The Amtrak Wars - Cloud Warrior - Book 1 

By: Patrick Tilley

Synopsis:

Ten centuries ago the Old Time ended when Earth's cities
melted in the War of a Thousand Suns.  Now the lethal high technology
of the Amtrak Federation's underground stronghold is unleashed on
Earth's other survivors - the surface-dwelling Mutes.  But the
primitive Mutes possess ancient powers greater than any machine...

An Orbit Book First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd
1983

Reprinted 1986, 1987 (twice), 1988 (twice), 1989 (twice), 1990, 1991

Reprinted by Warner Books 1995

Reprinted 1996, 1997

Reprinted by Orbit 1998

Copyright © Patrick Tilley 1983

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 1 85723 535 5

Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Orbit

A Division of Little, Brown and Company (ilK) Brettenham House

Lancaster Place

London we2E 7EN To Nick Austin, who made it all possible.  This one's
for you.

ONE

Cadillac sat on the ground near Mr Snow and listened with half-closed
eyes as the white-haired, bearded old man told the naked clan-children
the story of the War of a Thousand Suns.

Cadillac knew the story off by heart.  It was the two hundred and
eighth time he had heard it, and it was not new to the sixty young
children of the settlement that squatted in a half-circle before
them.

It did not matter.  The children sat spellbound, hanging on every word,
just as they had the first time.  Most of them didn't remember Mr Snow
telling them the story before.  But then, most of them hardly
remembered anything for very long - and never would.

But Cadillac could.

Cadillac remembered everything.  All he had ever seen and heard, down
to the minutest detail.  That was why he had been chosen by Mr Snow to
learn all that had happened to his people from the beginning of the New
Time.  When Mr Snow left them to go to the High Ground, Cadillac would
take his place as the clan's wordsmith.  It would then be Cadillac's
task to find a young child capable of memorising the series of events
that made up the nine hundred year history of the Plainfolk.

Before that, stretching back beyond the reach of even Mr Snow's memory,
was the uncounted span of years known as the Old Time when the world
trembled before the feats of Heroes with Names of Power.

Mr Snow knew a few tales of the Old Time, when there were as many
people on the earth as there were blades of grass.  When huts were
built on top of one another to form settlements that rose high in the
sky like the distant mountains.  When the crumbling hardways, that once
ran across the land like veins along his arm were choked with a
never-ending stream of giant beetles that carried people from one
place to another so that no one would ever find himself alone.

As Mr Snow rippled his fingers up the length of both arms to describe
how, in the War, the falling Suns had burned the flesh from every
living thing, Cadillac stood up and walked away down the slope towards
the settlement.

The morning sun warmed his bare back and cast a slim, broad-shouldered
shadow in front of him.

Cadillac took a deep breath to fill out his chest, stretched his arms
out sideways then brought them together above his head.

His shadow did the same.

It never failed to fascinate Cadillac.  The shape of his shadow pleased
him.  It was different from the shadows cast by most of the others in
his clan.  It had a sleek, smooth outline, with long straight arms and
legs, and the shadow's hands had only one thumb and four fingers - like
the shadows of the sand-burrowers that Cadillac had never seen but whom
Mr Snow had described.

The hidden enemy far to the south by the Great Water who sent out the
iron snakes and the cloud warriors -' from whom he must always flee.

Cadillac M'CalI, now eighteen years old, belonged to one of the many
clans of She-Kargo Mutes that roamed the Central and Northern Plains.

According to Mr Snow, their ancestors had come from beyond the dawn on
the backs of giant birds whose beating wings made the noise of a mighty
waterfall.

They had landed at a place called O-haya, by the side of a great
lake.

To celebrate their arrival, they had killed and roasted the birds and
feasted on them all summer long then, when winter came, they used the
frozen waters of the lake to build a great settlement full of towering
pillars of ice that glowed with all the colours of the rainbow and
whose tops were lost in the clouds.

In the War of a Thousand Suns, the city had melted and flowed back into
the lake..  Every living thing had perished except for an old man
called She-Kargo and an old woman called Me-Sheegun and their
children.

She-Kargo had fifteen sons, all of them brave warriors, tall and strong
as bears; the old woman had fifteen beautiful daughters.

She-Kargo's sons and Me-Sheegun's daughters crossed wrists and bound
their bodies together with the blood kiss and their children, and their
children's children, grew strong and multiplied, and moved westwards
into the lands of the Minne-Sota, the Io-wa, Da-Kota, and Ne-Braska,
killing all who resisted them, and making soul-brothers of all those
who laid the hand of friendship upon them.

They triumphed because their warriors were braver, their wordsmiths
wiser, and their summoners more powerful.

And thus it was that-the Plainfolk grew strong in number and gave
thanks to their great mother-goddess, Mo-town.

Cadillac went to his chosen place among the rocks at the edge of the
plateau where the M'Call clan had set down their huts to wait out the
growing time.  From the ragged edge of the plateau the ground fell away
steeply, ridged and hollowed as if clawed by the talons of a giant
eagle.  Lower down, the ground evened out, flowing in a gentle curve to
join the rolling, orange grass-covered plain that stretched towards the
rim of the world.  Beyond that lay the hidden door through which the
sun entered each morning.  The pale blue that had quenched the golden
fireclouds of the dawn was deepening as the sun climbed higher; small
widely-spaced clouds, like a distant slow-grazing herd of white
buffalo, were beginning to form over the far edge of the plains.

Cadillac lay back against the warm rock face and let his eyes roam
across the unbroken stretch of blue, searching for the tell-tale flash
of silver light that he had been told would signal the presence of a
cloud warrior.  As Mr Snow's chosen successor, Cadillac had no need to
act as a sentinel.  Over a hundred of his clan-brothers were perched on
the hilltops that lay around the settlement; young warriors - known as
Bears - were on guard, day and night; some watching the sky for cloud
warriors; others, the ground, for any marauding bands from rival Mute
clans seeking to invade the M'Call's summer turf.  Some manned hidden
look-out posts on the high ground, others patrolled the area around the
settlement in small mobile packs that doubled as hunting parties.

Cadillac continued his search of the sky.  Not because he felt
threatened but because he was consumed with curiosity.

As a Mute, he had every reason to fear the sand-burrowers; the
mysterious people who lived beneath the earth and killed everything
upon it whenever they emerged from the darkness; yet in spite of their
awesome reputation - or perhaps because of it - he yearned to confront
them; to challenge them.

So far, they had not ventured into the lands of the Plainfolk.  But the
Sky Voices had told Mr Snow that the time of their coming was near.

The first sign would be arrowheads in the sky; the birdwings that
carried the cloud warriors on their journeys.  They were the far-seeing
eyes of the iron snake which followed, bearing more sand-burrowers in
its belly.  When they came, there would be a great dying.  The world
would weep but all the tears in the sky would not wash the blood of the
Plainfolk from the earth.

When Mr Snow had finished telling his story to the children, he walked
down to where Cadillac sat with his face turned up to the sky and
squatted cross-legged on an adjoining rock.  His long white hair was
drawn up into atop-knot, tied and threaded with ribbon; the aging skin
covering his lean, hard body was patterned with random swirls, patches
and spots of black, three shades of brown - from dark to light and an
even lighter olive-pink.

Mr Snow had said that the bodies of the sand-burrowers were the same
colour all over.  Olive-pink from the top of their heads to the soles
of their feet.  Like worms.

Cadillac's body was marked with a similar random pattern but his skin
was as smooth as a raven's wing.  Some of Mr Snow's skin was smooth too
but in other places, such as his forehead, shoulders and forearms, the
skin was lumpy as if it had pebbles stuffed underneath, or it was
shrivelled up like a dead leaf or the gnarled bark of a tree, That was
the way most Mutes were born.  And many were different to Cadillac in
other ways too.  As a young child, when Cadillac finally became aware
that his body was different from those of his clan-brothers, he had
felt ashamed; a grotesque outcast.  Some of the other children taunted
him, saying he had a body like a sand-burrower.  He became alienated
from his peer group; ran away; was brought back; fell sick, refused to
eat.

Black-Wing, his mother, had taken him to Mr Snow who explained that the
things he hated about himself were precious differences that would, in
the years to come, enable him to perform great feats of valour.  That
was why he had been made straight and strong as the Heroes of the Old
Time, and had been given a Name of Power.  Cadillac, then four years
old, had sat listening wide-eyed as, in the flickering firelight under
a dark sky heavy with shimmering stars, Mr Snow had revealed to him the
Talisman Prophecy.

F. from that moment, Cadillac knew, with a childlike certainty he had
never lost, that everything that happened to him had a meaning, and
that his destiny was bound up with the greater destiny of the
Plainfoak.

Cadillac gave up his search of the sky and turned to Mr Snow.  He had
no need to tell the old man what he had been looking for.  Mr Snow, his
teacher and guide since early childhood, who spoke to the Sky Voices,
knew these things; knew everything.

'Is this the year of the Great Dying?"  asked Cadillac.

'This is the year it begins,' said Mr Snow.

'When will the iron snakes come?"

Mr Snow closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and turned his face
towards the sun.  The sky had now turned a deep blue.  Cadillac waited
patiently.

Eventually, the answer came.  'When the moon's face has turned away
three times."

'And what of the cloud warrior the Sky Voices have chosen?"

Mr Snow let the air out of his body with a long sigh and dropped his
head onto his chest.  His eyes fluttered open.

'His journey towards us begins.  He dreams the dreams of young men.  Of
feats of valour, of triumph, of power, of greatness."  Mr Snow raised
his eyes and looked at Cadillac.

'But like all young men, he thinks these things are gifts.  He does not
yet know how much the world pays for such dreams."

TWO

The one hundred members of Eagle Squadron jerked back their shoulders
and sat bolt upright in their desks as the Flight Adjudicator entered
the briefing room.  The Adjudicator surveyed them briefly with grey
expressionless eyes then scanned the list displayed on his video-pad.

'Avery - ?"

Mel Avery leapt out of her seat and snapped to attention, thumbs
aligned with the side seams of her blue jumpsuit.

'Sir!"  'Flightline Three."

Avery grabbed her visored helmet, saluted swiftly and headed for the
door at the double.

The Flight Adjudicator keyed in a box co& against Avery's name and
looked up.  'Ayers - ?"

Ayers stood up, jaw squared, back ram-rod straight.  'Sir!"

'Flightline Five."

Ayers saluted and ran.

'Brickman - ?"

Steve Brickman shot to his feet, stamped his right heel into line with
his left and braced his shoulderblades together.  'Sir!"  'Flightline
Six."

The Snake Pit.

Despite his tensed neck and jaw muscles, Bricknmn let slip a brief
involuntary gasp of dismay.

The Adjudicator's grey eyes fastened on him.  'Anything wrong?"

'No, sirr!"  'Okay, get moving."

Brickman picked up his helmet from the desk top and saluted smartly.

The Flight Adjudicator's attention was already elsewhere.

'Bridges - ?"

'Sir!"  Brickman cursed his luck as he ran along the corridor which led
to the simulators and free-flight rigs.  The end-of-course exam
consisted of eight segments.  Like all the other candidates, he had
been hoping to warm up on one of the easier rigs.  Instead, his first
test was to be over the toughest hurdle.

The Snake Pit - as it had been christened by a long-&ad generation of
flight cadets - was described officially in the Academy's training
manual as the Double Helix, and listed in Daily Or&rs as Flightline
Six.

The rig consisted of two circular ramps wrapped around massive central
pillars housed side-by-side in a sausage-shaped shaft.  In elevation,
they looked like two giant corkscrews with opposing threads; the
left-hand ramp descending eleven full turns in a clockwise direction;
the right-hand one, anticlockwise.

As each ramp wound down the shaft around its central pillar, it created
a rectangular tunnel of air space one hundred and thirty feet wide and
ninety feet high.  In the centre of the shaft the two ramps touched rim
to rim enabling a pupil pilot aboard one of the Academy's Skyhawks to
fly from one to the other, weaving his way up and down the shaft in an
almost infinitely variable series of ascending or descending
figure-eights and tight right- or left-hand turns around the two
pillars.

Runways for take-off and landing were situated in flight access tunnels
at the top and bottom of the rig and these were linked by express
elevators able to carry two Skyhawks with their wings folded.

The overall height of the Snake Pit was some twelve hundred feet.  The
shaft containing the spiral ramps measured seven hundred by three
hundred and fifty feet.

Each flight access tunnel was one hundred and fifty feet wide, one
hundred feet high, and a quarter of a mile long.

And the whole colossal structure, together with the other rigs and the
rest of the Flight Academy had been drilled, hammered and blasted out
of the bedrock several hundred feet beneath the desert sands of New
Mexico near the ruins of a city that, in the prehistory of the
Federation, had been known as Alamogordo.

Already rated above-average, Brickman knew every twist and turn of the
Snake Pit.  He knew he would make it through to the finish line,
out-performing the rest of the senior year in the process.  But that
wasn't enough.

Brickman was intent on gaining the maximum possible points.

That was the difficult part.  It meant his performance had to be
faultless.  Not only on the Snake Pit but on all the other rigs and
flight simulators too.  For Brickman was not only aiming to finish top
of his class; he wanted to rack up a perfect score.  Something no
wingman had ever achieved in the hundred year history of the Academy.

Fate had ordained that the graduation date of Brickman's class
COincided with his seventeenth birthday and the one hundredth
anniversary of the Academy.  The traditional passing out parade in
which the senior third-year cadets were awarded their wings was
scheduled to be part of the celebrations.  When he had learned of this
providential conjunction upon his enrolment as a Freshman, Brickman had
determined to provide the Academy and his guardians with something
extra to celebrate.

Steven Roosevelt Brickman.  The first double century wingman.  Leader
of the class of 2989 with a ground-flight test score of two hundred and
winner of the COveted Minuteman Trophy - awarded on graduation for the
best all-round performance while under training.

Brickman paused as he reached the access door to the Snake Pit, took
several deep, calming breaths, checked the alignment of the creases in
his blue flight fatigues, then stepped through into the Rig
Supervisor's Office and logged his arrival by feeding his ID sensor
card into the checkpoint console at the door.

