Logan's Run - Trilogy

Book 2 Logan's World

ARGOS
     
    Argos died twice.
    Beyond the 21st century, when the angry young had taken control of Earth, 
and space travel had been aborted, she was left to die in orbit, dwarfed by a 
silent Mars, her mute sun mirrors capturing energy without purpose, her womb-hub 
empty of life--an immense, spoked wheel turning in endless black.
    Until the runners found her.
    The man called Ballard knew about Argos, knew that she could provide shelter 
to those who fled the Sandmen and sought Sanctuary. He helped organize the 
lifeships that fired up from Cape Steinbeck carrying the vital stuffs of 
existence--hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon--to feed the arteries of the great wheel 
in the sterile frontier darkness beyond Earth. And, with each silver ship, eager 
runners arrived on Argos, free from the Sandman's Gun, to spawn fresh life in 
this new sea of space.
    Children were born who would never know Earth. A hospital was built; fields 
of wheat, corn and rice were cultivated; a school was established--and fruit 
trees bloomed under a ribbed-glass sky.
    At staggered intervals, as Ballard perfected his Sanctuary Line, more ships 
arrived, swelling the colony's population to more than three thousand men, women 
and children.
    Then the lifeships stopped coming.
    As a full year passed without supplies, fear began to permeate the colony. 
Argos was not self-sufficient; she could not survive without the stuffs of 
Earth.
    Two years without ships.
    Three. Then four.
    Medical supplies were exhausted. Plague and death ran the wheel. The colony 
dwindled--to a thousand...to five hundred...to a hundred...to a handful of 
steel-tough runners and their families.
    Logan and Jessica were among them, ten-year veterans of Argos--the legendary 
ex-Sandman and the woman who'd shared his desperate run for Sanctuary. They had 
a son now: Jaq, born on the wheel eight years ago, with the strength of his 
father in his pale green eyes, his mother's grace in movement, a boy who thrived 
on Earth history, who listened, entranced, to Logan's dark tales of a 
computerized world. To Jaq, the man named Ballard was a god...
    Six years without ships.
    Crisis time. The fields sere and withered. Water at a minimum. Food running 
out.
    And one small lifeship to take them back.
    Only a dozen could undertake the voyage. Lots were drawn, the final twelve 
chosen, the ship prepared. On board with nine others: Logan, Jessica and Jaq.
    Fireup! Away...away.
    Away.
    Behind them, in the cool depths of uncaring space, Argos began her second 
death.
     
    In Old Washington, Logan discovered why the ships had stopped coming. 
Sandmen had penetrated and smashed the Sanctuary Line at Cape Steinbeck. Just 
one step ahead of them, Ballard escaped to Crazy Horse Mountain in the Dakotas, 
to the Thinker. There, in a final gesture of rebellion against the system, he 
had sacrificed himself to destroy the vast computer-complex--bringing the cities 
down with it. Mazecars froze on their tracks; beltways were stilled; the time 
crystals in the hand of each citizen no longer ticked away human life.
    The power of the Sandman was broken.
    Citizens poured out of the tumbled, lifeless cities into the sudden reality 
of a raw world. The City People, young, pampered, given every luxury by their 
computerized life-system, had now become the Wilderness People, bewildered and 
cast adrift in a harsh new environment.
    For them, the illusion of freedom had turned to the reality of nightmare.



     
     
RUN!
     
    Logan was running.
    No longer the hunter, he was the hunted. Black on black: his charcoal-dark 
uniform blending into night, feet stabbing the earth as he ran, dry-mouthed, for 
life.
    The men of Deep Sleep were close behind him, relentless, kill-trained State 
assassins who terminated runners with the cold dispatch of the Thinker itself. 
Sandmen who hated him for what he'd done to them. "A Sandman doesn't run, Logan! 
He accepts Sleep proudly. You've betrayed the system, made fools of us all--and 
we'll homer you down for it, Logan!"
    Homer! It could follow him anywhere, that singing charge of pain and death, 
seeking the heat of his body as a bee seeks pollen, leaping and twisting as he 
leaped and twisted through the night spaces of the city.
    Yet, they had not fired. They were savoring the hunt, tasting it like a fine 
wine, moving in tireless oiled motion behind him, knowing he could not outrun 
them or the glowing death they carried at their belts.
    Why is the runner always weak, exhausted, fighting to stay afoot--while his 
hunters are calm, easy-breathing, unruffled? Is it fear which quakes his bones, 
triphammers his heart; the fear of impossible odds, fear of the homer's ultimate 
pain?
    Logan feared. He was brave, resolute, superbly-conditioned, and had faced 
the possibility of death in many forms, but now he feared. When a homer leaves 
the barrel of a Sandman's Gun there is no way to deflect it from its deadly 
course. It finds you, hits you, rips and unravels you in a wash of searing, 
nerve-tortured pain. Any man would fear such a death...
    Logan circled up through the mile-high complex, a frenzied insect caught in 
a maze of steel-and-metal. He was weaponless; the Gun had been lost to him a 
million years ago somewhere in the vastness of the city. A million-year run! His 
mouth gaped in pained laughter. Had he really been running that long? No wonder, 
then, that exhaustion burned fire-hot in his chest, that the world rippled in 
and out of focus, that his legs were loose and stupid under him, betraying his 
body, refusing to obey the hard command: run...run...run!
    Run!
    Logan fell.
    "You all right?" Voice, filtering down to him. Hand, reaching for him. "Up 
you come now, Sandman. Easy does it."
    Logan swayed, holding fast to the shoulder of a reed-thin citizen, blinked 
at him, held out his right palm.
    "Your flower's blacked, has it? Then you're a runner!" The voice turned icy. 
"A stinking runner!"
    A fist smashed into Logan's face. He lurched back, blood threading his 
mouth.
    "Here he is! Here!" The man was shouting, telling the Sandmen where to find 
Logan. He swung dizzily away, into a snake-twist of corridor darkness.
    Another lift up. A riser to the next quad level. Then, in a stagger of 
steps, and a cool rush of night air, through an irised exit onto the roof of the 
mile-high complex.
    Logan's run was over. He had climbed to the summit of this metal mountain.
    Around him, on all sides, the city spread pulsing, sensuous wings of light. 
Far below, the multicolored shimmer of Arcade devoured darkness with tongues of 
crystal fire.
    Measured voices on the quad level directly beneath him. Sharp commands. The 
Sandmen were only seconds away. Logan spun toward the roof door.
    Jessica was there.
    Her hair glimmered like spun copper, the lights of the city caught in its 
soft strands. Her face was carved ivory against the night. She was beautiful.
    "You need help," she said.
    "No one can help me now," he told her. "Not even you."
    She rippled and changed. And Jaq was there in her place.
    "They're going to kill me," the boy said.
    "Not you!" cried Logan. "You're young. Your crystal's blue!"
    "I have no crystal." And Jaq held up his right palm. It was clear.
    Logan started toward his son, wanting him to understand everything, wanting 
to tell him he was sorry he had ever been a Sandman, ever hunted and killed 
runners like himself, ever used the Gun...
    But the Deep Sleep men were there, on the roof, weapons out and aimed at his 
son.
    At Jaq!
    The boy backed away from them, fear rising like smoke in the pale green of 
his eyes.
    "It's me you want!" shouted Logan.
    They ignored him, closing on Jaq in a tightening circle. The boy was at the 
roof's edge; he could retreat no further.
    Hands fisted, Logan threw himself at the Sandmen. A backhanded blow from the 
barrel of a Gun stunned him, dumped him to the roof. He raised his head to 
scream.
    Too late. Too late for everything.
    They'd forced Jaq over the edge--and the boy fell in soundless, 
dream--spinning slow motion, doll-like, down...down...down...into the 
flame-sharp lights of Arcade.
    The Sandmen swung their rifled eyes to Logan.
    "Homer him," said their leader, softly.
    And the charge leapt from a Gun, sang in a hot yellow arc toward Logan. Who 
stood to meet it.
    Astonishing pain. A ripped dazzle of seared nerves as Logan collapsed in 
upon himself, fingers clawing air. His body exploded, flared out in ribbons of 
shocked flesh, into a thousand separate units of anguish. He was only pain and 
agony and sundered bone...
    He was awake.
    "You all right?"
    Logan flinched back from the citizen's question.
    Not his question, not his voice. Jessica's.
    She was touching him with warm, gentle hands, smoothing away the nightmare.
    "The Sandmen," said Logan, staring up at her, his face flushed and sweating. 
"They killed Jaq."
    "There's no more killing. The cities are dead, Logan. The system is dead. 
When will you believe that?"
    "I believe it," he said.
    "Then why do you keep having these dreams?"
    He shook his head. "I don't know..." He looked at her. "This dream was 
different. In all the others, I was the only one they hunted. In this one, Jaq 
died."
    "I wish you could stop having them."
    "I'm worried about Jaq. How is he?"
    "A little better today, I think. But he's still--"
    "He's not better," said Logan flatly, rising from the bed to slip on a 
velvrobe. "And he's never going to be until I do what Jonath told me to do." A 
moment of silence. "I'm going to Stoneham."
    "He'll...want to see you before you go."
    Logan nodded.
    He walked through the sagging wooden house to his son's room. The mammoth 
three-story Colonial mansion facing the banks of the Potomac floated like a 
landbound ship on acres of green lawn, now gone to seed and wild growth. In its 
day it had served the elite of Washington; its vaulted, high-ceilinged rooms and 
wide hallways had echoed to week-long parties and lavish state dinners. Now it 
was a time-eroded relic to an unremembered past.
    As he moved toward his son's room Logan thought again of the irony in this 
situation: Jaq had been one of the strongest boys on Argos, impervious even to 
the plague and sickness which had devastated the colony. Yet now, within a dozen 
sunsets of their return to Earth, the boy had fallen victim to an illness which 
spread fever through his young body, which softened bones and thinned muscles, 
leaving him weak and shaking, unable to function.
    Logan had gone to Jonath who, at twenty-seven, was the oldest of the new 
breed of Wilderness People, serving as their leader in this rugged world beyond 
the womb cities.
    "What is it, what's wrong with him?" Logan had asked.
    "Earth is what's wrong with him," said Jonath. "Your boy has no immunity to 
protect him from a virus which our adult bodies would instantly reject. I would 
say he has contracted a form of viral pneumonia, an infant's disease."
    "How do I cure it?"
    "You'll need Sterozine. A nursery medroom would carry it, but the primary 
nurseries are all inside the cities and impossible to reach."
    "Why impossible?"
    "When the cities fell, the Scavengers took over. 
Ex-cubs...gypsies...looters...They run in packs. No one goes in or out. The 
People need food and supplies from the cities, but the Scavengers are in total 
control. You'd never reach a primary nursery alive, and even if you did they'd 
never let you leave. They carry Fusers, and burn down anyone who penetrates 
inner-city territory."
    "There are secondary nurseries...Sunrise...Stoneham..."
    "Yes," said Jonath. "In your place, I'd try them. But their med supplies may 
have already been stripped."
    "It's a chance," Logan had said. "If Jaq's not better by tomorrow, I'll try 
Stoneham."
    Jonath nodded. "...a chance."
    "He may not need the drug," Logan had told him. "Jess thinks that she can 
pull him through this. I hate leaving them alone." He sighed. "Couldn't you be 
mistaken?"
    "Easily," said Jonath. "I'm only guessing. We'd need a med machine to be 
certain. Without a full diag there's no way to be sure, but all the symptoms..."
    The symptoms: weakness, fever, flushed features, twitching muscles...They 
were all in evidence as Logan looked down at his son. He leaned closer, touched 
the boy's fevered cheek.
    Jaq's eyes fluttered open. He smiled, a pained stretching back of his pale 
lips.
    "I'm going to find something that will make you well," said Logan. "You'll 
be strong again. Soon."
    "I--can't be alone." A note of panic.
    "You won't be. Jess will stay with you until I'm back."
    "I hate being sick," Jaq mumbled softly. Again the pained smile. "But I love 
you, Logan!"
    Strange; this business of loving. Sandmen never loved. Logan had grown up 
believing that love was a useless emotion shared by cowards, by runners who 
refused to face their responsibilities to the system. He'd heard them say they 
loved one another, before he'd Gunned them. He'd terminated them with the word 
still on their lips. And felt contempt.
    Did you "love" in a glasshouse? Sex wasn't love. Did you "love" a pairmate?
    When you were weak and small and needed it, the Loveroom gave it to you 
(Mother loves you...loves you...loves you...) but, until Jessica, he hadn't 
thought he'd ever share it. Not Logan 3, a master of the Gun, a hunter of 
weaklings and cowards and misfits. Now, miracle of miracles, he had two human 
beings to love and who loved him: his wife and his son. Husband...wife...son. 
Old labels, worn by those who had rejected the system and gone back to ancient 
customs. Ugly, how the Thinker had twisted everything, distorted emotion, 
crippled and warped. Jaq had been right about Ballard: he was a god. He'd killed 
the Thinker...
     
    Jess walked out to the paravane with him. Logan wore a dark blue citizen's 
tunic, open at the neck, vested in leather.
    "You'll be back before dark?"
    "Yes," he said, climbing into the control pod, activating the gyroblades, 
rear blade first, then overhead. The blades shivered into motion, began 
revolving in a vibrating blur, feeding power into the small craft.
    They were on a section of high grass facing the Potomac, and the afternoon 
sun flashed fire-colors off the wind-sculptured rocks scattered along the dry 
riverbed. Before the Little War, before climactic changes had blocked off the 
Potomac, it had flowed richly with water. Must have been beautiful then, thought 
Logan, this spot facing the river. So much had changed...
    "He's sleeping now," Jess said, her voice keyed to the rising hum of the 
blades. "He'll be all right until you get back."
    Logan leaned out to kiss her.
    She was crying.
    Afraid I won't find the drug, Logan told himself. Afraid I'll be too late. 
But I'll find it! Jess, I'll find it!
    Trim level: corrected. Gyro controls: stable. Power curve: normal. Logan 
engaged vertical thrust--and the paravane soared gracefully upward, quickly 
attained cruising altitude, then tipped westward in a singing rush of blades.
    Toward Stoneham.



     
     
STONEHAM
     
    Each major city area had its secondary nurseries, its Stoneham and Sunrise 
units; Logan had terminated a female runner once, near Stoneham, in the Angeles 
Complex. ("Please don't hurt me, Sandman! I want to live. I'm only 
twenty-one...that isn't really old...can't you...") And the homer leaving the 
Gun. And the girl scrabbling along the high fence, the horror in her eyes. And 
the homer--
    Stop it!
    Logan shut down the memory.
    The primary nurseries were much larger, and handled most of the city 
infants; these outside units were designed to take up the overflow, but were 
complete in themselves. There was more than a good chance he'd find Sterozine at 
a secondary unit.
    Adults had no use for the drug. It would fetch nothing on the Market, and 
would be a useless item to outland looters.
    A good chance...
    Had his mission been less critical Logan would have enjoyed the flight to 
Stoneham. The sky was a serene blue, the green land rich and rolling beneath 
him--and the paravane was sound and responsive, thanks to his work on it over 
the past seven days since he and Jess had found the machine, abandoned outside 
the city-ruins. It had been damaged in the city's fall, had fluttered down, 
broken-bladed, to kill its pilot. Logan's mechanical skills, honed in his years 
on Argos, had quickly restored it to perfect working order.
    Fuel wasn't a problem, since the craft's solar-charged unit would provide 
unlimited range, and Logan was fully confident that he would encounter no 
malfunction in flight.
    But thoughts of Jaq kept darkening his mind, canceling out the natural joys 
of soaring above the land...
    Then he sighted the heavy mass of bulked gray stone rising from a hill to 
his left. Stoneham.
    Logan cut primepower on the aft blade, swinging the paravane at a sharp arc 
downward and to the left, clearing the nursery's microwire fence. He gentled the 
craft to a smooth touchdown in the central court area, killed the blades, slid 
free of the controls.
    Incredible silence. His landing had set off no alarm systems; no automated 
guards rushed toward him; no robotic defense devices were activated. He 
remembered running with Jess from just such a nursery as this in the 
Dakotas--through a chaos of sirens and bells--fighting his way free of machines 
and closing gates and menacing robots.
    This time, nothing. He was free to walk inside.
    Yet Logan felt uneasy, prowling the long, dust-silent corridors, searching 
for the Medroom. He'd hated growing up in this sterile environment, denied all 
outside human contact for the first seven years of his life. His talk puppet had 
been his only real friend ("I'll never forget you, Loge...never forget you!") 
and his dream of becoming a Sandman had sustained him. The pride he'd felt in 
the word in those days! Sandman! The psyc machines had brainwashed him 
thoroughly from birth. If it had not been for Jess...
    Suddenly an old memory clicked into place for him: 
Playroom...Delivery-room...Cribroom...Medroom. That was the way Autogoverness 
had taken him whenever he got sick, rolling along the hall with him, clucking at 
him in her soulless metal voice, telling him he'd soon feel fine, just fine.
    Logan found the Playroom, entered--and instantly fell into a defensive 
crouch. Something was alive inside the room, flickering at him, away from him, 
at him again.
    Logan smiled. In entering, he'd simply dislodged one of the vibroballs, and 
it was dancing its self-energized puzzle pattern from ceiling to floor. He 
reached out, caught and boxed it, moved quickly on.
    The Deliveryroom. Logan stared with fresh awe at the large Hourglass 
dominating the chamber; it had always fascinated him. Inside: the glittering 
time crystals ready for implant in the palm of each new infant brought to 
Nursery. Logan closed his right fist around his own dead crystal, remembering 
the sick shock which had run through his body when his timeflower had begun to 
blink red-black...red-black...red-black...telling him he had just twenty-four 
hours before Last-day.
    Damn the Thinker and the horrors it had inflicted!
    He turned to enter the Cribroom.
    Logan was used to death; he'd dispatched it to others, had seen his friends 
die in Sleepshops, had faced massed death on Argos--but what he found here, in 
this dank, silent room, stunned him.
    In each of the small, bullet-shaped cribs lining the four walls lay a tiny 
skeleton. Here were the delicate bones of a hundred babies who had died when the 
Thinker died, oxygen cut off, vital fluids denied them. Their small white skulls 
mocked Logan with dark, eyeless sockets as he moved past them toward the med 
supplies.
    He found another corpse in the Medroom. An Autogoverness lay on her side, 
her dozen jointed arms frozen, rust already gathering in thin, red lines along 
her seams. In her metal fingers she grasped vials and bottles. Apparently she'd 
gone for the medicine in a vain effort to revive the dying infants, unaware of 
the fact that nothing she could do would save them. Logan stepped over her, 
tense and nervous.
    Would he find Sterozine here?
    Hurriedly, he ripped open panels, pored over shelved items, discarding, 
sifting, searching...At least the Medroom had not been stripped. If a secondary 
nursery carried Sterozine a supply should be here.
    Teromitcone...Hydrafane...Ritlan-C...Eztem-F...
    But no Sterozine.
    Only a primary nursery carried the drug Jaq needed.
    Logan knew he had no choice now.
    He would face the Scavengers.



     
     
THIRTEEN
     
    "Kill him"
    "But why?'
    "He's unlucky for us."
    "Luck has no foundation as a realistic belief concept."
    Lucrezia didn't argue. They were thirteen and the new rider made them 
thirteen, which was unlucky. She would do it herself if Prince would not.
    It was newly-dark--the night prior to Logan's death dream--and they had 
camped in the dry bed of a ravine, ringing a fire that painted their rouged 
faces in flickering shades of red and orange.
    Lucrezia reached into the saddle of her jetcycle, took out a soft leather 
scabbard lined in blue velvet, removed a neddle-thin jeweled dagger from the 
scabbard, and returned to the circle of outlanders.
    The thirteenth rider, thin and shag-haired, sat cross-legged at the fire. He 
was tearing at the leg of the hyena they'd cooked for supper, tossing aside 
bones as he cleared them of flesh. Totally engrossed in filling his lean stomach 
after a long fast, he ignored Lucrezia as she moved up behind him.
    "You're unlucky for us," she said quietly, and drove the thin silver blade 
into the back of his neck, at the upper tip of the spinal column.
    He died instantly, spilling loosely sideways into the dirt. His eyes 
remained open, staring at the fire he could no longer see. The others looked at 
his sprawled body, then at Lucrezia.
    "I should have poisoned him," she said to them, a white-toothed smile making 
her face radiant in the firelight. "That would have been more appropriate. And 
far more romantic."
    Now they were twelve again, outlanders from the New York Complex, nine males 
and two other females, dressed the way Lucrezia had taught them, to dress: in 
plumed hats, in velvets, with lace at their throats, heavy gold chains strung at 
their necks--with jeweled swords and Florentine daggers on the saddles of their 
jetcycs. When the New York Complex fell they'd raided an ancient museum, finding 
these clothes and the Borgia history that went with them. As their leader, Anan 
9 dubbed herself Lucrezia, and named her pairmate Prince, in honor of Cesare, 
most notorious of the Borgia males.
    Now Prince said, "I'm bored. We need to claim again." Playfully he swung his 
burnweapon toward a dark stand of thick brush fronting the bank, thumbed the 
charge. The brush ignited in a gout of flame, charred away to dead ash.
    "Tomorrow," said Lucrezia, "we'll ride the Potomac."



     
     
DAKK
     
    It was late afternoon when Logan reached the city. He brought the paravane 
down a half-mile short of the ruins. No use alerting anyone this early; they'd 
know about him soon enough. He used loose branches to screen the craft; if he 
got out he'd need it again.
    If he got out.
    What are your chances? Maybe fifty-fifty. Wrong! Ninety-ten against. You're 
unarmed, alone, invading their territory. All right, ninety-ten. But unless I 
get the Sterozine, Jaq has no chance.
    Logan entered the heart of the Complex through one of the abandoned maze 
tunnels, moving with Sandman's stealth, making certain his feet did not trample 
the dead brush littering the alum flooring. A snapped twig would echo like a 
nitro shot in here.
    The tunnel's arching mirror-surface was dulled by dust; afternoon sun bled 
through finger-thin cracks in the overhead metal. A shadowy bulk loomed ahead of 
Logan, half filling the tunnel: a dead mazecar, overturned like a giant metal 
insect in the silent gloom, its yellowed tonneau split and shattered, controls 
red with six years' rust. It was occupied. By two skeletons.
    Logan stepped around them. After the infants in Nursery, he experienced no 
shock reaction whatever to the remains of these two dead citizens. He knew he 
would see many more inside the city--and if the Scavengers had their way, his 
own skeleton would join the others.
    He came out of the tunnel onto a maze platform: Level Six, Quadrant K, 
Platform J-211. Industrial Sector. Which meant he could cut through Sandman 
Headquarters and take a slidechute to Arcade. The nearest primary nursery was 
just beyond that point. He'd have to risk the chute; if he tried to walk it 
they'd spot him for sure.
    Now Logan entered the city proper, vast and deserted in the fading rays of 
the late-afternoon sun. No, not deserted. The Scavengers were here, and would 
instantly reveal their presence if he miscalculated. But if he moved 
shadow-quiet to his destination, senses attuned to the slighest danger, he might 
just make it.
    Logan was amazed at how quickly wilderness was claiming the city. Already, 
in just half a dozen years, vines and creepers were choking the beltways, and 
rank grass thrust up in profusion between cracked pavements. The city would soon 
be jungle, like Old Washington itself.
     
    The towering gray monolith of DS Headquarters disturbed Logan, symbolizing 
all too forcefully what he had been and done in the service of the Thinker. He'd 
been one of the DS elite, with a truly impressive record of kills. No runner 
escaped his Gun. How many human beings had he proudly Gunned in his years of 
city service--brave, rational citizens who desperately wanted to live beyond 
their twenty-first birthdays?
    Logan shut down the memories; it was useless to feel guilt for his past. 
Just be glad that it's over, that the killing is done and that you're back in 
the city on a mission to save a life, not to take one.
    He passed through the dead brain-center of the report room, once alive with 
flashing computer readouts and humming alert boards. Runners had no chance 
against a system such as this, yet the instinct for survival kept them 
going--and some, a scattered few, actually made it to Sanctuary. Thanks to 
Ballard--and Jessica--Logan had been one of those few.
    He stopped now at the Gunroom, impulsively reached out to pick up a small 
silver cylinder. He weighed it in his hand. Ammopac. Notched into its six 
chambers: tangler, ripper, needler, nitro, vapor--and homer. Logan slipped the 
cylinder into his tunic. Not that he'd ever use these deadly charges again, but 
this would satisfy the consuming curiosity of Jaq. On Argos, the boy had often 
questioned him about the Gunpac. Now he could see one for himself. A token of 
the city.
    The slidechute would be tricky. It was safe enough, with its antigrav force 
unaffected by computer breakdown; the chute would still carry him to the Arcade 
area quickly and efficiently, but he must be very careful not to bump the narrow 
sides with foot or elbow. As in a maze tunnel, the smallest sound would be 
greatly amplified.
    Logan was careful. The sensation of gently floating downward was akin to 
freefall in the ships: pleasant but somewhat unsettling.
    On the lower Arcade Level he checked the outer terrain before stepping free 
of the chute. Clear. Silent. No movement.
    Maybe Jonath had exaggerated the number of Scavengers in the city, or 
perhaps they'd abandoned this one entirely, gone on to richer pickings. 
Certainly he could detect no sign of them.
    But Logan kept his senses at hyper-alert status; he could not afford to 
relax.
    A shadow within shadows, he moved through Arcade.
     
