They were kind of halfway-in-between.  And that made it a whole new
ball game.  Because if there was a third race, then there could be a
fourth and a fifth out there somewhere who had staked a claim to a
piece of the overground.

How would the Federation react if some of these other human-type beings
turned out to be even further up the evolutionary and technological
tree than the Iron Masters?

The Mutes were easy to classify - they were made-to-measure
fall-guysbut what did the word 'subhuman' really mean?  Who laid down
the criteria - and how did they know where to draw the line?

Once you began picking away at it, the whole concept started to look
distinctly flaky.  And that was dangerous, because it called into
question the historical basis for the First Family's claim that
Trackers were destined to inherit the earth and be the sole masters of
all therein.

Yeah ... somebody, somewhere, had a lot of explaining to do.

The Delaware marked the eastern boundary of the Mitsu-Bishi domain.

Once across the river you were in Nyo-jasei.  The territory, together
with Aron-giren, had once belonged to the Da-Tsuni, but following their
defeat at the hands of the Toh-Yota they had been dispossessed.  As a
result of that victory, the Shogun's family now held a slice of land
stretching from the St Lawrence at Quebec to Cape Charles at the mouth
of Chesapeake Bay.  The remnants of the Da-Tsuni, their desire for
revenge neutered by marriage ties with the new ruling family, now
occupied a domain carved out of the virgin hill forests on the
south-west frontier.

When the ferry docked on the far shore, the sealed carriage-box was
loaded on to a two-wheeled chassis which could be hired for that
purpose, along with a pair of porters to man the poles front and
back.

The serving-women and the two Korean clerks rode in open hand-carts - a
downmarket version of the jinrikisha, lacking weather cover, padded
seats and the luxury of sprung axles.  Jodi and Kelso, as usual, were
obliged to hoof it.

They found themselves at the western end of a fifty-four-mile stretch
of highway that ran in an almost straight line through forests of
sweet-smelling pine and white cedar and across marshlands carpeted with
cranberries.  The small party rested at a post-house some thirty miles
along the road at which the two breakers got their first meal of the
day.  It came courtesy of the White Lady, whose carriage box was lifted
off its wheels and carried inside her room so that she could alight
safe from prying eyes.

At the other end of the road, which they reached in the late afternoon
of the following day, lay a bare sandy coastal plain.  The wide beaches
running away to the north and south were sheltered from the breaking
waves by a chain of narrow sandbars and scattered islets.  The few
trees that had managed to get a foothold were not so lucky.  Their
twisted trunks and stunted branches had a bent and beaten look which
bore witness to the brutal force of the winter gales that swept in from
the Eastern Sea.

A wooden bridge, with a split middle section that was cranked up by
capstans and plaited ropes as thick as a man's arms, spanned a narrow
waterway between the mainland and a large island, called
Atiran-tikkasita.  A fishing village with a sheltered harbour had been
built amongst the ruins of pre-Holocaust buildings whose shrouded
sand-filled shapes gave no clue to their former function.  Succeeding
generations of scavengers, whose occupation of the island pre-dated the
arrival of the Iron Masters, had long since pillaged the collapsed
structures of any useful items.

Beyond the village, the fossilised stumps of squared timbers stuck out
of the sand in rows like the broken ribs of half-buried dinosaurs.  The
weathered boardwalks they had once supported had also vanished long ago
- torn up to fuel cooking fires and warm the freezing limbs of the few
grey phantoms who had found the mental and physical strength to survive
the un-numbered years known to the Mutes as the Great Ice Dark.

The harbour was home to a motley fleet of small fishing boats and a
port of call for several slab-sided oceangoing junks.  It was towards
one of these that the Korean shipping clerks directed their human
cargo.  The jetty was lined with wooden shacks that came in a variety
of shapes and sizes.  As they drew level with the moored vessel, the
local leg-man for the agent in Fin emerged from his shoebox of an
office to help speed the paperwork through the various layers of
officialdom.  Identity documents and travel passes were checked and
stamped, names were taken, details noted.  And since they were
travelling to another domain, their modest baggage was searched for any
undeclared items on which an export tax might be levied.

Trade and tariffs were the twin preoccupations of the Iron Masters in
time of peace.  The Toh-Yota family was now immensely rich, but it
hadn't always been that way.

As supreme rulers of Ne-Issan, they were merely profiting from a
time-honoured tradition that had enriched their predecessors, the
Da-Tsuni - whose liquid assets had been expropriated along with their
domains.

'To the victor the spoils' was a maxim that still held good.

Government was an expensive business, and any opportunity to raise
additional revenue was eagerly seized on - no matter how piffling the
sum.  When you took into account the number of transactions, it all
added up, thereby justifying the existence of the huge army of
tax-gatherers and customs men - and also providing the means to pay
their wages.

The documents of 'Yoko Mi-Shima' were presented by Su-Shan.  After he
had knocked respectfully, the door of the carriage-box was opened far
enough to enable the harbour-master to satisfy himself that its sole
occupant appeared to be a courtesan dressed in the traditional
manner.

After bowing politely, he signalled the door to be closed.  No attempt
was made to search the carriage-box or come face to face with the
person behind the mask.  As long as the papers were in order, such
people were always passed through on the nod.

And with good reason.  The masking of courtesans who had won the favour
of domain-lords and the Shogun dated back two centuries and was a
status-symbol granted by their noble masters, along with certain other
privileges - such as being able to travel incognito.  As a result of
the discretion they were accorded it had become the custom among
high-born ladies to adopt the same protective colouring when indulging
in illicit liaisons.  It must also be said that, on occasions, the
white mask and heavy silk kimono had concealed high-born gentlemen.

In order to avoid embarrassing discoveries, it was now standard
practice to treat such travellers with the utmost circumspection.  All
professions have their cautionary tales, and it was common knowledge
that, in the past, a number of over-zealous customs officials and
tollgate keepers had ended up knowing far too much for their own
good.

Jodi and Kelso, who possessed nothing beyond what they stood up in, had
been provided with small flapped document-cases made of woven straw
that hung around their necks, where they could be read at a glance.

Together with their numbered armlets, it provided all the relevant
details: departure point and issuing authority to travel, route to be
followed, final destination and name of their new owner.  Any Tracker
or Mute found wandering about the countryside without a "yellow card'
faced arrest and speedy execution as a runaway.  They had already been
stamped with indelible ink on entering Atiran-tikkasita and, now they
were about to exit, the harbour-master's cachet was added to the
growing collection on the inside of their forearms.

After the customary round of haggling between the junk-captain and the
local leg-man, an all-in package price for the trip to Porofi-danisa
was agreed upon and sealed with cups of sake and smiles all round.  The
Korean clerks coughed up the cash, the leg-man took his cut - which
included a rake-off for the harbourmaster and his opposite number in
the customs house - and, when all the niceties had been observed, the
travellers were invited to mount the gangplank.

Su-Shan and Nan-Khe preceded the porters beating the sealed
carriage-box on its carrying poles; Jodi and Kelso, as befitted their
station, brought up the rear.  The box was set down opposite the door
leading to the stern deck cabins - one of which had been reserved for
the White Lady.  The two house-women stood either side of the doorway
to mask Clearwater's exit, then followed her below.  Jodi and Kelso who
had been booked on board as deck cargo - were allotted the fresh-air
suite between the raised bow-section and the forward hold.

The next two days on the water were spent wearing leg-irons, but they
drew some comfort from the fact that the sea was relatively calm, and
they were able to keep warm at night by burrowing in between the bales
of cotton stacked on the foredeck.  The spartan diet of boiled rice and
chopped vegetables was also easy to digest, and this time, in contrast
to their trip across the Great Lakes, they managed to keep most of it
down.

The junk-captain made a brief stop at a small harbour further up the
coast, then headed out to sea on a curving course that kept them well
to the south of Arongiren, before swinging northwards past Baro-kiren
into what was once known as Rhode Island Sound.

Block Island- to use its old name - was the eastern limit of the
protective zone set up around Aron-giren when the Shogun was in
residence.  Swinging wide around it meant they would not be intercepted
by the inquisitive crews of the Shogun's patrol vessels.  On this
occasion, the junk-captain had nothing to hide, but he and his crew had
been born and raised in their home port of Ba-satana, which meant their
primary allegiance was to the Min-Orota family.  They therefore
regarded it as a matter of honour to keep the Toh-Yota's lackeys off
the decks of their vessel whenever possible - a sentiment shared by all
seafarers from Ro-diren and Masachusa.

It was at Providence that Jodi and Kelso parted company with the White
Lady.  Taking advantage of a moment when everyone on board seemed to
have forgotten about them, they leaned on the deck rail and watched as
an Iron Master, whose imperious gestures and style of dress suggested
he was a man of some substance, took charge of the sealed carriage-box
and had it carted away by a quartet of energetic porters.  Jodi never
ceased to be amazed at the staggering size of the loads some of them
carried, the weight borne partly on their backs and partly by a cloth
band looped round their forehead.  It was not surprising they were all
bandy-legged.

The man was, in fact, the same dried-fish merchant who had arranged for
Clearwater to be convoyed to Karifaran; his task now was to ensure her
discreet return to the Consul-General's island love-nest.

Three white-stripes armed with whipping canes collected the two
Trackers from the junk and marched them out of the harbour and
northwards through the town on to the open road beyond.  Jodi and
Kelso, now without leg restraints but bound loosely together by a rope
around their necks, marched side by side.  One dink led the way, the
other two followed on behind, gingering their charges with a stinging
stroke of the cane whenever they broke step or started to flag, and
sometimes - to' judge from the guffaws of laughter -just for the hell
of it.

The two Trackers bore it stoically.  Just wait fellas.  One of these
days...

After a brisk thirty-five-mile hike, Jodi and Kelso reached their
appointed destination: the Heron Pool, situated close to the small
farming community of Mara-bara.  Had they had access to a post-house
map, they would have discovered that they were about twenty-five miles
west of Boston on what had once been Highway 20.  The area was dotted
with ponds and reservoirs.  The largest, which lay just to the south
and contained two islands, formed part of the estate of Nakane
Toh-Shiba, Consul-General for Ro-diren and Masa-chusa.  And it was to
his back door, by a devious, roundabout route, that Clearwater was now
being delivered.

As they covered the last mile down the dusty road, under the curious
gaze of people working in the nearby fields, Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso
were totally unaware of the deal between Mr Snow and Yama-Shita over
the delivery 'of a flying-horse, and the plots and counterplots which
were now afoot.  And apart from the realisation that they had been
singled out from the other breakers because they knew how to fly, no
one had told them where they were going, or why.

It was only when they both looked up almost simultaneously and caught
sight of a glider whose shape was clearly inspired by the Federation
Skyhawk that they got the first glimmering of what they were getting
into.

The glider, covered in white silk tinted rose-pink by the rays of the
setting sun and bearing a solid red disc under each wing, circled
almost directly overhead, then dropped its right wing, making a deep,
sideways descent before straightening out to land beyond the cluster of
buildings that were now in sight to the left of the road.

Kelso looked across at Jodi with raised eyebrows.  'Are you thinking
what I'm thinking?"

'I doubt it - but they sure as heck didn't bring us all this way just
to sweep the yard."

'Right.  All that thing needs is an engine and you and I could be on
our way out of here.".

Jodi smiled.  'Don't get too excited, Dave.  If they're aiming to let
us near those things then you can bet your sweet ass they've already
got that angle covered.  These guys aren't idiots, y'know."

'Neither are we,' said Kelso.  'Neither are we..."

By one of those coincidences with which both life and fiction abound,
Steve had also been watching the glider's descent.  Approaching from
the west with a sack of mail on his back, he had picked up the old
Highway 20 at Awo-seisa and was, at that very moment, about
three-quarters of a mile behind Jodi and Kelso.  Steve's heart
quickened as he saw the swept-wing craft drift lazily across the
cloudless sky, then dip towards the ground.  This was it.  The Heron
Pool.  He was within reach of his first objective.

Steve saw a small party ahead of him on the road.  By the time he
passed the compound, the marchers had turned in through the open
gates.

Shortening his stride to a slow jog, he took a look at the courtyard
beyond.

There were a number of buildings, some people moving round, but nothing
of any interest and no clue, apart from the fact that the glider had
landed close by, to indicate what was going on there.  Never mind, he'd
be back...

In the meantime, he had mail to deliver to Consul-General Nakane
Toh-Shiba, whose official residence lay a few miles down the road.

This was to be his new base until the Man in Black came out from behind
the woodwork and fixed him up with the promised job at the Heron
Pool.

At that point he would cease to be a roadrunner.  With the aid of the
precious bundle of pink leaves he would lose his stripes and become the
newest recruit to the small team of Tracker renegades led by
Cadillac.

And then things would start to happen .  . .

Passing beneath a tile-roofed timber lintel that kept the rain off the
ten-foot-high gates, Jodi and Kelso found themselves in a walled
compound containing two brand-spanking-new single-storey accommodation
units.

Like most Iron Master dwellings, they were built clear of the ground
and used a modular system of rectangular frames, lattice screens and
paper panels.  The roof was made of overlapping wooden shingles,
suggesting that they might not be intended as permanent structures.

There were also the usual support facilities they'd observed at the
various post-house inns along the way: bathhouse, cookhouse, laundry,
et cetera, plus several older structures.

The two new arrivals were relieved of their 'yellow cards' and booked
in with the usual flurry of paperwork.

The ink and paper had a pleasing odour, and from the wide-eyed way the
dinks went to work it was clear they got a big buzz out of handling the
material.  Once they were officially 'on strength', the armlets which
the Trackers had been fitted with at the trading post were prised loose
and replaced by a metal identity disc, fastened round their neck with a
loop of thin wire.  The pint-sized chief clerk, faced with the choice
of looking up their noses or remaining on his perch behind the high
desk, stayed put and wagged a warning finger.  'You wear a-disc all-uh
time.  Remove this an' we-uh remove head.

Hob-kay?"

Jodi and Kelso swallowed hard and hung their heads meekly.

A female Mute was summoned to take them to the bathhouse, where the
sight of hot water triggered a yell of delight.  Casting aside the
straw cape, bedding roll and bag of eating utensils issued to them at
Pi-saba, they peeled off the threadbare remnants of their Tracker
uniforms and leaped into the steaming tub.  After the cold water
sluices they had had to make do with since Columbus knew when, it was
an undreamt-of luxury.

Wallowing up to their ears, they ducked each other playfully, then got
down to the serious business of scrubbing the accumulated grime off
their bodies and off each other's backs.  The sand-glass which measured
the time they were allowed emptied all too quickly.  Just as well: had
they been left to soak much longer, the all-embracing warmth would have
lulled them off to sleep.  To make sure they stayed alert, the Mute who
remained silent and detached throughout - gave them the standard
cold-water treatment, then handed over big, sweet-smelling towels.  Oh,
boy!  The pain and discomfort they had suffered during the past weeks
was temporarily obliterated by the sheer joy of being squeaky clean
again.

At the adjacent clothing store - also staffed by female Mutes - they
were issued with two sets of clean clothes of the type worn by the
lower orders: drawstring bikini-type briefs, loose V-neck work shirt
and baggy trousers, a padded jacket fastened with toggles and loops,
and rope-soled canvas sandals to cover their bare feet.

The sandals were dark brown, everything else was a smoky blue.  An
eight-petalled flower symbol enclosed in a circle was printed in the
same dark brown on the back of the padded jacket and the shirt.  The
white-stripes who had collected them from the boat had carried the same
design on their headbands, likewise the brush-boys in the admin
block.

Jodi guessed it was the equivalent of a divisional sign, and she was
not far wrong.  The brown flower was the emblem of the Min-Orota
family, their new masters.

The next stop was the bedding store.  Armed with a mattress and a new
padded quilt, Jodi and Kelso followed their guide across the compound
and into one of the accommodation units, where she gestured towards a
couple of empty places to the right of the entrance.

'Thanks,' said Jodi.  'What happens next?"

The Mute eyed her with a mixture of resentment and resignation and left
without saying a word.

Jodi and Kelso exchanged a raised-eyebrow look, then folded and
positioned their mattress and quilt to match the others ranged at
regular intervals down the length of the room, and placed the spare set
of clothes and their eating utensils on the shelves above their bed
space.

In essence, it was the same procedure they had' followed during their
years of training in the Federation.

No matter how tired you were you didn't just breeze into a new base,
toss your gear in a corner, then take it easy on the mess desk until
the guy in charge of your section came and winkled you out.  If he
wasn't on your back already, you stowed everything shipshape and went
looking for him.

A Tracker wearing the same blue work clothes appeared in the doorway.

He had a lean, haggard look and the eyes of a man who had seen hard
times.  'Hi.  Are you all there is?"

'As far as we know,' said Jodi.

The Tracker stretched out a hand.  'Welcome to the Heron Pool.  I'm Ray
Simons.  Reagan/Lubbock."

'Jodi Kazan.  Nixon/Fort Worth.  This here is Dave Kelso."

'Houston/G.C."  The two men shook hands.  'You the honcho?"

Simons gave a dry laugh.  'Some chance.  One of the hired hands.  You
just get off the boat?"

'Yeah, how about you?"

Simons grimaced.  'Into my third year."

'At this place?"

The Tracker responded with a bitter laugh.  'No... I was drafted here
in March.  Before that it was the Pits."

'Pits?"  queried Jodi.

'The Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem."  Simons shook his head.

'Acre upon acre of brick blast furnaces.  It's where they melt down
ore to make iron and steel.  For the first year I was a stoker, then
they put me in charge of a gang of Mutes tapping the molten metal.

We'd run it out into shallow ditches cut in beds of wet sand - arranged
like a tree with a thin trunk and short fat branches.

'When it solidifies you have to cut off the branches which are still
red hot - and long 'em over to the rolling mill.  Making sure you don't
bump into the guys doing the same thing on each side of you - and for
as far as you can see.  Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and
sixty-five days a year.

'The heat blisters your skin and the smoke rips out the inside of your
lungs.  Run the melt out too fast and she'll jump the mould and torch
your feet off.  Dump her in sand that's too wet and the steam'Il blow
half of it up in the air like golden rain.  Looks real pretty but it
can burn a hole right through you ' Kelso cut across the well-rehearsed
tale.  'No shit.  You must tell us about it sometime."

'Is that where most breakers end up?"  asked Jodi, trying to compensate
for her companion's withering disinterest.

'Either there or in the mines."

'Sounds like you were lucky to get here,' said Kelso.

'Not as lucky as you."  Simons sounded a mite aggrieved.

Jodi let it pass.  'So what's going on, Ray?"

'We're building airplanes.  Well -just starting to."

'Who's "we"?"

'Couple of dozen guys like you and me.  They pulled us in from all
over."

'You from Big Blue?"  asked Kelso.

Simons shook his head.  'Lineman.  Tech-4.  None of us have been near a
flight-deck, but we've all got Tech grades of one kind or another.

It's the only reason I can think of for drafting us here.  What are you
-ground-crew?"

It was Jodi's turn to shake her head.  'Wingmen.  I went over the side
last year after five up the line."  She pointed to Kelso.  'He's been
off the hook for longer but .  . . I never did get the whole story."

'Who cares?"  said Simons.  'It's past history.  Waste of breath.  When
you step off the boat the tapes are wiped clean.  The dinks don't give
a shit who you are or where you're from - and neither do we.  It's what
you do from here on in that counts.  And Rule One is to keep faith with
your fellow-breakers."

'That's good enough for me,' said Kelso.

'What's Rule Two?"  asked Jodi.

'Do as you're told, keep your head down, don't try to buck the
system."

Simons's grin had a bitter twist to it.

'That's optional - depending on how long you can stand the heat.  If
you want out, the dinks will be only too happy to oblige.  Just
remember Rule One.  Whichever way you choose to go, don't screw it for
everyone else."

'Gotcha."

Simons gave them a second appraising glance.  'So...

wing men, huh?  They must have drafted you in to help the other guy
with the flight-testing."

'Could be,' admitted Kelso.  'We saw some kind of a glider fly over as
we came down the road.  Was that him?"

'Yeah..."

'Brought her in real neat,' said Jodi.  'Is he another drop-out from
Big Blue?"

Simons nodded.  'Yeah.  He runs the project."

Kelso exchanged a puzzled glance with Jodi, then said, 'Did I hear you
right?  I thought the Iron Masters gave the orders round here."

'They do.  It's ... a ... kind of interesting arrangement."

Jodi's throat tightened.  'What's this guy's name?"

'Brickman."

Kelso opened his mouth to speak, but his lips couldn't decide 'which
way to go.

Jodi asked the question for him.  'Steve Brickman?

From Roosevelt-Santa Fe?"

'Yeah,' said Simons.  'D'you know him?"

'Do we ever,' growled Kelso.  'Jack me!  That lump-sucker's the reason
we're standin' here!  Last time we saw him he was struttin' around with
a bunch of Mutes, dressed up like a monkey's uncle - and now he's got
his nose right up the ass of these meatballs!"  'Cool it, Dave."

'Yeah, I'd listen to your friend,' said Simons, grabbing the
opportunity to score a few points off Kelso.  'I don't know what
happened out there and I care even less, but it sounds like good o"
Stevie's a lot smarter than you -' Kelso made a lunge towards Simons,
but Jodi blocked him with her shoulder.  'I said cool it, Dave!  This
won't get us anywhere!"  'That's right,' said Simons.  'Brickman's
carved himself out a sweet little number.  I don't know how long it's
going to last, but every day spent working here is one day less in the
Pits, or doing some other lousy, backbreaking job.  Me and the rest of
the guys earned this free ride and we're not about to let some
wet-behind the-ears shithead mess it up for us."

Kelso saw red again.  'That does it!  I ain't takin' any more of this!'
Simons stood his ground as Jodi wrestled Kelso to a standstill.  He was
bigger and heavier, but she was fast and wiry.

'Kaz!  Get the hell off a me, will you!"  She turned to Simons.  'Don't
worry.  I'll straighten him out."

'You'd better,' said Simons, turning towards the door.

'Otherwise he's going to be late down for breakfast."

'Oh yeah!"  roared Kelso.  'We'll see about that.  Don't worry, I got
your number!"  Simons paused on his way out.  'And as of now, me and
twenty-three other guys have got yours."  He underscored the threat
with a jabbing finger.  'Think about that before you go to sleep
tonight."

Kelso shoved Jodi aside and went over to the window.

They both saw Simons walk across the compound.

'That wasn't very smart, Dave."

'Yeah?  A good smack in the mouth would have done him the world of
good.  Would've made me feel better too.  Fuckin' Brickman..."  He eyed
her sullenly.

'Whose side are you on, anyway?"

'Yours.  But this is not the time or place to try to get even.  These
dinks'll come down on us like a ton of bricks.  Promise me you won't
rock the boat."

'Maybe."  Kelso stared moodily out of the window, then shrugged as his
anger subsided.  'We'll see how it goes."  He watched her cross over to
the door.  'Where're you off to?"

'To mend a few bridges."

'Nehh, screw 'em.  I don't need you brown-nosing for me.  If you're not
prepared to back me up, just stay out of it.  'Okay?"

Jodi clamped her jaw shut and counted to five before replying.  'You're
fucking impossible - you know that?"

Kelso treated it as a compliment.  'Part of my fatal charm.  Nobody
ever got to the top by being Mr Nice Guy."

'No shit,' said Jodi, mimicking his delivery.  'You must tell me what
it's like up there sometime."

In terms of its physical components - acreage, installations and
personnel - the Heron Pool did not give the impression of being a major
enterprise.  Despite Cadillac's industry, it was still very much in the
embryonic stage; an experimental project, no more.

This was due, in part, to the caution exercised by Lord Kiyo
Min-Orota.

His estimation of Cadillac's potential had not changed in the
slightest, but he knew that developments at the Heron Pool were being
closely monitored by the Herald, Hase-Gawa.  From the reported use made
of such craft by the long-dogs it was clear that just a few regiments
of flying-horses could dramatically alter the present balance of power
- a possibility that could not have escaped the attention of the
Shogun.

The Sons of Ne-Issan did not yet possess the rapid-fire guns and
explosive devices that made the flying-horse such a deadly weapon, but
that day would come.

Meanwhile, their speed meant that a strong force of samurai could
rapidly reach any part of the country regardless of the intervening
terrain.  They would, literally, drop out of the sky like swooping
falcons.  The ability to execute such manoeuvres would demand a
complete revision of military tactics.

Lord Kiyo Min-Orota was aware of the delicate line he had to tread.

The task of building these craft had been given to his family because
they were regarded as fudai trusted allies of the Shogunate.  But
success had its dangers.  If the Heron Pool expanded too rapidly and
its importance was inflated by loose talk and wild speculation, it
might cause the young Shogun to think twice, and perhaps withdraw the
licence in favour of his own family - a situation to be avoided at all
costs.  If the Toh-Yota became the sole possessors of such a weapon
they would use it to hold their opponents in check, thus ending all
hopes for a new age of progress.

As a key participant in the 'modernist' conspiracy, Min-Orota had
therefore been at pains to create the impression that, whilst he was
prepared to back the flying-horse project, it did not have his
unqualified support.  To this end he had slowed down the pace of
development by trimming back Cadillac's constant requests for more
manpower and resources, and he had let it be known in court circles
that even if a craft capable of sustained powered flight was eventually
constructed, he feared that, in the long term, its impact on Iron
Master society would be more adverse than beneficial.

All lies, of course, but it bore the appearance of a face-saving
exercise whilst expressing his support for traditional values.  And it
also provided him with an escape hatch if Yama-Shita's plan to
recapture the Dark Light backfired - an enterprise which certainly did
not have his wholehearted support.

Translated into Basic, the message he was beaming towards the Shogun
read thus: 'I'm only going along with this because you guys twisted my
arm."

It was a neat ploy.  The whole deal had, of course, been put together
on the back-stairs by Yama-Shita, but the records would show Kiyo
Min-Orota hadn't pitched for the business.  It was Ieyasu, the wily old
Court Chamberlain, who had advised the Shogun to grant the
manufacturing licence to the Min-Orota family without going through the
usual process of soliciting the highest bid from other interested
parties.  All that remained now was to find some way, short of death,
to prevent Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General, from screwing things
up - both literally and figuratively - and everything would fall into
their hands.

Jodi caught up with Simons as he passed through an archway in the back
wall of the compound, opposite the main gate.  There were more
buildings beyond.  Simons paused expectantly.

'Listen,' said Jodi.  'Before this goes any further I just want to say
that Dave is okay - y'know what I mean?  I know things got a little out
of hand back there, but the truth is, uhh .  . . neither of us expected
to run into Brickman again so soon."  Jodi shook her head in
wonderment.  'I don't know how the guy does it, but he certainly gets
around."  She fell into step beside Simons.

'Are you sure his name's Steve Brickman?"

'That's what he calls himself.  I can't see why he would want to lie
about something like that, but what difference does it make?  He's
giving the orders and he seems to know what he's doing.  It's only you
guys who seem to have a problem."

Simons led her down an alleyway between two long single-storey
structures.  The facing walls had matching sets of sliding doors at
regular intervals and they were all wide open, giving Jodi a clear view
of their interiors.  They were both large, airy workshops.  The one on
the left contained stacks of sawn timber and rows of benches for making
sub-components; the one to her right contained several trestle jigs on
which ribs and spars were assembled into wings, while on the others,
formers and stringers were turned into fuselages.

Running down the centre was a primitive production line on which the
various pieces were mated together.  In all, Jodi counted a dozen
airplanes at various stages of completion.  Several Trackers in blue
outfits were putting tools back into racks and tidying up workbenches;
others were sweeping the floor.  The job looked as though it demanded
skill and intelligence, the whole environment looked clean and healthy
and, above all, the atmosphere appeared relaxed - with not a
white-stripe or a whipping-cane in sight.  Jodi could understand why
Simons and his co-workers didn't want anyone spoiling things.

But there was something that didn't add up.  Simons had been drafted to
the Heron Pool in March and had implied that Brickman had already set
up the operation.

But she and Kelso had first run into Brickman when still part of
Malone's renegade band back in the early part of April, and they had
last seen him at the end of May, hob-nobbing with their Mute captors at
the trading post.

Jodi was not sure of the exact dates; her standard-issue calendar watch
had been ripped from her wrist when she was washed downstream in the
tangled wreckage of her Skyhawk.  But a day or two either way didn't
matter, the questions remained: if Brickman was in Plainfolk territory
during April and May, what in Columbus's name was he doing there when
he was supposed to be running the Heron Pool - and how the eff-eff had
he gotten back here so fast?

Before she could ask Simons, her attention was drawn to a swept-wing
glider taking off from the big field beyond the workshops.  Another, of
the same type, was being pushed towards them aboard a wheeled
trolley.

The craft now airborne rose steeply on a line attached under the
nose.

The other end ran down to a lump of machinery on the far right-hand
corner of the field.

A faint tuff.  tuff-tuff reached Jodi's ears.

'Steam-driven winch,' said Simons.

Jodi watched the ascent with interest.  She was conversant with the
principles of thermals and soaring flight of which Skyhawks were
designed to take advantage, but purpose-built gliders didn't exist in
the Federation.  You learned to fly with the aid of a propeller and
battery-power from Day One.

When the glider was about a thousand feet up, the pilot released the
cable.  The falling end was marked by a fluttering blue pennant.  The
glider banked gently to the right, nosed down to gather speed, then
went up into a stall turn.  It stood on its tail for a brief moment,
then cartwheeled over its port wingtip into another dive and swept back
over their heads towards the perimeter of the field.

'Neat,' said Jodi.  'But why gliders?"

'The dinks don't have electricity,' replied Simons.

'They didn't have airplanes before you guys started building them.  How
come nobody's told them what they're missing?"

'No need to.  The dinks have known about it from way back.  They call
it the Dark Light and, as far as they're concerned, it's bad news.

According to Brickman, Iron Masters are forbidden by law to mess around
with any kind of electrical equipment.  On top of which, the subject is
absolutely taboo."  He shrugged.  'I know.  It sounds crazy, but there
it is."

Jodi looked up at the glider.  'May be a good thing in the long run.

These things aren't going to be much of a threat to anybody."

'Don't be too sure.  Brickman's working on the power problem.  He's
developing a lightweight steam engine."

'Steam engine .  . . ?"  The idea made Jodi laugh.

'Don't knock it.  We're running bench tests right now.

Just having problems developing enough power."

'What are you using for fuel?"

'Oil.  But we're trying to find something that burns faster and
generates more heat."

Jodi sniffed dismissively.  'It'll never get off the ground."

'It hasn't so far,' admitted Simons.  'But we're working on it."

The six Trackers wheeling the grounded glider back to the right-hand
workshop passed by close to where they were standing.  While Simons
asked them how the test flight had gone, Jodi cast a professional eye
over their handiwork.

The silk-covered wings were not swept back as far as the Skyhawk's and
were of rigid construction instead of being inflated to the correct
shape by helium gas.  The slim fuselage pod, lacking the rear-mounted
engine and pusher-prop of the original, was attached directly to the
underside of the wing, with the cockpit just ahead of the leading
edge.

The Skyhawk was a pure-delta wing design, with no tailplane or rudder;
Brickman's craft had a boom running back from the centre section with a
cruciform tail assembly mounted on the end.  That was not the only
departure from the original; on the Skyhawk, banking to left and right
was affected by means of control wires that warped the outer trailing
edge of the wings.  On Brickman's glider, there were inset panels that
pivoted up and down: ailerons - as used on the two-seat Skyrider and
the Mark-2 Skyhawk.

But Jodi didn't know about those yet.  The Skyrider was used
exclusively by AMEXICO, whose existence was a closely guarded secret,
and she'd been lost overboard, presumed killed before the Mark-2 had
been issued to Big Red One - the Red River wagon-train, flagship of the
Amtrak Federation overground forces.

There was one other obvious difference - the tricycle undercart had
been replaced by a central wooden skid.

Two small runners had been fitted at an angle on either side to prevent
the glider from angling over and snagging its wingtips on landing.  But
it didn't eliminate the problem.  A rookie pilot could still rip those
beautifully crafted wings apart every time he made an iffy landing.

'No undercarriage,' said Jodi, as Simons returned.

'No.  The dinks don't have any rubber to make the tyres with.  And
without electricity there's no chance of making aluminium, or any other
of the lightweight alloys.  We have to make do with iron, steel, copper
and brass.  For take-offs we use a launching trolley.  It's kinda
primitive - like lots of things around here - but it works."

'Provided you land back at the same field."

'You got a point there,' conceded Simons.  'If you've got any bright
ideas, don't be shy about speaking up.

Brickman runs a tight ship, but he's always open to suggestions.  And
as wingmen, you guys know a lot more about this stuff than we do."

'Yeah .  . ."

'What's the connection?"

'With Brickman?  Oh... we shipped out together on the same
wagon-train.

The Lady from Louisiana.  I was his section leader.  We ran into all
kinds of trouble -that's when I went over the side.  From what he told
me when we met up, he was shot down the next day.  But he's a
survivor.

Smart too.  Doesn't miss a trick."

'You can say that again."

Jodi watched the glider now under test drift gracefully across the
evening sky.  'I'm surprised he hasn't taught any of you to fly."

Simons laughed.  'Are you kidding?  You wouldn't catch me going up in
one of those things.  Took me long enough to get used to standing out
here on the ground all by myself without getting the shakes."

The glider, now way over on the right, swept southwards across the road
running past the compound, then circled back towards the field.  As he
drew near the road, Brickman dropped the starboard wing and applied top
rudder, making the same steep approach they had watched first time
round.  It seemed like he was going to slide right into the workshops,
but when he was down to about fifty feet, he levelled out and kicked
the nose straight, swishing over their heads to land a short distance
away.

Kelso walked down the alleyway in time to see the touchdown.

Positioning himself between them with folded arms, he rocked gently
back and forth on his heels and pointedly ignored their presence.

Simons glanced up at him, then aimed a questioning look behind his back
at Jodi.  She raised her eyebrows and shoulders in reply.

The glider slid to a halt about a hundred and fifty yards away, then
tilted gently over on to its starboard runner as the Tracker ground
crew ran a trolley out on to the field.

A figure dressed in an all-white outfit climbed out of the cockpit and
stood, hands on hips, as the sleek craft was lifted gently on to its
carrying frame, then walked behind the six-man crew as they wheeled it
back towards the workshops.

'Is that it for today?"  enquired Kelso.  'Or is this where we start
hanging out lanterns?"  His voice carried no hint of rancour.

'No.  We don't start night flying till next week."

The joke was lost on Kelso.  'Good.  How about introducing us?"

'I thought you already knew each other."

'We do.  But since he isn't expecting us it might be better if you
break the ice.  Don't want him to get the wrong idea."

Simons looked at Jodi.  'Is he always this difficult?"

'Only when his feet hurt."

The ground party pushing the glider drew closer.

Brickman was now walking level with the tailplane, his face partially
obscured by the starboard wing.  He wore a white headband bearing the
brown petal motif of the Min-Orota and looked thinner than the last
time Jodi had seen him.  His crewcut hair looked darker too.

Simons set off towards the plane.  Jodi and Kelso let him get ten yards
ahead, then followed.

'Steve!  Got the new boys here.  They'd like to meet you."

The white-clad figure gave an answering wave then motioned to the
ground crew to take the glider back inside the workshop.  The
intervening wing moved out of the way, enabling Jodi and Kelso to get a
clear view of their fellow alumnus.  He was slimmer.  His hair was not
just darker, it was jet black.

And the guy it belonged to wasn't Brickman.

Kelso faltered in mid-stride.  'Wait a minute ' 'Keep going,' whispered
Jodi.  'Just play it by ear."

They approached to within arm's length in time to hear Simons identify
them by name, adding.  'They tell me they're old friends of yours."

Cadillac found himself in something of a quandary.  In 'borrowing'
Steve's acquired memory, and later assuming his identity, he had not
considered the possibility that he might encounter Trackers who
actually knew the real Steve Brickman.

There was no danger of them guessing he was a Mute, but they would know
he was an impostor -'and that might prove awkward.

If they had not been wingmen, he would have arranged for their removal
on some trumped-up charge of sloppy workmanship or insolent
behaviour.

But that was not possible.  He was in urgent need of people with flight
experience to help move the project along, and these two new arrivals
were the only ones available in the whole of Ne-Issan.

Cadillac squared up to the new recruits and cast his eyes over each of
them in turn.  He was sure that Steve would have known exactly how to
turn a situation like this to his advantage.  He had to try and do
likewise.  But knowing everything that Steve knew was not the same
thing as knowing how Steve would act in any given set of
circumstances.

Not the same thing at all...

And there was another problem he hadn't foreseen.

The transfer of information had ceased the moment that Steve had
finished teaching him to fly.  Cadillac had then gone on a long journey
with Mr Snow, arriving back at the settlement in time to witness
Steve's flight to freedom.  He only knew at second hand the events
leading up to Steve's escape, and was unaware of what had happened
since.  He was thus able to recall everything Steve knew about Jodi up
to the moment of her dramatic disappearance: Kelso, on the other hand,
was a total stranger.

'Jodi Kazan... Yeah, the name's familiar.  She was the flight section
leader aboard The Lady from Louisiana.

But she was killed trying to land during a thunderstorm."

'uh-uh,' said Jodi.  'Almost."  She motioned to the disfiguring sheet
of livid scar tissue that covered the left side of her face and neck.

'I got the marks to prove it."

'So I see .  . . ' 'Brickman' eyed her keenly.  'You still look a lot
different to the Kazan I remember."

'I am a lot different.  You've changed quite a bit too."

'You must have me mixed up with someone else,' said 'Brickman'.  'I
heard about what happened to Kazan and The Lady, but I wasn't on board
at the time.  I'm not saying you aren't who you claim to be, but I
joined Hartmann's crew after the refit.  The Plainfolk gave The Lady a
real pounding."

'True.  Yeah, well .  . . that explains everything,' said Jodi.

'Brickman' suppressed a smile and turned his attention to Dave Kelso.

'Are you sure we've met?  I've been trying to place you but your name
doesn't ring a bell."

'That doesn't surprise me,' said Kelso.  'When Simons here mentioned
your name, I thought I knew you but, uhh .  . . like Jodi .  . . I've
obviously got you confused with some other guy."  He shrugged.  'It
happens."

'All the time,' said 'Brickman'.  Never mind.  We'll have plenty of
time to get acquainted in the next few weeks.

Welcome aboard."  He shook hands with both of them.

'Ray Simons will put you in the picture.  We've got a good little team
here, but now that you two have arrived we can really start moving."

He signed off with a snappy parade-ground salute and strode away.  It
had all gone much better than he expected.  He hadn't fooled either of
them, but they both had enough savvy not to make waves.

Simons eyed Kelso.  'Well, I'm glad that's over.  What d'you say start
with a clean slate?"

Kelso grasped the offered hand.  'Sure.  No hard feelings?"

'None whatsoever."  Simons began walking backwards.

'See you back at the hut - okay?"  He turned and hurried after
'Brickman'.

Jodi and Kelso watched them disappear round the corner of the far
workshop building, then exchanged blank stares.  Jodi was the first to
find her tongue.

'Well, well, well .  . ."

'Exactly,' said Kelso.  'Just what the fuck is going on?"

Precisely the same question - phrased somewhat more elegantly in
Japanese - was being posed with equal urgency by Consul-General Nakane
Toh-Shiba, Lord Min-Orota and, with the aid of fleet-winged courier
pigeons, by Lord Hiro Yama-Shita.  But they too found themselves
obliged to draw speculative conclusions from the few facts available.

The Consul-General, concerned by reports that the road convoy had been
twice delayed before arriving at Fin, asked the two house-women to
explain exactly what had happened.  Su-Shan and Nan-Khe, who had been
living in terror of this moment, recounted their part of the story in a
shrill falsetto, fluttering their hands and twittering like
panic-stricken canaries.

Listening to them was like having his head pierced with long needles,
but Toh-Shiba bore it stoically, then sought out Clearwater, whose
luminous presence once again graced the bedroom of the lake-house.  Now
bathed and freshly clothed in a gossamer-light kimono bearing a design
of wild flowers and dew-soaked summer grasses, she was invited to
soothe her master's troubled spirit by renewing her acquaintance with
his pleasure-machine.

Only then, when the weeks of pent-up passion had been spent and he was
left lying on his back with the deliciously painful feeling that his
balls were about to catch fire, did the Consul-General ask for her
version of the same event.

Called to account for each moment of captivity, Clearwater admitted to
being unmasked and subjected to a physical examination but swore on her
life that the ronin had asked no questions and she had volunteered no
information of any kind.  She said nothing about her midnight encounter
at the post-house with Noburo, Steve and the Herald, Toshiro
Hase-Gawa.

To have spoken of this would have placed the cloud warrior in mortal
danger.  But the subject never came up.  Nakane Toh-Shiba's questions
were based on what the house-women had told him - and they had slept
throughout the entire episode.

During one of his regular official visits to Lord Min-Orota's fortress
at Ba-satana, the Consul-General recounted the details of the
kidnapping and volunteered the opinion that it was an ill-fated
enterprise based on faulty intelligence.  Anxious to put the best gloss
on things, Toh-Shiba plumped for the simplest and most obvious
explanation: a group of ronin, alerted to the presence in the convoy of
a sealed carriage-box, had made off with its occupant in the hope of
extracting a hefty ransom then, finding the mask hid a worthless
long-dog, had promptly abandoned her and the two house-women by the
roadside.

Kiyo Min-Orota listened carefully, nodding in agreement as the
Consul-General concluded that, while all such acts of criminality were
regrettable, this particular incident was, essentially, a minor upset
that need not worry any of them.

'It is, without doubt, a convenient theory which I would be happy to
embrace were it not for one, small, irksome detail."  Kiyo paused to
let his opening shot sink in, drawing a certain satisfaction from
watching Nakane Toh-Shiba's bullish confidence become tinged with fear,
uncertainty and doubt.  The Consul-General might be a well-connected
fellow-nobleman, but he engendered scant respect and Kiyo always
enjoyed taking the over-fleshed cocksman down a peg or two.

'I'm not sure I understand..."

'Oh, come now, isn't it obvious?  The ronin lost forty-six horsemen in
the course of capturing their prize ' The Consul-General reacted with
astonishment.  'You know of this already?"

The lie came easily.  'I heard in a roundabout way that a convoy had
been waylaid and that the ronin had been hotly pursued.  But until this
moment I had no idea they had made off with, ahh.  goods belonging to
you.  The point is, the ronin lost a great many men only to find
themselves in possession of a long-dog and two Vietnamese
house-women.

Three worthless individuals, that they fed, then escorted back to
within sight of the main road - risking more of their men in the
process."

'Yes - but they did move under cover of darkness."

'Even So, doesn't it strike you as odd?"  ˇ Toh-Shiba looked
perplexed.

'Why let them go?  Why weren't they killed out of hand or, at the very
least, kept as slaves?"

Toh-Shiba's brow became increasingly furrowed as he grappled with the
implications of the domain-lord's questions.

With his brain almost totally geared to the needs of his nether
regions, logic was not his strong point.  'Mmm, yes, now that you
mention it, I suppose it is rather strange... ' He scratched his navel
absent-mindedly.  'I suppose they must have had a reason, but for the
life of me I can't think what it could be."

'You should try harder, my friend,' said Kiyo severely.

'Because your life and mine could depend upon the answer!  By the great
kami - it's staring you in the face!

These three individuals should have vanished, never to be heard of
again I' 'Ye-ess, I see that now."

'To my mind,' continued Kiyo, 'there is only one explanation.  They
were set free because they are by no means as worthless as they
appear.

Someone places as much value upon the long-dog as you do yourself."

He paused to give his words time to sink in, then added.  'As this is
your affair, I leave you to consider who that someone might be.  But I
think you've been rumbled, my friend, and I suggest it's time for some
rapid housecleaning."

Domain-lord Yama-Shita who, if anything, was faster on the draw than
Kiyo Min-Orota, arrived at exactly the same conclusion when presented
with the bare facts by courier pigeon.  Through his close links with
the Se-Iko, he had learned of the raid and its bloody aftermath two
days after it had occurred, and he had promptly dispatched one of his
own winged couriers to alert Lord Min-Orota.

Yama-Shita was furious.  Despite his best efforts, the long-dog had
fallen, albeit briefly, into unknown hands.

Fortunately, the Consul-General was not privy to the plot to recapture
the Dark Light, but Yama-Shita now found himself wishing he had kept to
his rule of never becoming involved with people he disliked, mistrusted
and, above all, did not respect.  He had allowed Kiyo Min-Orota to
persuade him that, as the Shogun's brother-in-law, Toh-Shiba might be a
useful pawn, but despite their vigilance the degenerate clown had
finally managed to compromise them as well as himself!

No one knew the true nature of the ronin who had held the long-dog
overnight, but those few hours might prove perilous.  It was not
unknown for criminal bands to act on orders from above.  When laws and
common usage did not provide the means, the rulers of Ne-Issan did not
hesitate to use unorthodox methods to achieve their ends - and neither
did ambitious domain-lords.  According to the dispatch sent by
Min-Orota, the gutter-bitch had not been interrogated by her captors.

But the account she had given Toh-Shiba had not been elicited under
threat of torture.  Who could say, without putting her to the test,
that she was telling the truth?  Allowing her to live once she had
become Toh-Shiba's painted whore had always been a risky decision; but
now she was the subject of outside interest she was an even greater
danger than before.

Yes... steps would have to be taken .  . .

Yama-Shita had also been told of what the house-women had said
regarding the samurai and two red-stripes, found dead at the
Midiri-tana post-house.

There was a suggestion that the men might have been killed by ninja,
but the two women knew next to nothing about the incident and
Yama-Shita did not have any independent source of information that
would have enabled him to link the killings with the raid on the road
convoy.  The paper placed on Noburo's chest identifying him and his two
companions as ronin and enemies of the Se-Iko had been spirited away
before it could become public knowledge.  Midiri-tana was in the domain
of the Mitsu-Bishi, allies of the Shogun, and they had responded to an
appeal from the summer palace at Yedo to lay a veil of secrecy over the
whole affair.

The contents of the anonymous letter, penned by the Herald Toshiro
Hase-Gawa and addressed to a member of the Se-Iko family, might have
helped YamaShita make the connections which would have confirmed the
suspected identity of the puppet-master.  But the letter revealing the
location and method of entry to the ronin's hidden base camp never
arrived at its destination.

Someone who had been ordered to keep a discreet watch on the Herald's
movements observed him entrust a shopkeeper at Ari-dina with the task
of dispatching a sealed document via the postal service, and it was
intercepted soon after being handed over the counter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Having used his position as a Herald of the Inner Court to secure Steve
a job as a roadrunner, Toshiro Hase-Gawa left Ari-dina and returned to
the Summer Palace on Aron-giren.  By changing mounts at post-house inns
along the way, he was able to ride at full gallop for hour after
hour.

Even for a seasoned rider like Toshiro it was an exhausting exercise,
but he pressed on into the evening of each day, snatching a hot bath
and a few hours' rest before rising at 0300 to resume his journey
through the same grey twilight world he had left the night before.

Arriving at Yedo, the Herald exchanged the customary round of greetings
with Kamakura, the ever-hopeful guard-captain, then, as protocol
demanded, he presented his credentials to the Court Chamberlain's
office.  Ieyasu was unable to receive him personally, being indisposed
with an intestinal complaint which had begun to plague him with
increasing frequency.

To the principal private secretary who was holding the fort in his
absence, Toshiro expressed his profound regrets at hearing of his
illustrious master's ill health, and he asked him to convey personally
to Ieyasu his respectful, yet heartfelt, good wishes and fervent hopes
for a speedy recovery.  The secretary responded in the same fulsome
manner, assuring the Herald that the Chamberlain would be deeply
gratified by his expressions of concern and goodwill.  Et cetera, et
cetera.

The ritual exchange ended with a series of bows and with Toshiro
wondering if the Shogun had finally managed to find a poisoner with
sufficient knowledge and subtlety to slip something past the
troublesome old fox.

Yoritomo, the twenty-eight-year-old Shogun, received the Herald in his
study on the first floor of the palace, overlooking the landscaped pool
dotted with lilies and alive with red and white carp.  The last message
from samurai-captain Noburo, sent by carrier pigeon on the same day
that Clearwater had been released, had put an end to the speculation
about her identity.  Once again, the Herald's sources of information
had proved utterly reliable.

Toshiro knelt before the raised section on which the Shogun sat with
five of his bodyguards.  As soon as the usual formalities had been
dispensed with, the Herald assumed a cross-legged position and
proceeded to relate his' own face-to-face meeting with Clearwater at
Midiri-tana.  It was, of course, a highly edited account: he said
nothing about her admission that both she and her companion were
unmarked Mutes.  But he did reveal that Noburo Naka-Jima had brought
another long-dog with him, and gave a brief outline of how he had
fallen into the ronin's hands.

This individual, explained Toshiro, was a 'mexican', a secret agent of
similar rank to his own, working on the direct orders of the
Federation's 'shogun'.  'From his' responses to my questions, it became
clear that I had drawn the wrong conclusion from the reports previously
available to me.  Lord Yama-Shita has not entered into league with the
Federation or their agents.  To date, he has dealt solely with the
grass-monkeys and the renegade long-dogs."

Yoritomo's face darkened as he lost a good 10 per cent of his cool.

'So, apart from proving that the gutter-bitch currently being humped by
my dear brother-in-law is a long-dog, it now appears that your
remaining charges are totally without foundation."

The young Shogun abhorred uncertainties.  The conspiracy had been
clearly defined, containment strategies had been planned,
understandings with trusted allies had been reaffirmed, wavering
loyalties had been bolstered by promises of hfird cash and quid pro
quos, everything had been neatly tied together - and now it was all
starting to unravel.

It was the thought of Ieyasu's reaction that annoyed Yoritomo more than
the fact it had all been a pointless exercise.  The ageing Court
Chamberlain had never accepted losing control of the Office of Heralds,
and seized every opportunity to discredit the present arrangement of
direct access.  When the old fox learned, as he most assuredly would,
that the latest round of fence-mending and buy-offs - in which he had
been actively involved - had been based on a faulty premise of which he
had not been advised or asked to comment upon, he would be laughing all
the way to the nearest whorehouse.

'I'm not happy about this, my friend.  Not happy at all.

I was reluctant to believe these stories from the very beginning, but I
relied on your judgement - and it now appears you totally misread the
situation."

'Not entirely, sire.  Given time, I believe I can still provide you
with first-hand evidence that ' 'Given time?  Hah!  What for?  To weave
more fairy tales?  Kiyo Min-Orota, whom you named as Lord Yama-Shita's
principal partner, is involved in building these flying-horses because
Ieyasu advised me to award the licence to someone we could trust!  Are
you proposing to come back in a month's time and tell me that the Court
Chamberlain - the only person it seems I can rely on - is involved in
this conspiracy too?"

The Shogun appeared to have conveniently overlooked the fact that
Ieyasu - suddenly promoted from tiresome meddler to peerless sage - had
also advised him to grant Nakane Toh-Shiba the hand of his fourth
sister and the post of Consul-General.