As soon as he was cleared to enter the flight area, Brickman ran at the
double towards the ramp where two Skyhawk microlites were.  being
readied by six of the Academy's ground staff.  Bob Carrol, the Chief
Flying Instructor, stood at the edge of the runway talking to another
of the ten Adjudicators who had been sent down from Grand Central to
conduct the flight tests and award the marks.

Brickman thudded to a halt with perfect timing, cocked his elbow into
line with his shoulder and saluted, his arm folding like a well-oiled
jack-knife, fingers, hand and wrist rigidly aligned, the tip of his
black glove exactly one inch from the bar and star badge on his forage
cap."  Senior Cadet 8902 Brickman reporting for flight test, sir!"  The
Adjudicator gave Brickman a dry, appraising glance then lifted the
cover of his video-pad and scanned the text displayed on the
centimetre-thick screen beneath ... He pursed his lips at whatever was
written there, then nodded at Carrol, 'Ah, yes - your star
performer."

Then to Brickman he said, 'Okay.  Hear this.  Take-off and landing will
be from this runway.  Your first turn will be to the left.  The rest of
your flight pattern on the downward and return leg will be indicated by
course markers on each level.  Lead time will be fifteen degrees of
arc.  Points will be deducted for course and altitude deviations, and
-' the Adjudicator paused, '- you'll be flying against the clock.

Overall flight time will be counted in the final pass mark.  Have you
got that?"

'Loud and clear, sir!"  'Okay.  You roll on the green in fifteen."  The
Adjudicator returned Brickman's salute and walked away towards the
Flight Control Room.

CFI Carrol, a sandy-haired thirty-year-old leatherneck, eyed Brickman
sympathetically.  Like all the Academy staff, Carrol was a tough,
demanding instructor but if he had allowed himself to show favour to a
cadet, Brickman would have been the recipient.  'I had a hunch you
might draw the short straw.  How do you feel?"

Brickman, now standing at ease, allowed himself a brief non-regulation
shrug.  He knew Carrol; he knew he wouldn't pick up on it.  'Someone
has to be first."

CFI Carrol greeted Brickman's reply with an ironic smile.  'Yes, I
guess they have.  Okay - you'd better get moving."

Brickman sprang to attention and threw another faultless salute.

Carrol acknowledged it with what looked like a half' hearted swipe at
a fly on his forehead.  Discipline was one thing; saluting another.

Confronted daily for the last five years by zealous cadets his right
arm had often felt as if it was coming off its hinges.  'Good luck."

'Thank you, sir."

'And Brickman -' Brickman froze halfway through a left turn.  'Sir?"

'This is a cruel world.  Good guys don't always finish first."

'I'll try and remember that."

'Do,' said Carrol.  'But don't let it stop you trying."  He lowered his
voice.  'Take Number Two The controls are smoother."  He dismissed
Brickman with a nod and watched him as he ran towards the parked
aircraft.

The Skyhawk - the only aircraft built by the Federation consisted of a
small three-wheeled cockpit and power pod, with a cowled propellor and
rudder at the rear, slung under a wire and strut braced arrow-head wing
measuring forty-five feet from tip to tip.  The wing covering was of
fabric with a plastic lining that could be inflated like a bicycle tyre
to give it an aerofoil section.  The motor ran on batteries.  For
underground training flights - none of which lasted more than thirty
minutes - the static charge in the power pod was enough; when used
overground, the Skyhawk's wing was covered with solar-cell fabric that,
under optimum conditions, gave it virtually unlimited range..

Carrol lingered by the runway as Brickman carried out his own quick
pre-flight check of the Skyhawk then strapped himself into the cockpit
frame and started up.  There had been many able cadets who had passed
through his hands in the last five years, but Brickman was in a class
by himself.

Watching his progress on the rigs, Carrol had concluded that the young
Tracker had more than a feel for flying.  He had - well, there was only
one way to describe it - some strange sixth sense that told him what
was going to happen.

Carrol was sure of it.  When flying in the Snake Pit, for example,
Brickman seemed to know which way the course marker lights would go
before Flight Control flipped the switches.  There was no other
explanation for the fact that he was always correctly positioned for
the required turn.  And after only a few hours on the rig, almost
always flying a perfect course.  Right down the wire.

It was uncanny.  But marvelous to behold.

Carrol had not confided this feeling about Brickman to anyone.  The
concept of a 'sixth sense' did not form part of the official Tracker
philosophy.  Indeed, the term had not formed part of Carrol's
vocabulary until he had been assigned to one of the Trail-Blazer
expeditions charged with pacification of the overground.

Many veteran Trail-Blazers believed that the Mutes - the perpetual
enemies of the Amtrak Federation - possessed a 'sixth sense', but very
few were prepared to discuss it.  In fact, to do so publicly was a
punishable offence.  Trackers had no need to dwell upon such dubious
intangibles.  It was their physical and technological skills that had
made them masters of both the earthshield and the overground.  It was
the visible power of the Federation which sprang from the genius of the
First Family that had ensured their survival, and had brought the dream
of an eventual return to a blue sky world to the edge of reality.

That was what it said in the Manual of the Federation; a comprehensive
information/data bank known colloquially as 'The Book'.  Video page
after video page of reference and archive material, rules and
regulations governing every aspect of Tracker life plus the collective
wisdom of the First Family: inspirational insights for every
occasion.

What 'The Book' didn't mention was that, as a wingman, you also needed
a generous amount of good luck to survive the required minimum of three
operational tours - each of which lasted a year.  Fortunately, luck was
one of the few permissible abstractions that Trackers could dwell upon
during a short life dedicated to the pursuit of excellence in a world
where the practical application of brawn and brain took precedence over
everything else.

Brickman, strapped in his seat, with the nose wheel of the Skyhawk
poised on the centre of the start line, was oblivious of Carrol's
presence on the edge of the runway behind his port wing.  Brickman's
eyes were fixed on the runway control light mounted in the left-hand
wall of the flight access tunnel, his hand on the brake lever as the
motor behind him revved at full power.

All his senses were attuned to the flight ahead.  And the extra one,
ascribed to him by Carrol, had already hinted that the first course
marker would probably indicate another tight left-hand turn around the
pillar.

A lead time of fifteen degrees of arc meant that, when the right- or
left-hand arrow lit up, a pilot had a little under two seconds in which
to react and make the appropriate course correction.  If he left it too
late, he would swerve off the centre line.  When that happened, lines
of photoelectric cells in the ramp ceiling recorded the deviation.  A
similar arrangement of cells in the shaft wall also recorded variations
in altitude.  To score the maximum number of points, a pilot had to fly
within extremely tight limits down the middle of the flight tunnel from
start to finish.  To do so demanded a high degree of airmanship,
intense concentration and hair-trigger responses.

Brickman possessed all these qualities, plus an inexplicable ability to
predict random events several seconds before they happened.  As he sat
there waiting, with total concentration, for the green light, he was
confident that he would 'see' the course marker lights one or two
seconds before they were illuminated by Flight Control.  This sixth
sense only seemed to operate in moments of stress - as now.

A fortuitous gift he put to good use without speculating on its
provenance; without the slightest trace of fear or wonder, He just
accepted it.  In the same way as he accepted, without question, the
fact that he, Steven Roosevelt Brickman, was destined to succeed.

Forewarned that the green light was about to come on, Brickman released
the wheel brakes as the current reached the lamp filament.  The Skyhawk
surged forward and was airborne in thirty yards.  By the time he had
reached the end of the flight access tunnel and gone into his first
turn Carrol, who had moved to the centre of the runway, sensed that
Brickman was on his way to establishing an unbeatable lead.

By the end of the fourth day, when all the flight times were in,
Carrol's hunch had been amply confirmed.

Brickman not only flew a faultless pattern, he completed it in a time
that was destined to become par for the course.

,and from the Snake Pit, he had gone on to rack up a perfect score on
all the other flight rigs.

Brickman also scored full marks in the test of his physical agility
over the gruelling assault course, on the firing range and general
weapon handling, and in the video question and answer sections on
general and technical subjects.  When the Adjudicators began processing
the results, it soon became clear that 8902 Brickman, S.R. with one
test to go, was within reach of an unbelievable double century.

'A-t.  en-SHUN?

Three hundred pairs of heels crashed together on the floor command of
the Cadet Squadron Leaders as CFI Carrol entered the main lecture hall
followed by Triggs, the senior Assistant Flight Instructor.

The cadets, whose turn it was to be in charge of the three units that
made up the senior year, about-faced, saluted and reeled off the usual
class report as the CFI mounted the dais.

'Condor Squadron present and ready, sahl' 'Hawk Squadron present and
ready, sa-h!"  'Eagle Squadron present and ready, sah!"  Carrol
responded with his famous fly-swipe and went to the lectern.  AFI
Triggs, a noted drill freak, positioned himself one pace back, and one
arm's length to Carrol's right, feet apart and angled symmetrically
outwards, stiff-fingered hands crossed in the small of his back with
thumbs overlapping on the joints.

'Be seated, gentlemen."

Three hundred butts slid smoothly into place.

'Okay,' said Carrol.  'I've seen the provisional results.  So far, so
good.  All that remains is your final, make-or-break flight test.  The
big one.  The real thing.  At 0700 hours tomorrow, you'll begin moving
up - a section at a time - to Level Ten for your first overground
solo."

Steve Brickman shared the surge of excitement and apprehension
generated by Carrol's announcement.

'You've all seen pictures of it,' continued Carrol.  'You've all been
briefed.  You know what to expect.  Right?"

'Yess-SIRR!"  chorussed the class.

'Wrong,' snapped Carrol.  'Everything you've experienced and everything
you've been taught up to now is totally useless.  Forget it.  Nothing
can prepare you for that moment when you lift off the ramp and catch
your first glimpse of the overground.  It's like entering a new
dimension.  The initial impact will overwhelm you, may even frighten
you.  That's okay.  When you fly your first patrol into Mute territory,
you're going to be scared too.

Anyone who isn't is an idiot.  The important thing is to stay in
control.  Of yourself and your aircraft.  Don't allow yourself to
become disoriented.  It's just like being in the free-flight dome only
bigger."

A lot bigger.  Vast.  Endless.  Terrifying ...

'Some of you are going to breeze through.  After the first few minutes,
you'll be flying hands off- wondering what all the fuss was about.  And
some of you are going to hate every minute of it.  You're going to want
to ball up in your seat and close your eyes and hope it goes away.  But
you're going to fight that feeling.  If you plan to graduate as wingmen
a week next Friday, you're going to fly that blown-up bedsheet every
inch of the way around the course that's been mapped out for you, and
you're going to bring it back in one piece.

And what's more, you're going to do it with a clean pair of pants."

This news raised a ripple of nervous laughter.

'No, don't laugh,' said Carrol.  'I'm not kidding.  Your flight
instructors are going to be on duty in the shower room.  Right?"

Mr Triggs nodded meanly.  'Right ..."

Carrol eyed his audience.  Remembering.  'Two of my classmates freaked
out when they cleared the ramp.  One of them just rolled over on his
back and went straight in from five hundred feet.  The other took one
look, made a one hundred and eighty degree turn and tried to fly back
inside.

Came in at full throttle.  Would have made it too but - he was in such
a hurry, he didn't wait for the ramp crew to open the door."

Brickman winced.  The Academy staffer who had briefed them on the
overground had mentioned that the outer ramp doors to the arid desert
above the Academy were colossal twelve foot-thick slabs of reinforced
concrete.

The CFI concluded his cautionary tale with a grimace.  'I trust that I
can count on you all not to do anything in the next ten days that
might, in any way, spoil the centenary celebrations."

The class gazed at him silently.

'Good,' said Carrol.  He turned to the senior AFI.

'They're all yours, Mr Triggs."

Despite Carrol's dire warning, the fail rate on this crucial solo
flight was now almost zero.  Since the days when the CFI had been a
cadet, the psychological profile of the ideal wingman had been
carefully reconstructed and each applicant was subjected to rigorous
tests' during the selection process.

In theory, the psy-profile of successful candidates had to achieve a
seventy-five per cent match with the referent.  In practice, this was
not always possible.  In the thousand year history of the Federation,
as in the millennia preceding it, no one had yet found a way to endow
the art of applied psychology with the mathematical exactitude of the
physical sciences.

Which meant that, now and then, an aggressively normal bonehead would
soar off the ramp and, after a few minutes aloft, agoraphobia would set
in.  The fear of open spaces that afflicted the majority of Trackers.

The unlucky candidate would find that his hand on the control column
had become palsied, and that his intestines were doing the
shimmy-shake.

And while he might master his fear sufficiently to fly the allotted
course, it was the end of his career as a wingman.

For during the crucial solo flight, each cadet was wired up like
someone taking a lie detector test.  Sensors fixed to his body and
linked to a recorder monitored various functions that included such
giveaways as heartbeat, brain activity, skin temperature and
humidity.

The Flight Adjudicators from Grand Central did not need Mr Triggs on
standby in the shower room.  With the sophisticated telemetry at their
command, they knew when a student.pilot had been scared shitless.

Brickman, who had begun mapping out his career at the age of five, was
confident that he would pass this test - as he had all the others with
flying colours.

This is not to imply that success came easily to brickman.

It did not.  Apart from his inherent flying ability, he was by no means
the brightest or the strongest student in the senior year - but he was,
without doubt, the sharpest.  His intellectual and physical
achievements in course studies, track and match events, were the result
of endless hours of hard work and unrelenting concentration; a total
commitment to the ,task in hand.

Brickman's true talent lay in maximising his potential; making the most
of his natural assets.  Which included a tall, straight-limbed body, a
well-boned honest, dependable face, and a pleasant, engagingly shrewd
manner that was used, with good effect, to conceal a brain that
functioned as precisely and dispassionately as a silicon microchip.

Although the cadets assigned to Eagle Squadron traditionally regarded
themselves as innately superior to the rest of the Academy intake (the
Eagles had been overall champions in team events for fifteen out of the
past twenty years) it figured third in the organisationai listings.  As
a consequence, Brickman and his fellow cadets had a four-day wait
before being cleared to Level Ten for the final test flight.