    The outlanders rode the Potomac. They'd enjoyed themselves earlier in the 
day with a Wilderness group near the Library of Congress, forcing the men to 
watch while the nine Borgia males stripped and assaulted the Wilderness females. 
It had just been high-spirited fun until one of the males broke free to a 
jetcycle, jump-started the machine, and tried to run down three of the Borgias. 
The jetcyc belonged to Prince, and Lucrezia could sympathize with her pairmate's 
anger over the theft--and had helped garrote the rogue with a silken belt taken 
from a Wilderness girl.
    The fellow had kicked like a fish, and it had all been most amusing once 
he'd been caught and dealt with. But Prince's machine had been badly damaged 
when it had struck a banyan root and overturned. That meant they were short a 
cycle, and Prince had to double-ride behind Ariosto.
    Which explained his foul mood on the Potomac run.
    The riverbed was treacherous with boulders and silt-hidden logs, but the 
Borgia riders enjoyed the risk, weaving their machines around each obstacle with 
obvious delight, challenging one another in brief, brutal contests of speed and 
agility.
    Prince took no pleasure in any of this; he was saddlesore, anxious to 
dismount.
    "Camptime!" he yelled. And, one by one, the riders cut power, the whine of 
their jets keening down to silence. Prince eased himself stiffly to the ground 
as Lucrezia, her face tight with fury, roared up to him. She'd been leading the 
riders and was the last to note that the others had stopped.
    "You pisswhelp!" she screamed, and struck Prince across the face with a 
short leather riding crop, splitting his skin. "Nobody calls camptime but the 
leader, and I lead here!"
    Prince whined, nursing his wound. "I'm hungry. My bones ache from riding 
backsaddle. There's no reason not to camp."
    "No reason except I say we don't," said Lucrezia. She raised an imperial 
hand to the others. "Riders up!"
    The outlanders remounted their machines, jump-fired them to life again.
    "You coming--or staying?" the leader asked Prince. He looked defeated as he 
moved toward Ariosto's machine.
     
    Jaq had slept all afternoon and was awake when his mother came to bring him 
water. His throat was dry all the time now, and the water didn't help much--but 
Jess told him he'd be feeling a lot better just as soon as Logan got back with 
the medicine.
    "Do Earth people still die?" he asked her.
    Jess smiled. "Of course. Everyone dies sometime. It's just that there are no 
Sandmen any more to force you to die before your normal time."
    "What's my normal time?"
    "I don't know that, Jaq." She smiled again, but there was a shade of concern 
behind her eyes. "Maybe you'll live to be a hundred. In old, old times some 
people lived that long."
    "On Argos everyone died quickly."
    "That's because they were sick with the plague and had no medicine to cure 
them. You'll be cured when your father brings you the proper medicine." She 
looked at him intently, stroked his hair with tentative fingers. "Are you 
worried about dying?"
    "No," said Jaq. "Just about living and being sick. I hate being sick."
    "Drink your water and try to sleep some more. Until Logan gets back."
    "I'll try," said Jaq. "But I don't think I can sleep until he does. I hope 
he hurries."
    Jessica looked out the window, at the dry Potomac, "I hope so, too," she 
said softly.
    She didn't say what she was thinking--that she felt totally vulnerable 
without Logan, totally alone.
    For no reason at all, a sense of dread was building within her.
    Logan had never seen Arcade like this: empty, silent, colorless. Always the 
Arcade sector of each city pulsed with crowds--citizens eager for sensual 
delights, pouring through these vast pleasure centers in a ceaseless stream, 
seeking bizarre sensations, new thrills ("Come in, citizen, and bathe in living 
flame!")...But now the fire galleries, the Re-Live parlors, glass-houses and 
hallucimills were stark and lifeless.
    Logan moved quickly past a gutted firegallery, striped in shadow and 
smelling of dead charcoal. He angled through a Re-Live parlor, passing tiers of 
dead-metal lifedrawers, moved across a stilled beltway fronting a dust-glazed 
New You and a shattered glasshouse (Pleasure...Satisfaction...Rare Delights...) 
to his goal.
    Nursery.
    Logan drew in a long, cautious breath, expelled the air slowly from his 
lungs. He was here at last.
    He checked the interior. No one inside.
    Slipping past the long lines of coffin-cribs, each holding its tiny white 
skeleton, he moved swiftly for the medshelves.
    They'd been stripped.
    In frustration, Logan slammed his fist against the wall. And realized, in 
the same instant, that he had advertised his presence in the city.
    If they were still here.
    If they had heard the sound.
    Then Logan felt a surge of hope. Despite the fact that the med supplies had 
been stripped, the drug he wanted could have been left behind, since it had no 
value to Scavengers. He began searching--prying open panels, sifting through 
rusting tubes, boxes, hexagonal containers.
    Until he found it. An entire case of it: Sterozine X-cc 6466, ranked in red 
metaloid tubes. Untouched.
    He didn't need much; one canister would be more than enough to cure Jaq. 
Logan selected one, made sure there were no splits in the metaloid casing, then 
slipped it into his tunic next to the Gun cylinder.
    A faint, scraping sound behind him. Logan was motionless. An animal? Cat, 
maybe. Or...
    He turned.
    The Scavengers were there.
    The sun was almost down when Lucrezia saw the mansion. She raised a hand to 
alert the other riders, swinging her jetcyc around in a spume of gravel to face 
the hill. At its tip, riding the waves of high grass, the mansion rose up dark 
against the sky, imposing and grand to behold.
    Lucrezia smiled. A smile of possession.
    The Potomac had produced a prize. 



     
     
CAPTURE
     
    Dakk studied the invader.
    Tall. Well-muscled. A hardness in the eyes. Strong arms. He could be 
dangerous. There was something about his face, something familiar...
    The others were watching Dakk, waiting for the signal. Killing an invader 
was a rare treat. You didn't get many in the cities anymore. At first, a lot of 
them had come in, looking for things they needed, but when they didn't ever come 
out again the word spread fast: keep clear of the Scavengers.
    But now they had a fresh one, and they'd have a fine time with him once Dakk 
gave the signal. A really fine time.
    "How did you get here?" Dakk asked the invader. "We didn't see you, didn't 
hear you?"
    "Does it matter?" said Logan.
    "You better answer all my questions...We run the city now."
    "You don't run it you feed off its corpse?"
    Dakk smiled thinly. "Look, I'm very interested. You're the first one who's 
gotten this far in without us seeing him. I'd like to know how you did it."
    "I have a son," said Logan. "He's eight, and dying. He needs Sterozine. The 
drug's no good to you. No one uses it. No one trades for it. But, right now, it 
can save my son's life. I don't want anything else from you or from the city. 
You can keep it all. Just let me go."
    As he talked, Logan knew it was useless, that his words were empty and 
meaningless to a group of amoral savages--but, for Jaq's sake, he had to try.
    "Aren't you afraid of us?" asked Dakk quietly. "Tell us you're afraid."
    "I'm afraid of you," said Logan.
    "That's good to know." Dakk turned to the: others and smiled broadly. "Shall 
we let him go?"
    They smiled back at him, a wolf pack numbering more than twenty, all young, 
all lean and feral and dressed to fit their name--in scavenged clothing plucked 
at random from the cities. Dakk was typical: he wore the boots of a Sandman, the 
gleaming, scaled bodysuit of a glassdancer; the sash around his head, keeping 
long, blond, uncut hair from his eyes, had belonged to a Wilderness girl he'd 
trapped and killed in Arcade. She'd been looking for her brother, who'd been 
trapped and killed by another pack.
    Now Dakk regarded Logan with mounting interest. This invader was strong and 
healthy; he should provide good sport for them.
    "All right, you can go," said Dakk with a shrug. "But only if you tell me 
how you got this far. It's something I'd really like to know."
    "I came in through a maze tunnel at Level Six," Logan told him. "Used a 
slidechute from DS to Arcade, kept to shadows, walked soft. Satisfied?"
    "You're good--very, good," nodded Dakk. "The others who came in, they 
knocked over things, made a lot of noise. You deserve to go." He smiled again, 
spreading his hands in an open gesture. "So go."
    Logan knew it was a trick. They'd never let an invader leave the city alive. 
It was to be a game with them, running him down before he could find a way out. 
They were the sharks, and it was their sea. If this pack didn't catch him, 
another pack would--since he'd have no time for caution, no chance to run on his 
own terms. But he'd known the odds before coming in to the city. Now he'd 
live--or die--with them.
    So Logan ran.
    And Dakk, smiling, watched him go.
     
    "It's almost dark, and Logan isn't back."
    "Go to sleep, Jaq."
    "You keep saying that. But I can't, Jessica, I told you I can't."
    "He'll come soon, I know."
     
    They were after him already, didn't want to lose him to another pack. But 
Logan had used his ten-second head start to good advantage. Normally, an invader 
would be expected to go for the nearest direct route leading outside--but Logan 
circled, came in behind the nursery, entered the structure again, doubling back 
on a reverse line.
    Which bought him some time.
    He thought of finding a safe spot and settling in until morning. But that 
was no good. By then every pack in the city would be looking for him, and with 
full light to trap him by. No, he'd have to get out now, the best way he could.
    Sleepshop! Logan smiled to himself. Each shop had its own unique exit--a 
chute which led directly to the atomic burnbins at the bottom level of the city. 
When a citizen was put to sleep in a shop his effects were placed in a wall 
canister, bearing his name and number; then his corpse was chuted for burndown. 
The furnaces were dead now, and safe for Logan. Once there, he could slip easily 
out of the city-complex.
    Where was the nearest Sleepshop? None in Arcade; too depressing for joy-bent 
citizens. But since this nursery was just beyond Arcade a shop should be close.
    Logan found one, moving like a drift of smoke along the inner walkways, 
avoiding the belts, keeping alert for Scavengers. He reached the shop, ducked 
quickly inside.
    He paused to listen--and could hear the pack, several quads away, 
frustratedly hunting him.
     
    Dakk was angry. Mainly at himself. He had no business giving this invader a 
ten-second head start. The fellow was clever, or he never would have been able 
to reach Nursery. I should have kept him in sight all the way, Dakk told 
himself. You don't gamble with the smart ones; they can fox you. If we lose him 
for good, Ritter might make his bid for control of the pack. He's been itching 
to take my place. They might even...
    Dakk turned his thoughts away from what the pack might do to him if this 
invader actually escaped the city. It was his job to catch him, kill him. And he 
would.
    "...not in this area," Ritter was saying to the others. He walked over to 
Dakk--a soft-faced, slack-jawed bully, with small pig's eyes, soft and wet. Dakk 
hated Ritter.
    "Any ideas?" he asked Dakk. The tone was bitter, mocking.
    "This one's different. He'll make for a place we wouldn't think of looking," 
Dakk improvised. His thoughts raced: where, where, where?
    Ritter grinned. "And just where would that be?"
    Suddenly Dakk relaxed; a wave of relief and triumph swept through him. "I 
think I know," he said.
    Jessica saw them coming, jetting up from the Potomac. Outlanders. They'd 
want food, any goods of value.
    She stepped onto the pillared veranda.
    I can handle them, she told herself. It will be all right. When they see I 
have nothing they'll leave.
    The cycles flamed out, into silence. Lucrezia dismounted, withdrew a 
longsword from her saddle, raised it. The tall blade captured the rays of dying 
sun, flashing.
    She looked regally at Jessica. Her voice was commanding. "l, Lucrezia, 
daughter of Alexander the Seventh, wife of Alfonso, duke of Ferrara, sister to 
Cesare, duke of Valentinois, do herewith, on this day, claim thy castle, and all 
within it, as mine own."
    She lowered the sword, a signal for the others to dismount.
    Jessica found herself amused at this theatrical display of pomp. She shook 
her head. "You're welcome to the place--but there's nothing of value here for 
you to claim."
    "We'll decide that for ourselves," said Lucrezia, mounting the wide wooden 
steps of the veranda. Prince and the others followed.
    "We have some water, a small amount of food--and little else," said Jess.
    Prince stopped, gave Jessica a long stare. "I want her," he said to 
Lucrezia.
    "Then she's yours."
    Jessica stepped hastily back, toward the inner hallway. Her amusement had 
given way to a pervasive feeling of terror.
    "I'm mated," she said, "My pairman is Logan." His name put sudden strength 
in her voice. "We have a son."
    "Ah..." Lucrezia nodded. "And where is he, this son of yours?"
    "Inside sleeping."
    "And your Logan...Is he inside, too?"
    It was no use lying to them. They could find out the truth easily enough by 
searching the mansion. "He's...gone. To get medicine for our boy."
    "How long will he be gone?" asked one of the females. She was willow-tall, 
with sensuous eyes. Her name was Ris. She, too, looked at Jessica with a special 
hunger.
    "He's due back any time now," said Jessica. "If you try to harm me..."
    Ris swayed her body close to Jessica. Her mouth was pouting. "We won't harm 
you. We just want to--"
    Prince pushed her roughly. "She's mine! You heard Lucrezia." He turned to 
the leader. "Can I take her now?" He fondled Jessica's hair, grinning as she 
flinched away from his touch.
    "Of course, darling," said Lucrezia. She placed the needle tip of a dagger 
playfully against Jessica's throat. "Though you may have to share. Ris seems to 
want her. And we must not forget Ariosto, who allowed you to share his mount."
    "No sharing on this one! I won't!"
    Ariosto chuckled, nodding his large head. He was square, burly-faced and 
viciously stupid. "You will, Prince, you will. If she says so, you will."
    Lucrezia smiled, pleased at the shock and despair on Jessica's face. "We'll 
just have to see who takes you, won't we?"
    And she kissed Jessica deeply, with an open, wet tongue.
     
    Logan had to exert extreme muscular control in negotiating the narrow 
burnchute. It did not operate on antigrav, which meant he could easily lose his 
footing and tumble all the way down into the furnace many levels below. 
Exhausted when he finally reached the floor of the furnace, he staggered, 
bracing himself, on the way to the exit hatch.
    Before he could reach out to disengage the holdrod, the hatch was jerked 
abruptly open from the other side.
    Dakk was there, grinning at him. "We were both smart," he said to Logan. 
"You for choosing this way out and me for figuring you would."
    Logan slumped back against the metal wall of the furnace. "You've won your 
game," he said tightly. "But it isn't over yet," said Ritter.
    The others, clustered in a circle around the furnace, murmured agreement.
    "We have a little gift for invaders," said Dakk, producing a small blue 
pellet from a tooled leather wrist pouch. He handed Logan the pellet.
    "Swallow it," said Baxter 2. He stood behind Ritter.
    "Poison?" asked Logan.
    "No," smiled Dakk. "We're not going to kill you so soon. You heard what 
Ritter said: the game's still on." His voice took on hardness. "Now swallow it."
    Logan knew he had no choice.
    He swallowed the pellet.



     
     
DEATH
     
    And Albert 6 was there, talking to him. A nice surprise for Logan.
    "I love you, Loge."
    Albert sat on his lap. "What'll we talk about today?"
    "What we always talk about," said Logan to the small, serious-eyed figure.
    "Oh, that again."
    "But it's fun to talk about being a Sandman!"
    "For you, maybe, but not for me. I can never be one. I'm just a puppet. When 
you leave they'll put me away in a box."
    Suddenly, Albert fell over.
    "What's wrong?"
    "You killed him," said Dakk. "You killed your little friend. Now you have no 
one. You're all alone."
    Logan began to sweat. "I need to get out."
    "You'll never get out," said Warden. "You're in Hell. And no one gets out of 
Hell. I'm in charge. I ought to know."
    "It's a long way down," Lilith told him. "You have to be careful."
    A mile-deep emptiness yawned beneath him. He didn't trust Lilith. "You don't 
believe I'm running, do you?"
    "You're a Sandman," said Ballard. "Why should anyone believe a Sandman?"
    Karenya 3 put her hand on his groin. She caressed him there in a slow, 
sensuous rhythm, arousing him to full erectness. "Lie back," she said, her lips 
close to his. "Just lie back and see what I can do for you."
    She was nude, her perfect body bathed in gold.
    And green.
    And red.
    And blue.
    And yellow.
    "I have to get to Headquarters. Francis is waiting."
    "No, Francis is dead," she whispered. "Here...touch my breasts."
    "Do as she says," Dakk told him.
    Logan cupped her left breast; it was like cool marble. He lowered his mouth 
to it, laved it with his tongue. It tasted of honey.
    Jessica groaned. "Take me, Logan, take me now!"
    And he entered her in a long, flowing movement, filling her, his weight 
pressing her slim ivory back into the foam.
    "It's all right," said Doyle. "She's my sister, and she loves you. I don't 
mind. Go right ahead."
    "Thank you," said Logan--and began thrusting deeply, withdrawing, thrusting 
again. Until his groans matched hers, until the pressure building within could 
no longer be denied.
    "Wild me, Sandfella!" screamed Graygirl.
    And Logan cried out sharply as his seed spurted into the warm depths of her 
body.
    "That was good, wasn't it?" asked Ritter.
    "Yes," said Logan.
    "Don't move," crooned Box. "Let me capture the moment, let me immortalize 
it." His cutting hand moved in a blur of blue ice.
    Logan grabbed Francis, held him by both shoulders. "There's no use to any of 
it, is there?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "This whole rotten business. We hunt and we kill and we hunt again. Until we 
die or someone hunts us."
    "We're the elite, Logan." Francis smiled, his thin lips drawn back tightly. 
"We have the best of everything...jewels...food...women..."
    Whale laughed at this, his immense belly quaking. "For how long, though? Ask 
him that, Logan. For how much longer?"
    And Box said, "Done!" He looked at Logan. "You may leave now."
    "But where can I go?"
    "That's up to you. Nobody can tell you that."
    "Come with me," said Holly. "You can have a new face."
    "I don't want to change," said Logan.
    "Everyone changes," Holly smiled. "It's the thing to do."
    "She's right," said Dakk.
    "Do it!" said Rutago.
    But he didn't want to lie down on the Table.
    "Relax," said Doc. "Just close your eyes."
    "Not permitted;" said the Autogoverness. "You'll have to leave."
    "Why?" asked Logan.
    "I need not give reasons," she said. "I'm in total control."
    "You're a machine!"
    "Of course," said the Watchman. "And I'm programmed to destroy anyone who 
comes here. Why did you come here?"
    "I had nowhere else to go."
    The Watchman had no face, so Logan could not find a common level of 
communication.
    "You'll be all right," said the girl in glitterskins. "But watch out for 
Francis. He'll try to kill you."
    Harry 7 had the ice dagger, but Logan did not feel its chill. He felt great 
heat. Hazed smoke flowed and billowed around him. His lungs burned and he could 
not catch his breath.
    "Don't fight it, citizen," warned the burning man beside him. "Enjoy it."
    Logan looked down at his body. It was bathed in flame.
    "Fire galleries are enchanting," said the girl in glitterskins. "They 
cleanse one completely. And you need to be cleansed, Logan."
    "Of your sins," said Ballard. "Do you believe in sin, Logan?"
    "No," said Logan. "It's an ancient concept created to control men's minds. 
Manipulation through guilt."
    "I think the only sin lies in hurting others," said Chaney Moon.
    "I don't hurt anyone," said Logan.
    "You use the Gun," said Doyle, with bitterness. "You hunt and kill with it."
    "My job. My duty."
    "Absolutely correct," said Sharps.
    "You twist things."
    "I twist nothing," said Francis.
    Logan turned to face the cubs. Whirling, dodging, ripping at him.
    "I'll cut you good, Sandman!" boasted Charming Billy. "You and your 
runnergirl."
    Jessica took Logan's arm. "He's just a boy."
    "He's a cub!" protested Logan, trying to make her understand. "A savage!"
    But Jess spun away into darkness.
    "Wild me," said Graygirl.
    "Obey me," said Autogoverness.
    "Pose for me," said Box.
    "Listen to me," said Ballard.
    "Change for me," said Holly.
    "Talk to me," said Albert.
    "Trust me," said Lilith.
    "Fear me," said Warden.
    "Run from me," said Francis.
    "Spare me," said Doyle.
    "Cure me," said Jaq.
    "Save me," said Jessica.
    Logan put his hands against his skull and screamed. Soundlessly.
    He opened his eyes.
    "You had a prime lift," said Dakk.
    "We like to watch," Ritter told him. "Never know what'll happen. Always 
interesting."
    "Burn him," another Scavenger said.
    Dakk nodded. "Game's over, Logan. Time to die."
    "Let me," said Ritter, drawing a Fuser from his belt.
    Logan braced himself against the wall of the furnace, waiting for the 
heatcharge.
    Ritter brought up the weapon.
    "Kill him," said Dakk.
     
    "Don't!" screamed Jessica.
    "Do it," Lucrezia commanded. "Kill him!"
    And Prince fired at the boy.
    Jaq took the heatcharge full in the chest, and was flung backward into the 
hallway.
    Jessica ran to him, stared down in horror, hands to her mouth.
    Lucrezia walked up to stand beside her. "He should have stayed in his room, 
not tried to stop us. Still...a sick boy is no good, of no value. We're taking 
you, but we couldn't take him. So let's assume he's better off the way he is."
    "You...monster!" Jessica trembled violently, fists clenched. "You filthy, 
vile--"
    And she clawed at Lucrezia's throat in a killing frenzy. Ariosto and two of 
the others pulled her away.
    "Let's take her and go," said Prince. He kicked over a scrolled rosewood 
table in disgust. It crashed to the floor, sending a hollow echo through the 
mansion. "There's nothing else here."
    Lucrezia rubbed at the skin of her neck, where Jessica's fingers had closed 
around her windpipe. "You'll regret causing me discomfort," Lucrezia said to 
her.
    And she doubled her right fist, smashing it into Jessica's face.
    Prince caught her as she fell.
    "She's yours," smiled Lucrezia. "Treat her well."
     
    "Wait!" shouted Dakk. "Don't fire!"
    Ritter lowered the Fuser, looking sour. "Now what's wrong?"
    Dakk walked up very close to Logan, staring at him with probing intentness. 
"I thought I'd seen him before..."
    "I don't know you," said Logan.
    "But I know you. When I was a cub in the Angeles Complex you came in after a 
runner named Doyle. But we killed him first. We cut him to pieces." Dakk turned 
to the others, his smile flashing. "He's Logan 3."
    A murmur ran the pack. They'd all heard of him--the only Sandman to make 
Sanctuary. He was already a legend.
    Ritter was excited. "Let's show him to the other packs. We can kill him in 
front of them, make a ceremony of his death."
    "No, he goes free," said Dakk flatly.
    "But he's famous!" objected Ritter. "And killing him will make us famous."
    "I said no."
    "Give us a reason," said Baxter 2, who usually backed up Ritter. "A good 
reason."
    Dakk turned on them, fierce-eyed. "Logan killed Charming Billy in Cathedral. 
If he hadn't, Billy would have killed me. I was a threat to him. The other cubs 
supported me, and Billy knew it. So...Logan saved my life. Now I'm saving his."
    "Your reason isn't our reason," said Ritter tightly.
    Dakk measured him coldly. "Challenge?"
    A moment of silent tension between them. Then Ritter sighed, turned away.
    Dakk said to Logan, "Go. The debt's paid."
    Logan nodded.
    "But don't ever come back," Dakk warned. "If you do, you won't leave here 
again. Is that understood?"
    "Understood," said Logan.
    And he left the city.



     
     
GUN
     
    The paravane had not been disturbed. Logan had some difficulty locating its 
exact position in the darkness, but he soon had the brush stripped away and the 
blades cleared.
    Now he'd be able to help Jaq. The drug his son needed was safe inside his 
tunic, and it was a short flight back to their home on the Potomac.
    Rising above the lightless mass of the city, Logan engaged full thrust--and 
the paravane responded smoothly. He'd been gone for most of the day, and Jess 
was probably worried about him, but she'd be overjoyed to learn he'd found the 
Sterozine. He'd been very fortunate with Dakk; by all rights he should be a dead 
man now. Logan had no memory of the dark-eyed leader as a cub. All the young 
ones blended in his mind: soot-faced, ragged, dangerous. But he remembered 
Charming Billy well enough. Thirteen and deadly, on Muscle, with his pride in 
having cut a Sandman.
    Logan had never regretted killing him.
     
