He walked in, expecting the usual gathering of old men to stare at his bloody shirt with silent Yankee surprise. But only the shopkeeper was there, and he didn't look surprised at all-not at the blood, not at Leandro's question about any shirts he might have in stock.

“Look like your nose might've bled a tetch,” the storekeeper said mildly, and showed Leandro a selection of T-shirts. An inordinately large selection for such a small store as this, Leandro thought-he was slowly getting hold of himself, although his head still ached and his stomach still felt sour and unsteady. The flow of blood from his nose had scared him very badly.

“You could say that,” Leandro said. He allowed the old man to thumb through the shirts for him, because there was tacky blood still drying on his own hands. They were sized S, M, L, and XL. WHERE TH” HELL IS TROY, MAINE? some said. On others there was a lobster and the slogan I GOT THE BEST PIECE OF TAIL I EVER HAD IN TROY, MAINE. On others there was a large blackfly which looked like a monster from outer space. THE MAINE STATE BIRD, these proclaimed.

“You sure do have lots of shirts,” Leandro said, pointing to a WHERE TH” HELL in an M size. He thought the lobster shirt was amusing, but thought his mother would be less than wild about the innuendo.

“Ayuh,” the storekeeper said. “Have to have a lot. Sell a lot.”

“Tourists?” Leandro's mind was already racing ahead, trying to figure out what came next. He had thought he was onto something big; now he believed it was one hell of a lot bigger than even he had believed.

“Some,” the storekeeper said, “but there ain't been many down this way this summer. Mostly I sell “em to folks like you.”

“Like me?”

“Ayuh. Folks with bloody noses.”

Leandro gaped at the storekeeper.

“Their noses bleed, they wreck their shirts,” the storekeeper said. “Same way you wrecked yours. They want a new one, and if they're just locals-like I “spect you are-they ain't got no luggitch and no changes. So they stop first place they come to and buy a new one. I don't blame “em. Drivin” around in a shirt all over blood like yours'd make me puke. Why, I've had ladies in here this summer-nice-looking ladies, too, dressed to the nines-who smelled like guts in a hogshead.”

The storekeeper cackled, showing a mouth that was perfectly toothless.

Leandro said slowly: “Let me get this straight. Other people come back from Haven with bloody noses? It's not just me?”

“Just you? Hell, no! Shittagoddam! The day they buried Ruth McCausland, I sold fifteen shirts! That one day! I was thinkin” about retirin” on the proceeds and movin” to Florida.”

The storekeeper cackled again.

“They was all out-of-towners.” He said this as if it explained everything-and perhaps in his mind, it did. “Couple of “em was still spoutin” when they come in here. Noses like fountains! Ears too, sometimes. Shittagoddarn!”

“And nobody knows about this?”

The old man looked at Leandro from wise eyes.

“You do, sonny,” he said.

Chapter 6

Inside the Ship

“You ready, Gard?”

Gardener was sitting on the front porch, looking out at Route 9. The voice came from behind him, and it was easy-too easy-for him not to flash on a hundred sleazy prison movies, where the warden arrives to escort the condemned man along the Last Mile. Such scenes always beginning, of course, with the warden growling, Are you ready, Rocky?

Ready for this? You got to be kidding.

He got up, turned around, saw the equipment in Bobbi's arms, then the little smile on Bobbi's face. There was something knowing in that smile that he didn't like.

“See something funny?” he asked.

“Heard it. Heard you, Gard. You were thinking about old prison movies,” Bobbi said. “And then you thought, “Ready for this? You got to be kidding.” I caught all of that one, and that's very rare… unless you're deliberately sending. That's why I was smiling.”

“You were peeking.”

“Yes. And it's getting easier to do,” Bobbi said, still smiling.

From behind his decaying mental shield, Gardener thought: I have a gun now, Bobbi. It's under my bed. I got it in The First Reformed Church of the Tommyknockers. It was dangerous… but it would be more dangerous not to know just how deep Bobbi's ability to “peek” now went.

Bobbi's smile faltered a little. “What was that one?” she asked.

“You tell me,” he said, and when her smile began to change to a look of narrow suspicion he added easily, “Come on, Bobbi, I was just pulling your string a little. I was only wondering what you got there.”

Bobbi brought the equipment over. There were two rubber snorkel mouthpieces attached to tanks and homemade regulators.

“We wear these,” she said. “When we go inside.”

Inside.

Just the word lit a hot spark in his belly and triggered all sorts of conflicting emotions-awe, terror, anticipation, curiosity, tension. Part of him felt like a superstitious native preparing to walk on taboo ground; the rest felt like a kid on Christmas morning.

“The air inside is different, then,” Gardener said.

“Not so different.” Bobbi had put her makeup on indifferently this morning, perhaps having decided there was no longer any need to hide the accelerating physical changes from Gardener. Gard realized he could see Bobbi's tongue moving inside her head as she spoke… only it didn't look precisely like a tongue anymore. And the pupils of Bobbi's eyes looked bigger, but somehow uneven and wavering, as if they were peering up at him from under water. Water with a slight greenish tinge. He felt his stomach turn over.

“Not so different,” she said. “Just… rotten.”

“Rotten?”

“The ship's been sealed for over twenty-five thousand centuries,” Bobbi said patiently. “Totally sealed. We'd be killed by the outrush of bad air as soon as we opened the hatch. So we wear these.”

“What's in them?”

“Nothing but good old Haven air. The tanks are small-forty, maybe fifty minutes of air. You clip it to your belt like this, see?”

“Yes.”

Bobbi offered him one of the rigs. Gard attached the tank to his belt. He had to raise his T-shirt to do it, and he was very glad he'd decided to leave the. 45 under the bed for now.

“Start using the canned air just before I open it up,” Bobbi said. “Almost forgot. Here. Just in case you forget.” She handed Gardener a pair of noseplugs. Gard stuffed them into a jeans pocket.

“Well!” Bobbi said briskly. “Are you ready, then?”

“We're really going in there?”

“We really are,” Bobbi said almost tenderly.

Gardener laughed shakily. His hands and feet were cold. “I'm pretty fucking excited,” he said.

Bobbi smiled. “I am, too.”

“Also, I'm scared.”

In that same tender voice, Bobbi said, “No need to be, Gard. Everything will be all right.”

Something in that tone made Gardener feel more scared than ever.

They took the Tomcat and cruised silently through the dead woods, the only sound the minute hum of batteries. Neither of them talked.

Bobbi parked the Tomcat by the lean-to and they stood for a moment looking at the silver dish rising out of the trench. The morning sun shone on it in a pure, widening wedge of light.

Inside, Gardener thought again.

“Are you ready?” Bobbie asked again. Come on, Rocky-just one big jolt, you'll never feel a thing.

“Yeah, fine,” Gardener said. His voice was a trifle hoarse.

Bobbi was looking at him inscrutably with her changing eyes-those floating, widening pupils. Gardener seemed to feel mental fingers fluttering over his thoughts, trying to pull them open.