On the fifth day, the long-awaited moment finally arrived.  Armed with
their movement orders, Brickman, Avery, and the eight other cadets that
made up the first section of A-Flight presented themselves at the Level
Superintendent's Office and rode the elevator to Level Five.

From there, they took the conveyor to the second Provo checkpoint on
Six, then entered another elevator for the ascent to the subsurface:
Level Ten.

It was the first time that Brickman had gone beyond Five.

Prior to joining the Academy, his whole life had been spent within the
Quad.  Levels One to Four.

The ground floor of Level One was fifteen hundred feet below the
surface of the overground.  Each level was one hundred and fifty feet
high, subdivided into ten floors, or galleries.  Thus, counting up from
the bottom, One-8 was the eighth floor of Level One, and Ten-10 was the
ramp access floor; the heavily defended interface between the
Federation and the overground.

For reasons of security, only a limited number of subdivisions went all
the way up to Level Ten.  Most of the Federation's bases were located
between Levels One and Four and linked with each other by interstate
shuttle.

Stepping out of the elevator on Ten-10 gave Brickman a strange
feeling.

At first glance, there was little to distinguish the ramp access floor
from those below it but Brickman could 'feel' the overground.  Even
though it was still, at that point, some fifty feet above his head, it
registered as an almost palpable presence.

Reporting to Overground Flight Control, Brickman found he was listed
number one to go.  One of the ubiquitous Flight Adjudicators stood by
as two medics taped the sensors to his body and checked the screened
printout from a data recorder.  Brickman then stepped back into his
blue flight fatigues and fed the umbilical carrying the sensor wires
through the flap provided.

In the Chart Room, a second Flight Adjudicator handed him a map, a set
of course coordinates and the latest weather data.  'You have fifteen
minutes."

Gripped by rising excitement, Brickman choked back a smile that could
have cost him valuable marks, saluted smartly, and went to work on one
of the plotting desks.  He was finished in under ten minutes but spent
the extra time checking his calculations a third and then a fourth
time.

Flying one of six alternative courses, the other cadets in his section,
and the rest of the squadron, would be following him off the ramps at
quarter hourly intervals over the next two days.

From the Chart Room, Brickman was directed towards the North-West ramp;
one of four lying at right-angles to each other in the form of a giant
Maltese Cross.  Reaching the ramp access area, he found a Skyhawk
parked with its nose pointing towards the huge lead-lined doors.  The
delta wing was covered in a metallic blue fabric into which were woven
thousands of solar cells.  Brickman carried out the usual pre-flight
checks, then donned his dark-visored bone dome, strapped himself into
the cockpit, plugged his mike lead into the VHF set, and the umbilical
into the onboard transmitter.  From now until he stepped out of the
cockpit, the data from the sensors taped to his body would be displayed
on a monitor screen in Flight Control and recorded on tape providing an
indelible second-by-second record of his reactions.

The data transmitter was attached to the right-hand side of the cockpit
by his elbow.  Brickman reached across with his left hand and switched
it on.

Flight Control radioed back immediately.  'Easy X-Ray One, your data
link reads A-Okay."

Brickman acknowledged the Ramp Marshal's windup signal and hit the
button.  The electric motor behind his seat whined into life.  Brickman
checked the movement of the control surfaces, then moved forward under
the direction of the Ramp Marshal's batons until the nose of the
Skyhawk was a couple of feet from the innermost ramp door.

With a swishing noise that Brickman barely heard above the thrumming
engine, the fifty foot high wall in front of him slid downwards into
the floor.  Following the orange batons, Brickman taxied over it
towards the double outer doors, stopping on the parallel yellow line.

At this point, the ramp access tunnel was one hundred feet wide, its
sides sloping gently inwards towards the ceiling.  Brickman remembered
from the briefing that the inner pair of doors opened sideways; the
outer pair overlapped horizontally; the larger top section going into
the roof, the lower section into the floor.  This arrangement allowed
the ramp crew to adjust the aperture to the size of the object passing
through it.

Glancing in his rearview mirror, Brickman saw to his surprise that the
huge door behind him had risen noiselessly, cutting him off from the
Federation.

The voice of the controller came over his headset.  'Easy X-Ray One,
this is Ground Control.  Light balance will commence in five seconds.

The doors will open in ten.  Do not attempt to taxi through until you
see the green.  Once you cross the double yellow line, you are clear
for takeoff.

Transmit your callsign when you pass over the red, white and blue
beacon on your return leg.  Over."

'Easy X-Ray One, Roger."  Brickman's voice contained a tremor of
excitement.

'Good luck,' said the voice in his ear.

In the same instant, banks of neon tubes stretching along the walls
from floor to ceiling and across the ceiling itself rippled into life,
creating a glowing tunnel of light that grew progressively brighter
towards the ramp door to match the intensity of the daylight that lay
beyond.

Brickman lowered his visor.  Five seconds later, the twelve foot-thick
inner doors slid apart and the lower section of the outer door sank
level with the ramp presenting Brickman with a fifteen foot high slot
just wide enough for the Skyhawk to pass through.

Nosewheel on the centre line, Brickman taxied out on the green, passing
under the equally massive concrete curtain that formed the top section
of' the outer door.  Rolling clear of its threatening bulk, he paused
on the double yellow line that stretched from wall to wall and took
stock of his surroundings.

He saw that he was in a concrete canyon with sheer, unseamed, fifty
foot high walls.  Ahead of him, the ramp sloped gently upwards.

Brickman knew from his study of the model that the walls which now
enclosed him angled out sharply, tapering down, as the ramp rose in the
shape of a giant fan, to meet the overground.

The canyon was roofed with a flat expanse of brilliant blue.

With a sudden shock of recognition, Brickman realised that he was not
looking at another illuminated ceiling - like those in the Federation's
central plazas - but at the sky.

The ceiling of the world.  'The wild blue yonder' - that heartsurging
phrase from the battle hymn of the Flight Academy that had fired
Brickman's imagination at the age of ten.  Not wrought by concealed
tubes of neon, but filled with a light of dazzling, almost
overpowering, intensity that bounced off the bleached concrete and cast
sharp, rich, dark shadows on the runway beneath the Skyhawk.  The light
of the sun; blazing down upon him so brightly that even his visored
eyes could not bear to look at it directly; its raying heat piercing
his body, making the marrow in his bones tingle with its warmth.

Willing himself to remain calm, Brickman took a deep breath of the
fresh oven-baked air, pushed the throttle wide open and aimed the
Skyhawk up the centreline of the ramp and at the sky beyond.  A wave of
reflected heat floated the lightweight craft into the air
unexpectedly.

Brickman quickly adjusted the Skyhawk's trim.  The enclosing walls fell
away and, as the ramp beneath him shrank into a shimmering slice of
concrete pie, Brickman caught his first glimpse of the overground.

And was engulfed by the vastness of the earth and sky.

For the past sixteen years and fifty-one weeks of Brickman's life, the
most distant object he had gazed upon had never been more than half a
mile away; the highest vaulted space, seven hundred and fifty feet
above his head.

He had seen video pictures of the recently completed John Wayne Plaza
at Grand Central; a marvel of engineering a mile wide and nearly half a
mile high.  But even that was rendered totally insignificant by the
vista that unfolded as the Skyhawk climbed higher.  For now, Brickman
could see for more than a hundred miles.  A mind-blowing, eye-popping,
heart-stopping panorama bounded by an impossibly distant, cloud-flecked
horizon under the fathomless blue bowl of the sky.

Brickman's response to the overground welled up from the innermost
depths of his being.  CFI Carrol had been right.  Nothing in his past
life could have possibly prepared him for this moment.  For years, he
had prided himself on his clinical detachment; his ability to control
his reaction to any situation; investing his words and actions with
exactly the required degree of emotion.  No more, no less.

But not today.

For one brief instant, Brickman let the mask slip; abandoning himself
to the raw sensations that made his scalp tingle and his heart pound;
that left him gasping for breath.  He lay back and let the essence, the
latent power, of the overground flood through his whole being; let its
seductive beauty embrace him (had he known the phrase and understood
its implications) like a long-lost lover.

Was reunited.

Heard voices.

Sensed danger.

Recovered.  Regained control.  Returned his being to the service of the
Federation; purging himself of all feeling; crushing his new found
sense of wonder beneath the iron heel of his Tracker psyche.

Outwardly restored, Brickman throttled back for the climb to altitude,
checked that he was on the correct course heading for the first leg of
his flight, and turned his attention to the land below.

The overground.  The despoiled birthright of the Trackers.  Overrun by
the shadowy, hostile Mutes.  The blue sky world which the First Family,
in the name of the Federation, had vowed to cleanse and repossess.

Brickman consulted his map.  The ramp above the Flight Academy from
which he had taken off was situated some five thousand feet above sea
level, and halfway between two pre-historic sites called Alamogordo and
Holloman AFB.

All that remained of Alamogordo was a few jagged walls sticking up out
of the ground in vague rectilinear patterns among the bright red
trees.

Holloman AFB, below his port wing, consisted of three enormous
overlapping craters partially filled with wind-blown sand.

Brickman turned his attention back to the giant cottonwoods.

Trees ...

Like the distant clouds, they were something else Brickman had only
seen pictures of.

At this point, Brickman's altitude was two and a half thousand feet and
climbing, above terrain that had been described by the Academy's Chart
Officer as 'high plains country'.  Over his right shoulder, beyond the
ramp, Brickman could see the towering summit of the Sierra Blanca, part
of the mountain range barring the way to the east.  Ahead, lay the San
Andreas range which he would cross between Black Top and Saunas Peak.

From here, his course lay in a straight line over the Jornada del
Muerto to the northern end of a large overground reservoir that formed
part of a giant river cutting deep into the bedrock of the land as it
snaked its way south.

The Rio Grande.

Despite all he had been told, Brickman found it hard to accept that
the overground could be as deadly as it was beautiful.  Yet he could
not deny the first-hand evidence provided by his guard-father who, as a
wingman, had put in a double-six up the line and was now a shrunken
shadow in a wheelchair; his body ravaged by the all-consuming sickness
that lay in wait for all those who survived the allotted number of
overground tours of duty.

The sky above, the land below, the crisp fresh air that now filled his
lungs, was charged with lethal radiation that, even on this first
sortie, had already begun its silent attack on his own unshielded
body.

Every square inch of ground, every cubic inch of sky harboured the kiss
of death.

It was this ever-present danger, lying across the world like an
invisible funeral shroud, which had caused the subterranean birth of
the Federation; had kept it, for nearly a thousand years, from assuming
its rightful place in the sun.  Anti-radiation top-suits did exist but
they were ungainly garments that were scorned by Trail-Blazers who,
like the pre-Holocaust American Green Berets and British Paras,
regarded themselves as lite shock-troops; the cream of Amtrak.  The
standard-issue closed helmet with its air filtration system and 'flak'
jacket were considered an acceptable form of protection; anti-radiation
top-suits did not even form part of a wagon train's inventory.  The
refusal to wear them was viewed by Grand Central not as a breach of
discipline, but as proof of the Blazer's readiness to die for the
Federation.

The cross-country course Brickman had been given to fly was in the
shape of a roughly equilateral triangle, and covered a total distance
of two hundred and twenty-five miles.  The first seventy-five mile leg
was angled northwest to the head of the Elephant Butte Reservoir; the
second almost due south, running parallel to the Rio Grande and
crossing it at another prehistoric ruin bearing the name of Hatch to
reach the peak of the Sierra de Las Uvas.  The return leg ran E.N.E,
skirting the eight thousand foot peak that marked the high point of the
San Andreas mountains, then across the dazzling, desolate expanse of
White Sands and back to the ramp.

Aware that the Adjudicators might possess the means to monitor his
flight pattern, Brickman flew a perfect course at he required cruising
altitude of eight thousand feet, at a ground speed of seventy-five
miles an hour.  He searched the sky around him but could see no sign of
any other craft.

Once clear of the mountains, he began losing altitude for his final
approach.  Ahead of him, he could see the thousand foot high,
pencil-slim red, white and blue striped beacon balanced on its point as
if by magic.  Below him, the white sand, wind-shaped into curving
lines, stretched away on all sides like a vast frozen sea.

The sea ...

Brickman had heard about it, but had never seen pictures of it.  He
only knew that it lay beyond the southern horizon.

He fought down a mad impulse to break away in search of it and
continued his slow descent towards the SouthWest ramp.  When he was
some two miles from touchdown, he saw a tiny, triangular speck of blue
rise from the takeoff ramp, becoming a flash of silver as it banked
round and caught the sun.  High in the sky to the south-east hung
another micro-dot.  Someone else on their way back in.

Brickman throttled right back and drifted down through the warm air
with the tranquil ease of a seabird, putting all three wheels on
the'ramp three hours after takeoff; matching - to the second - the
estimated time he had filed with Overground Flight Control.

A final, flawless performance.

As he taxied down the ramp, the converging walls seemed to leap
upwards, cutting him off from the overground; hemming him in;
suffocating him.  Within seconds, all that remained of the sky world
was a flat slab of blue visible through the clearview wing panels above
the cockpit.

The ramp doors slid open noiselessly as the Skyhawk reached the double
yellow line.  The green light signalled he was clear to taxi in.

Brickman knew that the brightly-lit tunnel beyond represented safety;
offered total protection against the dangers of the overground yet he
found himself momentarily paralysed; gripped by an inexplicable fear.

A fear of being buried alive.

With an involuntary movement, he hit the brake pedal, holding the
Skyhawk's nose on the double yellow line.  One, two, three, four, five
seconds.  Six, seven A warning klaxon blared harshly.  The controller's
voice spoke quietly into his ear.  'Clear the ramp, Easy X-Ray One."

The voice paused then added, 'Your data line is down but we have no
malfunction signal.  Check system, over."

Brickman moved his right arm back and glanced down at the data
transmitter to which his body was wired.  A chill shiver ran through
him.  It was switched off!  Somehow he must have unwittingly knocked it
with his elbow.  Oh, Christopher Columbus!  How could he have done such
a stupid thing?  And When?  I He quickly flipped the switch back into
the 'on' position and berated himself silently.  Oh, shit, shit, and
triple shit.  You bonehead!  You've blown it!