    The house was silent as Logan approached it. Only the sound of wind in tall 
grass; of a nightbird, sounding its high, sweet lament.
    "Jess! I'm back!"
    Odd. She should have been watching for him, heard the paravane land, be out 
here to meet him.
    Something's wrong.
    Logan reached the veranda, stopped. The door was open.
    He mounted the steps quickly, entered the hall.
    And stumbled over Jaq.
    Agony twisted Logan's features as he examined the body. Chest charred and 
ripped. Skin like cool wax. No pulse. No heartbeat.
    An odor of cooked flesh in the air.
    Logan let the fact sink into his mind like a heavy stone: Someone had 
murdered his son!
    And where was Jessica?
    He raged through the dark house, calling her name, smashing furniture in his 
frenzy, hurling himself from room to room, a man demented.
    She was gone.
    Logan threw the canister of Sterozine furiously against the steps, stumbled 
into the yard, fell to his knees in the wet grass, sobbing brokenly. He should 
never have left them alone. Damn him! He should have been there to defend them 
against--
    Against who?
    Logan raised his head. His eyes burned with a cold, killing fire. He'd find 
out who. Use his Sandman's training. Analyze the area. Maybe Jess was still 
alive.
    He stood, moved to the veranda and carefully examined the gravel fronting 
the steps. In the marble wash of moonlight he could make out tracks, 
footprints...
    "We saw them," a soft voice behind him said.
    Logan pivoted to face a girl no older than seven. She wore a sunfrock 
trimmed in real flowers and carried a battered talkdoll. She giggled. "This is 
Judee 3," she said, holding up the doll. "And I'm Bet."
    "Who did you see?" asked Logan, fighting to keep his voice level.
    "The beautiful people," said Bet.
    And the doll said, in a matter-of-fact voice, "They were lovely."
    "Tell me everything about them," said Logan, crouching beside Bet, his eyes 
intense on hers.
    "They wore pretty things. Lace and velvet. And hats with long feathers." Her 
voice was slow and dreamy.
    And her doll said, "She's lifted. On C. That's why she's this way."
    "Want one?" asked Bet, giggling sleepily. She withdrew a small capsule from 
her sunpocket. "Give you a prime lift. I use them all the--"
    Logan knocked the drugcap from the little girl's hand, gripped her thin 
shoulders. "Tell me, now, everything you saw!"
    "Judee can tell you," said the girl "Ask her."
    And she giggled.
    Logan slapped her. "I'm asking you!"
    The little girl whimpered as tears brimmed her eyes. "Didn't see much...were 
leaving when we came here..."
    "How many?"
    "Don't know."
    "A dozen," said the talkdoll firmly. "I counted. They rode jetcycs."
    "Outlanders!" breathed Logan.
    "With swords," said the doll. "And daggers."
    "I feel sick," said Bet. "I'm going home now."
    Logan grabbed her, spun her around to face him. "You're not going anywhere 
until I know all you know...Did they have Jess?"
    The little girl looked blank.
    "My pairmate! Did you see them take her?"
    "Yes," whimpered Bet. "They hit her and she fell and they put her on one of 
their cycles and rode off with her."
    "Describe them!"
    "I did already."
    "I told you she's lifted," said the doll. "Ask me if you want accurate 
information."
    Logan stared at the small creature. "Then...you tell me."
    "There were nine males. Three were females, including their leader. I didn't 
hear her name, or anything they said. They were dressed in ancient costumes, all 
lace and velvety. Lovely, as I said." The doll gave him a tiny smile. "Now you 
know what we know."
    And Bet ran off down the road with Judee.
     
    Inside the shadowed house Logan walked into the master bedroom, to a tall 
oak dresser. He slid open the top drawer, removed a leather case, took a holster 
from the case.
    Logan unsnapped the holster, slowly drew out the Gun. Silver barrel. Pearl 
handle. Six chambers. He held it tightly in his hand.
    He removed the ammopac from his tunic, snapping it into place. Immediately 
the Gun glowed, spilling a wash of pale gold across Logan's face and chest.
    I swore I'd never use this again, he reminded himself, but now I'll use it. 
On them. On the ones who killed my son and took Jess. And I'll enjoy using it.
    I'll find them.
    And I'll use the Gun.



     
     
BORGIAS
     
    "We call them the Borgia Riders," said Jonath. He towered over Logan, a full 
foot taller, but without Logan's strength of body. The Wilderness leader was 
gaunt; his flesh hung loose on a bony frame, but his eyes were very alive, dark 
and penetrating.
    They were walking together in warm morning sunlight outside the main camp, 
fronting the Lincoln Memorial. Jonath, in a gray workrobe, sashed at the waist; 
Logan, for the first time since Argos, wearing his Sandman's black tunic, boots 
and belt, the Gun holstered at his right side. He was a hunter once again, and 
he would wear the garb of a hunter.
    "You know them?" Logan asked.
    "I've never encountered them personally," said Jonath. "But some of the 
People have been attacked by them. They killed one of our men, and raped several 
of our women."
    "Their leader's name...do you have it?"
    "She calls herself Lucrezia."
    "Know anything about her?"
    "Only that she seems to possess a cruelty beyond that of most outlanders. 
Human life apparently means very little to her."
    Logan said nothing to this, but his eyes took on a hard shine.
    "Still...Jessica may be alive."
    "There's no reason to hope for that," said Logan flatly.
    "But there is."
    Logan suddenly stopped walking, stared at the Wilderness leader. "What are 
you saying? They'll use her sexually and they'll kill her."
    "Perhaps," nodded Jonath. "But my point is--outlanders often trade the 
females they abduct. A beautiful woman can be quite valuable to them."
    "And you think Jessica might--"
    "--be traded off to a rich man, or to a Market group. Since the breakdown of 
the cities an extensive trade-sale Market has sprung up. Among the most salable 
items, next to certain drugs, are beautiful women."
    "And outlanders have access to these markets?"
    "They're prime suppliers."
    Logan picked up a dry branch, snapped it in frustration. "But I don't know 
where to look. They could be halfway across country by now. I don't even know 
which direction they headed."
    Jonath sat down on the squared base of a broken column which had once formed 
part of an ancient government building, ran his thumb slowly along the veined 
marble. "Logan, do you believe in the magic of the mind?"
    Logan sat down next to Jonath, looked at him. "In what sense?"
    "I believe that the human brain has infinite possibilities--that we've 
barely touched on our potential as fully developed creatures. Before the Little 
War, experiments were being conducted in telekinesis, telepathy, and a dozen 
other inter-related aspects of sensory phenomena. Brain expansion...And one of 
these aspects was clairvoyance."
    "I don't think I--"
    "The ability to summon up visions involving a particular person, place or 
thing."
    "I don't see what any of this has to do with me."
    "There's an old man I've heard of...His name is Andar. He escaped the 
Sandmen. He lives at the tip of a bridge on the western coastline."
    "So?"
    "They call him `The Gifted One' He's physically blind, yet he sees. He's a 
visionary. He can `read' objects."
    "Read them?"
    "Do you have something of Jessica's...a ring she wore...a throat 
jewel...anything of that nature?"
    Logan nodded.
    "Bring it to Andar. Ask him to read its vibrations. If what I've heard is 
true, he might be able to tell you where she is, physically, from his reading of 
the object."
    "That's impossible!"
    "I told you, he's a visionary. His mind is tapped into what he calls the 
`cosmic energy source.' All objects in space are part of this cosmic chain. One 
object gives him a direct link to another."
    Logan stood up. "This sounds insane."
    "But you'll do it...You'll go to him?"
    "Yes," said Logan. "I'll go."



     
     
VISION
     
    On the morning of April 16, 1988, twelve years before the Little War, the 
animals of San Francisco went mad. They howled, circled, twitched in fear...
    Something was happening in the earth.
    It began as a subterranean rumble, a stirring deep below the streets of San 
Francisco. God was clearing his throat. The rumble increased; earthplanes 
shifted; tall buildings swayed. Bay waters danced and rippled.
    Then the people felt it--a movement beneath their feet, a rocking shimmer of 
motion which intensified by the second.
    Earthquake!
    The big one. The one all the seismologists had been predicting for decades. 
The San Andreas was loosing its century-stored pressures, and San Francisco was 
doomed.
    Mass panic. Water mains erupted. Dams split. Boats were lifted and smashed 
against dock pilings. Automobiles were tossed like marbles from bridges and 
freeways.
    And the sounds...The metal thunder of dying buildings; collapsing, tipping 
into the streets in slicing downfalls of stone and glass. The cry of tortured 
earth mixed with the agonized shriek of thousands as the land split wide to 
swallow them, their cars, their houses, their streets and their skyscrapers.
    It lasted all of five minutes (although the after-shocks lingered for 
weeks). Atlantis-like, the city vanished beneath the iceblue waters of the 
Pacific, leaving only scattered island peaks as testimony that a great 
metropolis had once existed here.
    The Golden Gate Bridge was one of these islands.
    Most of the bridge was gone; under the assault of the quake, it had snapped 
its massive cables and whiplashed wildly, splitting its metal seams and plunging 
in to the Bay. But the tip of the fabled structure remained above water, an 
immense tombstone of twisted metal, marking the death of a city.
     
    Logan looked down at the ragged coastline. White-frothed waves beating at 
black rocks, cliffs of sun-washed stone rising up from the ocean's surge. And, 
just ahead, the ruins of the San Fran Complex...
    As a Sandman, Logan had been taught that the only reality was the reality of 
the system, that the power of the Gun, was paramount over the power of the mind. 
Mysticism was the work of demented misfits; it had no basis in fact. Yet, now, 
when he should have been using this precious time to search for Jessica, he was 
following a fool's dream, hoping that a blind old mystic could set him on the 
trail of the Borgias.
    The trip from Washington had been frustrating. A mazecar would have whisked 
him here in minutes--but the overland flight took several days to complete. 
Still, the craft had performed beautifully on its long run, and for that Logan 
was grateful. Gyroparts were hard to come by, and any major repair would be 
difficult to effect.
    He angled the paravane, bringing the ship closer to the water--until he was 
able to make out the rusted-orange South Tower of the bridge thrusting up, 
arm-like, two miles out to sea.
     
    Dia saw him coming. She moved close to her father, as close as she dared. 
"You told me a man would come, my father, and he is here. From the sky. He comes 
in black, like the night. He was once a Sandman. He wears their uniform."
    "They pursued me," said the old man. "But I escaped them. I lived beyond 
their Guns. Now, it will be strange, helping one of them."
    "This one is different. There are tales...He ran, fought the others, and 
killed many of them to save runners. He is called Logan."
    "I help whoever comes to me," said the old man softly. "I make no 
exceptions. We are all one."
    "I see him!" whispered Dia, exaltation in her voice.
    And she raised her blind eyes to the sky.
     
    Descent required precision. The sharply-slanted fifty-foot segment of pitted 
steel offered no level terrain on which to land, and the shifting wind from the 
ocean struck the paravane like a heavy fist, tipping the craft at dangerous 
angles. If one of the blades clipped the bridge...
    Logan set down, finally, cut power. The blades idled and died as he exited 
the control pod. He stood, chilled by the gusting ocean breeze, staring at the 
hut.
    It was metaloid, squarish, much smaller than a city-unit. Crude, in fact. 
Andar and his people must have built it from bridge fragments. But why out here, 
in the middle of nowhere?
    No one came to greet him. Not that Logan expected a formal welcome, but he 
had been told that Andar had two daughters, one of whom was with him. And that 
the old mystic stayed here always. Yet the hut--lashed to the remains of a 
ruptured support cable--was totally silent. It seemed deserted.
    He moved closer, bracing his body against the wind tides. A wrong step on 
the slimed steel surface could take him over the side into the iced Pacific.
    The hut's squat metal door stood open. Logan hesitated, then ducked his head 
and entered.
    Darkness. After the glare of sky and water the dim interior seemed 
impenetrable--yet something glowed like fiery coals at the far end of the 
windowless structure.
    A figure.
    "Come forward, Logan," said the glowing figure.
    Logan obeyed--until Andar's voice halted him.
    "Not too close...Stop now! And do not attempt to touch me. There is no 
danger if proper distance is maintained. Have you been informed of my 
condition?"
    "No," said Logan.
    "I am blind, a victim of atomic fallout. My entire body surface has been 
affected. My skin is radioactive. I no longer feel heat nor cold. My flesh is 
insensitive to pain...Yet I must remain isolated to avoid contaminating others. 
Only my daughters can stay in my presence for long periods. They care for me."
    "I understand," said Logan.
    "Sit down, please. Dia, prepare a cushion."
    A shadow-figure moved toward Logan; he squinted, trying to make out details, 
but his eyes had not yet fully adjusted to the dimness.
    A bodycushion was placed near him. He sat down, sinking into it. "Thanks..." 
said Logan. "I--can't quite see you."
    Musical laughter. "You have eyes, and I am without them yet I see you!"
    "My daughter, Dia," said Andar. "Both of my daughters have been blind from 
birth. They see, however, with the inner eye, and are thus graced."
    "My sister, Liath, is on the shore," said Andar's daughter. "Yet she, too, 
sees you, Logan."
    "Then you share your father's talents."
    "Only to a degree," said the girl. "Even our sight is limited. We cannot 
deep-read vibrational auras as Father can. His gifts differ from ours."
    Logan was now able to make out the girl, seated a few feet away from her 
father. A fall of long golden hair. A lean, curved body. Ivory skin. A delicate, 
piquant face. She wore a long robe of deep crimson, belted under the soft swell 
of her bosom.
    "Now, tell me how I may help you," said the old man. He squatted on the bare 
cold flooring of the hut, totally nude, thin stick legs crossed beneath him, 
hands resting, palms-up, in his lap. His eyes, deep-caved, burned white in a 
narrow, hairless skull, and his glowing skin, stretched loosely over his bony 
frame like parchment illumined from within, was grooved and ravaged by time.
    He was the oldest human Logan had ever seen.
    "My young son was murdered by a group of outlanders called the Borgia 
Riders," said Logan. "They took my pairmate, Jessica." He hesitated. "I want to 
know if she lives, and where she is."
    "And what have you brought me of Jessica?"
    Logan took a small throatclasp from his tunic, started to hand it to Andar.
    "No...place it at my feet."
    Logan did this. He studied the mystic intently, wondering...
    The old man picked up the clasp, spidered his long fingers over it, then 
enclosed the throat jewel in his right fist. He placed that fist against the 
center of his glowing skull, held it there, motionless.
    You have strong doubts that my father can help you...Please, Logan, don't 
doubt him. Allow yourself to trust. He will help you.
    Logan heard Dia's words, yet her lips had remained closed; no sound had 
issued from them.
    A telepath. The only explanation. But, if she is, then is he also?
    No, Logan, my father reads vibrations but he does not read or send thoughts 
as Liath and I do. That is not his gift. You must speak aloud to him, as he to 
you.
    Logan was confused. But I read your mind as you read mine, yet I am not 
telepathic.
    Her answer reached him instantly. You are a parotelepath, which means you 
can mentally converse with one who is fully gifted, such as I am. I saw this 
talent in you the moment you entered my aura. Your mind is rich and strong. It 
could be raised to very high levels.
    These thought messages flickered between Logan and the girl in the space of 
a second, and human speech seemed suddenly cumbersome and unnecessary.
    The old man said, "The vibrations have instructed me. I see your woman 
clearly."
    Logan leaped to his feet. "Jessica's alive?"
    "Sit down...listen to my words. Let me give you my sight."
    Logan obeyed, heart pounding.
    Andar spoke slowly. "She is with those you call the Borgia Riders. 
They...treat her unkindly, yet she lives."
    "Where are they?" said Logan tightly. "Where do they have her?"
    "That I cannot say," Andar told him. "My mind does not show me their 
location in exact terms."
    "What terms then?" Logan's tone was demanding. "Tell me what you see!"
    Anger will not help you, Logan. Trust him. Allow him to guide you. Anger and 
impatience will only block the reception of my father's vision.
    Logan knew she was right. But it was almost impossible for him to be calm at 
this moment.
    "I...receive many impressions...I see..." Andar's head fell forward on the 
thin stalk of his neck; he placed the tips of his fingers against his skull. His 
voice became high and lilting, as if in song, the words spaced and rhythmic:
    "Where...the rockets die...
    and gantrys tilt...
    against the sky...
    where the plain is wide...
    you will hear their cry...
    as the Borgias ride."
    Logan drew in a long breath. "The Cape!" he said. "Cape Steinbeck in the 
Florida Keys. They must have a base there."
    But Andar said nothing more. His head remained down, chin resting against 
his bony chest. His long hands were once again folded and motionless in his lap.
    My father sleeps. The use of his gift has tired him. You must go, Logan. He 
has told you all he can.
    "It's enough," said Logan. "I can find them now!"



     
     
STEINBECK
     
    A bleak plain of broken tarmac.
    Rusting rocket gantrys.
    Deserted bunkers.
    Raw concrete blockhouses.
    The Cape.
    With the paravane out of sight beyond the open area, Logan moved steadily, 
at twilight, across the flat, weed-dotted plain of lifeless gray concrete.
    He'd been here before when the Cape was alive and the Sanctuary rockets had 
flamed up for Darkside. Ballard had saved his life here--and, a decade later, 
had given his own to save others. A great man. A legend. Logan recalled the 
folkchant they used to sing about him...
    He's lived a double lifetime,
    And Ballard is his name.
    He's lived a double lifetime.
    Why can't we do the same?
    Ballard's lived a double lifetime,
    And never felt no shame.
    Think of Ballard.
    Think of Ballard.
    Think of Ballard's name...
    When the Sandmen had hit the Cape they'd destroyed all of Ballard's rockets 
in order to smash the Sanctuary Line. Logan passed them, the charred lifeships 
rusting in the Florida heat, their hulls ruptured by nitro blasts. These were 
the ships bound for Argos, ships which would have provided the vital supplies 
the space station needed to sustain life. In destroying them, the Sandmen had 
destroyed Argos as well.
    But it was difficult for him to think of Argos, of the ships, even of 
Ballard...Logan's mind was focused on the job he had to do here--and one 
question hammered at him, obsessed him: is she still alive?
    He knew the outlanders were here; he'd seen the glint of their jetcycs, 
rayed by dying sun, as he swung the paravane over the Cape. Now, he had a goal: 
the metal corpse of a giant freight rocket. She'd been designed for the 
Earth-to-Luna run, and they'd named her Pequod, after Ahab's fabled ship. Her 
ocean was space, her Whale the great white bulk of the Moon. She'd been the main 
link between Earth and the Darkside Colony before the station had been closed 
down and space travel aborted after the Little War.
    And how does this proud star mammoth end her days? thought Logan. As 
headquarters for a depraved gang of psychopaths. Well, I'll flush the vermin 
from her metal cells. When I'm done today she'll be clean again.
    Logan approached the Pequod at a defensive angle, staying close to the line 
of concrete bunkers, keeping inside the deeply cast twilight shadows. He could 
not afford being seen by any of the outlanders until he was actually inside the 
ship. From the air, Logan had counted more than ten cycles ranged outside the 
rocket, which meant he'd face up to a dozen riders. And beyond that, he didn't 
want to risk endangering Jessica if she was still their prisoner; they'd use her 
to stop him if they got the chance.
    Logan had the Gun in his hand, feeling the power of the weapon. The hunter, 
again closing on prey...
    Now, for the first time in many days, he allowed his mind to linger on the 
image of Jaq, stretched lifeless in the dark hallway of the Potomac house, 
victim of a rider's gun. He wanted to think of Jaq now, wanted to prime himself 
with fury, with vengeance fire...Build the hate! Build the fury!
    They'd posted one of the riders as an outside guard. The fellow was big, 
rough-featured, dressed in a slash-velvet bodyshirt and laced Italian leggings; 
a heavy gold chain around his waist supported a holstered Fuser.
    Logan ducked into a shadowed doorway, crouching there, wondering if he'd 
been seen.
    He had the advantage, since the guard was obviously not expecting attack, 
lounging against one of the parked cycles, drinking from a chased-silver wine, 
flask, sleepy-eyed and half drunk.
    Logan dropped him with a single blow, delivered from behind, just at the 
base of the rider's neck. The kill was soundless and brutally efficient.
    Logan looked coldly down at the body, thinking: did you kill my son? He 
plucked the Fuser from the guard's chainbelt. A weapon like this did it. Maybe 
you were the one. Maybe.
    Sound from within the rocket. Laughter. Wild, drunken voices. Good. They 
were having a party, meaning their reaction time would be sharply reduced by the 
intake of wine. He'd burn through them like god's lightning.
    But where was Jess?
    Locked away in another part of the ship? Sold or traded? Dead?
    Logan would soon know.
    Gun in hand, he moved into the rocket, toward the sound of Borgia laughter.
    The Pequod was immense. Tier upon tier of storage compartments, a welter of 
cabins and intersecting walkways. Her hull was buttressed with great, 
curved-steel ribs, supporting a metal hide tough enough to deflect a direct hit 
by meteor. Built to last ten thousand years...and looking almost as new inside 
as the day they built her.
    As Logan penetrated deeper into the great skyship he checked all of the 
compartments en route. No sign of Jessica.
    But Andar had seen her here...
    Closer now to the riders and their drunken revels.
    Logan faded behind a bulkhead, flattened himself against the durosteel wall; 
someone was coming toward him. He waited.
    It was one of the outlanders, probably sent to relieve the outside guard.
    As he passed the bulkhead Logan snaked an arm around the man's neck, pulled 
him into an adjoining crew compartment. The rider's eyes bugged under Logan's 
killing pressure; he could not breathe.
    "Talk to me or I'll kill you." Logan eased the pressure slightly.
    "Wha'--what do you want?"
    "The woman you took by the Potomac, in Old Washington...is she here?"
    "No...not here."
    "Where then?"
    The rider twisted loose, going for the Fuser at his waist.
    Logan broke his back.
    He should have talked to me. But I would have killed him anyway.
    He stepped over the rider's sprawled corpse. Logan had two burnweapons, plus 
the Gun. The odds against him no longer mattered.
    More laughter. He was almost on top of them. Another fifty feet, then an 
open hatchway. They were inside the main galley, at a long cooktable, eating, 
drinking wine--oblivious to the stalking hunter in black.
    When Logan appeared in the hatchway all sound and movement ceased. He had 
holstered the Gun, and held a Fuser in each hand. "All weapons--on the table," 
he said.
    There were nine riders facing him, two of them female. The men were armed 
with Fusers, the women daggers. They put these carefully on the cooktable, 
moving slowly, watching Logan. His face told them he was walking death.
    "Which one of you leads?"
    "I do," said Prince. There was a note of defiance in his voice. No one at 
the table challenged his statement.
    Logan burned him down. Both barrels.
    "Now," he said to the other eight riders. "I want to know about the female 
you took from the house on the Potomac. Who wants to tell me about her?"
    The outlanders were stunned. They looked from Logan's eyes to the dead, 
blackened body of Prince.
    "She wanted to come with us," said Ariosto.
    "Begged us to take her along, so we--"
    A double blaze of burnfire. Ariosto crumpled forward across the table.
    There was a smell of charred meat in the room.
    "Someone else," said Logan in a dead level tone. "Talk. But only the truth."
    The others were pale, slack-lipped, knowing that death was a heartbeat away 
for all of them.
    "Prince wanted her...for himself," one of the females said, her voice 
unsteady. She kept wetting dry lips with her small, pink tongue.
    "Prince?"
    She nodded toward the first body.
    "Go on."
    "So we took her along. She was valuable. When...when Prince was...finished 
with her we...we knew we could get a good price for her on the Market."
    "Who killed the boy?"
    "Prince. With a Fuser."
    "Where is the woman now?"
    "After Prince took her here, Lucrezia decided to--"
    "Lucrezia?" Logan looked at the other female, Ris. "That you?"
    Ris shook her head, staring at him.
    "Then who are you?"
    Before an answer could be given one of the males hinged for a tabled Fuser, 
brought up the weapon in a short arc, triggered a laserburst.
    Logan was hit in the right shoulder. The charge singed his flesh, and pain 
lanced his upper body. He dropped the weapon in his right hand as the arm went 
numb with shock. One of the females grabbed a dagger. Two other males had 
weapons now, and were firing at Logan.
    They missed.
    It was over very quickly. In a pain-blurred rage, Logan killed them all, 
staggered out into a passageway, collapsed against a metaloid strut. The second 
Fuser clattered to the ship's deck. He put back his head; a tight groan escaped 
his lips. The pain in his right shoulder was incredible. Fire lived in his 
flesh.
    He knew he was vulnerable. He knew that the rider named Lucrezia was 
somewhere in the ship. But, at this second in time, he was incapable of active 
movement. The shock to his system was profound.
    Logan slumped sideways to the deck. He raised his left fist, bit hard into 
the round of muscle below the thumb. To provide a new pain center, to counteract 
the blaze of agony from his shoulder.
    He heard Lucrezia.
    A scraping of feet, coming swiftly down a crew ladder from an upper 
ship-level. She'd be armed. And, if he stayed like this, she'd kill him.
    Get up! His mind shouted at frozen muscles. Unholster the Gun! Can't. You 
can!
    Only seconds now and she'd be here. He fumbled his left hand awkwardly over 
his belt, raised the holster flap, began dragging the Gun free.
    He had it pointed at her when she rounded a final bend in the corridor. And 
he'd been right; she was armed--with a silver dagger of tempered Florentine 
steel.
    "Drop it," said Logan tightly, looking up at her. He still could not stand.
    "You're Logan, aren't you?" asked Lucrezia. She dropped the dagger--and 
smiled.
    A beautiful woman. Deadly and beautiful. Her long court gown, cut low at the 
bodice, flowed with lace, stitched gold and silver.
    "I'm Logan," he admitted.
    "The others didn't think you'd follow us. I did. I thought you'd be here 
eventually."
    "I'm here."
    "Are they all--" She nodded toward the galley.
    "All of them," he said.
    She smiled again. "Just as well. They were a stupid lot. You can let me go. 
You have nothing to gain by killing me now."
    "Why should I let you go?"
    "In trade for information. About your Jessica."
    Logan stirred, jaw tightening. "Tell me."
    "Not unless you promise I can leave this ship alive."
    "I make no promises to a Borgia!"
    She shrugged, adjusted the hem of her gown. "Then kill me. And never learn 
the truth about your woman. I'm the only one who can tell you that truth."
    "How do you know I won't kill you anyway?"
    "You are a man of honor. I've heard about you, Logan. If you make a bargain, 
you keep it. Say you'll let me live and you'll have your truth."
    "All right. You live."
    She nodded. "Jessica is dead."
    Dead.
    The word almost blinded Logan with pain. His shoulder was nothing. Only the 
word was pain. And pain. And pain.
    "How?"
    "Prince killed her and burned the body. We came here with Jessica, intending 
to put her on the Market. But she was...stubborn. She caused trouble. Prince 
grew very angry with her. I couldn't do anything about it. I tried to save 
her--call it greed if you will but unfortunately I did not succeed. I thought it 
a waste."
    She turned away, began moving toward the outer hatch.
    Logan watched her go.
    Die, you inhuman bitch!
    He triggered the Gun.
    And the homer sang out.



