The survivalist whirled and fired. Red blotches bloomed across the young gleaner’s chest and she tumbled to the ground; the chair rolled to the survivalist’s feet.

Gordon might have heard the click as the rifle’s magazine emptied. Or perhaps it was only a wild guess. Whatever the reason, without thinking he leapt up, arms extended, and squeezed the trigger of his .38 over and over again-pumping until the hammer struck five times on empty, smoking chambers.

His opponent remained standing, a fresh clip already in his left hand, ready to be slammed into place. But dark stains had begun to spread across the camouflage tunic. Looking astonished, more than anything else, his eyes met Gordon’s over the smoking pistol barrel.

The assault rifle tipped and fell clattering from limp fingers, and the survivalist crumpled to the floor.

Gordon ran downstairs, vaulting the rail at the bottom. First he stopped at both men and made sure they were dead. Then he hurried over to the fatally wounded young woman.

Her mouth made a round inquiry as he lifted her head. “Who… ?”

“Don’t talk,” he urged, and he wiped a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth.

Pupils widely dilated, eerily alert on the threshold of death, her eyes took in his face, his uniform — the embroidered restored u.S. mail service patch over his breast pocket. They widened briefly in question, in wonder.

Let her believe, Gordon told himself. She’s dying. Let her believe it’s true.

But he couldn’t make himself say the words — the lies that he had told so often, that had taken him so far for so many months. Not this time.

“I’m just a traveler, miss,” he shook his head. “I’m . … I’m just a fellow citizen, trying to help.”

She nodded — only slightly disappointed it seemed — as if that in itself were a minor miracle.

“North…” she gasped. “Take boy… Warn… warn Cyclops…”

In that last word, even as her dying breath sighed away, Gordon heard reverence, loyalty, and a confident faith in ultimate redemption … all in the spoken name of a machine. Cyclops, he thought numbly, as he laid her body down. Now he had yet another reason to follow the legend to its source.

There was no time to spare for a burial. The bandit’s rifle had been muffled, but Gordon’s .38 had echoed like thunder. The other raiders would certainly have heard. He had only moments to collect the child and clear out of this place.

But ten feet away there were horses to steal. And up north lay something a brave young woman had thought worth dying for.

If only it’s true, Gordon thought as he gathered up his enemy’s rifle and ammunition.

He would drop his postal play-act in a minute, if he found that someone, somewhere, was taking responsibility — actually trying to do something abo.ut the dark age. He would offer his allegiance, his help, however meager it might be.

Even to a giant computer.

There were distant shouts… coming closer rapidly.

He turned to the boy, who was now looking up at him, wide-eyed, from the corner of the room.

“Come on, then,” Gordon said, holding out his hand. “We had better ride.”

4. HARRISBURG

Holding the child on the saddle in front of him, Gordon raced away from the grisly scene as fast as his stolen mount would go. A glance showed figures charging after them on foot. One raider knelt to take careful aim.

Gordon bent forward, sawed on the reins, and kicked. The horse snorted and wheeled around a looted corner Rexall store just as high-velocity bullets tore apart the granite facing behind them. Stone chips flew whistling across Sixth Avenue.

He had been congratulating himself on taking the added time to scatter the other horses before galloping off. But in that last instant, looking back, Gordon had seen one more raider arrive, riding his own pony!

For a moment he felt an unreasoning fear. If they had his horse, they might also have taken or harmed the mail-bags.

Gordon shook the irrelevant thought aside as he sent the horse dashing down a side street. To hell with the letters! They were only props, anyway. What mattered was that only one of the survivalists could pursue at the moment. That made the odds even.

Almost.

He snapped the reins and dug in his heels, sending his mount galloping hard down one of downtown Eugene’s silent, empty streets. He heard the clatter of other hooves, too close. Not bothering to look back, he swerved into an alley. The horse pranced past a fall of shattered glass, then sped across the next street, through a service way and down another clutter-filled alley.

Gordon turned the animal toward a flash of greenery, cantering quickly across an open plaza, and pulled up behind an overgrown oak thicket in a small park.

There was a roar in the air. After a moment Gordon realized that it was his own breath and pulse. “Are… are you all right?” he panted, looking down at the boy.

The nine-year-old swallowed and nodded, not wasting breath on words. The boy had been terrorized and had witnessed savage things today, but he had the sense to keep quiet, brown eyes intense on Gordon.

Gordon stood in the saddle and peered through the seventeen-year growth of urban shrubbery. For the moment at least, they seemed to have lost their pursuer.

Of course the fellow might be less than fifty meters away, quietly listening himself.

Gordon’s fingers were shaking from reaction, but he managed to draw his empty .38 from its holster and reloaded while he tried to think.

If there was only the single rider to contend with, they might do better to just stay still and wait it out. Let the bandit seek them, and inevitably drift farther away.

Unfortunately, the other Holnists would catch up soon. It would probably be better to risk a little noise now than let those master trackers and hunters from the Rogue River country collect themselves and organize a real search of the local area.

He stroked the horse’s neck, letting the animal catch its breath for a moment longer. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

“M-Mark,” he blinked.

“Mine is Gordon. Was that your sister, who saved our lives back there at the fireplace?”

Mark shook his head. A child of the dark age, he would save his tears for later. “N-nossir … it was my mom.”

Gordon grunted, surprised. These days it was uncommon for women to look so young after having children. Mark’s mother must have lived under unusual conditions-one more clue pointing to mysterious happenings in northern Oregon.

The light was fading fast. Still hearing nothing, Gordon nudged the horse into motion once more, guiding it with his knees, letting it choose soft ground where it could. He kept a sharp lookout, and stopped often to listen.

Some minutes later they heard a shout. The boy tensed. But the source must have been blocks away, Gordon headed in the other direction, thinking of the Willamette River bridges at the northern end of town.

The long twilight was over before they rode up to the Route 105 bridge. The clouds had stopped dripping, but they still cast a dark gloom over ruins on all sides, denying even the starlight. Gordon stared, trying to penetrate the gloom. Rumor to the south had it the bridge was still up, and there were no obvious signs of an ambush.

And yet anything could hide in that mass of dark girders, including an experienced bushwhacker with a rifle.

Gordon shook his head. He hadn’t lived this long by taking foolish chances. Not when there were alternatives. He had wanted to take the old Interstate, the direct route to Corvallis and the mysterious domain of Cyclops, but there were other ways. He swung the horse about and headed west, away from the dark, glowering towers.

There followed a hurried, twisting ride down side streets. Several times’ he nearly got lost, and had to go by dead reckoning. At last, he found old Highway 99 by the sound of rushing water.