"Billings? Arteria."

"Yes, Captain. I don't know how Redden got onto it, but he found out about your request to the highway patrols. He's got all their reports coming to him, but there's more, he's set a trap in Albuquerque."

"Trap. What kind of trap?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Something about a fannish church, but he sure wasn't going to give me any details."

"The fans own a church? --Albuquerque, fine. And he's intercepting reports about the trucks."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lee thought for a moment. "All right. Quietly cancel our request for information on those trucks. Do it in a way that makes it look like we're embarrassed about asking. Then see what you can find out about that church. I'm nearly to Sante Fe, I'll get on to Albuquerque. Ask around and get me a clue. Any clue. But don't let them know I'm out here."

"Well--"

"I'm pretty sure I know where they're taking those Angels," Arteria said. "And why all the odd purchases. You were right, Billings, it's fans. Now if we do this my way, the Air Force will get all the credit. That means you and me."

"Yes, ma'am." He sounded enthusiastic.

"When you've got the other stuff done, get my chopper and our crew and take it to George Air Force Base in the Mojave. OSI official investigation."

"George Air Force Base. Bring your helicopter and crew, and come myself. That place is like the back side of the moon, Captain."

"I know."

"All right, ma'am."

"Good man. I'll meet you there."

A fannish church in Albuquerque. There were a lot of fans in New Mexico. Fair number of writers, too. But a church? With luck Billings would find out something.

Lee Arteria drove steadily. She was just passing through Sante Fe when the fax began. "Wheep! Wheep!"

UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD OF THE WAY. FORMERLY CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY. NORTHEAST AREA ALBUQUERQUE BASE OF SANDIA MOUNTAINS NEAR TRAMWAY STATION. REDDEN AND MOORKITH ON THE WAY. MILKHEIM TRUCK AT OUTSKIRTS ALBUQUERQUE. TRUCK STOP. DRIVER ASLEEP. REDDEN DOESN'T KNOW YET.

Lee smiled faintly to herself. So. Redden can think ahead, too. Good move, setting a trap at that church. The Angels may well stop there on the way west.

If the Angels were caught by Redden and the New Mexico Police, the Air Force wouldn't get any credit at all. What I need, she thought, what I need is to get them to Edwards. Once on an Air Force Base, they're mine. All mine.

Which means I ought to do something about this trap…

Sherrine was almost tired enough to pull Bob out of the bunk alcove. She kept driving because they were already in Albuquerque. The church couldn't be far. A pew would make a hard bed, but a long one. Sherrine was looking forward to that. So, she guessed, were the Angels.

The roar of the huge motor changed timbre. Trouble? Something else? Numb in the ears and the mind, she still recognized the sound just before six motorcycles roared up into her rear-view mirror.

She held the truck steady. This ship-on-wheels must be terrifying to a cyclist.

They drove past. All but one. Harry Czescu (why had Harry joined a covey of strange bikers?). He was waving her over, arm windmilling in seeming terror.

There was no place to pull over. At a Y-intersection she angled right, no longer headed for the Universal Brotherhood of the Way. Still looking… but Harry was motioning her forward, to follow him.

Sherrine called, "Who's awake?"

"Yeah-da."

"Alex, get Bob up. Shake him if he's settled." Like salad dressing…

Harry led and she followed. Onto the I-40 freeway and onward, west. Flagstaff was three hundred and forty miles away. She'd need fuel much sooner than that.

"Sherrine? What?"

"Harry's got us back on the I-40."

Bob rubbed his eyes. "He wouldn't do that lightly. What happened exactly?"

She told him. He said, "The way to read Harry is, he's seen something seriously wrong, and he's right. He'll try to fix it, but badly. So stop when you see a decent chance."

She drove. She wondered about Fang and Larry. Both trucks had to reach the Mojave. What was going through Harry's mind? A man you couldn't trust to buy the beer…

A turnout. She eased into it… signal, keep it smooth, don't panic yet. Brought the behemoth to a stop.

Now panic. Sherrine eased out of the cabin and down. Where the hell was Harry? Long gone, it looked like. Nope, that was him coming back. The Angels were sliding out, too, slithering down to the dirt, distrusting gravity.

Harry pulled into the cloud of dust, bringing more. "It's a trap! We've got to keep moving!"

"What about Fang? And Jenny?"

"I left Jenny on watch in case I missed you. I'll have to go back for her. I found Fang sleeping it off while he waited for dark. Jesus. I think I lucked out. After I saw the church, I found a bunch of bikers and pulled into the middle of them. They got me close to Fang. I gave him the word, and then I caught up with the bikes." Harry patted the metal flank of his motorcycle. "Goood boy. I don't know if I was followed or not. But someone knows we're here, and someone else must have--Jesus, we've got to get--"

Bob's voice was soothing. "We can't outrun anything except on the straightaway. So why don't you tell us about this trap?"

Harry's head sagged. Then his body followed. He was doing a back stretch, hanging from the hip bones. He came up, rolling for full effect. "That's better. Yeah. The church looked fine. I went past it, figuring to park a decent distance away, and I saw the billboard. I saw just enough that I pulled into a Taco Bell and Jenny and I took a pew near a window so we could study it. Here."

He handed across a notepad. The printing was Jenny's:

SERMON BY THE REVEREND NEHEMIAH SCUDDER IF THIS GOES ON

"Uh… huh."

"What is it?"

The crushing power in an Angel's hand was always a shock. Bob said, "Literary reference, Gordon. Robert Heinlein, 'If This Goes On…,' in which the Reverend Nehemiah Scudder turns the United States into a religious dictatorship… incidentally terminating space travel, come to think of it. So it's a definite warning."

"Too bad we can't rescue whoever left it," Harry said, "but those trucks come first."

"Yeah. Back aboard. Sherrine sleeps, I drive. Harry, you get Jenny now, and then we need the services of the Oregon Ghost. We need a source of gas not much more than eighty miles away, and refuge in Flagstaff."

The Ghost's instructions took them to a fueling station and a decent chili joint in Grants, New Mexico, sixty-five miles east of Albuquerque. Hours later, approaching Flagstaff, they switched from I-40 to the old, worn Route 66. Then to asphalt, then gravel: the roads grew narrower and harder to drive. Why were they being led here in eighteen-wheeler trucks?

Bob had to fight the wheel because of potholes. It was midafternoon; he had been driving since dawn, and he was puffing from fatigue and the thin air. Sherrine knew that she didn't have the strength in the arms to spell him.

Motel up ahead: long two-story buildings with porches. A more compact, more ornate structure must be Registration. A few bulbs in the signs were dark. There weren't many cars. The drive-in next door was dead. Nobody had bothered to change the letters on the marquee:

SCI FI RILLER

OCTO SSY

"The city must have moved a highway on them," Bob said. He was driving dead slow now, hunched like an ape over the wheel. "In Flagstaff they're always doing that. It's slow death for a motel. Or a drive-in." He pulled between paired pillars into the driveway.