Toshiro bowed deeply.  This was the make-or-break moment.  His life now
depended on how the Shogun reacted to what he would say next.  'Sire,
permit me to state once again that to serve you in death, as in life,
is an equal honour, but I beg you to consider this.  When the Seventh
Wave reached these shores, the blood of the Hase-Gawa coloured the
Eastern Sea - mingling with that of their brothers-in-arms, the lofty
TohYota.

'No samurai born to such an ancient line would knowingly sully the name
of another noble house with baseless accusations.  To do so brings
dishonour upon his family and upon himself- a stain that can only be
removed by the act of seppuku as tradition demands.

'Whether I live or die does not alter the fact that the power and
ambitions of the house of Yama-Shita pose a growing threat to the
present era of peace and stability.

My conclusion, based on the evidence presented to me, was incorrect,
but my error was an honest one, a product of natural caution and an
all-consuming desire to protect the Shogunate.

'But my intentions, however well founded, are of little consequence.  A
samurai, worthy of the name, does not plead mitigating circumstances.

If he has conducted himself correctly, his actions speak for
themselves.

Whatever the verdict, be it harsh or merciful, a servant must always
accept the judgement of his sovereign lord gratefully and without
question, for he is the sole arbiter of justice and his authority must
always be upheld."

'Well said.  I wish everyone felt the same way."

Toshiro accepted this comment with another deep bow from the waist.  So
far so good, but he wasn't out of the woods yet.  'Sire, if I had found
myself obliged to return empty-handed, I would have chosen to kill
myself rather than lose face by confessing this grievous error of
judgement.  But I stayed my hand because the news I now bring is more
important than anything we have hitherto spoken of."

'Go on..."

The Herald hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry.  He ran his tongue around
his teeth to moisten it, then said, 'The threat of a possible alliance
between the Yama-Shita and the Federation has been replaced by a direct
threat from the Federation itself."

The Shogun's lips and eyes narrowed into three thin lines.

'The ruler of the Federation knows of the arrangement between the
grass-monkeys and Lord Yama-Shita - right down to the terms of the
trade-off.  A shipment of repeating rifles in exchange for one
flying-horse complete with rider.  The "mexican" also knew when and
where the weapons were delivered.  He claims his masters possess secret
devices which allow them to spy on us from afar.

The phrase he used was - "They have eyes and ears all over the sky"."

'Did he explain what he meant by that?"

'No, sire.  I assumed he was referring to devices fashioned by those
versed in the secrets of the High Craft.  So even if he had explained I
doubt if I would have understood."

'Do you believe him'?."

Toshiro reached inside his robe and pulled out Steve's radio-knife now
wrapped in a strip of black silk.  'The mexican offered this as proof
of his identity.  It was taken from him by samurai-captain
Naka-Jima."

Holding the ends of the slim package between his fingertips, he reached
forward and laid it gently on the mat near the foot of the dais.

The five guards seated cross-legged in a semicircle behind the Shogun
lifted their butts off the floor and craned their necks to take a
peek.

Yoritomo gave it the once-over.  'What is it?"

'Something which I fear to touch or even speak of, but which duty
requires me to lay before you."

'Are we talking about a device powered by the Dark Light?"

Toshiro bowed his head.

'Very well.  You are hereby pardoned unconditionally for taking
possession of such an object and bringing it into my presence,' said
Yoritomo.  'And you are also absolved from any future charge of high
treason arising from its subsequent retention or disposal as ordered by
me.  Does that make you feel happier?"

'A little less uneasy, perhaps."  Toshiro would have preferred to have
been offered this crucial dispensation in writing.

'You worry too much.  Open it up."

Toshiro unwrapped the package, taking care not to touch the contents.

The Shogun gazed down at the combat knife.  'I hope, for your sake,
there's more to this than meets the eye."

The Herald operated the pressure-catches that released the wooden
sections of the handle, revealing the microelectronics mounted on the
metal frame beneath.

Yoritomo, who had never seen any kind of electrical device, eyed the
tiny radio transmitter with the caution of someone who half expected it
suddenly to come to life and fill the room with death-dealing rays.

'What is it supposed to do?"

Toshiro repeated Noburo's explanation, adding that he had not
questioned Steve further on the matter, preferring to keep him off
balance by displaying a total lack of interest in what the disguised
long-dog clearly thought was an attention-grabbing item.

'So, if I understand you correctly, by means of this device, the
masters of this "mexican" can reach him anywhere at any time, day or
night - and know exactly where he is?"

'That was the situation up to the moment he fell into the hands of
samurai-captain Naka-Jima.  The device has been in my possession since
then."

The Shogun accepted this with a nod.  'Did you manage to find out what
the "mexican" had been sent here to do?"

'He was only too eager to tell me, sire.  His orders were twofold:
kidnap or kill the renegade long-dog directing the work at the Heron
Pool and, if possible, destroy the entire setup."

'Singlehanded?  Extraordinary..."

'Sire, I hate to admit it, but he is an extraordinary individual.  His
martial skills earned him the grudging admiration of samurai-captain
Naka-Jima, he is quick-witted, imprudently courageous, insufferably
confident about the superiority of the system he represents and
utterly unconcerned as to whether he lives or dies."

'And there might be others like him?"

'It's a possibility we have to consider,' admitted Toshiro.

'Did he say why he'd been sent to do this?"

'Yes, sire.  The Federation view the decision by us to build
flying-horses as a threat to the status quo.  By kidnapping or killing
the renegade who is passing their secrets to us they hoped to wreck the
project.  Were the mexican to fail, the Federation would be obliged to
bring greater forces to bear, making a massive pre-emptive strike
which, in turn, could trigger a wider conflict."

The prospect of war with an enemy armed with weapons whose power came
from the Dark Light destroyed the inner calm which the Shogun had
achieved during his precious hour of contemplation in the stone
garden.

The veins under his temples became visible as his pulse rate soared.

'So... what action did you take?"

'I offered to assist him."

The Shogun's eyes hardened.  'I trust you had a good reason for doing
so."

Toshiro bowed his head.  He had thought long and hard before deciding
to reveal Brickman's presence, and had carefully worked out each
move.

'I believed it to be in your best interests, sire."

The Herald went on to describe how he had arranged for the mexican to
work as a roadrunner in order to have him assigned to the
Consul-General's residence, from where, at the appropriate moment, he
could - if the Shogun so desired it - be transferred to the Heron
Pool.

'By placing this individual within the system, we now have him under
our control.  And he cannot change his present identity unless we allow
him to do so."  Toshiro opened up the bag of pink leaves he had taken
from Steve and explained their purpose to the Shogun.

'By agreeing to assist him, I have been able to learn his intentions,
and can aid or hinder them depending on what suits us best.  Knowing
who he is and where he is means he can be kept under surveillance and
his contacts investigated.  And he can be eliminated the instant you so
command.

'On the other hand, should you for any reason decide to take out one or
more of your .  . . "opponents", or halt work at the Heron Pool, you
may find that this particular long-dog could be used to achieve the
desired result - and then be set up as the fall-guy."

Yoritomo placed an elbow on the lacquered armrest standing next to his
left thigh and pulled throughtfully at his lower lip.  'Mmmmm.

Interesting idea."

'it would be seen as intervention by a foreign power.

And if Yama-Shita wasn't the target, he couldn't miss being hurt by the
fall-out.  Let's face it, it is his family who've been importing all
these outlanders.  And if, for instance, there was some "incident"
which resulted in the death of, let's say ... the Consul-General of
Ro-diren and Masachusa..."

'It could be interpreted as an attack upon the Shogunate ' 'Which, at
the very least, would require from those involved - however unwittingly
- a major act of restitution."

'Right..."

There was a lengthy silence while the Shogun mentally reviewed various
scenarios.  Toshiro kept his eyes averted in the customary fashion
until the Shogun spoke.

'I feel bound to tell you that when this conversation began I had
serious doubts about your career prospects.  And when you started to
tell me about the deal you'd struck with this "mexican" I really
thought you'd gone over the edge.  But I can now see this has a lot of
possibilities.  Well done."

Toshiro bowed gratefully and sat back feeling extremely pleased with
himself.  His reading of the situation had been faultless.  Even though
the long-dogs were armed with the Dark Light, the samurai-warriors of
Ne-Issan might find ways to repulse an attack by the Federation.  But
victory could still result in a defeat for the Shogunate.  The
debilitating effects of an all-out war would upset the present delicate
balance of forces, creating a turbulent situation where the Toh-Yota
family could find itself displaced by the Yama-Shita - the apostles of
progress.

Faced with that stark prospect, Toshiro knew the Shogun would choose to
sacrifice the Heron Pool project - settling a few scores in the
process.  And that suited the Herald very well indeed.

After four days of running mail back and forth between the numerous
houses of the Min-Orota family and the Consul-General's residence,
Steve learned he had been assigned to the route which included the
Heron Pool.  No explanation was given, but he suspected that his masked
benefactor had been pulling a few strings.

On his journeys to and from Ba-satana and down to Nyo-poro, Steve had
kept his eyes peeled but had seen no aerial activity - an indication
that the range of the glider Cadillac had constructed was fairly
limited.

From his own knowledge of aeronautics - and he had been the best in his
class - it seemed to Steve that without the aid of helium gas you
needed an entirely different wing form to provide the lift for
sustained soaring flight.  If the young wordsmith had, as Mr Snow
claimed, filched all the theoretical and practical knowledge Steve had
worked so hard to acquire, then he must be aware of that too.  The fact
that Cadillac hadn't acted upon it suggested he was intending to add a
power-plant at some stage.  In which case, the swept-back wing design
Steve had seen on his way past the Heron Pool made sense.  Cadillac was
obviously testing the stability of the basic airframe while he figured
out how to build an efficient engine using whatever materials and tools
were available.

Terrific.  Couldn't be better.  Had things progressed faster Steve
might have found himself surplus to requirements.  As it was, he still
had a chance to make a useful input.  There might be some initial
hesitation but, providing Cadillac could be assured that he would get
the sole credit for any bright ideas the two of them came up with,
Steve was confident he would be able to persuade the Mute to take him
on board.  Cadillac might have picked his brains but he didn't think
the same way.

The flaws in his psyche prevented him from using the stolen information
to gain an insight into Steve's thought processes.  The knowledge he
had gained was a valuable asset; knowing how to use it was a different
matter entirely.

As Cadillac had already discovered.

This comforting realisation put an extra bounce into Steve's stride as
he headed west along the highway towards Mara-bara and the Heron
Pool.

Drawing closer to the small hamlet, he caught sight of something that
gave him an even bigger kick.  Three white-winged gliders flying in
tight arrowhead formation broke out into the blue from behind a fluffy
mound of low-lying cumulus.

Steve judged their altitude to be around 2,000 feet.  It was a hot day,
so there were plenty of thermals rising from the surrounding
cropfields, and once at cloud level a Federation wingman knew how to
use the updrafts within to get a further lift.

lying in perfect unison, the three gliders pulled round to the right in
a vertical bank, then slid nose-down as their leader took them into a
steep dive.  Realising they were going for a loop, Steve stopped to
watch, holding his breath as he waited to see if they had enough speed
to make it all the way over the top.  With an engine behind you there
was never any worry about being able to power your way round, but these
guys could stall before they went over the top and - being so close
together could find themselves in all kinds of trouble.  Steve doubted
whether the craft had airspeed indicators and wondered if Cadillac had
made sure the airframes were stressed for aerobatics.

Steve's fears proved groundless.  The gliders stayed in one piece and
nobody fell out of the sky.  They went over the top in the same tight
formation as if they were glued together, then banked out of the
ensuing dive, crossing overhead towards his left.

Steve moved off again, settling down into the long, easy stride he'd
picked up from running with the M'Call Bears.  The three gliders had
lost about 1,000 feet in that last manoeuvre.  If they kept to their
present curving course it would bring them back towards the road on the
far side of Mara-bara, where the Heron Pool was situated.  Provided he
didn't have to stop and kowtow to a passing samurai, he might just
manage to arrive in time to watch the landing - and maybe see more of
the general setup.

The roofs of the buildings clustered along the left side of the road
momentarily blocked his view of the formation, but as he cleared the
hamlet he saw it was heading in the direction he'd expected.  As he
rounded a bend in the road, the Heron Pool came into sight way down
over on the right.

Looking across at the approaching formation, he saw the glider on the
left of the leader rock wildly and then break away, diving under the
tails of the other two aircraft.  There was something trailing from its
port wing.

Steve leapt over the irrigation ditch and ran across the cropfield as
the glider wobbled drunkenly towards him, losing height rapidly.

The something trailing from the port wing was the shredded outer third
of the fabric covering.  There was still enough in place to generate
some lift, but the glider was slipping and sliding all over the
place.

The pilot, who had to keep dropping the undamaged starboard wing to
correct the imbalance, was obviously in a hurry to put the plane down
before more of the fabric came adrift.  If that happened the glider
might flip over and go in nose-first.

In his instinctive haste to help a fellow-pilot, Steve had rushed
forward blindly, only to find himself in danger of being mown down as
the glider, now some fifty feet up, suddenly swerved towards him and
came down steeply, one wing low.  Unable to decide which way to run,
Steve stood there, open-mouthed.  For one gut-wrenching moment, it
looked as if the whole caboodle was going to land on his toes, but it
turned out to be further away than he thought.  At the last instant,
the pilot managed to bring the wings level.  The glider hit the ground
with a sickening crunch less than ten yards away from where he stood,
then bounced back into the air, skimming over his head as he threw
himself out of the way.

She-eh!  Jack me!  Breaking his fall with outstretched hands, Steve got
a worm's eye view of the glider as it dropped back to earth.  It cut a
wide swath through the standing grain and came to rest sideways on,
with its right wingtip only inches from the banked edge of the field.

Apart from the broken skid, which had ripped an untidy furrow in the
topsoil, the pilot had got the plane down in one piece.  With only one
and a half wings that was no mean feat.

Steve ran forward, ducking between the ragged strips of white fabric
hanging from the trailing edge of the port wing as the pilot eased
himself gingerly out of the cockpit.

He, or rather she, wore a white headband and a loose blue tunic and
trousers.  And she had a livid slab of scar tissue down the left-hand
side of her face.

'You wanna watch where you're going,' said Steve amiably.  'Almost ran
me over."

Jodi Kazan froze with one leg over the side and did a rapid
double-take.  'Sweet Christopher!  What the effeff are you doing
here?"

'I was about to ask you the same question."

'I got in first.  Let's hear it."

'It's a long story but, among other things, I came to see you.  I
promised I'd look out for you - remember?"

Jodi threw him an old-fashioned look and swung her other leg out of the
cockpit.  As both feet hit the ground she buckled slightly at the
knees.

Steve grabbed her arm.  'You okay?"

Jodi straightened up stiffly.  'Feels like my asshole's been rammed
halfway up my spine."  Throwing off his hand, she cast her eyes over
the stripped wing, walked round behind the tail boom to check the
undamaged starboard wing, then knelt down to inspect the underside of
the fuselage and the wrecked skid.

Steve peered into the cockpit.  It was fitted with a woven cane seat,
joystick and rudder bar, but, as he had correctly surmised, contained
no instruments of any kind.  He knelt down and took a look at the
damage from his side.  The laminated wooden skid was badly split and
the supporting struts had been driven up through the underside of the
fuselage pod.  He straightened up and leaned over the nose of the
glider.

'Could be worse.  When that wing started to unravel I thought you might
not make it.  But I see you haven't lost your touch."

Jodi raised her head but stayed on her knees.  'Just what are you
after, Brickman?"

'Nothing."

'Come on, I wasn't born yesterday."

'I was just on my way to deliver some mail to the Heron Pool.  I work
around here now."  He smiled.  'Just like you."

'You got some nerve, you know that?"

'Not really.  I meant what I said back in the Big Open."

Steve looked over his shoulder and saw a small crowd of
blue-and-white-clad figures running towards them from the direction of
the Heron Pool.  They were still a long way off.  He turned back to
Jodi, his voice taking on a new urgency.  'Listen, we don't have much
time.  Who else was up there with you?"

'Kelso ' 'How about that?  Good o" Dave .  . ."

'Don't count on it.  If you run into him stand well back.  He still
blames you for being here."

'Who was the third man?"

'You mean Number One."  Jodi was unable to resist a smile.  'He's the
guy who runs the project."  She paused, then let him have it.  'Goes by
the name of Steve Brickman."

Steve took the news in his stride.  'Good.  Any more wingmen on the
project?"

Jodi, who had been hoping to see Steve knocked sideways, was completely
thrown by his matter-of-fact reply.

'No... ' She got to her feet while her brain was putting the rest of
the sentence together: ' .  . . just the three of us and a couple of
dozen linemen."  She paused, still bewildered.  'I don't get it.  You
know about this guy?"

'Yeah.  He's the reason why I'm here.  His name's Cadillac.  He's a
Mute.  You've heard of straights - this one's a super-straight."

Jodi hid her surprise behind a sarcastic laugh.  'Really?"

She cast her eyes over Steve's black and yellow outfit and the swirling
skin patterns on his face and arms.  'And just what are you supposed to
be?"

'Hey, c'mon - don't let's go through all that shit again.

What you see is what it takes to stay alive.  Underneath it's still
me."

Jodi eyed him suspiciously.  'Yeah?  I've only got your word for
that."

Steve glanced over his shoulder to check on the progress of the rescue
party.  'Wave to them.  It may slow 'em down a little if they know
you're in one piece."

Jodi stepped clear of the glider and waved both hands across her head,
looking at Steve as she did so.  'I really don't know what to make of
you, Brickman.  But I'll say one thing.  You're certainly full of
surprises."

'Yeah?  Well brace yourself.  There's another one coming up right
now."

Steve took a deep breath.  'I didn't give you the full story when we
met up in Nebraska ' 'You bastard.  Malone was right.  You are an
undercover Fed!"  'I'm not!  I swear it!"  cried Steve.  He dropped his
voice to a harsh whisper.  'But I am on an assignment."

Jodi took a step back.

'I had no choice!  They threatened to kill my kin-sister and strip
Poppa-Jack!  I did escape from the Mutes just like I said, but I made
it back home."  He threw up his hands.  'Biggest mistake of my life.

Thought I'd be a hero.  Instead of which the shit hit the fan and I
ended up in the A-levels!  Christo!  Can you imagine what it's like for
one of us to have to live down there?"  He paused.

'How far away are they?"

'About a hundred and fifty yards."  Jodi's voice had lost its hard
edge.  'But they're not running."

She's bought it.  I'm in with a chance .  . .

'I made a big mistake when I was preparing to escape from the
M'Calls.

In order to get them to trust me, I persuaded this guy Cadillac to help
me put this plane together from some bits and pieces they'd salvaged
from Fazetti's rig and that other guy's..."

'Naylor."

'Yeah.  Naylor.  Anyway, this Mute agrees to help - on condition I
teach him to fly."

'Wowww..."  breathed Jodi.  'I bet the Assessors were thrilled to hear
that."

'I didn't tell 'em.  But they found out anyway.  The thing is, besides
being a straight, unmarked Mute, this guy is also a wordsmith -'
'They're supposed to be the bright ones."

Steve nodded.  'This one is more than just bright.  He's got some of
that Mute magic you've heard about but aren't supposed to believe in.

Don't ask me to explain how it's done, but if you teach him anything,
he's able to tap into your brain and siphon off everything you know
just like sucking Korngold through a straw."

'Shee-ii-ittt .  . ."

'My sentiments exactly.  Fortunately, no one back home knows about that
yet.  If they did, I'd still be in the A-levels.  But after I'd done
three months on the sewage detail, some high-wire gave me the chance to
put things right ' 'Or else they'd shaft little sister..."

Steve spread his hands.  'I had to do it, Jodi."

She nodded soberly.  'Okay, assuming I buy that - how does it play from
here on in?"

'I have to find some way to lift that Mute out of here and get him back
home in one piece.  With his friend.  There's two of 'em."

'Sounds interesting.  You planning to do this all by yourself?"

'No.  I'm hoping you'll help me.  For old time's sake."

Jodi's eyes narrowed.  'Jeer .  . . you've got a fucking nerve."

'I know.  You already told me.  But let's stop pretending.

You don't deserve to be here any more than I do.

You're not a breaker, Jodi, you're a True Blue.  If Malone's gang
hadn't found you, you'd have made it back home - broken arm an' all."

Steve glanced over his shoulder at the advancing rescuers.  'Look, just
think about it.  And in the meantime, why don't you go weak at the
knees so I can pretend to revive you and look as if I'm doing something
useful."

'I've got a feeling I'm going to live to regret this."

Steve treated her to one of his winning smiles.  'What can you lose?

If you don't like the idea you can always turn me in.  I'm in your
hands."

'You're right... ' Jodi let her legs fold under her.

Steve ran round the nose of the glider and cradled her limp body in his
arms.  'Trust me,' he whispered, patting her face.  'If we pull this
one off we'll both be heroes."

'I can't stay long,' said Steve.

'Don't worry, you'll be okay for a while."  Cadillac led the way into
what he called his 'study'.  'I've fixed things with the head man.

He's sent one of our Mutes down to the post-house at Wah-seisa with a
message telling them you've been delayed."  He smiled.  'You offered
invaluable assistance at the scene of an accident and are now answering
questions that may help us discover what went wrong.  So relax.  Make
yourself at home."  He swept a

hand around the room.  'What d'you think?"

Steve made a quick appraisal of the interior.  Sliding wall screens
afforded a view of the neatly trimmed areas of grass and various other
types of vegetation that surrounded Cadillac's dwelling place.  The
floor, on which they stood in stockinged feet, was covered with the
ubiquitous tatami - rectangular straw mats that the Iron Masters
produced in prodigious quantities and traded with the Mutes.  A narrow
raised section down one side of the room was fitted with storage space
underneath.

The main floor area contained a low, box-type table and two sitting
mats, a large drafting table set at an angle on trestles, a stool, a
stand holding jars of what Steve presumed to be drafting implements,
and a rack which held rolls of what the dinks called 'paper'.  Apart
from the drafting table set-up which indicated an untidy human
presence, the room bore the usual stamp of stripped-down anonymity that
Steve had come to associate with Iron Master interiors.

'Not bad."

Cadillac responded with a dry, mocking laugh.  'Not bad!  It's
fantastic!  Can you imagine what it's like, after all those years
living on your hands and knees in a skin hut, to actually be able to
stand up and still not be able to touch the roof?."  He shook his head
dismissively.  'I tell you - these people know what living is all
about."

The dwelling place Cadillac had taken him to lay outside the Heron Pool
compound, some two hundred yards down the road towards Mara-bara.  Set
amidst shrubs and trees on a well-tended patch of ground, it reminded
Steve of the stand-alone unit at the post-house where he had met with
Clearwater and the Man in Black.

For some time now, Steve had been wondering if there was a 'hidden'
Basic vocabulary that held the word-concepts to describe the things he
had seen since entering Ne-Issan.  Coming, as he did, from the
underground world of the Federation where military organisation and
terminology shaped the lives and thoughts of everyone from the
President-General down, Steve had been unable to give full expression
to what he had seen and felt during his travels across the
overground.

Even something as simple as the small collapsible huts used by the
Plainfolk Mutes had been a new idea to assimilate.  The wheelboats had
been less of a problem.

Although they were totally alien structures, they could be viewed as
primitive, sea-borne wagon-trains and thus understood in terms of past
experience.  But the bewildering variety of Iron Master architecture
which was the outward expression of a totally different lifestyle
opened up a whole new world.  Palaces, houses, pavilions, cottages,
shops, markets, towns, villages and hamlets were word-concepts Steve
had never encountered before, just as he had once been unaware of the
existence of words, states such as 'love' and 'freedom'.

Meeting Clearwater had changed all that, and he was conscious that the
memory of her stood between Cadillac and himself at this very moment:
invisible yet as tangible and as disturbing as if she had been
physically present in the room.

Cadillac slid open a wall panel, revealing a row of shelves.  He took
out a porcelain bottle of sake and two small bowls bearing the same
glazed design.  Placing the bowls on the drafting table, he filled them
with a professional flourish and motioned Steve to pick one up.

They raised their bowls to each other and touched rims.

'To old times,' said Cadillac.  His voice and face gave no hint as to
whether he viewed them as being good or bad, but he swallowed the
contents of the bowl at one gulp - an indication perhaps that he needed
something to kill the pain or to give himself an extra boost in order
to deal with his unexpected visitor.

Mindful of the tongue-loosening effects of the sake he'd drunk with
Noburo, Steve took it nice and slow and concentrated on reading his
rival.  He hadn't anticipated meeting Cadillac this early, and in this
fashion, and wasn't quite sure how to play it.

Cadillac refilled his bowl, stoppered the bottle and bolstered himself
with another big swallow.  'So... what brings you here?"

Steve adopted the same low-key approach.  'Ohh, various things.  I
brought you a message from Mr Snow."

He saw Cadillac's eyes flicker at the mention of his teacher's name.  A
guilty conscience, fond memory, a lingering sense of loyalty, it didn't
matter.  It was a gap in his defences that could be exploited.

'He sent you here?"

'Not exactly.  He was worried about you.  When he discovered you hadn't
come back on the wheelboat ' 'You were at the trading post?"

Steve had a simple rule in situations like this.  Stick to the truth
wherever possible, deflect the awkward questions by appearing dense,
save the lies for real emergencies.  And if you had to lie, go for the
big one and frame it in a way that would exploit the weakest aspects of
the recipient's character.

'Yes.  That rig you and I built gave up on me.  I never made it back to
the Federation."

'I didn't think you would -not without a motor."

'No.  Mr Snow told me you did a first-class job on that."

'Yes.  Even you would have been impressed."

'I am.  Anyway - there I was stuck in the middle of nowhere.  Got
picked up by some redskins.  We holed up during the snows, then,
sometime during what you call the New Earth, a whole bunch of us were
captured by the M'Calls."

Cadillac reacted with surprise.  'Mr Snow sold you down the river?"

'No,' laughed Steve.  'I offered to come and find you.

He was worried about something you'd seen in the stones and ' 'I have
seen many things in the stones,' said Cadillac darkly.

Steve ignored the interruption.  'He asked me to find out if you were
okay, and to tell you that time was running out.  When he learned you
had decided to stay here - apparently of your own free will - it really
knocked him sideways."

Cadillac responded with a non-committal shrug.  He poured the rest of
the sake down his throat and refilled the bowl.

Steve, who was still only halfway through his first helping, couldn't
understand how the Mute was still on his feet.  'Hey - don't you think
you ought to go a little easy on that stuff?."

."Don't worry, I can handle it.  Practice makes perfect, isn't that
what they say?  Besides, it's good for you."

Cadillac's voice had thickened noticeably, but his drinking arm and his
legs were still steady.  He raised his bowl.  'Drink up.  There's
plenty more where this came from.  Just one of the many fringe
benefits."

'What are the others?"

Cadillac swept his free arm round the room as his lips reached out for
the rim of the bowl.  'How many Mutes get to live in a place like
this?"

'Not many, that's for sure."

'I've got another room to sleep in, one for eating and entertaining, a
kitchen, bathroom, you name it.  Plus a couple of guys who cut kindling
wood and look after the garden, a cook and what they call a
scullery-maid, and four body-slaves who keep house, clean my clothes,
serve my meals, make my bed, and lie in it."

'Sounds too good to last..."

'On top of which I'm finally doing something I really enjoy.  Something
useful, demanding - that really stretches me.  Y'know what I mean?  And
for the first time in my life I'm somebody.  Anywhere else in this
country, Mutes and Trackers are treated like dirt.  But the Heron
Pool's different.The people here respect me."

'Glad to hear it,' said Steve.

Cadillac sank some more sake.  'Anyway, my work here's nowhere near
finished yet.  But even if it was, why in the name of Columbus should
I give all this up in order to play wet-nurse to a bunch of
snot-brained louts who smell like they just took a bath in buffalo
shit?"

'Yeah, well, it takes all kinds.  When we first met I'd have said
pretty much the same about you."

'Except I turned out to be smarter than the average Bear."

'A whole lot smarter,' admitted Steve.  This guy's ego was
insatiable.

Never mind.  If praise was what he wanted, that's what he'd get.  By
the bucketful.  'Is that how you think of Mr Snow?"

'No.  Of course not."

'So what's going to become of the clan when he dies?

You saw his death in the stones, remember?  Right where it's due to
happen."

Cadillac shrugged off the question.  'Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

'Well he seems certain enough.  He told me he only had a few more
months to live."

'All the more reason for not going back."  Cadillac's drunken defiance
crumbled a little.  'Look, reading the stones is not an exact
science.

I'm just a new boy.  I'm not infallible - any more than he is.  Okay,
yeah - I did see a lot of blood, sweat and tears in the stone.  Death
and destruction too.  Mr Snow was in there somewhere, but so was the
rest of the clan.  And you put in an appearance too.  But I may have
mixed up two separate events - and the timing could be way out.  It
could be this year, or nextor ten years from now.  Not that it makes
any difference."

'What makes you say that?"

Cadillac drained the bowl.  'Because that part of my life's over.  And
soon there'll be nothing left to go back to.

They're finished."  He picked up the bottle and sat down at the low
table, plonking the sake down in front of him.

Steve cast his eyes over the sketches and drawings on the drafting
table, then lowered himself on to the mat facing the young wordsmith.

'Who are finished - the M'Calls?  The Plainfolk?"

'I don't want to talk about it."

Steve pushed his bowl forward for a refill.  He didn't really want any
more, but it meant there would be less for Cadillac to pour down his
throat.  So far, apart from the slurring voice, he was holding up
well.

But Steve had the feeling that the Mute might go out like a light at
any minute.  And he didn't want that to happen just yet.  They still
had a lot more ground to cover.

Steve raised his second helping to Cadillac's fourth, took a sip, and
let it slide down gently.  However well Cadillac thought he was doing,
Steve knew he must be feeling threatened by his sudden arrival on the
scene.

And he knew the next bit would be like walking on thin ice.  'I'm
sorry.  I really messed things up for you."

On the contrary.  Things couldn't have turned out better.  If it wasn't
for you, I wouldn't be here."

'I wasn't talking about picking my brains.  You're welcome to
whatever's in there.  I meant Clearwater."

Steve paused, hoping for some reaction.  Cadillac's face gave nothing
away.  He tried again.  'I feel bad about what happened.  You saved my
life, offered me your friendship and... I betrayed you.  It wasn't a
deliberate act, but - ' He gave a helpless shrug.  'That's why I had to
cut and run.  There was no way I could hide my feelings for her,
and...

I was too ashamed by what I'd done to face you and Mr Snow."

'It was meant to be.  It was the Will of Talisman.  He who seeks to be
a true warrior must find the inner strength to accept these things."

'All the same, it must have hurt."

'For a while,' said Cadillac.  'But now I don't feel a thing."

Yes, it shows .... Steve watched Cadillac knock back some more sake.

'Is that why she's no longer with you?"

'No.  The Iron Masters separated us soon after we arrived."

'Doesn't that bother you?"

'Why should it?  I'm not in any danger, and as long as she can call on
the power of Talisman neither is she."

'Do you know where she is now?"

'Yes.  She was handed over to your present employer."

Cadillac saw Steve's reaction and smiled.  'Amazing, isn't it?  All
three of us together again.  So close - and yet so far."  He topped up
his bowl of sake, but this time he spilt some on the table.  'One might
almost think it was meant to be."

'Yeah,' said Steve.  'Amazing..."  He got up and wandered over to the
drafting board and took a closer look at what Cadillac was working
on.

Everything had been painstakingly drawn out by hand with the aid of
straight-sided wooden shapes.

In the Federation, drawings like this were stored in COLUMBUS.  The
central computer that served the Federation had a vast library of
drawings for every part of every machine that had ever been built.

People with access to the right level could call up stored images and
incorporate them in new designs right there on the screen, then
transfer the information into fully automated machine tools that would
make all the bits and pieces.

The sheets of paper Steve was looking at contained several rough
sketches showing proposed modifications to a design for a
small,.lightweight steam engine.  This had been drawn life-size on a
larger sheet beneath, in three elevations, plus a cutaway showing
internal detail.  It was an ingenious design, but required a great deal
of precision engineering, and it would take forever to get into even
limited production.

That was the real problem.  Time was the critical factor.

They couldn't afford to wait around while the Iron Masters upped the
level of their machine-tool technology.

There were too many hands stirring the conspiratorial pot.  The longer
they were here, the more chance there was of something going wrong.

With Jodi's help, and maybe Kelso's, he had to get Cadillac and
Clearwater on that boat to Bu-faro.  And to reach the Hudson in one
swift bound, the propulsion problem had to be solved quickly and simply
using existing techniques.  Steve, basking in the glow of the sake,
felt he knew the answer.

'This is a nice idea, but it's going to take too long to put
together."

'I know.  I've got to come up with something soon, otherwise the Japs
may start to lose interest."

'Mind if I make a suggestion?"

'I doubt if I'm going to be able to stop you."

'Y'know what you needT'

'Yes, another bottle of sake."  Cadillac hurled the empty one through
the open screens into the garden.

Steve took another bottle from the wall cupboard and brought it over to
the table.  He refilled Cadillac's bowl, then sat down and topped up
his own.  'What you need is an assistant.  Someone to toss ideas around
with.

Someone reliable who can also take care of the nitty-gritty while you
work on the big concepts."

'Just who do you have in mind?"

Steve responded with a modest shrug.  'Why look any further?  I know as
much as you do.  We managed to build Bluebird using little more than
hope and fresh air.  With a set-up like this, if we put our heads
together we could really go places."  He raised his bowl.  'You'd get
all the credit, of course.  What d'you say?"

'I'll think about it,' said Cadillac.  He managed to pour half of his
fifth helping of sake into his gullet, then spilled the rest down his
shirt front as his coordination went.  An instant later, his forehead
hit the edge of the table with a dull thud.

It was evidently a sound that his female staff knew well - and had been
waiting for.  A wall screen slid open and four small dinks, dressed in
colourful ankle-length wraps, padded in on white-stockinged feet.  They
bowed respectfully to Steve, then took hold of Cadillac's arms and legs
and hauled his senseless body out of the room.

Some warrior...

Steve poured the contents of his bowl back into the bottle, shouldered
his sack of mail, and hit the road.  It had been a strange encounter,
like talking to a slightly warped mirror-image of himself.  But
provided Cadillac hadn't forgotten everything when he woke up,
Brickman, S.R. might be in with a chance.  With plenty of soft-soap
and hard work he would soon make himself a key member of the team.

As he passed the gates of the compound he wondered what was going
through Jodi Kazan's mind.  She had promised to say nothing to Kelso
about the real reason why he was here, and Steve was 99 per cent sure
he could rely on her.  He felt he'd touched a responsive chord when
he'd told her that deep down she was still a True Blue.  Kelso remained
to be won over, but that was not impossible.  He just had to be fed the
right story.  All Steve needed now was the blessing of the Man in Black
and the precious bundle of pink leaves.

And Clearwater.  He needed to see her too.  His first run from his new
base had taken him along the shore of the lake with the island on which
she was held.  At the ronin's camp he had made a rash promise to pay
her a visit and, despite her pleas to him not to risk his life on such
a foolhardy venture, it was a promise he intended to keep.  On becoming
a roadrunner he'd discovered that it was possible to 'go over the wall'
during off-duty hours, but so far he'd been denied the opportunity.

Since he had arrived on the scene, the pattern of deliveries had
obliged him to spend his nights in other, more distant post-houses
putting her beyond reach.

The act of running swept away the stupefying effects of the sake.

Steve felt a sense of elation as he kicked into top gear.  Yeah... All
in all, not a bad day's work.

A few days later, Steve found himself heading south again, along the
western shore of Two Island Lake.  In pre-Holocaust times, it had been
known as Sudbury Reservoir.  The lake, some three and a half miles long
and a mile and half across at its widest point, lay on a north-south
axis.  Its meandering coastline was shaped like a floppy, high-heeled
boot, like the toe of Italy, but nipped in tight at the ankle'.

Clearwater was housed on the larger island which lay in the crumpled
leg of the boot, close to the eastern side where a small jetty had been
built.  The second island lay just above the slim ankle, where the
opposing shores swung inwards to within some three hundred yards of
each other.

Steve cursed his luck at being so close and yet so far.

He had no qualms about swimming across from the west bank, but it was
crazy to attempt it in broad daylight.

There was also his present job to consider.  If he lost that through
being late with his deliveries and wound up shovelling shit he might
ruin his chances of getting into the Heron Pool.  He let off a string
of breathy obscenities and ran on down the trail that led to Wunasaka,
the first of several mail-drops he would make on the way to Nyoporo.

Near the ankle of the lake, the trail swung away from the shore and
climbed through a stand of tall pines.  The morning sun cast slanting
shafts of light and shadow across his path, turning the red grass into
pools of fire.

Motes of dust and pollen, caught in the golden beams, drifted aimlessly
through the air like newborn fireflies mesmerised by the beauty of the
world around them.

This was one of the riches of the overground; the play of light and
shadow, varying in colour and intensity through the day, the month, the
year.  In the Federation, there was an artificial twilight but there
were no shadows, no cool dark corners, nowhere to hide.  The
illumination, which shone down from all sides, was cunningly balanced
to match the essential components of sunlight but it could never
replace the real thing, just as despite the genius of the First Family
- the manmade rock-roofed underground world with its gleaming marbled
piazzas and cool landscaped deeps could never compete with the vastness
and splendour of the overground, its beckoning blue-hazed horizons and
ever-changing cloud-filled skies.

Steve's thoughts were jolted back to the present by the sight of an
approaching rider decked out in red and black armour and with two tall
narrow banners fixed to his back.  A samurai - and from the look of
him, no ordinary one at that.

Stepping off the trail, Steve went down on his knees, then bent
forward, forearms on the ground, palms together, nose pressed between
his thumbs.  As someone ranked below the bottom strata of Iron Master
society, he was required to stay there, eyes averted, until the samurai
went past, then count very slowly to ten before getting up.

To his surprise, the hoofbeats stopped before the rider reached him.

Oh-oh... what's all this about?

Glancing sideways, he caught a brief glimpse of the samurai as he
dismounted and looped the reins of his horse round the trunk of a
sapling about fifteen yards away.  The animal, which was between Steve
and the rider, blocked off a view of the Jap's face.  Not that it
mattered all that much.  They all looked alike to Steve, and the rules
about when and when not to make eye-contact made it even harder to tell
one dink from another.

Steve turned his attention back to the ground and waited, all six
senses finely tuned for the samurai's next move.  His eye caught the
moving pattern of light, and shade as the Jap strode slowly towards him
and, cutting across the sound of a moving suit of armour, he heard the
faint, chilling swish of a long-sword being drawn from its scabbard.

Ohh, shit...

The shadow cast by the samurai stopped directly in front of him,
darkening the grass on either side of his fingers to a deep
blood-red.

Steve mentally invoked the name of Talisman but didn't move a muscle as
the ice-cold blade brushed against his right cheek, then slid under his
ear.  He didn't need to see it to know that it was sharp side up.

After pausing there for a brief, agonising moment, the tip of the blade
traced a chilling line across the back of his neck and came to rest
under his left ear.  He didn't feel the cut as the blade was withdrawn,
just the trickle of blood warning his skin as it flowed down the line
of his jaw.

'So... how's it going, sport?"

It was the Man in Black.  Only this time, he was wearing fancy dress.

Steve was seized by a reckless desire to look up, and an equally
pressing need to discover what remained of his left ear, but managed to
resist both.  His bloodthirsty benefactor was operating on a
hair-trigger, and the overall situation was so ill-defined, he could
not gamble on being indispensable.  The razor-sharp blade now hovering
inches from his head served to remind Steve he'd already pushed his
luck close to the limit.  Easing his nose clear of his thumbs, he began
to recount his chance meeting with Cadillac.  ˇ 'Louder!"  Steve raised
his head a notch, cleared his throat and delivered the rest of his
story without further interruption, ending with his offer to help
Cadillac produce a suitable power-plant for the flying-horses.

'And what did he say to that?"

'He said he'd think about it."

'No hard feelings about your, uhh ... previous encounter?"

'None whatsoever.  He was quite pleased to see me.

Especially now he has the upper hand."

'I know the feeling,' said Toshiro.

Steve watched the armoured feet of his interlocutor describe a
semicircle from left shoulder to right then back again, each slow step
preceded by the angled tip of his long-sword.

'The "interests" I represent have given me the go-ahead to insert you
into the operation.  You are now free to carry out your sabotage
mission.  But first, before you wreck the Heron Pool project, you have
to help make it a success."

'Sire, the pleasure will be all mine."

'Yes - I thought that might appeal to you.  Are you sure you can make
these craft work properly?"

'Once I get my feet under the workbench, I can have one flying under
its own steam inside a month."

'Good.  That's very important.  In fact, your life may depend upon
it."

You're telling me, thought Steve.  'May I beg to ask if our
original...

"understanding" still holds good?"

'And what was that?"

'Safe passage out of the country with Cadillac and the Mute woman who
came with him - Clearwater."

'Ahh, yes, well.  that may be difficult to arrange."

'I'll make the arrangements,' replied Steve.  'All I need from you is
your personal assurance that the "interests" you claim to represent
won't stand in the way."

The long-dog's insolent manner continued to amaze and anger Toshiro,
but he had now fully mastered the murderous impulse to kill him out of
hand.  It was deeply wounding to have to treat Brickman as if he were
an equal, but those were his orders.  For the moment, he was obliged to
swallow his pride.  If this self-styled 'mexican' managed to do what
was being demanded of him it would humiliate and confound the Shogun's
enemies and clear the way for Toshiro to gain what he most desired.

'Very well, you have my word on that.  However, there is one other
matter you will need to attend to.  We require you to arrange the
demise of a certain Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General for this
region.  He is also, coincidentally, the, ahh ... custodian of the
second individual you wish to recover."

That too will be a pleasure, thought Steve.  But if you ask me, it's no
coincidence.  He was going to have to watch this guy.

'If you undertake to get rid of him, I will make sure that the woman is
delivered to you unharmed.  Is it a deal?"

Steve gazed at the samurai's lacquered toes and weighed up the
proposition.  For someone normally accorded slave-status to be asked to
kill a high-ranking Iron Master was pretty damned extraordinary.  Apart
from hinting at further intrigues he didn't know about, it seemed to
indicate that the Man in Black-and the 'interests' he represented had
swallowed his story and were prepared to take him seriously.  He was
back in the game and, now that they'd asked him to do some of their own
dirty work, had even acquired a little leverage.  When added to the
make-and-break assignment at the Heron Pool, it meant he had room to
manoeuvre and the time he needed to put his own plans in motion.

Yeah... it was all coming together.  But there was no point in going
overboard.

'I feel honoured at being given such a task, but someone in my position
is going to find it difficult to even get near a man who, by the sound
of it, is a high-ranking official."

"Don't worry, sport.  When the time comes, you'll get all the help you
need."

They were the right words, but they did not have a comforting ring.

Steve ached to straighten up, but decided it would be unwise.  Better
to keep talking to the grass.  'How soon do you want this to happen?"

A pregnant pause, then: 'The instructions I have received are quite
specific.  The Consul-General is to be taken up in a flying-horse.

When it has attained the greatest possible height, he is to fall from
the sky.  His body is to be split and broken like that of a stray
mongrel crushed under the wheel of a passing cart.  This is the death
which has been chosen for him.  No other.  Is that clear?"

'Yeah, sure."  It sounded like a real suicide mission, but this was no
time to go weak at the knees.  'Dumping him overboard is the easy
bit.

It's getting him up there that's going to be the problem.  First of all
I have to get transferred to the Heron Pool.  Once I'm in there I'm
pretty sure I can put together a propulsion system.  In fact I know I
can.

And once we're over that hurdle, it shouldn't be too hard to persuade
Cadillac to let me get involved in the flight testing.  So I'll have
access to an aircraft.  That's where it gets difficult.  According to
Cadillac, the Heron Pool belongs to the local domain-lord ' 'Lord Kiyo
Min-Orota."

'Right.  Cadillac is in nominal charge of the project; but he's just a
hired hand like the rest of us.  It's Lord Min-Orota's people who
really run the show.  I don't have to tell you what the set-up is,
you're part of it.  If I can't look you in the eyes, they're not going
to let me even breathe the same air as the Consul-General.  But okay
let's assume for the moment they did - how do I persuade him to go for
a joyride?"

'Don't worry about it, sport.  When you're ready to go, he'll be
there."

The samurai's reply confirmed Steve's hunch about the identity of the
man with his finger on the button.

There was only one person with sufficient clout to order a
Consul-General into the air with an outlander at the controls.  The
Shogun.

Yeah ... better watch out, Stevie, he told himself.

You're back in the game all right, but this is not like trading shots
in a Shoot-a-Mute video gallery for a glass of Korngold.  You're at the
high-stake table with the big boys.  The kind that eat people like you
for breakfast...

The fact that the Man in Black had been less than forthcoming about the
relationship between Clearwater and the Consul-General was proof that
he could not be trusted.  'Promises to Mutes don't count."  Wasn't that
what Karlstrom had said?  You could bet your last meal-credit that this
overdressed dink felt the same way about Trackers.  Yeah... if he was
going to get home in one piece he would need more help than Jodi or
Kelso could provide.  He had to enlist the help of a big gun.

And there was one close at hand, eager and willing to be pressed into
service.

Clearwater.

She might not be able to move mountains, but she had shown she had the
power to rearrange large chunks of the landscape.  He had to find a way
to get her off that island when the crunch came.  With her by his side
there would be nothing to fear from Yama-Shita's boys or from the
friends of the Man in Black.  At the first sign of danger she would
blow them right out of their socks.

The samurai's voice cut across his machinations.

'Okay.  That about wraps it up."  His feet disappeared from view, then
returned.  'You'd better have this.  I'm sure you'd like to let your
friends know what's happening."

A slim bundle wrapped in black silk dropped into the grass a few inches
from Steve's forehead.  It could only contain one thing - the combat
knife with the radio hidden in the handle.

'Are you serious?"

'Sure.  You can tell them how well you're doing.  We don't want anyone
making a rash move at this stage, do we?"

'No, I guess not..."

"That stuff inside the handle.  Is it possible to take that out and
throw the rest of the knife away?"

'No.  I can't explain how it works, but the set's powered by a layer of
special crystals sealed into the blade."

'Okay.  Stow it at the bottom of your mailbag until you can find a
better place to hide it."

'Thanks,' said Steve.  'Any chance of getting my bladed staff back?"

He already knew what the answer would be, but what the hell?  It was
worth a try.

The question triggered a snort of laughter.  'Are you crazy?  That
knife is enough to get you killed in under ten seconds flat What d'you
want to do - hang a sign round your neck?"

'You're right.  Okay, forget the staff.  Just give me back the bundle
of pink leaves.  I can't start work at the Heron Pool until I've washed
this gunk off."

'Don't have 'em on me, sport."

Steve cursed silently.  'So when am I going to get them?"

'When the time's right."

'I'm not going to be able to get into an airplane decked out as a
Mute."

'I know that."

'Okay.  How soon can I get a transfer?"

'I'm working on it."

This guy's stringing me along, thought Steve.  'Are you trying to tell
me there's a problem?"

'Nothing serious.  It's just that, because of the "interests" I
represent, I can't be seen to intervene directly on your behalf.  To do
so would compromise your position as a "free agent" - and might even
endanger the whole operation.  I have to work, ahh...

obliquely, through my contacts on the Consul-General's staff and key
officials in the main post-house.  It's they who have to okay the
move."

Terrific... 'Let's hope they don't lose the paperwork.

When will we meet again."?"

'When it's necessary."

'Yeah, but time's-' 'Don't worry.  I know where to find you.  Just stay
cool, hang loose and keep trucking."

Steve heard the curved long-sword whisper its way back into the
scabbard, followed by the soft clack of the layered plates of armour as
the feet walked away.

Keep trucking... What a nitwit.

Steve watched out of the corner of his eye as the samurai remounted,
turned his horse towards him and urged it into a canter.  The top half
of the Jap's face was shadowed by the wide-brimmed helmet; the lower
half was obscured by a narrow white scarf held in place by the plaited
red silk chinstrap.  Steve kept his nose close to the ground until the
hoofbeats faded, then got up and rubbed the cramp out of his knees.

It had been another instructive encounter, but Steve was in no mood to
hang around while the Man in Black inflated his already overblown ego
by scoring debating points.  Time was running out.  Side-Winder's
wheelboat would not be on the Hudson River run for ever and that trip
to Bu-faro was a crucial part of the escape plan.  If the Man in Black
was unwilling or unable to move things along at a high rate of knots
then he, Steven Roosevelt Brickman, would have to go it alone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Clearwater woke to find Steve kneeling by her pillow, she was
neither surprised nor alarmed.  Her subconscious mind, which had
already registered his presence, inserted his image into the last few
seconds of her dream, causing illusion to merge seamlessly with
reality.  Despite the fears she had expressed at the ronin camp, her
mind and body had yearned to be reunited with his - and now, at long
last, he was here.

Steve had towelled himself dry before entering the lake-house to avoid
leaving any tell-tale tracks, but his skin was still damp and cool to
the touch.  Clearwater ran her fingers slowly along his arms and
shoulders, then cupped his face in her hands and drew his mouth down on
hers.

The chemistry was still as potent as ever.  The touch of her lips and
the warmth of her embrace brought the memories of their one night
together flooding back.  The desire to possess her, body and soul, and
the inexpressible feelings aroused by her nearness overwhelmed his
senses, sweeping aside all thoughts of his own safety.

Clearwater too seemed oblivious of the mortal danger he had placed her
in.  Removing one hand from his neck, she lifted the edge of the silken
coverlet and silently invited him to join her beneath it.

Steve was sorely tempted, but managed to cling on to a vestige of
self-control.  He hadn't swum across the lake just to fall into her
arms.  Taking hold of her hand, he gently pulled the coverlet back into
place to form a safety barrier, separating his naked body from hers.

He knew as surely as the First Family were born to rule that once they
touched thighs, skin to skin, he'd forget everything, including his
name, rank and number.  'we have to talk."

'Later .  . ."

'No, now!"  Steve grabbed both her hands to stop them from spoiling his
concentration.  'Don't do that!"  he hissed.

Clearwater lay back and contented herself with tracing the contours of
his face and occasionally stroking his hair.

The last hands to slide below his waist had belonged to Roz, back in
Santanna Deep, the previous year.  They'd both crashed out through
smoking some bad grass, so he wasn't sure how far things had gone, but
he still felt bad about it.  Roz had known about Clearwater before he'd
got around to telling her, and he had an uneasy feeling that part of
her mind was inside his own head right now.  Forgive me, little
sister.

This is how it has to be... Steve gave Clearwater a quick rundown on
everything that had happened since their midnight meeting at the
post-house in front of the mysterious Man in Black, ending on the
sake-swilling session with Cadillac.

Except it was not quite everything.  He made no mention of his chance
meetings with Side-Winder on the dockside at Ari-bani and Jodi Kazan in
the cropfield opposite the Heron Pool, and he also kept back his latest
head-down encounter with the Shogun's contact-man.

That would come later.

'Listen, what are we going to do about Cadillac?  I ried to reason with
him, but he seems determined to stay here.  He says he's got everything
he ever wanted.

