After a second’s hesitation, I hopped into the cab. I was just in time. With a lurch and a cry of “Tally-ho!” from Courtland, the Ford leaped forward, sped across the grass and drove down an incline toward a spinney.

“Hello,” I said to Preston. “Eddie Russett.”

“First time to hunt ball?”

I nodded as we bumped over a rut.

“You’ll like it. We get plasma storms every thirty-seven days; they’re so accurate you could set your calendar by them.”

I lowered my voice so Courtland couldn’t hear, but I needn’t have bothered, as the Ford drowned out everything but a shout anyway.

“Is Courtland a bit . . . you know?”

“Dangerous? Violent? Insane? Definitely. And you, sir, are as stupid as a clodworm. Accusing Courtland and his mother of murder? Do you think they’re going to take that lying down?”

“In Jade-under-Lime,” I said, “everyone respects the Rules.”

“You’re in the Outer Fringes now, Master Edward. Quite a different fish kettle.”

He steered through an open gate, entered the spinney, swerved around some trees and drove across some brambles before coming to a halt. We were in a small clearing surrounded by silver birches; an old twin-rail locomotive was lying half buried on its side, with the roots of a mature oak embracing it tightly.

We expected to see the binary plasma spheres dancing close by, but the air was still, and they were nowhere to be seen.

“Burst?” asked Courtland.

“Nah,” replied Preston, licking his lips as he tasted the air. “Somewhere close. Metal’s a good attractor,” he added, nodding toward the rusty locomotive. “Feel that?”

Now that he mentioned it, I could feel something—a faint buzzing in the air and an odd metallic taste in my mouth. I followed Preston out of the cab and joined him at the back of the Ford, where Courtland was waiting silently. Our recent upset was for the moment forgotten. Hunting ball was more important, and besides, we could all sense that our quarry was near.

“There!”

With a rustle and a crackle, the two orbs slowly drifted from behind some foliage. Courtland lined up the sights of the crossbow while Preston jumped into action. He grabbed the drum around which the harpoon’s earthing wire was wound, then drove a copper stake into the ground a safe distance from the Ford. He clipped on the wire and yelled, “CLEAR!”

Several things seemed to happen at once. Courtland fired the harpoon, which took off with a twong, and the trailing wire ran out from the drum with a buzz. When the harpoon made contact, there was a bright flash as the energy coursed down the copper wire to the earthing stake, and with an ear-popping noise that sounded like a C-minor ninth, a massive hole was blown in the ground where the earthing stake had been. It took me a moment or two to recover, but Preston and Courtland were not yet done. There had been two balls, and bothof them were potentially destructive. I jumped onto the flatbed as Preston reversed out, and I helped Courtland re-tension the crossbow. Once we were back onto the pasture, it was easier driving, and we soon overtook the ball as it drifted toward the linoleum factory.

We stopped ahead of it, and with the crossbow now at full stretch and the string on the catch, Courtland placed a second copper bolt in the slide while Preston ran out the wire drum.

“Come on!” yelled Courtland impatiently as the ball floated overhead with a buzzing that could be felt rather than heard.

But Preston was having difficulties attaching the earthing wire to the stake.

“Quick!” said Courtland. “Help the idiot untangle it!”

I jumped off the flatbed and ran across to where Preston was struggling with the earthing wire. If the sun hadn’t been in the position it was, and casting Courtland’s shadow to my right, then I would not have lived to be eaten by the yateveo. But there it was, and I saw Courtland’s shadow as he swiveled the crossbow in our direction. I didn’t even think but moved rapidly to my left. There was a loud twong and I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my side as the harpoon buried itself in the grass in front of me.

For a moment, I thought it had gone right through me. I looked at Preston who by his expression, clearly thought the same. I paused for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, then brought up a hand to my midriff and felt around for a wound. I breathed a sigh of relief as I discovered that my swift avoidance movement had spoiled Courtland’s aim—the copper spike had merely nicked my side and done no more damage than a nasty cut.

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Courtland with a sense of shock in his voice that would have won a drama prize in any town of the Collective. “Are you okay?”

I stood up and turned to face Courtland. I had been a fool—again. I had so much still to learn.

“You piece of . . . shit,” I said, using a Very Bad Word for perhaps the third time ever. “You did that on purpose!”

“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Courtland with another liberal helping of faux concern, “an accident, nothing more! Ball hunting is a dangerous pursuit. Are you sure you are unhurt? I feel frightful about this.”

Saying nothing, I took my handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it across the cut, while behind us the missed ball evaporated harmlessly in midair—as they quite often do.

The ball hunt was over, but the Russett hunt had probably only just begun. I mused upon the irony of the situation. Courtland and Jane, poles apart from each other, yet united in their wish to get rid of me.

Somehow, it seemed unbelievably unfair.

“Master Edward,” whispered Preston, “watch your back. The Gamboges will place everything possible in your path to trip you up.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“Trip me up?” I echoed.

“Yes. Are you sure you’re all right? You look kind of . . . dreamy.”

“Aside from a vexing Yellow problem, I’m okay,” I replied, “but thanks—you’ve just explained the point of the wheelbarrow.”

He frowned. “Wheelbarrows don’t have points.”

“This one did.”

Eyes and the Colorman

I walked slowly home, all the while cursing myself for my own stupidity. Not just for needlessly putting myself in jeopardy with the most unpleasant family in the village, but also for not taking the opportunity to make a deal when it presented itself. I mused that there might, in fact, be something wrong with me.

Something odd in the head that seemed to beg my own destruction. First Jane, now Courtland.

I flushed out the cut with the hottest water I could bear and affixed some newspaper dipped in vinegar over the wound. I then sat on the edge of the bath and considered my position. Sally Gamboge or Courtland—perhaps both—had, for reasons unknown, killed Travis. This in itself was incredible, and aside from keeping it to myself, I didn’t see quite what I could do to avoid them. I could only hope that Courtland might consider me so terrified by my near miss that I would be forever silent. In this he was undoubtedly correct—as he so rightly pointed out, I had no proof. Nothing at all. Not even a motive. It didn’t make any sense. Yellows don’t kill Yellows. They support them, nurture them—and, if necessary, lie for them.

I took a deep breath and stood up to stare at my reflection. I moved the light mirror into position so I could study my own eyes carefully. Preston had warned me about the Gamboges’ “putting everything in my path to trip me up,” and his comment, while helpful, put me on an entirely different train of thought. I had tripped over the wheelbarrow the night of Travis’ loss because someone had placed it in my path.