The bland, disembodied voice of Ground Control cut across his mental
confusion.  'Okay, we have your data.  Roll it in, Easy X-Ray One."

Willing an inner and outward calm upon his body, Brickman eased his
foot off the brakes and taxied in under the raised section of the outer
door.  As soon as he was inside, the lower section rose with a barely
audible hiss and the inner doors slid out of the walls.  As the bright
rectangle of daylight in his rearview mirror shrank rapidly and
disappeared behind the overlapping curtains of concrete, Brickman did
his best to bury the strange, troubling feelings that had assailed him
during the flight.  Dangerous, treacherous sensations that he could not
put into words; that would be better forgotten but which he knew would
haunt him for the rest of his life.

What Brickman had experienced was a sense of freedom.

His inability to perceive this, or to put a name to it, was perfectly
understandable.  The word 'freedom' did not appear in the Federation's
dictionary.  It was, of course, known to the highest ranks of the First
Family but officially, the concept did not exist.

CFI Carrol waved the senior classmen back into their seats and took his
place at the lectern.  The six assistant FI's led by Mr Triggs lined up
against the wall behind him.

'It's been a long haul,' said Carrol, 'but we've come to the end of the
line.  After home-base leave, you'll be shipping out on your first unit
assignments.  Between then and now you're going to be busy drilling for
the big anniversary parade so, as this is probably my last opportunity
to address you as a group, I thought I'd mark the occasion with a few
farewell words."

Carrol paused and let his eyes range slowly over the seated cadets.

'I've seen the results ' The senior year reacted with a rustle of
excitement.

Carrol held up a hand.  'Hold it.  The marks and places will be
screened as scheduled tomorrow.  However, what i can tell you is that
there are no wipeouts, and no retreads."

The news was received with total silence.

Carrol shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe it and turned to
the AFI's.  'Amazing.  None of them look at all surprised."

The three hundred cadets, over a third of them girls, broke into
laughter.  They all knew no one would be choked for airing their teeth
today.  Not by Carrol, anyway.

'I know what you're thinking,' continued Carrol.  ' "Here it comes.

The CFI's standard address to every graduation class."  Not so.  I have
to tell you that three years ago when you joined the Academy, we
thought we'd been landed with a bunch of red-heads but - you all did
well.  Some better than others."  His eyes rested briefly on
Brickman.

'In fact, all of you turned in such terrific grades, the average
pass-mark is the highest ever in the Academy's history."

The class of 2989 gave themselves a congratulatory cheer.

The six AFI's allowed themselves an impassive smile.

Carrol gestured soberly for silence.  'Yes, I suppose I should
congratulate you but, the truth is, you people have just made life more
difficult for the rest of us.  Because now, Grand Central are going to
expect us to do even better next year."  Carrol looked over both
shoulders at the AFI's.

'Which means, gentlemen, that, as from tomorrow, you and I are going to
have to kick ass."

The six AFI's responded with mock resignation.  'We could always put in
for promotion,' said Triggs.

Carrol cocked a finger at the senior All.  'Good thinking."

He turned back to the class, placed his hands purposefully on the upper
corners of the lectern and cleared his throat.

The class of 2989 straightened their backs and faces.

'Okay.  Hear this.  In a few days you'll have a badge pinned to your
chest.  You'll be wingmen.  The frontline force of the Amtrak
Federation.  It's a great moment.  Savour it.  But don't think that
life's going to get easier, that the hard work is over.  You have
another twelve months operational training ahead of you when you join
your wagon trains.  And if you're smart, it won't stop when you swap
your silver badge for a gold.  You'll go on learning.  Because it's the
only way to become a better flier.  Always remember that when the chips
are down and you're fresh out of luck, it's the hot pilots that make it
back to base."  Carrol paused and ran his eyes along the rows of
bright, eager young faces, his mouth tightening with a hint of
regret.

'Who knows?  If you don't power down, or pull a trick, some of you
could even end up making speeches to classes like this."

His audience greeted this with a dry, ragged laugh.  To 'power down'
was Trail-Blazer jargon for a crash in hostile territory - usually with
fatal results; like 'buying a farm' or 'going into the meat business',
for it was well known that Mutes ate any prisoners they caught alive.

To 'pull a trick' was another euphemism for death - from what the
Federation medical establishment had labelled a TRIC: a Terminal
Radiation-Induced Cancer.

Most of the wingmen on the Academy's Roll of Honour had powered down,
or pulled a trick.  Usually before they reached the ripe old age of
thirty.  Carrol knew that at least haft of the young faces now fixed on
his would never see the sun rise on their twenty-first birthday.  His
audience knew it too.  And didn't give a damn.  Every year, the Academy
was swamped with thousands of applications for the three hundred places
available for Squabs - the derisive name applied to first-year
cadets.

That - according to the Manual - was the great strength of the Amtrak
Federation.  The raw courage and dedication of the Trackers.  Two of
the Seven Great Qualities possessed by the founders of Amtrak.  The
Foragers and the Minutemen.  Qualities now enshrined in the First
Family and the members of the two lite companies that bore their
name.

'They died so that others might live."  The message was emblazoned on
wall surfaces throughout the Federation and every Tracker was
encouraged, from birth, to emulate their example.

Without question.

When the examination results were screened, Brickman found to his
amazement that, after three years of dedicated, relentless effort, he
had been placed fourth with 188 points, behind Pete Vandenberg, from
Condor Squadron, the cadet Brickman had judged most likely to come a
poor second to his brilliant first.  That was bad enough but there was
worse to come.  Gus White, a wingman in the same flight as Steve, who
had not even figured in his calculations had landed in the No.  2 slot,
ahead of Vandenberg by one point at 190; Donna Monroe Lundkwist,
another cadet from Eagle Squadron who Steve had thought might make the
first ten had come top of the heap with a score of 192, and had been
nominated as Honour Cadet; winner of the prized Minuteman Trophy.

Brushing aside the congratulations of other A-Flight cadets in the
crowd milling excitedly around the screens, Brickman retired to his
shack, wedged the door shut, and spent two silent, solitary hours
trying to come to terms with what had happened.  He went over every
move he had made in each of the tests and could find nothing that could
have cost him marks.  His one error had been that fatal hesitation on
the ramp after landing but he could simply not believe that those seven
seconds had cost him not only the first place he was convinced he
deserved but also second and third.

And to find himself trailing fourth behind a no-hoper like Gus White
who had not even been close in the monthly class tests!  It just didn't
add up ...

Admittedly there had been the additional problem of the three minute
break in the transmission of data from the sensors taped to his body
but he had talked this through exhaustively with the Adjudicators and
Ground Control after landing and they had accepted that the switch
could have been moved inadvertently.  The data transmitter was not
fitted to Skyhawks when used operationally and during his discussion
with the Adjudicators they had admitted that it was positioned
awkwardly.  But despite their apparent understanding he had been
savagely penalised.

No matter.  One day, he would even the score.  With Lundkwist, with Gus
White, Carrol, the Flight Adjudicators and the others - as yet unknown
- who had conspired to humiliate him.  They would all pay.  It might
take years but that would only make his revenge all the sweeter.

The decision did nothing to assuage his bitter disappointment but it
filled his breast with a harsh, cold joy.  It enabled him to think
clearly, to function.

Rising from his bunk, Brickman showered, put on a fresh, neatly pressed
jump-suit, then sought out Lundkwist and Gus White amidst the raucous
celebration party in the mess and offered his congratulations; hugging
each of them in turn with heart-warming sincerity.

Faced with the astonishing results, CFI Carrol felt obliged to
commiserate with his star pupil.  Brickman put on an outward show of
philosophical resignation but Carrol knew that he felt himself to be
the victim of a blatant injustice.

Inwardly, Brickman was suffering.  And would continue to suffer.

Which, in so far as Carrol could understand these things, was how those
who ordered the affairs of the Federation wished it to be.  For, in
addition to their luggage, the Adjudicators from Grand Central had
brought floppy-disc files on all the candidates.  No one at the Academy
had been allowed to see what they contained but, in an unguarded
moment, Carrol had glimpsed an enigmatic notation on the cover of
Brickman's electronic dossier.

It read: 'This candidate is to be marked down'.

THREE

Armed with a crossbow and a handful of the precious iron bolts
fashioned in the Fire-Pits of Beth-Leto, Cadillac and Clearwater made
their way down to the grassy plain below the settlement.  Clearwater
was the sixteen-year-old girl chosen by the clan elders to be his
soul-mate.  They had not yet crossed wrists or exchanged the blood kiss
but since the Yellowing of the Old Earth they had lain together, skin
against skin, under his furs at each black moon - what was known to the
Plainfolk as 'sleeping between the wolf and the bear'.

Underneath the swirling pattern of black, brown and dark cream pigment,
Clearwater's body was smooth skinned, like Cadillac's.  Her jaw was
small, her teeth evenly set and concealed by her lips; her long hair
was streaked with yellow and brown like the leaves blown from the trees
before the White Death; her eyes were a brilliant pale blue like the
morning sky that poured light into the lakes and streams, bringing them
to life and making them good to drink.  Hence her given name of
Clearwater, blood-daughter of Sun-dance and Thunderbird, a great
warrior who filled ten head-poles before falling at the battle of the
Black Hills.  She was tall and straight-limbed like Cadillac, swift as
an eagle, strong as a mountain-lion, and her heart was warm and filled
with goodness, like the Middle Earth at the time of the Gathering.

Cadillac and Clearwater journeyed eastwards through the shoulder-high
orange grass until the mountain which rose behind the M'Call settlement
was no wider than the fingers of their outstretched hand.  As the sun
reached the head of the sky, they drank from a shallow, swift-running
river and rested for a while in the cool shade of a large rock.  The
water rippled over worn pebble beds with a slapping noise like women
throwing flat-bread at a clanbake.

Cadillac climbed up onto the rock and cautiously scanned the ground
beyond the river.  The grass was shorter on the far side and in the
distance, he saw the tell-tale flash of white hindquarters that
indicated a herd of fast-foot; sharp-eyed reddish-brown deer that could
outrun a mountain lion.

They would require careful stalking but if he could bring down one of
the horned males it would be a highly prized catch that would give him
standing with the Bears - and might even earn him a fire song.

Cadillac slithered quickly down the rock to where Clearwater lay curled
in its shadow.  He touched her shoulder.  'Fast-foot."  He pointed
across the river then picked up his crossbow and cranked the lever that
drew the bowstring onto the half-trigger.

Clearwater sat up and smoothed her boned and ribboned rat-tail plaits
into place around her ears.  'How far?"

'Two bolts,' grunted Cadillac.  Even with the aid of the lever, it
required considerable strength to pull the bowstring back to the
half-way position.

A bolt was one of the methods used by Mutes to judge distances and was,
as the name suggests, the distance a bolt travelled when fired from a
fully-cocked crossbow.  Since the maximum range could vary considerably
it was a somewhat imprecise measurement but, on average, one bolt
equalled a little under four fifths of a mile.

Clearwater climbed swiftly up onto the overhanging rock and searched
the plain beyond the river.  'I see them."  She clambered halfway down
then jumped, landing gracefully at Cadillac's feet.  'Let us wait
here.

They will come to the river at sundown."

'Are we old ones?"  said Cadillac.  'Must we sit and wait until someone
puts meat in our lap?  She-ehh!"  He breathed out sharply, making a
short hissing sound - a sign, among Mutes, of annoyance.  He turned
away, and moved to the water's edge.

Clearwater caught hold of his wrist.  'We should not cross the river.

The water marks the edge of our turf.  If you would bring food, let us
take fish."

Cadillac jerked his arm free.  'Fish!?  Where is the standing in
that!

?"

'You have standing,' said Clearwater.  'You are the one who will speak
for us after Mr Snow has gone to the High Ground.  You have no need to
hunt, or run with the Bears.

That is the task of those born without pictures on their tongues."

'Need ... She-eeh!  What do you know of my needs?"  said Cadillac.  He
laid a fist on his heart.  'I would be as they are.

Oh, I know I cannot be like my brothers in the strength and shape of my
body.  Like you, I was made from a different clay.  But my heart is as
strong and as brave as theirs.  I paint pictures with my tongue, yes
but the colours are those of the brave.  The flashing silver of sharp
iron, the blood red of victory.  The history of the M'Call clan and the
Plainfolk is the history of its warriors.  The tales I tell are of
battles won by Bears with Names of Power ' 'You, too, have a Name of
Power ' 'It is empty.  I have no standing.  My tongue is full of brave
deeds but my knife-arm has never drawn blood.  How many fire songs will
bear my name when I go to the High Ground?"

Clearwater's eyes blazed with anger.  'Is that all that fills your
mind?  To be puffed up by praise - like a marsh frog with a throat full
of wind?  How many times must it be said?  You were born in the shadow
of the Talisman.  It fell upon you!  Not upon Motor-Head, Hawkwind,
Steel-Eye or Convoy or the other Bears you long to run with, but you!

When the Sky Voices call you to the service of Talisman, you will have
to be braver than the bravest of your clan-brothers.

More fearless than my father.  Mightier than the mightiest warriors who
have gone to the High Ground.

When that moment comes you will stand at the side of Talisman, and
there will be a thousand fire songs that bear your name?

'But when will that be?"  asked Cadillac.

'Who can tell when, or how, Talisman will enter the world?"  replied
Clearwater.  'You must wait as we all wait.

But you must prepare your heart and mind.  You must listen to the
sky."

'I listen.  But I hear nothing.  The Sky Voices do not speak through
me."

Clearwater tossed her head.  'She-ehh!  You anger me when you talk as
if you had nothing between your ears.  How many times has Mr Snow
spoken of these things?  You must hold yourself ready for whatever task
is to be given to you."

'I am ready,' said Cadillac.  'But I am sick of waiting."  He broke
away and splashed across the pebbled bed of the river.

Even at the deepest point, the rippling water barely covered his
knees.

Clearwater sighed, shook her head - and waded after him.