Well... everything except you."

'Did he tell you that?"

'He didn't need to.  Why else would he be hitting the knockout drops?

He's sinking the stuff like there's no tomorrow."

'Did he ask what had happened to me?"

Steve hesitated.  'He knows where you're being held and who by but, uhh
. . ."

'Did he say anything else?"

Steve chose his words carefully, 'Not very much.  He, uhh .  . . seems
to think you can take care of yourself.

But maybe that was just to get back at me."  He shrugged.

'Let's face it.  Like I said to him, if I hadn't come along ' 'But you
did.  And it was meant to be.  Cadillac knows that too.  He read it in
the seeing-stones."

'Maybe he did.  But he still needs something to help kill the pain."

'The pain was there from the moment you left us.  And it is a pain that
I share, for I have no wish to make him suffer.  But even if we had
been allowed to stay together I would have been of little comfort.  Our
life-threads are no longer as closely entwined as they once were.  One
day he will understand why all this has happened.  And so will you."

'Yeah, well .  . . I'm sure you're right.  But I have to deal with
Cadillac as he is here and now.  He may not be hostile, but as long as
he's within reach of a bottle he's going to be unpredictable."

'So what are you going to do?"

'At the moment, that's up to Cadillac.  He told me he'd run into a few
problems building an engine, so .  . . I offered to help him out.

Listen, it's a start.  If I can get close to him, maybe I can talk him
round.  Between you and me, I don't want to stay here a day longer than
I have to, but it's gonna make life a lot simpler if he goes
quietly."

'What was his answer?"

'Well, he didn't say "yes", but on the other hand he didn't say "no".

Despite everything that's happened he still seems eager to pick my
brains."  Steve gave a low, husky laugh.  'By that I mean the few bits
he hasn't picked already."

'Are you angry about that?"

'Nnnaahhh ... it makes things more interesting.

Thing is, I was hoping you'd be together so that you could, y'know
persuade him.  Make him see sense.

But .  . ."

'He no longer listens to me.  He is ruled by the demons inside his
head."

'Yeah... ' We all have them, thought Steve.  Perhaps even you have a
darker side that I don't yet know about.

This... thing that binds us together, this feeling I find so hard to
control - where will it lead?  Will it give us the strength to go all
the way to the top - or will it destroy us both?

The coverlet was seductively thin, and whenever their limbs touched it
generated, a delicious electric current that made his body tingle from
head to toe.  Time would tell which way they were headed but, if she
was to be the death of him, he could not think of a sweeter way to
go.

Hey, c'mon!  Pull yourself together, Brickman!

Concentrate!

He edged away and lay on his stomach, heart and loins beating in unison
against the quilted mattress.  When he had quelled the rising tide he
said: 'Listen.  About Cadillac.  There's something we have to agree
on.

If we can't persuade him to leave Ne-Issan of his own accord, then
we'll have to make it impossible for him to stay here.  D'you
understand what I'm getting at?"

Pushing down the coverlet, Clearwater turned towards him and lay
against his right shoulder.  Steve felt her breasts touch his skin felt
her heart beating against his shoulderblade.  She ran her hand across
the base of his neck, then down his spine and put her mouth close to
his ear.  'Do whatever it is you have to do..."

Steve locked his thighs together, pressed his pelvis into the mattress
and tried to think straight.  'I have a plan.  Well, a few half-baked
ideas.  Whether they'll work or not depends on what happens in the next
few weeks."

He broke off and gasped with a mixture of pleasure and frustration.

'Hey!  Come on!  Lay off a minute.  This is important!"  Clearwater's
hand came back to rest innocently on his neck.  His right shoulder was
still sandwiched somewhat less innocently between her breasts, but as
the rest of her body from the tibcage down was still under wraps, Steve
was just about able to keep his mind on the real reason for his
midnight swim.

Pretending not to notice what her tongue and teeth were doing to his
ear, he told her about the offer made by the Man in Black: her life in
exchange for the death of the Consul-General.  The ear nibbling stopped
abruptly.

And when he got to the details of how Toh-Shiba was to die, she shrank
away.

Steve hoisted himself up on to one elbow and looked down at her.

During his swim across the lake the moon had been tiding high in the
night sky, skimming the silvered edges of coal-black, scudding
clouds.

It had been bright enough to cast a grey shadow in front of him as he
moved stealthily towards the house, but inside the room it was too dark
to see her face clearly.

'Does the thought of his death upset you?"

Her arms reached out to hold him.  'No.  It is your life I fear for.

When the time comes, let me kill him for you."

'No,' said Steve.  'That could put you in danger.  If something happens
to me, you'll still be able to help Cadillac get away.  But if we lose
you it'll ruin everything.  None of us wIll have a chance."

'But nothing will happen!  Was I not born, like you, in the shadow of
Talisman?  Mr Snow told Cadillac and I that we were his sword and
shield.  His power runs through me!"  'I know.  That's what I'm
counting on.  But it's vital we use it at the right time."  He kissed
the tip of her nose.  'I appreciate the offer, but I'm going to have to
do this the way they want."  His voice hardened.  'Besides which, it'll
make me feel a whole lot better."

Clearwater caressed his face.  'Oh, cloud warrior, you have no reason
to be jealous of any man.  Not even Cadillac has shared what we have
known!  The Iron Master has possessed my body - not my heart and
soul.

I have been an empty vessel, bereft of all feeling - yet he tells me I
am the woman of his dreams.  And that is what I am for him, a dream
nothing more.  Most of what he does with me takes place inside his
head."

Steve listened keenly as she explained how she had used her powers to
warp the mind of the Consul-General.

It seemed like the break he was looking for.  He returned to his
dealings with the Man in Black.  'The trouble is, I don't trust him.

That's why, when the time comes, you have to be with us at the Heron
Pool.  I can't tell you how, or when, but if I manage to do everything
that's been asked of me, a truly prodigious amount of shit is gonna hit
the fan.  And about three seconds later, the Iron Masters are gonna
come down on our backs like a landslide.  Your earth-magic is the only
thing that can get us out from under."

'I will do whatever you ask, you know that."

'Sure.  But all that's still a long way off.  None of us will be going
anywhere unless I can get into the Pool to start laying the
groundwork.

And that brings us to the other problem.  The dinks are combing the
Ne-Issan for Trackers who know how to fly - and here I am decked out
like a Mute!"  'It suits you."

'Don't get me wrong.  I don't have any hang-ups about it.  You should
know that better than anyone.  I brought a bundle of those pink
soap-leaves with me, but the Man in Black took them and doesn't seem
too keen to hand them back.  Do you have any?"

'A few - but not enough to clean your whole body."

Steve cursed under his breath.  Never mind - will you let me have
them?

You never know, it might just do the trick."

'Do you want them now?"

'No, later.  Listen, I've been thinking.  If you're able to put ideas
into Toh-Shiba's head, maybe you can get him to transfer me to the
Heron Pool."

'What as - a Tracker?"

'No, that's too tricky.  I don't have any ID.  They've got me marked
down as a Mute, so I'll have to stay that way till I see how things
work out, then maybe make the switch later."

'So what shall I tell him to do?"

'Tell him to order an inspection of the post-house and everybody
working there - including the roadrunners.

When he walks down the line, I want him to pick me out and have me
transferred on to Cadillac's household staff.

It doesn't matter what as."

'Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Steve laughed quietly.  'Don't worry.  After three months in the
A-Levels up to my knees in sewage I can handle anything Cadillac cares
to throw at me.  A little humility never did anyone any harm - and
being able to order me around is going to make his day."  He took hold
of her shoulders.  'I know it's asking a lot, but.  can you do that for
me?"

'I can try."  She reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck.

'Well, it's a lot better than the other ideas you've been putting into
his head."

'How many times do I have to tell you?  He means nothing to me!"  She
tried to pull him down but he stayed there, unyielding.

'What about Cadillac?"

'We grew up together - like brother and sister.  We shared each other's
joys, fought each other's battles.  I can never break the ties that
bind us.  But it is my strength he needs, not my love."

Steve succumbed to the pull of her arms and lay down close beside
her.

'There's so much I have to tell you -' 'Ssshhh... ' Clearwater drew the
coverlet over them both.  'The touch of your skin on mine tells me all
I need to know.  Hold me, cloud warrior.  There is so little time left
for us to share."

'But there are things I need to explain -' Clearwater stilled his lips
with a kiss.  'Let go of the world, my love,' she whispered.  'We are
like two leaves at the Yellowing, borne away on the West Wind.  Our
lives were shaped long before our spirits were poured into our mothers'
womb.  The Wheel turns.  The Path is drawn.

And we must go wherever it leads us..."

Her body became one with his.  Hhooohhh!  Jeer!  Ohhh!  Krrisstopher.t
It was dangerously close to dawn when Steve clambered ashore at the
point where he had left his clothes.  Fortunately, he didn't have far
to go.  Two Island Lake formed the western boundary of the
Consul-General's estate, and the main post-house, to which he'd been
assigned, was situated close to Toh-Shiba's official residence.  With
time running out, he was forced to pass under the walls of the barracks
where the regiment of government troops was quartered, but he managed
to do so without being spotted and was back inside the roadrunners'
bunk-house before anyone was up and about.

Roadrunners, like all Mutes in Ne-Issan, were not locked away at
night.

The punishment meted out to would-be escapees was so severe, only the
foolhardy and those who had reached the limits of endurance attempted
to run away.  As the job of roadrunner brought the holder enviable
privileges, it was assumed that no Mute lucky enough to be selected
would do anything that might land him back on the dungheap.

The Iron Masters were harsh, demanding taskmasters but they were not
totally heartless monsters.  The captive Mutes, which they viewed as
little better than animals, were allowed the same freedom to copulate
at random, and those within the same workforce were permitted to form
family groups.  A slave-master might lose a few weeks of fieldwork
during the latter stages of the pregnancy, but Iron-foot children were
a welcome addition to the labour force.  Not only were they delivered
free of charge, they were a growing asset.

For roadrunners it meant that, in off-duty hours, they were allowed to
fraternise with the female Mutes staffing the kitchens, bath-house and
laundry, or any others whose services were available in the immediate
vicinity of the compound.  The lake was some four miles away which put
it definitely off-limits.  Had Steve run into a watch patrol he'd have
been in big trouble but, once again, his luck had held.

The following night, Steve got the opportunity to transmit his first
message to Commander-General Karlstrom, head of AMEXICO.  Using the
tiny stylus, he ran the diagnostic program to check that the
transceiver was fully operational, then keyed in his call-sign and
details of his present position.  This was followed by a summary of the
information he had given to SideWinder and the news that he had made
contact with his two remaining targets.  He ended with the three-letter
code requesting acknowledgement of his transmission, signed off as he
had begun with 'HG-FR', selected the appropriate time-interval, then
pressed the Auto-Transmit key.

Knowing that the set would now broadcast his message at regular
intervals during the next allotted two-hour transmission time between
2200 and 2400 and again between 0400 and 0600, Steve reassembled the
knife, put it back in its hiding place, and went to sleep.

Unable to understand how a radio with such a limited range could
transmit a message back to the Federation, Steve had concluded that the
First Family must have installed secret relay stations inside
Ne-Issan.

In his ignorance, he had been thinking laterally, instead of
vertically.  Four times a day, when tracking an undercover operation,
one or more aircraft belonging to AMEXICO, and of a type unknown to
Steve, flew back and forth on preset flight-paths, with electronic ears
tuned to the ground below.

The overflights had begun fifty years ago, but their presence in the
sky had remained undetected by the Iron Masters because of their
operating altitude.  Flying five miles above the Surface of the earth,
they were virtually invisible from the ground, and they could not be
heard because their specially designed slim wings enabled them to glide
silently across the width of Ne-Issan from the Appalachians to the
sea.

Once over the water, they turned on their engines to regain the small
amount of height they had lost, then began the return leg, recording
messages from agents, fixing their locations, and transmitting
instructions from AMEXICO.

The next day, Steve's delivery run took him westwards to the place once
known as Springfield - a 140mile round trip that meant spending three
nights away from base.  On the way back, he put on an extra spurt on
his way into and out of Awo-seisa, so that he had almost forty-five
minutes in hand when he reached the Heron Pool.

Once again, he was lucky.  Cadillac was working in the house and caught
sight of him through the open side-screens as he came up the path.  As
before, the Mute greeted him in a friendly but guarded fashion.  Steve
decided not to spoil things by mentioning he'd seen Clearwater and had
spent a couple of hours in her bed.

Cadillac led him to the drafting table and they spent a short time
discussing how best to convert the existing model into a two-seater.

Their conversation was interrupted when Cadillac was called away to
sort out some problem in the workshops.  Promising to return shortly,
he left Steve alone in the study, suggesting that he make himself
useful by sketching out his ideas for the conversion.

Steve did so, but he also took the opportunity to remove the
radio-knife from its hiding place beneath the lining at the bottom of
his mailbag.  Checking the memory store, he found a brief
congratulatory message from Karlstrom acknowledging receipt of his
transmission.

The message also included an offer of assistance and the chilling line:
'DON'T WORRY IF OBLIGED MAINTAIN LONG PERIOD RADIO SILENCE/YOUR
KIN-SISTER ROZ IS HELPING US KEEP TRACK OF YOU/MIKE X-RAY ONE'
Karlstrom's call-sign.

It was a timely reminder that the lives of Roz and his guard-parents
still hung in the balance.  And if his kin-sister was still reading him
in moments of stress and high emotion as well as she had done before,
it also meant that the First Family had him by the short hairs.

Steve hurriedly keyed in another message requesting some background
data and scientific formulae he required, selected Auto-Transmit,
wrapped up the knife and hid it at the back of one of the floor storage
units.  It was an optimistic move based on the firm belief that he
would soon be working alongside his rival, and also a precautionary
measure.  The data would be of no use unless he got to the Heron Pool
and now that he'd made contact, there was no point in risking his neck
by keeping the knife in his possession.  AMEXICO knew where he was, and
if they wanted to know what he was up to, all they had to do was ask
Roz.

How much had she told them?  The thought that the First Family were
using her to reach into his mind made him feel like a trapped animal.

He cursed his stupidity for letting his own, similar power fall into
disuse.  But it was worse than that; he had deliberately suppressed
it.

The ability to 'connect' had been part of their unique togetherness.

But in growing up, he had tried to grow apart from Roz, had tried to
build a wall between them behind which he could plan and scheme in
secret.  All he had succeeded in doing was to build a cage that his
mind could not get out of, while hers was still able to slip in through
the bars.

Well done, Brickman.  There was a lesson in there somewhere, just as
there was something to be learned from being painted up like a Mute
while Cadillac and Clearwater passed themselves off as Trackers.  The
reversal in their roles had struck him forcibly during the brief moment
he had spent in her arms.  It showed that, in the final analysis, it
was not the colour of the skin that mattered, but the person
underneath.

On his return to the post-house, Steve found himself caught up in the
frenzied preparations for a tour of inspection by the
Consul-General.

He felt a surge of excitement.  Had Clearwater worked her magic - or
had all this been planned long ago?  He would only know for sure when
TohoShiba walked down the line and gave him his marching orders.

All the roadrunners were mobilized to help with the cleaning, and extra
labour was drafted in to sweep and scrub, scrape and polish.  Every
speck of loose dirt and rubbish was carefully removed from the
post-house yard, hollows and car-ruts were filled, the gate was freshly
painted, signs and emblems refurbished.  Walls were cleaned - even the
tiled roofs were washed down, and in the laundry, the team of Mute
women worked through the night preparing spotless sets of uniforms and
bedding to be worn and displayed in the roadrunners' bunkhouse.

On the following day, three hours before the Consul-General was due,
the post-master and his senior clerks emerged, impeccably dressed in
their best clothes, and inspected every inch of the post-house and the
other ancillary buildings within its official boundaries.  The Chinese
and Korean staff who made up the middle and lower echelons of the
organisation stood like statues at their usual place of work, moving
only to bow from the waist when the party of Japs came upon them.

Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the clerks and
roadrunners were ordered to assemble in the yard.

The Mute washerwomen, cooks and cleaners were told to stay indoors and
keep out of sight until it was all over.

At the appointed hour, the post-master and his six senior clerks
positioned themselves facing the gateway.

Behind them, the rest of their staff stood in three ranks with their
toes touching the rear edge of a line of straw mats.  With a sudden
flourish of unseen trumpets, Nakane TohoShiba swept into the yard on
horseback, escorted by ten mounted samurai and a troop of
foot-soldiers.  The senior staff bowed from the waist, the lower
echelons went down on their knees and bowed their heads and the
roadrunners put their noses to the ground.

Toh-Shiba dismounted along with five of his samurai and strode forward
to meet the post-master.  The other riders stayed watchfully in their
saddles while the troop commander deployed the foot-soldiers around the
yard and outside the gate.  The Consul-General's life was not in danger
- as far as anyone knew.  All senior government officials travelled
with armed escorts, no matter how friendly the local domain-lord might
be.  With errant bands of ronin looking for ransom opportunities, one
could never be too careful.

Having bowed the requisite number of times, the post-master greeted
Toh-Shiba in the usual effusive manner, but his words were aimed at the
samurai who stood between them.  Since Toh-Shiba was a high-ranking
nobleman and related by marriage to the Shogun, it would have been an
unthinkable breach of etiquette to have spoken to him directly.  The
samurai had no need to repeat what was said; he was merely the conduit
through which superior and inferior could address each other.

Toh-Shiba made a perfunctory reply via the same circuitous route and
accepted the offer of refreshments.  A tray of cool drinks was produced
and offered with great ceremony.

What a way to run a country!  thought Steve.  If they waste as much
time as this when a war is on, it'll be a pushover.

A barked command in Japanese caused the lower ranks to rise and stand
with heads bowed.  A clerk who was fluent in Basic ordered the
roadrunners to sit back on their heels, hands on thighs, chin on
chest.

Accompanied by the post-master, Toh-Shiba and his escort inspected the
two lines of clerks, each one bowing from the waist as the
Consul-General reached him.

Nakane Toh-Shiba was above average height for an Iron Master and, while
not exactly fat, was quite heavily built.  The broad-shouldered, padded
kimono he was wearing made it hard to gauge his physique accurately,
but he had plump short fingers and a pudgy face.  Steve, who had been
studying his target out of the corner of his eyes, decided the
Consul-General looked pampered and overfed.

Despite his bulk, Toh-Shiba was light on his feet and moved with regal
assurance - as well he might.  Like all of the high ranking Japs, he
wore a wig of Mute hair with the usual samurai top-knot, and he had a
small funny-looking hat perched on the front of his head.  Since Steve
had never seen one like it during his travels he concluded it must
signify Toh-Shiba's rank - which it did.

The Consul-General's party turned towards the line of kneeling
roadrunners.

This is it!  thought Steve.  But it wasn't.  He waited until the last
moment before putting his nose on the mat, but Toh-Shiba strode past
followed by his samurai-bodyguard and the postmaster.

Shrill, simultaneous commands from the senior clerks sent the staff
scurrying away to their posts - a move that had already been rehearsed
several times.  Steve and the other roadrunners formed their usual line
along the veranda to the left of the post-house door.  Thanks to his
position near the end of the line in the yard, this move put Steve
close to the entrance.  But once again, in deference to their visitor,
they were required to kneel and touch the floor with their noses as the
Consul-General's party went inside to view the postal clerks going
about their work.

With Toh-Shiba's disappearance, the roadrunners were allowed to sit on
the log bench.  Shit!  Steve cursed his luck and vented his frustration
by slamming a fist against his open palm.  Once again, the fat-fingered
dink had walked past without giving the line of Mutes a second
glance.

So much for Mute magic.  If Clearwater had failed to do something as
simple as this, she might not be able to deliver when the real crunch
came.  What a pill!  And just when he needed to show the Man in Black
he could manage without him!

Within fifteen minutes of entering the post-house, Toh-Shiba - who had
begun to wonder what he was doing there in the first place - had seen
and heard more than enough about the receipt and onward transmission of
private and official documents.  The Consul-General did not believe in
cluttering his head with knowledge of procedures that his staff were
expected to know about and deal with.

As a nobleman, Toh-Shiba had never once in his life concerned himself
with the problems of laundering; he merely expected to find a clean set
of clothes laid out for his use whenever they might be required.  It
was the same with letters: you ordered them written, applied your seal,
and they were delivered.  What happened to them between leaving your
hand and reaching that of the recipient was the concern of lesser
mortals - such as the obsequious, tiresome pip-squeak now hovering at
his elbow.

Toh-Shiba, who had been languidly fanning himself to alleviate the late
summer heat, snapped the fan shut against his left palm; a signal to
his aide-de-camp that he wished to leave - without delay.  The samurai
silenced the post-master with a raised hand and announced that the
visit had been most instructive.  His master was extremely pleased with
the alertness and dedication of the postal-staff.  Et cetera, et
cetera...

The post-master and his clerks hurried on to the veranda, and bowed
Toh-Shiba's party out of the post-house.  In doing so, they blocked his
view of the roadrunners, but, as he descended the steps and moved
towards his waiting horse, the Consul-General was aware of something
niggling away inside his brain.  It was something he had intended to do
- connected with his visit to the post-house - but for the life of him
he couldn't remember what it was.

The mental pressure to perform some action built up rapidly and was
translated into a stabbing pain.

Toh-Shiba shook his head in an effort to clear it, then mounted his
horse.  His samurai guards followed suit, forming up around him with
their colleagues.

Steve's heart sank.

Toh-Shiba gathered the reins and wheeled his horse The pain inside his
skull reached a new crescendo, causing one hand to fly to his
forehead.

An image of a goldenhaired Mute appeared before his inner eye and, as
he recalled the real reason for his visit, the stabbing pains eased a
little.  With a cry of exasperation, he pulled his horse's head round
and urged it back towards the veranda.

The post-master and his senior clerks wavered uncertainly as they tried
to divine the reason for the Consul-General's sudden change of mood and
direction.

The roadrunners, who'd been on their knees since his exit from the
post-house, hurriedly got their heads down as the horse stopped with
its nose almost touching the rail.

Toh-Shiba, the pain in his head now fading fast, cast his eyes along
the line of Mutes then pointed his baton at Steve and shouted rapidly
in Japanese.  'That grass-monkey, third from the door!  I want him
dismissed from the postal service!  Immediately!  Is that
understood?"

'H-H-H-Has his conduct d-d-displeased my nn-noble lord in any way?"

stammered the trembling postmaster.

'If so, I will p-p-per-personally ensure he is ss-severely punished."

'Not necessary,' barked Toh-Shiba.  'I just don't like the colour of
his hair.  Get him out of here."

Steve didn't have a clue what was going on until he was hauled to his
feet and hustled away as the postmaster, who was now bowing at
two-second intervals, launched into a breast-beating apology for his
inexcusable carelessness in the selection of ancillary staff.

Toh-Shiba surveyed the remaining roadrunners, all of whom had dark
brown or black hair.  'That looks much better."  The pain in his head
was almost gone.  'The individual you have just removed is to be sent
to the Heron Pool as house-slave to the cloud warrior.  See to it and
send me written confirmation."

The post-master assured him, via his aide-de-camp, that his order would
be complied with instantly.

Toh-Shiba nodded with satisfaction and rode off towards the gate
feeling strangely elated.

The post-master and his senior clerks kept their heads down until the
last foot-soldier had disappeared, then broke ranks with sighs of
relief.  No one could fathom why the Consul-General had acted in such a
bizarre fashion.  A brainstorm perhaps; theirs was not to reason why.

The roadrunner unit could easily be brought back to full strength.

Meanwhile, there was a small score to be settled.  The post-master
instructed a clerk to bring him a whipping-cane.  The Consul-General
had dismissed his offer to punish severely the yellow-haired Mute.  His
wishes would be obeyed.  The Mute would only be punished moderately for
being the cause of such unwarranted anxiety.

Steve contrived to look suitably downcast as he stripped and handed in
his uniform, mailbag and roadrunner's gorget.  A slave-tag was attached
to his arm and a 'yellow card' to cover his move down the road was hung
round his neck.  The clothes he was given consisted of a worn, loose
grey tunic and trousers, an old pair of sandals with wafer-thin soles
and a straw hat.  The jute poncho and cotton quilt issued to Mute
slaves were rolled into a bundle for him to carry under his arm.  In
terms of status and appearance he had slipped back to the bottom rung
of the ladder, but it didn't matter.  Clearwater had shown that her
skills as a summoner were as potent as ever.  And thanks to her, he was
on his way.

What he hadn't bargained for was his going-away present from the
post-master.  As Steve bowed himself out backwards through the door,
trying hard not to smile, he was seized by several pairs of hands, held
down over the rail of the veranda and given a salutary thrashing that
left him shaking and breathless but stopped short of drawing blood.

'Rockets,' said Steve.

Cadillac, who was seated at the drafting table, stared down at him with
a puzzled frown.

Steve, who had been on his hands and knees sweeping the straw-matted
floor, laid his brush and pan aside and adopted a cross-legged
position.  'You've been to the trading post, haven't you?"

'Yes, last year."

'Didn't the wheelboats launch any?  Mr Snow told me they do it every
time they set sail."

'They sent up burning arrows which burst, and showered down coloured
fire,' admitted Cadillac.

'They're called rockets - and they used green ones that didn't burst to
signal where you had to land when you flew to Ne-Issan..."

'How did you know about that?"

'Clearwater told me.  When we were being held by the rortirt.  ' 'I
still don't see what you're getting at."

'What you saw was a firework display.  Pyrotechnics.

Behind those pretty coioured lights is a combination of chemistry and
physics.  A force exerted in one direction produces an equal and
opposite force in the other direction.  It's called "thrust"."

'I know about that,' interjected Cadillac.  'It's what the engines of
your Skyhawks generate."

'Exactly,' said Steve.  'Well, the same, propellant charge that pushes
up those rockets can be used to put your flying-horses into the air.

All we need is a bigger rocket that packs more punch."

'Yeah... I see what you mean."  Cadillac mulled the idea over, then
eyed Steve.  'How come I didn't think of that?"

'You just did.  I only sweep the floors around here."

Steve waited for a more positive reaction.  If someone had handed him
an idea like that on a plate he'd have been turning cartwheels.  But
Cadillac just sat there.

'You don't look convinced."

'No, it's not that.  I can see it has possibilities, but...

won't it be dangerous?"

'Not as dangerous as sitting here on the ground.  You said yourself
that Min-Orota was showing signs of impatience.  If he decides to pull
the plug - ' Steve swept a hand round the study - 'you can kiss goodbye
to all this."

'Don't remind me .  . ."

'There are risks, obviously.  We just have to make sure we get the
mixture right.  We bench-test small batches of it first, then find a
lightweight container that'll hold several pounds of the stuff.  Some
kind of tube, sealed at one end.

And it must be fireproof, otherwise we could find ourselves with flames
coming out of our ass.

'We then attach the tube - we'll probably need several to one of your
ground trolleys.  We load the trolley with stones to represent the
weight of aircraft and pilot, light the blue touch paper and, uhh .

.

. see what happens.

What we want is a fast even burn.  But not too fast.  We don't want to
rip the wings off."

'No .  . ."

'It's an ideal solution.  It'll require a little ingenuity on our part,
but it uses available materials, basic engineering skills and - best of
all - won't require any major alterations to your existing airframe.

We can just attach them to the underside of the fuselage pod and use a
booster on the launching trolley."

'Launching trolley?"

'The ground trolley you use for wheeling the planes into the hangar.

We just strengthen it a little."

'But this propellant charge -' Steve tapped his forehead.  COLUMBUS had
come up with the data he needed.  'Don't worry, it's all up here.

Ingredients, proportions, mixing procedures, binding agents... ' He
paused as he saw Cadillac's expression.

'I'll need your help, of course."

The Mute responded with a hurry laugh.  'Looks like you've got it all
worked out."  He clearly didn't like being upstaged.

Steve threw in a large dollop of soft-soap.  'Sure.  I know what needs
to be done.  But at the moment, it's just words.

Hot air.  Nothing can happen unless Min-Orota agrees to provide us with
the materials we need.  And you are the only one who can arrange
that."

'Yes,' said Cadillac.  'And I can also arrange to have you shipped out
of here.  So watch your step."

Steve acknowledged this with a mocking bow and went back to sweeping
the floor.

As Steve had anticipated, Cadillac had been unable to resist this
opportunity to cut him down to size.  Now that he was clear-skinned he
had the upper hand, and he was not going to let Steve forget it.  But
in any case, the rules concerning the treatment of Mutes were already
well established.  Steve was obliged to sleep outside the house in a
small, low wooden shack and, since he had no means with which to
prepare his own food, his meals were placed outside the kitchen door by
Cadillac's Thai domestic staff.

Thais, who ranked below Vietnamese and just above the slave population,
came perilously close in the eyes of their Japanese overlords to being
non-persons themselves.

They were, nevertheless, notionally superior to captive Trackers, but,
for the eight working in the house, they were at Cadillac's beck and
call just as Steve was.

The Thais were able to cope with this because, first, they did not have
a lot of 'face' to lose and, second, they were not really serving
Cadillac but Lord Min-Orota.  And-Steve didn't mind being treated like
dirt, because things were working out just fine.  Cadillac had a long
way to fall.  Oh, yes.  When he hit the ground, they'd hear the thud in
Houston/GC...

Rising at cock-crow - a feathered alarm-system widely used in Ne-Issan
to rouse the lower orders - Steve was required to perform several
menial tasks before being given breakfast.  The list of chores included
splitting a set quantity of kindling wood and stacking it neatly by the
bath-house, carrying away the previous day's ashes, and disposing of
what was politely known as 'night-soil' buckets containing urine and
assorted faeces.

In Ne-Issan, nothing .was wasted.  All the kitchen refuse went on to
the dung heap along with the crap, to rot down before being dug back
into the soil -just as the effluent produced by the Federation was
processed and fed into the acres of shallow tanks that the Trackers
used to grow soya beans and other vegetables.

After breakfast, and for the rest of the day, Steve became Cadillac's
'go-fer'.  Bathed and wearing a clean set of brown clothes, he was
obliged to follow the Mute everywhere he went like a dog on a short
lead.  When they were alone, working together in the study, Cadillac
treated Steve as an equal.  He was polite, friendly, willing to listen
and eager to learn.  But when they were with Jodi, Kelso and the other
Trackers, or in the presence of ffon Masters, he became haughty and
dismissive.

On these occasions, Steve stayed in the background and kept his mouth
firmly shut.  He knew Cadillac was enjoying every minute of it, but it
was also necessary for him to act that way to avoid arousing the
suspicions of the thirty-odd dinks who acted as overseers.  They did
not participate in the production process, they just looked over
people's shoulders and generally kept a beady eye on what was going
on.

A group of clerks took care of the paperwork involved in the procuring
of the raw materials - timber, mild steel and woven silk needed to
construct the flying-horses.  Some of the accessories, such as trolley
wheels and axles and woven cane seats, were built by local craftsmen
and delivered complete.

After a week of running errands for Cadillac, Steve became a familiar
figure around the Heron Pool.  The area in which the Iron Masters were
housed was off-limits, but apart from that he was able to move around
with almost total freedom.  Within days of his arrival he was able to
build up a detailed picture of the operation and the overall layout of
the site - knowledge that would come in handy when the time came to
make their escape.

He also contrived to meet up with Jodi.  There was no danger in being
seen together in off-duty hours, provided it didn't happen too often
and they kept their conversations short and sweet.  Steve also had to
be careful to keep his distance.  Kelso was the only other person who
had seen him coloured up as a Mute.  As far as the rest of Jodi's male
colleagues were concerned he was the real thing.  If they observed him
getting too friendly, it could lead to trouble.

'You amaze me, Brickman,' said Jodi, when they met.

'You come in as an illegal, row yourself into one of the best jobs
going and now here you are working for the head man.  How d'you always
end up on the inside track?"

'Listen, I start the day emptying shit buckets.  Is that what you call
being on the inside track?"

'You know what I mean."

Steve smiled.  'I got friends in high places."  There was no harm in
telling her the truth.  It was clear she didn't believe him.  There
were moments when he could hardly believe it himself.  'I had to get
here.  I meant what I said about escaping.  Things are starting to come
together.  If it works, I'm taking off with those two Mutes I told you
about.  You still with me?"

'Yeah.  Count me in."

'Have you had a chance to sound out Kelso?"

'Not yet.  I've been waiting for the right opportunity."

Jodi gave a quick laugh.  'Seeing you again has ruined his
digestion."

'Maybe I'd better speak to him myself.  Put him right about a few
things."

'I wouldn't do that,' said Jodi.  'From the noises he's been making I
think he'd still like to get you down a dark alley.  But he can't risk
it because you're working with the honcho.  If he queered things, the
other guys would take him apart."

'Has he told the others I'm one of you?"

'No.  And I haven't told him you're an undercover Fed -' 'Jodi!  How
many times do I have to tell you?!  I'm not a-' 'Yeah, I know.  You
were forced into this because they're threatening your kin-sister.

Maybe they are, maybe they aren't.  It doesn't matter.  I'm not stupid,
Brickman.  You're never going to admit you're an undercover Fed
because, officially, there ain't no such thing - right?  That's how it
works, don't it?  Nobody knows for sure, so nobody sticks their neck
out.  They're too busy looking over their shoulder.  But you and I know
exactly what you are.  So from here on in, don't give me any more of
the wide-eyed innocent shit."

Steve studied her as he weighed his reply.  'You're right.  I am on the
payroll.  But it's true about Roz.  They used her to force me into
this."

'Jodi gave a wry smile.  'Don't worry.  I won't blow your cover.  You
were right about me too.  I am a True Blue.

We've flown together and been bunk-mates aboard the Lady.  You asked
for my help and I agreed to do whatever I can.  Try and remember if we
ever get out of here."

'I'm not sure what you mean .  . ."

'It's very simple.  I'm willing to go back - but not if they're gonna
send me to the wall."

'That's not going to happen."

'Sure.  But if the wrong 'signals start coming down the line, give me a
chance to get away.  That's all I'm asking.

If I'm gonna die I'd rather do it up here where the sun shines.

Okay?"

'You have my word on that."  Steve thrust out his hand but she didn't
take it.

'I gotta go,' said Jodi.  'There's a couple of the guys over there
who've had their eye on us.  Wouldn't want them to get the wrong
idea."

Steve stood up and backed off.  'Sure ... I understand.  One last
thing.  If you're still not sure about me, deep down, why get
involved?

Why don't you just turn me in?"

Jodi shrugged.  'Maybe it's because guys who break the rules are more
exciting to be with."  She gave a dry laugh.

'Crazy, isn't it?  If I wasn't any use to you, you wouldn't give me
the time of day.  Especially now I've only got half a face."

'That's not true,' hissed Steve.  'I told you way back.  I care what
happens to you."

Jodi treated him to a penetrating, sideways glance and laughed again.

'You wanna know something, Brickman?

Not that it makes any difference but - I don't think you've ever really
cared about anybody in your whole life."

Steve watched her walk away.  His chest felt like an empty, frozen
cave.  She's wrong!  he told himself.  He recalled what Donna Monroe
Lundkwist had said to him when they'd put the bomb in the barrel after
the passing-out parade.  Donna, his classmate and rival at the Air
Force Academy, who had asked him to kill her as she lay paralysed by a
crossbow bolt buried in her spine.  She had been wrong about him too.

It wasn't true.  It wasn't!

And it was not female vanity that caused Jodi to remark upon her
disfigurement; she no longer felt whole.  The ideal of unblemished
physical fitness was inculcated in Trackers from day one.  They might
vary in size, build and appearance but, seen en masse, they all looked
as if they'd come off the same production line.  There were no dwarfs
or beanpoles.  Everybody was strong, healthy, clear-eyed and well
proportioned.  Heroes like Poppa Jack, Steve's guard-father, dying
gracefully from the inside out from radiation-induced cancer, were
paraded in their Wheelchairs, but permanent invalidity did not exist.

No malformed or brain-damaged infants ever emerged from the delivery
rooms of the Life Institute, and it was an accepted .fact that Trackers
who had the misfortune to be severely disabled or disfigured through an
underground accident or while on overground operations never recovered
from surgery.

The proposal to power the flying-horses using rockets was conveyed to
Min-Orota through the usual intermediaries.

Two days later, Cadillac received a secret summons to appear before the
domain-lord.  This was their fifth meeting and, as before, he was
conveyed in a sealed carriage-box to the palace at Ba-satana then
conducted via the back stairs into a small chamber reserved for private
audiences.

From the knowledge he had gained by tapping into the Iron Masters'
psyches, Cadillac knew their relationship was without precedent - and
unlikely to be repeated.

Face-to-face meetings between slaves and domain-lords were just not
possible, and these covert assignations had proved to be the most
convenient way of circumventing the restrictive protocols.  To
Cadillac, the fact that Min-Orota had gone to such lengths was a sign
of the esteem in which he was held.  His desire for 'standing' was so
overwhelming, it never occurred to him that this esteem had a built-in
time limit and had only been accorded for tactical reasons.

Seated between two of his closest advisers, Min-Orota - who had a good
grasp of Basic - listened intently as Cadillac explained his plans with
the aid of detailed sketches which Steve had helped him prepare.  He
then waited with bowed head while the domain-lord discussed the
proposal with his advisers in Japanese - unaware that Cadillac had been
quietly absorbing the language since his arrival in Ne-Issan and could
understand everything they were saying.

When the three Iron Masters had concluded their deliberations, one of
the advisers informed 'Brickman' that his proposal had been accepted.

The necessary authorisations would be issued and the materials he
required would be delivered to the Heron Pool.  It was, said the
adviser, Lord Min-Orota's desire that he commence work without delay.

Bowing low, Cadillac humbly expressed his deep gratitude - and silently
blessed Mo-Town, the Great Sky-Mother.

As soon as the materials arrived, Cadillac and Steve set to work with
the help of six Trackers who had been assigned to what had been grandly
called the 'power unit'.  Cadillac had chosen the candidates
personally, unaware that Steve had made sure Jodi and Kelso were among
those selected.  He'd done this by priming Jodi with the basic facts of
solid rocketry, and had told her to share the data with Kelso.  So when
Cadillac lined up his workforce and asked if anyone knew anything about
rocket propulsion systems, they 'were able to raise their arms and step
forward with confidence.

And whenever they ran into a problem that couldn't be solved on the
spot, Steve promised to thinkabout it overnight.  The next morning, he
always had the answer.

Cadillac, who was able to absorb this new information as fast as Steve
acquired it, couldn't figure out how Steve always managed to keep one
step ahead.

The reasons were complex but the answer was simple.

Cadillac was only able to gain access to certain parts of Steve's
brain; he could not read his mind.  As with the Iron Masters, the areas
he could tap into were concerned with acquired knowledge: specialist
education and training, language skills, behavioural patterns, social
mores and information about people Steve had met - but not how he felt
about them.  It meant, for instance, that Cadillac knew about
radio-knives but didn't know that Steve had one in his possession - and
was putting it to good use.

From the moment Steve had begun to keep in regular touch with AMEXICO,
Karlstrom had arranged for one of his highflying signals aircraft to
orbit the Heron Pool daily, between 2200 and midnight.

Tucked away in his little shack, Steve was able to send a stream of
queries to AMEXICO while Cadillac lay dead to the world, wiped out by
another skinful of sake.  After acknowledging the transmission with the
instruction 'STAND BY/IMMEDIATE RESPONSE', the pilot automatically
relayed Steve's messages at high speed to Rio Lobo, AMEXICO's
headquarters in Houston/GC.

From there they were keyed directly into COLUMBUS.

A few seconds later, the required information was being bounced off the
radio antenna of the orbiting signals aircraft and down into the memory
bank of Steve's radio-knife.

The same information was fed simultaneously into Karlstrom's personal
video-communications network, and a message announcing its presence was
flashed on the screen nearest to wherever he happened to be.  This was
done solely to keep him informed of what was going on.  Karlstrom had
no need to vet the questions and answers before they were relayed to
Steve.  COLUMBUS, whose virtually limitless memory also contained the
records of every Tracker from the First Family down to the humblest
red-head, knew exactly what areas and levels of information 8902

Brickman, S.R. was allowed to access.

To Steve - who still knew nothing about the air link the rapidity and
efficiency of the service was a constant source of amazement.  It was
also a timely reminder of the power possessed by the First Family.

There was no escaping them.  No matter how far you ran, they would
always have some way to reach you.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Since the licence to build flying-horses had been granted to the
Min-Orota family on the understanding that the Shogun's representatives
were to be granted unhindered access to the Heron Pool, the
Consul-General was duly informed of the decision to develop a system of
rocket propulsion.

Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba, whose interests were centred round the
pleasures of the field and the flesh, reacted with only perfunctory
interest as the news was read out to him, but when his letter reached
Yoritomo's summer palace, the young Shogun was quick to spot the
military potential of such a device.

Black powder had been manufactured for centuries, but up to now it had
only been used for blasting in the mines and quarries, in rifle
cartridges, and in the cannon that were employed - mainly by the
Shogunate - to reduce the fortresses of rebellious domain-lords.

Designed for use in siege warfare, these large pieces were extremely
difficult to manoeuvre, and in the decades of peace under the Toh-Yota,
their use had been confined to delivering ceremonial salutes.  Smaller
cannon, such as those on Lord Yama-Shita's wheelboats, did exist, but
in general artillery pieces were not favoured by the Iron Masters
because of their limited mobility.

As might be expected of warriors imbued with the samurai ethos, they
were temperamentally unsuited to long-range engagements with
heavy-calibre weapons.

The clash of arms in close-quarter combat was viewed as the ideal type
of warfare and, as a result, the outcome of most battles depended on
the martial skills of fast-moving formations of mounted swordsmen and
archers, and lightly armed foot-soldiers.

Rockets filled with black powder were employed by military formations
as signalling devices, but their primary use was as harmless
entertainment.  Vast quantities of these, along with other types of
firework, were used to enliven private and public celebrations and
religious festivals, filling the night sky with bursts of coloured
rain.

But if a rocket could be made powerful enough to hurl a flying-horse
and its rider into the sky, it could also hurl an explosive charge into
the heart of enemy formations encamped, say, on a steep hillside - or
even beyond it.

And if such a rocket could be carried on the back of a fciot-soldier,
then hundreds could be launched in a single volley, delivering a
murderous hammer blow that would leave the enemy dazed and
demoralised.

At which point...

Yes... This matter would have to be watched closely.

The message summoning the Herald Toshiro to appear before the Shogun
reached him in the middle of a jovial dinner with Guard-Captain
Kamakura.  The good captain's wife and her five daughters had received
Toshiro with their customary warmth and hospitality, lavishing their
attentions on him from the moment he stepped through the door, and the
news that he had to depart without even completing the meal - the best
of which was yet to come - threw the women of the family into
disarray.

Tearful and downcast, they lined up to bend at the knee, bowing over
his hand as they bade him farewell.  Toshiro responded with the
customary expressions of gratitude, then apologised extravagantly for
being unable to stay long enough to sample the delicacies they had
prepared.  Had he known of the nightcap that had been due to follow the
dessert he might have felt a genuine twinge of regret.  The second
youngest and prettiest of the Kamakura girls had been chosen by her
ambitious mother to grace the Herald's bed.  But once again her
attempt to snare him had been frustrated by pressing affairs of
state.

And time was passing!  Another year was on the wane.  If the Herald
eluded them much longer, the two eldest girls might have to be married
off to low-born soldiers like her own well-meaning but slow-brained
husband!

The news that field tests of the rockets were about to take place
reached Toshiro soon after his return, at the Shogun's behest, to the
domain of Lord Min-Orota.

Because Heralds acted as the confidential link between the Shogun and
his regional officials, a suite of rooms in the Consul-General's
residence was kept at their disposal.  The estate, which to all intents
and purposes was government territory, served Toshiro as a base from
which he would often emerge in disguise to meet with agents or to
mingle with the lower orders.  But the residence was also a home in
which he had been made welcome by Her Highness, the Lady Mishiko
TohShiba, Nakane's long-suffering wife, and her three children.

Despite her husband's outrageous and insulting behaviour, she had never
once uttered a word of complaint to her all-powerful brother, and
maintained the same discreet, dignified silence amid those who were
closest to her, concealing her distress behind a calm, serene manner.

Many took this as a studied indifference to her fate, but over the
years Toshiro had discovered this was not so.  The Lady Mishiko was
desperately unhappy, and the Herald could not understand how anyone
even an insensitive oaf like the Consul-General - could neglect and
abuse a woman who, besides being extremely intelligent, artistic and of
the highest rank, was also tender-hearted, sweet-natured and
beautiful.

It was a pity, reflected Toshiro, that the Consul-General would die
without realising how blind he had been.  It would have added a
bittersweet edge to his fall.

No matter.  As the saying went: 'One man's loss..."

From one of his informants, Toshiro learned of the Consul-General's
curious behaviour while inspecting the main post-house.  The Herald
could not fathom why the odious buffoon should suddenly have taken it
into his head to move the 'mexican', but he was relieved the matter had
been taken out of his hands.  Toshiro was tied into an efficient
network of informers but he did not, as he had boasted to Steve, have
eyes and ears everywhere, and he was not able to move people around
like pawns on a chessboard.  He had been able to get Steve re, gistered
as a roadrunner because he appeared to all and sundry to be a Mute, and
because the registration had taken place in the domain of the
Mitsu-Bishi, firm allies of the Shogun.

Things were different here.  Masa-chusa and Rodiren were, in a sense,
hostile territory, where the Herald was publicly received with the
appropriate pomp and ceremony and privately viewed as a spy-master and
agent provocateur.  This was why he had to exercise extreme caution to
avoid compromising himself and, by extension, the Shogun.  Switching
identities from grass-monkey to long-dog was not quite as simple as
Brickman seemed to think.  Only one person could have provided forged
papers - Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain: the one person Toshiro dared
not turn to.  Life was already difficult enough without becoming
enmeshed in that spider's web.

Without realising it, Nakane Toh-Shiba had saved him a great deal of
time and trouble and, unwittingly, had signed and sealed his own death
warrant.  If rocket power proved to be the answer, then the
Consul-General would be among the first Iron Masters to take to the
air.  The letter ordering him to do so had already been written and was
in Toshiro's possession - and he was burning with impatience to hand it
over.

Two days later, Samurai-Major Ryoshi - one of the top military men in
Min-Orota's household - called at the residence to escort Toshiro to
the Heron Pool.  The Herald had no qualms about visiting the site in
his official capacity.  Unless he chose to make contact, there was no
way Brickman could recognise him.  Even if their paths crossed they
were unlikely to come face to face; the raexican would have his nose in
the dirt like all the other Mute slaves who worked there.  And since
Brickman did not speak a word of Japanese, he could not learn of his
identity through any conversation he might happen to overhear.

Shigamitsu, the samurai-captain in charge of the Heron Pool, greeted
the two men deferentially and, after a brief ceremony of welcome, led
them past the workshops to where the first of three weighted launching
trolleys stood at the edge of the flying-field.

A fifteen-foot section of wing and a beam carrying a crude tail
assembly had been mounted on timber struts to simulate the aircraft the
trolley would later hold.  The front axle had been widened to give
greater stability.

The vehicle was driven by four rockets encased in reusable tubes made
of rolled brass with soldered and riveted joints.  The tubes - about
two feet long and three inches in diameter - were arranged in pairs,
one above the other, and linked together by a short length of
safety-fuse.

Toshiro, Ryoshi and the other Japs from Ba-satana inspected the vehicle
closely.  Its creator, a dark-haired long-dog who knelt submissively
near by, did not rate a second glance.  When Shigamitsu had dealt with
their questions, the long-dog sought his permission to proceed with the
tests.  Shigamitsu referred the question to the Herald and Ryoshi with
the usual elaborate courtesy, then, upon receiving their assent,
invited them to watch the proceedings from a safe distance.

The dark-haired long-dog applied a burning taper to the fuse.  Two more
slaves seized the sides of the trolley and ran it forward.  The first
pair of rockets flared into life.  Shwaahh.pa-POWW.t Long searing
tongues of flame erupted from the necked ends of the tubes.  The
stub-winged trolley went racing across the field, leaving two thin
plumes of smoke in its wake.

Ppa-ppPOWW!  The second pair of rockets ignited.

The speed of the trolley increased.  A cry went up from the long-dogs
gathered at the doors of the workshops as it hit a bump and became
momentarily airborne, quickly followed by a groan as it dropped at an
awkward angle, tore off the left front wheel, then cartwheeled several
times before finally collapsing in a mangled heap.

Toshiro and Ryoshi brushed aside the Heron Pool commander's abject
apologies.  The demonstration had shown that the propulsion system
worked.  A second trolley, rigged with the same rudimentary wing and
tail, was wheeled out.  Several more dressed stones were added to
increase the weight, and the test was repeated.

This time, the trolley veered wildly from side to side but stayed in
contact with the ground.  When the rockets burned out, the trolley
thundered on across the grass and - to the great delight of the
watching Iron Masters exploded into matchwood as it hit the low stone
wall at the far side of the field.

'Was that all?"  enquired the Herald.

No.  'Brickman' still had a card to play.  A third trolley was produced
from the workshops, but this one was manned.  In addition to the
stub-wing and the tail perched on two struts at the rear, there were
more struts at the front; a triangular cage in which a Mute slave was
seated on a basket-weave chair.  On closer inspection, Toshiro saw it
was his co-conspirator - the disguised 'mexican'.

Hhhawww!

Via Shigamitsu, 'Brickman' explained that by means of a simple steering
device controlled by the passenger's feet, the tail could be pivoted to
the left and right.  This third trolley only had one front wheel and
this could be turned in the same direction as the tail when the Mute
pushed the bar with his feet.  The rear edge of the wing could also be
pivoted up and down by moving the vertical stick set between the
passenger's knees.  This deflected the air passing over the wing and
kept the vehicle on the ground.

Ahh-so.  . I The Iron Masters retired once more, the fuse was lit and
the trolley was sent on its way.  Toshiro watched anxiously as the
first two rockets ignited.  He did not want the 'mexican' to come to an
untimely end demonstrating something that had already been shown to
work.  He had much more important things to do such as disposing of the
Consul-General.  His Japanese colleagues, unaware of his private
concerns, watched avidly.  All Iron Masters were fascinated with the
aesthetics of savagery.  In peacetime this was expressed through their
pursuit of bloodsports - from cockfighting to hunting with spear and
bow.  For them, the climactic kill was an essential part of life, and
they now waited with gleeful anticipation for the trolley and its rider
to self-destruct against the stone wall.

Ppa-ppowww!  The speeding trolley accelerated as the second pair of
rockets ignited.  Steve felt himself pushed back against the seat.  The
first static tests had not produced an impressive amount of thrust, but
with the additives that AMEXICO had advised him to throw into the basic
mix the rockets were now delivering a real kick in the pants.

The stone wall was now coming up at a high rate of knots.  Time for the
party trick.  It hadn't been his idea, but he'd been obliged to go
along with it in order to worm his way deeper into Cadillac's
confidence.  And it had better goddam work, he told himself.  Otherwise
they'd be shipping him out feet first.

The visiting Iron Masters and the motley crowd of unofficial spectators
were unaware that, with Shigamitsu's agreement, a low, grass-covered
ramp had been secretly constructed on the far side of the field.