     
     
INTERIM
     
    Logan did not remember flying the paravane back to Old Washington. The trip 
was blank and meaningless to him.
    If he had found Jessica they could have shared the shock of their son's 
death together. Each would ease the other's loss, make it bearable. But Jess, 
too, was dead.
    And Logan withdrew into himself as a sea creature withdraws into its shell. 
He talked to no one at the Wilderness camp. He was mute and removed from the 
rhythms of their life.
    Even Jonath could do nothing to bring Logan out of this self-imposed 
isolation.
    The colony was struggling for bare survival. Food was hard-won from the 
earth; the carefully-nurtured crops gave meager reward for intense, protracted 
labor. Yet they were surviving, and that counted for something. With Jonath to 
guide them, the colony maintained a fragile wilderness stability.
    Under his direction, the People had hollowed out a series of shallow caves 
below the Lincoln Memorial, and it was here, when cold and rain assaulted them, 
that they held out against the elements.
    Logan's shoulder wound healed, but he never left the caves. He existed as an 
exile in the camp, sharing no labors, taking no part in the brief celebrations 
marking the birth of a new colony infant. He ate very little, and drank only 
when his tissues demanded water.
    For Logan, the level of despair had reached maximum intensity; reality, 
without Jessica, was intolerable. He had to totally withdraw--but he needed help 
to do it.
    One night, very late, with the camp asleep, he went to Jonath. The leader 
was sitting alone in his quarters under the Memorial, arranging seed pods for 
planting.
    "I want them now," Logan said.
    "No," the leader told him. "I can't, Logan."
    "I can find Jess with them. It's the only way I'll ever have of finding her 
again. You know that."
    "But in the dosage you propose the drugs are very dangerous. You'll be drawn 
completely into the past. Your body will be here, with us, but your mind..." He 
shook his head.
    Logan said nothing.
    "If you go back," said Jonath, "you may never emerge again, never regain 
present reality."
    "I reject that reality," said Logan.
    "And we don't know what the side effects will produce. No one has ever 
attempted to--"
    "I want them," said Logan flatly.
    "Even if I said yes, that you could have them, our supply here at the camp 
is limited. We use R-11 for medical aid, to ease mental pain, but in very small 
dosages. We couldn't spare anything like the amount you're asking for."
    "Then I'll get it elsewhere," said Logan. "On the Market."
    "That's your decision," nodded Jonath. "And I'd call it a very unwise one." 
His eyes held sadness. "I hate to see you do this, Logan."
    "What difference does it make what I do?" Logan snapped. "I'm dead already 
without Jess. She's lost to me now, but she's still alive in my mind. With Jaq. 
All the years we had together are there. I want them back. I must find my wife 
and son again--and this is the only way."
    "I still don't agree with what you're doing, but I understand it." Jonath 
sighed. "Do you know anything about the Market, how to contact it?"
    "No, but it should be simple."
    "Getting R-11 won't be. I know. I've tried to get it for the camp."
    Logan was amazed. "You...on the Market?"
    "The People are my responsibility," said Jonath. "I'll deal with anyone to 
help them."
    "All right, so it won't be simple. How do I get R-11?"
    Jonath hesitated. "I shouldn't be helping you do this to yourself."
    "You'll help me."
    "Only because there's no stopping you--whether I help or not."
    "I'm glad you realize that," said Logan. His face was set.
    "You'll have to go to the New York Complex.. You'll never be able to get the 
amount you want locally."
    "Who do I see there?"
    "I don't know. But I can direct you to someone who does."
    Jonath gave Logan the information.
    By morning, the paravane was airborne.



     
     
RAWLS
     
    Summer heat in the Carolinas. Insect weather. Humid. Intense. A draining of 
the spirit. A punishment. Worse now, since the cities died. No way to escape the 
scalding air. No coolvents, no frostflow piped into snug lifeunits. Just the 
heat, lying heavy on Carolina earth, sapping energy and the will to move.
    Rawls 7 hated it, cursed it. But without legs, you don't do much traveling. 
People came to him; he didn't go to them. And Darlington, South Carolina, was 
where they came.
    Rawls hated more than the weather. Most of all, he hated being a cripple. 
When the Complex died he'd been trapped in a slideway; two of the knife-edged 
friction belts had snapped, lashing at him like thick steeloid snakes. The main 
belt caught him just below the waist, slicing off both legs with the precision 
of a Mark J Surgeon. Miracle he didn't bleed to death. Another citizen had used 
medseal on him, and that stopped the bleeding in time. But the legs were gone.
    Females wouldn't touch him now. Called him a freak. What irony! Rawls, the 
glasshouse king, whose sexual exploits had been the talk of Arcade--reduced to a 
loveless cripple.
    But, as a prime touchman on the Market, Rawls still had power. He was 
shrewd. He knew how to finger things people wanted, knew the wheres and the hows 
and the whos. If you wanted a hard-to-find item in the Market you came to Rawls. 
To the small shack squatting in humid heathaze on the Daytona Turnpike.
    As Logan did.
    "Jonath sent me," he said to the legless man. "I need R-11, a lot of it, and 
he said you'd know where to get it."
    Logan stood just inside the doorway. The place smelled foul--and the 
stubble-bearded little man on the dented groundcart exhaled the same fetid odor.
    "How much do you need, citizen?"
    "A quantampac. Full dex."
    Rawls rubbed the stump of his right leg with grimed fingers. "You know, I 
can still feel the whole damn thing. Clear to the toes. Knee, muscles, 
tendons...Left one, I can't feel. Just the right one. But they're both gone. How 
do you figure a thing like that?"
    "I don't," said Logan. He waited, looking steadily down at Rawls. "Well?"
    "Can't get a quantam short of NY," he said.
    "I'll go there," Logan said.
    "Why do you need so much?"
    "That's my business."
    "Going to use it yourself?"
    "Maybe."
    "Long lift in a guantam," mused Rawls, scrubbing at the stubble on his 
cheek. "Long, long lift."
    "I know what I need," said Logan. "You just tell me where to get it."
    Rawls palmed a powerstud on his skimmer, and the rusted groundcart flowed 
him to a corner of the room. He attempted to open the lower drawer of a cabinet. 
The door wouldn't budge. Rawls banged at it with the heel of his right fist. 
"Heat swells the wood, makes it stick," he told Logan. "Heat ruins everything."
    Logan watched him, his face expressionless.
    Rawls finally got the drawer open, scrabbled inside for a black, lifeleather 
foilbook. Then he wheeled back to Logan.
    "In here," he said, tapping the book, "I've got the name of a contact who 
can sell you as much R-11 as you need. But first..."
    "You want to be paid."
    "Exactly."
    "I was told you could use these." And Logan opened a tab-box, shook several 
magnetic skinjewels onto a wooden table. "With each mood, an individual's body 
chemistry is altered, and these change color to reflect that mood. They belonged 
to--" (Jessica. I can see her wearing them.) "--a female I knew. Skin-jewels 
were quite popular in the Angeles Complex."
    "Heard about them," said Rawls. "Never saw any." He plucked a shining red 
heartstone from the table. It deepened to a festered green in his hand. "How 
many have you got?"
    "These. No more."
    "And what will you use for trade in New York?"
    "That's not your concern," said Logan. "Do we have a deal or don't we?"
    Rawls swept up the stones, quickly pocketed them. "Your contact," he said, 
handing Logan a foilslip from the book. "Show this when you get there."
    Logan took it, started out.
    The legless man followed him, wheeling from the shack into bright sunlight. 
"I can always use more of these," he said as Logan walked toward the paravane.
    Rawls shaded his eyes against the heat-scald, receiving no answer. He 
watched the black-garbed figure climb into the control pod, activate the blades. 
Debris whipped and danced around the cripple in the agitated air as the paravane 
built power.
    The craft lifted, was gone.
    Rawls shifted the stones inside his pocket with slow fingers.
    In the heat, his missing right leg began to ache.



     
     
GIANT
     
    Logan had taken a mazecar to the New York Complex on leave from DS school 
when he was sixteen to pairmate with a female who lived there. She was an older 
woman of twenty, a year away from Sleep and into young Sandmen. Gonzales 2 had 
told Logan about her, told him she was something really special. Chinese. 
Sexually astonishing.
    Gonzales had been correct. Her voracious sensual appetites had drained 
Logan, left him anxious to return to duty. The pleasure with her had been so 
intense it was akin to pain. New York was different then: glittering, swarming 
with citizens, a world mecca for exotic living.
    Now it was a dark ruins.
    But it had something Logan wanted far more than he had wanted the Chinese 
girl. It had R-11.
     
    In 1997, when Mayor Margaret Hatch had ordered the Central Park fill-in, 
construction of the Green Giants had begun. Taking their name from the fact that 
they were replacing the last bit of open greenery in New York City, the Giants 
were designed to accommodate three million, a bold step in reducing the city's 
acute housing crisis. In height, they were taller than the Empire State and each 
was a self-contained miniature city, with every comfort and convenience. To get 
space in one, you hocked your soul, and signed a lifetime lease.
    The first three-mile complex was a converted Giant. But, eventually, the 
outdated skytowers were torn down and replaced.
    Nostalgia prevailed. As a memorial to the past, one of the Green Giants was 
allowed to remain standing, dwarfed by the three-mile city dwellings around it.
    Yet it lived again when the Thinker died. Its precomputerized, 
self-contained power units were quickly utilized, and it became the hub in 
cross-state Market operations, a mighty storehouse-headquarters, humming with 
activity. After more than a century of obsolescence, it was now the only living 
structure in a dead city.
    Logan came to the Giant for R-11.
     
    Jonath had told him that he would have no trouble with Scavengers in New 
York. This was one city they did not control. "The Marketers are in charge 
there," Jonath had said.
    "Who are they exactly?"
    "Mostly ex-DS. A few key merchantmen. They keep the Scavengers in line. The 
city's wide open."
    Flying over it at night, Logan got the impression of a vast, lightless range 
of man-made mountains, upthrusting peaks of steel and glass. Dominating the 
interior of the city, with flamebright gaudiness, standing two thousand feet 
above street level, light flooding out from its metal pores, stood the Green 
Giant.
    As he swept over the shining structure, pinlights found his craft. Two 
Market patrolships soared up from the roof of the building to circle Logan, 
guiding him to a setdown on the Giant's illumined skyport.
    Logan cut power, exited to the roof.
    "No weapons allowed," a tall man in gray said to him. The Market guard 
carried a belted Fuser. His eyes were humorless.
    Logan nodded, placed his holstered Gun inside the paravane, sealed the 
magnetic lock. "How long can I leave my ship here?" he asked.
    "As long as you have business inside," said the guard. "We'll keep an eye on 
it."
    "Thanks," said Logan.
    Another gray-clad guard walked up to him as he neared the entrance shaft. 
"Name?"
    "Logan 3."
    "Seeing who?"
    "Lacy 14."
    "You'll need a contact pass."
    Logan handed him the foilslip he'd obtained from Rawls. The guard studied it 
for a moment, notched one corner with a foilpunch, handed it back.
    "Go ahead," he said, activating the shaft release.
    Logan stepped inside.
    The interior corridors shimmered with light; this intensity of artificial 
illumination stunned Logan. He'd seen nothing like it since the days of Arcade. 
Because the Giant was able to generate its own electricity, and had never 
depended on the Thinker for power, the death of the great computer had not 
affected it. Restoration had been relatively simple--and now this 
city-within-a-city was functioning at peak efficiency after long years of 
darkness. Indeed, a sleeping Giant had awakened to serve new masters.
    Although the outer surface of the building glowed beacon-bright, the 
majority of its two hundred floors were dark; the Market occupied only the 
Penthouse area, and the three floors just beneath for storage. The Giant was 
private, off-limits, except to those who ran the Market, and to the few special 
customers allowed to deal inside for high-grade goods. Such as R-11.
    At the end of the corridor another guard stopped Logan. Same gray uniform. 
Same eyes. The hard look of the Sandman. Ex-DS, fitting their new roles as skin 
fits muscle.
    "Pass," said the guard.
    Logan produced the notched foilslip.
    The guard pressed a section of wall. A door oiled back.
    "Keep moving," said the guard.
    Another corridor. Much shorter.
    Logan faced a heavy flexcurtain, woven entirely from gold mesh. The curtain 
stirred, folded back.
    "Come in, Logan 3."
    A woman's voice. Sensual. Low-pitched.
    Logan entered a chamber draped in silks and lit by firebirds. The small, 
feathered creatures, whose metallic bodies pulsed with inner light, swooped in 
glowing arcs around the large center room, settling, strutting, ruffling their 
multicolored plumage...
    Logan hesitated, scanning the room. He saw no one. Only the birds, like 
moving fire jewels.
    Then the woman appeared, rising from one corner of the chamber. She had been 
lying on a fall of snowpillows and, in standing, seemed to materialize from the 
room itself, seemed made of silks and smoked ivory
    Her body was perfection--a rich orchestration of scented peaks and soft 
valleys, tautly accented by the white flowgown she wore. A cat-emerald burned at 
her throat.
    "I'm Lacy 14," she said.
    "Since you know my name," said Logan, "I assume you also know what I came 
for."
    A firebird fluttered to her shoulder and she stroked the glowing plumage, 
her large green-black eyes fixed on Logan.
    "Why so abrupt?" she smiled. "I never conduct business without getting to 
know my buyers. Sit down, Logan."
    Snowpillows. A soft peltrug of worked silver. No couch or chairs. Logan sat, 
adjusting one of the larger pillows at his back.
    "Much better," said Lacy. "Drink?"
    "No."
    "I insist. I have a really excellent fruitwine from Spain which is 
impossible to duplicate," she told him.
    Logan nodded. "Since you insist"
    She brought him the wine, settled next to him. "Let us drink to the 
satisfactory conclusion of pleasure."
    Logan was edgy, off-balance; he had expected a hard-faced Marketer who would 
waste no time, no words. He'd expected to deal quickly and be gone without 
ceremony. But, instead, here was Lacy...
    Logan tasted the wine, allowing the smoked flavor to permeate his tongue. 
"You're right," he said. "This is excellent."
    "I've heard about you, Logan."
    "What have you heard?"
    "That you sought out and destroyed the Borgias. Alone, at Steinbeck. One 
against twelve. Is it true?"
    "It's true," said Logan. "But I'm not going to talk about it."
    "That's not necessary," she smiled. "You're obviously a man of great 
passion. I've...been waiting for someone extraordinary."
    Logan slipped a sack of Mooncoins from his belt.
    "All I want here is what I came to get," he said. "A quantampac of R-11"
    "That will be produced in due course. After you've earned it.",
    "I have these," he said, handing her the Mooncoins. "There's nothing like 
them on Earth."
    She put the sack aside, unopened. "We'll deal with these later. I come 
first."
    Logan was suddenly angry.
    "Get a merchantman to penetrate you," he said: "Or one of your ex-DS. They 
all have fine bodies. They'll do a very satisfactory job."
    She laughed, a throaty sound, deep and assured. "I don't want you--or any 
other male," she told him. "I never allow a man to touch me. Ever."
    "Well, what do you want?"
    "Follow me and find out." She stood, putting aside her wine.
    Logan got up. "Can't we just--"
    "This way," said Lacy. "If you want the pac, you do as I say."
    Sighing, Logan followed her out of the chamber.
    They moved together down a short hallway. Lacy opened a mirrored door, 
beckoned Logan forward.
    The room he entered was a large bedchamber, draped in crimson and gold. Soft 
lights shone through the draperies, and at least half of the floor area was 
occupied by two deep, expansive flowbeds.
    "Recline," said Lacy. "On the farther bed. I'll take this one."
    Logan did as she asked. What did she have planned for him?...
    Lacy kept her eyes on Logan as she touched a magclasp at her neck; the gown 
fell away from her body in a soft spill of white. "Am I not beautiful?" she 
asked him.
    "You are," he said.
    Her breasts were coned and delicate, tapering to a waist which swelled to 
perfect hips and long, superbly-muscled legs. "Many men have desired me. Do you 
desire me, Logan?"
    "At another time, in another place..."
    She draped herself across the bed, facing his, cat-smiled at him. "I am not 
your concern here," she said. "You shall provide a show...for my stimulation."
    "I don't understand."
    She clapped her hands sharply.
    The drapes parted at the rear of the chamber.
    There were three of them. All nude. All beautiful. All black-skinned and 
full-figured and arousing. Perfect females, who would have been the pride of any 
glasshouse from Moscow to Paris.
    "They're for you, Logan," said Lacy. "And you are for them."
    "You expect me to-"
    "Pleasure them. That's what you shall do if you want to please me. And if 
you do not please me, you will not get the thing you came for."
    She turned to the girls. Her eyes were bright and hot. "Undress him," she 
said. "Caress him. Erect him."
    They swayed toward Logan like dusky flowers.
    So this is how she obtains her satisfaction? All right, Logan told himself, 
I'll do as she asks. I'll give her a show. And I'll enjoy what I'm doing. I'll 
steep myself in warm flesh...lose myself in sexuality.
    Indeed, why not?
    And Logan took them into his arms.



     
     
PEARL
     
    Logan followed Lacy 14 down the short hallway. As they entered her living 
quarters a firebird settled on Logan's shoulder, splashing his face with vivid 
colors. He shook the bird off, and the creature wing-whispered away.
    "I did what you asked," he said to Lacy.
    "A splendid performance," she agreed. She was wearing the white gown once 
again, and it billowed as she turned.
    "Do I get the pac now?"
    "Let me see what you've brought." She picked up the sack of Mooncoins, 
spilled them into her hand. They were round, bright, stamped with Moon symbols.
    "I brought them down from Darkside," said Logan. "You won't find any others. 
Anywhere."
    "They're...attractive," she said. "I can use them. But they won't pay for a 
full dex. Not of R-11."
    Logan flushed with anger. "I did what you asked with the females..."
    "And enjoyed yourself handsomely in the process," she said.
    "Wasn't that what you wanted to watch me pleasuring them to pleasure 
yourself?" He tightened his jaw. "I've given you all I have. Everything."
    "Not everything," she said.
    "What's left?"
    "Your paravane. It should fetch a good price. I'll take the coins, and your 
ship." She smiled. "You know, I'm really being generous about this. You're here 
alone, unarmed. Normally, I would just have my men take your ship and give you 
nothing in return. But...since you've...amused me, I'm willing to turn over the 
drug."
    "I can't get back to camp without my ship," said Logan. "And I need Jonath. 
It's impossible to take R-11 without someone to--"
    "Take it here," said Lacy. "I'll provide a liftroom for you, and see to your 
needs."
    Logan considered it. There was nothing left for him in Old Washington. Why 
not stay here in the New York Complex? One city was no better or worse than 
another now, without Jess.
    "I accept," said Logan.
    "There's risk in a full dex," said Lacy. "It could kill you."
    Logan said nothing.
    "There's no body or mind control with such a high dosage," she said. "You're 
at the mercy of the drug."
    "I want maximum lift," said Logan. "A full re-live. And only a dex will give 
me that."
    "Your decision," shrugged Lacy. "Get whatever personal belongings you have 
in the ship, then come back here. I'll have the R-11."
     
    He hated losing the paravane.: It was a high price to pay. Still, Lacy could 
have simply taken it, as she said: In dealing with the Market there were no 
guarantees. You took what they gave you.
    Logan had the Gun when the guard said, "You can't go back inside with that." 
His name was Stile, and he captained Lacy's men. Huge. Slab-bodied. Cruel-faced.
    "Lacy made the deal," said Logan. "She gets the ship and I get my personal 
belongings. This is mine. It goes with me."
    Stile looked sullen. "All right...I'll make an exception this time," he 
said. "But keep it holstered."
    "Couple of Fusers in there you can have," said Logan. "They were never mine 
to begin with."
    He fixed the Gun holster to his belt.
    There was nothing else. The ship was theirs now. As the R-11 would soon be 
his.
     
    The small liftroom was stark and empty, dun-colored, without ornament or 
decoration. Four walls, a floor and a ceiling. No windows or vents.
    "You'll need this," Lacy said, and gestured. A gray-clad guard dumped a 
bodymat, quickly unrolled it. The mat covered the floor, wall to wall.
    "What about oxygen?"
    "Enough. The room's not sealed."
    "I'll need water."
    "At necessary intervals. Pelletgun...directly in to your system."
    "I don't want to be observed," said Logan.
    "You won't be," said Lacy. "But if you convulse...
    "No observation. Just the injections...water when I require it. Agreed?"
    "Agreed."
    "The drug?" asked Logan.
    From her belt, Lacy withdrew a small silver disc. She pressed its center and 
the disc released a single milky-white pearl. It rolled, catching the light, in 
the palm of her hand.
    "Hard to believe that's a full dex," said Logan.
    She smiled. "You've never used R-11?"
    "No," he admitted.
    "A normal dosage is almost microscopic," she told him. "This is a quantam, 
full-dex strength. Usually this much R-11 is broken into powder, administered in 
several stages. I've never seen anyone take a pearl."
    "The Re-Live drawers died with the cities," said Logan. "This is the only 
way left to go back."
    "Is going back that important?"
    "Yes," said Logan. "It's that important."
    She looked at him for a long moment, then handed him the pearl.
    "Just place it in the middle of your tongue," she said. "Let it dissolve 
directly into the tissue. It's effective immediately after ingestion."
    And she left him.



     
     
LIFT
     
    Logan brought up the pearl, holding it between the thumb and index finger of 
his right hand; he studied it in the subdued light of the room. Harmless 
looking. Beautiful in its simple perfection.
    But potent. Very, very potent.
    The surface-distortion drug he'd been given by the Scavengers was Candee 
next to R-11, which was designed to penetrate to the deepest levels of stored 
life-experience. Science had long since proven, beyond any doubt, that every 
experience, however trivial, is permanently retained: every sight, sound, odor, 
every sensory moment of touch, every spoken word...all there, all 
three-dimensionally alive in the depths of the human brain.
    The Re-Live parlors were built on this principle. In their metal wombs it 
had been possible to re-experience, at choice, any hour, or day, or moment of 
one's past.
    That was the key word: choice. The Re-Live drawers gave you selective 
control, provided you wished to exercise it. And there were built-in shutoffs if 
the emotional surge threatened body-health. A Re-Live drawer was safe.
    Not so with R-11. At maximum dosage, there was, no control; it prowled the 
vaults of memory at will, and all choice was removed. However, short of maximum, 
Logan was not certain he could reach his full experiences with Jaq and Jessica. 
Under a light dosage he might never find them again.
    R-11 had one basic advantage over any other mind-drug. It gave back truth, 
not fantasy; experiences, not hallucinations. It did not distort as Lysergic 
Foam did. What Logan re-lived would be real events from his past.
    And, buried in that past, his wife and son waited for him.
    Logan sat down on the mat which gave softly under his weight.
    Now.
    Pearl into mouth. On the tongue. Dissolving...
    Logan was fighting for balance. The wind whipped at his tunic, fisting him 
with short, savage gusts. He wasn't sure he could maintain his footing--and a 
fall was death.
    He was sixteen, and new to DS. A raw Sandman, just out of Deep Sleep 
Training, hunting his first female, nervous, and over-anxious to prove himself;
    Logan's runner, Brandith 2, had glass-danced the Arcades before her flower 
blacked; she was extremely agile, with an incredible sense of body-control. She 
had lured her nervous pursuer onto a narrow outside repair-ramp, dipping and 
weaving her way along the thin ridge of metal ahead of him. Luring him forward.
    You should have fired the homer, the homer would have finished her!
    In his excitement, Logan had set the Gun at ripper, and to be effective a 
ripper must be fired at fairly close range. He could re-set for homer, but to do 
so would require taking both hands off the ledgerail, and that was impossible. 
He'd lose his balance for sure.
    "What's the matter, Sandman?" her voice mocked him. "Can't you catch me?"
    She had passed an angle-beam, and was no longer in direct sight. Logan moved 
faster along the ramp, reached the beam. She was waiting for him.
    "You're dead, Sandman!" And, braced on the beam, Brandith 2 delivered a 
smashing blow to his chest with her left foot.
    Logan swayed, pitched forward to his knees. The Gun slipped from his clawing 
fingers. He twisted, hooking his right arm into a strut-support, and slashed up 
with the heel of his left hand.
    The surprise blow took Brandith 2 at throat level, and crushed her windpipe. 
She clutched at her neck, gasped blood, and fell over the edge in a long, 
screaming death drop.
    Logan felt relief, and instant shame. He'd failed to homer her, and worse 
yet--much worse--he'd lost the Gun. A Sandman must never relinquish his weapon: 
the first rule of DS. And now he had allowed a female runner to disarm him, and 
almost kill him.
    On the ramp, alone in the crying wind, Logan could not move. He was locked 
into his misery. "Failure!" he said aloud. "Failure!"
    Would he ever deserve to wear the uniform of a Sandman?
     
    Egypt was a bore.
    Logan was eight, and had taken a robocamel to the Pyramids with his best 
friend, Evans 9. They'd been to Japan earlier that morning, and found Kyoto dull 
with its restored temples and fat, bronze deities. But, in Tokyo, a sumo 
wrestler had taught them how to immobilize an opponent by a theatrical display 
of aggression, without actual body contact. Fascinating.
    But Egypt was all heat and endless sand and ugly-snouted robot camels. The 
Pyramids were a disappointment--smaller than Logan expected, and badly in need 
of repair. The surface was pitted and crumbling, with many large stones near the 
top missing entirely.
    "They ought to fix them," said Logan. "Smooth them out."
    "No, tear them down," said Evans. "Put up new ones, better ones. Old things 
aren't worth saving."
    "Old things are ugly," said Logan.
    And that night they took a mazecar to Uganda.
     