She caught up with him as he reached the far bank.

'Cadillac - stop.  This is not our turf.  You swore to Mr Snow to keep
within bounds - to never put the gift of words in danger."

Cadillac laughed.  'Where is the danger in a herd of fast-foot?

Did you not say I was born in the shadow of the Talisman?  If it is
true, then his shadow will protect us.

Come..."

The young fast-foot males were scattered around the edge of the herd on
picket duty, alternately grazing and nosing the air, their long necks
arched, white-rimmed eyes sweeping across the kne-high grass.  With the
sun beginning to descend towards the mountains, the fast-foot were
slowly moving closer to the river where they would gather in the cool
of the evening to drink at the water's edge - unless a careless
movement by Cadillac or Clearwater stampeded them in the opposite
direction.

Clearwater was tempted to make such a move but she knew that Cadillac
was determined to bring one down.

There was no point in making it more difficult.  She understood his
feelings.  'Standing', being able to 'cut it', was of paramount
importance within a Mute clan, and crucial to the self-respect of a
young male reaching the age of fourteen - the age when he became a
warrior.  But as the next wordsmith of the M'calls, Cadillac had no
need of standing.

The gift the Sky Voices had given him set him apart from the rest of
the clan, and when he took Mr Snow's place, even the clan elders would
seek his advice, would defer to his opinions and judgement.  Wordsmiths
did not need the raw, hot-blooded courage of Bears.  They needed to be
calm, resolute.  Cadillac could be both but, at other times, he burned
with a child-like impatience that made Clearwater doubt the wisdom of
the Sky-Voices that spoke through Mr Snow; the all-seeing, all-knowing
powers that guided the destiny of the Plainfolk.  When they had poured
her spirit into the belly of $undance, her mother, and shaped the
course of her life-stream to flow alongside that of Cadillac, did they
really know how difficult he could be ... ?

Moving downwind, Cadillac found a dry, shallow gully which snaked away
into the plain towards the centre of the herd where the capo - the
dominant male - grazed, surrounded by his retinue of a dozen or so
females.  Cadillac carefully parted the long grass and counted the
branches on the capo's horns.  Ten points.  No Bear in the M'Cail clan
had brought in a fast-foot with more points in the lifetime of Mr snow
now.  To bring down this capo would give him great standing in the eyes
of his clan-brothers.

Squatting in the bottom of the gully, Cadillac and Clearwater cut tufts
of the long orange grass and quickly wove them together to make a tall
crown for their heads and a cape to cover their shoulders and backs.

They tied the capes around their necks and waists with plaited ribbons
of grass and put the tight-fitting crowns with their waving plumes of
grass on their heads, arranging the strands that made up the deep
fringe around their faces.  Using their hunting knives, they unearthed
a layer of damp clay which they smeared over their bodies to mask the
smell of their flesh.  Thus prepared, they crawled along the gully,
working their way deeper into the heart of the plain, cautiously
raising their heads from time to time to check the position of the
capo.

He was still in the centre of the herd, but masked from attack by the
does in his mating group.  Twice, as they crept closer, young fast-foot
males leapt across the gully only yards ahead of them to continue
feeding on the other side.

Hardly daring to breathe, Cadillac and Clearwater inched along.  The
gully became shallower, forcing them to worm along on their bellies to
avoid showing themselves above the rim.  The carpet of knee-high grass
had broken up into scattered tufts, interspersed with short, sweeter,
red grass on which the fast-foot were grazing.

The gully angled sharply to the left around a large outcrop

of rock, taking them away from the capo.  Cadillac led the way round
the bend and froze.  A few yards away, the earth had been gouged out
from under a rock by the flood waters in the rainy season.  A big
rattle-tailed snake lay coiled in the shadow of the overhang.

Adopting the almost imperceptible movements of a stick insect, Cadillac
peered over the edge of the gully.  There was no long grass within
reach.  Three fast-foot were grazing some twenty to thirty yards away,
tails lazily flicking flies from the long heart-shaped white flash on
their hindquarters.

One of them raised her head and looked over her shoulder towards
Cadillac, her jaw moving from side to side in a casual, ruminative
manner.  As Cadillac held his breath, she tossed her head sharply in a
vain effort to drive away the flies hovering round her eyes then
stepped forward to crop a new stretch of grass.

Cadillac sank slowly back into the gully and saw that Clearwater had
been checking the other side.  She pointed towards the sleeping
rattler, indicating that Cadillac should go past him.

'What if he wakes?"  hissed Cadillac.

Clearwater smiled.  'You shall have a frae fire song telling how
bravely you died.  Go -' she whispered.  'He will not wake until we are
ready.  We will send him to the capo."

Brave as he believed himself to be, Cadillac had an unreasoning fear of
snakes.  But to have any standing at all, if it had to be killed, he
would have to kill it.  He regretted bringing Clearwater with him.  He
had done so to have an eyewitness of his hunting prowess.  Now he would
have to be brave.  He took out his hunting knife, placed it between his
teeth and, pushing the crossbow ahead of him, he edged forward gingerly
with his back pressed against the right-hand slope of the gully.

Taking the knife-sticks from her belt, Clearwater inserted the tapered
end of the first into the hollow handle of her knife and twisted the
second into the tube of rolled hide that was bound to the end of the
first - transforming her hunting knife into a spear with a strong
four-foot shaft.  She moved forward, knife-stick raised, poised on one
knee ready to skewer the rattler at the first sign of danger.

As Cadillac eased his chest past the snake he saw to his horror that
its black beady eyes were open.  He froze momentarily as the forked
tongue began darting in and out less than two feet from his stomach,
then willed himself forward, wriggling past with the minimum of
movement.

His heart was pounding as he drew clear and turned on his tormentor.

Hurriedly assembling his own knife-stick, he aimed the trembling blade
at the coiled bulk of the snake.

Clearwater reversed her knife-stick and gently prodded the rattler with
the butt of the shaft.  The rattler stirred, uncoiled the top half of
its body and hissed angrily.

Clearwater's eyes fixed on the snake with an unwavering, hypnotic
stare.  Cadillac jabbed the point of his knife-stick against the
rattler's throat as it flicked its head towards him, jaws open, then
both recoiled simultaneously.  The bones on its tailed rustled
ominously.  Uncoiling the rest of its six-foot length, the rattler
tried to slither up around the rock under which it had been sleeping.

Clearwater quickly drove it back.  Caught between the two prodding
knife-sticks the rattler took the Only avenue of escape, rig-ragging
out of the shadows onto the sunlit side of the gully and up over the
edge into the short grass.

Cadillac took a tenative peek over the top.  'Where has it gone?"

'Towards the capo,' whispered Clearwater.  Holding the knife-stick in
her two hands, she rested her elbows on the edge of the gully, pointed
the knife blade towards the capo, put the butt of the shaft against her
forehead and closed her eyes.

'What are you doing?"  whispered Cadillac.

'Don't talk,' she hissed, closing her eyes even tighter.

'Load your crossbow and aim for the capo."

Cadillac slithered quickly along the gully, pushed the camouflaged
crossbow over the edge and wormed his way into a patch of long grass.

Reaching into the bag at his belt, he took out one of the barbed, ten
inch-long bolts and placed it against the taut bowstring, with one of
its four vanes in the slot cut in the barrel of the bow.  He parted the
grass cautiously.  The capo with its prized ten-point horns was about
two hundred yards away.  Well within the range of a Mute crossbow but
a difficult shot for a relatively untrained marksman like Cadillac.  He
rubbed his palms in the earth to wipe off the sweat.

The female fast-foot masking the capo started nervously and skittered
sideways as the rattler reached them.  The capo backed away, stamping
its right foreleg, nosing the ground, then tossing its great horns in
the air.  Cadillac came up on one knee and brought the crossbow hard
into his shoulder, the elbow of his left arm locked against his raised
thigh, hand supporting the barrel of the bow rock-steady.  He sighted
along the upright vane of the bolt, aiming at the chest of the capo,
allowing for the distance the bolt would drop on its way to the
target.

The big fast-foot lunged forward, caught the rattler on the forward
points of its horns and tossed it high into the air.  As the powerful
neck arched backwards, Cadillac fired at the base of the white
throat.

The capo staggered under the force of the impact, mouth open to the
sky, emitted a brief deep-throated roar of pain and alarm, staggered,
fell to its knees then toppled sideways, hitting the ground with a
great thud.

Cadillac leapt to his feet with a whooping cry of triumph as the rest
of the herd bounded away eastwards across the plain; the young males,
who had crossed the gully behind them, jinking crazily as they
passed.

Clearwater scrambled out of the gully carrying their knife-sticks.

Cadillac danced around her gleefully as she ran towards the fallen
capo.  'Did you ever see such a fine head?  Or such a fine shot?"

Clearwater knelt and examined the fast-foot as Cadillac strutted round
it, his face glowing with excitement.  The body of the deer quivered
spasmodically as the nervous system responded to the last confused
signals of the dying brain.

'Where did you aim?"  asked Clearwater.

'For the heart,' replied Cadillac.  'Where the throat joins the
chest."

He knelt beside the dead animal and ran his hand down its neck.  He
felt blood run between his fingers.  'See here - you can feel the end
of my shaft."

Clearwater nodded gravely then lifted her hand from the side of the
capo.  'Then whose bolt is this?"

Cadillac's mouth dropped open as he saw the vanes of a crossbow bolt
sticking out of the capo's chest just behind the right foreleg.  He
pulled his knife from its stick-shaft and cut the bolt out of the dead
buck.  Clearwater wiped the blood away with a handful of grass.  The
pattern scored on the shaft in front of the vanes were not those of the
M'Call clan.

'What is this, brothers?"  said a mocking voice.  'A coyote and a fox
that feeds off the meat of lions?"

Cadillac's and Clearwater's hearts faltered momentarily as four unknown
Mute warriors rose from the grass around them.  One of them who, to
guess by his adornments, was the gang-leader, carried a crossbow; the
others were armed with knife-sticks and stone flails.  The strangers
wore helmet masks of hardened buffalo hide onto which were sewn bones
and coloured pebbles.  They had stone-studded leather cuffs on their
forearms, and their patterned bodies were shielded with similar thigh,
chest and shoulder plates, hung with feathers and bones that had been
dipped in blood.

Cadillac and Clearwater rose slowly to their feet as the four Mutes
took a menacing step forward.  Cadillac slipped his knife into the
sheath tied to his waistbelt and turned to face the heavily-built
gang-leader.  The Mute tossed his crossbow to the warrior on his
right.

Cadillac offered the bolt to the gang-leader on his outstretched
palm.

'I am Cadillac, of the clan M'CalI, from the bloodline of the
She-Kargo, first-born of the Plainfolk.  We have stalked this fast-foot
since the sun was at the head of the sky.  The bolt I fired lies in its
heart."  He gestured to the dead capo.  'Cut it free and you will see I
speak the truth.

Yours was aimed too high to kill."  He tossed the bolt towards the Mute
- who snatched it out of the air with an angry gesture.

Clearwater's heart quailed at Cadillac's recklessness.

One of the other warriors knelt and examined the wound in the breast of
the dead buck.  He nodded to his leader as if to confirm Cadillac's
claim.

'It does not matter,' said the gang-leader.  'I fired first.  It is our
meat."

Cadillac flushed angrily.  'He was already dead when your bolt
struck!"

He tapped his chest.  'I made the kill!"  The gang-leader filled his
deep chest, flexed his shoulders and treated Cadillac to a mocking
smile.  'You have a big mouth, coyote.  But your tail will soon be
between your legs."

Cadillac stood his ground.  'A coyote does not fear the cawing of
carrion crows with no name."

The gang-leader swaggered forward until his nose was almost touching
Cadillac's and folded his arms - a gesture indicating his total
indifference to any possible danger from his opponent.  'Listen well,
coyote - while you still have ears.

I am Shakatak, of the Clan D'Vine, from the bloodline of the D'Troit,
mightiest of the Plainfolk."  He indicated his companions.  'These are
my brother Lion-Hearts Torpedo, Cannonball and Freeway.  We have chewed
bone, coyote.  A full head-pole marks the door to our pad.  Your skull
will sit well upon the second."

His three companions laughed, and mocked Cadillac by yelping like
frightened coyotes.

Clearwater moved to Cadillac's side and addressed Shakatak without any
sign of fear.  'By what right do you take the life of a soul-brother?

Are we not all of the Plainfolk?  Do we not breathe the same air?  Let
us divide the fast-foot between us and share the triumph of the
kill."

Shakatak uncrossed his arms, holding his fists clenched against his
thighs.  'The D'Troit are not soul-brothers of the She-Kargo."  He spat
on the ground in front of them.  'Your name is dirt in our mouth.  We
share nothing with those who invade our turf and steal the meat from
our knives."

Clearwater could not restrain her anger at the insult.

'This is no-man's land!  Your clan have put down no markers I' Shakatak
flung out his left arm towards Cannonball and snapped his fingers.

Cannonball reached down into the grass and picked up a claim stick - an
eight-foot pole hung with feathers, and plaques of sculptured wood
coloured with dyes that Mute clans used to mark the boundaries of their
turL Grasping the long pole with two hands, Cannonball lifted it high
into the air and drove the point deep into the ground.

'We have now,' growled Shakatak.  He turned to Cadillac.

'So, coyote - if you would take meat back to the stinking yellow cubs
you call clan-brothers, you will have to show me how sharp your teeth
are."

Cadillac stepped in front of Clearwater.  'Sharp enough to tear your
liver out,' he snarled.

Shakatak smiled.  'Hot words, coyote.  Does your knife speak as
boldly?"  He pulled out his long blade and sprang back, dropping into
the crouching, wide-legged stance of a knife-fighter.

Cadillac fumbled for his blade and stepped back, adopting the same
fighting pose.  His throat was dry.  He had fought mock duels, wrestled
and undergone trials of strength with his clan-brothers; his body was
lithe and well-mus.cled, his reflexes sharp, his mind alert, but up to
this moment, he had never faced anything more lethal than a sheathed
blade.  Now he found himself staring at a weaving eight-inch blade with
a vicious, dished top cutting edge and suddenly realised that he was
about to get himself killed very painfully.  He imagined Shakatak's
blade sinking into his groin and ripping upwards through his bowels.