Situated close to the wall, it could not be seen from where Toshiro and
the other Iron Masters stood.  Steve applied a touch of left rudder to
bring the speeding trolley into line with the ramp.  He'd been keeping
the stick forward to keep the wheels firmly on the ground but, as he
hit the ramp, he pulled it hard back and found himself sailing through
the air.  This was the bit there hadn't been time to rehearse.  Steve
and Cadillac had been over the ground and agreed it was feasible.  But
only just.

A collective gasp of surprise left the throats of the invited guests
and watching workers as the stub-winged trolley took off.  Rising
steeply like a heron from a marsh, it cleared the stone wall by at
least twenty feet and continued to climb.

Beyond the wall was a narrow stretch of boggy ground spinkled with
tussocks of long grass, and beyond that a large pond whose far end was
fringed with trees.  As Steve crossed the edge of the pond at a height
of fifty feet, the last two rockets cut out.  The trolley, whose glide
characteristics were only marginally better than those of the humble
house-brick, promptly went into a steep dive.  Steve stood it on its
tail to lose speed, then took a deep breath as it wallowed drunkenly
out of the stall and went in more or less ass-first.  Kerr-SPL UNCH!

The watching Iron Masters burst into great guffaws of thigh-slapping
laughter as a huge cloud of spray rose into the air above the wall.

Toshiro's enjoyment was tempered by his concern about the fate of his
chosen assassin, but even he found himself smiling broadly.

Min-Orota's samurai-major, who had travelled with a ten-strong party
from Ba-satana to watch the demonstration, turned to the Herald and
gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder.  'Ha!  If this long-dog can
make carts fly like chickens, then you and I will soon have horses that
can fly like eagles!"  'That day cannot come soon enough for me,'
replied Toshiro.

Jodi and Kelso, who were up and running as soon as Steve left the
ground, were the first over the wall.  Jodi, like the Herald, was
genuinely worried; with Kelso, it was more a case of wanting to be
there when they picked up the pieces.  His unforgiving half had been
hoping to see that self-satisfied grin wiped off Brickman's face when
he hit the wall; the other half had been tinged with grudging concern
for a fellow wingman who had drawn the short straw.  But the lucky
sonofabitch had gotten away with it again and was now wading ashore
draped in green slime.  Behind him, the crumpled stub-wing floated in
the middle of the pond, surrounded by a few broken struts.

They met Brickman as he stepped ashore with a cheerful grin.  He had
blood running down one side of his face.

'Go back in and wash that gunk off,' said Jodi.  'You smell just
awful."

Steve obeyed meekly.

'You must be crazy pulling a stunt like that."  Neither she nor Kelso
had known about the ramp.

'You got it wrong, lady.  I didn't volunteer.  I was drafted."

'Nyehh, what the hell, it worked,' growled Kelso.

'These birds are gonna fly."

'Looks that way..."  Steve took hold of Kelso's outstretched hand and
clambered back on to firm ground.

Jodi checked his scalp wound.  'You'll live."

Kelso eyed him keenly.  'Kaz tells me these rockets were your idea."

'That's just between the three of us.  Officially it's all down to
Mister "Brickman'' - okay?"

'Yeah.  I've been meaning to ask you about him.  Who the hell is he and
why is he using your name?"

'Dave, I'd like to tell you, but.  it's a long story and it would only
confuse you."

They picked their way back towards the wall through the tussocks of
marsh grass.  A handful of Trackers were gathered on the other side.

Having seen he was in one piece and on his feet, they hadn't bothered
to climb over.  As far as they were concerned he was only another
stinking Mute - and a nosy one at that.

Steve scrambled over the wall ahead of the two wingmen and skirted
round the waiting linemen.

'Hey, Kelso!  Make sure you wash that hand o' yours!"  said one of them
loudly.  'Touchin' lump-shit makes your fingers fall off."

The others greeted this jibe with raucous laughter and looked
expectantly at Steve, but he averted his eyes and ran limping across
the field towards the workshops.

'Well done,' said Cadillac, as Steve stopped to massage his knee.  The
visiting Iron Masters had all departed.

'You okay?"

Steve grimaced.  'Yeah.  I just twisted this leg a little.

How did it go your end?"

'Terrific.  They're over the moon.  That lift-off put them in a really
good mood.  Ryoshi - the head of the party that came down from
Ba-satana - is one of Min-Orota's top men.  He says we can have
whatever materials we need.  They want to move ahead as fast as
possible.  All the plans under construction are to be completed.

They're talking about putting on some kind of display for the
Shogun."

'Good.  Did they say anything about drafting in more people to speed
things up?"

'Yes.  But they won't be Trackers."

'Japs."

'No.  They'd lose too much face working alongside us.

They'll probably be Koreans or Vietnamese."

'Gotcha."  Steve tested his wrenched leg by putting his full weight
upon it.  It was still tender.  'Listen, while we're on the subject of
dinks, I saw a horse tied to one of the hitching-posts out front.  Had
this black cloth on its back, trimmed with red ' 'It's called a
"caparison"..."

Steve ignored the interruption ' - and there were red doo-dabs '
'Tassels..."

'-hanging from the reins.  Did you, by any chance, see who it belonged
to?"

'Yeah.  Toshiro Hase-Gawa.  He's a Herald to the Inner Court."

'Sounds important..."

'He is important."  Cadillac gave Steve a concise explanation of the
Heralds' role, their position in the government hierarchy and their
special relationship with the Shogun.

Steve listened intently.  He'd asked because the horse, with its red
and black trappings, was identical to the one he'd encountered near Two
Island Lake.  So the Man in Black was Toshiro Hase-Gawa, Herald to the
Inner Court, one of the 'eyes and ears' of the Shogun - the top man in
Ne-Issan.  He really was caught up in a high-level conspiracy.

Once again his gut-feeling and that silent inner voice had enabled him
to put it all together.  It was the Shogun who wanted the
Consul-General killed.  And by using a lowly long-dog, he made sure no
one would ever be able to point the finger at the prime mover.  Neat.

Steve was prepared to keep his side of the bargain to secure
Clearwater's release, but what then?  The Shogun, he imagined, merely
had to lift his little finger and his people would be falling over
themselves to ensure their safe delivery to the border.  Except, of
course, that, for the same reason they were using him to make the hit,
they would not want to be seen doing so.

It would make things a lot easier if they could move under the Shogun's
protection, but could he be trusted?

How much did he know about what was going on?  Had he, for instance,
bought the story about the massive air strike that would be delivered
if he did not return safely with Cadillac and Clearwater?  The Man in
Black was a tricky customer.  He might be using his position as
intermediary to settle a few scores of his own.

Fascinating problem.  What was even more fascinating was the intimate
knowledge Cadillac had garnered about the Iron Masters.  'Tell me,'
said Steve, 'how do you know all this?"

'By listening to what they say."

Steve looked puzzled.  'Are you telling me you understand their
language?  How the elf-eft did you learn to do that?"

'The same way I learned to build airplanes."

'unbelievable.  Can you speak Japanese too?"

'Yes, like a native.  And just for the record I can read and write it
as well."  Cadillac checked their immediate surroundings, then uttered
a fluent stream of gobbledegook.

Steve didn't understand a word, but it certainly sounded like the real
thing.  He shook his head in amazement.

'Why the hell didn't you tell me about this before?"

'You never asked.  But forget I told you.  Outlanders aren't allowed to
speak Japanese.  If they found out, they'd kill me."

'Don't worry, I won't breathe a word."

'Good.  C'mon, let's go back to the house."

'What about the ground trolleys?"

'Your friends can pick up the pieces.  You and I have got something to
celebrate."

We certainly have, thought Steve.  He found it hard to contain his
excitement.  Christopher!  This could be the final break he'd been
looking for.  Ever since Jodi had told him about the yellow-card system
and the arm-stamps, Steve had been trying to find a way round the
problem of the paperwork.  He had also discovered the small problem
that Side-Winder had omitted to mention: slaves weren't allowed to
carry money.  The only dink who could procure their tickets was the
Herald, but Steve was not about to reveal the planned escape route to
anyone he was not totally sure of.  And now, the Herald would not be
needed.  Steve pictured the whole thing in his mind.  Yeah .  . . it
was brilliant.  Cadillac could do it all.

Seated cross-legged at the low table, Cadillac pulled the stopper on a
fresh bottle of sake and filled their cups to the blue line painted
round the rim.  He took one and toasted Steve.  'To the daring young
man in his flying machine."

'Very funny."  Steve raised his cup in response, then took a
heart-warming swallow.  'Next time, I want something with real wings
on.  Otherwise you can get yourself a new assistant."

'You shall have it,' said Cadillac.  He examined the inside of his cup
thoughtfully, as if he was trying to work out why it was empty.  'Look,
I know you took a tremendous risk, but it worked perfectly.  I know how
these people's minds work.  When they saw that cart take off it really
made their day."

'Glad to hear it.  It almost put paid to mine."

'Yeah.  For a minute I thought it was going to flip right over,
but..."

Cadillac replenished Steve's cup and refilled his own.

Steve couldn't figure out why he didn't just drink it straight from the
bottle.

'... you got away with it yet again.  You're the luckiest man I know.

Cheers."

It sounded more like a reproach than a compliment.

'Don't lose heart,' said Steve.  'After a few more stunts like that it
may run out on me."  He downed some more sake.  He'd put on an air of
bravado when he'd waded ashore, but his insides had been shaking like a
Seamster working a jackhammer.  The sake brought almost instant
relief.

He'd have to watch it.  A guy could get to like this stuff.  He laid
his cup firmly on the table and held it there.

'So... what next?"

'That's easy.  You helped me design that two-seater.

I'm going to teach you to fly it."

Steve stared at him for a moment, then laughed.  'That should be an
interesting experience, but do you really think it's necessary?"

'Absolutely.  You're going to take up the rocketpowered prototype.

After all, it was your idea."

'Yes, but ' 'It's very simple.  Apart from myself, there are only two
other people here with flight experience.  Kazan and Kelso.  I'm not
going to put their lives at risk until the system's been properly
tested - in the air."

'And that's where I come in."

'Exactly.  I hate to say it, but you're the best man for the job.

That's why I want you to take it up."

'Okay, but why the pretence?"

It was Cadillac's turn to laugh.  'You're not usually this slow to
catch on.  Must be the sake."  Cadillac tipped his head back, drained
his cup in one gulp, then banged it down on the table.  'You're a grass
monkey, Brickman.

Endowed with a certain, limited intelligence but basically an
unskilled, untutored savage.  Never mind.  I have decided to take you
under my wing - so to speak and as part of your education I am going to
teach you to fly."

'Smart move,' said Steve.  'How many crack-ups am I allowed?"

'None.  You're a fast learner."  Cadillac refilled his cup and toasted
Steve for the third time.

'The average at the academy is ten hours.  Better make it fifteen."

'We'll make it twenty.  You're not that clever."

Steve raised his cup with a rueful smile and started to empty it a sip
at a time.  The ground tests had only used a short burn.  The rockets
they planned to fit to the flying-horses would last twice as long.

But, unlike a normal power plant, there was no throttle and no
cut-out.

Once they ignited that was it.  You just had to sit there and ride it
out.  Provided the acceleration didn't rip the wings off, he did not
foresee any insurmountable problems.  Not with the aircraft, anyway.

'This is all fine with me, but how about the dinks?  Are they going to
let you do this?"

'Do what?"  Cadillac's voice was starting to slur.

'Teach me to fly.  As you just reminded me - I'm a Mute."

'I don't see what you're getting at."

'Aren't the Iron Masters going to end up flying these things?"

'That's the general idea.  So what?"

'Well .  . . they don't even let low'ranking dinks ride' horses.

They're reserved for samurai - like these airplanes you're making.

Won't they object to a slave becoming a pilot?"

'I don't see why they should,' replied Cadillac.  'Trackers are slaves
too.  Okay, they may be better educated and some may possess high-level
technical skills, but the Iron Masters don't place any greater value on
their lives.

That's because there's not enough of you in Ne-Issan to form a useful
workforce on their own - on top of which you can't reproduce
yourselves.  As far as the Japs are concerned, we're all lumped
together at the bottom of the heap and we're all expendable."

'Except you,' said Steve.

Cadillac greeted the proposition with a lopsided grin.

'Yeah, that's what I've been telling myself."  The bottle of sake
clattered against the rim of the cup as he refilled it.

'But I heard something today which may oblige me to, uhh.  cut short my
stay."

Steve waved away the offered bottle.  'Oh, yeah?"

'Yeah... I overheard Min-Orota's people talking as they were on their
way out.  If the flight tests using these rockets prove satisfactory
they're going to send a group of samurai to Heron Pool for pilot
training."

Steve's mind swiftly grasped the possibilities this move opened up.

'Congratulations."

Cadillac eyed him sullenly.  'They may be a little premature."

'I don't understand.  Isn't this what you expected?"

'That wasn't all I heard.  The Japs who have been looking over our
shoulders are all craft-masters."

'So .  . .?"

'Isn't it obvious?  They're drafting in their own people to help us
complete this first batch.  When the samurai earn their wings they'll
be in a position to teach others to fly."

'Yeah, go on..."

'And they will also have learnt every detail of the production
process.

We could find ourselves surplus to requirements."

All this was music to Steve's ears, but he couldn't resist clawing back
a few points.  The and the other guys, perhaps, but not you, surely
after all you've done?"

Cadillac eyed him but he didn't say anything.

Steve could see the Mute was steadily drinking himself into
insensibility, but he was still able to feel that little shaft drive
home.  Time for another.  'I'm surprised you didn't see it coming.

Haven't you been reading the stones?"

'Not since I saw the pain and grief you were going to bring.  You're
bad news, Brickman."

Steve kept it light.  'Hey, c'mon!  That's past history.

What happened wasn't my fault.  "The Path is drawn."

Isn't that what Mr Snow said?  I'm here 'cause I'm trying to help.  Why
don't you grab a reading-stone and get an update on what's due to
happen to us?"

Cadillac shook his head wearily.  'Won't work.  I've looked, but I...

can't find one."

'But there has to be ' 'Oh, sure, they're here.  I just can't see them
anymore."  He raised his cup of sake.  'This seems to have dulled my
perception."

'Pity,' said Steve.  'Guess we'll just have to work round it."  He
would have liked to know if they were going to get away - but on the
other hand it meant Cadillac didn't have a clue about what was going to
happen.  It was better that way.  If he was brought in on the escape
plan, then had yet another change of heart, it would only complicate
matters even further.

Cadillac tried to bolster his morale with another stiff shot of the
pale yellow liquor, but he couldn't keep his steely-eyed act
together.

His voice cracked and his face crumpled.  He leaned forward quickly and
massaged his cheeks and forehead in an effort to hide his tears.  'Why
is it my life always falls apart whenever you appear?"

Steve felt a twinge of remorse.  'You're reading it wrong,' he said
softly.  'Your life's not falling apart.  It's coming together."

Cadillac kept his head down, 'Oh, yeah?"  he sniffed.

'Yeah!  What the eff-eff are you complaining about?

Mr Snow's taught you all he knows.  Add in everything you picked up
from me and the other guys here and what you've learned from these
hairless wonders, hell - you're like a two-legged version of COLUMBUS!'
'Except I may not be walking around on two legs much longer."

'Don't even think about it!"  cried Steve.  'You gotta stay on top of
this thing!  Okay.  Maybe the Japs are planning to take over this
operation, but that won't be until after you've shown 'em you can put
these birds in the air and keep 'em there."

'Yeah, but.  supposing we fail?"

Boy!  thought Steve.  When this guy hits a downer he goes straight to
the bottom of the shaft...

He didn't know that alcoholic elation could flip over into manic
depression between one swallow and the next.  'It's not going to
fail!

We're going to do the best job we can and we're going to put this place
on the map because when this project finally takes off, so do we."

Cadillac slowly raised his head and fixed his eyes on Steve.  'Oh,
yeah?  Just how do we do that?"

Bad move, thought Steve.  Bad move!  'Leave all that to me,' he said
hastily.  'You've got enough to worry about."  He moved the bottle out
of reach.  'And go easy on this stuff.  Otherwise you'll end up with a
headful of boiled rice instead of brains."

'What about Clearwater?"

'Don't worry.  When, and if, the time comes, she'll be right with
you."

'Okay, but promise me one thing."

'What's that?"

'That you won't make any moves - do anything foolish - without clearing
it with me.  I want to know what's happening - before it happens."

'Sure."

'And if it turns out I got it wrong and Min-Orota decides he is not
going to re-staff the Heron Pool with his own people, then we forget
the whole thing.  If you want to take Clearwater back - fine.  But I'm
staying.  Is that understood?"

'Absolutely."

'Okay.  But..."  Cadillac jabbed his forefinger at Steve while he
searched for the words.  He was fading fast.  ' .  . . if I, uhh - if I
find you're trying to shaft me -' 'Christopher Columbus!"  hissed
Steve.  'What kind of person do you think I am?  You saved my life!

How many times do I have to tell you?  What happened with Clearwater
wasn't my fault ' 'I don't care.  about that!"  'Well I do!  And I'm
trying to make it up to you!  There may be times when you have cause to
doubt me, but I'm ourfriend!  I told Mr Snow I'd come and find you, but
if you want to stay, well - that's tough on him but its okay by me.

Clearwater and I will just fade away quietly.  You won't even know
we've gone."  Steve thrust his right hand across the table and radiated
sincerity.  'You have my word on that.  Is it a deal?"

Cadillac eyed the offered hand.  'Maybe.  I'll sleep on it."

Steve picked up the bottle of sake he'd removed and set it down in
front of the Mute.  'Be my guest..."

Cadillac's reading of the situation turned out to be correct.

Permission to take Steve up in the newly modified glider was granted,
and after stage-managing a few hesitant approaches and hair-raising
landings, he went solo with twenty hours of instruction.

On the ground, Steve was still obliged to act out his public role as a
menial subordinate.  His newfound ability to fly brought a few
belligerent comments about 'uppity Mutes', but Cadillac smoothed the
ruffled feelings of the Tracker linemen by stressing the risky nature
of the first proving flights.  The fair-haired grass-monkey was a
sacrificial victim who, if things did not work out, could end up as a
burnt offering.

The modified glider was powered by five slim rockets' attached to the
underside of a metal tray mounted beneath the fuselage pod.  The
trolley was fitted with two short-burn boosters ignited, as before, by
means of a length of safety fuse; those under the aircraft were fired
in succession by an ingenious trigger system which detonated a wad of
the same paper caps used to fire bullets from the rifles which Lord
Yama-Shita had supplied to the M'Calls.

The glider was to be launched from a redesigned three-wheeled trolley
based on the one used by Steve.

This new model had a low, ground-hugging profile to give extra
stability during the take-off run and four quick-release shackles that
kept the trolley attached to the glider until it was jettisoned by the
pilot.

Since the Iron Masters did not possess the precise measuring devices
and the computer-modelling techniques employed by the Federation,
Cadillac's flying-horse had been constructed using the simplest
calculations.

The same applied to the rockets.  Using the mathematical formulae
transmitted by AMEXICO, Steve was able to make a guesstimate of the
foot/pounds of thrust generated during the burn.  But the figures
didn't mean much when your employers didn't measure in feet and inches,
or calculate weights in pounds and ounces.

In his guise as errand boy, Steve shadowed Cadillac throughout the
assembly process to make sure that everything was done to his own
exacting standards.  At his suggestion, Jodi and Kelso were picked to
work with Cadillac behind closed doors through the night prior to the
launch, enabling him to take an active part in the final adjustments.

By first light, they had tested and checked every joint and attachment
and passed them A-OK.  One big question mark remained.  The tests with
the weighted ground trolleys had shown the rockets were powerful enough
to move it through the air - but just how fast was this silk-winged
coffin going to travel?

In a few hours Steve was due to get the answer.  The flight, which was
to be staged before the same high-ranking delegation of Iron Masters,
was scheduled for mid-morning, and it was rumoured that the
Consul-General of Ro-diren and Masa-chusa might grace the occasion with
his presence.  The cadre of Japs who ran the Heron Pool drafted in an
extra squad of cleaners and gardeners and hung out some banners and
bunting, but they did not work themselves into a frenzy.

They were required to treat the Shogun's permanent representative with
due deference, but they weren't government employees like the
post-master and his quivering clerks.  The Consul-General only
exercised absolute power within the borders of his estate.  The Heron
Pool formed part of the domain of Lord Min-Orota, and everyone who
worked there was subject to his rule - and under his protection.

Steve didn't return to his shack until four in the morning, but since
it was his big day he was allowed to skip the obligatory quota of yard
work.  Around 0500 he felt like getting up and strangling the cockerel,
but he managed to fall asleep again, and did not wake until one of the
servants banged on the door three hours later.

As a Mute, Steve wasn't allowed to use the bath-house, only a tub in
the yard, but on this occasion Cadillac summoned him into the section
reserved for the house-owner and invited him to take the plunge.  Steve
slipped off his work-stained clothes and jumped in.  Since the deep tub
was already occupied by Cadillac and two of his body-slaves, things
were a little crowded at first, but they eventually managed to
disentangle themselves and proceed with the serious business of getting
clean.

The two dark-eyed Thais, wearing nothing but polite smiles and
headscarves, were somewhat disconcerted to find themselves sharing the
same tub as a Mute, but hunting the elusive bar of soap proved a real
ice-breaker.

After a memorable scrub back and front, Steve attempted to climb out,
but the girls, egged on by Cadillac, hauled him back in and started to
give him a second going-over just for luck.  Ordinarily, Steve would
have been more than happy to co-operate, but at that moment he had
more on his mind than fun and frolics.

As they ducked him playfully he slipped out of their grasp and plunged
between their legs to the bottom of the tub.  The move caused
considerable excitement but their squeals of delight turned to cries of
disappointment when he surfaced holding the big wooden plug and hurled
it across the room.

Besides learning the Iron Masters' tongue-twisting language, Cadillac
had picked up their love of ceremony.

The communal bath was followed by an invitation to eat breakfast in the
house wearing one of Cadillac's wrap-around robes - supplied courtesy
of Lord

Kiyomori Min-Orota.

'Feel nervous?"

'Haven't given it a thought,' said Steve lightly.  It was a lie of
course, and he could see Cadillac didn't believe him.

When they had finished eating, one of the body-slaves brought Steve a
white cotton outfit: the usual loose square-sleeved jacket and wide,
calf-length trousers.  On top of the neatly folded garments were a
fresh set of underclothes, white cotton socks and rope-soled, lace-up
sandals.  There was also a white headscarf bearing several blood-red
Japanese word-symbols.

Cadillac folded it carefully, laid the portion with the symbols across
Steve's forehead, then knotted it on the nape of his neck.  'That too
tight?"

'No, just right."  Steve looked at himself in the small, square
wall-mirror.  'What does all this junk mean?"

' "We praise the wisdom of Lord Min-Orota and the greatness of all his
works."  '

'Hmmmph... D'you write that?"

'I could have, but that would have been unwise.  So I composed the line
in Basic and got one of the scribes to translate it for me."

Steve pushed the headscarf clear of his eyebrows.

'You're turning into a real toady."

'It's part of the basic survival kit, Brickman.  You should know that
better than anyone."

'Just kidding.  C'mon, let's go."

Cadillac escorted Steve over to the Heron Pool.  The aircraft they had
worked on till dawn stood poised on its launching trolley at the edge
of the field, with a short stepladder leading up to the cockpit.  Jodi
Kazan and Dave Kelso, still red-eyed from their extended nightshift,
stood by in fresh worksuits.  A long stretch of fishing net had been
raised on poles on the far side of the field to snare the speeding
trolley, and most of the Tracker wOrkforce were ranged behind it
presumably to pick up the pieces if Steve should fail to get off the
ground.

Cadillac and Steve positioned themselves on the straw mats placed by
the nose of the aircraft and knelt to pay homage to the assembled Iron
Masters, who were seated some fifty yards away on a cloth-covered dais
with their aides ranged behind them.  Long bamboo poles with narrow
banners bearing three different emblems fluttered above their heads.

'The ones on the left are the Min-Orota,' whispered Cadillac.  'Those
on the right belong to Yama-Shita, and the group in the middle are the
Toh-Yota - the Shogun's house."

'A neat way of saying we've got you surrounded,' said Steve.

They bowed again, touching the mat with their noses.

Behind them, Jodi and Kelso did the same.

'Okay, let's go for it,' said Steve.  He checked the movement of the
five hammers that would fire the rockets, then settled into the
cockpit.  After satisfying himself that the control surfaces responded
to movements of the stick and rudder bar, he pulled the row of triggers
that had been fitted to a rudimentary dashboard.

Cadillac confirmed that all five firing-pins had slammed home.

'Okay.  Prime the chambers!'

Jodi and Kelso pushed the wads of percussion caps into the firing
chambers fixed to the rear of the rocket tubes.

'Chambers primed, hammers cocked,' cried Cadillac.

Steve closed his right hand firmly round the stick and looped his left
forefinger through the ring-pull that would fire the first rocket.

'Light the boosters!"  Cadillac applied the taper.  'Lit and burning!'
Steve settled back firmly in his seat and began the countdown through
clenched teeth.  Ten-nine-eight...

Jodi and Kelso put their shoulders to the push-bars on each side of the
trolley and heaved.  It started to move forward.  The black powder
safety fuse sputtered and sparked; the flame divided and burnt its way
towards the crimped nozzles of the two boosters.

Five-four-three .:..  Steve checked the front-wheel steering by moving
the rudder bar.  two-one-zero-SHHHhooowwaAHHH!  The boosters ignited
with a swishing roar.  Jodi and Kelso leaped clear and watched
anxiously as the trolley bolted across the field, its rear end wreathed
in fire and smoke.

'Go!  Go!  Go!  GO!"  they chanted, double-punching the air on each
exclamation mark.

Once again Steve felt himself pressed back into his seat as the trolley
continued to accelerate.  From the rough measurements they had made
during the ground tests with the aid of marker poles, he knew that the
trolley reached its maximum speed in eight seconds.  ˇ .  .

five-fourthreetwooneIGNITlON!

Steve triggered the centre rocket and, as he heard it ignite, he
reached outside the cockpit, yanked the toggle that released the
aircraft from the trolley, pulled back on the stick and aimed for the
clouds.

Whooossshhh!  It was a fantastic feeling.  He had never climbed so
steeply or so fast before.  Glancing down, he saw the ground drop
rapidly away.  The upturned faces of the spectators became featureless
pale dots - like tiny flowers scattered across a meadowˇ In less than
fifteen seconds he was nearly 2,000 feet up.  The hissing sound ceased
abruptly as the rocket reached the end of its burn and the drumming
vibration that had threatened to shake his teeth loose was replaced by
an eerie silence.  Steve rolled out of the climb, going over and down
in a descending right-hand turn.

Straightening out his line of descent, he fired the second rocket.

Shuwahh-pa-powwW!  Another giant kick in the pants.

Steve kept the nose down.  With no instruments, he could only gauge his
speed by the keening noise of the air as it rushed over the silken
wings and the sickening judder generated by the stresses on the
airframe.  Now!

He pulled up into a loop, rolled off the top and went sti'aight into
another loop - an aerobatic manoeuvre known as an upwardS.

The rocket cut out as he came off the top of the second loop, but he
had enough speed to go into a barrel roll.

Steve was forced to admit Cadillac had done a good job with a little
help from his friends.  As a glider, its performance had been no more
than average, but under power, the aircraft handled well.

Yep, she was a sweet bird...

The upward-S had added another thousand feet of altitude, enabling
Steve to see Ba-satana, perched on the edge of the Eastern Sea.  That
was one big stretch of water.  Was that the edge of the world - or did
something lie beyond?  He used up the next two rockets in a variety of
aerobatic manoeuvres, working his way closer to the ground as he gave
serious thought to buzzing the display stand from behind to give the
dinks the fright of their lives.  He came to the conclusion that it
might not appeal to their warped sense of humour, and settled for a
low-level, high-speed pass across the field, scattering the watching
Trackers and clearing the stone wall by inches.

Up again he went, during the final seconds of the fifth and last burn,
finishing off with three victory rolls before turning back towards the
field for an immaculate landing.

The total burn time had been seventy-five seconds, but by gliding in
between firings he had been able to stay aloft for about twenty
minutes.  He had deliberately kept it short to sustain the Iron
Masters' interest, but could have remained airborne for much longer and
flown further.  A westward climb using four rockets would have taken
him close to 8,000 feet, leaving one in reserve.

From that height he would have been able to glide all the way to the
Hudson - with a passenger.  Yeah.  Things were coming together just
fine .  . .

His spectacular handling of the flying-horse and its faultless
performance put the Iron Masters in a convivial mood.  Anxious to
demonstrate that his flying skills were the equal of Steve's, Cadillac
made the next two flights with Jodi, then Kelso, riding in the front
passenger seat.

To the casual observer his performance was every bit as good as
Steve's.  Jodi and Kelso, who knew the difference, were impressed but
not bowled over.

Cadillac's flying lacked that indefinable something that separates the
gritted-teeth routine of a competent pilot trying to do his best from
the easy brilliance of the born-to-fly aces who simply can't do it any
other way.

After an alfresco lunch, the Iron Masters sent a samurai from
Min-Orota's party up with Cadillac.  He burned off two rockets in a
steep eastward climb, circled silently over the port of Ba-satana, then
made a swooping dive over Lord Min-Orota's palace.  The samurai had
maintained a white-knuckled grip on the rim of the cockpit during the
climb-out, but as the minutes passed his initial terror eased.  And
when he saw the field-workers pause in their labours, and the soldiers
and servants stream out of the palace to catch a glimpse of them as
they flew overhead, he chortled happily and waved with both hands.

Cadillac fired the third rocket to regain altitude and expended the
remaining pair doing gentle aerobatics in sight of the field.

When Cadillac landed, Shigamitsu, the samurai in command of the Heron
Pool, announced that the Shogun's Herald had expressed the wish to be
taken into the air by the pilot who had made the first flight of the
morning.  After a new set of rockets had been fitted to the glider and
trolley, Toshiro Hase-Gawa was ushered forward with the usual elaborate
courtesies.  Once he was settled comfortably in the front seat, Steve
was allowed back on the scene.  Shigamitsu had overcome the ticklish
problem of protocol by ordering up a pair of gloves and a straw mask
for Steve to wear.  In this way, the Herald would not come face to face
with a Mute slave.

Since sheet glass was in short supply and Perspex was unheard of, the
windscreens on the glider were pretty basic.  Cadillac had managed to
get a couple of pairs of goggles made up, and a cotton scarf tied
across the nose and chin completed the flying kit.  Steve, who could
only see the back of his passenger's head, had no inkling of his
identity until he heard a muffled voice say: 'Okay, take it away,
sport."

In response to Toshiro's request for a brief scenic tour, Steve
followed Cadillac's flight pattern, taking in Ba-satana and the
Min-Orota's family estates.  On the way back he circled above the
Consul-General's residence and Two Island Lake.  Clearwater was down
there.  Was she in the garden, looking up at the white stiff-winged
bird floating lazily overhead?  With the power off, the only sounds
were a gentle swish of air over the glider's silken skin and the
flip-flapping tail-ends of their headscarves.

Toshiro edged round in his seat as far as his safety harness would
allow and pulled the scarf clear of his mouth.  'Have you thought about
where you're going to make the drop?"

Steve jabbed a finger over the side and shouted into the slipstream.

'I thought the lake would be a good place.

Give him something to think about on the way down."

Toshiro nodded.  'Nice touch!  How are you going to do it?"

'By rigging the safety harness!  The lap straps are anchored to the
floor by pins and the shoulder straps are fixed here - on the bulkhead
behind your seat!'

'Got it..."

'I'll fix the pins so they'll come loose when I pull a wire, and
before he knows what's happening, I turn her oven' Steve rammed the
stick against his right thigh, ' - like this!"  Toshiro's mouth flew
open in alarm as the plane rolled onto its back.  Up to now, the flight
had been fairly sedate, and here he was, suddenly hanging upside down
3,000 feet above the ground, supported by four two-inch-wide straps.

'And away he goes!"  Steve kept the glider inverted for a couple of
minutes, and watched Toshiro's head bob from side to side as he
scrabbled around inside the cockpit for something to hold on to.  It
wouldn't do him any harm to know how the Consul-General would feel in
that gut-wrenching moment before he started treading air.

Steve pulled the nose down in a half-loop, then levelled out the right
way up.  His passenger sank down gratefully into his seat.  'You see?

Couldn't be simpler!"  No response.

'Are you okay?"

Toshiro nodded but didn't look round.  He had made the flight in order
to pave the way for the Consul-General's one-way trip, but this would
also be his first and last ride on a flying-horse.  Never again!

Never!

When the final rocket had been fired and they were gliding back towards
the field, Steve reached forward and nudged the Herald's shoulder.

'Can we talk?"

'What about?"

'I need that bundle of pink leaves."

Toshiro gave him a sideways glance.  'One thing at a time.  I got you
transferred to the Heron Pool, didn't I?"

'Yeah, that's right... Thanks a lot."  I don't believe it, thought
Steve.  Our lives are in this guy's hands and he's full of shit!

They landed smoothly on the twin bamboo skids.

Wheels would have made things a lot easier, but the Iron Masters
weren't geared up to produce the kind they needed.  It had been a major
headache finding cartwheels small and light enough for the launch
trollies.

'Don't stay away too long,' said Steve, as the ashen-faced Herald made
a shaky exit.  'Things are starting to move pretty fast around here."

'Don't worry,' replied Toshiro, with feeling.  'We'll meet soon enough,
you need have no fear of that."

What an insolent swine this outlander was!  He had endured Brickman's
boorish behaviour in order to secure the death of the Consul-General.

It was an unsavoury alliance, but his wounded pride had been soothed by
the prospect of exacting an exquisite revenge once the fat degenerate
had been dispatched.  But now the Shogun had decided that the long-dog
should be allowed to escape with his two captives, and that made
Brickman's brash confidence doubly irksome.

It was almost as if someone had told the mexican that the veiled
threats he, Toshiro, had uttered against him were not to be taken
seriously.  Was it possible that the Chamberlain's office had become
involved in this affair?

Ieyasu's spidery tentacles were rumoured to extend into the farthest
corners of Ne-Issan.  It was a chilling thought.  The Herald prayed it
was not so, and cursed himself for having taken the course he had.  But
there could be no turning back.  Promises had been made, expectations
raised.  He would have to aid Brickman.  It was his duty to do so.  But
he would keep the painted gutter-hound on tenterhooks for as long as
possible.

Steve kept his eyes down as Toshiro squared his shoulders and swaggered
back to his friends.  It would be courting disaster to rely on any
offers made by the Jap to aid their escape.  Or to deliver
Clearwater.

She would have to get to the Heron Pool the same way she had secured
his own transfer - by getting inside the Consul-General's head.

When the VIPs had been bowed out of the compound, Cadillac told Steve
what had been decided.  The conversion of the twelve existing and
semi-completed airframes into dual-control two-seaters was to be given
top priority.  Twenty-four samurai would be sent to the Heron Pool for
flight-aptitude tests.  The twelve best candidates were to be given
gliding instruction.  After going solo, the top six pupils from this
group were to be given advanced training on the rocket-powered
version.

When they had reached the required level of competence, they would
display their flying skills before the domain-lords Min-Orota and
Yama-Shita, the chief members of their households and - it was hoped
the Shogun himself.

'Did they give you a date?"

'Yes.  A month from now.  If they leave it any later, the Shogun won't
be around.  He spends the summer on a big island off the coast of
Ro-diren, then moves south during the Yellowing."

Steve nodded thoughtfully.  Cadillac's use of the Mute term for autumn
prompted memories of his brief spell with the M'Calls - and the fact
that time was passing.

'The three of you are going to have your work cut out."

'Yeah, it's all your fault.  Mine too in a way.  We outsmarted
ourselves.  The reason the Shogun's Herald went up with you was because
he wanted to check you out.  He told Min-Orota's people that if I could
teach a grass-monkey to fly like that in a week, then their samurai
ought to be able to grow wings of their own in four."

Steve bit back a smile.  'Do you want me to help?"

'As an instructor?"  Cadillac shook his head.  'They'd never wear it.

They didn't mind me using you as the fall-guy during the trials, but
they couldn't cope with a Mute telling them what to do.  It goes
against everything they've been taught to believe in."

'That figures, but ... like you said, Trackers are slaves too.  How are
you and the other guys going to put the message across?"

'With difficulty,' sighed Cadillac.  'But they've managed to
rationalise the situation with the aid of some very convoluted
thinking.  As outlanders, they regard us as non-persons, but they're
prepared to acknowledge the fact that Jodi, Dave and myself possess
certain high-grade skills they don't have.  While they are acquiring
those skills they're prepared to defer to us in those specific areas.

But once we're out of the cockpit, away from the flying field or
outside the workshops, they expect to see our noses in the dirt."

'What a bunch of stiff-necked assholes."

'Yeah, well.  that's the way it goes."

'It's a pity I couldn't get cleaned up and reregistered as a
Tracker...

' Steve let the suggestion hang in the air.

'Well... I've got some soap-leaves ' 'You have?"

'Yes, a whole bunch of them.  Got a set of body-paints too.  Clearwater
and I both brought a set - just in case."

'Good thinking,' mused Steve.  'Yeah... I'm glad you told me."

'But there's no way I could get you a set of papers."

'Then fake 'em.  You can write.  Make a copy of Kelso's?

'It's not as easy as that.  Everyone's papers are held in the Records
Office.  I just can't walk in there.  It's not my territory.  But even
if I could, what about the arm tag?

They're stamped out of metal.  I don't see how we can fake one of
those."

'Yeah."  Steve grimaced reflectively.  It looked as if they'd have to
rely on the Herald after all.  With his connections, Hase-Whoever
should be able to come up with everything they needed, including a
route-map and a compass.  'You're right.  Forget it."  He mulled things
over, then cocked a finger at Cadillac.  'There is one way we can speed
things along.  You, Jodi and Kelso concentrate on training these dinks
and I'll, uhh -' 'Flight-test the planes as they come off the line...

?"

Steve spread his hands.  'You got there ahead of me."

Soft-soaping this guy really paid off.  'And I'll also see what can be
done to improve the performance of those rockets.  I'm sure we can
boost the power and duration without a significant increase in
weight.

What d'you say?"

Cadillac thought it over.  'Yeah, okay.  Good idea."

Are you kidding?  It's not just a good idea, amigo, it's a stroke of
pure fucking genius .  . .

Steve stayed with Cadillac in the study, poring over the constructional
drawings of the glider, trying to decide how they could strengthen the
airframe to cope with the added stresses of powered flight.  Along with
Jodi and Kelso, they had both found the vibration slightly unnerving,
and what they were looking for was some way of dampening it down
without getting into a major rebuild.

Their search for a quick fix went on till after dark.  Some of the
drawings they needed to look at had been left in the assembly workshop,
and when Cadillac broke for supper he sent Steve over to fetch them.

As Steve left the workshop with the drawings and came back up the
almost pitch-black alley he heard someone humming a familiar tune.

'Dali-dee da-da-dahh ... down Mexico way ...

dali-dee dali-dee dee-dee dali-dee dee-dee.  she knelt to pray..."

A bulky figure eased itself off the wall ahead of him.  It was Kelso.

'Hi."

Steve stopped just beyond the reach of the big Tracker.

Kelso had treated him with grudging camaraderie ever since his hop over
the wall, but Jodi had been with them.

Now that they were on their own there was no telling which way it might
go.  'Haven't heard anyone sing that song in a long time,' he said.

Kelso responded with a dry laugh.  'Not many people know it.  Trouble
is, I keep forgetting the words."  He hummed a few bars.  'How does the
last bit go?"

'The mission bells told me, I couldn't stay -' Kelso chimed in, 'South
of the border, down Mexico way... Yeah, that's it."

The song, and the exchange of half-remembered lines was one of the
secret signals AMEXICO operatives employed to announce their presence
to any fellow mexicans who happened to be around.  Steve fingered the
back of his ear, pressing on the tiny, implanted transceiver but there
was no response to his Morse-coded call-sign.  There was always the
possibility that Kelso had heard the routine at one time or another but
even so .  . .

Watch your step, Stevie .  . .

Kelso, his arms folded, moved closer to Steve and laid his right
shoulder against the wall.  'I hear you're not planning on staying long
either..."

'Who told you that?"

Kaz."

'Oh, yeah?"

'Yeah.  I've been reading you wrong, Brickman.  I had you figured for a
lump-sucker, but you're all right.  You did well today."

'It wasn't any big deal.  Any True Blue could've done it."

'Don't bullshit me, Brickman.  Modesty doesn't become you."

Steve let it pass.

'These crates we're building.  If a guy knew which way to head, he
could go a long way in one of those things."

'Depends on where he was aiming for..."

'Yeah, well, the first thing is to get the hell out of here - then work
out the rest later."

'You're probably right,' said Steve.  'Just how much did Jodi tell
you?"

'Just how much does she know?"

'Come on, Dave.  You can do better than that."

'She told me someone was leaning on your kin-sister, that you been sent
to pick up a couple of badhats, and

ˇ..  that she's going back in with you."

'And how d'you feel about that?"

'Life in the Big Open ain't all it's cracked up to be.

This deal you promised her.  D'you really think you can swing that?"

'Yeah, I'm sure I can.  She's already saved my life once.  You helped
her, remember?  That's why you're both here."

'Don't worry.  I hadn't forgotten."  Kelso hesitated, then said: 'Could
you get the same deal for me?"

Steve found it hard to read the Tracker's face in the darkness.  'Don't
see why not.  But are you sure that's what you want?"

'Listen.  If Kaz is happy to throw in with you, then I'd like to come
along too."

'Glad to hear it."  Steve wasn't at all sure whether he could really
trust Kelso but - as a long-gone American President once said when
challenged for giving a troublesome opponent a plum post in the White
House it was better to have him inside the tent pissing out, than have
him on the outside, pissing in.

He offered his hand to the renegade.  'Welcome aboard."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As the month neared its end, Cadillac had every reason to feel
satisfied.  The Tracker workforce, assisted by a newly drafted batch of
Vietnamese craftsmen, had put in long hours to convert and complete the
first twelve aircraft.  Four had sustained varying degrees of damage
during the initial training period, but these had been quickly repaired
and put back into service.

Of the twelve samurai selected as potential pilots, eight were judged
to possess the necessary aptitude to complete the intensive four-week
training course that was to culminate in rocket-powered formation
aerobatics.  By the end of the third week, it became clear that only
five of the eight had the degree of co-ordination required to perform
as a team.  The other three had reached a satisfactory level of
competence but lacked that indefinable extra something which, in
another age, had been called 'the right stuff'.  Thanks to the efforts
of Kazan and Kelso, his co-instructors, the five top students had
reached a remarkably high standard and were now rehearsing the
exhibition routine that he and Steve had worked out.

Dozens of gardeners aided by gangs of Mutes were busy tidying up the
landscape.  A brand-new access road now linked the highway to the
eastern side of the flying field where a hundred Korean craftsmen were
building a wooden grandstand with boxes at the front for the two
domain-lords and the other top VIPs and several tiers of benches for
those of inferior rank.

The euphoria generated by the achievements of all concerned and the
preparations for what was obviously going to be a major spectacle - of
which he was the principal architect - swept away Cadillac's doubts
about his future prospects.  If all went well, it could signal the
beginning of a new, and even more glorious, stage in his career.

Looking back on what had been accomplished in the last few weeks made
the notion that his services might be dispensed with seem totally
absurd.  He should never have revealed his temporary feelings of
insecurity.

But had he not done so, the fair-haired Tracker would not have been so
forthcoming about his plans to escape.

Yes.  Only one cloud marred an otherwise dazzling horizon: Brickman.

What the stones had foretold was coming true.  Sooner or later Brickman
would carry Clearwater away to the dark world beneath the deserts of
the south.  And many would die.  Cadillac did not fear for his own
life.  Mr Snow, who spoke with the Sky Voices, had assured him that he
and Clearwater would both live.  For he was to be the sword and she the
shield of Talisman.

The meaning of Mr Snow's words was unclear, but in any case it referred
to some future event.  What concerned Cadillac was the here and now.

The cloud warrior's presence had disinterred the crushing sense of
guilt he had tried so hard to bury.  His betrayal of Mr Snow's trust,
his indifference to Clearwater's present fate and the abandonment of
his duty towards the clan M'Call were the main reasons why he sought
nightly oblivion with the aid of sake.

Yes, guilt was one element of his present unease but the root cause was
envy - generated by his own reaction at having to measure up to and
work with his rival.  A rival who did not even bother to compete; whose
sense of superiority was so crushing he cheerfully accepted the
demeaning role of a Mute slave, tackling the menial tasks he was given
with the same enthusiasm he brought to solving a knotty problem of
aerodynamics.  What made it worse was knowing that he could not have
got this far without Brickman's shrewd counsel and unflagging
cooperation.

The realisation that he was still not the equal of the cloud warrior
increased Cadillac's smouldering resentment.  But it was worse than
that.  He needed Brickman.  His presence acted as a spur; made him
sharper, helped his own brain to function better.  But to be dependent
on someone you could not trust was both foolish and dangerous.

Cadillac cursed himself for not denouncing Brickman at the very
beginning.  It was now too late, and he doubted whether he could ever
have done it.  He already had too many betrayals on his conscience.

No... escape was the answer.  Let him take Clearwater.  Provided the
manner of their departure did not jeopardise his own situation, he
would be happy to be rid of both of them.

He had meant what he had said to Brickman about there being nothing for
him to go back to.  The will of Talisman might one day bring Clearwater
back into his life, but for the foreseeable future he had lost her.

The hopes he had nurtured about patching up their relationship had
vanished with Brickman's arrival in Ne-Issan.

If he went back to the clan, he would be obliged to resume his role as
Mr Snow's apprentice; his obedient shadow.  He would only acquire
proper standing in the eyes of the clan after Mr Snow's death.  But the
stones had shown him that after the old wordsmith went to the High
Ground the M'Calls would cease to exist.  So what was the point of
returning?  He might be without friends here, but without Mr Snow and
Clearwater he had no real friends anywhere.  His association with the
cloud warrior was something else entirely.  There were many things they
had in common, but it was not friendship that bound them together.  It
was destiny.

Steve had been busy too.  Eight pilots flying several rocket-propelled
sorties a day, seven days a week, consumed a lot of black powder.  Once
used, the rocket tubes and launch boosters could be refilled, but the
whole operation had to be geared up to meet the demand.  At Steve's
suggestion, Cadillac put in a call for reinforcements and a mixed bag
of Thais and Vietnamese women duly arrived from the local fireworks
factory to help out in the packing department.

Cadillac had also taken up another of Steve's suggestions and arranged
for Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso to be moved from their billets in the
compound to his own grace-and-favour residence - now flanked by the new
access road.  The move had been justified by the high-pressure training
programme.  By living together, all three instructors had more time to
review their pupils' progress after flying had finished for the day,
and could coordinate any changes that needed to be made in the
schedule.

The arrangement also fitted in perfectly with Steve's forward
planning.

With Jodi and Kelso close at hand he could confer with them at length,
without falling foul of the other Tracker renegades on the workforce.

To them he was still an 'uppity Mute', and the fact that he was able to
fly and had been given the task of test-piloting the newly completed
aircraft had served to fuel their barely concealed resentment.

In the few moments when he hadn't been run off his feet, Steve had also
been considering Cadillac's future prospects.  Instead of just keeping
an eye on the various processes, the Iron Masters were now lending a
hand.  At a rough head-count, the Japs and assorted lower-ranking dinks
now outnumbered the original Tracker workforce by three to one.  Was
this another stage of the eventual takeover Cadillac had hinted at
before he'd nose-dived into his sake?  Steve had been waiting for the
Mute to say something, but he appeared totally unconcerned, and since
their original conversation had not uttered one word about the idea of
escaping.

Given Cadillac's character, it was not all that surprising.  The Mute
preferred to clutch at any straw rather than face up to the possibility
that he was merely being used and could shortly become expendable.  The
forthcoming show - now only days away - was to be his big moment, and
he didn't want anyone raining on his parade.  Tough.  Like it or not,
he was going over the wall.

And by the time good old Stevie had done his number, Cadillac would be
glad someone had booked him a seat on the flight out.

As rumoured, Min-Orota had issued an invitation to the Shogun.

Yoritomo had initially indicated his willingness to attend, and a
tastefully decorated private box was being prepared for him at the
front of the grandstand.  The efforts of the craftsmen were in vain
for, that very morning, Cadillac had overheard the news that the Shogun
had decided to take a raincheck.  The Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba
and the Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa would be attending the ceremony on his
behalf.  Wise move.

Yoritomo's letter to Lord Min-Orota did not explain the reason for his
change of heart - the Shogun was not required to justify any decision
he cared to take - but he reaffirmed his continuing support for the
project, about which he had received glowing reports.  The letter
couched in the warmest terms the official court language allowed ended
with the fervently expressed hope that the day's ceremonies would be
crowned with success and that all those concerned would be justly
rewarded for their efforts.  Lord Kiyo Min-Orota pondered at length
over the meaning of that last phrase.  In the end he decided what
troubled him was not the Shogun's words but the knowledge of his own
treacherous intentions.

With just under a week to go, Steve still had several major hurdles to
clear.  He had to see Clearwater again, he still had to solve the
problem of their travel stamps and papers, and he had to pick up the
last of several surprise packages that hadbeen delivered by AMEXICO
over the last four weeks.

The packages had been dropped into the pond behind the Heron Pool on
nights when the moon was obscured by cloud.  To ensure accurate
delivery and avoid detection, the all-black aircraft made a power-off
approach, gliding on incredibly slim wings to within a hundred feet of
the surface before releasing the waterproof containers.  The only sound
was a whispering rush of air that built to a swift crescendo, then fell
away in a dying sigh like a sudden gust of wind in the treetops.

Slowed by a drag-chute, the splash made by the containers was no louder
than that of a rising fish.  Once on the bottom, a float disguised as a
stick was released to mark its position.  To date, Steve had managed to
pinpoint them soon after dawn and then fish them out when everyone was
in bed.

Shielding the flame of a lighted taper, Steve ducked through the door
of his low-roofed shack and pulled it shut behind him.  Kneeling on the
flattened straw that served both as floor and mattress, he lit the wick
of the light-bowl that stood on a small shelf.

As the flame grew and cast its dim orange glow over the dark interior,
he saw what he had failed to sense - a figure, dressed in black from
head to foot, sitting cross-legged in the far corner of the shack, with
a half-drawn short-sword across his lap.  His right hand gripped the
hilt, his left the scabbard.  A cloth was wrapped round his face,
leaving a narrow gap across the eyes, but it was so deeply shadowed
that even they remained hidden from view.

'How're you doing, sport?"  It was the Herald, in his original
disguise.

'As well as can be expected.  You been here long?"

'Long enough."

Steve shuffled round to face him and bowed low, trying to forget about
the killer blade that lay within striking distance of his neck.  It was
all part of the Herald's act.  'Your illustrious presence greatly
honours my humble abode.  May I beg to ask the purpose of your
visit?"