    "I can leave here, go with you," she told him.
    "No, that's not possible."
    "Why isn't it?"
    "Because it isn't."
    "But you find me exciting? You enjoy my body?"
    "Yes."
    "Then we'll pair-bond. Until it goes bad. When it goes bad, I'll leave. 
What's wrong with that?"
    "A lot," he said. "I live alone."
    "Why?".
    "Because of what I am."
    This silenced her.
    The lovelights of the glasshouse played over their bodies. Gold...
    Silver...
    Red...
    Yellow...
    Blue
    And still she did not speak.
    When Logan left the glasshouse he was angry. Why couldn't he form an 
alliance? Why must he live alone, finding sexual satisfaction on this 
fragmented, impulse basis?
    Because of what I am.
    A DS man cannot function effectively if he is pair-bonded. All emotional 
ties must be severed. Commitments must not be made. Nothing must interfere with 
duty.
    Duty.
    Duty.
     
    "Show me your hand, Logan," said the psyc doctor. Logan obeyed.
    "Do you know why you have this?" he said, tapping the palmflower with an 
index finger.
    "To tell my age," Logan said.
    "And how old are you?"
    "I'm six."
    "And what happens when you're seven?
    Logan looked down at his palm. "It goes to blue. And I...leave Nursery."
    The doctor nodded. He had kind eyes. "And you are afraid?"
    "Yes," said Logan.
    "Why? Why are you afraid, Logan?"
    The words spilled out in a rush: "Because I love my talk puppet and because 
I don't want to leave Nursery and because..."
    "Go on, tell me."
    "Because the world is so big and I'm so little."
    "But every boy and girl feels that way, and they're not afraid."
    "I'll bet some of them are," said Logan. "Or they wouldn't use a machine 
like you."
    "I deal with many problems at Nursery," said the doctor. He whirred to a 
medcab, took out a packet of Candees.
    "I don't want a Candee," said Logan.
    "But they taste good and they make you feel good," said the doctor.
    "They make me sleepy."
    "Take a Candee, Logan."
    "No."
    "Do as I say! Take one."
    "No."
    Logan backed away, but the square machine whirred after him. The doctor's 
kind eyes were no longer kind. They glittered with determination.
    "I'll report this to Autogoverness," he threatened. "You'll be punished."
    "I don't care," said Logan defiantly.
    "Very well," said the doctor. And he pushed a button on his desk.
    An Autogoverness rolled into the office.
    "Logan 3 is to be punished. After punishment, he will be given a Candee."
    "Yes, doctor," said the round, many-armed robot. She took Logan's hand in 
one of hers.
    "You see, Logan," said the doctor as the boy was being led out. "You can't 
win."
     
    "How long has he been under?" asked Lacy.
    "Two days, six hours," said Stile.
    "Convulsions?"
    "Minor so far."
    "Heartbeat?"
    "Erratic, but holding."
    "Skincount?"
    "One over fifteen. The chemical balance is distorted, but not critical. Of 
course, he's going in deeper. It could get worse. No way of telling."
    "If he dies, notify me immediately."
    "Of course," said Stile.
     
    The blow caught Logan at the upper part of the shoulder, a deltoid chop, 
delivered with force and precision. He felt his left arm go numb, angled his 
body sharply to keep Francis in direct line of attack.
    He lashed out with a reverse savate kick, catching Francis at rib-level, 
causing him to lurch back, gasping for breath.
    "You're good, Logan," said the tall, mantis-thin man, slowly circling his 
opponent.
    "You're better, damn you!" Logan said. "But I'm learning."
    "More each day," agreed Francis. "Shall we end this?"
    Logan nodded, rubbing his shoulder. "I've had enough."
    They hit the needleshower, standing together silently in the cutting spray. 
Francis had paid for his reputation; his body, in contrast to Logan's unmarked 
one, bore the scars of a hundred near-death encounters with fanatic runners, 
cubs, gypsies...Of the crack DS men at Angeles Complex, Francis was the fastest, 
the most dangerous, the best. Logan was still his pupil, but soon he might be 
his equal--with natural talent, good fortune, supreme dedication.
    Francis had all these.
    They walked back into the combat room, got into fresh grays.
    "There's a lift-party tonight at Stanhope's," said Logan. "Why not unbend, 
take it in?"
    Francis smiled thinly. The smile was bloodless. "I don't party," he said.
    "But we're off-duty until--"
    "A Sandman's never off-duty," said Francis coldly. "We could be called in 
for backup."
    "That's never happened to me yet," declared Logan.
    "It might," said Francis.
    Logan looked at him. "What do you do with your free time?"
    "Use it properly. I don't waste it on witless females and lift parties."
    "I give up," sighed Logan. He grinned. "You know, Francis, I wouldn't be 
surprised to find little wires and cogs and springs under your skin...You're not 
quite human."
    "I get my job done," said Francis stiffly.
    "Sure. Sure you do," said Logan. "Forget what I said."
    But, as he watched Francis walk out, Logan wondered: what the hell does he 
do with his free time?
     
    "This one's dangerous," said Evans. "He's stolen a paravane and he's got a 
Fuser with him. I think we need backup."
    Logan agreed. "Get on it, while I see if I can run him down."
    "With a stick? Can you handle one?"
    "I've ridden them before," said Logan. "They're much faster than a paravane. 
"
    "Take care," said Evans, sprinting for a callbox.
    Logan checked his ammopac. Full load. He could use a nitro on the runner's 
ship if he had to. He kicked the hoverstick into life, soaring up at a dizzy 
angle. Too much thrust. He throttled down a bit, gained full control, gradually 
increasing his airspeed.
    The runner's paravane had been tracked at dead center on the Kansas/Missouri 
line--which meant if he cut through Greater KC Logan should intercept near the 
Jefferson Complex.
    The Missouri River rolled below him, brown and sluggish. A few speedtugs, a 
private sailjet or two, otherwise the river was undisturbed. It didn't worry 
about runners or callboxes or backups or devilsticks or Sleep. Old Man 
River...just keeps rolling along.
    Logan had been correct in his calculations. He spotted the stolen paravane 
just past Jefferson. Moving at full bladepower.
    The runner saw Logan bearing in, swung his ship to face the new threat.
    He's bringing up the Fuser! Time to show him what you can do with a stick.
    The runner fired.
    And missed.
    And fired again.
    Logan was a sun-dazzled dragonfly--darting, dipping, swooping erratically. 
An impossible target.
    He unholstered the Gun.
    The paravane rushed at him.
    Logan had the charge set at nitro. Now!
    The runner and his ship erupted into gouting, blue-white flame. The stricken 
craft tipped over and down, diving into Missouri earth with a roar.
    Logan brought the stick in, dismounted, checked the runner. Nothing left of 
him but his right arm and hand, jutting grotesquely out of the flame-charred 
control pod.
    Centered in his palm: a black flower.
     
    "Any change?" asked Lacy.
    "He's worse," said Stile. "Into severe muscle convulsions. Skincount's up. 
And his heart is taking a beating."
    "He can't go on, then?"
    "He's a hard man," Stile said. "He might surprise you."
     
    They were waiting at Darkside, where their rocket was being readied for the 
jump to Argos--and Logan held Jessica close, telling her how much he loved her, 
telling her he'd never known that it was possible to experience such intense 
emotion, such care-bonding.
    "We're free now," she told him. "We can live without fear, build a life 
together, raise children, be thirty, forty, fifty..."
    He smiled, touched at her hair. God, but she was lovely!
    "I want a son," he told her.
    "We'll have him," she said, squeezing Logan's hand.
    "And he'll have children of his own...and we'll be...what did they call 
them?"
    "Grandparents," she said. "Grandma and Grandpa,"
    Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "That's hard to believe, to accept. No 
dreams. No fantasies. A real life ahead of us on Argos."
    "Ballard said it wouldn't be easy there," she reminded him. Her eyes clouded 
"I wish--"
    "What?"
    "--that Ballard could have come with us. We need a man like that on Argos."
    "He's needed more on Earth," said Logan. "To handle the Sanctuary Line. To 
help more runners."
    "I know," she nodded. "We owe him our lives"
    "Everybody here owes him the same debt," said Logan.
    And, touching, they stared out beyond the port, at the chalked, lifeless 
horizon of the Moon.
     
    When Jaq was five Logan and Jess gave him a special party. Only the 
spaceborn were invited--those who had been conceived on Argos and who, like Jaq, 
had never known their mother planet.
    Logan told the children about Earthgames he'd played in Nursery, about 
vibroballs and teeter-swings and talk puppets. It seemed they could never hear 
enough about Earth.
    "Were there really Sandmen who chased you?" asked a girl of six.
    Logan nodded.
    "And were the Sandmen really bad?" asked the little girl.
    "Yes," said Logan. "But they were taught to be. Some of them changed...They 
didn't all stay bad."
    "You were one, weren't you?" asked a ten-year-old, eyes alight.
    "I was one," admitted Logan.
    "And were you bad?"
    "For awhile."
    "No!" screamed little Jaq, running across the chamber to his father, hugging 
him fiercely. "Logan was never bad!"
    The boy was sobbing.
    Jessica came to them, held them both. She kissed Logan's cheek.
    In the sudden, strained silence a six-year-old tugged at Logan's wrist.
    "Can we play now? Can we?"
     
    "He's calmer," said Stile. "Relaxed. Almost tranquil. His mind seems to have 
found what it was looking for. He's in very deep."
    Lacy looked pensive. "What do you think a Sandman's Gun would bring on the 
Market?"
    "A great deal. But it would have to be de-fused, the pore-pattern detonation 
device neutralized."
    "Can that be done?"
    "It can be. It's a very delicate procedure."
    She paced the room, thinking.
    "He'll never trade or sell the Gun," said Stile.
    "I know," she said. "It won't be possible to negotiate with him." She 
stopped, looked directly at Stile. "We'll have to kill him."



     
     
OUT
     
    Sprawled face-down across the mat, deep in his mental dreamworld with 
Jessica and Jaq, Logan was not aware that the room had changed, that something 
was being added to the atmosphere. From a small opening under the door a 
colorless substance was being piped into the chamber.
    Tetrahyde. Toxic and totally effective on human body tissue. Once absorbed 
into the lungs, it destroyed them with deadly efficiency.
    Logan breathed in...breathed out...breathed in...
    He had exactly ten more minutes of life.
     
    Logan, Logan, do you hear me?
    I...hear you.
    You are in great danger. You must come out!
    No. Here with Jessica...with Jaq.
    Listen to me, Logan. It's Dia.
    How? How did you find me?
    Jonath. When you didn't return to the camp he sent word to me. He knew no 
one else could reach you.
    Where are you now?
    Close to you. Close to the Giant. I knew they'd never let me see you--so I'm 
sending my mind to you, my thoughts...You must come out to me!
    No. Won't come out.
    They're killing you, Logan.
    Not true. They help me, give me water...
    All that's over. The woman, Lacy, she has made up her mind to take the Gun. 
I know her thoughts...she wills you dead. Poison is in the air. You must come 
out, now! I'll help you...our two minds, together...Only minutes remain!
     
    Logan willed his body to fight the drug--and Dia linked her mind to his; the 
images inside Logan's head began to mix, break up...
    ...and Jessica was...
    the Loveroom, and "Mother loves you," said Ballard...
    who was Francis, who was...Jaq, only five,
    but already he...
    kissed her deeply, knowing they were never going to...
    Harder! Try harder, Logan!
    Trying. Can't. No use.
    Fight! Break free!
    ...because Box was...in the cave...falling...
    and love was...falling...
    everything was falling...No. Too deep...too far in...
    But you're doing it...we're doing it together...you're almost...
    ...out!
    Logan blinked stupidly; his head pounded--as if a thousand hot needles had 
been driven into his skull.
     
    Only a few seconds left! Use the Gun, Logan! Use it!
     
    Logan fumbled dizzily at his belt holster, his nostrils filled with the acid 
odor of Tetrahyde...The gas was upon him. He held his breath, pulled the Gun 
free...
    Fired.
    The nitro charge exploded the door from its hinge-locks, flooding the 
liftroom with fresh air.
    Logan staggered to his feet, plowed across the mat toward the gaping exit.
    Where are you, Dia?
    Outside. On the street just below the Giant. You'll see me.
    I'll be there. Soon.
     
    Stile was in the corridor, running toward Logan, a weapon in his hand.
    Gun on ripper.
    Logan fired, tearing him apart.
    Lacy saw this, darted back into her chambers. The firebirds cawed and 
fluttered.
    Gaining strength by the second, Logan swept past her, reached the outside 
door, raced for the roofport.
    Behind him, Lacy was screaming: "Stop him! Stop
    Three guards tried to--without success. Logan chopped them aside with blows 
from Gun and body.
    Lacy appeared in the roof door, Fuser in hand, firing as Logan reached his 
paravane. Her first beam-blast sheared away a section of alum sheeting next to 
Logan's head.
    He swung bitterly toward her, triggered the Gun, on tangler.
    The swift whirl of steelmesh filament engulfed her and she fell back, 
clawing at the choking, constricting coils of metal.
     
    Dia was not alone when Logan reached her. The man from the Wilderness camp 
who had flown her to New York was there.
    "How did you find another paravane?" Logan asked him.
    "There are still a few around," the man told him. "Found this one in West 
Virginia. She needed a new gyrounit, but she's fine now."
    "Tell Jonath how grateful I am," said Logan.
    "He'll be glad to hear you're all right."
    Thanks to you, Logan thought, looking at Dia.
    And she smiled at him.
    "Will you be following me back?" the man asked Logan.
    No. We're going west. Together.
    "No," said Logan. "We'll be going west"
    The two men shook hands. "Good trip," said Logan. With Dia, he watched the 
ship fade into night sky.
     
    Where now? asked Logan. How far west?
    All the way to the Coast, she told him, sitting beside him in the humming 
paravane. The New York Territory unrolled below them, night-black and massive.
    I want to take you home, Logan. She smiled, her hands touching gently at the 
planes of his face. West, to my home.
    As heat is felt on skin, Logan felt the passion radiating from her mind.
    He owed her his life, but could he give her something more than gratitude? 
Was he capable, now, of a greater commitment to her?
    Logan wasn't sure.
    He would know when the time for knowing was at hand.



     
     
EYES
     
    Liath was waiting for them on the shore.
    Before he saw her, Logan received her warm thoughts, reaching into the sky 
to greet him: Welcome, Logan...Welcome to our home!
    The paravane, sweeping over her, whipped Liath's long hair in a silver halo 
around her delicately-sculptured face and neck. The smokegown she wore billowed 
up in a swirl of mistsilks, revealing a lithe, cat-muscled body. She waved 
happily at them.
    Is she not beautiful? Yes--as you are, Dia.
     
    Logan set down in the sand at the ocean's edge. The Pacific lifted sleeves 
of bluegreen lace and spilled them at their feet as Dia and Logan climbed free 
of the ship.
    The two sisters embraced, holding one another tightly.
    There was no hesitation in their movements, no blind fumbling--yet they were 
sightless!
    No, we see, Logan.
    And with a clairty much greater than yours.
    You steal my thoughts!
    Both girls smiled, a double radiance. It was early morning and the sun made 
a bronze shield of the ocean; the sky was newly-washed with wind, and flowed 
like another iron blue sea, free of clouds, to the horizon. The sharp odors of 
brine and kelp reached Logan, mixed with the cry of an overhead gull, circling 
and curious.
    Liath took Logan's hand. I am glad you are safe, she told him.
    Your sister...She reached me when no one else could.
    They walked along the wet sand.
    Dia took Logan's other hand, and the sisters guided him inland, toward a 
rising cliff of pink coral.
    Our home, nodded Dia.
    Our castle! enthused Liath.
    It was literally that: an immense castle of fibrous pink-and-white coral 
rising sheer from the sand. Sun spangled its daggered edges.
    Careful...Walk where we walk, warned Dia. The coral is very sharp.
    Logan followed them along a path of beaten stone which wound up into the 
depths of the structure.
    They emerged, finally, into a wide, sun-splashed chamber, lined with thick, 
tufted flowcloth. Here every coral edge was softened by resilient layers of 
cloth, by pillowrugs and foamcushions.
    Watch!
    Delightedly, Liath skipped across the room to a large, coral-crystal pillar. 
She placed her hand on the pillar and, slowly, a series of silver curtains 
hushed down from the ceiling, forming a protective tenting over their heads.
    These are weather shells, Dia told him. We are not like father. Our skin 
grows cold at night. They protect us from wind and fog.
    And for warmth...said Liath.
    She pressed another section of crystal--and a fire bloomed to life in the 
center of the floor.
    Incredible.
    We want you to live here with us, Logan, Dia told him. Share our home, our 
lives...our love.
    Liath's thoughts flowed in: There are just the two of us. One is nearly 
always with father at the Bridge. We alternate.
    When Liath is gone, it can be lonely...
    For me, also, when Dia is away...We need you, Logan.
    Need you...
    A pairbond? questioned Logan. Between all three of us?
    It could be beautiful, Logan!
    And Logan thought: Jaq is gone.
    Gone, they echoed.
    Jess is gone.
    Gone...mind-whispered Dia.
    And we are here, said Liath.
     
    A night-- A day. Another night...
    Logan found joy with Dia and Liath. Their minds and bodies rioted together 
in a spillout of sensual delights, a crossfire of thoughts, emotions, 
impressions, shared experiences...
    But there was a barrier.
    Your eyes, Logan. They blind you to sight.
    Dia was with him. They were lazing nude in the slow ocean tides along a 
sun-tinted stretch of yellow beach.
    Logan smiled. I see the sun on the water. I see gulls in the sky...He 
touched her body. I see your beauty...
    But I see more, she told him. So much more, Logan! My vision is achieved 
with the inner eye, and is on a scale beyond your conception. Whole worlds are 
open to me which are closed to you. I want to share them.
    How?
    You must free your inner eye--allow it to expand your total consciousness. 
    For me, Dia, that's impossible.
    No, you're wrong. You need only remove the barrier of your outer sight to 
free that greater sight which is within you. It waits to be released.
    Are you saying that I should--blind myself?
    She shook her head, smiling softly. No, I'm saying you should free 
yourself...enter our world...Liath's and mine. Become truly bonded to us. You 
have the ability as few others have it. As we are gifted, so are you.
    And how would I do this?
    There is a heat shield in the castle...of sunmetal. Its surface is as bright 
as the sun itself. Stand before it, gaze full into it with your physical 
eyes--and it will free you. It will take away the barrier which separates us.
    Is it really possible?
    It is, Logan, it is!
     
    That night, in the castle, Logan could not sleep. Existence had no reality, 
now, beyond the daughters of Andar. Dia had saved him from certain death and, in 
a way, his life was hers.
    She had asked nothing of him; she had only given. Now she wanted to give 
more...wanted to give him her inner world, share it with him.
    Why was he so afraid of losing his eyes? He had seen the cities, the 
cruelty, the terror and frenzy of runners fleeing the Gun. He had seen the 
plague run its terrible path across Argos, destroying his friends, all the 
people he had come to know and trust. He'd seen the Wilderness People, lost and 
helpless against the ravages of nature. He'd seen his son's sprawled body...
    Jaq was dead. Jessica was dead. What more was there for him, in this world 
of shadows?
     
    Noon. The sun tall and direct above the castle. The three of them standing 
before a high, curtained object. When we move aside the curtain, look full into 
the shield, Dia told him. Do not blink or shift your gaze.
    For ten seconds. That's all it will require, assured Liath. There will be no 
pain--only an intense brightness.
    I understand.
    Dia embraced him, kissed his lips. Trust us, Logan.
    I do. I trust you both.
    Ten seconds--and you will be with us forever, said Liath.
    Logan braced himself, teeth clamped, jaw muscles tight. He nodded.
    Open the curtain!
    Dia moved to the shield, drew back its wine-red cover.
    Brightness! Incredible, penetrating brightness...a sun-glare of fierce light 
so intense that Logan flinched back from it.
    Yet, he did not blink.
    Six seconds!
    Seven...
    Three more seconds, Logan!
    A rush of sound above them. Blades chopping air. The red curtain swirled, 
lifted itself, settled to half-cover the shield.
    Logan turned away to a wild cry from above: "Logan! Quick, Logan! I have 
news!"
    The voice of Jonath.
    In a fantail of sand, the paravane came to rest on the beach. Jonath leaped 
from the machine, ran toward Logan, waving, shouting.
    They met at the coral's edge.
    "I flew here the moment I heard the news. I would allow no one else to bring 
it."
    "What news, Jonath?"
    The Wilderness leader gripped his friend by both shoulders; his eyes blazed 
with the words: "She's alive! Jessica's alive!"



     
     
JONATH
     
    "All right, tell me everything you know," Logan said tightly.
    They were in the castle. Jonath was seated on a fall of snowpillows, sipping 
green seawine which Dia had brought him. She and her sister hovered near Logan, 
who was never entirely still. He paced constantly as he listened to Jonath, 
questioned him on details.
    "An ex-Sandman named Evans brought me the news," said the Wilderness man. 
"He told me--"
    "Evans 9?"
    "Yes," said Jonath.
    "I've known him since childhood. We worked the. Angeles Complex together."
    Jonath nodded. "He said he was your friend--that he'd become a runner 
because of you."
    "Evans...running?"
    "You made it to Sanctuary and so he decided to try for it--but he couldn't 
connect with Ballard's people. Evans was hiding out when they penetrated the 
Line at Steinbeck."
    "Why would he tie in with Gant?"
    "After the Thinker died he told me he just naturally gravitated back with 
other ex-Sandmen. When Gant took command of their group Evans followed along."
    A flash of instant mental communication between Logan and the sisters: Who 
is Gant?
    A monster. The worst of the Sandmen. He hates me.
    Why?
    He was in charge of Angeles Complex when I became a runner. My escape to 
Sanctuary was a personal embarrassment to him, a black mark on his record. I was 
the only Sandman to ever reach Sanctuary, and he hates me for it.
    "Evans and Gant argued," said Jonath. "Gant tried to have him killed. He got 
away, came to us, looking for you. He wanted you to know that Gant bought 
Jessica on the Market."
    "That Borgia bitch lied to me," said Logan. "She had me convinced that Jess 
was dead."
    "To protect herself, obviously," said Jonath. "By shifting the blame to 
Prince, she thought you'd let her go."
    "But I didn't," said Logan flatly.
    Dia looked agonized. You're leaving us! Your thoughts say it.
    I'm going after Jess.
    But Gant--he'll never let you have her.
    I'll take her.
    He'll kill you, Logan!
    He'll probably try.
    The Sandmen are with him. You'll never--
    "Where is she?" Logan asked Jonath. A muscle danced in his cheek. "Where 
does Gant have her?"
    Jonath told him.



     
     
DAKOTAS
     
    Deep green below them. A forest flow of pine-thick wilderness, broken by 
high granite cliffs and jeweled lakes, darkened by the swift-sliding shadow of 
the paravane.
    The Black Hills of the Dakotas.
    "When we get there," Logan said, "I want you to stay with the ship until I 
bring Jess out."
    "Negative. I'm going in with you," said Jonath. "You'll need all the help 
you can get."
    "Then take one of these." He handed Jonath a Fuser. "Courtesy of the 
Borgias."
    "I've never fired one."
    "Nothing to it. Just aim and press the gripstud with your thumb. It's 
laser-powered. The beam will cut through any surface."
    "Do you think we've actually got a chance of bringing her out?"
    "Would it make any difference if I said no?"
    Jonath sighed, idly turning the weapon in his hand. "The fact that you know 
he's got her...that dictates your action."
    "But not yours," said Logan. "Why did you come with me, Jonath?"
    "Because you're my friend." He smiled. "And I happen to place a high value 
on friendship. It's one of the few real things I can count on in this brave new 
world of ours."
    "Did Evans tell you how many Sandmen Gant has with him?"
    "At least two dozen...maybe more. He wasn't sure."
    "It's Gant himself I worry about," said Logan. "The man's a total fighting 
machine. And he doesn't make mistakes."
    "Evans told me Gant thinks you're dead, that the Borgias killed you at 
Steinbeck."
    "Good. That means he won't be expecting our visit. Gives us a slight edge 
going in."
    They rode in silence above the Dakotas.
    Logan thought of Liath, and of Dia. Of ocean sunsets and midnight sands and 
clean sea air--and of lying with them in soft coral darkness...They knew he'd 
never return to them. And when he left they'd sent their farewells soaring after 
him as the paravane lifted away from the beach...
    We love you, Logan!...We'll always love you.
    Always.
    Always.
    Fading. Dying out behind him...
    Always.
    Always.
    Always.
     
    "There!" Jonath pointed excitedly downward. "Rushmore! We're close now."
    The rippling shadow of the paravane flowed over the somber granite heads of 
Mount Rushmore.
    Logan took precautions: Gant might have posted a lookout, and since surprise 
was essential he brought the paravane down in a tree-screened ravine well short 
of their goal.
    "Last chance to change your mind," Logan said as the blades idled to 
silence.
    "Let's go," said Jonath, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
    "If we move fast enough," said Logan, "we should be able to get there by 
sundown."
    He stowed the Fuser in his belt and removed a canister of water from the 
paravane.
    "We should cover the ship," said Jonath. "If we make it back here and it's 
gone..."
    "No one can spot it from the air," Logan assured him. "Not down in this 
ravine. It's safe enough."
    And they set off.
     
    The country was extremely ragged, laced with drifts of sharp rock and 
tangled root-grass which slowed their progress. Brambles tore at their skin; sun 
hammered their backs.
    At a rest halt Logan shared the canister of water with his friend.
    "How much farther?" asked the Wilderness leader, breathing heavily, his back 
against a pine.
    "Hour maybe," said Logan. "When I was here before, with Jess, I came in from 
another direction. But we should sight it soon."
    They did.
     