His stomach became a ball of ice; the skin on the back of his neck
quivered.  If only he had stayed on the far side of the river.  If only
Once again Clearwater moved between them, thrusting a raised hand at
the fearsome Shakatak.  'Put up your blade!

There is no standing in this fight.  This is not a warrior you seek to
kill, but a wordsmith!"  Shakatak paused, clearly surprised by the
news.

'Are the Lion-Hearts of the D'Vine so weak that they must hunt down
those who have not chewed bone?"

Clearwater laughed, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.

'That would make a fine fire song!"  Shakatak growled angrily and
looked at his companions, uncertain of his next move.  Before he could
reply, Cadillac hurled Clearwater aside and slashed the air in front of
Shakatak's face with his knife.  'Even a wordsmith who has not chewed
bone is worth ten warriors from a clan like the D'Vine whose name is
dirt, and whose bravery can be recounted without the taking of a single
breath!"  He spat on the ground at Shakatak's feet.

Shakatak's eyes almost popped out of his head with rage.

He bared his teeth and jabbed a blunt forefinger at Cadillac.

'You are going to eat those words, coyote - along with your scrawny
little nut-bag.  Torpedo!  Draw the circle!"  Cannonball and Freeway
grabbed Clearwater by the neck and arms and dragged her to one side.

Torpedo put down Shakatak's crossbow, reversed his knife-stick and
quickly drew a fifteen-foot circle in the earth around Shakatak and
Cadillac.

Shakatak indicated the circle.  'Each time you step over that line,
Torpedo will take a slice off the fox.  Do you understand?"

Cadillac replied by making another slash at the air in front of
Shakatak's face.  Torpedo threw his knife-stick aside and helped pinion
Clearwater by the arms.

'Cut him slow?  yelled Freeway.

'Don't worry,' gloated Shakatak.  'I'm going to unpick this mother one
stitch at a time.  I'll leave his eyes till last so he can watch us
grease the tail of that fox -' His knife flashed from his right to his
left hand with frightening rapidity and slashed forward under
Cadillac's guard, slicing along Cadillac's rib cage with surgical
precision.

Clearwater's scream was choked off by Cannonball's hands on her mouth
and throat.

A spasm of pain shot up through Cadillac's chest as the blood welled
out of the wound in his side.  Shakatak's knife flicked forward again,
this time in his right hand, slashing open the skin on the other side
of Cadillac's ribs.  They were the first two strokes in the ritual of
wounding and dismemberment in single-handed fights to the death.

Cadillac had seen the pattern on the bodies of his clan-brothers and
marauding Mutes.  Next would come the cuts on the shoulders and upper
arms, weakening the opponent's knife thrusts.  The deep jabs into the
thighs would be followed by the cheek slashes, then the forehead
stroke, causing blood to pour into the eyes, the second horizontal
slice, across the belly, the upwards rip through the groin and then if
you were lucky - the plunging thrust into and across the throat that
preceded the severing of the head.

Those that were unlucky suffered further mutilation before choking to
death on their severed genitals.

Cadillac's terrifying vision of what lay ahead lent wings to his feet
as he bobbed and weaved around Shakatak.  He could not run, could not
abandon Clearwater, yet knew that if, by some miracle, he managed to
defeat Shakatak, his brother Lion-Hearts would take his place, either
singly or together.  He was going to die!  It was unthinkable that he
should but there was no way to escape.  He leapt backwards as
Shakatak's blade scythed through the air less than an inch from his
navel.

Shakatak's knife thrusts were terrifyingly fast but because of his
heavier body, he was slower on his feet.  After the two opening cuts on
his ribs, Cadillac's natural agility had kept him out of serious
trouble but this merely offered a temporary respite; it was no
solution.  He could not dance beyond the range of Shakatak's blade for
ever.  He had to find some way to get under his guard and inflict a
short, sharp disabling thrust.  But how?

Cadillac sidestepped as Shakatak lunged forward and ran behind him to
the far side of the circle where he stooped down and scooped up a
handful of dirt and pebbles.

Shakatak turned, his face creased with a knowing smile.  As Cadillac
advanced towards him warily, Shakatak flung out his arm towards the
three Mutes who held Clearwater, and snapped his fingers.  Holding onto
the struggling Clearwater with one hand, Torpedo unfastened the stone
flail looped through his belt and lobbed it towards Shakatak's
outstretched hand.  As his arm came up, Clearwater kicked at it
desperately, causing the flail to fall between Shakatak and Cadillac.

Shakatak stepped forward, switched his knife into his right hand, fixed
Cadillac with his glittering eyes and bent to pick up the flail.

Cadillac knew it was his one and only chance.  Hurling the handful of
dirt at S hakatak's face, he threw himself sideways into the air above
Shakatak's knife hand with a tremendous yell and kicked out at
Shakatak's head with both feet.  His heels connected with a force born
of desperation.  The knife flew from Shakatak's hand as his neck
snapped sideways.

Cadillac felt a terrible jarring pain as his feet slammed into the
stone-covered helmet.  There was a fleeting instant when time seemed to
suddenly stand still and he found himself praying he had not broken
his ankles - then Shakatak crashed to the ground with Cadillac
sprawling on top of him.

Cadillac kicked out wildly at Shakatak's face, knocking off his
helmet-mask at the same time as he stabbed viciously at the thick,
strongly-muscled legs that thrashed around his own head.  Shakatak
roared with pain like a crippled bull-buffalo.

Twisting round, Cadillac scrambled to his knees, fumbling to change his
grip on the bloodstained knife so that he could plunge it deep into
Shakatak's throat, or between the stone and leather chest plates
protecting his heart.

Before he could strike, Shakatak rolled into him then jerked upright,
his left hand flashing out to grasp Cadillac's wrist, staying the
knife.  Seemingly oblivious of any pain, or the blood pouring from the
deep slashes in his leg muscles, Shakatak smashed his right forearm,
with its leather and stone cuff against Cadillac's throat, knocking him
backwards onto the ground, haft-dazed and choking for breath.

Cadillac tried to roll aside.  Too late.  Shakatak still held his wrist
in a grip of iron.  Kicking out with his right heel, he hit both of
Cadillac's thighs with paralysing blows then threw his whole weight
upon him.  Cadillac squirmed wildly, arcing his body like a speared
fish, clawing at Shakatak's eyes but in a matter of seconds, Shakatak
was sitting astride his chest, with his knees pinning Cadillac's arms
to the ground, and with Cadillac's knife in his hand.

Shakatak grabbed Cadillac's hair, forcing his head back, and pressed
the sharp edge of the blade under Cadillac's left ear.  'You fight
well, wordsmith,' he gasped hoarsely.  'Well enough to have earned the
life I now hold in my hands.  The D'Vine have no tongues that can
pierce the mysteries of the world.  The past is darkness.  Our fire
songs are not remembered.  If you would weave them for us so that the
bright thread of our bravery endures, you and the fox shall have meat,
shelter and standing."

Cadillac struggled against the crushing weight on his chest and dragged
air down his battered throat.  'I would sooner have eagles tear out my
tongue than poison the air with your name,' he snarled, haft-choking on
the words.

'So be it, coyote,' said Shakatak.  'I have no past, you have no
future."  He raised the knife high into the air.  Cadillac saw the late
afternoon sunlight flash off the blade as it hung poised ready to
plunge into his throat.  He suddenly felt drained of fear; was filled
instead with a great sadness at leaving the world; at being parted from
Clearwater.  But it would not be for ever.  He would roam the sunset
islands in the sky until his spirit was poured into a new earth-mother,
re-entering the world in another skin to fulfill his destiny, sharing
the triumph of Talisman's ultimate victory.

In the split-second before the knife fell, Clearwater wrenched her head
free of Cannonball's grip and let out a piercing cry; a blood-curdling
half-scream, half-shout - the dreaded ululation that was the mark of a
summoner.

In'the same instant, Clearwater became the epicentre of a mini-tornado
which hurled her three captors from her in a shower of dust, stones and
uprooted grass.  The claim-stick wavered, was wrenched from' the
ground, spun wildly up into the air then drove itself through Torpedo's
chest as he tried to strike Clearwater with the stone flail.

Cannonball and Freeway crouched low, vainly trying to shield themselves
against the shower of stones that rained on them.

Cadillac was terrified too.  He covered his ears but the intensity of
the sound coming from Clearwater's throat grew, percing his brain.

An instant later, the spiralling wind enveloped him and Shakatak, still
seated on his chest, arm upraised.  The power that Clearwater had
unleashed seemed to imbue the knife he held with a life of its own.  It
vibrated wildly in Shakatak's fist but instead of breaking free of his
grip, the awesome force in the wind caused his fingers to lock tighter
round the handle.  Sensing the danger, the now-terrified warrior threw
up his other hand in a desperate effort to force the knife loose but as
he touched it, his fingers closed round those already gripping the
knife.  Shakatak let out a howl of fear.

The muscles on his neck and shoulders bulged as he strained to hold the
knife above his head.  The vortex of force increased in power, the
swirling &and howled, drowning out Clearwater's wavering, unearthly
cry.  With one swift, unstoppable movement, the knife in Shakatak's
hands curved downwards in front of Cadillac's horrified face and
buried itself up to the hilt in the warrior's solar plexus.

Shakatak gave a harsh, gasping scream and fell forward across Cadillac,
his hands still clasped around the knife.

Cannonball and Freeway scrambled to their feet and took off across the
grass like stampeding fast-foot, closely followed by the howling
twister.  The sound coming from Clearwater's throat faded.  She fell to
her knees, eyes glazed as if in a trance.

Wriggling out from under Shakatak's lifeless body, Cadillac stumbled
across to Clearwater on his numbed legs and gathered her in his arms.

Her body felt cold; drained of life.  He laid her down gently and
caressed her face, not knowing what to do, completely overawed by the
deadly nature of the power that had come from within her.  A power he
had not suspected she possessed; that she had never given the slightest
hint of possessing.

After a few minutes, the grey veil lifted from her eyes.  He felt the
warmth flood back into her body.  She smiled at him, then a look of
alarm crossed her face.  She sat up quickly then relaxed as she
realised that they were both out of danger.

Cadillac stood up, walked over to the fallen Shakatak and turned his
body over.  As the dead warrior rolled onto his back, his hands fell
limply away from the handle of Cadillac's knife.  Clearwater joined him
and they walked to where Torpedo lay transfixed by the D'Vine
claim-stick.

Their eyes met over his lifeless body.

'Why did you not tell me you were a summoner?"

Clearwater shook her head in bewilderment.  'I did not know until
now.

It was only when you were about to die that the power came upon me.  It
was sent through me.  It used my voice to call the forces up from the
earth but I did not guide it."  She paused and looked back at
Shakatak's body, suddenly intimidated by the terrible violence she had
unleashed.  'I do not know if it will come again."

Cadillac nodded.  'The door in your mind has been opened.  If you call,
the power will enter.  Mr Snow will teach you how to guide it."

Clearwater shivered and rubbed her arms.  'It frightens me."

The too,' agreed Cadillac.  'But it is a good power.  Did you not save
my life?"

Clearwater shook her head.  'No.  Talisman saved it.  It was his
strength that flowed through me."  She gently brushed the wounds on
Cadillac's ribs with her fingertips.  'If I could have saved you with a
single cry I would have struck down Shakatak before he drew his
blade.

But it was not to be.

Talisman did not reveal his power until you revealed yours.

You fought bravely, like a great warrior and, at the point of death,
you refused to dishonour your clan.  You have standing.  You have the
heart and blood of a Bear and there shall be a fire song to mark this
day ' 'I shall choose the words myself,' said Cadillac, swelling with
pride at the prospect and his new-found ability to ignore the pain that
pulsed through his chest.

'- but only,' continued Clearwater firmly, 'ffyou hold fast to your
oath to Mr Snow.  Never to act rashly again.  Never put the gift of
words in danger."

Cadillac shrugged arrogantly.  'If it is my destiny to be a great
warrior ' 'Then the fire song I sing shall tell how these Lion-Hearts
truly died.

Not under the hand of a brave Bear they called coyote, but by a single
cry from the lips of a tame fox!"  'She-err!"  hissed Cadillac.  'For a
tame fox you have sharp teeth."

Clearwater slipped her arms around his neck.  'They bite softly enough
in the darkness of the moon."  She rubbed her nose against his cheeks
then kissed him on the mouth.

'Come - let us prepare the fast-foot."

They gutted the carcass of the capo and strung it to the eight-foot
claim-stick.  The weight of the dead beast made it sag dangerously and
they could only shoulder it with great difficulty.  To take it back
unaided would mean abandoning the dead Mutes and their weapons.

Cadillac shed his end of the load.  'You will have to get help.  I will
stay here and guard what we have won.  Take the Lion-Hearts'
crossbow."

He hauled back the lever with a gasp of pain, placed a bolt in the
barrel and offered it to her.

Clearwater did not take it.  She was looking past him across the plain
to the north; Home of the White Death.

'Running clouds,' she said.

Cadillac turned, following the direction of her pointing finger.  He
saw a low dust haze hanging in the air above a distant rise; a sign
that often meant a group of warriors on the move; running with the
characteristic, loping gait that enabled Mutes to cover long distances,
sometimes running for twenty-four hours without a break, sleeping on
their feet as birds do on the wing; guided by some mysterious internal
navigation system.

The running cloud drifted against the grey-blue shadowed land beyond,
burning with orange fire as it caught the slanting rays of the sun.

Cadillac hurriedly loaded his own crossbow.  'Could those two crows
have flown to more of their brothers?"  he asked anxiously.  From his
experience of Mr Snow's powers he knew that if it left the summoner
exhausted, it did not come quickly again.  If those who now ran towards
them were marauding Lion-Hearts ...

'Make me tall and I shall tell you,' said Clearwater.

Cadillac cupped his hands together so that Clearwater could climb up
and stand upon his shoulders.  He sucked his breath in sharply as her
added weight compressed his slashed ribs.

