“Amazing stuff, isn’t it?” said Doug. “It’s only taken six days. Come on, we’d best be getting oj.”

We walked back toward the gates, and I told Doug about the Inner Boundary near Viridian, which was another Perpetulite road, only ten times as broad as this one. Since it was hemmed in by concrete and isolated from any easy source of nutrients, the compound would aggressively absorb anything organic that happened to be unlucky enough to tread on the surface. It would take ratfinks, an unwary dog and even a bird with a speed that was quite frightening.

“It sounds really dangerous.”

I shrugged. “We’ve grown up with it. But because of this, the Inner Boundary really is a boundary. Only the very stupid or very brave would attempt to dash across, even with bronze-soled running shoes. But it’s not all bad,” I added, “for what keeps us out of the Great Southern Conurbation also keeps the Riffraff in. What’s that?”

I was pointing at a pair of leather boots sticking out of the grass under a gum tree, about midway between the boundary and the markers. It was unusual, because something so valuable would never be discarded, and it’s difficult to lose boots without realizing it. We walked over to investigate, only to discover that the boots were still being worn, and Travis Canary was the person still wearing them. It was not as though he would use them again, for he was quite dead—by lightning. Not by fork lightning, which usually leaves flash burns, but by ball lightning, which disfigures horribly. Most of his head had been burned away. But though partially eaten, he was still recognizable. The flies buzzed merrily about, and already his hands were puffy and shiny. He hadn’t even made it past the Outer Markers.

“This will really upset Mr. Turquoise,” said Doug, wrinkling his nose as the smell of decayed flesh wafted in the air toward us. “He hates paperwork.”

As soon as Doug had gone to make the call, I squatted down for a closer look. Despite the large quantity of time, energy and resources spent on lightning avoidance, this was the first victim I’d seen—if you don’t count the cautionary pictures published weekly in Spectrum.

Breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell, I peered into what remained of his head. It was badly burned inside, and looked far more dramatic than any of the lightning strikes I’d read about. Intrigued, I picked up a stick and gently probed the cranial cavity. I leaned closer, then delicately reached in and pulled out a fused lump of metal about the size of a chess piece. I stared at it for a moment, realized what it was and then quickly wrapped it in my pocket handkerchief. I then looked around, for I had seen Travis leaving the village carrying his overnight case. I couldn’t see it at first, but the puzzle was soon solved, for the Perpetulite roadway was close by and I found what I was looking for scattered along the bronze curb.

“What have you got?” asked Doug who had just returned.

“Look,” I said, pointing at the road, where there was still a case-shaped stain on the Perpetulite. “He must have dropped his valise on the roadway. The leather gets absorbed, but the indigestible stuff is moved to the verge.”

Doug bent down and sorted through the small collection. Aside from the case’s brass locks, hinges, rivets and name plate, there were several coins, his lime compact, a belt buckle, a can of sardines, part of a remote viewer with images of moving fish on it, several toy cars, a few nuts and bolts and two spoons—one engraved, the other not.

“What a waste,” exclaimed Turquoise, who arrived in the Ford with Carlos Fandango twenty minutes later. “If he was going to throw his life away, he might have done it in the name of exploration or achieving color scrap collection targets.”

And with a comment about how lethal ball lightning was, he made a few notes, took Travis’ boots, spoons, lime compact and cash, told us we could have anything else as a finders-keepers and then climbed back into the Ford.

“What are you waiting for?” remarked Turquoise as Fandango turned the Ford around. “Patrol continues, lads. Consider yourselves lucky I don’t demerit you for being outside the boundary.” Luckily for us, Boundary Patrol was completed without further drama. Unluckily for us, the delay caused by Travis meant the early land workers ate all the bacon after all. Turquoise was unsympathetic. “If you’d wanted to beat the Greys to the bacon,” he said, “you should have jusp left Travis for tomorrow’s patrol.” Doug agreed. After all, what was one more day to a dead body?

We divided up Travis’ possessions before we parted. Doug took the belt buckle, and I kept the pocketknife. Everything else we agreed to send to his relatives. They would doubtless want to have a few mementos, and to know what had become of him. I was planning to tell them it was a ball-lightning strike, even though it wasn’t. Travis had not been denied his full Civil Obligation by chance—it had been taken from him.

Ball Lightning

I found Dorian in his photographic studio after breakfast and told him about the Colorman’s offer of a safe passage to Emerald City.

“A thousand?”

“That’s what he said.”

“We might scrape all that together,” he said, “but not have enough for an Open Return as well.”

“How was the harvest?”

“Negative fifteen ounces all told,” he said, “considerably worse than last year.”

I told him to stay tuned as the situation might improve, and he thanked me for my time.

Soon after that I bumped into Carlos Fandango, who was cleaning out the mechanism in the village arc light.

“Did you send word to your Purple contact?” he asked, after demonstrating how the mechanism worked and explaining how constant maintenance was required to keep the streetlamp from flickering or, worse, going out altogether—the janitor’s worst possible faux pas.

“He’s at a leadership convention at Malachite-on-Sea,” I lied, reasoning that if Fandango at least thought Bertie was in the cards, he’d delay other potential suitors, “but I’ve requested the name of his hotel.

Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Jolly good! Did you see Courtland? He wanted to talk to you about something.”

After seeking directions, I walked out of the village to a large open pasture where I found East Carmine’s second-best Model T. This was a pickup, and far more battered than the sedan, if such a thing was possible. The bodywork had been dented and hammered out so many times that it resembled the skin of a baked potato, and the tires were homemade from scrap rubber, expertly stitched together with braided nylon. As Fandango had explained, the second T was used to neutralize ball lightning. Mounted on the flatbed was a swivel mount upon which sat a powerful crossbow, tensioned and loaded with a copper spike.

Sitting on a deck chair by the side of the vehicle was Courtland. He was dressed in herringbone tweeds and had a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on a small table. Just a little way away, a Grey was staring toward the Western Hills through a pair of binoculars. Like Courtland, he would be on triple wages.

Fork lightning was fairly predictable, but ball was a law unto itself. Our team back home would lose a ball-trapper a year, almost without fail. Nasty business.

“Glad you could make it,” said Courtland. “Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. My man Preston does a smashing cuppa. Isn’t that so, Preston?”

Preston murmured, “Yes, sir,” but kept his eyes firmly glued to the horizon.

“Before they Leapbacked riding,” continued Courtland, “ball-lightning hunts were conducted on horseback. Fine sport, they say, although I don’t believe they neutralized a single one. Tricky business, throwing a harpoon at full gallop—and the earthing wires always ended up tangled in the horse’s hooves.”