Rick Ginsberg sat slumped on a huge boulder, head in his hands, panting with exhaustion. The trail was high, and Ryan was conscious of the thin air. His heart was working harder than usual, and any effort was more tiring. There was a marvellous vista to enjoy to their west — the orange sun was sliding down amid a nest of feathery thundertops tinted a light purple.

"What are the mountains, Doc?" Krysty asked, brushing dust from her coveralls.

"Look like the old Sierra Nevadas, from the shape and feel of them. But if we're in the high Sierras, then I'm puzzled at what that is way away to the west. Beneath the setting sun."

"It's a lake," Lori said. "Big, big lake, far as I can see."

Doc shook his head. "Can't be, sweetness. There is no lake of that size hereabouts. We must be a good twenty miles or more away from it and yet it looks utterly vast. Ergo, we are not in the Sierras."

"Wrong, Doc," J.B. folded the sextant and slipped it into one of his infinitely capacious pockets.

"Wrong?"

"Wrong. We're close by the Pacific. These are the Sierras, all right. This is what used to be called California."

"But the ocean never came this close to such high peaks, unless..."

Rick stood up, his pale face beaded with sweat. "You say this was California. That's bullshit! There's no place in the state where you can see the Pacific from..." His eyes, magnified behind the thick lenses, turned to Doc. "Unless... You were going to say... weren't you? Unless the whole..."

Ryan answered him. "Trader'd been here several times over the years, and he told me what happened out west here."

"San something... Andreas, that was it. The San Andreas Fault!" the freezie exclaimed.

"That's the name. Trader said that the nukes came down, thicker than fleas on a gaudy-house mattress. Hit lotsa places along California. Cities and silos. Bases and harbors. Said there was that fault you said. It triggered something way deep under the earth, and the whole mess just opened up."

Krysty backed up what Ryan had said. "There was an old woman in Harmony when I was still a suckler. Said her gran had survived. Bad rad burns, but she'd lived. Been born on the foothills of the Sierras, hundred and fifty miles from the sea. Came around after dark day. The Pacific was lapping at her feet. A lot of the state had gone, slipped into the water and off the edge. She said the waters were clogged with bloated corpses for many months. The smell drove folks away — those that lived. Not many."

"Los Angeles gone? San Diego? San Francisco? All gone?" Ginsberg sat down in an ungainly heap, like a rag doll left to its own devices. "Then it's true, what you told me. Not something spawned in my brain. I'm alive and it's happened, and I'm going to die. I'd hoped..."

"Man who starts thinking of hope has given up thinking how to live," J.B. said. "Seems to me, freezie, that you're too bitching sorry for yourself for a grown man."

"You don't understand," Rick said wearily, barely holding back the tears. "This isn'tmy world!"

"It is now," the Armorer replied. "And we're all wasting time."

Ryan had examined the massive sec doors to the redoubt very carefully before the group started down the blacktop, checking that there hadn't been any serious effort to force them.

Any signs of bad damage often meant a potential threat from local muties. But the doors were untouched, with just the usual evidence of weathering.

They found one possible reason for this when they were a couple of miles down the track. There had been a huge earthslip and the remainder of the road, clear into the forest, was gone.

Now there was just a great expanse of scree, dotted with scrub and sparse thimbleberry bushes. A tiny stream meandered through it, opening up its own little valley between the loose stones. There was about a half mile of nothing before the first shadowed trees. The forest covered a sizable piece of land, eventually filtering down into a terrain of semidesert, dotted with sagebrush and mesquite.

"Get warmer," Jak observed, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his camouflage canvas jacket.

"Soon be evening, Ryan," J.B. said. "We're making slow time with the freezie. Best we can hope is to reach the wood and make a night camp there."

"Sorry to slow you all down. It would be better if you left me. Better you never reactivated me. Best would have been if you'd walked on by and..."

"Rick?" Ryan said.

"Yeah?"

"Shut your damned mouth!"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"No fire," J.B. ordered.

"It'll be coldest!"

"No fire," he repeated.

But Lori was equally insistent. "I don't want cold!" She stamped her foot, the spurs tinkling prettily.

"The forest is exceedingly dry, my dearest little moonstone, and the brush beyond looked like positive tinder."

"What d'you know? You got thick old skin to kept you warmer. Not like me!"

Doc shrank from her venomous anger, shaking his head. Krysty felt sorry for him and stepped into the argument.

"Don't be a stupe, Lori. You know what a danger a fire could be out here. Wind'd raise it in minutes. Not worth it."

"Bring muties," Jak added.

"You're all against me! Always fucking mob up on me. Not fair," she yelled, her voice swallowed by the dark trees surrounding them.

Nobody took any notice, except for Doc, who took a hesitant half step toward the sulking girl. He stopped abruptly when his eye caught Krysty and saw her shake her head.

Rick had taken no part in the conversation. As soon as they had stopped in a small clearing he'd laid down on the soft, dry bed of dead leaves and fallen into a deep sleep.

The six companions took turns keeping a sec watch. It would have been utterly absurd to think about the freezie keeping guard. Ryan was already having serious reservations about Rick Ginsberg, a weak, enfeebled and miserable depressive whose mind was fragile. The only thing that was in his favor was the news that he had once worked in some capacity on the gateways. That alone justified the trouble of keeping him with them.

But only for the time being. The night passed by peacefully.

Chapter Twelve

After a sparse breakfast from self-heats and ring-pulls of water, everyone sat around for a few minutes, resting, preparing to move on. Ryan was next to Rick, and he realized the freezie was muttering to himself, something about "tomorrow."

He listened more carefully.

"All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to a dusty death. Life's a tale told by an idiot, filled with sound and fury and signifying..." Ginsberg stopped.

"Signifying what?" the one-eyed man asked curiously.

"Nothing, Ryan," Rick replied with a deadly bitterness. "Absolutely nothing."

Lori's good nature had returned, and she led the group, dancing, light-footed, between the gnarled trunks of the mature live oaks. The bells on her spurs jingled merrily, and she sang as she ran, an old hymn that Ryan had heard in some of the fundamentalist Christian villes.

"Watch your step, precious," Doc called, but the girl ignored him, blond hair flying behind her.

Rick seemed in better health and spirits, walking without the aid of a walking staff that Ryan had cut for him with his panga.

"I used to like hiking," he said. "Until I got ill. It became harder going then."

"How d'you feel?" J.B. asked.

"Better." He grinned. "A whole lot better. You know, the air tastes cleaner. Perhaps I'm imagining it, but it does. Fresher. I suppose all the industry being blasted in the war helps that. No more sulfur, acid rain and holes in the ozone layer that used to worry everyone in the... in the old days."