Clearwater who, like most Mutes, was blessed with remarkably sharp,
almost hawk-like vision, quickly focussed on the tufts of golden
feathers on the side of the runner's head-masks.  'They are Bears -'
She waved vigorously then leapt nimbly to the ground and faced Cadillac
with a smile.

'- come to escort their warrior-wordsmith home in triumph."

The posse of M'Call Bears reached them some fifteen minutes later.

They were led by Motor-Head, the most fearless of cadillac's
clan-brothers.  A powerful young warrior, heavily built like the dead
Shakatak, but who had filled not one, but two head-poles.  With him
were Hawkwind, Chainsaw, Black-Top, Brass-Rail, Steel-Eye, Ten-Four and
Convoy, all of them bearing - as was the custom - Names of Power that
had once belonged to the Heroes of the Old Time.  Each was dressed in
the eccentric fashion of Mute warriors, their leather body plates,
adorned with trophies and emblems attesting to their prowess and
courage, and they arrived carrying the limp bodies of Cannonball and
Freeway slung like ded fast-foot from newly cut saplings.

Motor-Head circled the bodies of Torpedo and Shakatak, gave an
approving nod, then walked over to Cadillac and threw an arm round his
shoulders.  'Good work, little sand-worm."

Motor-Head waved towards the bodies of Cannonball and Freeway.  'You
must have frightened them mightily.

Their running cloud was like a tower in the sky!"  cadillac exchanged a
sideways glance with Clearwater.

She bit back a smile, then said, 'He also brought down the capo."

This news brought grunts of approval from Cadillac's clan-brothers.

Convoy counted the branched horns.  'Ten points!  No one has done
better!"  Motor-Head added his grudging approval.  'So, sand-worm - is
wrestling with words not enough to fill your day?

Would you also fight and hunt and run with the Bears?"

Cadillac faced up to Motor-Head's mocking gaze.  'Does not the
branch-worm become a leaf-wing?  Why should a sand-worm not become a
warrior worthy to bear his Name of Power?"

Motor-Head chuckled and planted himself before Cadillac with folded
arms.  'Your tongue strikes sparks, wordsmith.  And now your hands have
held sharp iron.  You have cut down meat, and you have chewed bone."

He turned towards the other warriors.  'How say you, brothers - is he
worthy to be one of us?"

One by one, Hawkwind, Chainsaw, Black-Top, Brass-Rail, Steel-Eye,
Ten-Four and Convoy solemnly thrust out their right arms towards
Cadillac, the fingers clenched, the thumb raised.

Motor-Head took off his feathered head-mask and placed it on Cadillac's
head.  'Welcome, blood-brother Bear!  May your arm strike hard and
true, may your heart be strong, and your name be honoured in the fire
songs of our people!"  'Hey~YUH!  Hey-YUH!  Hey-YUH!!"  chorussed the
others.  Clearwater's eyes glistened with tears of joy as she joined
with the others, raising her arms as they shouted the traditional
accolade.

It was a sweet moment of triumph - which Cadillac spoilt by fainting
from loss of blood.

FOUR

The joint centenary celebration and graduation ceremony was held in the
Academy's giant Free-Flight Dome.  The bare rock from which it had been
hewn was hung with flags and bunting, and criss-crossed with
computerised coloured laser beams that had been programmed to create
dazzling, ever-changing, patterns of light.

When the five thousand spectators had filed into their allotted seats,
the nine squadrons of cadets and the Academy staff paraded to the
stirring synthesised sounds of brass, LIFE and drum, then lined up with
geometrical precision for inspection by the visiting dignitaries from
Grand Central.

This was followed by squadron displays of marching and countermarching,
weapon handling, assault training demonstrations, gymnastics and
quarterstave combat drills.

The ground events, interwoven with highlights from the video-record of
the Flight Academy's history and achievements projected on a giant
screen, were climaxed by a flying display in which Steve Brickman took
a leading part.

After the ceremonial presentation of wings, prizes, a video-address by
George Washington Jefferson the 31st, the President-General of the
Federation, and seemingly interminable speeches by members of the
Amtrak Executive who had shuttled from Houston, the amplifiers boomed
out the opening chords of 'The Wild Blue Yonder', the Academy's
historic battle-hymn.  Five thousand spectators rose to their feet and,
with one voice, joined the two hundred-strong choir in the verses and
chorus that accompanied the final march past.  Tears flowed ashamedly
down the cheeks of veteran Trail-Blazers in the stands as the voices
and music soared to fill the huge circular arena; the sound merging, as
if by magic, with the rhythmic pulsing of the lasers, to create a
heart, mind and gut= gripping audio-visual experience; the crowning
moment of a triumphantly successful anniversary parade.

As the last words of the last ringing chorus faded, and the tears were
wiped away, the hymn was reprised in voiceless diminuendo.  The First
and Second Year cadets marched out of the arena to the sound of
retreating drumbeats, and the three Senior squadrons, now proudly
bearing their newly-won wings on their tunics, were halted and
dismissed in front of the packed reviewing stand.  After nearly four
hours on the parade ground, the Third Year cadets broke ranks with
broad smiles of relief as their guardians and kinfolk - some of whom
had travelled from the farthest reaches of the Federation - left their
seats and streamed down the steps to greet their wards with hugs and
handshakes, and shoot off more videotape for the unit album.

'How ya doing, Wonder-Boy?"

Steve ducked out from under the enthusiastic embrace of his kin-sister
and smoothed his uniform.  'Hey, Roz, come on - grow up will you?"

'I am grown up.  I was fifteen last February, remember?"

'Sure, I remember."

'Could have looked in on me.  Or at least sent a vee-gee."

'I forgot, Worm.  Happy Birthday whenever.  Okay?"

'And not a bleep from you when I passed my Inter-Med."

'Steve hardly ever looks in.  You should know that,' said Annie
Brickman.  Her voice was entirely devoid of malice or reproach.  It was
just a plain statement of fact.  Annie, Steve's guard-mother, stepped
aside as her kin-brother Bart Bradlee eased Jack Brickman's wheelchair
through the crowd.

'I was gonna send a vee-gee, but it got kind of busy."

'We know that, boy."  In the three years since leaving home his
guard-father's voice had faded to a husky whisper.

Steve lifted his guard-father's hands from the arms of his chair and
squeezed them gently.  Jack Brickman's fingers responded to the contact
like palsied chicken claws.  It was hard to believe that these hands,
and the wasted body they were attached to, had once been packed with
lean hard flesh and enough muscle power to knock many bigger men clear
across a room.

'Good to see you, sir.  I really appreciate you taking the trouble to
make the trip."

'If we hadn't brought him, he'd have got someone to tie him to the
chair and had himself shipped out as freight,' said Bart.  He patted
Jack Brickman's shoulder.  'Ain't that so, old timer?"

The 'old timer' answered with a wry, gasping laugh.

Steve's guard-father was thirty-four years old.  Jack knew he would be
dead from radiation sickness within a year.  They all knew.  But no one
felt sad about it, or thought of it as tragic.  His tenacious survival
thus far was little short of miraculous.  Very few Trail-Blazers made
it past thirty.

Indeed, most Trackers assigned to overground operations were dead long
before that; killed in action or through pulling a trick or, more
regrettably, executed before the tv cameras for a Code One default.

Undergrounders had a greater life-expectancy but even they didn't live
for ever.  Annie, who was also thirty-four, and her kin-brother Bart, a
twenty-nine-year-old staff-officer, had never been posted overground or
suffered a day's illness, yet both would die soon after their
forty-second birthday.  For despite the spectacular advances in the
life sciences over the last three centuries, the secret of longevity
still remained to be discovered.

The oldest Tracker on record had died at the ripe old age of
forty-five.

The oldest ordinary Tracker that is.

The current President-General of the Federation was - to judge from his
video appearances - a vigorous sixty-five, and his predecessor had
lived into his eighties.  No one had ever given Steve a satisfactory
explanation of why this should be so.  That was the way it was.  The
Jeffersons were the First Family because they lived longer than
everybody else.  And they lived longer than everybody else because they
had been born to rule the Federation.

That was what it said in the Manual.

Steve embraced .his guard-mother.  'I really did work hard, Annie.  Can
you forgive me?"

Annie laughed.  'For what - coming fourth?"

'I should have been first."

'Fourth sounds pretty good to me,' said Annie.  'Jack wasn't even in
the top twenty."

'The Eagles took three out of the top four places,' said Bart.  'Never
been a squadron that has done that before."

Steve turned to Bart.  'You don't understand, sir.  I should have been
first.  I should have been Honour Cadet.  I was shafted."

Bart's face muscles hardened a little around his good-natured smile.

'Now that's a real bad thought for you to have, Stevie.  The system
doesn't make mistakes like that."

'No harm in the boy wanting to be best,' said Annie.  'We trained him
to think that way before he could even walk.  Roz tOO.".

Bart shook his head.  'Wanting to be, and being, is different sure
enough.  But that's not what a girl and boy should set their mind to.

Trying to do their best, that's something else.  That's what's expected
of each and everyone of us.  Just like it says in The Book."

Steve nodded respectfully.  Bart held the powerful post of
Provost-Marshal for the territory of New Mexico.  Young men planning to
make their way up in the world did not argue with Provost-Marshals.

Even if they were kinfolk.

'I tried, sir."

Bart patted him on the shoulder.  'That's all a man can do.

It's all been worked out, boy.  The Family's had their eye on you from
the day you were born.  Same way as they look after all of us.  A
Tracker doesn't need to question the order he's given, or the place
he's been assigned to.  The only thing he has to ask himself is - "Am I
trying hard enough?  Am I doing the best I can?"' 'Amen to that,' said
Annie.

Jack Brickman waved a frail hand.  'You passed.  That's the important
thing.  The marks don't matter a damn.

Combat is the only way a wingman can prove himself."

'Exactly."  Roz linked arms with Steve and her guard-mother.

'Now will somebody please shoot a picture before my brother gets too
famous to talk to me?"

The rest of the afternoon was spent sight-seeing.  As with every annual
passing-out parade, the Flight Academy complex was thrown open for
inspection by the kinfolk of the senior classmen.  Food and drink were
freely available in the mess halls, where the first year Squabs were on
duty as waiters.  Second year cadets provided conducted tours of the
classrooms and other training areas, giving practical demonstrations on
the flight rigs, simulators and weapon ranges.  Steve took over control
of his guard-father's wheelchair but, an hour into the tour, Jack
Brickman's face clouded over as the sharp-toothed serpent within him
crept out of its secret lair and began to gnaw away at another part of
his body.  Annie gave Jack a couple of Cloud-Nines and cradled his head
until the drawn sinews on his scrawny neck slackened and he fell into a
drugged sleep.

Seeing what had happened, Chuck Waters, a buddie from B-flight invited
Steve's kinfolk to join his own ten-strong bunch of Okies.  Steve took
Jack Brickman up in the elevator to the quarterdeck and wheeled him
into his shack.  Putting a pillow on the chair back, he gently eased
the gaunt openmouthed skull onto it, crossed the limp wizened hands,
then sat down on the stripped bunk and gazed impassively at the man who
had raised him.  The only sign of life was a thin gasping sigh as air
passed in and out of his guard-father's throat.  Sometime next year,
the sighing would stop.  The bag-men would call, his body would go down
the gaspipe and his name would go up on the Flight Academy's wall.

Another good man gone.

Steve sat there a while longer then got up and began packing his
clothing and personal equipment into a big blue trail-bag.

'Okay if I come in?"

Steve looked over his shoulder.  Donna Monroe Lundkwist, a slim,
fair-haired wingman who had, in Steve's calculations, been his only
serious rival for first place stood at the door.  The blue and white
tasselled Honour Cadet lanyard was looped over her right shoulder; the
big metallic-thread Minuteman badge was sewn on her left breast pocket
under the silver wings.

Steve folded the last of his shirts into the trail-bag.  'What can I do
for you?"

'Nothing special."  Lundkwist sat down casually on the bunk next to
Steve's trail bag.  'Just dropped in to say "goodbye"."  She nodded
towards Jack Brickman.  'Your guard-father?"

'Yeah..."

Lundkwist registered the two gold, double triangles on Jack Brickman's
sleeve and gave a low whistle.  'A double-six!

Twelve tours and two White House lunches with the President-General.

How come you never told anybody your guardian was an ace wingman?"

Steve shrugged.  'That kind of information is dispensed on a strictly
"need-to-know" basis."  He zipped up the side pockets of his trail-bag
and wedged some more of his gear into the middle section.  'How was
your lunch?"

'Oh - you mean with the Academy-General?  Interesting.

He gave me the inside track on my first assignment.  I'm being posted
to Big Red One."

'That's good,' said Brickman, flatly.

Big Red One was the popular name for the Red River wagon train.  It was
known throughout the Federation for the spectacular success of its many
expeditions against the Mutes; its Trail-Blazer crew had an unrivalled
combat record and as a result of their renown, the Red River wagon
master was able to cream off the top layer of graduates from the combat
academies and specialist schools.  For the last twenty years, the top
three cadets from the Academy had joined the Trail-Blazer team aboard
Red River.  Steve had planned to be one of them this year.

'I asked about you."

'And ... ?"

'You've been assigned to The Lady from Louisiana -she's based at Fort
Worth."  Lundkwist paused.  'Gus White too."

'That should make his day,' grunted Steve.  Service aboard Big Red One
was traditionally regarded as the all-important first rung on the
promotion ladder.  He turned to face her, 'Does he know yet?"

Lundkwist shook her head.  'I thought you'd enjoy telling him."

'I will."  Steve closed the long zip on the middle section of his trail
bag.  As he moved the zip tag towards Lundkwist she laid a finger on
the back of his hand and drew a slow,

exploratory circle.  Their eyes met.

'How about putting the bomb in the barrel?"

Steve ran the zip tag the rest of the way while he thought about it.

'You mean here?  Now?"

Don Lundkwist's eyes flickered towards the sleeping figure of Jack
Brickman.  'You worried about him waking up?"

'Not really.  He's on Cloud-Nine."

'So ... ?"  Lundkwist looked at him expectantly.