    The pride of the Dakotas.
    A carved granite mammoth rising for more than five hundred and fifty feet 
into the sky of the Black Hills.
    A warrior chief riding a mighty stallion.
    A mountain that had become a man: Crazy Horse.
    They were standing on a high ridge with a clear view of the mountain.
    "Magnificent!" declared Jonath, staring at the awesome figure.
    "He led the Sioux against Custer at Little Big Horn," said Logan. 
"Tashunca-uitco. A great leader. They say his arm points toward the Happy 
Hunting Ground of his people."
    "And now he belongs to Gant," said Jonath bitterly.
    They started down the ridge.
     
    The sun had tipped to the western horizon when they reached the base of 
Crazy Horse.
    Logan raised a hand, hesitating. A gold object glittered in deep grass to 
his left.
    Something alive? A hidden Sandman?
    He moved cautiously toward it, weapon in hand, Jonath following.
    A glazed ruby eye stared up at Logan; its lens was shattered; part of a 
broken, rusting bulk of sunken metal.
    "What is it?"
    "Mech eagle," said Logan, leaning to examine the ruptured metal corpse. 
"Robot guardian designed to protect Crazy Horse. Looks like this one died with 
the Thinker."
    Jonath picked up a portion of bronzed wingfeather. "Big," he said.
    "And deadly," said Logan. "A pair of them ripped me last time I came here." 
Logan pointed upward, to the head of the warrior. "They lived on his shoulders. 
Went after anything that moved."
    "Then let's be glad this one's not active."
    Logan smiled.
    "How do we get inside?" asked Jonath.
    "There are three main access caves, but Gant would likely have men at 
each...Our best bet is to get in from above. Through a break in the rock."
    "I'm not much good at climbing," Jonath said.
    "We won't need to go too high," Logan told him. "Mountain's split in several 
places. Just a matter of picking one."
    Logan reconnoitered the flank of rising rock, climbing up to investigate two 
of the cave-like surface splits. Satisfied, he gestured to Jonath.
    "Here," he said. "'This one."
    Awkwardly, Jonath climbed up to join him.
    "Be extremely careful inside," Logan warned. "One loose rock could fall all 
the way to the bottom. Our game would be up."
    Jonath nodded.
    Logan removed a small bulletlight from his tunic. "I'll have to keep this 
shielded," he said, "but at least we won't be in total darkness. Stay behind 
me."
    "I sure don't plan to lead," smiled Jonath.
    "One thing puzzles me," said Logan.
    "What?"
    "Why didn't Evans supply you with information on where Gant has Jessica? We 
could blunder around for miles in there!"
    "My fault, really," admitted Jonath. "When he told me she was alive I was so 
anxious to reach you with the news that I failed to question him fully."
    "Doesn't matter," said Logan. "If Jess is alive in there I'll find her...no 
matter how far we go or how long it takes."



     
     
THINKER
     
    They had agreed to converse only out of necessity once they were inside the 
mountain--and now they moved in silence between pressing walls of deep-winding 
rock. Downward.
    Toward the Thinker.
    Built in the 1980s on a massive research grant, and symbolizing one of the 
high points of human scientific achievement, it had never been designed to rule 
Earth. Its final installation here, in the Crazy Horse caverns in 1991, opened a 
whole new research era, promising an end to disease and poverty. The truly 
immense computer-complex, with its mechanical cells numbering ten raised to the 
seventeenth power, was a natural extension of the space-probe computers of the 
1970s, but with much vaster potential.
    Until the Little War.
    When the young took charge of world government, they also took over the 
Thinker--re-programming it to their own ends, setting up the Death-at-21 society 
with this supreme god-computer as their major arm of enforcement. The cities of 
Earth lived in its metallic grip, becoming totally dependent upon it. The 
Thinker's multi-million arteries became the world's prime root system, feeding 
power and control to each city around the globe.
    As knight slays dragon, Ballard had killed the computer. It lay now, acres 
of blackened, inert metal, an endless cemetery of silent relays and ruptured 
cables, stretching for becalmed miles beneath the granite bulk of Crazy Horse.
    But even in death, the Thinker inspired awe.
    "It was alive when I was here with Jess," said Logan softly, as he and 
Jonath stood on a wide ledge overlooking the complex. Fissured cracks in the 
rock walls of the mountain allowed thin spears of light to cut across the vast, 
dead-metal plain of linked computer banks.
    "It goes on forever!" marveled Jonath. He started moving toward the floor of 
the caverns. Logan caught him just before his foot touched the dust-dulled 
surface, pulled him back abruptly.
    "What's wrong? Gant isn't in this section."
    "Not Gant," said Logan. "The Watchman."
    "Watchman?"
    "Another robot kill-device. Programmed to react instantly to the slightest 
pressure on the floor's surface." Logan picked up a small pebble, tossed it onto 
the flooring.
    Silence. No alarms. No movement.
    "We're all right," sighed Logan. "It's dead." He grinned at Jonath. "Believe 
me, you don't want that thing coming after you."
    "Which way now?" asked Jonath.
    "I'm not sure," said Logan, looking down a long row of silent computer 
banks. "Did Evans say why Gant picked Crazy Horse as his headquarters?"
    "No. Just that he was here."
    "He's probably rigged up some kind of auxiliary power--for light and heat. 
Using parts of the Thinker. Once we locate the power source we've found Gant."
    "This thing spreads out for miles."
    "Best chance is to head for the Central Core. Gant could have tapped into it 
for his power. If so, his headquarters will be close to the Core."
    "But I thought this was dead...all of it."
    "The components still exist," said Logan. "Gant might have found a way to 
partially reactivate some of them." He took out the canister of water, opened 
it. "Want some?"
    "My throat's been dry ever since we got here," admitted Jonath, taking 
several swallows.
    Logan drank, then stowed the canister back in his tunic. "Let's go. And walk 
softly all the way."
    Weapons in hand, they headed for the Core.



     
     
ALIVE
     
    Theoretically, Logan knew where the heart of the Thinker was located, but 
he'd never seen it. However, if his reasoning was correct regarding Gant's use 
of this potential power center, the Core would soon reveal itself.
    A hive hum of energy alerted them as they moved down one of the mile-long 
corridors. A golden wash of light haloed the darkness ahead of them.
    Logan spoke in a low whisper to Jonath: "Gant's men could be anywhere in 
this area. Keep close to the banks."
    The sound increased.
    "Crawl," directed Logan, dropping to his stomach. "We're almost there."
    They inched forward, emerging onto a spiral of balcony which overlooked the 
glowing mass of the Central Core.
    It was huge--an interlinking of incredibly-complex electronic columns, 
rising into the upper level of the mountain, each golden column pulsing with 
incalculable energies. At least half of the columns were "alive."
    Logan was stunned. The display of computer power astonished him. In 
reactivating this much of the Core Gant had accomplished far more than Logan had 
believed possible.
    To what purpose? Surely he had harnessed considerably more power than his 
personal use required.
    "I want to get closer," Logan told Jonath. "You stay here while I--"
    "Closer?" an amplified voice boomed and crashed around them. "A simple wish, 
Logan 3. One that I shall be happy to grant."
    A cluster of pinbeams raked the balcony as Logan and Jonath sprang back, 
guns ready.
    Logan blinked into the glare: "Are you Gant?"
    "I am," the voice crackled.
    "Where's Jessica?"
    "Where indeed!" And the voice boomed in laughter. "Why should I tell you 
anything?"
    "We're armed," Logan warned. "We can do a lot of damage here."
    A dark figure advanced on them along the curving balcony. "That's an empty 
threat," said a voice that Logan recognized immediately.
    "Evans!"
    "Been a long time, Logan. When you made it to Argos I thought we'd never see 
you again. Yet..." And he smiled. "Here you are!"
    Jonath was trembling with rage. "You used me--to get Logan here. Everything 
you told me...lies! All lies!"
    "Not everything," said Evans smoothly, covering them with his Gun. "I said 
that Gant was here, which he is. And that he'd taken Jessica. Also true."
    Jonath's eyes blazed. He raised the Fuser. "You filthy--"
    Evans Gunned him. Ripper. In a sudden eruption of heat Jonath's body was 
blown apart. The remains of his charred corpse sprawled at Logan's feet.
    "You are surrounded, Logan," boomed Gant's voice. "My men have been pacing 
you since the moment you entered Crazy Horse. Now, if you wish to see Jessica 
alive you'll hand your weapon to Evans 9."
    "Do it," snapped Evans.
    Face tight, eyes hard on his ex-friend, Logan handed the Fuser to Evans.
    Other Sandmen materialized around him. One of them tapewired Logan's hands 
behind his back; another quickly looped a chokechain around his neck, affixed it 
to his wrists, snugged it tight.
    During this, Logan remained silent.
    With a tight smile, Evans said, "Welcome back, friend."
    Logan spat in his face.



     
     
GANT
     
    Seven feet tall. Bare-waisted. Dark, burnished skin. Deep-sunk, luminous 
eyes. A shark's slash of mouth.
    Gant.
    Logan stood before him, flanked by two Sandmen.
    "Down," said Gant to one of them.
    In response, the Sandman jerked fiercely on Logan's chokechain, forcing him 
to his knees.
    Gant walked around him in a slow circle. "Your body's in good condition." He 
prodded Logan's shoulder. "Solid muscle tone. I'm happy to see that you've 
maintained yourself. So many ex-Sandmen go slack, allow their bodies to--"
    "Where--is--she?" Logan's voice was edged,, the words spaced with cold 
anger.
    "You'll see her," said Gant. "I give you my absolute promise that the two of 
you shall soon be reunited"
    "Have you...harmed her?"
    Gant looked down at Logan and, for the first time, smiled at him. The smile 
was grotesque. The tall man had replaced his teeth with rubies. They glittered 
like blood in Gant's wide jaw.
    "I never harm a thing of value," he said. "And Jessica has been of immense 
value to me." Again the jeweled smile. "She brought me you."
    He gestured to the Sandmen. Logan was dragged up, pushed into a couch facing 
Gant's desk.
    The tall man eased into a lifeleather chair, folded his hands and leaned 
across the mirrored expanse of desk. "This mountain is mine, Logan. It was 
Ballard's once. But he got careless."
    Logan found it all but impossible to listen to Gant, talk to him with any 
degree of calm; he wanted, with every ounce of his conscious being, to launch 
himself at the man's throat.
    "You smashed the Sanctuary Line at Steinbeck," said Logan. "...and followed 
Ballard here."
    "That's correct. But I was a bit late in arriving. Before I killed him 
Ballard had time to destroy a large part of the Thinker. Fortunately, not all. 
As you can see, he left the greater part of the Core intact."
    Logan remained silent as Gant fingered a large, square-cut ruby, one of 
several on the desk. He studied his captive, turning the ruby slowly in his 
fingers. "Now I have the Central Core, and you. A double bonus."
    "All these years...you've been brooding about my escape."
    "You dishonored me as a Sandman!"
    "You have no honor, Gant! You've never had it. All you're after is revenge."
    "An honorable goal in itself," said Gant. "Many great men have sought it." 
He chuckled. "In fact, when you killed at Steinbeck you were seeking exactly 
that against the Borgias. Revenge."
    "I wanted Jess back. I went there to find her--but it was you behind it all. 
You had her taken!"
    "No, I'm afraid I can't claim credit for that. The outlanders happened upon 
her, didn't realize the prize they'd found. I was able to purchase her for a 
very modest price. But the price didn't matter..."
    He stood up, walked casually over to Logan, buried his right fist in his 
hair and savagely jerked Logan's head back. "I wanted you, Logan." His voice was 
cold iron. "Wanted you here!"
    Then he smiled again, releasing his grip, moved back to his desk. "Actually, 
until Jessica was put on the Market, I was not aware that you'd returned to 
Earth. But once I found her it made everything simple. Buy her. Hold her. Get 
word to you. Wait for you. All very simple."
    "How do I know you haven't killed her?"
    "You don't," said Gant. "I thought carefully about it, thought about 
bringing you here and showing you her corpse...but decided on a richer plan. One 
that will...satisfy me more."
    "Were you...satisfied with Jonath's death?" asked Logan bitterly.
    "He was brandishing a weapon. There was no other course of action possible."
    "Look..." Logan drew in a breath. "We've had our talk. When do I see Jess?"
    "Soon. As I promised," smiled the tall man. "I note, by the way, that you 
seem to find my smile unusual. Rubies happen to be a personal vanity of mine. I 
visited a New You and had these put in. I rather like the effect."
    "Why can't I see Jessica now?"
    Gant's face tightened. "Because I say you can't. First...there's a special 
room you must visit. Of my own design. I think you'll find it...stimulating. 
After your visit there you'll be reunited with Jessica."
    "If you're lying to me, Gant...If she's dead..."
    "What will you do?"
    "I'll kill you. Somehow, I'll kill you"
    Gant laughed, a booming sound in the room. "As a Sandman you never lacked 
bravado, Logan. Always full of drive, self-confidence...But, in your present 
situation, threatening me is an empty and ridiculous gesture." He took a Fuser 
from his desk, moved quickly to press the flanged barrel against Logan's 
forehead. "I could burn you in an instant."
    "I don't deny it," said Logan. His eyes met Gant's, locked on them. "But you 
heard what I said."
    Gant flung aside the weapon, abruptly turned his bronzed back on Logan. He 
raised a hand. "Take him away."
    And Logan was dragged from the room.



     
     
STORM
     
    In the six years since the death of the cities Gant had built his personal 
kingdom at Crazy Horse. Stripping the Thinker itself for raw materials, he'd 
constructed a miniature city beneath the mountain. Logan saw only parts of it as 
they marched him down hallways, past labs and crew quarters, through a 
courtyard, past food-storage lockers...but he was impressed.
    Yet he did not ask questions. His curiosity about Gant was canceled by his 
consuming desire to see Jessica, to hold her again...She's here, he told 
himself, here in one of these buildings...
    Escape, at this point, was a useless hope. In addition to the chokechain and 
tapewire, the four Sandmen who walked with him (one leading, one to either side, 
another following) all carried Guns in their hands.
    He would do as they instructed. If Gant had not been lying, he'd be allowed 
to see Jess after whatever torture the man had set up for him to endure. And 
Logan had endured much in his life. He would endure this--and hope.
    Jess, Jess...I love you!
    "Stop here," said the lead Sandman.
    They had reached a wide duralloy door, set flush into the corridor's end. 
The door was solid metal, and smelled of oil. One of the Sandmen unlocked it, 
swung it back. "Inside," he said.
    Logan entered--and the heavy door crashed shut behind him.
    Soft laughter in the corridor, and the Sandmen were gone.
    Logan was alone.
    The chamber was large, perhaps twenty by twenty feet, of bolted metal, 
totally bare. Not a single item of any kind--just metal walls, ceiling, floor. 
And, as Logan tested the surface, cool to the touch.
    There were round holes of varying size punched into the ceiling, scores of 
them. And as many in the floor. The walls were vented, top to bottom.
    Am I to be gassed in here? Is that Gant's plan? Ironic. Saved in New York 
from the same fate I'll suffer here...Will Gant really allow me to see Jess? 
Will I leave this room alive?
    Logan raised his head, tensing his body; he swung around abruptly.
    Someone was touching him!
    No, not someone. Something: a slight draft of currented air, touching at his 
face, his hair...emanating from the vents. Fresh. Not gas. Fresh air.
    But subtly increasing, gradually becoming stronger.
    A soft, pattering sound--and Logan felt wetness against his skin. Slow drops 
of water, dripping down on him from a multitude of ceiling holes.
    A muted rumble from the room, a faint, far-distant sound, like the throb of 
giant drums.
    The current of air had become a breeze, blowing chill against Logan's 
rapidly-dampening uniform. The patter of drops from the ceiling intensified, 
became a steady downfall, soaking Logan's hair and clothing.
    The breeze soon mounted to a wind, whipping at Logan in cold gusts from the 
wallvents surrounding him.
    The downpour increased to a fierce curtain of iced sleet, and the muted 
drum-rumble boomed into full thunder, assaulting Logan's eardrums.
    He staggered back, dazed, helpless--as the wind punished him, building in 
force by the second.
    Now another frightening element manifested itself in the chamber: firebolts 
of lightning danced and crackled around him, first at one wall, then at the 
next.
    Logan clapped both hands to his ears to muffle the thunder's brutal roar, 
his mouth gaping in shocked agony.
    A solid gust of wind slapped him to the floor. He rose to his knees, 
fighting for balance on the rainslick metal, crawled toward a corner to lessen 
the storm's impact--but a sizzle of heat-lightning forced him back to the room's 
center.
    The wind was a demon's shriek, the thunderclaps now impossibly loud in the 
metal chamber.
    Something began cutting at Logan's skin, drawing blood along his cheek. 
Hailstones--sharp-edged pellets of cold ice which pounded and slashed at his 
unprotected head and shoulders.
    Now the wind suddenly reversed direction, taking Logan by surprise; under 
its gale force, he was toppled and slammed into the wall.
    Again the hurricane blast abruptly reversed direction, and Logan was hurled 
across the slippery floor into the opposite wall, striking the metal with 
bonecrushing impact.
    Again.
    And again.
    And again.
    Viciously pelted and buffeted, Logan lay gasping on his back, blood running 
from a dozen wounds, the hail and rain drumming his flesh.
    He opened his mouth and cried out, but his voice was swallowed up in the 
cruel, unending din, as the storm raged.



     
     
REUNION
     
    "Do you think he's ready now?" asked Evans 9.
    Gant nodded. "Tell them to kill the storm, then have Logan brought to Room 
K..." His smile glowed red.....where I shall keep my promise to him."
    Evans turned to leave when Gant's voice stopped him.
    "One thing I'd like to know."
    "Yes?"
    "I'm curious," said Gant. "What made you betray him? You were friends 
once...yet you set the trap that brought him here."
    "I'm a proud man," said Evans. "Logan kept me in his shadow. In DS he 
assumed a position of superiority. He was arrogant, self-serving. He never tried 
to understand me. Even took our friendship for granted. Thought it was a 
privilege for me to be his friend! But I was never his friend! I knew someday 
I'd best him. And I have."
    "Indeed you have," nodded Gant. "It seems we share similar emotional 
attitudes toward Logan. Which helps bind us in the venture."
    "I want him dead," said Evans flatly.
    And he left.
     
    When they opened the door Logan did not move, did not look at them. Water 
dripped languorously from the ceiling, draining away along the floor.
    The storm was over.
    Logan lay in a far corner of the chamber, knees drawn up tight against his 
body, head sunken against his chest, eyes closed. His breathing was irregular. 
His soaked, torn uniform was spotted with blood.
    Two Sandmen walked over to him, lifted him by the elbows, dragging him 
toward the door. He moved in a broken child's stumble, his eyes glazed, 
unfocused. Small, mewling sounds issued from his mouth.
    The Sandmen smiled at one another as they led him away from the stormroom.
     
    Room K formed part of Gant's personal living quarters, and was lavish. Cut 
from the natural rock of the mountain, it was walled in leathertrim and lit by 
moonglobes, which cast their soft radiance on Jessica's pale skin. When Gant 
entered she rushed to him, eyes pleading. "Have you brought Logan? Where is he?"
    Gant ran a dark hand along the shine of her hair. "They're bringing him. 
He'll be here soon, I assure you."
    She turned away, slipped nervously into a bodychair. The green silk gown she 
wore, cut low at the breasts, pressed in against the curves of her body.
    "I'm sure he'll find you as desirable as ever," Gant said, moving to a 
winetable. Seating himself, he sampled a French vintage, inhaling its subtle 
bouquet. "The Borgias treated you well, all things considered. They could have 
disfigured you, ruined your beauty."
    "They were foul to me," she said.
    "Come now, Jessica. Put yourself in their place. You belonged to them. You 
were a woman of strong sexual attraction. Naturally they used you. But Lucrezia 
knew enough not to allow abuse. That was the key. She kept your Market value 
intact." He chuckled. "Had she known just how much I wanted you, and for what 
ultimate purpose, she could have realized a much greater profit."
    "I'm glad Logan killed her," said Jessica darkly. "She didn't deserve to 
live--not after what she did to Jaq."
    "Your Logan is a strong-willed, violent man." He hesitated, for effect. "Or 
should I say...was."
    Jessica looked startled, suddenly frightened. Her eyes sought Gant's. "Then, 
he's not coming! You've lied to me...Logan is dead!"
    Gant smiled, and the moonglobes flashed crimson from his rubied teeth. "No, 
not dead. Merely...gentled...eased from his violence. I have given him the gift 
of bodily peace."
    "Why should I believe anything you say?"
    "I went to a great deal of trouble to have him brought here to you. In 
justice, you should be grateful to me, not suspicious."
    Jessica's eyes burned with heat; her hands were fisted. "You hate us both 
for daring to do what you lacked the courage to do--for seeking Sanctuary."
    "I stood by my duty," said Gant, his voice gone hard. "Logan ran from his."
    The door chimed softly.
    "Ah, the moment of your reconciliation is at hand," said Gant. "It should be 
touching." He palmed the door and it whispered open.
    Logan was there, his sagging body held erect between two Sandmen. He blinked 
rapidly as Jessica ran forward to embrace him.
    "Logan...oh, Logan!" She put her arms around him, frantically kissed his 
lips, held his face between her cupped hands. He showed no sign of recognition.
    His face was totally expressionless.
    "He doesn't know me!" She swung toward Gant, stunned. "What have you done to 
him?"
    Gant smiled, a red gash of pleasure.
    Logan stared at nothing.



     
     
FRIEND
     
    They were stripped naked and thrown into a cell of raw rock, dirt-floored, 
exposed to constant drafts of cold air slicing through the interior of Crazy 
Horse. Gant's instructions were concise: No clothing. No food. Water at two-day 
intervals.
    He wanted to see them rot.
    Logan was helpless. He whimpered, lacked control of his body functions, was 
incapable of speech. As Jessica held him, his muscles jerked spastically. His, 
eyes rolled white. Saliva dribbled from the corners of his slack mouth.
    The stormroom had broken him.
    Through the long hours, Jessica crooned to him, stroked his trembling skin 
with gentle fingers--but he did not know her. She was a warm presence, nothing 
more, in the dim gray web of his mental world.
    Her voice was a litany: "Logan, my darling...my 
dearest...Logan...Logan...Logan, my love...
     
    But they had a friend at Crazy Horse--a silent figure weaving in shadowed 
stealth through the twisting rock caverns surrounding the Thinker--a friend who 
knew Gant's ways and awaited the chance to move against him.
    Watching.
    Waiting.
    Until a plan was evolved.
    And acted upon.
     
    Gant entered their cell with Steratt, his chief guard. Steratt was lean and 
sharp-featured, with the muscles of a hunting dog; he was dressed in slash-chest 
ivory leathers, wore thighboots and carried a small black handcase.
    Jessica looked up at them, blinking, nestling Logan close to her shoulder.
    Gant opened the handcase, took out a looped object.
    Bodywhip.
    He handed the whip to Jessica. "Use it on him," he said in a flat, 
emotionless tone.
    "No!" She threw it aside.
    Gant nodded to Steratt. He pulled Jessica up by her hair, swinging her 
toward Gant. Who slapped her. Hard.
    Logan blinked at them, his face devoid of expression. Blood flecked 
Jessica's mouth. "I...won't," she gasped.
    "If you don't," said Gant, taking a Fuser from his belt, aiming it at Logan, 
"I'll burn him where he lies!" Logan blinked stupidly.
    "Pick it up," said Gant, "and use it now." His eyes blazed black.
    Jessica picked up the whip.
     
    Behind the Medsupply Unit, in caverned rock darkness, a shape moved.
    The Sandman in charge of guarding the unit was bored. He was thinking how 
much better the workers' guard had it--with females to use whenever he felt the 
urge. Just go into the cells, drag one out, use her and toss her back inside. 
The workers didn't complain. Who would they complain to? Oh, they didn't like 
it. One of them tried to club a guard once, while he was busy with a female, but 
they burned him. As an example. It didn't pay to attack a guard. They all 
realized that.
    Well, Steratt owed him a shift change. He'd been on Med now for a month. 
Maybe he could get switched to Workers next. End up with some nice young meat.
    The shape detached itself from the rocks, moved closer.
    The Sandman yawned, sat down, arms folded across his chest. He closed his 
eyes and thought about women...
    While the shadow-figure darted into the unit, unseen.
    Hypokit. Fresh needles. Healpacs. Wraps and cotton.
    Careful! Arrange the other supplies to cover what's taken. No breakage. No 
noise. Quickly...quickly! And a shadow drifted back into the caverns.
     
    Imprisoned inside the mountain, Jessica had lost all sense of time. As she 
held her man, this brave human who had given his selfhood to save her, she felt 
they'd been like this, together in Gant's cell, for many months...Sometimes, her 
mind, disoriented by lack of food, held the conviction that they would be here 
forever, immortal in agony, abandoned, unfed, their bodies racked by cold, 
thinned by hunger...
    Then Gant would come. To gloat. To enjoy the spectacle. Sometimes she would 
be given to Evans or Steratt, who would take her brutally in the cell, for 
Gant's amusement. But, mostly, it was darkness, cold, hard dirt against aching 
muscles, night-crawling insects...
    Logan never spoke. He lay in her arms, unable to relate to her, to his bleak 
surroundings, to hunger or pain.
    Yet Jessica loved him more fiercely than ever.
    And, until Gant killed them, her love for Logan would remain--a hard, 
unwavering flame that warmed the deepest part of her.
    She would endure.
    They would endure.
     
