"Maybe what? Come on, J.B. What?"

"This talk about moving. Suppose there really was a transmitter of matter. I've read about things like that in old books. It was fiction, of course, not fact. But if there was... I've seen them called 'jumpers' in books. Worth thinking on, old friend. A way of getting from Deathlands to the Western Islands in the wink of an eye. Or from the Baronies out east to beyond the Big Black Water. That, instead of weeks of danger in a war wag. Think on that."

Ryan stood up. "I've got to go see Kurt."

As he moved into the corridor, he could hear the screams of the dying blaster.

"The fog. Claws an' teeth!" But the voice was now weaker.

Out of one of the ob slits, Ryan stood and watched the setting sun on the left side of the war wag. The sky was dappled pink, streaked with shades of darker, menacing maroon. There was a big wind starting up outside and all the doors had been closed, but it was still possible to hear the muted whistling of the gale. Banks of trees all around them crowded up the edges of the ruined highway, most of them with their upper branches stunted or broken by the weather.

Once the doors were battened and bolted and the ob slits locked shut, the voices in the war wag became quieter and the oppression became a tangible thing, sitting on everyone's spirits.

Now, with a man dying, hardly anyone was talking. Those on duty were busy enough, but the rest either dozed or listened to tapes through the cans. Ryan eased his way along to the tiny sick bay. Generally it was not much used. In a firefight there were rarely any wounded.

Krysty was sitting on the edge of the bunk, wiping Kurt's forehead. Even in the past few hours the man had sunk. The mouth was relaxed, the eyes open. Even the babbling had finally stopped. The eyes followed Ryan as he moved into the room.

"How is he?" asked Ryan.

It was Kurt himself who answered. "He's near finally fucked, Ryan."

"Looks that way."

He was conscious that someone had come in behind them. Out of the corner of his eye Ryan recognized the shambling figure of Doc.

"Better here than back in hellsuckin' Mocsin, Ryan," said Kurt.

"Yeah."

"Man could choose worse company than this to die in."

"Guess so. Anythin' you want?"

"Mebbe a long drink and a tall blonde. No, make that... make that two of each." There was a dreadful spasm of strained breathing and the man's whole body racked upward, mouth gaping, the air hissing in his chest. Then Kurt lay still a moment, eyes fixed to Ryan's face. Finally his eyes closed and the flurried movement of his chest ceased. Ryan glanced across at Krysty, who shook her head and reached down to pull the gray blanket up over the blackened features.

"Gone beyond the river from which no man returns," said Doc quietly.

"He's chilled, Doc. The rest is crap. Life's just somethin' you lose."

"Ah, I was meaning to ask you, Mr. Cawdor, if by any chance any of your people had come across a possession of mine."

"What possession, Doc?"

"Plural, I think. There are two of them. Past tense. Were two of them. Small, gray spheroids, about... about so big." He held his fingers apart to indicate something roughly the size of an implode-stun grenade.

"Haven't seen them. What were they?"

Just for a moment a look of foxy cunning faded across the old man's wrinkled face. And went just as quickly. "Nothing of importance, my dear sir. Nothing at all."

The war wag bumped over a particularly deep rut, making the scalpels rattle in their shallow dishes. Doc adjusted his ancient hat, which he insisted on wearing despite being inside the war wag.

"Upon my soul, but these roads are not what they once were."

Ryan's eye opened wider. "How in the big fire d'you know what they were like before the nuke-outs?"

"Slip of the tongue," said Doc hastily. "I have read of these great roads, that is all." He rubbed his eyes with the stained cuff of his frock coat. "In the Darks, there was a dreadful fog!" His voice rose to an eldritch shriek that made Krysty jump, looking around her in concern.

"Mistake," he rambled on. "Escaped. Heads rolled. Fog like... like Cerberus."

"What the fuck's that?"

"A frightful hound of many ravening heads that guards the very mouth of Hades. Oh, yes, Cerberus. That was the name of the project. Once. Then it changed. Changed. A fog, Mr. Cawdor."

"A fog, in the Darks?"

"A fog. With claws and teeth. Such claws and teeth."

Even in that peaceful, desolate land, with not a single human being seen in three whole days, there was still the presence of death.

They had been forced into a swinging detour about one of the few hot spots in the region, around what had allegedly once been a town of seventy thousand souls called Grand Falls. It had been hit by Soviet missiles for its special industrial importance and power plants, and it was still a place to avoid, its ruins toxic.

Toward evening of the following day, Ryan received the message that the Trader wanted to speak to him. It was Krysty who conveyed it to him. With every day that passed the girl looked in better and better shape, all the horrors now behind her. She was wearing pale green overalls, with a bandolier of ammunition for her pistol that was crossed over with a broad leather belt that carried three leaf-bladed throwing knives. A larger knife hung on her right hip with a counter-draw holster for the automatic on the left side of the belt. The fiery hair was bright and lustrous, tumbling nearly to her narrow waist. The top of the overall was unbuttoned, showing the shadow of her breasts.

Ryan Cawdor found it increasingly difficult to conceal his desire for her. Asking himself whether it was desire or whether it was lust. The word lovenever entered his mind.

He followed her through the war wag, conscious of the click of the heels of her polished high boots and the movement of her buttocks against her outfit.

Doc was leaning against a wall near the Trader's cabin, his eyes hooded and far away. As Ryan squeezed by him, Doc spoke quietly.

"After the missiles had fallen, and the forty-fourth President was up in the 767, how did he begin his message to the States?"

Ryan pursed his lips. What went on under that craggy brow? Madness, or hidden intelligence?

"How did he begin his speech, Doc?"

"My fellow American! You understand it, Mr. Cawdor? In the singular. My fellow American!"

The cackling laughter followed him as Ryan stooped to enter the Trader's cramped room. He was met with the sour smell of illness. By the side of the bunk was a porcelain bowl splattered with blood and spittle. Torn rags, also stained crimson, lay on the floor. The Trader had always been a man of the fiercest pride, and now all that was done as his race neared its ending.

"Close the door, Ryan. I figure another two days at the most and we'll be in the Darks. I can taste the thin air. You know what to do?"

They had discussed the options, with J.B. sitting in, over the past three days, trying to cover every eventuality. Now there was no more planning or talking to do.

"It's in hand," replied Ryan.

The Trader's face was like a frail old man's, the skin taut as parchment over the cheekbones. The rad cancer was racing through him, devouring living tissue, eating up the hours.

"If there's anythin' after, then I'll be seein' ol' Marsh Folsom real soon, Ryan."

"I know it. We all do."

Trader nodded slowly. "Hear you told your name. Ryan Cawdor. Anyone recognize it?"

"No. Though Doc said he might have heard it. But he can't recall anything for more than a minute or so."

"Wish I had the time to chew over past days with him. Won't happen." Ryan thought the Trader was going to be overwhelmed by one of his coughing fits, but the moment passed. "Look 'round here, Ryan. What d'you see?"