'Don't overdo it, Brickman.  Bad things happen to people who try to
take the rise out of me."

'Nothing was further from my thoughts, sire."  Steve straightened his
back.  'What can I do for you?"

'I want to know what your plans are.  We're getting close to the
off."

'I know.  Apart from a few minor details, everything's more or less
sewn up.  The only thing you have to do is make sure that the
Consul-General turns up for his big ride."

The Herald snorted with annoyance.  'He'll be there!

What about the other half of your assignment?"

'I just told you.  It's all sewn up."

'I want details, Brickman.  C'mon!  Spell it out.  We haven't got all
night."

'The flying demonstration that's been laid on is not going to go too
well.  In fact, it's going to be a total disaster.  I don't know what
precautions you plan to take on the day, but I'm relieved to hear your
boss is not going to be here.  Could have made things very awkward."

Toshiro's grip on the short-sword tightened.  'My...

boss?"

'Yes.  The Shogun.  His Exalted Highness Yoritomo Toh-Yota.  He's what
... twenty-eight years old?

Unmarried but two of his four sisters are - correct?"

'Long-dog swine!  How dare you utter his name?"  It was only by a
supreme effort of will that Toshiro managed to restrain his sword
arm.

Steve appeared oblivious of the danger.  'C'mon, be reasonable.  Have I
shown disrespect?  If you and I are going to do business, we can't
stand on ceremony."

'Watch your mouth, Brickman.  No one is indispensable.

Not even you."  Toshiro paused.  'As a man who lacks any sense of
honour you probably think that's an empty threat.  You'd be wrong.

Deal or no deal, I have my limits.  Push me too far and I'll be obliged
to kill you regardless of the consequences.  And in my case they will
be dire, believe me."

Steve bowed his head.  'Nobody knows that better than I, sire.  My
masters are as merciless as yours."

The long-dog's reply served to remind Toshiro of the terrible risks
facing those involved in his own double-game.  Regaining his composure,
he said, 'How did you come by this information?"

'The same way that I know you are a Herald of the Inner Court and that
your name is Toshiro HaseGawa."

The Herald pulled the scarf down to reveal the lower half of his
face.

'I won't warn you again, Brickman.

Tread carefully."

'Do you think we met by chance?  You were pinpointed from the moment we
knew the two runaway Mutes had reached this area."  It was pure bluff,
put together from the assorted information Cadillac had garnered from
the Iron Masters.  But the Herald didn't know that.

'Pinpointed?"

'As the man with his finger on the pulse.  Someone we could do business
with."  Steve watched the Herald closely.  'Intelligent, imaginative,
resourceful.  ambitious."

The last word had the most impact, but it was quickly erased.

Aware that he had lost the initiative, Toshiro fixed Steve with his
expressionless eyes and waited.

Steve stared back, neither challenging nor fearful.

'You don't seem surprised."

'I try to avoid surprises,' replied Toshiro.  'You are the envoy of a
powerful nation.  However, I am curious to know why you didn't disclose
this knowledge before."

Steve responded with a calculating smile.  'Have you put all your cards
on the table?  Despite the gulf between our two societies you and I are
- with all due respect, sire - two of a kind."

Toshiro conceded the point with a burst of suppressed laughter.

'Brickman, despite your total lack of sensitivity, I'm sure you are
aware there have been several occasions when I've been itching to kill
you - and I could cheerfully do so now."  He slammed the half-drawn
sword back into its scabbard.  'One day, perhaps, I may have that
pleasure."

'Not if I see you first."

His spirited reply caused the Herald to slap his thigh.

'Well said!  Now - ' he lowered his voice again ' - how do you plan to
escape?"

'We're going to take three of the flying horses,' whispered Steve.

Toshiro frowned.  'But the western border is nearly 1,000 leagues from
here.  Can these machines travel that far?"

'One day they will - but not now."  Steve fed him the false lead.

'Once we're across the Hudson, we fly south-west to a rendezvous point
near Scranton.  The place you call Skaratana."

'Ahh, so..."

'Our own people are flying in to pick us up from there.

We'll be back home before nightfall."

Toshiro tried hard not to look impressed.  'What about the woman?

Where and when do you want her delivered?"

'Don't worry about it.  The Consul-General will be bringing her."

The news took Toshiro's breath away.  'You've arranged this?"

'Not yet.  I was planning to do that tonight.  The Consul-General is
dining with Lord Min-Orota, and won't be back until tomorrow
morning."

Steve had learned of this from a conversation Cadillac had overheard.

'But of course, you already know that."

The Herald did, and had already made plans to take advantage of
Toh-Shiba's absence.  But how did Brickman know - and what did his
words imply?  'You ˇ .  . astound me."

'Don't see why,' replied Steve.  'Just doing my job."

'But ' 'There is one thing you could help me with."  Steve had taken
the Herald's warning seriously, but sensed that, for the moment, he had
him on the ropes.  He cocked a finger at him.  'Did you bring your
horse?"

'Yes ' 'Terrific.  I'm glad we had this opportunity to talk, but it's
put me behind schedule.  What are the chances of hitching a ride over
to Two Island Lake?"

Despite the tempting offer of another round of bodily delights, Steve
did not linger in Clearwater's arms once the last crucial details had
been ironed out.  To return to the Heron Pool meant a long swim to the
western side of the lake followed by a three-mile run.  With the onset
of autumn, the nights had become noticeably chill, and while the water
was relatively warm, the surface was shrouded in a thick layer of pale
grey mist.

The mist had seeped up the steep sides of the lake, cloaking the tangle
of boulders, bushes, fallen branches and rotting vegetation that formed
a swamp-like morass at the water's edge.  It was difficult to negotiate
in daylight; with an almost naked body in almost total darkness, it had
been both hazardous and painful.

In swimming towards the island, he had aimed for the pale yellow point
of light emanating from the lantern which they had agreed Clearwater
would hang in her window if she was alone - and unlikely to be
disturbed by her fat friend.

To help guide him back, Steve had hung two lanterns in line with the
direction he wanted to go: yellow in front, pink behind.  The
lake-house was perched among trees on the highest point of the island,
so by porpoising out of the water he was able to see the lights through
the wraith-like top layer of the mist.  As long as he could see only
the yellow light, he knew he was on the correct heading and not
swimming round in circles.

Halfway across, Steve encountered a narrow mist-free channel.  He
turned over and switched to a back stroke.

It was noisier than the breast stroke, but just as powerful.  And it
meant he could swim and keep an eye on the lights at the same time.

Even if he had been facing the right way, it was doubtful if he would
have been quick enough to avoid the coarse fishing net that was
suddenly drawn out of the water a yard or so beyond the end of the
clear channel.

The ends of the net were held by six shadowy figures.

They were standing in two long, low-hulled boats, but these were hidden
beneath the surrounding layer of mist.

With the swift, practised movements that only came from years of
fishing the waters, the net was brought over and under Steve and hauled
tight.  The boats came together, meeting first at the bows before
gently colliding sideways on.  One man in each boat mounted the bows
and lifted their struggling catch clear of the water.  Before Steve was
fully able to grasp what was happening, he was dumped in the bottom of
the left-hand boat and knocked unconscious with a swift, well-aimed
blow on the back of the head.

When he returned to his senses, Steve found that he was dry, but still
naked.  Two figures dressed in black stood over him.  As his eyes
fluttered open, they hauled him into a kneeling position.  It took a
few seconds for him to realise what kind of trouble he was in.  His
arms had been raised to shoulder height and roped to a short pole which
went over the back of his neck and under his bent elbows, leaving his
fingers brushing his ears.

It was already causing a certain amount of discomfort, and when cramp
set in would soon become painful.  But not as painful as the thin cord
that had been looped around his penis and scrotum and pulled taut
before the other end had been tied round his neck.  A neat trick.  The
only way to ease the tension was to lean forward.  If he tried to
straighten his back he would yank his balls off.

Terrific...

Facing him was a third man.  He was also dressed in black, but his
lined, skull-like face was uncovered.  With deep-set slitted eyes, a
square jaw, and a mouth like a joint between two steel plates, he
looked like bad news.

A lantern hung from the top of a short angled pole stuck into the
ground to Steve's right.  His brown worksuit, which he had left stashed
under a fallen tree, lay neatly folded beside it.  The back of his head
throbbed painfully.  He moved it gingerly from side to side to try and
ease the stiffness in his neck, and it was only then that he realised
he was inside a black tent.

Skull-Face filled a small cup with sake from a leather-covered flask
and held it out to the guard on Steve's right.  'Drink up.  It may help
you collect your thoughts."

The guard held the cup to Steve's lips.  With the cord round his neck
and his privates, he had to lean even further forward in order to get
his mouth at the right angle.

'Feeling better?"

'Yes.  Thank you."

'Good."  Skull-Face barked a command in Japanese.

The two masked guards picked up whipping-canes and positioned
themselves behind Steve's shoulders.

'I won't beat about the bush, Mr Brickman.  Neither of us has much time
to spare.  You will therefore answer any questions I put to you
directly and without hesitation.  As you will soon discover, I know the
score so do not prevaricate and, above all, don't get smart.  My job is
to help you escape, and in return you are going to help me.  Is that
clear?"

'Yes, but.  what happensif I don't know the answers?"

Skull-Face sighed.  'I warned you not to prevaricate,' he said
softly.

'But I see you've forgotten already."  He motioned to the black-clad
figures.

ThurWIKK.t ThurWOKK.t Steve gasped as he received two stinging blows
across the shoulderblades in quick succession.  Christopher!  Those
whipping-canes really bit deep.  And arching his back under the impact
of the blows had tightened the noose round his throat and put a
sickening squeeze on his scrotum.

'I hope that will convince you we are not here to play games,' said
Skull-Face.  'If you give me any more trouble, I'll cut your prick and
balls off and send you home with them in this pickle jar."  Reaching
both hands behind him, he produced a curved dagger and a capped glass
jar and placed them in front of Steve.

It was the kind of stunt that dear old Uncle Bart might have pulled,
but Steve had a chill feeling that this guy really meant it.

'Okay, Mr Brickman.  We know that you're an agent of AMEXICO and that
you have been dealing with a representative of the ruling faction.  We
also know that you have come to an arrangement whereby you are to wreck
the Heron Pool project and cause the death of Consul-General Nakane
Toh-Shiba.  In return, you have been promised unhindered passage out of
the country with the two long-dogs who delivered the original
flying-horses to Domain-Lord Hiro Yama-Shita.  Is that correct?"

There was only one thing to say.  'Yes."

'Good.  These arrangements have our approval.  You will proceed as
planned.  Now - do you know the identity of the man you have been
dealing with?"

'He has never divulged it, but I believe him to be a Herald of the
Inner Court called Toshiro HaseGawa."

'Excellent.  We're making progress.  I am now going to ask you what
plans you have made for your escape.  But before you do so, let me
answer a question which I am sure is in your mind.  "Am I in the hands
of people who are working with Hase-Gawa?"  No.  You are not.  As is
already clear, we share certain objectives, but we belong to a... rival
organisation.  Which no doubt leads you to ask: "What proof is there of
this?"  ' 'Let me give you three facts which I am sure you are certain
the Herald is unaware of.  Facts which will demonstrate the extent of
our knowledge and the efficiency of our organisation, and - who knows
may even persuade you to trust us.

'Fact One: we know that it was the female you have just visited who
used her influence to persuade the Consul-General to transfer you from
the post-house to the Heron Pool.

'Fact Two: we know her male companion, who has assumed your identity,
can speak our language fluently.

'Fact Three: we know you have had discussions with a colleague of yours
about taking a boat-trip through the canal-system from Ari-bani to
Bu-faro.  Your colleague is disguised as a Mute.  He wears a red
bandanna, and his code-name is SideWinder."

Steve tried but failed to hide his astonishment.

Skull-Face eyed him with a thin smile.  'We've known about him for a
long time.  We picked him up a few weeks after he was inserted into
Ne-Issan, and we've been doing business with him ever since.  In fact,
it was through us he got his present job on the wheelboats."

Already naked, Steve felt as if he was now being stripped bare on the
inside as well.  Was there anything these people were not aware of Did
they know that his talk of a 'massive intervention' was nothing more
than a colossal bluff?.  In spite of being painfully trussed up and
totally defenceless, he did his best to exude an air of calm
assurance.

Underneath, though, he was more frightened than he'd been in a long
time.

And also totally bewildered.  His preparations for the big break, and
his last session with the Herald, had gone so well he had allowed
himself to lapse into a careless, self, congratulatory mood.  He was
the guy that could do it all.  And he'd swum blindly into the net.  But
even if he'd been alert, he doubted whether he could have evaded his
present captors.  Steve had packed in a lot of experience - much of it
painful - since emerging onto the overground.  He knew he was in the
hands of hard men who, as his interrogator had revealed, were real
professionals.  Christo!  He'd been beavering away thinking he's gotten
himself into the big game, only to discover that there was an even
bigger game going on!

Skull-Face, who had been watching him closely, said: 'I can see you
find all of this rather difficult to take on board.  But then you are
still a relative beginner.  In time you will discover that those
involved in the gathering of intelligence and the maintenance of
internal security are often linked by common interests - that are not
always shared by their masters."

Steve nodded gingerly.  'I can understand that."

'For instance, we know you have been using a concealed radio to keep in
contact with AMEXICO.  We also have a number of similar devices."

Skull-Face produced a compact but powerful-looking walkie-talkie that
could only have come from the Federation.

The Jap pressed the Transmit button and spoke briefly into the
mouthpiece.  Steve heard someone reply with a burst of gobbledegook.

'That's our man at the Heron Pool,' explained Skull-Face.  'He's
keeping an eye on your shack.  It might be awkward if someone
discovered you weren't there."

He acknowledged the message, then laid the handset on the mat between
them.

Steve followed it down with his eyes and stared at it fixedly as he
tried to come to grips with what he'd got himself into.

'Let me try and guess what you are thinking,' said Skull-Face.  'You
are trying to reconcile your discovery that our organisation is using
radios with your knowledge that what we call the Dark Light and any
object which contains it is expressly forbidden.  In fact, to introduce
a device of this kind into Ne-Issan is an act of high treason."

'It did cross my mind,' admitted Steve.

'Rightly so.  The Dark Light is a destructive force that must never
again be allowed to fall into the hands of the greedy or the
unscrupulous.  Never again will the spinners and weavers imprison the
world in their evil nets.  But we do not seek power, we merely exercise
the power we are given to maintain the status quo - and we are prepared
to use any means to achieve that end."

Skull-Face picked up the walkie-talkie and bared his teeth in what
Steve assumed to be a smile.  His gums had shrunk away from his
parchment-yellow teeth.  A real Dr Death.

'There is a saying that dates from The World Before: "In the country of
the blind, the one-eyed man is king."  ' 'Gotcha.  Smart move..."

Skull-Face nodded.  'Now tell me about yours.  How did you plan to get
out of here?"

Steve told the Jap what he wanted to know.  There was no point in
trying to conceal anything.  If Side-Winder was working both sides of
the track, the ship-board escape route via Bu-faro was already totally
compromised.  Steve explained how, after reaching the Hudson River by
air, he had planned to use Cadillac's ability to speak Japanese.

Dressed in one of Clearwater's silken robes and the white mask she had
worn on her travels, the Mute would pose as the courtesan 'Yoko
Mi-Shima'.  As such, he would be able to purchase the boat-tickets, buy
food and answer any questions about the four Mute slaves accompanying
'her'.  Apart from the middle finger of his right hand, Steve was
already dressed for the part.  The two sets of body-paints were to be
used to disguise Jodi and Kelso whom he had recruited to help guard his
prisoners.  In Clearwater's case, it was not really a disguise but a
return to her usual colouring.

Skull-Face mulled things over, then asked: 'Did HaseGawa know that the
two individuals you sought were grass-monkeys?"

'Yes, I told him and Clearwater confirmed it later on."

The Jap's slitted eyes seemed to close completely.  'You are absolutely
sure about this?  There could have been no room for any
misunderstanding?"

'No.  He questioned her at length.  Ask the other samurai who was
there.  The chief ronin.  Noburo NakaJima."

It was Skull-Face's turn to look surprised.  'How do you know this
man's name?"

'It's a long story.  I saved the life of his wife and child.

But that's irrelevant.  He took me to meet the Herald.  He was sat
right beside me when I told Hase-Gawa he'd got it wrong."

'I see.  And he was also there when the Herald questioned the
female?"

'No.  When she was brought in, he stayed in the other room.  But the
walls were only made of paper.  Maybe he listened in."

'Maybe he did... ' mused Skull-Face.  'Describe what happened when you
left the pavilion."

'Noburo's men took Clearwater away first, then he tied my hands behind
my back and Hase-Gawa led me away."

'It was dark?"

'Pitch-black."

'Go on..."

'After we'd gone a short distance - a hundred yards or so - he suddenly
turned around and hit me - hard."  Steve turned his head to one side.

'Just under my left ear.  Must have knocked me clean out.  When I came
to he was kneeling over me, massaging my neck."

'So you have no idea how long you were unconscious?"

'No."

'Never mind.  What you have said may help us solve a mystery.  Now - I
wonder if you can explain something else that I find quite baffling how
was the male Mute able to learn to speak our language without being
taught - and how was the female able to influence the actions of the
Consul-General?"

'They are what the Plainfolk call "gifted" individuals.

They have certain powers.  I don't know how it works; no one does.  But
I do know they can do extraordinary things.  Most people dismiss the
stories they hear about "Mute magic".  But there/s such a thing.  I've
been there when the forces have been released.  It's awesome."

Skull-Face accepted this with a thoughtful nod.  'Are there many of
these "gifted" grass-monkeys?"

'No.  Fortunately, they are extremely rare.  My experience is limited
to one Plainfolk clan, but it appears that the only Mutes who possess
these ... special abilities, are smooth-boned and clear-skinned."  It
wasn't strictly true, but if challenged he could always plead
ignorance.  'What we in the Federation call super-straights."

'Because they look exactly like you..."

'They resemble us, but inside they're totally different.

Their society, their whole belief system is totally alien to ours.

That's what makes them so dangerous."

'So why not just kill them?  Why are these two so important to your
masters?"

'Our world is different from yours,' replied Steve.  'We do not fear
the Dark Light.  It is the source of our' strength.  Its power
nourishes our world like the blood that runs through our veins.  We use
it to create special instruments and processes that enable us to
examine the smallest particles of matter - the building blocks which,
when combined in the correct sequence, create human beings and
everything in the world around us."

Steve was glad he had listened to his kin-sister's account of her Basic
Genetics course.  'By examining the constituent parts of these two
individuals, we can discover the rogue element that makes them
different and find ways to counteract it."

Skull-Face did not pursue the matter further.  'Let's get back to the
escape plan.  What was to happen once you had assumed your various
disguises?"

'Yeah, well .  . . that's where the whole thing fell to pieces.  It
appears that courtesans only travel in sealed carriage-boxes that are
either carried or wheeled by porters.  Not Mutes.  Clearwater was
confident she could get the money we needed from the Consul-General,
but not the ID papers, travel passes and neck-tags."

'I'm glad to hear it,' replied Skull-Face.

'And there was also the problem of the arm-stamps that slaves collect
at the various control points they pass through."

Skull-Face bared his teeth again.  'Now you know it's not just a case
of bureaucracy gone mad.  It's to help keep tabs on people like you."

He reached into the saddlebags that lay to his left and produced what,
when unfolded, turned out to be a beautifully made writing box.

Pulling a moistened brush from a tube, he charged it with ink from a
solid palette and wrote an indecipherable message with swift, flowing
strokes.  He then cleaned the brush, and put it back in its
container.

'Okay.  There's not much time left, but we are going to help you with
your travel arrangements - assuming, of course, that you manage to
escape from the Heron Pool.

A map will be delivered to your shack in the next couple of days.  We
will put it in the same place you have been hiding your radio-knife.

The map will guide you to a point near the east bank of the Uda-sona.

The field where you are to land will be marked with a hollow white
square.  You will be met by one of our people."

Skull-Face checked the sheet of paper to see if the ink was dry, then
folded it into a small square and laid it in front of Steve.  'Give
this to your Japanese-speaking friend.  It tells him what words our man
will use to introduce himself and what he must say in return.  Once
you've identified yourselves, you can converse in Basic.

He will give you the necessary papers and tags for four Mute slaves and
the courtesan Yoko Mi-Shima.  Plus boat tickets and some money for the
voyage.  ˇ 'The "lady" will be provided with a carriage-box and two
serving women.  When you are ready to travel, porters will be hired to
take the box down to the ferry.

Once across the river, they'll deliver it to the dockside.

We will alert Side-Winder to expect you to board at All-bani - though I
imagine you will be in contact with him yourself.  Once you're on the
wheelboat it should be plain sailing as far as Bu-faro.  After that,
the ball's in your court."

It all seemed too good to be true.  If his arms and shoulders hadn't
been wracked with agonising cramp, he'd have been tempted to loose the
Trail-Blazer's rebel yell.  He did his best to conceal the pain, but
his voice gave him away.  'I - I don't know what to - say!"  'You don't
have to say anything,' replied Skull-Face, unmoved by Steve's growing
distress.  He closed the writing box with slow, deliberate movements
and put it away.  'In this case, actions speak louder than words.  If
you don't deliver your end of the deal, you won't be leaving on a boat
- or any other way.  Comprendo?"

'Perfectly!"  gasped Steve.

'Good."  Skull-Face uncrossed his legs, picked up the curved dagger and
moved towards Steve on his knees.

Steve's heart missed a beat.  The point of the blade was aimed
dangerously low but, at the last minute, Skull-Face lifted it level
with his navel and cut through the cord stretched between neck and
groin.  The Jap then' got to his feet and stood back as the two guards
untied Steve's arms.

'Now get dressed."

Steve prised loose the cord that had been biting into his penis and
scrotum and gained some much needed relief.  Oh, boy!  As he started to
pull on his clothes he found that his arms were painfully stiff.  His
fingers wouldn't grip properly.  Halfway through he had to stop and
massage his arms to restore the circulation.  There was nothing he
could do about the damage downstairs except hope the pain would go
away.  Pulling the sash tight round his waist, he stooped down and
pocketed the folded piece of paper containing the vital passwords.

Skull-Face doused the lantern and exited from the tent.  He was waiting
outside as Steve ducked through the flap in between the two guards.

Now that he was up on his feet and out of immediate danger, the three
Japs looked a lot less daunting.  After he'd stretched his spine and
filled his lungs with night air, Steve found he was half a head taller
than the biggest of the two guards.

Skull-Face, his chief tormentor, now looked as if he was standing in a
hole.  No wonder they'd kept him bent almost double.

'That shelf inside your shack..."

'Yes?"

'If you find two small stones on it - one black, one white - it means
that everything is in place at the other end."

'Got it."

Skull-Face walked with him to the edge of the trail that ran through
the pines.  Behind and below them, Steve caught a glimpse of the lake
as the half-moon found a gap in the clouds and brushed its dark surface
with a fleeting coat of silver.  They had only gone a few yards, but
the black tent was now invisible.

The Jap turned to face him.  'Will you be able to find your way back
from here?"

Steve bowed politely.  'Yes, sire.  No problem."

'Good.  One last thing.  As you've no doubt guessed, in return for
services rendered, we have also obtained a number of bugging devices
from your people.  Just out of interest, was jacking up that female
Mute part of your assignment?"

It wasn't a question Steve had been expecting, but he took it in his
stride.  'Yes, sire.  It's a standard operating procedure which I'm
sure even your organisation must use from time to time.  We call it
"sexual entrapment"."

Skull-Face nodded.  'I see.  Well, I suppose that's as good a
description as any.  Goodnight, Mr Brickman.

You are what used to be called "a plausible rogue".  If you can manage
to keep your balls out of the jar I have a fbeling you could go a long
way."

On the day before the display, Steve discovered he wasn't the only one
who had been making plans.  The Iron Masters had also been quietly
putting their own act together.  Shigamitsu broke the news to Cadillac
while making his daily round of the workshops.  The Japanese staff of
the Heron Pool would be running things on the day, and the newly
drafted team of Koreans, Viets and Thais would look after the
ground-handling, together with the reloading of the rocket-trays and
ground trolleys.  All Trackers would be confined to their quarters the
two long bunk-houses inside the walled compound.

In the last month, the strict rules governing the behaviour of slaves
had been relaxed.  To speed things along, captive Trackers were no
longer required to kneel before samurai during working hours.  This
arrangement only covered the Iron Masters on the permanent staff; all
visitors were to be shown the utmost deference.

As Cadillac's constant shadow, Steve was included in this temporary
dispensation, but he was still required to bow from the waist when
addressed and to keep his eyes averted whilst in the presence of
samurai.  He did so now and was able to steal a sideways glance at
Cadillac.

When in the company of his new masters the Mute tried very hard to
keep his face as expressionless as theirs.  The Plainfolk called the
Japs 'dead-faces' on account of the fearsome metal masks they wore, but
their real faces underneath were just as lifeless.  They were a strange
people.  Given an angry dressing-down by a superior, or some really bad
news, they became more blank-faced than ever.  Laughter was
occasionally allowed to break through, but only when among equals or
when the top man present gave the cue.

On this particular occasion, Cadillac wasn't doing too well.  Steve
knew the Mute had been giving a lot of thought to what he was going to
wear and how he was going to comport himself when he stood in line to
get his share of the praise the domain-lords were bound to hand out.

But that wasn't going to happen.  When Steve and his two friends were
through the only things the dinks would be handing out were neck-trims
- if you were lucky - or a meltdown in boiling water if you weren't.

But at this point the Mute didn't know that.

After bowing from the waist, Cadillac enquired if, in view of his past
and present contribution, he might be allowed to attend as a
spectator.

Shigamitsu told him he had already raised this point with the palace.

The answer was 'No'.  From one hour prior to the arrival of their
distinguished guests, he and the other two pilots were to remain in the
house Lord Min-Orota had graciously provided, and would not emerge
until called upon to do so.  The same ruling applied to the
grass-monkey he had taken on as his assistant.

Cadillac and Steve accepted this with another deep bow and kept their
heads down until Shigamitsu and his two aides had moved on.  When they
both straightened up, Steve found himself looking at a broken man.

Cadillac's pride had been dealt a mortal blow, his expectations cruelly
shattered.

It was sad to see the new persona he'd stitched together coming apart
at the seams, but if he was hoping for sympathy he didn't get it.

'Don't look at me,' said Steve.  'You were the one who saw this coming,
but you preferred to stick your head in the sand."

The Mute - who was not normally lost for words -didn't say anything.

Neither did Steve.  Cadillac had always displayed a certain defensive
arrogance, but this aspect of his character had been puffed up out of
all proportion through the quite exceptional privileges granted to him
by Lord Min-Orota and his subordinates.

In trying to ape Steve, Cadillac had lost touch with his own inner
strengths, his true nature and his heritage as a child of the
Plainfolk.  In his eagerness to abandon his past life in favour of a
new existence, he had blinded himself to the fact that it was totally
dependent on the continued patronage of the Iron Masters.  Now he was
paying the price, and there was nothing Steve could do except stand
back and wait until it was time to pick up the pieces.

'What are we going to do?"

'I'd say it was more a question of what they're going to do,' replied
Steve.  'But, either way, I don't intend to hang around and find
out."

Cadillac was too preoccupied to get the message.

'What?"

'I'm going to take one of these planes we've built and fly out of here
with Clearwater.  And if you've got any sense you'll do the same."

The news caused the Mute to look beyond the ruins of a once-promising
career.  'You're crazy.  You'll never get away with it."

'You got a better idea?"

'No, but... ' Cadillac looked over his shoulder to see who was near by,
then dropped his voice even further.

'There'll be eight pilots on parade tomorrow - twelve if you count the
glider pilots.  Even if we managed to steal a couple of planes they'd
be able to follow us."

'Then we must make sure they don't..."

Cadillac's eyes flickered uneasily as he considered the implications of
Steve's reply.  'You mean.  spike the rockets?"

'Something like that."  Steve wasn't yet ready to reveal' his hand.

'Any objections?"

'I don't know.  I'm not sure."  Cadillac took another look round.  'I I
need time to think about it."

'There is no time!"  hissed Steve.  'Tomorrow's our one and only
chance!  We have to take it!"  'But how are we ' 'Never mind how!  Are
you willing to go for it?  Yes or no?"

Cadillac sighed heavily.  'Since I don't seem to have much choice, I
suppose the answer's yes.  Satisfied?"

'You don't sound too sure.  Once we commit, that's it.

You're not going to be able to turn round and say - "Sorry Mr
Shigamitsu, I didn't mean it"."

'I know that!  I'm not an idiot, Brickman.  It's just that this is all
happening so fast!"  He swept both arms round the busy workshop.  'I
worked my buns off to make all this happen."  He dropped his voice
again.  'And now you're asking me to help you destroy it!"  'Yes, I
am,' said Steve.  'Before it destroys you!"  It was true, and Cadillac
knew it.  His face contorted as his mind twisted around like a fish
trying to get off the hook.  'You still haven't explained how we're
going to spike the rockets."

'I don't have to.  That's not how it's going to happen."

'But ' 'Forget it!  It's already been taken care of."

Cadillac may have been robbed of all certainty about his future
prospects, but he knew exactly how he felt about Steve.  'You lying
sonofabitch!  You gave me your word!"  Steve bared his teeth.  'Yeah,
that's right, I did!

Double-crossing you was the only way to save your ass!  If we'd played
it your way we'd be standing here now wringing our hands.  Instead of
calling the shots we'd have been totally shafted!  This way at least
we've got a better than evens chance of making it back to Wyoming.  So
stop all this name-calling crap and start cooperating?

Lord Hiro Yama-Shita had already begun his journey towards the Heron
Pool some days before Cadillac reluctantly decided to terminate his
career as a designer of flying machines.  Accompanied by his usual
entourage of aides and escorted by a hundred samurai and an equal
number of foot-soldiers, he boarded his red and gold wheelboat for the
trip down the Hudson River.  At Na-yuk, the last river port in his
domain, his party and their horses transferred to three large
ocean-going junks which took them through the straits of Nyo-Yoko into
the open sea to the south of Aron-giren, then north around the coast to
the port of Ba-satana.

Yama-Shita would have had a much shorter journey if he had crossed the
Hudson at Arib-bani and travelled to Ba-satana along the main east-west
highway, but in this case distance was no object.  He preferred to
remain for as long as possible in an environment over which he had
total control.  Yama-Shita had made a triumphal progress by road
through the domain of his close allies, the Se-Iko, but they were a
long way from the centre of power.  His friends the Min-Orota occupied
a more vulnerable piece of real-estate.

It was 170 miles by road from Ari-bani to Ba-satana; a mere four-day
journey.  The trouble was the first eighty of those miles cut across
the original domain of the Shogun's family, the Toh-Yota.  From its
southernmost point at Nyo-Yoko, it ran northwards between the Uda-sona
and Konei-tika rivers to the great ice-river boundary that divided
Ne-Issan from the Fog People.

While crossing their territory his column would have been exposed to
prying eyes every step of the way.  No.

Yama-Shita preferred the comfort and privacy of his own state-rooms
especially when he was transporting a valuable and highly sensitive
piece of cargo.

Packed inside a chest which, when opened, appeared to contain richly
woven bolts of silk, was the engine which had powered the long-dog's
original flying-horse.

Yama-Shita had attempted to fake its destruction some months before,
but he had subsequently received several disquieting indications that
his ruse had not succeeded."  At least two of the Shogun's Heralds had
been involved in equally unsuccessful attempts to persuade certain
disaffected members of his own household either to confirm its
continued existence or to reveal its present hiding place.

The clumsy fools had not had the wit to realise that he would never
have involved any envious or untrustworthy relatives in such a
sensitive affair.  Those selected as potential traitors quickly
informed him of the approaches that had been made and of the
inducements offered.  Whatever their private differences, loyalty to
the family took precedence over their obligations to the Shogun.  They
were also motivated by a strong sense of self-preservation.  Yama-Shita
had risen to power because he had ruthlessly eliminated anyone foolish
enough to oppose his policies or challenge his leadership - either
openly or in secret.  Friend or relation, mother or child, he had
spared no one.  And age had not mellowed him.

The only threat to his growing power and influence came from his
neighbours the Toh-Yota.  Despite his family's role in bringing them to
power and the solid support they had given to the Shogunate in the
past, Yama-Shita knew that it had become an uneasy alliance tinged with
envy and suspicion.  The thirty-year-old merger between the Yama-Ha and
the MatsuShita families had produced a menacing combination of wealth
and military power, and it was well known that kings often turned
against the kingmakers.  All they needed was a convincing pretext that
could be used to muster the necessary support.  If they held together,
a pack of snivelling street-hounds could always overcome a mountain
lion, but it rarely happened.  Faced with a spirited resistance, the
more cowardly mongrels always tended to slink away.

It was the same with the running dogs in the TohYota pack.  Some would
follow their leader blindly, others would turn tail - or even change
sides - if the battle proved too lard and too bloody.  Even so, it
would be foolish to underestimate the resources of the Shogunate.

Yoritomo had somehow got wind of the tentative plan to resurrect the
Dark Light.  The rumours - for that was all they could be at this stage
- had been given substance by his suspected involvement in the
transportation of the long-dog bitch the idiot Toh-Shiba had taken into
his bed.

If she was to be believed, no charges could be levelled against himself
or his colleague, Kiyo Min-Orota - but could she?  Yama-Shita had few
grounds for complacency.

The eleven assassins who had been dispatched to kill her in two teams
of three and a final, somewhat desperate, quintet, had all vanished
without trace.  To a seasoned power-broker like Yama-Shita that did not
auger well.  He doubted that the Consul-General had either the
foresight or the means to protect his outlandish whore against such
dedicated professionals.  No.  Another unseen hand was at work here and
Yama-Shita had a shrewd idea to whom it belonged.  If he was correct
about the assumptions and intentions of his adversaries, it would be
unwise to remain in possession of the engine.  It was for this reason
he had brought it with him.  Kiyo Min-Orota had been eager to share in
the fruits of this hazardous enterprise.  It was only right and proper
that he shared the risks - something which, up to now, he had been
noticeably reluctant to do.

The move made good sense.  Despite being linked with the Yama-Shita
family in the Heron Pool project and the deeper suspicions that
surrounded it, the Min-Orota were still regarded as being loyal allies
of the Toh-Yota Shogunate - to whom they were tied by marriage.

Temporarily wayward allies, perhaps - but a family who, in the end,
would realise where their duty and their best interests lay.

Excellent.  Trusted servants were always best placed to betray their
masters.

Kiyo's reaction on being made guardian of the infernal machine that
could destroy them both would be a good measure of his resolve.  If he
was willing to grasp the nettle, then the cloud warrior who had already
demonstrated his skills in the building of flying-horses should be
given a new project.  The rockets he had devised were only a stopgap
solution.  To have any worthwhile military application, the
flying-horses had to be able to alight and take to the air from any
suitable terrain and be capable of sustained powered flight.  That
would require two things: some kind of wheeled carriage fixed to the
body of the craft and an engine similar to the one he had brought with
him.

How its component parts could be reproduced was something the cloud
warrior would have to solve.  But that could come later.  The first
step was to get him to reveal the secret methods used by the spinners
and weavers to capture and manipulate the Dark Light.

As his flotilla of junks sailed parallel with the southern shore of
Aron-giren, Yama-Shita paid no heed to the passing watchboats flying
the flag of the Toh-Yota.  There was not the slightest danger of being
stopped and searched; any vessel carrying a domain-lord was deemed to
be an extension of his personal fief, and for government sea-soldiers
to have boarded it would have been tantamount to an armed invasion of
his territory - an act of war which could have the most serious
consequences.

No.  His voyage past the Shogun's fish-island would be serene and
unhindered.  Despite the irritating attentions of Yoritomo's agents, he
was more than a match for the young occupant of the Summer Palace.  It
was Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain, who was his most dangerous
adversary, but fortunately he was a man you could do business with.  He
was a realist, a man's man with a balanced view of the iniquitous side
of human nature - not a smooth-faced soft-brained idealist who hardly
ever ventured beyond the silken cocoon of the Inner Court.

Yes.  Slowly but surely, all the strands would draw together and the
noose would tighten round the neck of the Toh-Yota.  A costly
debilitating war would not be necessary.  In a smooth transition of
power, the young Shogun would be deposed and disposed of.  A wiser,
more worldly and more amenable figure would be invited to lead Ne-Issan
forward into a new progressive age in which the Yama-Shita would be the
standard-bearers.  They would set the pace, they would amend the rules,
encourage new thoughts and new ideas and, eventually, they would - by
popular consent - take over the reins of power.

Rounding the eastern tip of Aron-giren, the three square-sailed junks
set course for Kei-pakoda against a freshening breeze that put white
crests on the incoming waves.  Aided by the steam engine whose sonorous
beat could be felt as well as heard on the main deck, the broad bows
dipped and rose gently as they ploughed through the light, even
swell.

Except for white clouds rimming the far horizon, the sky was clear,
with a promise of more fair weather to come.  Just what was needed for
the performance he was to witness on the morrow.  The image that met
Yama-Shita's eyes as he surveyed the scene around him was one of
majestic, unstoppable power.  And it pleased him.

The Iron Masters and the mixed bag of dink craftsmen who now formed the
bulk of the Heron Pool staff put the finishing touches to the twelve
aircraft at around 1800 and retired to make their own personal
preparations for the big event.  The original group of Trackers was
left to tidy up, then the two workshops were shut for the night and
left in the care of the usual team of night-watchmen.  With his
constant to-ing and fro-ing on Cadillac's behalf, and their joint
midnight oil-burning sessions with Jodi and Kelso, Steve had come to be
regarded as part of the furniture, and he had taken the opportunity to
familiarise himself with the watchmen's routine.

His original plan had been to bury a fist-sized chunk of plastic
explosive into the head of a rocket tube, arm it with a detonator, then
pack in the special black powder mix.

During the fifteen-second burn, the flame would eat its way down the
tube, ignite the detonator and - blarnrn!  One flying-horse transformed
into singed silken confetti and charcoal chips.

But things hadn't gone as planned.  The influx of dinks had totally
upset the work routines, and to meet the increased demand for rockets,
the 'power unit' had been almost completely restaffed.  Jodi and Kelso
- on whom Steve had been counting to help him spike the rockets had
been totally occupied with training the pupil pilots, and he himself
had been kept busy checking and flight-testing the completed craft as
they came off the production line.

By the end of the month, the Tracker workforce had been eased into
subordinate roles in all the processes except flying - a move which
limited Steve's precious total freedom of access to every department.

To make life more difficult, the Iron Masters kept changing the
programme for the big day, and Cadillac had ended up training eight
rocket-pilots instead of five.  Unaware of Steve's escape plans,
Cadillac had come close to wrecking their chances by giving additional
gliding instruction to the remaining four of the initial batch of
twelve trainees.

All four had flown several hours solo and proved themselves reasonably
proficient.  Which meant that - if the Iron Masters so decided - all
the available aircraft might now be in use when Steve had been gambling
on having half of them on the ground, strategically parked, fuelled and
ready to go when H-Hour struck!

He only planned to steal three aircraft, but when he threw the switch
it was impossible to predict what the Iron Masters' reaction might
be.

He was hoping, with Clearwater's help, to throw them into total
confusion.

But if there was an unexpectedly strong backlash, some of the aircraft
might get damaged in the crossfire .~ so it was important to have at
least one in reserve.  Fine in theory, but difficult to arrange when
the Iron Masters were changing their minds almost daily.  Every time
Steve took steps to cope with the new situation he found he'd been
wrong-footed by yet another switch in the schedule.  It was almost as
if Min-Orota's people suspected someone was out to ruin things and were
trying to keep everybody guessing.

In the end, their indecision proved a blessing in disguise.

When it became clear that he was effectively locked out of the powder
room, Steve called up AMEXICO and arranged for a fifth and final
package to be airmailed into the pond.  In the light of the bombshell
news that they had been dropped from the team and were not even going
to be allowed to watch from the sidelines, it was his smartest move
yet.

As night closed in on the eve of the display, Steve pulled the
'forgotten drawings' routine to gain entry to the workshop where the
twelve aircraft had been parked in a neat interlocking line.  By
arriving at precisely the right moment, he was able to lace the
nightwatchmen's supper with some specially formulated dope in the few
vital minutes between its delivery and distribution.  The onset of
sleep was gentle, the period of unconsciousness was brief but profound,
and the sleeper's breath smelt of sake.

AMEXICO had come up with the goods yet again.

Steve had two hours to make the last connections.  He only needed
one.

The charge of plastic explosive, disguised as a small wooden
reinforcing strut, was already in place.  Steve had positioned some of
them during the test-flights he'd made; the other aircraft had been
primed by Jodi and Kelso.  All he had to do now was to insert the
ingenious device that AMEXICO had provided.  It would not be
difficult.

Each insertion only took a couple of minutes.  The workshops and powder
room had already been wired up; the surprise package for the guardhouse
inside the compound would be delivered tomorrow morning.

Just these gizmos and that was it.

Yep... Once they were in place it didn't matter if the Iron Masters
changed the programme for the umpteenth time or decided to make it
another day.  Coming or going, or just standing still, they were going
to get it right in the kisser.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When the sun had risen clear of the Eastern Sea, Nakane Toh-Shiba, the
Consul-General, left Clearwater's bed in the lakehouse and returned to
his official residence.  A thin, velvety layer of mist still lingered
on the surface of the water and it swirled around the hull of the
one-oared flatboat that brought him ashore.  The five samurai who acted
as his personal bodyguard on such visits sat facing him in the bow.

Normally, the Consul-General oozed contentment after coupling with his
olive-skinned long-dog, but this morning, despite the joyous delirium
produced by his repeated penetration of her body, his mood was
sombre.

And with good reason.  He had received a letter from the Shogun
ordering him to take to the air in one of the newly constructed
flying-horses.

In the three days since the Herald had delivered the letter, Toh-Shiba
had read it over and over again, and each time it had left him
disturbed and apprehensive.  He might lack some of the bleaker moral
principles to which samurai were expected to adhere, but he did not
lack courage.  He did, however, fear the unknown.  In his youth, he had
fought to secure the snow-laden northern marches, and was still ready
to wield a sword if duty called - provided he had both feet planted
firmly on the ground, or in his stirrups.

Since he was the Shogun's official representative, it would have been
highly improper to comment upon the wisdom of Yoritomo's decision to
support the Heron Pool project but, privately, the whole idea filled
Toh-Shiba with deep foreboding.  If men had been meant to fly, Ameratsu
would have given them wings.  The sky was the realm of the kami, and
only birds had been granted passage through it.  Man had been placed on
the earth and the waters, and he should not seek to alter the divine
plan.

In the ancient world, ruled by the Dark Light, men had sailed across
the cloud-world in great sky-boats.

They had attempted to conquer the realm of the kami and steal the
glittering jewels of heaven.  But they had been cast down.  The shining
silver sails that bore them aloft had been torn apart and thunderbolts
had turned their proud hulls into funeral pyres.  Crews and passengers
trapped inside the shattered hulks perished as they crashed down upon
the cities of the fools who had bifilt them.

Blinded by vaulting ambition and indifferent to the wrath of the karni,
humankind had continued its assault on the heavens using the powers
given to it by the spinners and weavers of the Dark Light.  They had
trodden upon the face of the moon-goddess and sent spy-chariots
hurtling towards the stars.  Finally, Ameratsu-Omikami had purged the
world of its madness by casting the sun into the sea.

Those early voyagers who had ventured aloft had been utterly destroyed,
and this new attempt was also doomed to fail.  It was for this reason,
concluded Toh-Shiba, that the Shogun's own family had distanced
themselves from the enterprise.  The scheme to build flying-horses had
been the brainchild of Lord Hiro Yama-Shita, a man whose ambitions
could not be ignored.  By granting the licence to the Min-Orota, the
Shogun had skilfully brought the enterprise within his sphere of
influence whilst still keeping it at arm's length.

The Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa - who had privately confessed to being
terrified at the prospect - had mounted one of the flying-horses in
order to be able to make a first-hand report on its qualities to the
Inner Court.  And now that their relative safety had been demonstrated
by the training, without any serious incident, of twelve samurai, the
Shogun had asked his Consul-General to make a similar flight before
delivering his own opinion of their military potential.

As the highest-ranking representative of the bakufu at the ceremony,
his flight would be a symbolic seal of approval; an indication of the
importance the Shogun attached to the work being carried out at the
Heron Pool.  That, in essence was the text of the letter.

Framed as a request, it was, in fact, an order to take to the air.  The
memory of the punishment meted out upon humankind for its past follies
in this direction was sufficient to cause him to feel worried by the
contents of Yoritomo's letter, but he had been even more disturbed by
the way it had been written.  Nakane Toh-Shiba was, after all, related
by marriage to the writer, and all the previous communications from his
brother-in-law had been noticeably warmer.  Toh-Shiba was not the total
buffoon many thought him to be.  While it was true he expended a great
deal of energy indulging his obsession in forcing open the
rose-petalled gates of the secret garden which was to be found cupped
between a firm pair of female thighs, it was not his sole interest in
life.  In his youth, he had received an education befitting the son of
a noble house, and he had spent several years at court.

He was therefore able to discern the subtle but significant changes in
phrasing and choice of words.

Yoritomo's letter was courteous and correct but, if one read between
the lines, it was cold and dismissive.

Toh-Shiba was astute enough to realise it marked a change in their
relationship.  Had Lord Min-Orota been correct when he had hinted that
news of his present dubious liaison could have reached the wrong
ears?

The position could only be resolved through a personal encounter with
his brother-in-law but, unfortunately, that would have to wait.

Perhaps it was time to deny himself the delights furnished so willingly
by the long-dog.  The thought of parting company with her serpent-like
body was unbearable, but sometimes a man had to sacrifice that which he
held most dear in order to prove he was master of his own heart - if
not his own destiny.  Not yet, perhaps, but soon.  He would then travel
with his family to Aron-giren to present his report on the
flying-horses in person.  And when that matter was disposed of, he
would draw Yoritomo's attention to the apparent coldness of his letter,
secure in the knowledge that the probable cause of the Shogun's
displeasure had been dismembered, boiled and boned before being ground
into pig-food.

Perhaps it was the Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa who had passed on some
scabrous rumour garnered in the sinks and stews frequented by the
soldiers from the government garrison.  A handful of them had been
present when the long-dog had revealed her true colours.  They did not
know what had become of her, and the staff of the lake-house where she
had been placed like a bird in a gilded cage never left the island.

News of her presence could have reached shore through the boatman who
ferried supplies across, as well as the Consul-General, but it would
have to have been in the form of a letter, because Toh-Shiba had
ordered the man's tongue to be removed some years before.  It was a
simple precaution and a salutary warning to others whose tongues were
inclined to wag, but it was unlikely to prove a major stumbling-block
to the impudent young Herald.  His zealous pursuit of traitors and
backsliders had proved so successful he now felt it was his right and
duty to stick his nose into everyone's affairs, without regard to
whether they were friend or foe.

The nests of vipers to which the Shogun often alluded needed to be
rooted out but, like all the Heralds, Toshiro Hase-Gawa was imbued with
the same tiresome morality as his master.  At the first whiff of
wrongdoing, be it high treason or an illicit liaison that posed no
threat to anyone, the Herald's nose was aquiver and he was off on the
trail like a game-dog.  Nakane admired 'upright' men, but he favoured
the more earthy interpretation that Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain, put
upon the word.

The blissful state of uprightness he had enjoyed throughout much of
the night caused him to reflect on the third cause for his present
sombre mood.  Despite his private fears about taking to the air, he had
boasted to the long-dog that he was about to do so, and he had scoffed
at the Herald's lack of courage.  The long-dog to whom he had given the
name Safaiya - Sapphire-because of her wondrous blue eyes - had greeted
the news excitedly.  Her admiration for him knew no bounds.

He was, she said, as adventurous as he was ardent, and her only regret
was that she would not be there to witness his bravery on this truly
momentous occasion.

Toh-Shiba was unable to recall quite what it was she had said to
persuade him, but he had finally agreed to have her conveyed in a
sealed carriage-box to the Heron Pool.  But he did remember explaining
that she could not travel as part of his retinue, and that she would
have to watch the proceedings from a discreet distance.  These
conditions had been accepted without hesitation, and she had kissed his
feet and dried her tears of happiness on the hem of his robe.

Oh, what joy his words had brought her!  By what undeserved stroke of
good fortune had she, a worthless slave, been blessed with so noble,
glorious and generous a master?  His presence within brought her to a
state of ecstasy, but merely to look upon him made her heart leap and
her loins tremble.  When he addressed her with words of kindness or of
love, her enraptured soul felt as if it had entered paradise.  To be
touched by his shadow, to breathe the same air, was an unparalleled
honour, a source of constant delight and exaltation.  Et cetera, et
cetera...

Toh-Shiba would never have expressed his feelings for her in such
extravagant terms, but, by and large, they were reciprocated especially
after she had shown her gratitude in ways that sent his mind reeling.

But now that he was back in his official residence, his promise to let
her attend the ceremony began to look increasingly rash.

Even though his wife, Mishiko, was indisposed and would not be
accompanying him, the long-dog's presence at or anywhere near the Heron
Pool could be potentially embarrassing.  She had sworn to die rather
than reveal their liaison, but if by some mischance she was unmasked
and traced back through the hire of the vehicle to him No.

It was sheer folly.

The solution to his predicament was simple.  All he had to do was - do
nothing.  But try as he might, he could not bring himself to reverse
his decision.  Some mental imperative drove him forward, and he heard
his own, disembodied voice ordering his private secretary to secure a
wheeled carriage-box and the necessary porters.

The secretary, with his usual discretion, asked for the basic details
and timing of the journey, but did not attempt to establish the
identity or gender of the passenger.  The Consul-General informed him
that the party in question was to be collected from his private retreat
on Two Island Lake and conveyed to the pavilion situated immediately to
the east of the Heron Pool.

There would be no servants in attendance, and the porters were to
return with the carriage-box as soon as its passenger had alighted.

Toh-Shiba could not quite understand the logic of this arrangement, but
it seemed the most sensible thing to do.  The grounds of the pavilion
which was occupied by her fellow long-dog - bordered the flying field
behind the Heron Pool.  If she removed her mask and borrowed a spare
set of his clothes, she could watch the proceedings from there without
attracting attention.

His secretary bowed himself out of the room, leaving Toh-Shiba feeling
enormously relieved that the matter had been disposed of.

The private secretary was the Consul-General's man, but one of his
office staff was receiving an additional stipend from another
quarter.

The news that the Consul-General's concubine was on the move was
rapidly conveyed to the Herald.  Toshiro could scarcely believe his
ears when he heard where she was to be taken.  How, in heaven's name,
had Brickman managed it?

After discovering when this transfer was due to take place, Toshiro
hurriedly completed his own preparations, and rode out followed by four
mounted standard-bearers from the government garrison.  As envoys of
the Shogun, Heralds were always escorted when attending ceremonial
occasions.

He caught up with the sealed carriage-box on the eastern outskirts of
the tiny village of Marabara.