    Assigned to Logan's cell unit, in six-hour shifts: eight Sandmen, two of 
them always on guard. Top men. Personally selected by Gant.
    On this shift: Lister 4 and Brim 11. Humorless, hard-faced, alert as cats. 
They paced outside the unit, carrying (at Gant's direct order) Guns in their 
hands.
    "Had a runner once," Lister was saying, in a tight, controlled voice, "who 
got into a Nursery. Got past the robots. I had to go in after him."
    "And?" said Brun.
    "Had him backed to the wall in a Cribroom. I was ready to homer him, when 
this Autogoverness comes rolling in. Upset. Won't let me fire. All worried about 
the infants. She knocks the Gun out of my hand. Runner makes a dive for it. Gets 
his hand around it. Zip! Blows his arm off to the shoulder!"
    "Runners know better," said Brun.
    "Guess this one forgot," said Lister, a faint smile tracing his lips. 
"Anyway, when I--"
    Lister stopped, the smile vanishing. He sat down very slowly, then toppled 
sideways, laying his face into the dirt.
    A small, glinting hyponeedle projected from his neck.
    Brun wheeled in a covering arc, Gun up, peering into the cave--darkness 
around him.
    No sound.
    No movement.
    He was about to press the alarmstud just inside the unit's arched doorway 
when a second needle sang from blackness, deeply imbedding itself in his carotid 
artery.
    The Gun slipped from Brun's nerveless fingers as he sank to his knees. His 
eyes lost focus. He collapsed backward, head striking the edge of the rock 
doorway--but he did not feel the impact.
    Silence.
    Then--a soft scratch of loose pebbles.
    A shape, moving.
     
    Jessica saw the figure coming swiftly down the gloomed corridor toward their 
cell. Not Gant. Or Evans. Or Steratt. Or the guards.
    Who then?
    An assassin sent to kill them?
    No, Gant had vowed he'd be there personally to watch them die, and Jessica 
knew that was one promise he would keep.
    "I'm Mary-Mary 2," the figure said. "You met me once, long ago."
    Jessica looked at the girl. Slim. Intense. Dressed in a ripped green 
tunicdress. And didn't know her.
    Mary-Mary smiled. "In the Angeles Complex. Under Cathedral. I was only five 
then. I'd escaped Nursery."
    "Yes," said Jessica. "Now I remember. But how did you ever--"
    "No questions," said Mary-Mary. "I got rid of both guards, but there's very 
little time." She produced a ridged silver key, hurriedly opened their cell door 
with it.
    The chamber smelled of damp earth and rock mold, a fungoid odor of decay.
    "He can't walk," said Jessica, looking down at Logan who was curled into a 
ball in the center of the dirt floor, arms clasping his updrawn legs. His eyes 
were open. He was staring at the wall.
    "Together we can manage him," said Mary-Mary. "I'm stronger than I look."
    The women half-lifted, half-dragged Logan to a standing position. His head 
rolled on his neck; a bubble of saliva formed and broke on his paste-white lips.
    A clang of distant metal. Door being opened, closed.
    "Hurry!" urged Mary-Mary. "Someone's coming."



     
     
SEARCH
     
    Gant. Evans. Steratt. Joking about what they would find in the cell ahead of 
them. Laughing, as they moved down the corridor.
    Suddenly; an oath from Gant. "Gone!" he thundered. "Their cell's empty!"
    "Someone used a key," said Evans. "The door wasn't forced."
    Gant was wearing a large ruby ring with a chased-silver facing on the index 
finger on his right hand. The ring opened the side of Steratt's face under 
Gant's blow. "You! You're in charge of the cells! You're responsible!"
    "They can't be far away," said Evans. He was kneeling in the cell, one hand 
to the floor. "Still warm from their bodies."
    Gant turned from Steratt, who was groaning, half-conscious. "Maximum alert. 
Have the outside of the mountain completely sealed off. They're still inside 
here somewhere."
    Evans nodded, picked up a vidphone.
    "We'll find them," gasped Steratt, a hand to his bloodied face. "I swear 
we'll find them!"
    Gant looked at him, saying nothing, holding the bodywhip loosely in his 
hand.
 
    "Here...lower him," said Mary-Mary. "Ease him down."
    Jessica and the girl slid Logan's body onto a yielding bed of sand, draped 
with throwcovers, then slipped down beside him, exhausted. Their journey into 
the mountain's interior had totally sapped their strength. Logan had tried to 
walk, but his body refused to cooperate; he was a dragging weight between them, 
an object to be moved through the dark skein of labyrinthine passages, guided 
only by Mary-Mary's knowledge of the intricate caverns.
    They'd reached the cave which was home to the girl. Sunlight shafting down 
from a high crack in the outer rockface of Crazy Horse provided illumination. It 
was now mid-afternoon.
    Jessica lay in the patch of gold, soaking up the rays, face raised to the 
welcome yellow warmth. Tears formed in her eyes, rolled down the slope of her 
cheeks, but she was smiling. "So long...since...I've felt the sun."
    "I've been preparing things," said Mary-Mary. "Taking what I knew we'd be 
needing from Gant's supplies. A little here, a little there." She nodded toward 
the rear of the cave. "We have food, water, medicine for Logan...Even these!" 
And she folded back a throwcover, revealing two Fusers.
    Jessica looked at her. "Gant was going to kill us."
    "I know," said the girl. "I've been watching everything. He enjoys 
inflicting pain. He always did. As a Sandman, he never worried about who got 
hurt on a hunt. He'd Gun anyone in his way. Homered a seven-year-old once."
    "How did you get here--to Crazy Horse?"
    "I came with Ballard as part of his Sanctuary Line. When he died I hid in 
the caverns, stealing the food I needed. They never missed it. I was careful 
about that."
    "Then Gant doesn't know you're alive?"
    "No one knows I'm here in the mountain. That's why I've been able to watch, 
find out what Gant's planning. And it's monstrous."
    "I know he's reactivated the Central Core," said Jessica. "But, beyond 
that--"
    "Gant plans to revive the Thinker--use it to bring the cities back to life. 
If that happens, he'll control the world."
    "But Ballard killed the Thinker."
    "Not really," said Mary-Mary. "He didn't have enough time. Gant's men were 
on the way to Crazy Horse when he got there just ahead of them. Ballard did what 
he could--shorted out the Central Core, destroyed all of the main 
relays...enough to knock out the cities. But Gant homered him before he could 
effectively destroy the main computer body. The Thinker isn't dead, it's just 
sleeping. And Gant intends to awaken it."
     
    "Can't find them! And why not?" Steratt raged at his men. "They're here in 
the mountain, aren't they? Every exit is sealed. Why haven't you found them?"
    "You've got ten thousand caves in there," said the leader of the main-thrust 
search group. "It would take years to probe all of them. There's just no way to 
do it. We searched the nearest caverns, but they've gone in deep. Too deep for 
us to follow."
    "What about footprints?"
    "Much of the ground is hard rock and shale," said the leader. "We didn't 
find any footprints."
    "Then we'll starve them out," said Steratt. "Time is on our side. Have a 
double guard assigned to all food and water supply areas. They can't escape the 
mountain. And when they finally come out we'll be waiting for them."
    Logan slept. Mary-Mary had provided clothing for him, had tended the wounds 
on his body, had fed him. The injections she gave him allowed his body to relax, 
and begin to restore itself. His natural strength came into play; his muscle 
tone improved, his skin took on color again.
    Sometimes he would awaken, groggy and blinking, on the sandy floor of the 
cave, crying out Jessica's name. She was always there to hold him, gentle him 
back to sleep, telling him that they were safe...safe...safe.
     
    Periodically, Mary-Mary would reconnoiter, then return to the cave with news 
of Gant's operation.
    Jessica had many questions for her: "How does he get people to work for him? 
Surely he doesn't reward them?"
    "Reward them!" Mary-Mary laughed. "Gant buys them on the Market as slave 
workers. Has them brought here. They work in twenty-four-hour shifts. He has 
well over a hundred men and women now, keeps them locked in cell units between 
shifts. Here..."
    And she sketched a rough map of Gant's headquarters on the floor of the 
cave. "This building is for the technicians."
    "How many of those?"
    "Dozens. Computer experts, most of them. They supervise the workers. The key 
scientist is named Fennister. A real genius. He can restore the Thinker to full 
performance."
    "But why would a man of such brilliance work for Gant?"
    "You saw what. Gant did to Logan. He uses torture to gain his ends. 
Fennister knows he'll be tortured to death, slowly, if he fails to do what Gant 
asks. All of them know that."
    "And they all...accept this?"
    "At first three of the techs rebelled, refused to be a part of Gant's plan. 
So he used them as examples for the others. What he did to them was...terrible 
to see. Now no one defies Gant. No one."
    "Then how can he be stopped?"
    Mary-Mary sighed; her eyes darkened. "I don't think he can be stopped," she 
said.



     
     
FENNISTER
     
    Sparks showered and burst blue against the terminal. Fennister 2 thinned the 
blade of cutting fire from the nozzle of the Flamer and finished the separation, 
then fused the tri-relay segment. He tested the cable. Perfect.
    "Gant's here," said a voice at his elbow. Fennister acknowledged with a nod, 
wearily putting aside the Flamer and peeling his workgoggles. He was a man ready 
for sleep when the cities died, which made him twenty-seven now. He would never 
have become a runner. It was not in Fennister's nature to duck and dodge and 
hide and outwit. His world was computer science, and if the Thinker had told him 
to die he would have quietly obeyed its command and gone willingly to a 
Sleepshop.
    But with the death of the cities he quickly came to realize that life beyond 
the dictates of a machine was precious. Freed from the duties of computer 
maintainence, he had met a woman, Lisa 18, and had come to care greatly for her. 
They'd agreed to have children, planned for the future as pair-bound lovers.
    Then outlanders hit them. Lisa had been sold on the Market, and he'd been 
shipped to Crazy Horse as a worker for Gant. "Supervise the rebirth of the 
Thinker and I'll see that Lisa is yours," Gant had promised him. "Fail to get 
this job done and you'll never see her again." Thus, despite strong personal 
misgivings about the project, he had agreed to head it for Gant.
    The Central Core was first--and now it was almost totally restored. The main 
computer-body would follow, each operation done in the thorough, meticulous 
fashion that characterized Fennister's work.
    But not fast enough to suit Gant. Three of Fennister's best men had been 
tortured in the past week, another killed outright, and now Gant was coming here 
again, to the Core, to make fresh demands of his team.
    He would not resist these demands; it was not in Fennister's nature to do 
so. Yet he hated Gant with the same quiet, deep intensity that he brought to his 
work. To rebuild the Thinker under this man's rule was an agony to Fennister 
that lived within him each moment of the day and night like the breath in his 
body.
    Gant faced him, his tall shadow falling across Fennister's lean body. As 
usual, Evans 9 was with him, a devil's duo. The thought bitterly amused 
Fennister. No one had believed in devils for almost two hundred years, yet Gant 
and his Sandman-chief were surely prime candidates for demonhood.
    "How much longer?" Gant demanded.
    "The Core will be a hundred per cent operational within twelve hours. After 
that, the main body work should take another week to ten days."
    Gant fingered the ruby at his throat, turned to Evans. "Tell me what he just 
said."
    "Core to be a hundred per cent within six hours. Main body completed in 
another three days."
    "Impossible!" protested Fennister. "I don't have the technicians...the 
equipment..."
    "Ah, but you do," said Gant smoothly, giving Fennister a jeweled smile. "We 
just picked up a dozen more techs for you on the Market. And additional 
equipment arrives by paravane tonight. You'll meet my schedule..." Softly. 
"Won't you?"
    Fennister sighed, tightening his thin lips. "Yes, I'll meet your schedule."



     
     
RECOVERY
     
    A shape, hovering. Hazy, double-imaged. Coming into focus.
    A face. A woman's face. Close to his. Smiling.
    Jessica!
    Speechless, tears in his eyes, he held her, sought her lips with his, 
inhaled the sweet fragrance of her skin, touched at the soft flow of her hair. 
His arms closed around her convulsively.
    "It's all right, Logan," she said to him. "You're safe...alive...with me. 
Everything's all right now."
    He drew in a long, shuddering breath; his eyes never left hers. "I thought 
I'd lost you forever...When the outlanders..."
    She stopped his words with a finger at his lips. "That's all over--and we're 
together again."
    Logan stood up, swaying, still weak from the effects of the tranquilizing 
drugs. He looked around him at the cave.
    "Where are we? The last thing was...the storm."
    "We're with Mary-Mary inside Crazy Horse. She saved your life, got us both 
out of prison, gave you medicine..."
    Mary-Mary moved up to Logan, took his hands in hers. "I was the little girl 
in Cathedral," she said. "When you were running."
    "I remember," said Logan.
    She told him about hiding inside the mountain, unable to go for help...about 
the ominous growth of Gant's force ("He must have fifty Sandmen with him!"). 
And, finally, about Gant's plan to reactivate the Thinker.
    "We've got to stop him," said Logan. "If we don't, he'll start the whole 
inhuman process again...something even worse than death at twenty-one...a slow, 
enslaved death inside the cities. He's got to be stopped before that can 
happen."
    "But how?" asked Mary-Mary. "One man and two women against his armed 
Sandmen?"
    "We'll need help," Logan admitted.
    "And who's going to help us?" said Jessica. "The Wilderness 
People--leaderless since Jonath was killed?...They're weak, Logan, vulnerable. 
Gant would slaughter them in an instant! And how would we get word to them? The 
mountain is sealed. We can't get out."
    "She's right," said Mary-Mary. "Besides, Gant's operation is nearly 
complete. We've no time to bring in outside help--even if we could find any."
    A muscle tightened along Logan's jaw; his eyes were set, intense, fixed on 
an inner goal. "Then...that leaves it to us," he said.



     
     
EAGLE
     
    On Argos, in an ancient book, Logan had once read a short bit of verse, 
still remembered:
    If you wish
    To enter
    The nest of an eagle,
    You must wear
    His feathers.
    Which is why he asked Mary-Mary to take him to the place of workers' supply.
    They crouched in cavern gloom, watching the guards.
    "Four of them," whispered Logan. "Why four?"
    "Gant has doubled the guards on every door," she told him.
    Too many, Logan told himself. The doors were useless.
    "The roof--is it wired?"
    "No," she said.
    "Then I'll use that," said Logan, stuffing a Fuser into his belt.
    "They'll hear you!"
    "Who can hear a cat?" Logan smiled.
    And was gone.
     
    On the roof, Logan kept low, moving in a half-run across the flat gray 
surface. As a Sandman, he'd done this sort of thing many times--entered 
buildings through stealth. This one would be simple.
    He found a ventpipe, leading down, pried loose its cover with the barrel of 
his weapon, working fast and without sound. Once inside the pipe, he carefully 
lifted the cover back into place. If anyone checked the roof all would be in 
order.
    A sense of adventure possessed him. He had his strength back, or most of it; 
he had Jessica, alive and loving him; he had his hatred of Gant to fire the 
blood in his body. It seemed to Logan, at this moment, that he could not fail, 
that he was truly invincible. He smiled at the madness of it, but logic did not 
matter; emotion ruled him, carried him swiftly forward in his plan.
    He located the clothing supply room without difficulty. It was precisely 
where Mary-Mary said it would be. The doorlock was an easy matter, and he 
slipped inside.
    No one on duty. A large room with long steel shelves holding neatly-folded 
workclothes. Logan selected three bodysuits all in matching blue, and quickly 
added the same number of gogglemasks and gloves. In removing the items, Logan 
did as Mary-Mary had done previously with foodstuffs and medical supplies: 
rearranged the stacks to disguise the fact that anything had been taken.
    With what he needed compactly bundled under one arm, Logan glided for the 
roof. When he heard voices he did not move. When they had faded he resumed. No 
problems.
    Invincible.
     
    They suited up. Masks. Gloves. Bodysuits.
    In these dark blue outfits it would be impossible to recognize them. They 
would blend in perfectly with the other workers, be able to move freely without 
fear of detection.
    When he had conceived the plan Logan intended going alone, but Mary-Mary 
told him that he'd need her to pinpoint the proper areas. "All right, then, the 
two of us." No, not good enough. What they had to do required teamwork, and all 
three of them would be needed to get the job done.
    Reluctantly, Logan had agreed.



     
     
CORE
     
    The Central Core was Fennister's pride. Working day and night, almost 
without sleep, toiling in the depths of the Core shoulder-to-shoulder with his 
men, he had converted a charred, heat-twisted mass of computer metal into its 
original machined perfection; he had reconstituted the heart of the Thinker. Now 
that great heart was beating strongly once again, sending its message of power 
out along mile upon mile of linked cable to all the dark areas of the 
multi-banked computer.
    Life was flowing back into the Thinker.
    The Core presently required only a standby crew; the main thrust of 
Fennister's efforts concerned the vast computer-body itself. He was working 
desperately to meet Gant's schedule--realizing that it was barely possible to 
succeed. He had to succeed, for the sake of his men, and for Lisa.
    Failure was unthinkable.
     
    Three figures detached from cavern shadow...three blue-clad workers, 
blending with more than a dozen other blue-clad workers...moving toward the 
Core...wearing the full-face gogglemasks required for this high-body-risk area.
    The Sandman accompanying this shift-replacement crew noticed nothing 
unusual; he had not counted the workers. That wasn't his responsibility; if they 
sent him a dozen or two dozen his job was to guard them at the Core, make sure 
everything ran smoothly down there. Fennister knew what they should do; he 
didn't. And didn't give a damn in the bargain. They were sheep to be herded, and 
he was a bored shepherd.
    In the group, Logan kept Mary-Mary and Jessica close to him. Behind the 
opaque goggles, his eyes raked the area. They were entering the Core itself now, 
their transbelt taking them down to the glowing, pulsing interior.
    "Right on time," said the guard below, his voice muted by the gogglemask he 
wore.
    "When have I ever been late?" growled the Sandman leading Logan's group.
    "Have a good shift," said the guard as his early hours workmen shuffled 
tiredly onto the return belt. We made it! Logan exalted. We're here!
    With Mary-Mary and Jessica, he moved to a toolcab just out of the guard's 
view. Shielding the move with his body, Logan took a needle-thin length of steel 
from his suit, worked it deftly into the drawerlock. The drawer slid back.
    Quickly, each of them removed a Flamer from the inside toolrack. The drawer 
was closed, locked again.
    They moved off.
    Logan wasn't sure of his direction. "Which way?" he asked Mary-Mary, his 
goggled head close to hers.
    "I'll lead," she said. "Follow me."
    Logan and Jessica stayed close as she weaved a path around giant columns, 
past glowing relay units, deep into the humming depths of the inner Core.
    Now they were totally separated from the other workers, free to implement 
Logan's plan. The Sandman on duty was long out of sight.
    "Is this the right cluster?" asked Logan, pausing before a tangle of 
multi-colored power cables protruding from the Core's vitals like immense 
snakes.
    "Yes," said Mary-Mary.
    Logan knelt to examine them. "If we cut through these and cross-connect them 
the power overload will blow the Core."
    "But how will we get out?" asked Jessica, alarm in her muffled words.
    "We'll have some time before the cross-connection takes full effect," Logan 
told her. "It won't happen all at once. There's only one Sandman on guard, and I 
can deal with him. We'll be safe inside the caverns by the time it blows."
    "Will this really stop Gant?"
    "Not completely," said Logan. "But he'll have to rebuild the entire Central 
Core again. By then we can figure a way out of the mountain and bring help back 
to fight him. This will work, I'm sure of it!"
    They each set their Flamers for maximum penetration. Using the 
high-intensity fire tools, they could slice through the massive cables with 
relative ease.
    But it would be dangerous.
    Keen concentration was a necessity; the depth of each cut had to be precise. 
Too shallow, and the cross-connection could not be achieved; too deep, and the 
cables would fuse, killing them instantly but leaving the Core intact.
    "Ready?" Logan's Flamer was poised in his gloved hand, flickering blue at 
its tip.
    The two women nodded.
    "Begin," he said.
    And three bright blades of flame began probing at the cables.



     
     
ATTENTION!
     
    Gant was drunk.
    He seldom allowed himself the luxury of heavy drinking, but this was a 
special day of celebration: the Core was fully operational and work was 
progressing smoothly on the main body of the Thinker. Soon he would be in a 
position to program it to fit his desires, to light the cities like so many 
stars in the heavens--and with him in charge of the universe!
    Indeed, a day to celebrate.
    He'd been drinking Spanish wine with Evans, who was now equally drunk; they 
blared out songs together in off-key, grunting voices, pounded the table with 
their fists, roared with laughter at non-existent jokes.
    Steratt appeared in the doorway, looking disturbed.
    They paid him no heed. He moved to Gant, scowling. "You'd better listen to 
me," he said.
    Drunk or sober, Gant was anything but a fool--and the look in Steratt's eyes 
told him to listen.
    "Did Fennister authorize Flamer use at the Core?" asked Steratt.
    "Of course not," snapped Gant. "The Core's done"
    "The guard there just checked the tooldrawer. Three Flamers are missing."
    Gant's face darkened; his eyes became hooded. The effects of the wine 
flushed away in the heat of his anger.
    "Let's get down there!" he said to Evans.
     
    Logan's cable was neatly severed, ready for reconnection. He watched tensely 
as Jessica and Mary-Mary bent to their work, flamepoints eating steadily through 
the tough cable fiber.
    Almost finished.
    Then; the guard's voice: "What are you three doing?"
    Logan knew that bluff would accomplish nothing at this moment. Words were no 
good at all.
    He turned toward the Sandman, triggered the Flamer in his gloved hand. The 
killing blade of fire caught the guard at shoulder level, knifing through vein 
and tendon...
    He spun, gasped, and died.
    "Come on!" said Logan. "Move out! Fast!"
    "We can finish, Logan!" cried Mary-Mary. "Another minute or two. We're 
nearly--"
    He grabbed her arm, propelling her forward. "Suspected something. Wouldn't 
have come here if he didn't. Probably checked the tools. There'll be others 
coming."
    Isolation was death, Logan knew. Separated and running, they would be 
spotted easily and trapped in the Core. Protective coloration was their only 
hope--the eagle's feathers! In gogglemasks and bodysuits all workers were 
identical; to escape they had to intermix with the other blue-clad figures, then 
wait their chance to fade back into the caverns.
    By the time Logan found the main group Mary-Mary was gone. He turned to 
Jessica, his tone harsh, demanding: "Where is she?"
    "She went back--into the Core," said Jessica. "Said she was sure she could 
finish."
    "That's impossible now!" He looked around him. The workers were doing their 
routine jobs, unaware of the guard's death.
    "Stay here," ordered Logan. "I'm going after her. As soon as I--"
    "Attention! All workers, attention!" a speakerbox blared. "There has been an 
accident at the Core. Please use the interior belt and form on Level 6 for 
inspection."
    "Too late," Logan whispered to Jessica, looking toward the upper level. Gant 
and Evans were there, Steratt beside them.
    As the workers reached the top, masks were peeled away, features and IDs 
scanned.
    "We can't go up," said Logan.
    "But we can't stay here either," she said.
    "Move along, you two." A Sandman prodded them toward the belt.
    Logan drove a fist into the man's face, grabbed Jessica's hand, ducking 
between two central-power columns.
    A laser blast sizzled the floor behind them. Gant was shouting, gesturing 
wildly.
    Logan had a goal: an emergency riser used by repair crews he'd seen on the 
far side of the Core. If they could reach it without being cut off...
    If.
     
    At the cables, working with the Flamer, Mary-Mary had ignored the demands of 
the speakerbox, but she could not ignore the shouts, the crackle of laser 
fire...
    No chance to finish now. Only a chance to escape.
    She threw the Flamer aside, began running toward the Auxiliary Powerchamber; 
a stepway there could lift her out of the main danger area.
    A black shape filled her vision. A pair of strong arms gripped her; a Gun 
was jammed against her neck, forcing her head back, painfully.
    Sandmen! Two of them, prowling the inner Core.
    Instantly, she relaxed, knowing that struggle was useless. She did not 
resist as the gogglemask was peeled from her face.
    "I don't know this one," the first Sandman said.
    "She's no worker," said the second.
    "I know her," said a harsh, familiar voice.
    Mary-Mary drew in a quick, strangled breath--a sob of utter defeat...
    As her eyes locked on the cruel face of Gant.



     
     
BOLDNESS
     
    "It was my fault," said Logan. "The whole thing, my fault."
    They'd regained the caverns, had reached the cave of Mary-Mary. Finding it 
empty, Logan knew at once that the girl had been taken; otherwise, she would 
have been here, waiting for them.
    "But she insisted on going back...There was no stopping her," said Jessica.
    "Not that," said Logan, shaking his head. "I mean the whole plan. It had no 
chance from the beginning."
    "But you're wrong, Logan! It almost worked."
    "A thing works or it doesn't. There are no `almosts,"' he said bitterly. "It 
was a fool's idea, and it's cost us Mary-Mary."
    He slumped to the sandy floor of the cave, eyes dulled with pain in thinking 
about the girl.
    "What will Gant...do to her?" asked Jessica, easing down beside him. Her 
voice was soft, the words strained.
    "I know him," said Logan tightly. "I know how his mind works. There's no 
doubt of what he'll do to her."
    A long moment of silence. Then Logan quietly said a word. It stiffened 
Jessica's back; she felt a chill mount her skin as she heard it:
    "Stormroom."
     
