Orrie raised up in front of him and hurled the challenge back. He screamed even louder. All his purple fur stood out from his body as if he were electrified. His eyes bulged from his skin. "CHTORRRRRRRRRR!"

Falstaff clacked his mandibles at Orrie and then, still raging, he threw himself flat on the ground before the other Chtorran. He made a sound that was neither a scream nor a sob nor a whimper, but had the feeling of all three at once.

Orrie came back down to the ground in front of Falstaff. He flowed forward. He rolled up and over Falstaff, and then the two of them were rolling together across the ground, writhing as if they were wrestling or copulating or fighting-then they stopped and held for a long moment. The tension in the two bodies was incredible.

And then-abruptly-they relaxed and a moment later, parted.

Falstaff chirped softly, almost lovingly at Orrie. Orrie chirped back at him.

"Good," said Jason. "Let's go. The clock is running."

We charged for the compound. My job was to find the main dome, access the computer-I would use Colonel Buffoon's code, Marcie had taught it to me-and dump onto disk the latest maps of California and the locations of all safe enclaves not presently claimed.

Falstaff came charging with me. "You okay, boy?"

The worm chirruped at me as happily as if he'd just opened a bus full of Boy Scouts. I shrugged and kept going.

The main dome was locked. No problem. I pointed at the wall. Falstaff flowed up to it and began munching; within seconds he had chewed open a hole large enough for both of us. Shelterfoam was good, but it had its limits.

Falstaff backed away from the hole and I dove in. He followed. "Lights," I commanded, and they came on brightly. I'd forgotten. There were three desks and terminals. They smelled military. I'd forgotten so much.

The wall facing me was twelve feet high. It was a mural of the Constitution of the United States. I was frozen facing it. I could hear my own voice reminding me: "I vow to uphold the Constitution of the United States of America." I'd made that commitment before I'd made my commitment to Jason.

Which commitment counted for more? I took a step toward the wall.

No.

I wasn't in the army any more. That commitment had been made before I'd been awakened, before my transformation. It didn't count.

Or did it?

I turned away and sat down at a terminal with my back to the mural. I logged in, punched in the code of a dead man, and accessed the central banks. This probably wasn't going to work, but I had a whole list of identities to try: people who'd disappeared recently in this region. I hadn't asked about that. I presumed they'd failed the "Live or Die?" test.

Colonel Buffoon first. The terminal hesitated. SORRY. ACCOUNT INACTIVE. PLEASE CONTACT SYSOP.

Next, I tried the code for Colonel Buffoon's aide-de-camp: SORRY, etc.

Uh-oh. This might turn into a problem.

On impulse, I entered my own code. This time the hesitation was longer. Abruptly: CALL HOME. UNCLE IRA MISSES YOU. And then, just as abruptly, the screen cleared again. "What the hell?"

Falstaff Chtrpled. "Never mind," I said.

I had an idea. I punched in Duke's code; the one he'd given me a year ago. The terminal hiccuped and reported: READY.

I blinked. Oh, really? The army still thought Duke was alive? Never mind. I'd figure it out later. I slid a blank memory-card into the reader and started typing out a long list of dump commands.

The reader light blinked on. The card was recording. This would take a minute.

I turned around and looked at the wall. We the people of the United States . . . It was an agreement.

I remembered Whitlaw. "You don't get to vote on this agreement. You already did." I never understood what he meant. Until now. This was the agreement here-whether I acknowledged it or not.

I'd broken this agreement. I'd promised to uphold it.

My mind said, "Jason forced you to break the agreement. You don't owe him anything."

And I replied; "But I can't use the breaking of one agreement to justify breaking another one. Jason loves me!"

My eye fell on Article XIII. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude . . . shall exist within the United States. . . .

But I'd made my own choice. I wanted to serve Jason.

Or did I?

I knew how we all supported each other. You didn't get a choice. You got pushed to the extraordinary level whether you wanted to be there or not.

I looked at Falstaff. He goggled his eyes at me. He didn't understand. He saw marks on the wall.

I couldn't help myself. I moved to the wall and touched it. This meant something.

I knew something about this wall. My fingers moved across it, touching here, here, and here . . .

The wall slid sideways, revealing a narrow passage.

Falstaff chirped curiously. He didn't know that this passage wasn't supposed to be here.

I stepped into the passage. The wall closed behind me.

I heard Faistaff's surprised chirp. I heard him slide up to the wall, snuffling through his mouth. "Chirrup?" he asked.

The domes were decoys. The real base was hidden underground.

If I could find the main control, I could open the hidden ramp. We could move the trucks and the Chtorrans down here, and when the choppers came, they'd see only the evidence of a hit-and-run raid.

I climbed down the ladder to the underground level. The lights came on as I dropped the last few feet. The room was large and high-ceilinged. This was no tiny base. This was a major supply depot for the area.

There were tanks and Jeeps and trucks, at least a dozen of each. There were six choppers. There were large containers of fuel against one wall. There were row after row after row of shelves, filled with weapons and ammunition and food and clothing and blankets and medical supplies and tents and canteens and missiles and silverware and knives and bandages and. . . .

You could outfit a small city with the supplies in this base. We were rich.

This was exactly what Jason was looking for.

Above me, I could hear his voice, "Jim?" He had entered the dome. He was calling me. "Jim?"

I hesitated at the base of the ladder. Where was my loyalty anyway? What was my life about?

I could feel the indecision like a physical thing in my body-a brick in my throat.

I ran for the main console and punched it to life-tried to punch it to life. The terminal asked, "Authorization code, please?"

"Uh-" I punched in Colonel Buffoon's number.

"Sorry, invalid code. Authorization code, please?"

Through a speaker, I could hear the sounds of the camp above. I could hear Jason's voice calling, "Jim! Come on, Jim! The clock is running out! We've got to go!" He was using the bullhorn. "Come on, you slimy motherfucker!"

I punched in Duke's number. The terminal rejected it.

I tried my own Special Forces code. I didn't expect it to work, and it didn't.

All I had to do was get that door open. But why?

Why did I want that door open?

For Jason, of course.

But why?

I had another notion. A stupid one, but I tried it anyway. I typed, "Uncle Ira."

The terminal flashed. "Authorization accepted." All I had to do now was open the ramp.

I thought of puppies. And Jessie's baby. And my ape mind. And Jason had said that we were the food of the gods.

I didn't want to be food. I wanted to survive.

I could hear Jason talking to me. "Don't buy into your programming-that's what keeps you from being a god."

"Oh, God-" I choked on my words and collapsed in front of the console, crying. "Why me?" I curled up in a ball, sobbing hysterically. "No-goddammit. No, no, no, no, no!"

"Jim! If you don't come out, you'll regret it bitterly! Jim! If you can hear me, come out now! Jim! You have thirty seconds, or I'll have Falstaff rip your arms off!"