Motioning his escort to halt, Toshiro went on alone.  The sight of the
Herald, resplendent in his black and red armour, coming up astern
stopped the porters dead in their tracks.  They trundled the
carriage-box on to the grass verge and knelt with bowed heads,
expecting the magnificent horseman to pass by.  When he stopped in
front of them, they experienced the same sense of dread that had
gripped Steve.

Adopting his most arrogant manner, Toshiro dismounted and warned the
trembling porters to remain forever deaf, dumb and blind to what was
about to take place.  After their spokesman had assured him that their
memories were already blank, he ordered them to move thirty paces down
the road.

As they scurried away, Toshiro hitched the horse to one of the
trucking-poles of the carriage-box, untied a bag attached to the pommel
of his saddle and rapped his armoured knuckles against the door.  After
allowing the occupant a brief delay to compose herself, he tried the
handle.  The door was still fastened on the inside.  He put his mouth
close to the grille.  'Open up!  I've got a present for your friend,
Brickman."

The catch was withdrawn, allowing the door to open outwards.  Toshiro
peeped inside and saw Clearwater seated on the padded bench, dressed in
a brightly coloured embroidered silk kimono.  She had shrunk into the
far corner like some night-creature who feared the light.  Her hair was
swept up in the style of the geishas from the 'floating world', spiked
with wooden pins and bulked out with lacquered hair-pieces.  Her face
was concealed behind the same dead white oval mask with its tiny,
red-painted lips, its thin enigmatic eye-slits and even thinner brows
perched high on the forehead.

Toshiro tossed the bag on to Clearwater's lap and bowed with mock
politeness.  'Tell him the Herald hopes that good fortune smiles upon
his enterprise.  And assure him that, should he fail, I shall do my
utmost to make sure my sword is the first to reach him."  He closed the
door, remounted and motioned to his escorts to rejoin him.  The
kneeling porters buried their faces in the grass and kept them there
until the hoofbeats died away.

Cadillac's house-servants had been in a state of high excitement since
early morning, when the advance party of soldiers and officials from
Bo-sona had arrived to make sure that all was in order.  Lowly
domestics living in a rural backwater were seldom accorded such a
treat, and here they were with a first-class view of what promised to
be a splendid occasion.

It was to begin with a procession.  Led by trumpets and drums, flutes,
bells, gongs and chanting priests, two domain-lords with their richly
dressed retinues were due to pass along the new road on the eastern
side of the pavilion.  Foot-soldiers with tall pikes bearing the
pennants of the Min-Orota and Yama-Shita families had already begun to
take up their positions along the route.

The sun was rising into a blue sky whose vault was thinly veiled with
wispy clouds like drawn threads of white silk.

Oh, yes.  It promised to be a memorable day.

Through the gap in another set of screens, Steve, Cadillac, Jodi and
Kelso were also watching the steady influx of people, but in their case
it was with mounting tension, not excitement.  Steve knew the
adrenalin would not start flowing until he went into action - and
nothing could happen until Clearwater arrived.  They had worked out a
plan on his last visit, but how well had it succeeded?

Only time would tell and, as usual, it was the waiting and the
uncertainty he found hardest to bear.  When they struck the first blow
they would have the advantage of surprise, but despite the careful
planning they were taking a colossal gamble against odds of at least
200 to 1.

Only Clearwater had the power to even things up.

Oh, sweet Sky Mother.  Get her here, that's all I ask... Cadillac
nudged him and pointed to a group of five horsemen passing at a brisk
canter.  The lead rider was the Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa.  Some help
he'd turned out to be.  No.  That was unfair.  He had been dumb enough
to buy Steve's story and smart enough to get him the job of
roadrunner.

Without his backing they wouldn't be standing here now with their
finger poised on the button.  The Herald had ignored his warning to
stay away - presumably because he was obliged to put in an
appearance.

If nobody from the Shogun's team showed up, it wouldn't look too good
when the bad guys started raking over the ashes.  Yeah, well...

T.H.G.

would just have to take his chances like everybody else.  When the guys
from Big Blue were through he'd be glad he was wearing a tin hat.

They heard the sound of distant trumpets and the beat of marching
drums.  Peeking through the screens, Steve saw a mounted samurai canter
down the road towards the Heron Pool, shouting to the soldiers
stationed at intervals on both sides of the road.  The soldiers drew
themselves up and adopted an aggressive review stance, left foot out
and forward, left fist planted high on the hip, right arm extended
level with the shoulder to form a precise right-angle with their
pike-shafts.  The drums and trumpets grew louder and now Steve could
hear other instruments too.

Come on, Clearwater.  Where the eff-eff are you?

From the various conversations Cadillac had listened in on, Steve knew
there would be a lot of ceremonial bowing and scraping before the first
flight of the day, but he wanted Clearwater to get there to keep
Cadillac in line.

The Mute had already taken two stiff shots of sake to steady his nerves
or drown his sorrows - or both.  Steve had taken the bottle away from
him and threatened that all three of them would beat him over the head
with it if he touched another drop.

The previous night, while Steve had been risking his ass putting the
gizmos aboard the planes, Cadillac had drunk himself under the table.

Just the kind of partner a guy needed at a time like this - 100 per
cent unreliable.

His rejection by the Iron Masters had hit the Mute hard, but the lesson
still hadn't sunk home.  Given the chance, he could still renege at the
last minute and go crawling back to them.  Steve had told Jodi and
Kelso not to let him out of their sight.  If and when Clearwater
arrived, she would put some iron in his soul.  That was why Mr Snow had
sent her along.  Crazy old coot.  All this blood, sweat and tears - and
what for?  A hundred stone-age rifles that were no fucking use to
anybody except the Iron Masters who were using them to strengthen their
trading position.

The thought of the rifles caused Steve to cross over to the floor
storage units where he had hidden the handguns and the remainder of the
grenades AMEXICO had dropped into the lake.  The units were set along
the edge of the raised floor section and were, in effect, boxes with
hinged lids that matched the surrounding wood planking.  They were
covered, like the rest of the floor, with the ubiquitous tatarni.

Sliding one of the mats aside, Steve opened the centre trapdoor and
lifted the corner of the folded quilt that lay inside.  Beneath the
quilt were four multi-shot air pistols with several spare magazines and
pressurised cartridges, fragmentation grenades, smoke, phosphorus and
riot-gas.

Steve and Jodi hadn't encountered this last type of grenade before but,
according to Kelso, one sniff made you feel you'd been hit in the chest
by a charging buffalo.

It apparently attacked the nerves or muscles or whatever it was that
controlled the respiratory system, causing painful contractions of the
lungs and throat.  By rendering you almost incapable of breathing, it
made you incapable of doing anything else.  Depending on the degree of
dispersion, the victim was immobilised for an hour or more; prolonged
inhalation in a confined space could kill.

Smoke grenades didn't damage your health, the other grenades you could
at least try and duck away from, but these little horrors could sneak
up on you when you weren't looking - which was why AMEXICO had
thoughtfully included five face-masks with chemical air filters.

The fanfares and drumbeats grew louder still.  Cadillac turned from the
window.  'Here they come .  . ."

As he spoke, the door to the study slid open.  The two house-women who
had shared the bathtub padded in with a curious stooping gait.

Stilling their fluttering hands, they bowed in Cadillac's direction.

'Ahh, you have, ahh, impah-tan visitah!"  they stammered, and fell on
their knees as Toshiro Hase-Gawa strode into the room.

The sight of the armed and armoured samurai caused Cadillac, Jodi and
Kelso to go down on their knees.

Steve was already on his.  He casually eased the trap-door back into
place and stood up.  'Nice of you to drop in."  It was asking for
trouble, but he was so keyed up he was past caring.

The Herald's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

'I hear there's been a change of plan,' he said, through gritted
teeth.

'Are we talking about the Consul-General?"

'We are."

'What's happened?  Did someone cancel the trip?"

'No.  It's still on.  He's even been boasting about it."

'Then he'll be taken care of."

'That wasn't the deal, Brickman.  You know what my client's wishes
were.  It was to be in the air.  The way you showed me."

'Yeah, well, due to circumstances beyond our control, it's not going to
be quite like that.  But don't worry, he's still going off the top
board."

'Do you mind telling me how?"

'I can't explain how.  You wouldn't understand.  But since your friends
won't let me fly, I'm having to use a device powered by the Dark
Light.

Okay?  All I can say is you won't be disappointed.  And I won't have to
explain how I accidentally lost a very important passenger."  He
shrugged.  'So it works out fine for both of US."

'Oh, Brickman..."  breathed Toshiro.

'Yeah,' said Steve.  'I know how you feel.  But why speil all the runT'
The atmosphere became electric as they stared each other out.

Cadillac, Jodi and Kelso kept their heads down.  The two Trackers had a
feeling they'd seen the Jap before, but they didn't know who he was or
why Steve was courting death by facing him down at such a crucial
moment, or what was going to happen next.  Just when the suspense was
becoming unbearable there was another timid knock on the door.

A wavering voice addressed the Herald in Japanese.

Toshiro responded with a gruff command.  The door slid open to reveal
the two house-women kneeling outside, then Clearwater - still masked
appeared between them and stepped through into the room.

Steve's heart leapt, but he didn't let it show in case the Herald got
the wrong idea.  'What kept you?"

Toshiro, who didn't realise that the question was rhetorical, answered
for her.  'I think you'll find her porters had to step aside to let the
procession pass."

Clearwater didn't say anything.  The only time she had met the Herald
he had been swathed in black from head to toe.  Although she had
encountered him on the road and his voice was vaguely familiar, she
didn't know who this imposing figure was or what he was doing there.

But since Steve was on his feet she stayed on hers.

The two house-women, crouched low over bent knees, shuffled in and
deposited Clearwater's luggage: a cloth bundle and a bag.

Toshiro issued some kind of order in Japanese.  One of the house-women
picked up the bag and came forward on her knees to hand it to him.  He
gave them another order which they both acknowledged with a grovelling
bow then backed out of the room, sliding the door shut behind them.

Steve heard their cottoned feet beat a hasty retreat down the corridor
as Toshiro turned and tossed him the bag.

'The leaves you've been asking me for.  That wraps up my half of the
deal.  Make sure you deliver yours."

Steve nodded.  'Nice doing business with you.  Better go out the back
way.  If you were to be -' Toshiro cut him short.  'Brickman, advice
from you is one thing I don't need.  I thought it would have been clear
by now you weren't dealing with an amateur."

Steve bowed politely.

Neither are you, gorgeous.  Neither are you .  . .

Seated with their chief lieutenants in the centre of the grandstand and
separated from the other spectators by a three-deep wall of their own
samurai, Lords YamaShita and Min-Orota surveyed their surroundings.

Immediately below them, hidden by the canopy erected to shield the
Shogun from the view of any potential assassin, sat the Consul-General
and the Herald Toshiro HaseGawa.

Their box was guarded on all four sides by government soldiers from the
Mara-bara garrison.

To Yama-Shita's right, the stand was filled with officials and
merchants from his own domain; the other half was occupied by a similar
group from the Min-Orota family.  Ranged on the field before them was a
line of eight flying-horses, with a second staggered row of four
behind.  All twelve were perched on wheeled trolleys.

Their gleaming white, silk-covered wings and bodies were marked on both
sides with the hinomaru, the blood-red disc that was the symbol of
Ne-Issan, Land of the Rising Sun.  The tails carried two signs: a
Tracker numeral and its Japanese equivalent.

The alien markings had been necessary to allow the original workforce
of outlanders to identify the individual craft.  This explanation came
from Shigamitsu, the Heron Pool commander, who was seated behind the
two domain-lords to answer any questions they might wish to put to
him.

He also informed them that the first eight flying-horses were fitted
with rocket-trays, whose efficiency would be demonstrated later: those
behind were used as gliders for initial training.

'Two samurai - a pilot and an observer - stood by the nose of each
craft and four ground-handlers were lined up under the high tails.  The
aircrews were dressed in all-white outfits, with headbands bearing the
hinomaru flanked by two Japanese ideograms.  Seven pilots were from the
Min-Orota, five from the Yama-Shita family, and their individual house
symbol was emblazoned on the left breast and back of their
loose-sleeved tunics.

The show began with a drumbeat parade of the cavalry and foot-soldiers
who had accompanied the two domain-lords.

Bearing the tall narrow banners of the respective houses, the cavalcade
passed between the line of flying-horses and the grandstand in review
order, led by a standard-bearer carrying the flag of the Toh-Yota
Shogunate and a detachment of government troops.  It was only a token
presence, but it was customary for them to head any procession at which
the Consul-General was present in his official capacity.  And since all
the spectators were, in theory, loyal subjects of the Shogun, they rose
and declaimed the oath of allegiance as Yoritomo's flying-crane banner
was carried past.

With the parade over, the troop detachments of the two domain-lords
reassembled on either side of the grandstand, with the government
soldiers ranged to the left of the Min-Orota and within a stone's throw
of the wall separating the flying field from the tree-fringed grounds
at the rear of the pavilion occupied by Cadillac.

Following the troops past the grandstand was a group of shinto priests
of varied rank and importance and their assistants bearing flutes,
tubular bells and drums.  This group stopped as the soldiers withdrew,
bowed en masse to the assembled dignitaries, then moved to the
left-hand end of the line-up.  In a lengthy ceremony involving the
singing of invocations and responses, the waving of burning
joss-sticks, the sprinkling of water and the distribution of garlands
of paper flowers, the samurai and their flying-horses were blessed on
behalf of the Iron Masters' sky-gods and - presumably - awarded the
celestial equivalent of an airworthiness certificate.

Returning to the grandstand, the priests formed up into two lines like
a guard of honour, bowed to the assembly, then turned to face each
other.  It was the signal for the two domain-lords to descend with
their immediate entourage to inspect the aircrews and their
flying-machines.

Watching through a narrow gap in the screens at the rear of the
pavilion, Steve saw the Consul-General and Toshiro attach themselves to
the group as it left the stand.

Shigamitsu and his two chief lieutenants at the Heron Pool followed
dutifully behind.  Using a 'scope with a zoom lens that had been
included in the third airmail package, Steve was able to zero in for
head and shoulder shots of individuals in the group.  The two guys at
the front were obviously the domain-lords but, having never seen either
before, he didn't know which was which.

The preliminaries were almost over.  In a few minutes the real action
would start.  He passed the 'scope to Cadillac.  'Keep your eye on the
Consul-General.  Unless they've changed things around again, he's due
to open the flying display."

'May I look through this magic eye too?"  enquired Clearwater.

'Sure..."  Steve sent her a message with his eyes, then started to pull
the hidden weapons out of the floor storage units.

Jodi had already checked the house and found it empty.

Every member of Cadillac's small domestic staff was now lined up along
the back wall, totally absorbed in the happenings beyond.  It was
unlikely they would be disturbed, but there was no point in taking
chances.

Situations like this were governed by Sod's Law: if something could go
wrong, you could bet your last meal-credit it most probably would.

That was why she and Kelso had armed themselves with concealed handguns
and were now roving silently around the house, keeping an eye on the
various entrances in case they had any unexpected callers.

Stripping off his loose jacket, Steve donned the sleeveless padded vest
that AMEXICO had supplied.  It contained a holster for his air pistol,
pockets for the spare mags and pressure cartridges, and clips to hold
the grenades under a loose flap that concealed their telltale
outlines.

There was another pocket positioned level with his right elbow to hold
the face mask.  He filled up the various compartments and selected a
lethal cocktail of grenades.  By the time he was finished, he was a
one-man war machine.

He began to load up the three other vests.  'How're we doing?"

Cadillac told him: 'Min-Orota's finished his inspection of the pilots
and planes.  The man next to him must be Yama-Shita.  The four machines
in the second line are being moved back towards the workshops, but the
crews have been stood down and have gone to the front of the stand."

'Good.  That's more than enough for us."

'And they've just started to move five from the first line."

'Where to?"

'They're pushing them towards the grandstand.  Wait a minute."

Cadillac lapsed into silence, then said: 'Ah, yes ˇ .  . They've parked
them in a V-formation right in front of the stand, with their tails
pointing towards the spectators."

'And the crews?"

'They're positioned front and rear like they were before."

Steve continued loading the pockets of the combat vests.  'So that
leaves three out on the field... Can you see their numbers?"

'Yes.  Six, Seven and Eight.  One to Five are in front of the stand."

'Good."  The tidy-minded Iron Masters couldn't have made his task
easier.  Steve looked up and saw that Clearwater had taken over the
'scope.  'Where's lover boy now?"

'He's handing his swords to your friend, the Herald.

And now he's taking off his hat and wig and tying a scarf around his
head."  Clearwater moved the 'scope on to Min-Orota, then found
Yama-Shita's face filling the rectangular frame.  She was gripped by a
sudden chill as she recognized the slitted eyes and steel-trap mouth.

It was her tormentor, the implacable master of the wheelboats who had
crushed, drowned and tortured eight Plainfolk Mutes to demonstrate what
could happen to her if she did not obey him.

She felt the hatred well up within her.  Not reckless and unreasoning,
but cold and calculating.  The memory of the merciless game played out
on the giant paddle-wheel and-of the two mutilated heads she had had to
share her cabin with was still as fresh and as shocking as ever.  She
had vowed to avenge the deaths of her fellow Mutes and she would do so
today.  Yes...

this soulless monster and his servants would pay the blood-debt.  Many
times over.

Oh, Talisman, when I call upon you, lend me your strength I 'Now he's
taking his seat in the front of the flying-horse.  And a samurai is
climbing into the seat behind."

Steve repossessed the 'scope and zeroed in the Consul-General, then
panned left on to the tail.  Number Seven.  Cadillac had told him that
one of the gods in the Iron Masters' pantheon was in charge of lucky
breaks.

He didn't know whether they viewed the number seven as having any
specially favourable significance, but if they did, the fat man was in
for a big surprise.

The set-up was becoming clearer by the second.

Toh-Shiba was going up with Six and Eight acting as escort.  All three
aircraft were being pushed back on a diagonal line across the field to
the take-off point by the workshops, followed by the other two pilots
and their observers.  Yama-Shita and Min-Orota were returning to their
seats in the stand.

And the Herald?  Ah, yes ... he was walking past Min-Orota's troops
towards the government detachment, moving forward on a line that would
take him to Steve's right.  Steve tracked ahead with the 'scope and
caught sight of Toshiro's horse with its distinctive trappings.

Another mounted samurai was holding the reins.  Steve watched as the
Herald was helped up into the saddle.  He had obviously decided to
improve his chances of survival by staying mobile.  Smart move .  . .

Steve called Jodi and Kelso back into the study and handed out the
combat vests.  They put them on under their tunics.  Steve helped
Cadillac into his.  'I hope you know how to use this stuff..."

'If you do I do."

'Yeah, well, this is the one to watch."  He unclipped a gas grenade and
explained its effects to Cadillac and Clearwater, and how they could
protect, themselves by using the face-mask.  He handed the last one to
Clearwater and told her to try it on.

Steve saw her eyes widen in alarm through the visor as her muffled
voice leaked through the side-filters.  'I feel as if I am drowning!"

She pulled the mask off quickly.

He laid a calming hand on her arm.  'There's nothing to be frightened
about.  You're not going to suffocate.

Just breathe deeply.  You won't have to wear it for long, but you must
put it on when you see any of us give this signal -' he brought his
hand down over his face.

'Immediately.  You understand?"

Clearwater nodded.

'And don't take it off until we remove ours.  You got that?"

'Yes."

'Okay.  Time to get changed."  Steve produced a canvas tote-bag and
handed it to Clearwater, then placed a faded blue Tracker worksuit on
top of it.  'Pack your white mask, robe and whatever you're wearing
underneath in the bag.  But do it carefully.  Did you bring that set of
body-paints?"

'Yes.  They're bundled up with the clothes I came in.

Plus the other things you asked for."

Steve turned to Cadillac.  'What about your walking skins?"

'I burned them."

Steve eyed him.  'Trust you.  Where're the body-paints you told me
about?"

'In one of those cupboards..."

'Well, we need 'em."  Steve laid the bag of precious pink cleaning
leaves on top of the worksuit.  'Put these in too, plus anything else
that might come in useful."  He signalled Jodi and Kelso to precede him
through the door.  'Okay.  We're just gonna take a look around.

You've got five minutes to get changed and packed.

Then we'll go over the plan."  Steve stepped quickly outside, then
popped his head back into the room.  'And while you're at it, why don't
you two patch things up?

We've got a long haul ahead of us, and we're gonna need each other
every step of the way."

He slid the door shut and joined Jodi and Kelso at the far side of the
adjoining room, whose window screens faced the side wall of the Heron
Pool compound.

Kelso eyed him thoughtfully.  'I ain't too happy 'bout that lumphead
walking around with all that hardware.

Suppose he turns it on us?"

'Yeah,' murmured Jodi.  'I thought we were taking these two guys back
as prisoners."

'That comes later,' said Steve.  'At the moment, we're all supposed to
be on the same side.  You're a couple of renegades helping us make the
break.  You want to get back to the Big Open, and they're going back to
their own people."

'And you're going with them..."

Steve shrugged.  'Listen.  As long as they believe that, it's gonna
make our job a whole lot easier - right?"

'I just hope you know what you're doing,' muttered Kelso.

'Trust me,' said Steve.

Steve stepped out of the pavilion on to the rear veranda and walked
down the steps into the yard.  Beyond it was a small vegetable garden,
then a short stretch of grass which ended in a line of shrubs and trees
and a stone wall.

Cadillac's domestic staff were still ranged along it, with their
children perched on top.

Even though they had been watching the build-up since early morning,
their attention was now riveted on the three planes preparing for
take-off.  Over the past months, flying machines had become a familiar
sight but today's events were special because of the importance of the
people involved and the surrounding pomp and ceremony.

No one noticed Steve cross quickly to the dung-heap where he had left
two wooden buckets containing the usual night mix but, as he went to
pick them up, the plump, bossy cook turned to pick up a wandering
bare-assed infant.  Recovering from her surprise, she gave him a
suspicious stare.  Steve tilted the bucket towards her to reveal its
contents then pretended to empty it.

There was a dramatic roll of drums and Shwaah-ba-ba-BOOOMMM!  The sound
of three pairs of launch boosters igniting in quick succession rippled
towards the pavilion.  The cook hurriedly lifted the small child on to
the wall and sought a foothold herself to get a better view.  A
full-throated roar of approval came from the seated spectators and
watching troops as the Consul-General's flying-horse climbed steeply
into the sky followed by his two escorts.

Steve took a firm grip on both buckets and hurried out of sight.

Entering the bath-house, he stripped off his distinctive brown uniform
and donned a set of borrowed clothes: the sleeveless wrap-over top and
trousers worn by the Mutes who manned the cookhouse and other services
provided for the Tracker workforce.  After making sure the load of
ordnance that was packed round his ribs didn't show, Steve pulled a
battered wide-brimmed straw hat down about his ears, collected his
buckets and went down the newly worn path that linked the pavilion to
the workshops behind the Heron Pool compound.

The name, which had only come into use at the beginning of the year
when the project had begun, came from the pond behind the flying
field.

The compound itself had been built several decades before and had
originally been used to house a detachment of horse-soldiers belonging
to the Min-Orota.  Years of peace and partial demobilization had left
it empty except for a caretaker and his family, and most of the
original buildings had been dismantled and transported elsewhere.

It had then been rented by the local landowner as a feed and grain
store and as winter quarters for his livestock.

Situated in a quiet rural area, close to the main east-west highway and
bordering on a large stretch of grazing land, the site had appealed to
Min-Orota's advisers and had been promptly repossessed.  The
dilapidated lean-to which was still standing in the north-west corner
had been allotted to the Mute slaves, and new wooden units had been
constructed to house the Trackers, their guards and overseers.

Shigamitsu, the Heron Pool commander, his two chief lieutenants and
their families had been billeted in the nearby house of the local
landowner - who had been obliged to find another roof to sleep under.

'Leaseholder' was a more accurate term, and the duration of the
contract depended entirely on the whim of the domain-lord.  Like the
robber-barons of old, Min-Orota was the ultimate possessor of every
square inch of land, everything on it and underneath it.

The only drawback to the compound was its size.

Workers and workshops could not both be contained within its walls.

This was why the two long-roofed structures had been erected on either
side of a wide alleyway leading from the arched gate in the rear
wall.

There was a six-foot gap between the southern ends of the workshops and
the peeling back wall of the compound, and it had become part of the
shortcut that Steve and Cadillac used when going to and from work.

The alternative would have meant going through the compound, out of the
main gate, then left along the road towards Marabara.

For some unexplained reason, the rear gate was only intermittently
guarded.  When the Trackers began and ended work they were counted out
and counted back in, but Steve had noticed that people were passing to
and fro during the day without being stopped and, perhaps because he'd
been seen going backwards and forwards with Cadillac, no one challenged
him when he took the shortcut to the pavilion on his own.

It was surprising, given all the hassles he had encountered
elsewhere.

Maybe it was because the privilege of working there - as with the Mutes
who had been selected for the job of roadrunner - meant that security
wasn't a problem.  As Simons had said to Jodi and Kelso, no Tracker in
his right mind would do anything to screw up a sweet little number like
this.

Whatever the reason, it suited Steve.  The sweet little number was due
to come to an abrupt end.  And that could prove tough on the renegade
linemen who made up the original workforce, but Steve found it hard to
be sorry for them.  Not knowing who he was, they had treated him with
the same contempt as they would any other Mute errand-boy.  And when
they had realized he was smarter than they were and could perform tasks
that were beyond them, they had gone out of their way to give him a
hard time.

Carrying a loaded bucket in each hand, Steve stepped through the arch
and surveyed the interior of the compound.  He now had his back against
the north wall.

To his left lay the quarters of the Japs and other dinks that made up
the permanent staff.  Ahead of him was an assortment of wooden
buildings - cookhouse, laundry, bath-house, clothing and bedding store
staffed by Mutes.

Set along the wall immediately to his right were the ramshackle remains
of the buildings once used by the horse-soldiers and now housing the
Mutes.  Beyond them, in the north-west corner, was the spot where the
compound's collective shit was dumped until it was carted away to
neighbouring farms.

The two long bunk-houses in which the Tracker workforce was now
confined lay side by side, parallel with the west wall.  They were
separated from their Mute neighbours by a fifteen-yard strip of raked
gravel which contained four cruciform whipping-posts used for minor
infractions.  On the occasions Steve had seen them in use, the victim
had simply been left tied up for a day in a position guaranteed to rack
him with excruciating cramps; most defaulters, whose crime was not
showing a sufficient degree of respect to a passing Iron Master, were
usually made to kneel on the sharp-edged gravel chips with their hands
on their heads for an hour or two.

There was one other building of even greater importance; the
guard-house.  This was the first structure that met a visitor's eye
when he entered by the main, southern gate and found himself in an open
area which was used as a parade ground.  The guard-house lay facing the
main gate, on the far side of this open space.

Running along the wall on the eastern edge of the parade ground was an
off-duty cantina for the lower ranks, where they could meet wives and
relatives, and where itinerant traders were allowed to offer their
wares.  A similar building, against the west wall, offered another form
of relaxation that Steve had never encountered in an institutionalized
form.  Cadillac had told him it was a bordello staffed by half a dozen
self-employed females.

The whole business of money and the commercial activity which
underpinned Iron Master society was a totally new concept, which Steve
had found difficult to grasp.  The idea of having to work to earn units
of currency which you then handed to the person you wanted to jack up
seemed quite bizarre.

The cantina and the bordello were of no concern to Steve.  His target
was the guard-house, but he could not see it from his present position
alongside the archway at the back of the compound.  He was also unable
to see the double entrance gates, but guessed they would probably be
open.  A handful of the thirty soldiers who manned the guard-house at
any one time would be stationed at the gate, gossiping with passing
farm-girls and bargaining with pedlars anxious to sell their wares to
the patrons of the cantina.

The buckets, with their aromatic contents, were part of his disguise.

Many Mutes in Ne-Issan were permanently employed on what captive
Trackers termed 'the shit detail'.  With a full load, he was unlikely
to arouse the suspicions of any guards, but even if he was stopped he
would only be subjected to the most cursory examination.  That was what
he was counting on.  During one of the earlier nightshifts, before they
had been outnumbered by the present crowd of dinks, Steve had fashioned
two planked circles that fitted inside the buckets, creating a false
bottom.  Hidden underneath, wrapped in transparent plasfilm, was a
hefty charge of plastic explosive plus two gas grenades.  Both packages
were primed with one of AMEXICO's special detonators, and they were
guaranteed to spoil the day of anyone unlucky enough to be crapping
into either bucket when it exploded.

Steve had reckoned that most of the resident Iron Masters would be on
the field in front of the hangars at the far end of the workshops, or
seated in the grandstand, leaving only a skeleton staff inside the
compound.  Apart from a handful of Mutes working on various chores, the
place looked deserted.  But Steve knew the guard-house would still be
fully manned.  In order to stand a chance of seizing the three aircraft
needed to make their getaway, they had to eliminate as much of the
opposition as possible.  That meant taking out those who were closest
to the action first, and using that blast to draw in others to where
they could be caught in the second strike.

Approaching the rotting dungheap, he emptied both buckets and rinsed
them out in the stone trough.  The false bottoms had now been in place
for a week and were indistinguishable from the real thing.  Provided
nobody compared their weight with the genuine article, no one would
guess they'd been rigged.

Okay.  Here goes .  . .

Steve skirted the gravel punishment area and carried the buckets up the
path fronting the Tracker bunkhouses, then turned left along the edge
of the parade ground.  As expected, some of the guards were loitering
by the gate, and he saw some others on the veranda of the cantina.

They were all dressed up for the big day but, like all soldiers
throughout the age, they knew precisely when they could relax and just
how far they could go.

It wasn't hard to imagine what they were laughing and joking about.  On
a day like this, when the top brass were busy enjoying themselves,
those who had been relegated to guard duty could afford to take it
easy.  Unlike those poor fools from the palace who had had to march all
the way from Ba-satana in parade order and now had to stand in line,
under the gaze of their officers, watching a bunch of even bigger fools
shoot across the sky in all directions like dragonflies with their
tails on fire.

At the rear of the guard-house, under an overhang of the roof, was a
screened four-hole privy.  The Iron Masters had a relaxed approach to
bodily functions.  On his journeys as a roadrunner, Steve had often
passed people of both sexes cheerfully urinating in public sometimes
without interrupting their conversation.

Faeces, on the other hand, be they horse droppings, cattle turds or the
human variety, were a collector's item, and this, again according to
Cadillac, had led to the communal bench and bucket system.

Higher-ranking Iron Masters made use of private indoor closets in which
the wooden bucket was replaced by a similar container made of glazed
porcelain.  Besides its more elegant shape, it had the added advantage
of not smelling after it had been washed.  Fortunately, this luxury had
not percolated down to the lower ranks - otherwise Steve would have
been well and truly shafted.

Having made sure that the privy was empty, Steve entered and replaced
the buckets at each end with those he was carrying.  He then emptied
and rinsed the middle ?air, picked up his load and left.  As he started
to walk away, someone behind him shouted out the Japanese command to
halt - a sound all slaves soon learned to react to.  Instantly.

Steve froze, then turned back, a bucket gripped in each hand.  Two
soldiers, with a plump, giggling farm-girl between them, had just
turned the corner of the guard-house and were walking towards him.  As
far 'as Steve could tell they were unarmed.  He was packing enough
ordnance to kill them ten times over, but he could not risk cutting
them down.  The girl hung back as the two soldiers approached.  Their
cheeks were flushed and they were bright-eyed - a sign they'd knocked
back a cup or two of sake.  Steve put down the buckets and knelt
between them, head bowed.  He couldn't understand what the dinks were
saying to each other or the girl, but they were clearly having a joke
at his expense.  And so it proved.  After swaggering round him, both
soldiers stuck a fumbling hand into their trousers, pulled out their
hairless dongs and proceeded to pee into the buckets.

The real joke came halfway through when they changed aim and widdled
over him.

Terrific.  There was nothing Steve could do but play the part of the
abject slave.  Enjoy it while you can, fellas, 'cause, believe me, in a
short while you ain't gonna find much to laugh about...

When Steve had been well watered, the two soldiers waved him away and
strutted back to the giggling farm-girl.  Steve got to his feet and
stood with his head bowed until the trio had disappeared through the
back door of the guardhouse.

Time for Phase Two.  Steve hurried back down the path past the Tracker
bunk-houses towards the arch in the rear wall.  He kept his head down,
hiding his face under the brim of the straw hat.  If any of the
Trackers inside happened to look out of one of the windows and
recognise him, the more sharp-witted amongst them would know he was up
to something.  Given the way they felt about him, they might try to
summon the attention of the guard.  And that would really throw a
spanner in the works.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To a burst of applause from the dignitaries in the stand and the cheers
of the lesser spectators, five flying-horses rose clear of their
launching trolleys and thundered skywards, one after the other,
trailing blue ribbons of smoke.  Levelling off at 1,000 feet, the five
craft drew together into an arrowhead formation as they circled the
fiel'd, then dived to build up speed before pulling up into a loop.

Rolling upright as they came down off the top - a manoeuvre once known,
after its creator, as an Immelman turn - they hauled their noses up and
round for a second loop.

Their formation flying was not immaculate, but it was still
impressive.

It had been made possible by the fitting of a crude retro-thrust device
which could be cranked down over the business end of the rocket
tubes.

A row of curved metal plates like miniature double ploughshares
deflected the exhaust gases sideways and downwards, reducing the
forward thrust.  It was primitive, but it gave each pilot a measure of
control over his forward speed -all-important when they were trying to
keep their place in the formation.

There was a gasp from the watching crowd when the lines of blue smoke
were suddenly severed from the aircraft as they hung upside down.  The
first rocket had reached the end of its brief life.  Time for the
second burn.  Amid growing apprehension, the five flying-horses
continued their downward plunge, then, with a reassuring explosion of
sound, a stabbing, white-hot finger of flame appeared beneath the
fuselage pod of the lead aircraft.  Two, three, four- five!

The watching Iron Masters responded with a deep-throated roar of
approval.

Cadillac heard their reaction as he stood on the rear veranda of the
pavilion and watched the machines he had created weave smoke trails
across the sky.

Clearwater, now dressed in one of his white worksuits, came and stood
by his side, her dark, sun-streaked hair hanging loose about her neck
and shoulders.

The Iron Masters had banned him from the display, but they could not
rob him of his moment of triumph.  He had made this happen and he felt
happy that Clearwater was here to witness it.  If in the past he had
been less in her eyes than he felt he should have been, here - at
lastwas proof of his abilities, his vision.  His eyes met hers and she
answered the unspoken question by hugging his arm tightly.  He would
have preferred a more wholehearted embrace, but her gestures had always
been restrained in public or - as in this case - under the watchful
gaze of Kazan and Kelso.

Cadillac knew from his penetration of the Iron Masters' minds that his
flying machines appealed to their aesthetic sensibilities.  Like the
proud horses of the samurai, they were lithe and graceful, and the
echoing thunder that marked their passage through the sky conveyed the
same feeling of irresistible power as the hoofbeats of their galloping
steeds.

He was not ungrateful for the few, paltry privileges they had granted
him, but he had earned them.  He merited even better treatment, should
have been given greater power, more responsibility.  Today was to have
been just the beginning: the best was yet to come.  But no.  The
short-sighted fools had allowed themselves to be blinded by their
mistrust of outlanders- no matter how gifted they were.  Trusting their
honeyed words, he had placed his future in their hands and they had
shattered his bright hopes.  But the failure was not his.  They had
failed him.  So be it.  This goose would fly away and lay his golden
eggs elsewhere.

After burning up the second rocket with a couple more variations on the
basic loop, the five samurai pilots used the third to execute
individual slow, flick and hesitation rolls, corkscrewing upwards to
gain height for the manoeuvre that had proved the most difficult to
master in the time available: a formation barrel-roll.

Whereas ordinary rolls are rotations round an imaginary line drawn
between the nose and tail of an aircraft, a barrel-roll, as its name
suggests, requires the same 360-degree rotation whilst tracing a
spiralling line around the surface of an imaginary barrel.  A competent
trainee pilot can quickly master the basic control movements required,
but to perform the same manoeuvre as one of a group of five aircraft
requires a much higher degree of coordination.

After several hair-raising near-collisions, Jodi and Kelso had urged
Cadillac to drop it from the programme.  Not wanting the display to be
anything less than a triumphant success, he had been tempted to do so,
but their five star pupils had insisted on its inclusion.

Their socially inferior instructors were in no position to argue, but
managed to persuade the glory-seekers to keep well apart going in, and
on the upward half of the roll, then draw closer together on the
round-out.  The final practice sessions had still been
heart-inthe-mouth experiences, but they had managed to avoid sliding
into one another.  With luck, they would do as well today.

Gliding across the sky, the five machines reassembled into an arrowhead
formation like white geese heading south for the winter.  They were now
high in the air beyond the pond on the north side of the field, and to
the right of Lord Yama-Shita's troops, ready to begin the manoeuvre
which would carry them in a left-hand spiral round an invisible barrel
hanging in the sky in front of the grandstand.

From a height of some 2,000 feet, they dropped their right wingtips as
the fourth rocket flamed into life, flew down the curve of the
'barrel', then rolled over on to their left wingtips as they climbed up
the other side.  The arrowhead formation was now almost completely
upside-down, approaching the high-point of the roll directly in front
of the seated domain-lords.  Both men gazed up with rapt attention as
the five machines curved towards them.

Hidden in a clump of bushes to the west of the workshops where he had a
clear view of the field, Steve pressed the first five buttons on a
powerful handheld transmitter that AMEXICO had sent him.  The signals,
each on a precisely defined wavelength, triggered the radio-controlled
detonators now attached to the plastic explosive he had concealed
aboard the aircraft in the formation.

BooOOMM.t Boo-boo-BOOMMM.t BooOOOMMM!

Lords Yama-Shita and Min-Orota froze in their seats with speechless
horror as each of the five flying-horses was engulfed in a ball of
flame.  The slender silk-covered wings and bodies, crumpled, were
ripped to pieces then rapidly consumed by orange tongues of fire.

High-ranking guests and assembled troops were thrown into confusion as
the shower of burning debris spiralled down towards the packed stand
preceded by the rag-doll bodies of the pilots and observers.

As the first machine exploded, Kelso rushed out onto the veranda and
tossed the tote-bag and cloth bundle into the arms of Cadillac and
Clearwater.  'Okay!

Go-Go-GO!"  Jodi was already in position by the bath-house on the west
side of the yard.  She pulled the pin on a gas grenade and hurled it
towards the servants lined up along the wall.  A gush of white smoke
mushroomed out as the grenade detonated, filling the air with disabling
nerve gas.  Kelso followed it up with another as he raced across the
yard behind Cadillac and Clearwater.

Like everybody else, the servants had been temporarily stunned by the
aerial conflagration, but the dull report of the first gas grenade
coincided with the protective reaction of two of the female servants.

As they gathered up their children and turned to flee from the scene,
they saw the burst of white smoke, saw their ex-master running across
the yard, and watched as the red-haired slave behind him threw what
looked like a stone in their direction.

Running along the path towards the workshops, Jodi and Kelso heard the
women scream shrilly as they gave the alarm.  It didn't matter.  A lot
of other people were screaming and shouting too.  By the time the
nearest soldiers reached the garden wall, none of the servants would be
in a fit state to tell them anything - and the soldiers would soon find
they were short of breath too.

As Steve was about to press the first of the buttons that would destroy
the acrobatic formation, the plane carrying Consul-General Nakane
Toh-Shiba returned from its overflight of Ba-satana and began to circle
above his official residence and the government-owned estate which
surrounded it.  The Consul had not changed his views about flying but,
having overcome his initial terror, he had become fascinated by this
new view of the world, and his eyes were fixed on the larger of the two
islands in the lake which now lay almost directly below.

Everything looked so small!  But it was down there, in the summerhouse
surrounded by,trees and a rock garden, that he had spent the most
memorable hours of his life in the arms of his secret paramour; the
beautiful alien creature who possessed that rarest of gifts lustrous,
sweet-smelling body hair.  The thought of his next visit to her filled
him with pleasurable anticipation; the realisation that it-would
probably be their last moment together made the feeling bitter-sweet.

He had no inkling that it was not her death that was drawing ever
closer, but his own.

His craft, gliding silently in a V-formation with its two escorts, was
banking round in the direction of the Heron Pool when Steve blew the
first five planes out of the air.

The Consul's pilot saw the fireballs blossom and fall.

Signalling frantically with both arms, he managed to attract the
attention of his wingmen.  They drifted in until their wingtips were
almost touching.  The lead pilot shouted vainly to his colleagues,
pointing repeatedly over the nose.  The flaming debris had plunged
earthwards, but the drifting trail of smoke that marked the formation's
fall was still visible.  Both wingmen indicated that they understood.

The Consul's pilot gave the signal to fire the last of their five
rockets and led them back towards the field.

On the ground, beyond the lines of horse- and ˇfoot-soldiers of the
Min-Orota stationed to the left of the grandstand, the Herald Toshiro
Hase-Gawa struggled to control his restive horse.  He too had been
stunned by the sudden disintegration of the five flying-horses, but
since the blow had been delivered against known enemies of the state,
he was not gripped by the general sense of horror.  What had shaken him
was Brickman's ruthless efficiency and the power at his command.

Beyond that, it was hard to think of anything except how to stay in the
saddle and comport himself with the necessary degree of dignity in the
midst of the almost total pandemonium that had engulfed the spectators
in the stand and the troops on either side.

In the absence of any orders from above, line-officers and
squad-leaders were simultaneously screaming at the other ranks to stay
in line and watching the sky to avoid being hit by falling debris.  The
legless body of one of the pilots spiralled out of the sky and hit the
ground with a sickening thud only yards away from the Herald's rearing
horse.  As he hauled savagely on the reins and laid his whip across its
neck, one of the sheet-metal rocket-trays planed down like a roof-tile
torn loose in a storm and scythed into the wavering ranks of the
Min-Orota, decapitating a foot-soldier and flattening a dozen more.

Those around the point of impact scattered in all directions.

In the same few seconds, Clearwater, Cadillac, Jodi and Kelso reached
the rear of the compound and paused to catch their breath in the
passageway between the wall and the first workshop.  Jodi glanced
through the arch into the compound, then dashed across the alley and
crouched down in the gap on the other side.

She and Kelso were linked to Steve by pocket-sized radios fitted with a
plug-in earpiece and throat mike.

'Steve!  We're at the back gate.  No problem so far!"  His voice came
back in her ear.  'Okay.  Get ready to move.  I'm gonna hit it on
three.  One!  And ' Three Jap guards who must have been patrolling the
compound when the formation blew to pieces burst through the arch and
ran down the alleyway.  They went several yards before their minds
reacted to what their eyes had seen: four Trackers hiding between the
back wall and the workshops.  As they turned back, their eyes met
Jodi's raised pistol.  Kelso was facing the other way, covering the
arch.

'Two - and -' Chu-wittt-chu-witt-chuwitt!  All three went down.

Kelso motioned Clearwater and Cadillac to join Jodi across the
alleyway, then sent a gas grenade rolling through the arch into the
compound.

'Three!"  Steve detonated the buckets in the privy at the back of the
guardhouse.Baa-BLAMMM!  The blast shattered the walls and brought the
roof down.  It also pulverised the four gas-grenades taped to the
explosive, mixing their toxic fumes with the rolling clouds of dust and
causing would-be rescuers to collapse among the debris alongside the
few

stunned survivors.

Steve had engineered the guard-house blast for two reasons: to
eliminate a possible armed intervention from that quarter and to create
a diversion that would'draw the workshop staff and ground-handlers up
the alleyway and into the compound - away from the four aircraft now
parked along the western boundary of the field.

The troops and spectators in the grandstand on the eastern side were
still in a state of confusion.  Before they could regroup and grasp
what was happening, he intended to throw them into further disarray.

He couldn't do that until the crowd of Japs milling around on the field
in front of the workshops had been cut down to size.  Apart from some
fifty ground-handlers, there were sixty-odd workshop staff and the
twenty women packers from the 'powder room'.  Plus some friends and
relatives who had sneaked in to get a better view.

They were now seeing more than they had bargained for.  When the ground
shook under their feet and they saw the smoke and dust rise above the
back wall of the compound, some of the crowd had already started across
the field towards the grandstand to help pick up the pieces.  A few
kept on going; the majority turned back towards their friends, who
reacted as Steve hoped they would.  Apart from a panicky handful who
hung back uncertainly, they streamed up the alleyway towards the
smoking compound.

Clearwater, Cadillac, Jodi and Kelso threw themselves down beside Steve
as he hit another button, triggering the six charges spaced alongside
the inside of the flanking walls.

BB-B-BBABAMM!

The double-sided blast tore through the walls and through the Japs
trapped between them, and the six incendiary grenades that Steve had
taped to the plastic spewed out a glutinous rain of fire in all
directions.

Seconds later, racks of timber, wooden workbenches and the rafters of
the collapsing roofs were ablaze.

'Shee-itt,' breathed Kelso.  'This escape plan of yours had better
work.  I'd hate to be here when they start figuring on just who's gonna
pay for the damage!"  Jodi pointed to the south-east corner of the
sky.

'Three on their way in!  See 'em?!"  'Yeah, they're next,' said
Steve.

'C'mon!"  Grabbing Clearwater's bundle, he motioned to her and Cadillac
to follow him in a crouching run.  They left the cover of the bushes
and leaped into the ditch that ran behind the low grassy earth bank
made from the outfill.

The bank divided the western edge of the field from the smaller
adjoining pasture.  The ditch was calf-deep in water, but by moving
along it they were able to remain hidden.  So far, the only people who
had seen them were dead, or too ill to talk about it.

When they drew level with the four planes perched on their launching
trolleys, they flopped against the bank and peered over the top.  Drawn
up behind the four planes were two carts containing racks of the plump
launch boosters and the thinner rocket tubes carried by the planes.

Steve drew Kelso's attention to the handful of dinks .  who hadn't been
sucked into the alley and were now running around like headless
chickens on the edge of the raging inferno.  'Think you can frag them
from here?"

Kelso weighed up the yardage involved.  'Be easier to pitch it from
behind that end cart."

Steve patted him over the shoulder.  Kelso slithered sideways over the
bank and ran for cover.

'I think we've been spotted,' said Cadillac.

Steve looked up to his left.  The approaching three-plane formation had
broken up.  Two were now descending in line astern along the northern
edge of the field where he had taken his flying leap over the stone
wall into the pond.  The third aircraft had stayed high and out of
trouble.

That would be the Consul-General.  Yeah... Had to be.

The two planes made a wide sweeping turn behind them just as Kelso
stood up and winged the first of two fragmentation grenades at the
panicky dinks.  Now only 500 feet up, the two-man crews could not miss
seeing them crouched in the ditch.

The Herald saw the two flying-horses pass over the burning workshops
and dip towards the grandstand just as the commander of the Min-Orota
troops dispatched half his force across the field to tackle the
blaze.

Toshiro ordered the government troop detachment to stand fast.  It was
Min-Orota property that was going up in flames.

Until called upon to help, he was not required to do so.

Grasping the radio transmitter in both hands, Steve used his thumbs to
press buttons six and eight.

Baa-bamm I Both aircraft disintegrated as they angled across the path
of the advancing troops - the first at a height of some two hundred
feet, the second at barely a hundred.

Their forward momentum caused the debris to arc down like a salvo of
air-to-ground missiles upon the already jittery formation.  The
commander was swept from his horse by a charred, half-naked body.

Discipline cracked; the soldiers turned tail and fled to the
comparative safety of the access road beyond the eastern edge of the
field.

Shouting above the tumult, Toshiro Hase-Gawa called upon the garrison
commander to pull back his own small force.  By the convoluted laws of
protocol, he himself could not leave the field before the
Consul-General, and he was thus obliged to remain astride his terrified
horse.

It was a parade animal, unused to being subjected to a rain of fiery
projectiles, and was now circling restlessly, pitting its strength
against his.  Eyes rolling, teeth bared, neck arched, it tried its
utmost to grasp the bit between its teeth, but Toshiro held the reins
in a vice-like grip, drawing the horse's foaming jaws against its
chest.  His own eyes were fixed on a more tranquil animal; the
flying-horse now circling high overhead.

Come on, Brickman!  What are you waiting for?

Steve had already handed the transmitter to Clearwater and the tip of
her finger was, at that very instant, exerting a downward pressure on
the appropriate button.

Having just witnessed the inexplicable destruction of his escort, the
Consul-General's initial terror returned.  His fears had not been
groundless.  The kami had held back their anger, choosing to strike at
a moment when they could inflict the greatest possible humiliation on
the vain and foolish men who had dared, once again, to flout the divine
plan!

They had been taught a richly deserved lesson.  But he was an innocent
passenger; his only error that of blind obedience to his sovereign
liege-lord.  And here he was in mortal danger of .being consumed by a
fiery thunderbolt from heaven!

Oh, Ameratsu-Omikami!  Have pity on this unwilling trespasser who was
driven by duty alone to set foot in your cloudy domain!  If I must
forfeit my life for this foolish act, then let me die an honourable
death with a sword in my hand!  I will face it unflinchingly this very
day!  This very hour!  But let it be among men, with the ground beneath
my feet!

Forcing his bulky body round in his seat, the Consul shouted to the
samurai pilot.  'I wish to alight!  Go down!

Go down!"  As the wind tore the words from his mouth, the pilot and the
centre-section of the flying-horse was suddenly engulfed in an
orange-white sheet of flame.  The smooth forward motion ended with a
sickening lurch and the Consul-General, the right side of his face now
hideously seared and blistered, his sightless eye steaming in its
socket and with the back of his robe on fire, found himself projected
into a world where sky and earth revolved and became one.

He clutched desperately at the sides of the cockpit in an effort to
steady himself, but the wooden structure around him came apart in his
hands.  The straps that held him to his seat slipped from his shoulders
and he found himself floating on a cushion of air.  Below him lay a
patchwork quilt of red, brown and orange fields.  The world had stopped
spinning; had separated once more into earth and sky.

The shock of what was happening, the suffocating rush of air, numbed
the shrieking pain and drove the terror from his mind.  His education
had not included the chilling fact that bodies in free fall accelerate
at a rate of 32 feet per second until they reach a speed of 120
m.p.h.

A velocity that is terminal in every sense of the word.

At 2,000 feet, with arms and legs outstretched, you still have a few
moments left in which to feel you could fly for ever and that - if you
only knew the secret - you could skim down like a bird in a graceful
curve to alight gently on your feet.  It is only when you pass through
the 1,000-foot mark that you suddenly realise the ground is rising to
meet you at a frightening speed and that it is all going to end quite
differently.

Cowering under the canopy of their box and surrounded protectively by
their bodyguards, YamaShita and Min-Orota watched with appalled
fascination as the Consul-General plummeted to earth, arms and legs
flailing like a deranged mechanical doll.  Wonderful.

Toshiro had long awaited this moment, but he still flinched as the
Consul-General punched a six-inch-deep outline of his body into the
ground and split open like an over-ripe melon.  And so it ends...

Seized by a sudden feeling of exhilaration, he forced his skittering
horse to wheel, then galloped off the field as the remaining debris
fluttered to earth around the smouldering corpse.