    Standing naked and alone in the steel chamber, facing the vented walls, 
Mary-Mary knew she would never leave this place alive. Gant would have his full 
revenge on her for snatching Logan from his grasp; he would eliminate her with 
the same terrible device he had used to subdue Logan.
    This time the storm would continue, would end only when her life ended. She 
would be battered and destroyed by its hurricane force...
    Mary-Mary discovered, amazingly, that she was not afraid of death. She had a 
burning faith in Logan; she knew that, somehow, he'd find a way to stop Gant. No 
other Sandman had defied the full might of DS, but Logan had done so, and 
survived. No other Sandman had reached Sanctuary, but Logan had reached it. He 
was capable of incredible actions, extraordinary deeds--which was why Gant so 
desperately wanted him dead.
    Gant feared Logan 3 as he feared no other man.
    Thus, in a deep sense, she was content. Everything she could do had been 
done. She had revealed Gant's plan to Logan, made him aware of the danger, fired 
his will and given him a purpose.
    He would fulfill that purpose.
    Mary-Mary was ready to die.
    She felt a stirring in the room. Faintly, imperceptibly, from the wall 
vents, a soft current of air probed at her.
    Mary-Mary shivered.
    The storm had begun.
     
    Logan fought the rage that was consuming him. It required a full exertion of 
will for him to remain a reasoning, thinking man and not a beast bent on 
slaughter. He fought against an overwhelming impulse to plunge out of the 
caverns, Fuser in hand, and blast his way to Gant.
    I'd never reach him, Logan told himself; they'd burn me down before I was 
ten steps into the light. Every Sandman in Crazy Horse envisions me dead under 
his Gun; that sight lives behind their eyes. Gant's reward for my death must, by 
now, be very great indeed.
    Yet he could not hide like a frightened mole in these caves while Gant 
destroyed the girl who'd saved his life, who'd brought him Jessica...
    The man, not the beast, would go forth.
    But go forth he must!
     
    They were on a thick shelf of rock with a clear view of the large, circular 
structure just ahead.
    Without Mary-Mary, Logan was dependent on Jessica's limited knowledge of 
Gant's mountain stronghold.
    "And you're certain that's it?"
    "Yes," said Jessica. "Gant keeps them all locked up there between work 
shifts."
    "Communications?"
    "There's a vidphone connecting the prison area directly to Gant's personal 
quarters."
    "Good," nodded Logan. "Who's in charge of the cells?"
    "Steratt. You saw him leave."
    "How many Sandmen are usually in there?"
    "Three. One just inside the door. One patroling the cellblock. Another on 
the vid-deck. There may be more now."
    "I doubt that Gant would use extra men here," said Logan. "This is the last 
place he'd expect me to be."
    She looked hard into his eyes; her own were glistening. "Just remember that 
I love you," she said softly.
    "You think I'll never come out...That we won't--?"
    "I love you," she repeated.
    And he kissed her.
     
    Boldness was Logan's last hope. No cat-stalking, no stealthy penetration. No 
time for subtle moves now. Bold action remained to him, and that alone.
    He reached the outer door as Jessica melted back into the shadows. With the 
butt of his Fuser he banged loudly on the metal.
    A Sandman's sharp voice from inside: "Who is it?"
    "Who do you think it is? It's me, Steratt! Open the damn door. My key's with 
Gant."
    Logan held his breath, the Fuser poised in his hand. He had heard Steratt's 
voice many times from the caverns, and his imitation was convincing. Muffled by 
the double thickness of the metal door, it might pass.
    His heart jumped; the door was opening.
    In the flicker of an eye Logan had the guard by the throat. A quick 
snap--and his head rolled loosely. Logan allowed the body to spill out along the 
floor as he pulled closed the massive, self-locking door.
    He quickly stripped the body, putting on the guard's gray uniform. He pulled 
the cap low over his eyes, walked casually toward the cellblock.
    Twenty feet...fifteen feet...ten...
    "I thought Steratt was coming with you," said the second guard, peering down 
at Logan from his station on the block.
    "I come alone," said Logan--and fired straight up at the man.
    He didn't wait to see him die, he spun like a dancer in the direction of the 
vid-deck, leveled his weapon at the third Sandman. Logan's voice cracked across 
the chamber: "Gun on the deck! Quick!"
    Logan could hear the murmur of excited voices from the cells lining the 
block.
    "What's happened?"
    "I don't know!"
    "Guard's been killed!"
    "Who? Who did it?"
    "Must be Logan!"
    "Logan's here!"
    The name ran the cells like a chant: Logan...Logan...Logan...
    He was on the vid-deck now, his weapon covering the guard. "Give me the 
block keys."
    "Can't," said the man. His face was pearled with fear-sweat as he looked at 
the death in Logan's hand.
    "Why can't you?"
    "Cells are set to open automatically at shift-time, when the crews are 
changed. Only Gant can open them between shifts."
    "Then get him on the vid." Logan's eyes were blood-fired. "Call him over."
    "He won't come," protested the guard. "What can I tell him?"
    "Tell him you have word of Logan--that you think you know where to find me, 
but that you want to lead him there yourself, alone, so that no one else can 
claim the reward."
    "He'll never believe that! And if he did he'd bring a dozen men!"
    "Your life depends on what he believes," said Logan. "He wants me dead by 
his hand. That's Gant's prime passion...He'll want to believe what you tell him. 
And personal greed is a thing he understands. He'll come."
    The guard, still sweating, turned to the vidphone.



     
     
FLAMER
     
    Gant keyed the outer door, stepped quickly inside.
    His step was light. There was an exultation in him. Somehow, this fool guard 
had discovered Logan's hiding place; the how of it didn't matter. No one would 
come up with such a story unless it were true. What could it gain the man to 
lie? No one lied to Gant about Logan; no one would be mad enough to try.
    It was true, then: Logan 3 was once again within his grasp. And this time 
nothing on Earth could keep Gant from killing him.
    He felt like singing!
    But wait...
    He stopped, eyes narrowed. Where was the inner guard? Gant swept his gaze to 
the upper cellblock.
    No guard there either.
    A trap!
    "You wanted me. I'm here," said a voice from the shadows.
    And Logan stepped into the light, a Fuser aimed at Gant's head.
    The dark man could not speak; his throat muscles worked convulsively in the 
shock of this meeting.
    "Your Gun...let it fall," said Logan.
    Gant hesitated, glancing toward the vid-deck.
    "No guards to help. They're all dead. Do it."
    The holstered Gun thumped the floor.
    "Now--the central block key. Give it to me."
    "I don't have it."
    "I won't ask twice." Logan raked the side of Gant's head with the Fuser's 
barrel. Blood pulsed on the tall man's ripped cheek. He handed over the key.
    "All right," said Logan, "walk ahead of me. Fast."
    They moved toward the block.
    Behind Gant, Logan said, "What have you done with Mary-Mary?"
    "She's alive."
    "Where?"
    "In a cell. Main building."
    "She's in the stormroom, isn't she?"
    Gant said nothing.
    "After I free the workers we're going there. If she's dead you'll wish you 
were...and you'll be a long time dying."
    After his call to Gant the guard had jumped Logan. A foolish move. But, in 
killing him, Logan's shot had severed the vid-line. Meaning that there was no 
way to force Gant to cancel the storm that must, even now, be battering 
Mary-Mary.
    The thought of the girl's anguish distracted Logan for the split-second it 
took Gant to feint left and kick the Fuser from his enemy's hand.
    Logan surged at Gant. But, like a great dark cat, the man had whipped 
back--to palm a wall switch.
    Instantly, a series of mirror-bright steeloid panels dropped from above, 
sealing Logan within a circular area perhaps thirty feet across. A final panel 
slid over the others to form a dome above his head.
    Leaving him blind and alone.
    Outside, the triumphant voice of Gant: "Another of my inventions, Logan...in 
case I had to discipline one of my workers. And really quite 
imaginative...Watch!"
    The blackness grew less intense as the circular walls surrounding Logan 
began to glow. Heat began to sweat Logan's skin; the panels glowed a furious 
blue-orange. The heat was stifling.
    This place was an oven--an immense human cookery, in which Gant literally 
roasted his victims!
    Logan bellied flat, knowing the heat would rise, giving him a partial 
respite from the worst of it. But his gesture was futile. Each breath he took 
scalded his lungs. His eyes burned. He'd be dead soon enough, his flesh 
blistered and curled to ash.
    Gant's final revenge.
    Logan's thoughts reeled in confusion: the heat seemed to be lessening, not 
increasing!
    The glow slowly faded from the walls. Darkness returned.
    And with it, the voice of Gant: "You didn't think I'd let you die in there, 
did you, Logan? And cheat myself of watching your finish? No, that would never 
do. Not after all we've been through together."
    What was next? What new torture had Gant devised?
    "I'm coming in, Logan. To watch you die. But under my hand. I don't want one 
of my inventions to finish you. That pleasure I reserve for myself."
    And a panel slid back. Light flooded the circular area.
    Logan squinted, saw Gant standing with a Flamer in his jeweled hand.
    "You were using one of these in your clumsy attempt to destroy my beautiful 
Core. Now it's only appropriate that I use it to destroy you."
    And the panel whispered shut, killing the light.
    Logan and Gant were together in darkness.



     
     
DUEL
     
    On the rock shelf, Jessica waited.
    Logan had told her he would need her help if he managed to free the workers. 
Until then, all she could do was await some sign of his success.
    It did not come.
    She'd seen Gant enter the prisoners' compound alone, and assumed that Logan 
was responsible for his appearance--but no one had come out. Not Logan. Not 
Gant. Not the workers.
    What had happened inside the compound?
     
    Logan knew that the first rule of fighting in the dark is not to be where 
your enemy expects you to be. Therefore, as the steel panel was sliding closed, 
killing the light, Logan was in swift motion, catapulting himself across ten 
feet of flooring.
    A long bloom of yellow-green flame told him he'd been correct--as Gant aimed 
at the spot where Logan had been standing. The fire lit the chamber for a brief 
instant, showing Gant Logan's new position.
    Again, he triggered the Flamer.
    And, again, Logan was gone.
    A dry chuckle from the darkness. "I could make this an easy kill," Gant's 
voice declared. "In one hand, the Flamer, in the other a flashbeam. To pick you 
out, Logan. To reveal you in the dark..." The chuckle was repeated. "But that 
would be too simple. There would be no joy in it. I want our little...contest to 
last. I want to enjoy burning you to ash."
    In one way, Gant was wrong. Even with a flashbeam, spotting Logan's exact 
position within the circle would be difficult--since the polished curving-steel 
panels acted like a hundred mirrors, casting back a multiplicity of images in 
their reflective surfaces.
    If Logan kept moving...
    His foot caught on a panel projection; he stumbled. Instantly, a blade of 
flame jabbed at him. He rolled away from the heat blast, his right leg singed, 
the cloth burnt away to raw skin.
    "Close, eh, Logan?" the taunting voice asked him. "Since I've been reworking 
the Thinker I've become quite adept in the use of a Flamer. As you are 
discovering!"
    The voice never came from the same spot of darkness long enough for Logan to 
get a fix on it. Gant knew he'd come for him if he had a stationary target. So 
each man kept circling, kept fluid...waxy, alert...
    Logan was weaponless. Just his bare hands against the kill-power of a 
Flamer. Gant had called this a contest. No contest; an execution.
    Then Logan realized Gant had stopped moving.
    Logan froze, locking his muscles, stopping the breath in his lungs.
    Gant was motionless, listening.
    Logan, too. Motionless.
    Can he hear the pounding of my heart? Logan wondered. It sounded, within his 
body, as loud as a hammered drum.
    The silence grew, became intolerable.
    Logan's mouth was dry; he wanted desperately to swallow--but the faint sound 
would draw Gant's fire as surely as a shouted word.
    His right leg was aching terribly; the flesh, from thigh to ankle, throbbed 
with stinging pain. Logan had to shift the leg, ease it. Didn't want to. 
Shouldn't. But...
    Had to.
    Gant fired.
    Flame ate at Logan, his writhing body mirrored and multiplied a thousand 
times in the sudden heat-glow.
    It had not been a direct hit. Had it been, he'd be dead at this moment. But, 
instinctively, he'd twisted his torso sideways and rolled with the flame as its 
cutting edge assaulted him.
    From the blackness, Gant roared his delight. "Taste the fire, Logan! Taste 
its sting!...There's no more running for you. No Sanctuary to reach. No Jessica. 
No Ballard alive to help you..."
    He was saying more, taunting Logan in a triumphant, mocking voice. Gant 
began to laugh, and in so doing made one vital mistake: he forgot to keep 
moving.
    Logan had slipped the belt from his tunic, fisting it tight at each end. He 
launched himself at the sound of Gant's laughter, in a collision of flesh...
    A shocked, strangled gasp burst from the tall man as Logan's body bore him 
floorward. The Flamer was knocked, spinning, into darkness.
    "Damn you!" cried Gant, his huge hands at Logan's throat.
    He had the strength of ten; he was truly a giant, superbly conditioned, a 
fighting machine of awesome capability--fired with hatred for this tenacious 
enemy who continued to plague him, who dared, even now, to physically attack 
him.
    He would crush the life from Logan!
    He's killing me! I'm getting dizzy. Mind's blanking. Can't breathe!
    But Logan broke the hold. Using his feet, he snap-kicked free, twisted, 
looped the narrow belt around the giant's thick neck, applied fierce pressure.
    Gant fought him. For a long moment it was impossible to say which man had 
the greater advantage. Two ex-Sandmen, trained to kill, masters of their craft. 
Each driven to hate, each determined to end the other's life.
    Abruptly, Gant's hands fell away from Logan. He beat the floor with the flat 
of his palms--as a panicked bird beats its feathers under the hawk.
    The great dark hands went slack; the fingers curled, twitched, fluttered. 
And did not move again.
    Gant was dead.



     
     
ROUT
     
    She saw him!
    "Logan!"
    "Jess!"
    Workers were flooding out of the cells, arming themselves with Flamers, 
metal clubs, stones...rushing toward the door which Logan had opened wide.
    "What are you doing here?"
    "I came to face Gant," she said, trembling, holding him. "When you didn't 
come out...when no one came out...I thought he'd killed you!"
    "It's Gant who died," he told her. "Now do as I said. I'm going after 
Mary-Mary."
    Nodding, she vanished off into a twist of cavern gloom.
     
    Evans 9 got the word first: Breakout. Main block. All the cells emptied.
    Where were the guards?
    And where was Gant?
    No matter. Evans could handle a ragtag band of half-starved workers. He 
needed a bit of excitement; things had been dull since Logan's escape.
    He was probably hopelessly lost by now in the caverns, and Jessica with him. 
Without Mary-Mary they'd have no chance.
    Evans was at the vidphone. "Which way are the workers headed?"
    The vid gave no reply; the image screen was blank. A malfunction was 
annoying at a time like this.
    Evans strapped on his Gun, stuffed an extra Fuser into his belt, left the 
unit.
    Steratt and the others were outside, battle--assembled, ready to move 
against the escapees. Evans smiled. His men would grind the rebels underfoot. A 
mere flexing of Sandman muscle.
    It would be amusing.
     
    Logan was at the door of the storm chamber. Through the thick metal walls he 
could hear the hurricane roaring inside.
    "Kill it," he said to the control-tech in front of him, his Fuser jabbing 
the man's back.
    The tech mouthed fear-words, palmed a primary switch on the weatherboard.
    The storm died.
    "Door," snapped Logan. "Get it open."
    The tech did that.
    Logan clubbed him aside and vaulted into the room.
    She was alive.
     
    "There!" shouted Evans, pointing. "There they are."
    Steratt and the Sandmen advanced toward the workers. A narrow stretch of 
rock tunnel separated the two groups.
    The Sandmen moved into the tunnel, Guns ready.
    The workers halted, seemed confused. They murmured among themselves.
    "The poor fools aren't even firing at us," grinned Steratt. "Maybe they 
think we'll make it easier on them if they give up now."
    "Too bad," sighed Evans, his Gun raised. "I was actually looking forward 
to--"
    He didn't finish.
    Evans and Steratt and the entire group of advancing Sandmen were buried in a 
sudden, crushing downfall of rock...huge boulders loosed in deadly profusion by 
willing hands from above.
    Under the personal direction of Jessica 6.
    The tunnel was still.
    Not a shot had been fired, yet the battle had been won.



     
     
COUNTDOWN
     
    Fennister simply could not believe it, could not accept the fact that it had 
all happened so quickly, that one man and one woman had routed Gant's army, had 
freed the workers and turned his universe upside down.
    "My whole reason for existence here, for months, has been to make the 
Thinker live again," he said to Logan. "And now you want me to let it die?"
    "No," said Logan, "not let it die. I want you to destroy it. Totally. So it 
can't be revived again, by anyone. No more rule-by-computer. Ever."
    "But with Gant dead...you and I...we could use it, for the good of man, not 
his enslavement."
    "There's no good in it," said Logan.
    Fennister shook his head.
    "And if there was," Logan continued, "who's to say how long we'd control it? 
Every power-hungry maniac in the world would be licking his chops over the 
thought of running it. No, Fennister, the Thinker has to die."
    They were in the scientist's lab, beyond the inner Core, a vast place of 
complex instrumentation, filled with a dazzling array of multi-operational 
equipment which Gant had supplied.
    Nothing had been stinted here.
    Jessica stood beside Logan; she shared his passion. Fennister's argument 
made no dent in their combined determination to destroy the source of so much 
pain and death in the world they'd known.
    "We'll finish the job Ballard started," said Logan.
    Fennister nodded slowly. "All right...we can do it. But the whole mountain 
must go with it. That's the only way."
    Logan was shaken by this. To bring down the great warrior who symbolized 
courage and rebellion, who ruled the Dakota wilderness in proud granite 
majesty...
    But he hesitated for only a moment. His eyes were hard. "The mountain, 
then," he said.
     
    It would be difficult--and dangerous.
    A timing device was set to detonate thermocharges planted at a multitude of 
spots inside the caverns. For days, Fennister and his technicians had labored to 
plant these charges and regulate them, precisely, to the primary timer; each had 
a separate and vital function.
    "I want everyone clear of the mountain before we set the timer," said Logan.
    "Someone will have to remain in the laboratory," said Fennister. His face 
was drawn with exhaustion, his eyes pouched and swollen from lack of sleep.
    "Why?"
    "To make certain the device works. There's no way to monitor it from 
outside."
    "What's the risk factor?" asked Logan.
    "It could be high. There's a chance I won't come out."
    "You?"
    "Who else would it be?" Fennister said in a calm, weary tone. "I'm the only 
one qualified to see that the timer functions properly."
    "I'll do it," said Logan flatly. "Just tell me what I need to know."
    Fennister tapped his head. "It's all in here, Logan. And only I have it." He 
spread his hands. "There's no one else."
    A moment of silence.
    "You'd die with the Thinker?"
    "If I must."
    Logan was silent for a moment.
    "Let's get started," he said.
     
    The Dakota sun was a disc of white gold in the heated morning sky. Under it, 
well back from the mountain, surrounded by green pines and thick, waist-high 
brush, the workers and technicians of Crazy Horse stood nervously.
    They said nothing; their eyes were on the mountain, fixed to the immense 
granite figure who seemed tall enough to rule the world.
    Jessica stood close to Logan, gripping his hand. Her eyes, too, were on the 
mountain. Near them, Mary-Mary, pale from her experience in the stormroom, but 
sharing their joy in having aborted Gant's plan.
    "How much longer?" Mary-Mary asked.
    "Fennister set the timer exactly," said Logan. "At his signal, we're to 
count down from a hundred. By the count of twenty-five he should be back here 
with us."
    "He's a brave man," said Jessica.
    Logan nodded. "And a brilliant one. The world needs its Fennisters now."
    "Will he make it?" asked Mary-Mary.
    Logan looked at the cavern entrance, a dark wound in the base of Crazy 
Horse.
    "I don't know," he said.
    The signal was given.
    And the countdown began.



     
     
EXTINCTION
     
    A muted, murmurous sea of voices, counting down to zero, each voice 
strained, tight with emotion...
    "...eighty-two...eighty-one...eighty...seventy-nine..."
    All eyes on the mountain.
    Logan and Jessica and Mary-Mary counting with the others. 
"...sixty-six...sixty-five...sixty-four..."
    As Logan's voice mechanically chanted the countdown, like some terrible 
litany, his mind kept giving him the image of Fennister, alone at the timer, 
watching for any flicker of imperfection, any sign that all was not well.
    "...forty-eight...forty-seven...forty-six..."
    A maddening vision.
    Logan felt himself beginning to tremble. His right leg throbbed, still 
bearing the mark of Gant's Flamer. When he was under pressure, in a 
highly-dangerous situation, this condition could never have manifested 
itself--but his fear now was for Fennister. And this fear twisted and ate at 
Logan.
    "...thirty-eight...thirty-seven...thirty-six..."
    Dammit, he should be coming out by now!
    The dark cavern mouth gaped, silent and empty.
    "...twenty-nine...twenty-eight..."
    "I'm going in to get him," said Logan.
    "You're not," said Jessica. It was a flat statement.
    "Hold her," Logan said to a worker next to them. "She'll try to follow me."
    "Logan, you--"
    But he did not hear her voice any longer. Her voice was a million miles 
behind him.
    There was only the mountain.
    And Fennister.
     
    The count stood at sixteen when Logan reached the lab.
    Fennister was gone!
    The timer stood deserted--ticking away life-seconds: 
fourteen...thirteen...twelve...
    Logan shouted, "Fennister!"
    "Back here," a voice said from the depths of the laboratory.
    Logan found him, kneeling at a terminal, adjusting a tiny set screw, grabbed 
his arm, jerked him upward.
    ...nine...eight..."Out!"
    "But there's still a loose connection here. I have to--"
    "I said out!"
    And Logan dragged him toward the lab door...five...four...three...
    Logan stared desperately at the timer. "We're too late! The whole mountain's 
going!"
    "No!" Fennister threw his body across the space between Logan and the timing 
device.
    And killed it.
    The timer stopped
    "I didn't intend to come out," admitted Fennister. "Gant was my only chance 
to find Lisa again. He's dead, so I--"
    "We'll find her," vowed Logan. "I know the Market now. She'll be found, I 
swear it."
    "I believe you."
    "Then destroy the Thinker--and come out with me."
    "I can't reset the timer," said Fennister. "It's not possible without 
detonating the charges."
    "Can they be rigged to go off any other way?"
    "Yes. By fuse. But that's death for us."
    "Are you certain?"
    "A short fuse is required. We'd have no time to clear the mountain."
    "How much time is no time?" Logan asked him.
    "Perhaps...fifteen...twenty seconds. No more."
    "We can make it," said Logan. "Go ahead."
    Fennister made the proper connection, attached the short length of fuse.
    "No way to ignite it," he said.
    Logan pulled the Fuser from his belt. "I'll use this," he said.
    They moved to the door, poised to run. "Start," Logan told the scientist. 
"I'll fire, and follow you."
    "But I--"
    "Run, damn you!"
    Fennister took off, leaving Logan alone.
    He aimed carefully--triggered the burnweapon.
    The fuse ignited, began running a thin line of orange flame rapidly toward 
the charges.
    Logan tossed the weapon aside and sprinted after Fennister.
    And soon caught him. "Faster!" yelled Logan.
    They ran.
    Along the main corridor.
    Through a linking series of rooms.
    Down a secondary corridor.
    Up a flight of cut-stone steps.
    Ahead: the bright mouth of the escape tunnel and, just beyond, the exit into 
Dakota sun, shining with the promise of life itself.
    Fennister stumbled, fell, with a snapping of bone, full-face onto the 
tunnel's dirt floor.
    ...as the fuse burned closer.
    Logan pulled at him. "Up!"
    "Broken," gasped Fennister. "Thigh bone. Can't walk. Go on, Logan! There's 
no time to--"
    Logan grappled the scientist's body, slinging Fennister's full weight across 
his shoulders.
    "Keep your arms locked around my chest," he said. "Hang on!"
    And he staggered forward.
     
    Mary-Mary cried out Logan's name as she saw the two figures emerge from 
darkness into light.
    Jessica's throat was locked; she could not speak.
    Several of the workers ran to Logan and Fennister, bore them swiftly away 
from the mountain. They cleared it.
    Barely.
    Inside the lab: a final spark of flame.
    Then a blinding radiance.
    Concussion!
    The mountain screamed--a sound of cracking, rending granite and 
Tashunca-uitco began to die.
    A hairline split appeared in the shoulder of Crazy Horse; the immense arm of 
the great war chief of the Ogallala Sioux, on which five hundred men could stand 
shoulder-to-shoulder, suddenly quaked loose, sundering into giant boulders.
    The massive head of the warrior split itself in twain, as if a titanic 
axe-blade had cleaved the skull...
    The huge stallion, bearing the chief, reared up magnificently, magically 
alive, as tons of rock folded into an opening crevasse behind it; a raised hoof 
sheared away, fell into disintegrating fragments...The main body of horse and 
man swayed majestically for a moment, then bowed, tumbling down in an awesome 
granite rain of rock and rubble and dust...
    A terrible, mind-numbing silence.
    As if the universe itself had been extinguished.



     
     
TOGETHER
     
    Jessica turned her eyes to Logan in the down-sifting dust. Like his, her 
skin was powdered white. Tears had cut furrows down her cheeks.
    They embraced, silently.
    Something evil had died with the Thinker. Not the computer itself, but the 
uses to which men put it; no longer would its machine-metal dictate life and 
death.
    Men like Gant could never use it to enslave a world.
    "It's done, Logan," she said. "Really done now."
    He held her body tightly to his.
    "With Jonath dead," said Jessica, "the Wilderness People will need a new 
leader...They need you, Logan."
    "No more leading," he said darkly. "That's the wrong word for us. I'll help 
the People...You'll help them...Mary-Mary will help...Fennister...all of us." He 
framed her face with his hands. "Together!"
    And the sun burned, and burned, and burned in the arched sky of the Black 
Dakotas.