"Let's get armed first," said Calvin.

"Doesn't do any good to have guns if we don't have a plan!" said Austin.

Ten minutes later they were still talking when the Mexica soldiers poured in through the open door.

"Fools!" shouted Calvin. "I told you to go!"

Two of the Mexica aimed their muskets at Calvin and fired.

Their guns blew up in their faces.

But the others were bringing their weapons to bear too fast for Calvin to plug them all.

So he did the only sensible thing. He stepped backward through the wall.

He'd done it before, back when Napoleon had him imprisoned in Paris. Softening the stone enough to slide through it, like pushing his hand through clay, and then letting it harden again behind him. He heard the bullets hit the wall just as it was hardening, so they sank into the stone with a soft thunk and the wall hardened behind the bullets without so much as a dent.

And there stood Calvin on the outside of the church.

Where was Arthur Stuart? Calvin found the boy's heartfire, though it took some hard searching, and he was at the limit of Calvin's range. Well, the boy said he knew how to get out of the city, and that's what Calvin needed, now that these fools had wasted the opportunity Calvin gave them. They didn't deserve to live.

He took off at a run. He had to pass near where the Mexica were dragging the white men out of the front of the church, but he didn't even have to make up some kind of fog-nobody saw him.

And why should they even be looking? With him gone, there was nothing these unarmed men could do. And waiting for them there in the plaza in front of the church was that same high priest who had met them on the causeway. One by one the men were dragged to him and thrown onto a wooden altar that had been placed in the square. Two priests cut their clothing open and laid bare their chests, and Calvin could hear the screaming as one by one they had their hearts torn from them and held up as an offering to whatever god the Mexica thought might prevent the eruption of Popocatepetl.

What a stupid end to Steve Austin's dream. But that's all the man was, a dreamer, a planner. Even now, when he could have turned this all to victory, he chose planning instead of action and now he'll die for it and ain't that just too bad.

Calvin turned his attention to the streets of the city. There were people running every which way, and with Arthur Stuart so far away, it was all Calvin could do to keep track of where he was. Nor did he know which of these labyrinthine streets would take him there, so there was always the danger that Calvin would guess wrong and make a turn that took him out of range.

Instead, though, he was lucky and chose right every time, or at least right enough, and instead of getting weaker, his vision of Arthur Stuart's heartfire got stronger. He was gaining on them.

When they reached the wall of the city, they stopped, and Calvin's running was now pure gain. Arthur Stuart was opening a gap in the wall, and in his clumsy way he was making it take ten times longer than it needed to. Well, good for me, thought Calvin. And he got there just as the last of them was passing through an opening in the wall. Calvin ran straight up to it and plunged through.

Outside the wall at this spot was an orchard, and Arthur Stuart and Bowie and the others were running through it. But running oddly-they were all holding hands, for heaven's sake, which was about as stupid a thing as Calvin could imagine. Nobody made his best speed holding hands.

Only they were running awfully fast. No one tripped. No one stumbled. And they gained speed and kept speeding up and no matter how hard Calvin ran, he couldn't catch up. Nor did the ground prove as smooth for him as it had for them. Branches whipped his face and he stumbled over a root and fell and by the time he got up, they were out of sight. And when he looked for Arthur Stuart's heartfire, he couldn't find it. Couldn't find any of them. It was like they had ceased to exist. There was only the trees and the birds and the insects, and the distant sound of shouting from the city and the roads.

Calvin stopped and looked back. The ground outside the city had sloped up enough, and he had run far enough, that he could see over the walls, though not down into the streets. Somewhere back there most of the men he had journeyed with were having their hearts ripped out, while in the other direction Arthur Stuart had run off with the ten best of them-the ones who were smart enough to act instead of plan. Why do I always get stuck with the fools on my side? thought Calvin.

Beyond the city, Popocatepetl spewed thick plumes of white ash into the air. And now it was beginning to fall onto the city like hot grey snow. It got into his lungs almost at once, and it felt like it was burning him. So Calvin turned his attention to keeping the air in front of his face clear of ash, as he began to jog on in the direction that he had last seen Arthur Stuart's group going.

He ran and jogged and, when he was too tired to do more, he walked and staggered and never once caught a glimpse of Arthur Stuart's group or saw any sign of what path they took. But he climbed ever higher up the slopes of the valley into the hills, and when darkness came he found an adobe house with nobody home. He sealed it to keep ash from seeping in, except for a few airholes through the thick walls. Then he fell onto cornstalk mat on the floor and slept.

When he woke it was still night. Except it wasn't. The sun was up-but it was only a dim red disk in the ashes that filled the air. Morning. How long till the eruption? What time of day had it been when the smoke first started?

Doesn't matter. Can't control that. Keep walking. There was no running in him today, especially since his path led inexorably uphill, and the ground kept shaking so much that if he'd been running he would have fallen down.

He was still far from the crest when the volcano blew up. He only had time enough to burrow his way into an outcropping of rock, which took the brunt of the shockwave. It struck with such force that the rock he was hiding in would have given way and crumbled and collapsed into the valley, but Calvin held it firm, kept all but a few shards and slivers of rock in place. And when the hot fiery air blew past, incinerating all life in its path, Calvin kept a bubble of air around him cool enough to bear, and so he did not die.

And when the shock wave passed, he stepped out into the burning world, keeping that cool bubble around him, and turned back to see lava pouring down the slopes of the mountain like a flood from a burst dam. Only it wasn't heading toward the city, because there was no city. Every building had been blown flat by the blast. Only a few stone structures stood, and then only in ruins, most of the walls having been broken down. There was not a sign of life. And the lake was boiling.

Calvin wondered, for a moment, whether any of the men of Austin's expedition had lived long enough to be killed by the eruption. Probably not. Who was to say which was the better way to die? There was no good way to die. And Calvin had come this close.

But close to death was still not death.

Cooling the ground under his feet so his shoes didn't burn, he slowly made his way up the slope until, before nightfall, he reached the crest and started down the unburnt side. Ash had fallen here, too, but this land had been sheltered from the blast, and he could eat the fruit from the trees, as long as he got the ash off it first. The fruit was partly cooked-the ash had been that warm when it fell-but to Calvin it tasted like the nectar of the gods.

I have been spared alive yet again. My work is not yet done in the world.

Might as well head north and see what Alvin's doing. Maybe it's time I started learning some of the stuff he taught to Arthur Stuart. Anything that half-black boy can learn, I can learn, and ten times better.