Incredible, thought Jodi.  She glanced at her digital watch - one of
three AMEXICO had thoughtfully provided to help co-ordinate their
getaway.  So much death and destruction, but less than eight minutes
had elapsed since Brickman had blown up the first plane and they had
begun their run from the pavilion.  She saw Cadillac rubbing his eyes
with the back of his hand.  His face was streaked with tears.

Steve waved them forward over the bank.  'Okay, c'mon!  Let's go for
it!"  The four of them scrambled on to the field and ran towards the
parked aircraft.  They joined Kelso under the tail of number twelve.

He was holding the end-plate - a safety device the dinks had begun
fitting over the nozzles of the five rocket tubes to prevent accidental
ignition or damage whilst aircraft were being manhandled - and he was
ashen-faced.  'This one's not tubed up!"  Steve stared at him,
thunderstruck.  'Not ' 'The rocket tray's empty!  LOOK!"  It was
true.

Steve's stomach turned over.  'Shit, shit, SHIT!"  He seized Jodi and
Cadillac by the shoulder.

'Check these next two!  I'll do Nine!"  The boosters were fitted to the
launching trolley, but the tray was empty.  They all were.  Some idiot
dink had stuck end-plates on all the trays - presumably because he
thought they looked better that way.  Jodi and Cadillac joined up with
him as he raced back to Kelso.  'What a jackass!"  He punched his thigh
angrily.  'And they were there, right in front of us all the time!

Jeer!"  'At least we've got a cartload of rockets,' said Cadillac.

'Yeah.  And you can thank Mo-Town they're already primed!  Start
emptying your pockets!"  Steve hurriedly divested himself of most of
his grenades and spare magazines.  Cadillac did the same, passing them
to Jodi and Kelso.

'We'll load, you two cover us!'

'We'll never make it,' said Kelso.

'We're gonna have a damned good try!  But maybe we'll have to go with
three tubes instead of a full -' Steve suddenly realised that
Clearwater wasn't with them.

Clearwater had left the others as soon as she realised they needed more
time to put right whatever it was that had gone wrong.  She did not
understand the workings of the flying-horses, but she knew that only
she had the power to hold back the warriors on the far side of the
field.  She could sense their mounting wrath and knew they would soon
rally.  They must not be allowed to strike at the cloud warrior.  If he
and Cadillac were overwhelmed, all would be lost.  But she also had
another task: to avenge the Plain folk.

Steve and the others paused for an instant and watched her run towards
the middle of the field.

'What the elf-cfr does she think she's doing?"  cried Kelso.

'She's going to buy us some time,' murmured Steve.  He moved towards
the rocket cart.

'But she's not even armed!'

'Armed?"  Cadillac gave a contemptuous laugh as the sense of belonging
welled up within him.  It was like meeting a long-lost friend.  'Watch
and take heed, sand-burrower!

You are about to witness the real power of the Plainfolk!"  When the
first five flying-horses had been inexplicably blown out of the sky,
the two domain-lords had assumed the catastrophe was either an accident
or the work of some malevolent deity.  But when an explosion in the
compound had been followed by several more which had reduced the
workshops to a blazing heap of rubble, both realised the Heron Pool was
under systematic attack.

But from whom?  Before anyone could begin to search for an answer, two
more flying-horses had disintegrated dangerously close to where they
stood and the Consul-General had been hurled from the skies
-half-digging his own grave in the process.  Where was this invisible
enemy?  Lord Yama-Shita feared the divine Wrath of the kami like all
Iron Masters, but the Heron Pool had not been struck by sky
thunderbolts.  This was the handiwork of ruthless men!

It was at this point that the first glimmerings of an answer came.  The
observer from the second escort plane which, with its sister craft, had
been attempting an emergency landing when they were destroyed, had not
been killed outright.  The wreckage in which he was trapped had hit the
ground at a shallow angle, splintering and tearing apart as it
slithered towards the grandstand.

Although almost every bone in his body was broken, the dying samurai
had somehow found the strength to gasp a few strangled words to the
nearest of those who knelt over him.

His reported sighting of five people dressed in the colours of slaves
lurking near the four remaining flying-horses was rapidly conveyed to
Lord Min-Orota.

He and Yama-Shita shared the sense of shock and bewilderment that
gripped those around them, but while fear might have loosened their
bowels, their brains had not turned to jelly.  Both men reached the
same conclusion at almost the same instant.  What had happened was the
result of a revolt by the slave-workers at the Heron Pool!  It was a
stupendous act of folly for which they, and countless others, would pay
dearly.

Since his own men were, at that moment, falling back

in disarray, he called upon Lord Yama-Shita to dispatch some of his
mounted samurai to investigate.  The domain-lord had just passed this
order down the chain of command when a single white-clad figure was
sighted advancing across the field towards them.  Neither man could
fathom what this slim solitary figure hoped to achieve, but the slave's
appearance was an intolerable act of defiance that had to be crushed.

Immediately!

Rising to his feet, Yama-Shita aimed his lacquered staff at the
offending slave and screamed an order to his samurai bodyguard.  Lord
Min-Orota promptly followed suit.  Leaving ten of their number to
shield their masters, both sets of samurai - some sixty in all - left
their positions around the canopied box and ran down on to the field.

Some drew their long-swords, the others pulled arrows from the quivers
on their back.  Fitting them to their bows, they began a slow,
deliberate advance upon the intruders.

Yama-Shita sent a second hurried order to the troop of horsemen who
were preparing to move off.  They were to ignore this white-clad
individual and proceed along the northern stone-walled edge of the
field before cutting across to the four flying horses.

As he spoke, his brain was chilled by an unearthly cry - the piercing
ululation of a Mute summoner.

Kelso, who had been roped in to help load the trays, almost dropped the
two rockets he was carrying.  'What the fu ?"

'Keep going, keep going!"  shouted Steve.  He and Cadillac had already
got two rockets fitted in the ring clamps under all four machines.  But
two were not enough.  He had talked about going on three, but what they
really needed was a full load.  They didn't need four planes, but with
their escape now hanging in the balance they had to keep all options
open.

Jodi, who had been crouching by the grass-covered bank to guard against
a sneak attack from the rear, decided to lend a hand.  Holstering her
pistol, she ran towards the cart.  Halfway across, the ground shuddered
violently, throwing her against one of the wheels.  Looking up, she saw
that the tremor had caused several of the rockets to slide partly out
of the racks.  She hauled herself up and caught one just before it
toppled to the ground.

Clearwater, her feet now planted firmly astride and with her arms
raised to form the letter X, felt Talisman's power flow into her from
the earth and sky.  To those watching in the crowded grandstand, her
body seemed to be surrounded by a shimmering veil of light.  With a
swift movement she brought her arms down and her fingertips ogether,
sighting at Yama-Shita through the V made by her thumbs.

There was another sudden rumble of earth-thunder.  A jet of smoke burst
from the ground in front of her, then it split apart, becoming a ragged
fissure that raced away across the field towards the centre of the
grandstand.  The earth heaved, throwing the advancing samurai to the
ground, then, an instant later, the quake struck the packed stand,
causing the tiers to fall in on each other as the supporting structure
collapsed.

The detachment of mounted samurai who had started to gallop along the
northern edge of the field hauled on their reins and milled about in
confusion.  Drawing his sword, their leader wheeled his horse around on
its rear legs, shouting at his men to rally and attack the white-clad
figure.

Clearwater flung her left arm out sideways towards the stone wall, then
slowly swept her outstretched fingers upwards.  The wall shivered as it
responded to her call.  It rippled along its length like a grey-brown
snake stirring from sleep.  It cracked and rattled as the stones worked
themselves loose and then flew into the air like fallen leaves swept up
in a whirlwind.  And with her right hand, she summoned the wall behind
the pavilion to come to her aid.

ˇ .  . The eagles shah 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!

Man and horse were utterly overwhelmed by the airborne avalanche.  But
the stones continued to fly, further and faster and in ever greater
numbers, raining down from both sides upon the rest of YamaShita's
troops, into the wreckage of the grandstand, and on to the access road
beyond where Min-Orota's line-officers were making another attempt to
marshal their demoralised troops.

On the field in front of the stand, the shaken samurai rose on unsteady
feet and summoned up their courage.

Several warriors had been felled by stones from the wall.

More were flying in their direction.  Men were going down on all sides,
but they could not retreat.  Drawing their bows, the surviving archers
loosed several flights of arrows at the she-devil - for they were now
close enough to see her long hair flowing in the wind like dark wings
on either side of her chalk-white face.

Once again Clearwater brought her outstretched hands together level
with her shoulders, drawing the shifting vaporous planes of light
around her into a vertical wedge whose point lay beyond her
fingertips.

As the speeding arrows reached her, they were deflected to either side
of her body.  Hhawww!  The archers fired another volley.  And again
they bounced off in all directions!  It was as if she was protected by
an invisible wall!  Throwing aside their bows, the samurai now reduced
by the hail of stones to a third of their number - pressed forward
cautiously, brandishing their swords and calling on AmeratsuoOmikami to
aid them.

Clearwater turned her outstretched palms towards the ground and splayed
her fingers as the tips of her thumbs came together.  A second chilling
cry burst from her lips, more frightening than the first.  The
advancing samurai found themselves rooted to the spot.  The ground
under their feet trembled, making their bodies quiver and their teeth
rattle.  Their swords fell from their twitching fingers.  Their
stomachs churned, their hearts pounded faster and faster and their
heads felt as if they were about to burst.  The weak-walled blood
vessels - the fatal legacy of their defective gene structure - gave way
as they were struck down by massive multiple haemorrhages.  Veins split
open, causing their faces and hands to turn greyish purple.  Blood
oozed from their eyes and noses as major arteries ruptured, flooding
their brains and plunging them into a dark bottomless pit.

All were dead before they hit the ground.

'Lord Yama-Shita, his rich clothes bloodied and torn, stumbled from the
wrecked grandstand in time to see the white-faced figure step over the
bodies of his fallen samurai.  With a sudden flash of awareness he
realised whose face lay behind the mask.

The Consul-General's long-dog whore!  The gutter-bitch whose hairy body
he had secretly observed with a mixture of loathing and fascination.

The non-person he had so cruelly mocked had defied his power, wreaked
havoc on his family and brought him to the edge of ruin!

It was beyond belief, but the proof lay all around him.  A curse on
her!  A curse on all women!

Drawing his sword, he tossed the scabbard aside and looked around for
support.  About a dozen members of his own family had clawed their way
out of the wreckage; others were still struggling to free themselves.

He called upon those who could to come to his aid.  With his sword held
out in front of him, both hands gripping the hilt, he limped towards
Clearwater.  No one followed.  So be it.

He would show them the kind of courage it took to become the most
powerful domain-lord in Ne-Issan.

Clearwater waited silently as he approached, her arms still
outstretched, fingertips together, pointing at Yama-Shita's face.  The
domain-lord stopped a blade's length away and assumed the splay-footed
stance that preceded the killing stroke.  His eyes met hers, saw them
glow like ice crystals pierced by the sun.  The ground trembled under
his feet.  His leg muscles quivered.  His brain urged him to strike
before it was too late, but his arms did not respond and he could no
longer deflect his gaze from her eyes.

Clearwater slowly interlocked finger and thumb and clenched her hands
together.  Those watching with hated breath saw Yama-Shita reverse his
grip on the sword hilt then slowly raise his arms to bring the angled
tip of the blade in line with his belly.  And they saw the white-faced
witch - for that was what she must be - flex her arms, then thrust her
clenched hands towards the domain-lord.

Yama-Shita knew the power that flooded through his arms and drove the
point of his sword through his body was not his own, but it was
impossible to resist.  Nor could he resist the silent command to
withdraw the sword and plunge it in again.  And again!  The first two
thrusts had numbed his brain and frozen his tongue, but now the
accumulated pain swiftly took hold and he screamed with agony as the
sword made its third passage through his body.

The weaker members of his family who had lacked the courage to follow
him watched in horrified disbelief as he thrust the sword through his
body for a fourth time.  And again he screamed.  But did not fall.  A
fifth thrust reduced him to a gibbering wretch, swaying unsteadily on
blood-soaked feet, alternately shrieking and sobbing as he begged for
mercy.  But the white witch was unmoved.

Only when he had pierced his body for the eighth time did Clearwater
let Yama-Shita sink to his knees in a pool of his own blood.  And she
did not move until he toppled forward, still clutching the hilt of his
buried sword, and came to rest with his lifeless face kissing the grass
at her feet.

Clearwater stretched her arms upwards in triumph and the earth
responded with a dying peal of earth-thunder.

Those before her who were still on their feet backed away, then turned
and ran for their lives.

Steve, who had managed to catch the reins of one of several runaway
horses, rode up behind her.  When their eyes met, he saw in her gaze a
look that sent a chill down his spine.  If the eyes, as Mr Snow had
said, were the window of the soul, then there was a stranger lurking in
the room beyond.

'So perish all enemies of the Plainfolk..."  Her hushed voice was
drained of all emotion.

Steve helped her up on to the horse.  Her body seemed incredibly light
and fragile, like a dry corn husk.  She clasped her arms round his
waist.  'Hold tight,' he said.

He held on to her wrists as he turned the horse and galloped towards
the waiting planes.

Three were now lined up with their noses into wind.

Cadillac was already aboard the first.  He reached over and helped lift
Clearwater into the front seat.  The Mute was bright-eyed and raring to
go.  Steve eyed him.  Yeah.

Of course.  That was his hang-up: what made him run.

Cadillac always wanted to be on the winning side.

Steve blew a kiss to Clearwater, then slapped the outside of the
cockpit.  'Okay, move it!  We'll be right behind you!"  He stepped back
as Cadillac fired the booster and watched the machine speed away from
the grass.  Six seconds into the burn, Cadillac fired two tubes instead
of one, then jettisoned the trolley.

Kelso watched over Steve's shoulder as the plane went up in an almost
vertical climb.  'Should you have let them go together?"

'Did you want to ride with her?"

'Not after what I just saw, but -' 'Don't worry.  These four planes are
wired to blow just like the others.  And I've still got the
transmitter."

Kelso gave a quick laugh.  'In that case I'd better watch my step."

'Hey!  Cut the jokes!"  cried Jodi.  'I think there's some guys coming
round back of us!"  Steve heard the tell-tale drumming of hoofbeats as
he followed her pointing finger.  'You're right!  Go on two like
Cadillac did!"  He pushed Jodi and Kelso towards the nearest plane and
ran to the next in line.  Jodi still had one leg outside the cockpit
when Kelso fired the boosters.

Steve reached out and yanked the firing handle as the first wave of
horsemen crashed through the bushes and galloped on to the field.

Shwaa-paa-POWW!  The plane started to roll forward.  C'mon, c'mon,
c'mon I The trolley rapidly picked up speed, but not fast enough to
out-distance the leading horseman.  The samurai galloped out to the
right to avoid the smoke trail from the booster rockets and drew level
with the wing, his bow arched.  At that distance he couldn't miss, but
Mo-Town must have been rooting for Steve.  The arrow hit one of the
upright spruce struts, splitting it as it punched through, and buried
its point in Steve's thigh.  Ahhghh, Christo!

The samurai didn't get a chance for a second shot.  As he reached over
his shoulder for another arrow, Steve aimed his arm over the side and
blew him out of the saddle with a triple volley.

As Kelso and Jodi soared into the air ahead of him, Steve saw why
Cadillac had fired two tubes and fired them early.  The field ahead was
littered with stones and bodies.

Gritting his teeth against the pain that lanced through his right leg,
he triggered one and five and followed the two Trackers up into the Sky
in a steep climbing turn to the west.

Beyond the line of crimson forested hills lay the Hudson.  And if
Skull-Face had meant what he had said, there'd be a field like the one
marked on the map that had been left in his shack, with a white hollow
square in it.  But first, there was one last piece of business to
attend to.

Steve dropped his left wing and looked down at the tiny figures
swarming around the plane they'd left behind.

With the help of Jodi, Kelso and Cadillac, he had hauled the two rocket
carts close in on either side of the plane, then tossed nearly all
their remaining grenades into the cockpit.  He took out the transmitter
and selected the appropriate button.  'Adios, amigos."

There were two, almost simultaneous flashes.  First the plastic
explosive aboard the plane with its extra topping of grenades, then the
two rocket carts.  The smoke ballooned onwards, then rolled back in on
itself and rose into the sky, leaving the ground beneath ablaze.  Most
of the tiny figures had stopped moving.

Steve let his gaze roam further afield.  There was little sign of
movement anywhere.  The Heron Pool had been devastated, the swaggering
Iron Masters had been dealt a blow they would long remember.  But what
of the cost?

How many had died in the crossfire while he, Clearwater, the Shogun and
maybe his Herald - had been settling their personal accounts?  How many
more Would suffer for what he had done?  He quickly killed the rising
feelings of remorse.  These things had to be done.  Best not to think
about it too much .  . .

At 3,000 feet the air was noticeably colder.  But no doubt things would
soon start to warm up.  He joined the others, slipping between them to
take the lead as they drifted westwards, rising on a gentle updraft.

Clearwater waved, Cadillac gave him a thumbs-up sign.  Jodi and Kelso
punched the air with their fists; the exultant victory sign used by
TrailBlazers.

Steve responded instinctively.  YO!

They'd been lucky.  Everyone had pulled their weight, but it was
Clearwater who had saved the day.  He'd been lucky too.  If the arrow
hadn't hit the strut first it could have gone right through his
thigh.

Sweet Mother!  It was really hurting.  Still, there wasn't too much
blood.  He would survive.  And getting it out wouldn't be as bad as
when Cadillac had pulled that crossbow bolt through his arm.

But apart from that - all in all - quite a reasonable start to the
day...

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Clearwater's revenge upon Lord Yama-Shita and his companions was, in a
sense, a hollow victory.  Despite being buried in the wreckage, Lord
Kiyo Min-Orota was found to be alive when his body was uncovered.  His
escape, with only minor injuries, was viewed by his rescuers as
miraculous.  Shigamitsu, the Heron Pool commander, who was only inches
away when the freak earthquake had hit the stand, had been crushed to
death.

The samurai was fortunate to have been granted so swift a demise; had
he lived, Lord Min-Orota would have had him cruelly tortured.  Despite
his rank, he would not have been allowed to commit seppuku.  He would,
instead, have been treated like a common criminal, forced to endure in
public the grossest indignities that could have been devised.

Even in death he did not escape Min-Orota's vengeful wrath.  His
mangled body was beheaded and then quartered.  The pieces were hung
from the tiled lintel above the gates to the Heron Pool and his head
impaled on a wooden pole by the entrance, with a placard denouncing his
criminal incompetence.  His wife, whose sole crime was her marital
status, was ordered to kill their two children and then herself, and
their bodies were hung alongside his.

In Min-Orota's eyes, the blame for what had happened lay entirely with
the staff of the Heron Pool.

Had they been more vigilant, the long-dogs and their Mute accomplice
could not have staged this unprecedented revolt.  He preferred to
ignore his own involvement in the affair, and refused to face the
implications of the terrifying display of demonic powers that had
climaxed the long-dogs' assault.

All surviving members of the Heron Pool staff, the Tracker renegades
who had spent the day confined to their quarters, and the Mute slaves
who had done their cleaning and cooking, were assembled in the compound
under heavy guard.  Lined up with them were the soldiers from the
parade detachment.  In Min-Orota's eyes they were as guilty as the
rest.  It was their cowardly behaviour which had allowed the
perpetrators of this outrage to escape.

When their wrists and feet had been shackled, they were marched out on
to the road by their whip-toting escort and led in single file towards
Bo-sona.  Ahead of them, several parties of Mutes were digging
post-holes by the roadside.  The holes were set 100 paces apart.

Each time a hole was reached, the column was halted.

The leading man or woman was then forced to take a post from the loaded
cart ahead of them and help plant it firmly in the ground before being
tied to it and left to die an agonising death.

The process, which Lord Min-Orota watched from the comfort of his
carriage, was doubly sadistic, for the remainder of the column was
obliged to march on past the succession of tortured victims - leaving
them in no illusion as to their eventual fate.

This macabre procession continued all the way to Ba-satana, and when
the original column was exhausted, Mute slaves working on the lands
north and south of the road were rounded up and put to death, followed
by those who had laboured to dig the post-holes.

By the time Min-Orota reached his palace, his immediate thirst for
blood had been satisfied but, when he sat down to a sombre dinner with
the chief members of his own family and the principal survivors of
Yama-Shita's party, he had little to feel happy about.

His friend's body had been conveyed in a hastily prepared coffin from
the Heron Pool to his ship in the harbour but the issues raised by his
death were not so easily disposed of.  Although it was Lord YamaShita
who had brought the flying-horse and its two riders to Masa-chusa, and
persuaded the Shogun to allow more to be built, it was already clear
that he, Kiyo Min-Orota, was going to be held responsible for the
domain-lord's death.

The charge was patently unfair, but with a powerful family like the
Yama-Shita, justice lay in the eye of the beholder.  They would demand
reparations: goods, money - and perhaps blood.  It could place a
crippling burden on his domain, but if he were to reject their claims,
the alternative could be even more unpleasant.

Lord Min-Orota also faced the prospect of trouble from another
quarter.

The Consul-General had been killed whilst flying in one of the machines
for whose manufacture he, Min-Orota, was once again ultimately
responsible.  Worse still, the revolt - due entirely to lack of proper
surveillance of the slave-workers - had not been a simple escape
attempt.  There had been a murderous attack on those of high rank and
noble birth.

The grandstand had been totally destroyed, including the viewing box
that had been built to house the Shogun!

If he had been present and had suffered insult and injury to his person
. . . Min-Orota put the thought from his mind.  The consequences were
too awful to contemplate.

When he retired to his private quarters - now guarded by three times
the usual number of samurai - the domain-lord found a sealed letter by
his bedside.  It informed him that a courier from the Lord
Chamberlain's office had arrived in Ba-satana with a verbal dispatch of
the utmost importance.  The letter urged Min-Orota to receive the
courier without delay.  The meeting was to take place in the greatest
secrecy, the provenance of the courier was not to be disclosed to
anyone, and no aides were to be present when he presented his
dispatch.

Min-Orota had not the faintest idea what the man had to tell him, but
the temptation to find out was irresistible.  Any approach by Ieyasu
could not be lightly dismissed.  After destroying the letter as
instructed, he dispatched his most trusted servant to the address
given, with orders to bring the courier into the palace by the secret
stairways that led directly to his own private quarters.

Ieyasu's courier appeared before him shortly after midnight and, after
exchanging the arranged passwords, presented his seals of office.  The
man's face, when revealed, was like a living skull.  It was Steve's
diminutive interrogator.  The name he gave was Fuji-Wara, but it was
probably not his own.

Lord Chamberlain Ieyasu's message was essentially this: news of the
catastrophic events at the Heron Pool had reached his office and had
also been conveyed directly to the Shogun.  His Exalted Highness was as
Min-Orota might imagine - deeply concerned by his narrow escape from
what could have been a serious threat upon his life.

The Shogun had also been stricken by the loss of his brother-in-law,
the highly regarded Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba.  His death had not
only caused him personal anguish; it had disturbed him in his official
capacity as ruler of Ne-Issan.  It was as Min-Orota had feared: an
attack upon the Consul-General - and the Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa - was
an attack upon the Shogunate itself.  If he, as a domain-lord, could
not suppress dissident elements and ensure the personal safety and
unmolested passage of government appointees, then the Shogunate would
have to protect its rights by all lawful means.

The courier, Fuji-Wara, did not need to spell out what that meant.

Compensation would have to be paid to the Consul-General's widow, of
course.  An official of his rank didn't come cheap - and since his wife
was the Shogun's sister, the going rate would probably be multiplied by
ten.  The wider consequences of the Heron Pool incident could also
prove expensive.  Extra taxes could be imposed, commercial licences
could be withdrawn, assets could be seized.  The lives of senior aides
who were involved with the Heron Pool project but had gone unpunished
could be forfeit, and there could also be a dramatic increase in the
number of government officials and troop garrisons - to whose upkeep he
would be obliged to contribute.

If a domain-lord chose to resist such measures his lands could be
proclaimed a 'dissident fief'.  That gave the Shogunate the right to
place his domain under military occupation.  His own family could, if
the situation worsened, be deposed, or subjected to much harsher terms
of vassalage.  Not a pleasant prospect - especially when he was already
under threat of unspecified reprisals by the Yama-Shita family.

Fuji-Wara, a man clearly experienced in delicate, high-level
negotiations of this kind, revealed that his master was aware of the
precarious nature of the relationship between the Min-Orota and the
Yama-Shita following the death of their domain-lord.  The Lord
Chamberlain wished to come to the aid of the house of Min-Orota who
were, after all, friends and allies of the TohYota.

Both houses were, in their different ways, threatened by the
Yama-Shita.  If some way could be found for them to act together to
eliminate or reduce that threat then, said the courier, he was sure
that Ieyasu could persuade the Shogun to take a more lenient view of
what had occurred and to demand only nominal reparation for the death
of the Consul-General.

It was, basically, an offer he couldn't refuse.

Min-Orota was in need of help, but even though he was backed into a
corner he was shrewd enough to realise that the courier's visit was
merely the tip of a political iceberg.

That sly old fox, Ieyasu, had been up to his tricks again, just when
his critics and enemies were confidently expecting to be called upon to
sit through his funeral oration.  The domain-lord considered the
options and then assured his visitor that he was, as might be expected,
constantly ready to be of service to the Shogun - but what action was
he being called upon to perform?

Skull-Face, a.k.a. Fuji-Wara, proceeded to tell him.

The three ocean-going junks which had brought Lord Yama-Shita, his
armed entourage and his escort to Ba-satana were still moored in the
harbour, and the survivors - including those who had dined with Lord
MinoOrota - had spent the night on board.  The ships' crews, who had
not ventured beyond the docks counted themselves fortunate to have been
spared the terrible ordeal their compatriots had undergone.

When captains and crews awoke, they saw that another large junk, flying
the house-flags of the Hase-(3awa, had arrived during the night and now
lay at anchor to starboard, on the north side of the harbour.

Over breakfast, the temporary heads of the delegation discussed their
next move.  Should they set sail immediately - or should they wait
until additional men mainly soldiers - arrived via the overland route
to make up their depleted numbers?

News of Yama-Shita's death had been dispatched by horse to the palace
at Sara-kusa, but its speedy arrival was not guaranteed, since the
rider was obliged to traverse the Toh-Yota's northern domain.

The carrier pigeons used to convey top-secret messages from the
domain-lord to the palace had gone with him to the Heron Pool.  It was
customary for several baskets to accompany Yama-Shita on any journey he
undertook so that urgent dispatches could be 'sent at a moment's
notice.  Unfortunately, the earthquake had overturned and wrecked the
cart.  The driver and pigeon-keeper had been found with their skulls
crushed - presumably by flying stones - and those birds who had not
been killed had escaped when their baskets had broken open.

Whilst they were in the middle of these deliberations, a boat-man
brought a message from Lord Min-Orota.

The domain-lord, who had descended from his palace to the quayside,
requested permission to come aboard with four shinto priests in order
to pay his last respects to his friend and ally.  Two senior members of
the delegation went ashore to escort him back to the vessel.

Lord Yama-Shita's open coffin lay atop a catafalque draped in white
silk.  When the traditional mourning rites had been performed,
Min-Orota spent an hour in silent contemplation of his colleague's
body, then asked to speak privately with the closest of the dead man's
aides.

Only two were still on their feet.  Four had been badly injured,
another was expected to die before reaching home, and the corpses of
several more lay in the hold.

When he had assured himself that they could not be overheard, Min-Orota
broached the subject of a 'chestful of rich silk cloth' that Lord
Yama-Shita had brought with him as an intended gift to the principal
ladies of the house of Min-Orota.  The domain-lord had stressed the
uniquely special nature of the materials and workmanship involved but,
alas, he had not lived long enough to make the presentation himself.

Did the aides, asked Min-Orota, know of their lord's intentions in this
matter and, if so, where was the chest?

Min-Orota was fortunate that the two men facing him were among the four
people, outside of himself and the dead domain-lord, who knew the
precise nature of the object concealed beneath the bolts of cloth.

After exchanging thoughtful glances, the senior of the two aides
replied.  Yes, they were aware of the intended gift, but since their
lord had not lived long enough to offer it himself, they did not feel
they had the necessary authority to make the gift on his behalf.  That
decision could only be made by his successor.

Min-Orota praised their infinite tact and caution.  They had
misunderstood him.  He did not wish to receive that which could not be
freely given.  What he had come to suggest was that the chest and its
contents be placed in his safekeeping until its eventual fate could be
decided.  He was suggesting this because his spies in the late
Consul-General's residence had, that very morning, hastened to bring
him some most disquieting news.  The Shogun had learned of the junk's
sensitive cargo and planned to intercept the flotilla during their
return journey on the pretext of according the honours due to the dead
domain-lord.

This revelation caused the two aides to exchange wary glances.

Min-Orota expressed his concern.  The Shogun's men could easily find
some excuse to seize the chest's valuable contents on behalf of their
master.  If faced with this danger, they could always save themselves
by having the chest thrown overboard - but would that not be a woeful
betrayal of their dead master's wishes?

The alternative was to transport the chest's contents overland but,
once again, the carriers could be intercepted by the Toh-Yota.  Only
the house of Min-Orota, the chief partner in the enterprise which their
dead lord had once described to him as 'the spinning and weaving of
dreams', could be trusted to guard the chest and its contents until
YamaShita's successor had been chosen.

Min-Orota's choice of words and the emphasis he placed upon them left
the two aides in no doubt that he had been fully apprised of Lord
Yama-Shita's future plans.  After retiring to the far end of the room
for a whispered conversation, they returned and knelt before
Min-Orota.

He signalled them to sit and speak.  They bowed respectfully from the
waist and adopted a cross-legged position.

They were grateful, said the senior aide, for his warning about the
possible interception of their vessels.

The chest would be left in his care - but was he aware of the dangers
he faced in becoming its guardian?

Min-Orota declared himself ready to accept them.

Lord Yama-Shita had made the ultimate sacrifice in his bid to lead
Ne-Issan into a new age.  He, Kiyo Min-Orota, shared his lofty vision
of the future and was happy to risk his own life to help make that
vision a reality.  It would prove to the man who would soon adopt their
dead lord's mantle that he was a worthy ally.

Someone who could be trusted with the deepest and darkest secrets of
all.

Once again, Min-Orota's choice of words made it clear that he
understood the real nature of the enterprise: the recapture of the
Dark Light.  A time and place was arranged: noon at a secluded manor
house far removed from the palace and the press of the bustling
seaport.

The unloading of the chest in broad daylight would not attract the
attention of the watch, and an official from the palace would be on
hand to ensure it passed out of the docks without being subjected to
the tiresome attentions of customs officials.

On the appointed day and hour, an ox-cart carrying a driver, the chest
and four porters made its way towards the rendezvous.  It was preceded
by the two aides and four other mounted samurai and followed by a
second cart containing twelve soldiers in civilian clothes.  The three
groups varied their pace and distance between each other, merging at
times with other traffic on the road.  To the casual observer, the
carts and riders had no connection with each other, and this was
precisely the impression they wished to create.

When the mounted samurai had reconnoitred the area around the manor
house to ensure that there were no forces lying in ambush, the two
aides ordered the cart beating the chest to enter the grounds.  The
second vehicle, carrying the disguised soldiers, whose weapons were
concealed beneath the straw on which they lay, stopped on the road
outside.  To any passer-by they were nothing more than a group of
patient peasants stretching their legs whilst the driver and ox-boy fed
and watered their animals.

The manor-house - a rambling stone and timber structure with a tiled
roof dating from the middle of the previous century - was an
uninhabited, dusty, echoing shell.  Two of Min-Orota's lieutenants,
whom the aides had already met, conducted them and the chest into
Min-Orota's presence, then retired with the four porters.

This quartet was also disguised soldiers, drawn from the forty or so
who had survived the dbcle at the Heron Pool.

Lord Kiyo Min-Orota was seated on a single straw mat, placed in the
centre of a dais which ran across the far end of the room.  He called
upon them to approach and remove the four straw mats covering the
section of the main floor in front of where he sat.  The aides pulled
the mats aside.  A trap-door lay beneath.  Opening it, they found steps
leading down to a deep cellar.

This, explained Lord Min-Orota, was where the chest would be hidden.

Once it was safely below, the trap-door would be replaced by planking
which would merge with the surrounding floor, and there it would remain
until the Yama-Shita came to recover it.  But first, he said, he would
like the opportunity to look upon the priceless gift he had come so
close to receiving and which had coloured their late master's dreams of
the future.

The two aides asked him to recall his two lieutenants.

After removing the rolls of silken cloth, the four men lifted a large,
heavy object wrapped in linen from the chest.  When Min-Orota's men had
left the room, the two aides removed part of the wrappings to reveal
the engine from a Skyhawk - the basic aircraft carried aboard the
Federation's wagon-trains.  The engine, with its laminated
wooden-propeller placed alongside it, was seated securely inside a
timber frame.

Min-Orota examined the engine at close quarters without touching it.

Was this, he enquired, the strange device that had powered the original
flying-horse - and which was believed to have been destroyed?

The aides assured him that it was.

Min-Orota praised Yama-Shita's cleverness.  On top of all his other
attributes he was also the master of illusion!

Was it not true that the Shogun's representatives had been present when
the device had been consumed by fire?  By what cunning means had such
worthies been bamboozled?

Little by little, Min-Orota drew out the full story and by conceding
his own complicity - persuaded them to reveal that Lord Hiro Yama-Shita
had been the prime mover in the plan to recapture the Dark Light.

The two aides did not know that the long-dog who was to help bring the
plan to fruition had escaped.  None of the Yama-Shita knew.  And Lord
Min-Orota did not propose to tell them.  He did, however, have another
proposition.

Let us drink, he said, to the success of your master's plan and to his
memory!

He struck a small gong to summon his lieutenants, who entered bearing a
tray of refreshments.  Cups of sake were poured out and handed to
Min-Orota and the two aides.

'To the Yama-Shita,' proposed Min-Orota.  'Lords of the Dark Light!'
'May the enemies of progress perish!"  chorused the aides.

Since Min-Orota had already drunk from the same flask, the two samurai
had no hesitation in joining him.

The rims of the porcelain cups they raised to their lips had been
coated with a potent, transparent poison which caused almost
instantaneous paralysis of their motor functions, leaving them unable
to move their limbs or cry out, but fully conscious and aware of their
predicament.

As the cups fell from their fingers, their arms were pinioned by
Min-Orota's lieutenants and quickly bound with ropes.  The paralysis
was only temporary but had been necessary to prevent the two aides from
sounding the alarm or killing themselves.  For they would have done so
without hesitation at the sight that now met their eyes.

The screens behind the dais were drawn aside, revealing the young
Shogun seated between six domain-lords and their field-marshals.

Min-Orota knelt to pay homage to Yoritomo.  His two lieutenants
followed suit, forcing the stricken aides down with them.

It was Ieyasu, the Lord Chamberlain, who had organised this assembly on
a variety of pretexts and in condir tions of unprecedented secrecy.

Seated with the Shogun, as judge and jury, were the domain-lords of the
Ko-Nikka, Se-Iko and Mitsu-Bishi, whose lands lay along the southern
border of Yama-Shita's domain, and their own immediate neighbours, the
Dai-Hatsu, Da-Tsuni and SuZuki.

The Ko-Nikka were allied by marriage to the YamaShita; the Se-Iko were
regarded as being predisposed to take their side in any serious dispute
with the Shogunate.

The other four were in the Toh-Yota camp.  In terms of power, the
Ko-Nikka and Se-Iko outweighed the four other members of the jury, but
Ieyasu had done some shrewd wheeling and dealing behind the scenes.

The verdict was unanimous.  The house of YamaShita was guilty of high
treason and must be called to account.

Lords Ko-Nikka, Se-Iko and Mitsu-Bishi agreed to journey to Sara-kusa
to inform the family of the charge and the evidence on which they had
been found guilty by a council of peers.  They would also take with
them a list of those held to be responsible.  Those named could either
take the appropriate action - suicide - or throw themselves upon the
mercy of the Shogun.

It was a stark choice.  Either way they Would wind up dead.  The only
alternative was an armed invasion, seizure of all assets and the
possible break-up of the domain.

Ordinarily, the Shogunate would not have dared to make such a move
against the Yama-Shita, but with the Ko-Nikka and Se-Iko now firmly on
the fence, resistance to the Shogun's demands was not a viable
option.

No.

Yoritomo was confident that those judged guilty of complicity would
take their own lives or be quietly disposed of.  Any family entering
the power game had to be prepared to make sacrifices.

The disguised companions of Yama-Shita's aides, who had been keeping
guard outside the manor, had been surprised and overwhelmed when the
gong had been struck to summon the sake.  Their attackers had also been
disguised as peasants, some with women and children, aboard three farm
carts which had paused to exchange gossip and offer some of their
produce for sale.

All were executed on the spot.

When the two paralysed aides had been hustled away to meet the same
fate, Yoritomo warmly congratulated Min-Orota for the part he had
played in exposing the treachery of the YamaShita.

No mention was made of his own involvement, or his complaisant support
of the Consul-General's affair with the outlandish whore.  Matters such
as these could wait.

The rumoured love-match between Min-Orota's second son and one of
Yama-Shita's daughters would die a quiet death.  As would the daughter
in question and the rest of the domain-lord's immediate family.

Parents, wife, sons, daughters, even their newborn child.

It was regrettable but necessary.  The past history of Ne-Issan had
been shaped on more than one occasion by orphaned children of deposed
domain-lords who had grown to become avenging generals of armies and
had swept away those who had unwisely spared them.

Lord Yama-Shita had eliminated all serious rivals, but with the
disappearance of his own direct line, a worthy and, it was hoped, a
more amenable - successor would appear.  All great families, including
the Toh-Yota, had strong and weak branches.  They were like trees; when
a strong branch which took the greater share of the light was lopped
off because it shadowed its owner's house, the weaker branches
prospered.

The measures taken against the house of YamaShita would be punishing
but not crippling.  Their commercial activities were inextricably
linked to the general economic well-being of Ne-Issan.  If they were
forced to pay too high a price, it would create a source of continuing
disaffection.

A balance had to be struck.  Firmness had to be tempered with
magnanimity.  But they would no longer have the monopoly on trade with
the Mutes.  Their former allies the Ko-Nikka would henceforth be able
to build and operate wheelboats across the Western seas, and the Se-Iko
would become the land-agents for the slave trade.

The Yama-Shita could still bring them ashore, but they could only be
sold through the Se-Iko.  It was through these two crucial deals,
masterminded by Ieyasu, that their loyalty had been purchased - leaving
the YamaShita to pay the price.

The ship flying the house-flags of the Hase-Gawa was, in fact, part of
the Shogun's battle fleet.  It was this heavily disguised vessel which
had brought Yoritomo and the six domain-lords into the port of
Ba-satana during the night.

On the command of Lord Min-Orota, a salvo of cannon was fired from the
island fort which guarded the entrance to the outer bay.  It was the
signal for the other five warships from the same flotilla to enter
harbour.  When they have into sight and their identity became clear,
their sister ship hauled down the Hase-Gawa flags and revealed her true
colours.

'As troops of the Min-Orota flooded on to the dockside, it was clear to
the astonished captains of YamaShita's vessels that there had been a
sea-change in the political fortunes of their dead master's family.

With six TohYota ships, barring the only exit, there was little chance
of breaking out into the open sea.  They were left with two choices: go
down fighting, scuttling their junks when defeat seemed certain, or
surrender.

Two deck officers from each of the three boats went to the dockside to
parley under a flag of truce with representatives of the Toh-Yota,
Min-Orota and the six visiting domain-lords.  They informed the
deck-officers of the charge of high treason against their house.  Their
vessels were now forfeit.  If they surrendered by the next tide, their
crews would be returned unharmed to their native domain.  Resistance
was pointless, but if the captains chose to scuttle their boats, not
one man would escape alive.  All would be judged to be as guilty as
their late master.

The deck-officers returned to their respective ships.  An hour later,
the house-flags of the Yama-Shita were hauled down and laid reverently
over the corpses of the three captains and their senior officers.  It
was all over without a shot being fired.

Lord Yama-Shita's death at the hands of the mysterious white witch had
not been anticipated by Ieyasu, but if he had lived, the result would
have been the same.  The pike and not the minnows would have fallen
into the trap !aid with the help of Kiyo Min-Orota.

The chastened domain-lord, shaken by his own narrow escape from a
similar charge of high treason, was now pathetically eager to work his
way back into favour.

He had actually gone as far as to broach the subject of a marriage
between one of his children and one of the Shogun's many nephews or
nieces when escorting Yoritomo to the gangway of his vessel.

Yoritomo agreed that the proposal merited serious consideration, but
reminded Min-Orota that he still awaited his proposals for compensating
Her Highness the Lady Mishiko for the loss of her husband.  The veiled
threat robbed the domain-lord of the relief he might otherwise have
felt at watching the Shogun's fleet sail out of his harbour.

The Shogun had been advised by Ieyasu to keep his parting words cool
and ambiguous, but political necessity required that there be a
marriage, whatever his own personal feelings.  And that saddened him.

He had thought Kiyo Min-Orota strong, even if he was not totally
trustworthy, but he was spineless and treacherous.

Perhaps a grandson, who would carry the blood of the Toh-Yota in his
veins, would prove to be made of sterner stuff.

On the journey back to his palace on Arongiren, Yoritomo reflected on
the ferment of intrigues that had first been uncovered by Toshiro, his
most trusted Herald.  It had been Ieyasu who had pressed him to award
the licence to build flying-horses to Kiyo Min-Orota.  With the
discovery of the conspiratorial axis between his house and the
Yama-Shita, the Shogun had been convinced that his wily old opponent
had finally made the serious error of judgement that could be used to
secure his removal from office.

He had secretly hoped Toshiro would produce evidence that would prove
Ieyasu was directly implicated in the conspiracy, but it was now
evident that he could not have been more wrong.  Kiyo Min-Orota had
been chosen because the Lord Chamberlain knew exactly what he was
doing.  He knew Min-Orota's strengths and weaknesses and had used him
to ensnare and finally betray the Yama-Shita.  The sly old fox was
still as fast on his feet as ever, and Yoritomo could only count
himself fortunate that Ieyasu's allegiance was unshakeable.  They might
disagree about ways and means, but they both served a common end - the
maintenance of the Toh*Yota Shogunate.

The Herald, Toshiro Hase-Gawa, took no part in the judgement
proceedings.  In fact, the secrecy surrounding the event was so
complete, he was not even aware that the Shogun and Ieyasu were in
Ba-satana.  When the action moved into the public domain with the
seizure of Yama-Shita's three ocean-going junks, the Herald was already
on his way south to Nyo-poro with the Consul-General's grieving wife
and her three tearstained children.

The Lady Mishiko had expressed her wish to return to her brother's
palace at Yedo on Aron-giren, and it was his duty to escort her
carriage and baggage-train which, among other things, included the
casket containing the grossly distorted body of her late husband.

Toshiro had, in any case, to make his personal report to the Shogun on
the successful outcome of his assignment.  The mexican had escaped with
his prisoners; the Consul-General had met his death in the prescribed
manner.  But he was less certain about how to explain what had occurred
after the female Mute had intervened in the struggle.  He had left the
field immediately after Nakane Toh-Shiba had crashed to earth, so he
had not personally witnessed what some of the Min-Orota line-officers
claimed had taken place.

If it was true that Clearwater had employed the demonic powers that
witches were reputed to possess then it placed him in a rather delicate
position.  Better by far to attribute the highly selective earthquake
to a wayward Mother Nature and the stories of flying stones to shock,
hysteria or over-heated imaginations.

Travelling by the longer but considerably faster sea-route, the Shogun
returned to Aron-giren before the Herald arrived with the newly widowed
Lady Mishiko.

After she had been welcomed in private by the Shogun and had received
his brotherly condolences, the Herald was summoned to give his account
of what had taken place at the Heron Pool.

When Toshiro entered the Shogun's study, he was surprised to find that
Yoritomo was not alone.  His uncle, Ieyasu, was with him and had
apparently been invited to sit in on the meeting.  The Herald paid
homage to both men, then sat back cautiously when given permission to
do so.  It was the first time that the Lord Chamberlain had been
present at a debriefing, and Toshiro found his grey, spider-like
presence unsettling.  What, he wondered, did it presage for the College
of Heralds - the end of their privileged access to the Shogun?  Had
Ieyasu finally managed to outmanoeuvre Yoritomo in their thinly
concealed struggle for control of the Inner Court?

Yoritomo and Ieyasu listened in silence as Toshiro presented his
carefully edited version of the catastrophic outcome to the flying
display.  Since he was unsure just how far the Shogun had taken Ieyasu
into his confidence, he avoided any reference to the part he had played
in the escape of Brickman and his friends and the Consul-General's
downfall.  Or to the fact that Yoritomo had ordered both.

When he fell silent, the gaunt, ageing Chamberlain said: 'Your tact is
highly commendable.  But let me put your mind at ease.  I have been
made fully aware of your central role in this affair and, especially,
your negotiations on behalf of this court with the so-called
"mexican".

The real Brickman, as opposed to the individual who - for reasons we
have yet to discover assumed his identity."

'There is another aspect of this affair which fascinates us.  His
Exalted Highness and I would like to know if you have had any thoughts
on the role of the female who .  . ."  Ieyasu chose his words carefully
'... was the object of the Consul-General's fatal fascination."

Toshiro had a sudden presentiment that he was standing on quicksand,
but he had talked his way out of tight corners before.  This time,
however, he had no glib reply.  'I am not sure I understand you,
sire."

'Perhaps I can explain."  Yoritomo leafed through the wad of papers
that lay beside him and selected three handwritten sheets.  'These are
recorded eyewitness accounts of the disaster at the Heron Pool - some
of which cover incidents that occurred after you led the troops from
the Mara-bara garrison from the field."

Toshiro bowed.  'I did explain my reason for doing so."

'You did - and it was a wise decision.  I am, by the way, extremely
pleased at the way you handled this assignment.  It has turned out much
better than any of us could have hoped."

Ieyasu nodded.  'I agree.  Most satisfactory."

Yoritomo perused the top sheet, then let it fall back on top of the
others in his lap.  'What puzzles me are these accounts - all confirmed
by independent witnesses - about the actions of a female long-dog.  Am
I right in assuming that this is the same individual who occupied the
lake-house?"

'I cannot state that with absolute certainty, sire.  But I have been
given to understand that the female you are referring to was wearing a
white mask."

'Of a courtesan."

'Again, I did not see it myself, but that may be so."

'You seem to be avoiding my question,' said Yoritomo.  'My
brother-in-law's harlot wore a white mask when you met her on the way
back from Kari-varan.  She was part of the escape package, and you
arranged her transfer to the Heron Pool.  I think we can safely assume
that it was she who performed the actions described by these
eye-witnesses - don't you?"

The Shogun consulted the papers on his lap, picking out various lines:
'... splitting the earth with a shout ... causing stones to rain down
from the sky ...

turning aside arrows with a wall of light.  killing up to a dozen
samurai by pointing her fingers at them and...

forcing Lord Yama-Shita to kill himself several times over and - it
would seem - keeping him alive and on his feet while he did so."

He shuffled the papers together and passed them to Ieyasu.  'Even if
only half of these are true, it is clear that Lord Yama-Shita was
confronted by someone endowed with quite extraordinary power.  Do you
have any explanation for what happened?"

'None, sire.  People who spoke to me afterwards called her a witch.

They said she called upon the dark forces of earth magic.  But as you
know, little credence is given to such ideas nowadays."

'True,' replied Yoritomo.  'But if it was not by some form of magic how
were these deeds accomplished?"

Toshiro bowed.  'I cannot say, sire."

Yoritomo looked thoughtfully at the Herald, then turned to his uncle.

'Didn't Lord Yama-Shita regale us some years ago with tales about
grass-monkeys with so-called magic powers?"

'He did,' said Ieyasu.  'But he didn't believe them either."

Yoritomo laughed drily.  'A big mistake."  He turned his attention back
to Toshiro.  'It was only natural he should underrate their abilities,
but it's now.  clear he knew far less about them than a man in his
position, and with his experience, should have done.

'For instance, the Lord Chamberlain had recently discovered that not
all Mutes have deformed, multicoloured skins and lumps on their
skulls.

Some of them are smooth-skinned - like Trackers.  I thought the two
individuals the "mexican" was sent to recapture were long-dogs but I
was wrong.  They were Mutes!"  The Shogun threw up his hands.  'What a
strange state of affairs!  On the one hand we have this "mexican" who
claims to be a long-dog - but comes here disguised as a grass-monkey
and on the other, we have two grass-monkeys pretending to be
long-dogs!"  Toshiro said nothing.  The bottom seemed to have dropped
out of his stomach.

'Were you aware of this deception?"  asked Ieyasu, the spider, slowly
weaving his silken net.

The Herald bowed.  'Yes, sire.  I did finally discover their identities
a few weeks ago, but I said nothing because ' 'You thought :it might
confuse me,' suggested Yoritomo.

'No, sire - because it did not change the overall situation.

Lord Yama-Shita was engaged in a conspiracy with Lord Min-Orota to
recapture the Dark Light, and the threat of an attack by the Federation
if these individuals were not returned still hung over us."

'And my dear brother-in-law was coupling with a grass-monkey.

But you sought to protect my feelings and the honour of my sister by
not telling me the whole truth..."

'I did take that into consideration, sire, yes."

'I respect you for that.  And that is no doubt one of the reasons why
the Lady Mishiko holds you in such high regard."

Once again, Toshiro said nothing.

Yoritomo turned to the Lord Chamberlain.  'I have something of a
personal nature to discuss with this Herald who has rendered us such
sterling service.  If there are no further matters you wish to raise
.

. .?"

Toshiro uncrossed his legs and knelt with his forehead almost touching
the floor as the Lord Chamberlain took formal leave of the Shogun and
then rose and silently backed out of the study.  The only sound was the
swish of the door screen sliding shut behind him.

Now only the five blank-faced bodyguards remained.

Unable to speak or understand a word of Basic, they were regarded as
being part of the furniture.  For all practical purposes, he and the
Shogun were alone.

Yoritomo motioned the Herald to sit as before.

Toshiro placed the palms of his hands on his knees and held his back
erect.  The day could end well or badly.  He would accept whatever lay
in store in the same calm fashion.

The Shogun gave him a long, thoughtful look.  The sigh that followed
was tinged with regret.  'I understand why you acted as you did.  And
had I been in your...

situation, I would have probably done the same.  But there is a greater
issue at stake.  You knew what my aims were when I got rid of the
riff-raft who were working hand in glove with Ieyasu and set up a new
College with direct access to me.

'The bond that exists between the Shogun and his Heralds is one based
on absolute trust.  You are my eyes and ears.  The senses we possess
are not infallible.  Our eyes sometimes see less clearly than they
should, but when the true nature of an object becomes apparent, the eye
instantly corrects the faulty information it has fed to the brain.  For
reasons best known to yourself, you failed to do that."