'So - maybe some other time."

Lundkwist pointed to the sleeping Jack Brickman.

'Listen.  You are not going to be upsetting this guy.  In twelve years
on the wagons he must have walked past some heavy traffic.  Right?"

Steve mulled the situation over.

Lundkwist tugged at Steve's parade suit, forcing him to take a step
towards her.  She closed her trousered thighs against his legs.  'Come
on, Brickman, I never made it with you.  And after today, I may never
see you again."

'Nothing I can do about that."

'Oh, yes there is."  Lundkwist stood up, slipped her arms round his
waist and gently ground his genitals with the point of her pelvis.

'Five weeks from now I could be on a wagon train heading into Mute
territory.  Six weeks from now I could cease to exist.  Eight weeks
before my seventeenth birthday.  If I'm going to go into the meat
business I want the satisfaction of knowing I've been with the best."

Without waiting for Steve's answer she lifted his trail-bag clear of
the bed, closed the sliding door to the shack, unzipped his tunic then
swiftly peeled off her own uniform and climbed onto the bunk.

Steve glanced at his guard-father.  Jack Brickman's head was slumped
sideways on the pillow, his open mouth accentuating the hollowness of
his cheeks.  He lifted his guard-father's hand a few inches then let it
go.  It fell back limply onto his lap with the lifelessness that
characterized deep sleep.  Steve turned back to Don Lundkwist and
undressed in his own good time.  He ran his eyes casually over her
naked body.  Neat.  A strong neck and good square shoulders,
well-defined muscles without that bunchy look that some of the guys
went for.  He lay down beside her.

Lundkwist ran an appraising hand along his shoulder, then down the side
of his chest onto his hips.  'I really get off on you, Brickman.  How
come we had to wait three years for this?"

Steve shrugged.  'Busy, I guess.  Okay, how do you want it?"

Don teased his mouth with her tongue.  'Every which way.

The works."  She turned around and backed into him.

Underneath the deep UV-tan, her shoulders were covered with freckles.

Even though they had often been under the showers at the same time it
was something Steve had never noticed before.  He snaked one arm
underneath her and up over her slim breasts.  Don grabbed his other
hand before he had decided what to do with it, and slid it down between
her legs.  'Oh, yes,' she murmured.  'Oh, yes!"  She arched her neck
and rubbed her face against his.

Steve closed his eyes and pictured her making it with that creep Gus
White.  And the other guys.  Saying the same thing, reacting the same
way.  It was an accepted fact that by the end of the course almost
everybody had made it with everybody else.  It was no big deal.  If you
were that way inclined - and most guys were - you just went the rounds
on a regular basis.

Brickman was not so inclined.  But don't get the wrong idea about this
young man.  He was not lacking any vital parts, suffering from
dimensional deficiency, or bereft of the normal urges that come upon
young people of his age.

His voluntary celibacy merely reflected his pragmatic approach to
life.

Brickman had not gone the rounds for the simple reason that - while it
might afford some welcome relief- it was not part of the curriculum.

There were no marks awarded for jacking up, or bombing, one's fellow
cadets.  It was not even regarded as a reliable way to make friends and
influence people.  Consequently, it figured lower than nowhere on his
list of priorities.  On the other hand, being Brickman, he could not
bear the thought of doing anything badly and now that he had allowed
Don to get to him, Steve wanted to do it right.

He held on like a limpet as Don ground her rump into his belly.  It
felt like someone had lit a fire in his lap.  It wasn't the first time
but it was the first time in years.  He had buried the memory of how it
had felt at the back of his mind.  Now it came flooding back, warming
his body and for a while, he forgot that his guard-father's wheelchair
was parked less than two feet away and that at any minute, the rest of
his kinfolk might walk in through the door.

Haft an hour, or maybe an hour later, after they'd done everything but
bounce off the walls, they lay alongside each other breathing deep and
hard.  Where their bodies touched the skin was tacked together by a
thin film of sweat.

Lundkwist caught her breath and put her mouth against Steve's ear.

'D'you wanna drop another one in?"

'llh-uh,' said Steve.  'This is where I bail out."

'Okay."  Lundkwist sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the
bunk.  'That was good.  Right on the button."  She ran a hand down her
throat, between her slim breasts and onto her flat hard stomach.  'Need
a shower but, uh, somehow I think I'm gonna have to leave that till I
get home."

Steve nodded.  'Long ride to Wichita,' he observed.

Lundkwist came from the northernmost Federation base -Monroe Field in
Kansas, opened up in 2886.  Which also made it the newest.  'Your
kinfolk here?"

'Are you kidding?"  said Lundkwist.  'They brought the whole base
along."  She began to dress.

As Steve put his clothes on he studied Lundkwist and thought about what
they had done.  It had set his brain and body fizzing with feelings and
desires he had long since put a cap on.  Putting the bomb in the barrel
with her had provided an undeniable moment of pleasure but that was
something he could live without.  Allowing yourself to need other
people in that way - to let them get that close was a dangerous
luxury.

It made you vulnerable.

'So ..."  said Steve, 'It's "goodbye" then."

'Yeah ... we're booked out on the four o'clock shuttle."

Lundkwist checked her watch then zipped up her parade tunic and
adjusted the tasselled Honour Cadet lanyard.

Steve could have cheerfully strangled her with it.

'Good luck and, uh - good hunting."

'You too."  Brickman established firm eye contact and smiled warmly as
they shook hands.  'And take it easy, okay?

You made the Number One spot.  You don't have to prove it all over
again to the Mutes."

He patted her shoulder as she turned away.  Lundkwist looked back at
him from the doorway with a tightlipped smile.  'You know how to make a
guy feel good, Brickman, but underneath that whiter than white smile
you really are one mean sonofabitch."

Steve eyed her steadily and continued dressing.  'Part of my survival
kit."

'.You know what your trouble is?"  Lundkwist didn't wait for him to
reply.  'You think you're different.  You're so busy working at being
Number One you've got no time to be one of us.  It frightens people.

And that's bad - because one day you may need a friend."

'Anything else?"  asked Steve imperturbably.

'Yeah,' said Lundkwist.  She tapped the Minuteman badge on the breast
pocket of her tunic.  'You and I both worked our asses off to win
this.

I just want you to know that whatever it was you did wrong, in my book
you're still the top gun."

Steve shrugged modestly and zipped up his pants.  'Time will tell
..."

'It will indeed,' said Lundkwist.  She stepped away from the door then
leaned back in.  'Oh, by the way - happy birthday."

FIVE

Two days after his triumph against Shakatak D'Vine, Cadillac went with
Clearwater and Mr Snow deep into the forest.  They found a glade by the
edge of a stream where they squatted crosslegged, facing each other on
a carpet of red leaves.  Behind them, on all sides, the black-brown
trunks of the redwoods stood guard, like giant warriors.

Here and there, rose-coloured shafts of sunlight pierced the thick
canopy of leaves, casting bright pools of light on the sea of ferns
that washed against the gnarled roots of the trees.

Cadillac listened attentively as Clearwater put questions to Mr Snow
about her newly-discovered power which, like Cadillac's prodigious
memory, was a gift of the Sky Voices, sent with the blessing of their
great mother Mo-Town.  Mr Snow explained many things, emphasising that
the effort needed to guide the power and shape it to his, or her, will
drained the life-force from the summoner.  Thus, the greater the force
unleashed, the greater the power needed to control it.  Great power
should only be summoned in extremis because it could, in untrained
hands, result in the death of the one who sought to wield it.

This was why Clearwater had fainted when she had saved Cadillac from
Shakatak; the summoner was left weakened after the power had passed
through their body.  He, or she, had then to wait until their
life-force had been restored before the power could be used again.  It
followed that, in times of danger, the skill of the summoner had to be
employed judiciously otherwise he, or she, might find their powers
depleted when they were needed most.

When it was Cadillac's turn to speak he said, 'I am troubled that I do
not hear the Sky Voices."

Mr Snow smiled.  'You will hear them when you are ready to listen."

'Then teach me how to listen."

Mr Snow shook his head.  'The heads of the young are filled with the
sounds of the world.  The trumpets of vainglory.

The dark murmur of earth-longings.  With age, your tuner ear may learn
to shut out such noises.  Only then will you discover that the great
truths are gifts that come wrapped in silence."

'I have a gift of which I have not yet spoken,' said Cadillac.

'A pupil should not conceal knowledge from his master,' said Mr Snow.

Cadillac laughed.  'Nothing is hidden from you, Old One."

'True,' admitted Mr Snow.  His eyes twinkled.  'Though I do not send my
mind into your hut at the dark of the moon."

Clearwater put her hands over her nose and mouth and eyed Cadillac over
her fingertips.

Cadillac took a deep breath to avoid stammering from embarrassment.  'I
did not speak because I was not sure whether it was a true gift or
nothing more than dream-stuff fashioned by a haft-empty mind."  He
hesitated.  'I see pictures in the stones."

Mr Snow nodded soberly.  Clearwater listened, wide-eyed.

'Not all stones,' explained Cadillac.  'Only those which are ..."  He
groped for the right word.

'... seeing stones,' said Mr Snow.

'Yes."  Cadillac reached towards the bank of the stream and picked up a
smooth rock the size of a large apple.  'This one says nothing."  He
ran a finger round its circumference.

'The seeing stones have a ring of soft golden light.  I cannot always
see it but if I hold one of these stones in my hand and take its
essence into my mind, I see pictures.  Whether they are in the stone or
in my mind I cannot tell but -' Cadillac shook his head and sighed
regretfully, 'I do not understand them."

Mr Snow nodded again.  'The power is difficult to master.

The pictures you saw could have been from the past, or from the
future.

They are of the place where the stone lies.  Stored memories, visions
of things yet to come, sealed like reflections of the cloud-filled sky
on the surface of the endless River of Time."

'Can you teach me to make sense of these things?"

Mr Snow shook his head.  'No.  The art of seer-ship cannot be taught.

He who has the gift must learn to use it himself."

'So,' said Cadillac.  'I am wordsmith and seer.  Might not the power of
the summoner enter me in the days to come - as it has been given to
Clearwater?"

'It might,' said Mr Snow.

Cadillac weighed up the old man and squared his shoulders.  'The shadow
of Talisman is upon me,' he said boldly.  'Am I to be the Thrice-Gifted
One?"

Mr Snow closed his eyes as if seeking guidance.

Clearwater reached out silently and took hold of Cadillac's hand.

Their eyes met briefly then returned to Mr Snow but he did not reply,
or open his eyes for several minutes.

'That is not a question I can answer,' he said finally.  'I conceal
nothing.  I do not know.  There have been many times when I have felt
the finger of the Sky Voices pointing at you but I now know that my
thoughts were coloured by my desire to see Talisman enter the world
before I go to the High Ground and -' Mr Snow chuckled,' - the unworthy
notion that I had been chosen to be his Teacher."  He sighed.

'You may be."  He indicated Clearwater.  'She may be ' 'But she is not
a wordsmith!"  cried Cadillac.  'Does it not say that the Thrice-Gifted
One shall be wordsmith, summoner and seer?"

'That is indeed the prophecy,' admitted Mr Snow.  'But six days ago,
which of us knew of the powers that Clearwater possessed?  And how long
ago did you find your first seeing stone?"

'Two or three years,' replied Cadillac grumpily.

'Let me remind you of the prophecy,' said Mr Snow.

'Man-child, or woman-child the One may be.  And none will know who is
the Thrice-Gifted One until the earth gives the sign."

Cadillac eyed Mr Snow disappointedly.  His voice was tinged with
resentment.  'Are you sure the Sky Voices have not spoken of this more
directly?"

Mr Snow threw up his hands in mock despair and gave them both a
long-suffering look.

Clearwater smiled sympathetically.

'They have spoken but the meaning of their words is clouded,' replied
Mr Snow.  'I cannot put your mind at rest."

'Let me be the judge of that,' said Cadillac.

Very well,' said Mr Snow.  'They have told me that Talisman will be
someone known to you."

Cadillac exchanged a look of surprise with Clearwater then turned back
to Mr Snow.  'Someone known to me now - or someone I will come to
know?"

Mr Snow uncrossed his legs.

'Wait!"  cried Cadillac.  'Does that also include me?"

Mr Snow shrugged and got to his feet.  'It means what it says.  You are
a wordsmith.  Work it out."

SIX

Within minutes of arriving at his kinfolk's quarters, Steve fell into
bed and slept for two whole days and nights.  The relentless pace of
his last year at the Flight Academy, plus the extra adrenalin that had
been pumped into his system during the final run-up to the exams and
his overground solo had put his mind and body into permanent
overdrive.

It was only when he finally slipped under the quilt with the knowledge
that he would not be awakened by an electronic trumpet blast that the
months of pent-up fatigue were released.  As he lay back, he felt the
aching tiredness flood out of his bones and into the surrounding flesh,
spreading out in every direction like a slow-burning fire until his
body was suffused with a dull, prickly pain that penetrated every
fibre; oozed out of every pore.  At the point when it became
unbearable, darkness enveloped him.

Roosevelt Field - the place where Steve had been reared and schooled
and with which he was identified by his middle name - was the
operational headquarters and home base of a ten thousand-strong
division of Trackers.

Compared to Grand Central, it had the no-frills homespun atmosphere of
a frontier town but it was nothing like anything ever built in the
pioneer West.  Roosevelt Field was a self-contained multi-level
mini-city.  An air-conditioned colony of human termites with tv in
every burrow, situated fifteen hundred feet down in the bedrock under
the pre-Holocaust city of Santa Fe.  Like all the other once great
cities of the Southern United States this was now nothing more than a
dot on the map of the overground but its name had remained in use
because it marked the geographical location of the Federation base in
the earthshield below.

The layout of Roosevelt/Santa Fe followed the standard concentric
ground plan developed by Grand Central engineers in the eighth
century.

Basically, it consisted of a central plaza surrounded by two circular
transit tunnels (Ringways) at a radius of one and two miles.  Eight
more transit tunnels (Radials) arranged like the spokes of a wheel
linked the plaza with the 1st and 2nd Ringway.  At each intersection
there were huge v