Alston laughed. "I believe it may," she said. "It very well may, 'dapa."

Her head turned eastward, and her voice went harsh and flat for an instant. "And I'm going to need all my strength. Yes indeed."

With the Tartessians acting as go-betweens, the formal meeting with Daurthunnicar was delayed several days for ceremony's sake. When all was arranged the sun was nearing the edge of the world, on an evening that fell clear and warm for autumn.

"Glad of the delay," Walker said, looking critically at the quarterhorse stallion. "Bastard here needed to get his land legs back."

The horse still wasn't fit for hard work; standing idle in a cramped stall in Yare's hold all the way across the Atlantic had lost it some condition. Still, it had enough energy to try to rear a little. Walker slugged it down with a hand on the bridle, pulling up and back as it rolled an eye and stamped.

"None of that, Bastard," he said. "You're not some yuppie's pet now."

He'd been raised a cowboy on an old-fashioned working spread, and didn't have sentimental illusions about horses. They were near-as-no-matter brainless, often malicious, and dangerous, a primitive, less valuable form of organic pickup truck. Rich hobbyists could afford to spend years coaxing a horse into doing tricks; when you worked the range, you needed it to do what you wanted, right then and there.

Walker swung into the Western saddle and looked behind. His followers were drawn up, except for the few on the ship; he'd left them the firearms, save a Colt and shotgun for himself, but everyone wore island-made armor and carried spear, sword, crossbow. They marched across the fields in good order, following a beaten track that ran down to the beach. Isketerol walked at his stirrup, with his cousin and a clump of men from the ships.

The rahax came a third of the way to meet him, standing tall in his chariot; a considerable concession, implying that Walker was a guest of rank, rather than merely a suppliant. The American swung down from the saddle, put his hand to his heart and bowed.

"Greetings. The favor of your gods-" he listed them, which took a while-"and great good luck be with you always, Daurthunnicar son of Ubrotarix, rahax of the Iraiina."

The shrewd little eyes in the heavy, bearded face blinked at him. After a long moment, he nodded. "Come, you are peace-holy in my steading, welcome beneath my rooftree. Be my guest, drink and eat of my bounty, and we will talk."

"Okay, boys, we're guests," he said, turning to his followers. "Keep your hands off the women, unless you hear me say different, and watch your manners. This is tricky and I don't want any of you queering the deal."

Jared Cofflin reached out and cut the ribbon. Above him the vanes of the new windmill began to turn with a rumbling of gears. Water gushed from a thick pipe onto the sloping inner face of the holding tank. Cheers rang out behind him, first from the crews who'd built the pumping engine, then from hundreds of islanders behind them, most of whom had spent pick-and-shovel time on the basin that would hold the water. The big wind machine was much like the eighteenth-century Old Mill in outline, a round cone of beams and planks on a circular base of mortared stone, ending in a timber circle twenty feet above.

Steel ground on steel from within. The wind was brisk out of the north, carrying scudding tatters of iron-gray cloud with it, from a dark horizon. A few spatters of cold rain came flicking into their faces. Hard to believe it's November already. It seemed longer than eight months since the Event; and it seemed sometimes as if it were still a dream, that he might wake any morning to the sounds of cars and television.

Cofflin turned to face the crowd, leaning on his stick to spare the healing knee. Coleman allowed that, as long as he didn't overdo it. He smiled inwardly; Alston was still on strict bed rest, and snarling abominably. Swindapa must be a saint.

"When the rest are finished," he said, pointing to the foundations of five more spaced along the earth berm of the reservoir, "we'll have twenty-four-hour running water again throughout the town. Three cheers for Ron Leaton and Sam Macy and their teams!"

The cheers were long and heartfelt. Twenty-four-hour flush toilets again, by damn, Cofflin thought, grinning. That was one thing few people could get used to doing without. And the composting sewage works is so useful. The engineer and the carpenter waved and smiled themselves.

"Civilization, brick by brick," he said to the two men and their workers, as the gathering broke up.

"Plank by plank," Macy said, looking pridefully at the structure.

"Gear by gear," Leaton said with equal conviction. "And those cogwheels are six feet across, the main ones. The bevel gears weigh a hundred and fifty pounds each."

"Good piece of work," Cofflin said, clapping them each on the shoulder. "Now, when can we get the whole project wrapped?"

Whump.

Walker fired the last shot and held the shotgun to his face, blowing into the open breech. The first rifled slug had killed the aurochs, but he'd put the whole six-round magazine into the beast, all at the head. What was left looked as if something very large had chewed on it, and then spat it out again. The locals were suitably impressed.

He walked around the animal. It had stood a good seven feet at the shoulder, and the hump was still level with his eyes now that it had collapsed upright. "Wild cattle" didn't give any idea of its size and ferocity; it made a bull bison look like a Jersey milker. Sort of like a cross between a cow and a rhinoceros, he thought. Blood pooled out on the sere yellow leaves and dead grass that carpeted the little clearing. The oak trees roundabout still bore a few leaves, but mostly their huge gnarled limbs reached for the sky like a giant's arthritic fingers from the massive moss-covered trunks. It was chilly enough that the Iraiina were all wearing thick leggings and double tunics as well as their usual kilts and cloaks. The American wore mackinaw and ski pants, and a cap with earflaps. He didn't want to blend in too much. A touch of mystery helped with his purposes.

All hail the wizard-chief, he thought.

Thumbing more shells into the breech of the shotgun, he looked around. Some of the Iraiina chiefs looked as though they'd prefer to be running just as far and as fast as they could; they made covert signs with their fingers, spat aside, stared out of pale faces. The half-dozen young warriors who'd sworn service with him looked terrified but even more proud as they drew knives and advanced to begin skinning and butchering the ton-weight of animal. After a moment one of them came over to him with a slice of the heart; the man's arms were red to the elbow.

"Yours is the hunter's right, lord," he said to Walker.

"My thanks, Ohotolarix," Walker said and took a piece between his teeth, cutting it off with his belt knife and chewing the hot rank meat.

Tough as boot leather, he thought. The chiefs' followers were building a fire. He chewed with relish. Well begun, half done.

"There's nothing men have ever made more beautiful," Cofflin murmured.

"Men in the generic sense, yes," Martha said, nodding agreement with the sentiment.

It was raining outside, freezing rain that turned to glistening treacherous black ice underfoot; the big sheet-metal building drummed to the beat of it. Even with the steam-powered compressor thumping and shedding heat in one corner, the interior was chilly. The huge shed had been built for storing boats overwinter; now it was used for building them. Saws whined and drills whirled, filling the air with the fresh sappy scent of cut wood. The ribs of the schooner curled up from the keelson like the skeleton of some sleek sea beast cast ashore, embraced by the cradle that held them in place while the frame was spiked and treenailed together. The interior braces were mostly in place, and the shell of planks was starting to go on. A crew heaved at a line as they watched, and a big curved shape of oak went up on a pulley rigged from the roof and swung down to where the deck would be. Other hands reached up and guided it down. Already the half-built ship looked as if it yearned for the water, to turn its sharp prow southward and race for the unknown seas.