Toshiro hung his head.  Protest was useless.

'I'm sure you can appreciate the difficulty this places me in.  If I am
unable to rely on the information my eyes and ears are sending to my
brain, then I can no longer feel secure.  The world suddenly becomes a
dangerous place - full of strange sounds and lurking shadows."

'Sire, you have nothing to fear from any man in this realm.  My loyalty
and devotion to your person, and your house, remains undimmed.  I
cannot, therefore, do other than confess to having kept the truth from
you.  Through my ignorance of the ways of the Plainfolk, I allowed
myself to be misled.  By saying nothing I compounded my original
error.

In that sense I am doubly guilty.  I fell victim to false pride."

Toshiro hesitated for a moment, then added: 'I did not wish to appear
foolish in your eyes."

'A fool can be forgiven, but not someone who betrays a trust."

It was at that moment Toshiro realised that everything was slipping
away from him.  The Shogun was playing a cat-and-mouse game from which
there was no escape.

He assumed a kneeling position and bowed again, this time from the
waist.  'Sire, I did everything in my power to ensure your objectives
were achieved."

'Everything and more,' replied Yoritomo.  'But in doing so you kept
vital information from me.  Look at it from my point of view.  From now
on I can never be sure, can I?"

Toshiro straightened his back, but kept looking at the floor.

'On the other hand there is someone - whose word I'm prepared to accept
without question - who trusts you absolutely.  With her life even."

Toshiro raised his eyes to meet Yoritomo's.

'My sister, the Lady Mishiko - whose tiresome husband you so obligingly
removed.  In fact, I believe you were the one who suggested the
idea."

The Herald gazed steadily at the Shogun.  Bowing wouldn't make any
difference now.

'It came as something of a surprise to learn that Ieyasu has had
several of his own men working on this case.

And it appears they crossed your path on more than one occasion..."

Toshiro waited for the next blow to fall.

'I don't know how true it is, but he claims that my sister was your
principal informant regarding the extramural activities of her
husband.

In particular, his relations with the female long-dog.  Or Mute, as the
case may be."

When no reply was forthcoming, Yoritomo said: 'And she has informed me
of her wish to marry you."  He raised his eyebrows - perhaps in the
hope of eliciting a reply.

Once again, Toshiro said nothing.

'I know just what you're thinking and I agree,' said Yoritomo.  'It
was rather impetuous of her.  But then you know what women are like.

Please - don't misunderstand me.  You come from a good family.  I don't
need to enumerate your qualities.  From the moment you joined the
College I've looked upon you as one of the family.  And now my sister
wants to make it official."

'S-sire,' stammered Toshiro.  'I - I never once entertained the idea
that -' Yoritomo silenced him.  'My dear friend, I can't think of
anyone I would rather have as a brother-in-law.  I really mean that.  I
can overlook that mix-up over the Mute.  But your pride led you to
commit an even greater act of folly."  Opening a small lacquered
cabinet that stood beside him, the Shogun drew out a neatly folded
piece of paper and tossed it on to the mat between them.

'If only you hadn't sent that letter..."

Toshiro recognised it from the way it had been folded and the watermark
on the paper.  It was the letter he had written to the military
commander of the southern district of Lord Se-Iko's domain, informing
him of the location of the ronin camp and the means by which he could
gain entry.  The letter he had paid a shopkeeper to post for him at
Aridina.

His throat tightened, forcing him to speak in a harsh whisper.  'I also
killed Noburo Naka-Jima and his two companions."

Yoritomo nodded.  'Ieyasu told me."  He shook his head wearily.

'Why?

What on earth made you, of all people, do such a thing?"

Toshiro sighed.  'The one serious flaw in my character.

I can't bear to be wrong."  He hung his head.  There were other
reasons, but it was unnecessary to go into them now.

'You realise, of course, that this was a particularly scabrous crime
for which you should be flayed, disembowelled, then boiled alive?"

'Yes, sire."

'But you have done something even worse.  You have forced me back into
the hands of corrupt, licentious men.  And that is unforgivable.

However, because of the feelings I once had for you, and for the sake
of my sister, I will spare you the humiliating death you so richly
deserve.  I hope you won't display any weakness tomorrow morning."

Toshiro fell forward on his hands to kiss the mat in abject
gratitude.

His lips met the fatal letter.

When he sat back, Yoritomo said: 'Who will attend you?"

'Captain Kamakura."

'Ah, yes - the good captain with the five pretty daughters .  . ."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Having informed Guard-Captain Kamakura of the service he was to render
shortly after sunrise, Toshiro retired to his quarters in the palace
and slept peacefully for several hours before being roused by a
servant.  After a ritual cleansing of his body, he offered prayers at
the small shrine in his room, then penned a short but eloquent letter
to the Lady Mishiko.  Giving the letter to the servant with a sum of
money that would guarantee its discreet delivery, he put on a cloak and
made his way down into the stone garden.

As a mark of his personal feelings towards his Herald, the Shogun had
given him permission to commit seppuku on his own special section of
the veranda.  Wrapped in his cloak, Toshiro spent two silent hours in
contemplation of the darkened, mist-shrouded garden.  At first he could
see hardly anything, but as night gave way to twilight and the mist
began to fade, the shapes and patterns slowly emerged, until at last
all became clear.

At the moment of death, he would be plunged back into that darkness; a
darkness more profound than he had ever known.  If he died badly, he
would be cast into the nether regions for ever; if he died well, his
soul would rise towards the light that shone from the face of
AmeratsuOmikami.

When the sun rose, Captain Kamakura appeared, followed by four
attendants bearing the items that Toshiro would require.  He rose and
stood aside while they lay down straw mats of the required measurement
and edged with white silk.  They then positioned the large white
cushion on which the Herald would kneel.  In front of this was placed
the lacquered tray holding the short, razor-sharp dagger.

Once everything was in place, Toshiro handed his cloak to one of the
servants, who then withdrew.  After embracing Captain Kamakura and
thanking him for agreeing to act as his kaishaku-run, the Herald knelt
on the white cushion and took several slow deep breaths while he
concentrated his thoughts on the final act he was required to perform
without exhibiting the slightest hesitation or fear.  To the true
samurai, death was 'as light as a feather' and he awoke each day ready
to meet it.

Captain Kamakura now knelt in the prescribed place, behind the Herald,
some three and a half feet to his left, the long killing-sword held
ready in both hands.

Watching from either side of the garden were the Shogun and several
members of the Inner Court.

Toshiro glimpsed Ieyasu's grey, angular face amongst them.

The Chamberlain had every reason to feel satisfied.

He had shaken the Shogun's faith in his Heralds and had demonstrated
that his own power to influence events remained undimmed.  It would not
be long before his private office reinserted itself between the Shogun
and his Heralds.  They were intelligent, well-intentioned young men,
like their master, but they did not know the ways of the world.  His
nephew Yoritomo needed further guidance before he could be safely left
to take Ne-Issan into the next century.  He, Ieyasu, would provide that
guidance in the few years left to him.

There were difficult times ahead.  Yoritomo had all the qualities
required to surmount those difficulties, but he needed to introduce a
certain flexibility into his moral judgements.  In the ancient world,
it had been termed 'double standards'; the mental suppleness that
allowed a man to bend with the winds of change without being
uprooted.

Toshiro reached out and picked up the knife, gazed at it for a moment
as if admiring its lethal grace and then, after adjusting his grip so
as to hold it firmly with both hands, he drove the full length of the
blade into the left side of his belly.  The impact caused him to
breathe out sharply.  He inhaled deeply without relaxing his grip and,
with a slow, deliberate sawing motion, he began to draw the blade
across to the right hand side of his body.

Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, but apart from his eyes which
stared with frightening intensity at the stone and pebble landscape
before him, his face showed no sign of the excruciating pain he was
inflicting upon himself.  At the end of the lateral cut, he turned the
blade of the dagger in his body and made a short, upward cut.  The
jumonji; the final ghastly flourish.

The Herald had gone much further in the act of self-mutilation than was
normally deemed necessary, but he had instructed Kamakura not to act
before he had pulled the knife from his body.  The end to the perfect
act of seppuku.  But his hands had become slippery with blood, and he
no longer had the strength to remove the dagger.

Kamakura leaped to his feet.  As the kaishaku-run, his duty was to
spare the principal actor unnecessary agony.

He was empowered to intervene at a prearranged moment - which could
even be during the act of reaching out for the knife - or at the
slightest sign of irresolution.

As the Herald bent forward in one last effort to pull out the blade,
Kamakura raised his sword high in the air and cut off the young man's
head with one swift blow.

It had been a good death, but it gave Kamakura scant cause for
satisfaction.  As Toshiro's swordmaster he had spent countless hours
instructing and counselling the young man, and now Fate had forced him
to give the coup de grace to his most promising pupil.

The same blow had put paid to his wife's cherished dreams of having a
Herald for a son-in-law.  How she had schemed and laboured over the
years!  And now her plans had come to naught.  Kamakura did not relish
having to break the news to her.  She would understand why he had been
obliged to perform this doleful task, but she would never forgive
him.

And neither would his daughters.

He looked down at the bloodied head with its half-closed eyes.  Eyes
that had followed him so attentively over the years as he had revealed
his unrivalled skill with the sword.  What a waste!  Kamakura cleaned
and sheathed his sword, then turned away.  His eyes brimmed with bitter
tears, but he held them in check.  There would be tears enough.  The
sound of weeping would fill his house for many months to come.

Skull-Face was as good as his word.  There was a field near the east
bank of the Hudson marked with a hollow white square, just as the map
had indicated.  And they were met on landing by a Jap agent who
identified himself to Cadillac in the prescribed manner.  Steve came in
last, and although he tried to make it as smooth as he could, the skid
landing caused agonising jolts of pain to shoot through his wounded
thigh.

Kelso had spotted the feathered end of the arrow sticking out through
the cockpit side during the flight, and had guessed from Steve's
signals what had happened.  When his machine slid to a halt, Kelso was
there with a borrowed saw to cut him loose.  The others helped lift him
out, then Clearwater and Cadillac removed the arrowhead.  The wound
wasn't all that deep, and it hadn't severed any tendons or arteries,
but it still hurt.  The Jap agent promised him he would get some
medication and a bandage later.

Hauling himself upright, Steve discovered that if he didn't put his
whole weight on his right leg he was able to hobble around without
support.  Haww!  Jack me...

Leaves and branches from a number of felled trees around the edge of
the field had been gathered to make several bonfires.  It explained how
Kelso had got hold of a saw.  The reason for the lumberjacking now
became clear.  As soon as they had removed their baggage, the Jap told
them to pile bales of straw and branches around the machines and set
them alight.  Anyone who had seen the planes pass over this forested
area could not be certain where, or if, they had landed, and three more
columns of smoke would not arouse anyone's curiosity.

While the others were fetching the bales and branches, Steve gritted
his teeth and hung head first inside the rear cockpits of each plane.

After removing the radio-controlled detonators, he ripped out the
explosive struts and stowed everything away in the tote-bag.

They stood back and watched the Jap torch the three planes.  It was
depressing how quickly weeks of painstaking handiwork were consumed.

When all the unburnt pieces around the edge of the fires had been
tossed into the centre of the flames, the Jap herded them aboard a
closed ox-cart for the next stage of their journey.

Instead of crossing the river and boarding ship straight away, they
were obliged to spend the next two nights in a house overlooking the
Hudson.  The east bank, which they were now on, belonged to the
Shogun's family, the Toh-Yota.  The west bank, and the land beyond, all
the way to what Kelso called the Great Lakes, belonged to the
Yama-Shita.  The boats of both families plied the navigable stretch of
the river from Nyo-Yoko in the south to as far north as you could go,
but the canal system that linked the Hudson with Lake Erie was reserved
for vessels owned by the Yama-Shita family.

The Jap, who spoke Basic reasonably well, told Steve he had received
word that Side-Winder's boat was running late because of some
unspecified mechanical failure.  'Buh pleez nab toh wah-ree."  Shortly
after their arrival at the house, he had seen it heading downriver, so
- barring any further breakdowns - it should return to All-bani in the
early evening of 'day-ad tab tohmarah'.

The delay proved a blessing in disguise.  It allowed the time for
Clearwater to produce four top-notch paint-jobs and for Cadillac to get
used to wearing women's clothes.

Once the wig pieces and combs had been pinned into position, and his
coppery skin had been paled by sweet-smelling powder, he was halfway
there.  When he put on the white mask and gloves he looked totally
authentic.  And thanks to his uncanny grasp of the Iron Masters'
language and mores, he soon adopted the necessary hauteur.

Since their Jap contact man had not been present during the dress
rehearsals, Steve decided to put the disguise to the test.  After
setting up Cadillac in another room, he engaged the Jap in conversation
as he was returning from one of his frequent sorties.  A few minutes
later, a shrill Japanese voice emanated from the adjoining room,
demanding some service.  When the unsuspecting Jap rushed to the door
and found Cadillac sitting in solitary splendour, he was so taken aback
by the masked figure's imperious bearing and immaculate diction, he
instinctively bowed and started to apologise before he cottoned on.

Fortunately, he had a sense of humour.  What was even better, it meant
they were in with a chance.

Steve already had a Mute identity, but it was exchanged for a new
one.

Sets of worn clothes, slave-tags and 'yellow cards' were distributed to
Jodi, Kelso and Clearwater; travel papers and money were provided for
'Yoko Mi- ˇ Shima'.  Their slave papers and toll-gate stamps purported
to show they had been purchased on behalf of the courtesan at Fin,
where there were regular small-scale auctions as well as the big one in
late spring following the annual western, expedition of the
wheelboats.

Slaves were a disposable asset; a medium of exchange that was more
secure than carrying cash or banknotes which could be stolen by the
thieves and vagabonds who preyed on unwary travellers.  Indeed, some
enterprising merchants who had made a close study of the seasonal and
regional fluctuations in the labour market had amassed considerable
fortunes by buying up slaves and slipping them to wherever there was a
quick profit to be made.

Why feed slaves through the winter in Mali-ina and Nofo-skosha, where
the ground could not be worked, when they could labour fruitfully on
plantations in the warmer climes of Fyah-jina and Karorina?

Side-Winder took charge of Steve and the other 'Mutes' as they came
aboard the wheelboat, and shepherded them down into the gloomy bow
section of the lower through-deck reserved for the transport of
slaves.

Cadillac's carriage-box was taken to the door of the cabin that had
been booked in the name of Yoko Mi-Shima and he did not meet up with
the others until they all disembarked at Bu-faro.

The big mexican remained his usual taciturn self, and only related to
them in his official capacity as Mute overseer.  He did not treat them
any differently from any of the other slaves on board, and because of
the lumps on his forehead, Jodi and Kelso assumed he was a genuine
Mute.  Clearwater appeared to share their opinion, but Steve was not
sure what she really thought.

Maybe the Plainfolk had other, more subtle, ways of recognising their
own kind.

With her help, Steve had concocted Mute names and brief cover-stories
for Jodi and Kelso to use in case any of their fellow-travellers wanted
to know where they came from.  He himself had adopted Cadillac's
identity.

Why not?  It was a fair swap and, best of all, he didn't have to make
anything up.  Small parties of Plainfolk Mutes came and went, but they
were the only ones riding the water all the way to Bu-faro.  As it
happened, there was very little interchange between groups even when
the deck was crowded.  Most Mutes became sullen and withdrawn when
being transported over water, so their own silence was not viewed as
suspicious.

Steve had daily contact with the big mexican, but did not tell the
others what the real connection was, and he did not tell Side-Winder
what he had learned about AMEXICO's links with the anonymous undercover
organisation that Skull-Face worked for.  Or that he had been named as
one of the intermediaries.

In the short time that had elapsed since joining AMEXICO, Steve had
learned that operatives did not probe into the details of each other's
missions.  You didn't ask questions and you didn't give anything away
without clearance from the Operations Control Centre at Rio Lobo.

Side-Winder did not even enquire how he and his friends had reached
Ari-bani.  As far as he was concerned, that was Steve's business - as
he had made clear when Steve had attempted to speak about their escape
from the Heron Pool.  His job, said the big mex, was to oversee their
safe passage to Bu-faro - and from there to the Big Open.  Apart from
that, he didn't want to know.

Unable to see anything but sky through a small latticed hatch-cover in
the deck above, Steve spent the greater part of the trip sitting close
to Clearwater.  Jodi and Kelso had found themselves a niche between
some bales a few yards away.  It must be a strange experience for them,
thought Steve.  Both had previously been openly contemptuous of
Mutes.

Now here they were, clothed in the coloured skin that was the mark of
their mortal enemies, and, for the moment at least, their lives
depended on how well they could act the part.

From the looks they had given him during the colouring of their skins,
it was clear they were aware of the irony of the situation.  It had
forced them to reconsider their own comforting beliefs and
prejudices.

Not an easy thing to do after a lifetime of relentless indoctrination
as Steve had discovered for himself.

The existence of clear-skinned Mutes had been their first big
surprise.

The fact that someone with Cadillac's skills was actually a Mute had
been even more unsettling - and Clearwater had knocked them sideways.

The power she had unleashed against the Iron Masters had left them
bewildered and more than a little uneasy - a reaction that led to the
awkward silences between them.

Steve understood this problem too.  He had felt the same way when he
had witnessed her powers as a summoner for the first time.  Jodi and
Kelso found it hard to reconcile the vengeful, almost superhuman figure
who had held the Iron Masters at bay while they worked frantically to
load the rocket trays, with the young, slim-bodied, blue-eyed girl who
nestled against Steve's shoulder.

But they did not know her as he did.  They did not know the depth of
feeling she could inspire, nor the warmth of her response.  They saw
only a death-machine who, for the moment, had dropped into neutral
gear.  They did not know she was merely a channel through which the
power of Talisman entered the world.

Clearwater had been drained, physically and emotionally, by the
ferocious nature of the forces that had poured through her.  The
enforced delay before boarding the wheelboat had given her a chance to
rest and recoup her energies, but she remained quiet and subdued.

Steve put an arm round her shoulder and drew her close.  'You pleased
to be going home?"

She settled against him, her forehead touching his cheek.  'I am happy
to be with you."

'That's not a real answer.  What about your clan sisters and
brothers?

And Mr Snow."

'They are not forgotten.  But it is hard to think beyond this moment.

When we are together, the world ends with you and I."

'Yeah,' murmured Steve.  'I've felt that too."

But not now.  Decision time was coming up fast... 'When will this
journey end?"

'All I can tell you is that it takes about a day and a half to reach
Bu-faro.  That's on one of the lakes your people call "the Great
River".  Once we get across that, we'll be in Plainfolk territory with
a long walk ahead of us."  The prospect caused him to knead the wound
in his thigh.

Well done, Stevie.  What a brilliant piece of timing that was.

Clearwater straightened up a little, so that she could see the whole of
his face.  'The man who met us on landing, the others who brought us to
the wheelboat.  What do you know of them?  Who are they?"

'Friends,' said Steve.

'How can that be?  They are Iron Masters."

'So?"

'And the Mute, who watches over us, but who is not of the Plainfolk.

Is he a friend too?"

Steve took hold of her hands and gripped them tightly.

'Now listen!  It doesn't matter who he is, or who they are!

I'm the only friend you need!"  He dropped his voice.  'I promised Mr
Snow I would bring you both back safe and sound.  To get this far I've
had to lie and cheat and kill and I'm ready to do it all over again!'
'And I have killed for you,' she whispered.  'Many times over.  Why
will you not tell me the -' 'Don't ask me what the truth is!  I don't
know what the word means any more!  This world is a mirage conjured out
of shifting sand!  The only thing that is real for me is the power, the
feeling - or whatever it is that binds us together.  Maybe it's called
"love", or maybe there's another word for it that you and I don't know
about.

What I do know is, it will never change."

Clearwater gave him a long, searching look and then, with a wistful
sigh that seemed to imply she knew something he didn't, she said: 'That
is true, cloud warrior.  The power of love cannot be destroyed.  But
perhaps the world will change us..."

It was fortunate that they chose to journey disguised as Mutes and not
as captive Trackers.  At the frequent cargo and passenger halts along
the canal, SideWinder saw soldiers on the quayside and heard their
officers demanding to know from the captain if he was transporting any
long-dogs.  On several occasions, the wheelboat was boarded by port
officials and soldiers who examined the cargo manifest and passenger
list, then proceeded to inspect the contents of the through-decks.

Steve and the others had their slave-tags and "yellow cards" examined,
and lanterns were used to pry into dark corners where a stowaway might
be lurking.  Even Cadillac's cabin was entered.  No one had warned him
this might happen, but the Mute did not lose his cool.  He had begun
to enjoy the respectful treatment accorded to 'Yoko Mi-Shima' and was
playing the part to perfection - right down to the fluttering fan.  The
officer's polite enquiries brought equally polite replies in the
courtly language and accents of the nobility.  No one suspected that
the person behind the mask was not the genuine article, and his papers
were never examined.

The first contact man had told them they would be met at the dockside
and, once again, Skull-Face's organisation delivered the goods.  A
sealed carriage-box was sent aboard for 'Yoko Mi-Shims' and, after they
had been shackled, two Korean clerks steered the 'Mutes' through the
various layers of officialdom and out of the dock gates.

Steve and the others had no idea who anyone was or what they were
saying until they met up with Cadillac later.  It then transpired that
the clerks were employed by.

a rich slave-dealer, none other than the man whose name Side-Winder had
given Steve during their chance meeting on the dockside at All-bani.

It was yet further proof of the mexican's tie-in with the Japs.  Just
how far did this deal between the Federation and the Iron Masters go?

Chivvied along by flicks from the clerk's whipping-canes, Steve, Jodi,
Kelso and Clearwater followed the carriage-box through the bustling
streets to the slave-dealer's imposing residence.  Only Cadillac was
invited to go in through the front door; the others were shunted into a
stockade at the rear and locked in a pen.

It was one of several, housing varying numbers of Mutes.  Raised off
the ground, under a lean-to roof, was a slatted wooden floor covered
with a thin layer of filthy straw.  There was a bucket of water to
drink or wash with - assuming anyone wanted to - and another bucket to
crap in.  A big step down from the plush accommodation units Steve had
discovered in Santanna Deep.

From the bawdy exchanges Cadillac had overheard whilst being carried
out of the docks it appeared that his services - or rather those of the
masked lady in the box had also been acquired by the slave-master.

Amid the laughter and muttered asides, a garrulous tongue revealed that
the gentleman in question was a social-climber who had spared no
expense to acquire a well-connected, high-class 'entertainer'.

To Cadillac's relief, his new owner did not make any attempt during the
night to get value for money.  The next morning, when he was
congratulating himself on his good fortune at being comfortably housed
while the others were freezing their butts off out in the yard, his
pampered, perfumed existence came to an abrupt end.

One of the Korean clerks who had greeted 'Yoko Mi-Shima' on the
dockside entered the bedchamber and ordered the Mute to pick up the
canvas tote-bag that had travelled with him.  The clerk then opened a
concealed door and ushered Cadillac down a narrow, enclosed staircase
into a cellar illuminated by several lanterns.

Clearwater was waiting for him.  The clerk told Cadillac to remove his
mask, wig and clothes.  When he had done so, the clerk took everything
back upstairs.

Clearwater knelt down and searched through the contents of the bag.

Cadillac knelt down obediently beside her as she produced one of the
sets of body-paints.  'Will there be enough?"

'Yes."  Using her fingertips, she began to draw the familiar lines on
his back and fill in the areas with the different coloured pigments.

It was something they had done for each other since she had been chosen
by the council of clan elders to be his soul-mate.  Reverting to his
true colours was the final step in accepting that his destiny lay with
the Plainfolk.

Clearwater sang softly to herself as she worked the waterproof dye into
Cadillac's skin.  It was one of the M'Call fire-songs they both knew
well.  'Are you sad?"

'No.  What has happened is the will of Talisman."

Cadillac sighed.  'It is our present situation that concerns me."

'Do you fear something will happen to prevent our escape?"

Cadillac shrugged.  'If we are meant to, we will.  What worries me is
that Brickman is no longer alone.  Why are these Iron Masters helping
him?  He tells me nothing.  Has he spoken to you?"

How strange, thought Clearwater.  As the dyes cover more and more of
his body, he speaks less and less with the voice of the cloud
warrior.

'He says we must trust him."

Cadillac gave a bitter laugh.  'What else - apart from the truth could
he say?"

'You have read his mind."

'Yes.  But not his thoughts.  You are closer to him than I will ever
be.  You can read his heart and see into his soul."

'Sometimes..."

'And what do you see?"

Clearwater moved round on her knees and began to colour his face.

'Love.  Death.  Betrayal.  A new beginning..."

'Are you to be taken from me?"

She traced a gentle line down his cheekbone and on to his neck.  'I
cannot tell.  It is you who read the stones.  But whatever happens,
part of me will always remain with you."

'But you won't."

Clearwater took hold of his chin.  'If you are to be the sword of
Talisman, your strength must not come from me but from within
yourself."  She pressed a finger against his heart.

Easier said than done, thought Cadillac.  Oh, Sweet Mother!  Why did
life have to be so hard, and full of pain?

Dressed and tagged as a Mute, Cadillac was taken back with Clearwater
to join the others in the stockade.  It was his first experience of
life in Ne-Issan as a grass-monkey: The place stank with the odour of
unemptied slopbuckets, and what little food there was was tasteless and
unappetising.  Worst of all, there was no sake.

Later in the day, Side-Winder appeared outside the stockade.  Steve
walked across and spoke to him through one of the gaps in the vertical
planking.  'How come they let you off the boat?"

'Another breakdown.  Everybody got shore-leave except the engineers."

'You come to say goodbye?"

'No.  I'm coming with you."  The mexican's hard mouth split open in a
happy grin.  'How about that!'

Steve smiled back.  'You're going to miss those lumps."  ˇ 'You
kidding?  Can't wait!"  'I can believe it.  Listen.  As you're here,
and since you'll be travelling back with us, there's something I've
been dying to ask you."

'Oh, yeah, what's that?"

'Well, I can't help noticing you've got a lot of slant-eyed friends.

How about filling me in on that?"

Side-Winder's sunny smile turned into a sly grin.  'No can do, amigo.

Try asking Mother when you get back to Rio Lobo."

'Do you think he'll tell me?"  The idea of Karlstrom spilling the beans
on anything seemed an unlikely prospect.

'Can't say..."

'But you are going to tell me how we're getting out of here."

'Yeah.  We leave tonight on a fishing-smack, then we transfer on to a
couple of power inflatables and cross over to a place called Long Point
on the other side of Lake Erie."

'Is Mother going to hook us up?"

Side-Winder nodded.  'A couple of Sky-Riders are comin' in at first
light.  They'll take one of us up front and two in the cargo bay.  If
we don't power-down on the way home, you'll be tucked up safe and sound
in one of the Deeps by midnight."

It suddenly seemed a daunting prospect.  Steve

grimaced.  'I promised Jodi and Kelso they'd get a square deal.

Y'know - for helping out."  He paused, his eyes searching the mexican's
face.  'I couldn't have pulled this off without them."

'Then they've got nothing to worry about,' said Side-Winder.  'The
Federation looks after its own."  He glanced towards Cadillac and
Clearwater.  'What about the grass-monkeys?"

'Could be a problem.  Once they see those Sky-Riders..."

'Yeah, well, there'll be you, me and the two pilots.

But there's no reason for things to get heavy.  I believe one of your
friends has developed a liking for the o" joy-juice."

'The other one doesn't drink."

'There's always a first time, amigo.  Hell, when we reach the other
side, we're gonna have something to celebrate - right?"

'Right."

'So we have a little drink, maybe smoke a little grass.

Then we call in the air force."

'Gotcha."

Side-Winder wrinkled his nose.  'Boy, this place really stinks, doesn't
it?"

'A little."

'How's that leg of yours holding up?"

Steve shrugged.  'It's better than no leg at all."

'Okay."  Side-Winder winked.  'Check you later."

Steve rejoined Jodi and Kelso.  Clearwater and Cadillac were sitting
cross-legged on the straw at the other end of the lean-to.

Kelso stared thoughtfully at the place where Side-Winder had been
standing.  'There's something about that guy that worries me."

Steve sat down alongside him.  'It shouldn't.  He's one of uS."

'Jack me,' breathed Kelso.  'A Fed."

Jodi looked at them both but didn't say anything.

'In cahoots with these dinks..."

Steve nodded.  'Came as a surprise to me, too.  Just shows that, no
matter how far you go, you,can never get away from the First Family."

Kelso nodded soberly.  'Do they know how we risked our necks helping
you?"

'They will.  I told him what the score was."

'And what'd he say?"

' "The Federation always looks after its own"..."

Kelso looked at Jodi and raised his eyebrows.

It was still dark when Side-Winder handed out the liffejackets.  They
followed him over the side of the fishing-smack and down the scaling
net into the two power inflatables.  Cadillac and Clearwater joined
him; Jodi and Kelso went into the second boat with Steve.

They cast off, fired up the outboard motors - water-jets, powered by a
cylinder of liquid methane - and sped westwards.  Behind them, Steve
saw the smack's square-cut sails silhouetted against a sky which had
already begun to turn grey.

Their destination was a strange, needle-like spit of land some twenty
miles long, running almost due east into the middle of the lake.  Both
inflatables were equipped with compasses, but Steve had been keeping
his eyes on the mex's small blue stern light, about fifty yards
ahead.

He passed the tiller to Jodi and sat in the bows with Kelso.

'What's up with Jodi?"

Kelso gave him an odd look.  'She's had a change of heart."

'How d'you mean?"

'She doesn't want to go back in."

Steve kept it casual, turning his back to avoid looking at Jodi.  'Oh,
yeah?  When did this happen?"

'I think it started soon after touchdown.  All those dinks, then your
friend, Side-Winder..."  Kelso shrugged.

Steve laughed and shook his head.  'Did she think we could make it on
our own?  Where the hell does she think all that explosive and the rest
of the hardware came from?"

'Sure.  She's not that dumb.  She knew what she was getting into.  It's
just that, well - all this back-up has suddenly brought home what's
waiting at the end of the line.  Let's not kid around.  This is a big
deal - right?  It's spooked her."

Steve sighed.  'Take over the tiller."

Jodi joined him in the bows.  They eyed each other for a moment, then
she looked straight ahead.

'Kelso tells me you don't want to go back in."

She didn't answer.

'What's the matter - don't you trust me?"

Again no answer.

'Come on, Jodi.  I played it straight with you.  Level with me."

The seconds ticked away.  Finally she swung her eyes back on to his and
held them there.  Defiantly.  'Did Dave tell you he doesn't want to go
back either?"

They both turned to look at Kelso.  He read Steve's face in the
half-light and spread his hands apologetically.

Steve greeted the news with a nod then looked away, as Jodi had done,
over the bows.  Ahead of them to starboard was the foaming wake from
SideWinder's boat.  He wondered how the big mex was making out with
Cadillac and Clearwater.  And whether he realised they knew he wasn't a
real lumphead.  He began to think of Mr Snow.  And how Mr Snow had made
him think really think about the world around him and his part in the
great scheme of things.

What a mess!  So many promises to so many people.

Whichever way it went, someone was bound to end up getting shafted.

The face of Roz, his kin-sister, appeared before his inner eye.  He
drove everything else from his mind and concentrated on the image in an
effort to make contact.  Despite the barriers he had erected, her voice
had sometimes found a way through.  Like on the shuttle to Grand
Central when he'd been under escort and on trial for his life.

Come on, brain!  TR Y!  If it hadn't been for Roz, you and I wouldn't
be in this jam!

A delicious coolness filled his skull as he and Roz broke through to
each other.  He was conscious of weightless, formless, wraith-like
bodies embracing, merging.  His and hers.  He was both observer and
participant.  The contact had never been as strong as this before.  Her
voice whispered directly into his brain.  Not a single word was spoken,
but as he listened, he understood what he had to do.  A deep, soothing
calm replaced his mental anguish.

He straightened up and found Jodi shaking his shoulder.  'Hey!  Are you
okay?"

'What?  Oh, yeah, sure."

'You had me worried."

Steve grimaced.  'Just thinking things over."

'And...?"

'Would it come as a big surprise if I told you I felt the same way?"

Jodi stared at him in disbelief.  'You playing some kind of game with
me?"

'Nope.  I'm serious.  Where were you planning on heading?"

'Wyoming,' she said, cautiously.  'We, uhh -we want to try and get back
with Malone and the other guys."

'Couldn't be better.  I'm going the same way."

Jodi scrambled back to Kelso and broke the news.  He beckoned to Steve
to join them and raised his voice above the noise of the motor.

'How're we gonna do it?"

'There's five of us and three of them.  Shouldn't be too difficult."

'How about asking your friend Clearwater to help?"

Steve shook his head.  'Mute magic can't be turned on and off like a
tap.  Besides which, it's too risky.  You saw what happened at the
Heron Pool.  Those planes nearly jumped off their trolleys.  We don't
want her shaking all the wires loose in those Sky-Riders."

'So what d'you have in mind?"

Steve laid a hand on the canvas tote-bag.  'Don't ask me why I didn't
throw 'em away.  It must be Fate.  But in here are five face-masks
and..."  he reached inside his tunic and pulled out a grey canister
'... I've also got one gas grenade."

Kelso lifted it neatly out of his hand as Jodi screamed with delight
and threw her arms round Steve's neck.

They both ended up in the bottom of the boat.  She hugged him cheek to
cheek, then planted a couple of robust kisses on his mouth.

'Jodi!  Your face is like a block of ice!'

'So's yours.  Never mind.  You're a really great guy.

Y'know that?"

'Listen, it's nothing.  I owe you - remember?"

Long Point turned out to be an inhospitable strip made up almost
entirely of windswept sand dunes whose crowns were held together by
ragged tufts of long grass.

Following Side-Winder's directions, they dragged the inflatables up on
to the beach.  He then paused to get his bearings and concluded they
were some 400 yards east of where they should be.

As he grasped one of the carrying handles of his boat, Jodi and Kelso
stepped in and gave him a hand, leaving Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater
to shift the other.  Steve briefed them on what was going to happen as
they proceeded down the beach behind the others.  They each took a
face-mask from the bag, stowed it inside their tunics and did their
best to look as downcast as they'd been before.

Side-Winder found what he was looking for: a large watertight
compartment whose lid was concealed beneath a cunningly arranged mat of
pebbles and small rocks which matched this particular area of the
beach.

This was no temporary set-up: it was a transit point for people going
in and out of Ne-Issan.

After removing the power units and fuel tanks, they let the air out of
the inflatables and stowed everything inside the cache.  Side-Winder
pulled out a hand-set, a fire-can, a mess-pot, an ice-pack to melt down
for hot drinks, a six-pack of moulded foam cups containing sachets of
Java and Sweet 'n' White and a flask - which he passed directly to
Cadillac.  They replaced the lid, kicked a few loose pebbles back round
the edges, then carried their baggage and breakfast up over the
dunes.

A little way in from the beach they found an area of gently undulating
grassland.  At some time in the recent past, a visitor had obligingly
mowed a wide strip down the middle of it.  Side-Winder set up the
fire-can, pulled the ignition strip, then put the ice cubes in the
mess-pot.  A few minutes later, he and the three other Trackers were
warming their hands on hot cups of Java.

Side-Winder, who had now dropped all pretence of being a Mute, inhaled
the aroma contentedly.  'Ahh, yes.

This is the real stuff, all right.  Reminds you of all the things
you've been missing!"  'Sure does,' said Kelso, busily thinking of all
the goodies he would plunder from the beach store before leaving.

Side-Winder turned to Cadillac and Clearwater.  Both Mutes were
crouched over the fire-can.  Clearwater was warming her hands, Cadillac
was fondling the open flask of sake.  'Good stuff, eh?  Just like I
said - right?"

Cadillac nodded and took another swallow.

'Get your friend to try some,' urged Side-Winder.  'Go on!"  he said to
Clearwater.  'It'll warm you up faster than that fire-can will!'
Clearwater took a trial sip and clutched her throat as she was seized
by a fit of coughing.

'It's okay, it's okay!"  said Side-Winder.  'Always happens.

Keep going.  The second one will make you feel a whole lot better."  He
watched her tip the flask up again and take another swallow.  Then
another.  'That's it.

Y'see?  Practice makes perfect."

Clearwater lowered the flask and put a hand over her face as she
started to giggle.  She swayed against Cadillac and almost lost her
balance.  'Oops!"  Side-Winder reached over and grabbed the flask
'Careful!  Don't want to spill any of this."  He offered up the flask
to the others.  Nobody responded.  'No talkers?"

He raised the flask to Cadillac.  'All the more for you and me I' He
knocked some back and held the flask out to the two Mutes.  'Okay, who
wants it?"

Clearwater made an ineffectual grab, but Cadillac got in first.  He put
the flask to his lips, tipped his head back and started to pour it down
his throat.

'Hey, Hey!  Easy, easy!"  cried the mex.  'Leave some for blue eyes and
me!"  Cadillac sagged forward drunkenly and let Clearwater take the
flask from his hands.  She drank a little more and giggled again.  'It
makes the ground move!"  'No,' said Side-Winder.  'It's not the sake.

We were a long time on the water.  It's the motion of the boat that
makes it seem as if the ground's moving.  You have some more of that
and you won't feel a thing."

Three minutes later, both Mutes were out cold.

Side-Winder emptied the last few drops of sake down his throat, then
looked up at Steve.  'See?  Told you it wouldn't be a problem."  He
capped the empty flask.

'These monkeys can't take this stuff."  The mexican rose and switched
on his hand-set.  'This is Farm-Boy.  Come in Sky-Bucket.  Tell me how
you read.  Over."

There was a slight crackle of static, then: 'Five by five, Farm-Boy.

Sky-Bucket One and Two standing by.

Over."

'Roger, Sky-Bucket, you are clear to land.  Tell Mother we have a full
load."

'Wilco, Farm-Boy.  We're on our way..."

Jodi was the first to spot them.  She pointed out across the lake.

Steve and Kelso turned, searching for the two winged dots that quickly
became two charcoal-grey Sky-Riders.  Behind them, Side-Winder
continued to exchange brief messages with the pilots.

The incoming planes flew a cautionary circuit of the headland, then
turned across wind and made their final approach from the west,
touching down within seconds of each other.  The sky to the west was
still a deep purple, but to the east a soft-edged wash of burnt orange
was spreading along the horizon.

The two fat-bodied Sky-Riders taxied back down the mown grass strip
owards them and parked alongside each other.  To Steve, they were a
familiar sight: he had had two flights as a passenger.  First with
Donna Lundkwist from the Pueblo way-station, and then with an anonymous
MX pilot who had put him down in Nebraska.

The planes were second-generation aircraft built with totally new
materials.  They were equipped with enclosed cockpits, augmented
instrumentation, and all kinds of creature comforts.  They had been a
big surprise to Steve, making the Skyhawk - the long-serving workhorse
of the Federation- look like something out of the stone age, and
Cadillac's silken flying-horses look like a joke.

Yep.  You had to hand it to the First Family.  They were always one
step ahead.  Always had the answers...

Steve had briefed Jodi and Kelso on what to expect, but now that the
aircraft were here, the urge to take a closer look was irresistible.

He ran over with them, leaving Side-Winder by the fire with the two
semiconscious Mutes.

The mexican dropped some more ice into the mess pot.

Cadillac was snoring drunkenly.  Clearwater was making feeble efforts
to rouse herself, but did not seem to be able to get her head off the
ground for more than a few seconds at a time.

The two pilots removed their black-visored crash-helmets, stowed them
on top of the instrumental panel, then opened up their front-hinged
perspex canopies and climbed out.  The tight-lipped guy who had flown
Steve to Nebraska had remained hidden and anonymous.  This pair even
had woven name-tags.  BLACKWELL, B. and RITCHIE, K. - the human face of
PMEXICO.

The three Trackers exchanged greetings with the two pilots.  Both men
ran a jaundiced eye over their painted faces as they shook hands.

'Protective colouring,' explained Steve.

'Glad to hear it,' said BLACKWELL, B. He glanced towards the three
figures over by the fire-can.  'For a minute there, I thought we'd
dropped in on a Mute convention."

Jodi checked out the cockpit.  'Hey, Dave!  Take a look at this set
up!

This is amazing!"  'Is it okay if I sit in the driving seat?"  asked
Steve.  'Just to see how it feels?"

'Sure.  Go ahead."

As Steve climbed into the cockpit of the nearest plane, Kelso held his
handshake with RITCHIE, K. and introduced himself.  'Kelso, Class of
'??.  Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Baby-faced RITCHIE, K. smiled.  'I doubt it.  That was before my
time."

He disengaged and turned away as Side-Winder came forward to greet
them.

'Got some hot Java for you guys."

'Great,' said BLACKWELL, B. 'We haven't had anything since we left
GC."

Steve exchanged looks with Jodi and Kelso and closed the cockpit
canopy.  The pilot had left a pair of black leather gloves inside his
crash-helmet.  Steve pulled them on.  He looked up and saw the two
Trackers walk round the nose towards the second plane, a move which
took them out of sight of anyone standing by the fire.

The two pilots stood over Side-Winder as he broke open the sachets,
poured boiling water into two cups, then handed them over.  The foam
cups came complete with a plastic swizzle.

BLACKWELL, B. stirred slowly as he gazed down at Clearwater and
Cadillac.  'They look happy."

'Happiest they'll ever be,' said SideWinder.

RITCHIE, K. snapped his swizzle in half and swallowed some hot Java.

'Is it okay to leave 'em there while we refuel?"

'Sure.  ' 'How about the two breakers?"

'No problem.  Hang-Fire's told 'em they're gonna be heroes."

Side-Winder glanced towards the Sky-Riders and leapt to his feet.

'What the fuck?"

The two pilots spun round and swore savagely at the sight that met
their eyes.  The cockpit canopy of the first Sky-Rider was closed - and
filled with white smoke.

They threw their cups of Java down and raced across the grass.  When
they reached the aircraft, they saw a figure inside hammering against
the canopy, trying to get out.

RITCHIE, K. grasped the starboard release handle and pulled.  'Shit!

It's jammed!  Grab the one on the other side!"  BLACKWELL, B. sprinted
round the nose of the aircraft as Jodi and Kelso appeared from the far
side of the second aircraft.

"Christo!"  screamed Jodi.  'It's on fire!"  'Stay out of the way!"

yelled BLACKWELL, B. He seized hold of the release handle.  'Okay,
Ritchie, I got it!  Heave!"  The canopy flew open and the smoke
billowed out, revealing a figure wearing a face-mask.  Both pilots
staggered backwards as the gas hit them, clutching their chest and
throat.  Steve threw himself out of the cockpit and disarmed RITCHIE,
K. Kelso, who now wore a face-mask, took care of BLACKWELL, B.

Side-Winder, who was a yard or two behind RITCHIE, K. understood what
was happening a split second earlier.  Spinning round in an effort to
escape, he found the masked figure of Clearwater behind him.  As he
attempted to hurl her aside, he fell full length over the crouching
body of Cadillac.

Jodi, who had masked up after her scream, then ducked underneath the
aircraft, fell on the big mexican and helped Clearwater hold him down
till he started to choke.  When they let go, Side-Winder rolled over on
to his back and just lay there, convulsed with pain and gasping for
breath.

Steve limped over and helped Kelso drag him across to the fire then
went back for the two pilots.  Jodi was trying to get Cadillac back on
his feet.  When the pilots had been laid alongside Side-Winder, Kelso
pulled out the heavy air pistol he'd taken from BLACKWELL, B. and
aimed it at the pilot's head.

Jodi pushed the pistol aside.  'No, Dave!  Please.  Don't do it!"  Her
voice, through the mask, sounded full of cotton wool.

'Okay."  Kelso relieved both men of their shoulder holsters, then
checked Side-Winder for hidden weapons.  Nope.  Just the handset...

Clearwater picked up the empty flask of sake, slipped it inside the
mexican's tunic and gave him a farewell pat on the forehead.  Picking
up the canvas tote-bag, she walked over to the aircraft with Jodi and
Kelso.  Cadillac had fallen over again.

'Leave him to me,' said Clearwater.

'How come you're still on your feet?"  asked Kelso.

'I drank a lot less than you thought,' she said.

Jodi and Kelso helped Steve manhandle the second plane round so that
its rear-mounted propeller faced the port side of its sister craft.

Steve hauled himself painfully aboard, locked the brakes, hit the
starter-button, then pushed the throttle wide open, using the
slipstream to clear the gas-filled cockpit.

He allowed a good ten minutes for the toxic fumes to disperse, then
eased the throttle right back and climbed out, leaving the prop ticking
over.  'Okay.  Who's gonna take the first sniff?"

'Cadillac."  Clearwater marched the glassy-eyed Mute forward.  'Don't
worry.  He won't feel a thing."

Steve pulled Cadillac's mask off, patted his face to gain his
attention, and shouted in his ear.  'Breathe!

Deeply!"  Cadillac did his best and showed no ill-effects.  Steve tore
his own mask off and tossed it away.  Everyone else followed suit.

'Okay!  Let's make tracks!"  Steve pushed Cadillac into Kelso's arms.

'Stow him in the cargo bay.  By the time he wakes up, we'll be halfway
to Wyoming."

Kelso hesitated.  'What about that store of goodies on the beach?"

Steve grabbed the tote-bag and backed away towards the second aircraft
with Clearwater.  'Forget it, Dave!

We can't afford to hang around!"  'Are you crazy?  By the time we find
Malone we're gonna be up to our asses in snow!  We need some of that
stuff!  Look!  Give us fifteen minutes to pick up as much as we can
carry!"  'All right.  But move it!"  Jodi and Kelso stowed Cadillac in
the small cargo hold and ran off towards the beach leaving the hatch
open.

Steve helped Clearwater up into her seat in the cockpit, stowed the
tote-bag, then limped over to Kelso's plane and started up the motor so
they'd be ready to make an instant getaway.  Where AMEXICO was
concerned it was best not to take any chances.

Down on the beach, Kelso had jumped down into the waterproofed
Aladdin's cave and was tossing out as many goodies as he could lay
hands on.  Medicaid kits, ration packs, filtration packs.  There was
enough to keep a bunch of guys alive this winter and the next.

Jodi knelt down, and gathered them up as fast as she could, stuffing
them into a couple of zipper bags Kelso had found in the store.

'Dave!

You've had eleven minutes.  C'mon!  Jack it in!"  Kelso threw out some
more packs.  'Are the bags full?"

'Yeah!  C'mon!  Stop fuggin' around!  We gotta get.outa here I'
'Okay!

You go ahead.  If he sees you, he'll know I'm right behind!"  Jodi
hauled the bag off the ground and looked down at Kelso.  'You got
precisely three minutes and nineteen seconds!  If you're not there, I'm
leaving without you!"  'For chrissakes!  I'm comin'!"  Kelso started to
clamber out of the underground store.

Jodi began a stumbling run up the track that led up through the dunes
and on to the strip.  Kelso knelt down with his back to her and raked
a few more packs into the second zipper bag.  When Jodi had disappeared
from view, he reached down into the waistband of his tunic and pulled
out Side-Winder's handset.

'Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.  This is Rat-Catcher.  Rat-Catcher to all
Mother stations.  Does anyone read me?

Over."

A crackle of static.  'Rat-Catcher.  This is Sky-Bucket Three.  We have
your Mayday five by five.  Activate your Find and Fix channel for
Search and Rescue or state nature of emergency.  Over."

Kelso ran back across the grass with the bulging zipper bag perched on
his shoulder.  Steve and Clearwater sat beneath the closed canopy,
helmeted, strapped in and ready to go.  Kelso gave them the thumbs-up
sign, then threw his bag of goodies into the cargo hold alongside the
sleeping Cadillac and slammed the hatch shut.  Jodi was in the pilot's
seat.  'Move over!"  Jodi gritted her teeth and changed places.  'Where
the hell'ye you been?"

'I'm here, aren't I?  Gimme a break!"  Kelso gunned the motor and ran
quickly through the take-off checks as Jodi read them off the idiot
board.  They saw Steve turn his aircraft and taxi to the end of the
grass strip.  Kelso followed, drawing up at an angle beside him.  He
pulled on the helmet that BLACKWELL, B. had left in the cockpit.

The pilots had left the plane-to-plane channel switched on.

Steve's voice came through the earphones.  'This is Big Open Airways,
Flight One, ready to roll.  How about you?"

'A-OK,' said Kelso.  'Let's burn the hay."

Steve looked across at Clearwater and gave her hand a reassuring
squeeze.  'Frightened?"

'No,' her smile was composed, enigmatic.  'I always knew that one day
we would fly away together."

Steve selected fifteen degrees of flap, opened the throttle wide and
released the brakes.  The Sky-Rider dipped down on its nose-wheel as it
surged forward, then settled back and was soon skimming over the grass
and out across the water.  The eastern horizon had now turned golden
yellow.  Steve looked over his shoulder and saw the second Sky-Rider
following him in a climbing turn to the west.  For the first time in a
long time he felt truly happy.

Some thirty minutes after the two Sky-Riders had left the strip at Long
Point, a second pair came skimming in over the water from the south.

They landed without making a circuit of the strip, and rolled to a stop
close by the three immobilised mexicans.

The first pilot to reach them was carrying a special MX first-aid
case.

Opening it up, he took out a pack of pre-filled hypodermic syringes and
gave each man an injection.  It was the antidote to the crippling
effects of the nerve gas and enabled a victim to recover fully within
half an hour.

Eventually, Side-Winder and the two men tagged as BLACKWELL, B. and
RITCHIE, K. were helped to their feet and, after a lot of coughing and
spitting, took in healing draughts of fresh air.

'Boy,' breathed Side-Winder.  'That stuff,s a real killer."

He reached inside his tunic and found the empty sake flask.  Ho,
ho...

Big joke.  He tossed it away.  What the runaways didn't know was that
AMEXICO would have the last laugh.

The second pilot returned to his machine and spoke over an open UHF
link to an orbiting signals aircraft.

'Sky-Bucket Three to Cloud-Cover.  Message for Mother.

Hang-Fire airborne with Rat-Catcher and three targets,
zero-six-fifteen.  Acknowledge.  Over."

Commander Karlstrom left the central communications room and set off
towards the White House to break the news personally to the
President-General.  So far so good.  With a little help, Brickman had
performed brilliantly.  He had left the Iron Masters in no doubt that
the Federation was a force to be reckoned with, and he had brought
Cadillac and Clearwater back into play on the main board.  He had even
rescued a fellow mexican -Rat-Catcher - the 'renegade' he knew as
Kelso.

Despite the years of programming, it was not possible to predict which
way Brickman was going to jump but Kelso could be relied upon to make
sure he didn't jeopardise the overall game-plan.  And more subtle
pressures could be applied through Roz.  In their haste to get away
Brickman's party had taken off without realising that Long Point held a
store of fuel as well as food.  The two Sky-Riders had already flown
several hundred miles - which meant they would be forced down long
before they reached Wyoming.

They would be landing in hostile territory but Kelso, a.k.a.

Rat-Catcher had been told exactly where to aim for.  After giving them
a chance to get their bearings, they would find themselves surrounded
by old friends.

At which point, with or without Brickman's assistance, the next stage
of the operation would begin...