It was a ten-strand barbed wire fence. There were surely alarms attached if it were breached, but I could see no sign of disturbed earth, tripwires or circuitry that might lead to mines. Just bashing through it might be a chance worth taking. It didn’t matter if the alarm were raised. By the time the sluggish troops reached the site I would be long gone. I raced the engine, put it in the lowest gear, floored the accelerator and ground forward.

The wire fence screeched and tore. There was a fine show of crackling sparks—1 thought it might be electrified, but the combat car was shielded—and then it all tore away and I was through. Kicking up through the gears and tearing away through the empty streets. Pulling the wheel and screeching around a plaza with alarge statue of Mark Forer gazing down serenely from a plinth, and out the broad avenue on the far side. I recognized this street, I had walked this way before when we had first escaped.

The river and bridges were up ahead. With the residential suburbs on the far side.

When I trundled my battle wagon across the bridge there was still no sign of pursuit. Fine. Time to go to ground. I turned off along the river bank, put the gears in low-low, angled toward the water and jumped down. The car ground steadily on, demolished a bench—sorry about that—and plowed majestically over the edge. There was plenty of burbling and splashing, then nothing. The river was deep here. Behind me I could hear the wail of distant sirens. I walked briskly through the park and into the nearest street. Though I was tired I needed to put some distance between myself and the river, in case there were tracks left which might be seen by day.

“Enough is enough, Jim!” I said, leaning against a wall and all too aware that I was drooping with fatigue, I had turned corners at random, lost myself completely, and the river was far behind me. There was a gate in the wall beside me, with Dun Roamin carved into the wood. Message received. Without hesitation I opened the gate, climbed the steps beyond and knocked on the front door. I had to do it a second time before there were stirrings inside and a light came on. Even after all the time here on Chojecki I still found it hard to believe that this was the correct way to meet strangers.

“Who is it?” a male voice called out as the door opened. “Jim diGriz, ofiworlder, tired.”

The light came on and an ancient citizen with wispy gray beard biinked out myopically at me.

“Can it be? It certainly is! Oh what luck for old CzolgosczU Come in brave ofiworlder and share my hospitality. What may I do for you?”

“Thank you, thank you. For openers let’s get these lights offjust in case there is a patrol around. And then a bed for the night…”

“My pleasure! Illumination off, follow closely, this way,

my daughter’s room, now married and living on a farm, “forty geese and seventeen cows, here we are. Curtains closed, a moment, then the liehtsl”

2-M

iteurry HWTIMU

Old Czolgoscz, although he tended to talk too much,

was the perfect host. The room was pink with lace curtains and about twenty dolls on the bed.

“Now you wash up, right in there, and I’ll bring you a nice hot drink, friend Jim.”

“I would prefer a nice cold drink rich with alcohol, friend Czolgoscz.”

“I have the very thing!”

By the time I had rinsed the last of the military muck away he was back with a tall, purple bottle, two glasses—he wasn’t that old—-and a patf of pajamas ablaze with red lightning bolts. I hoped that they didn’t glow in the dark.

“Homemade gingleberry wine.” He poured two large glasses. We raised them, clinked, drank and smacked our lips. I sighed with happiness and a bit of nostalgia.

“I haven’t had this since I was back on the farm. Used to have a bottle hidden out in the porcuswine sty. On dull days I used to get blotto on it and sing to the swine.”

“How charming! Now I will leave ‘you to your rest.” A perfect host, vanished even before I could thank him. I raised my glass in a toast to the electronic benevolence of the portrait of Mark Forer upon the wall. Drained it. And went to sleep.

When consciousness reluctantly returned I could only lie and blink, drugged with sleep, at the sunlight behind the curtains. Yawning, I rose and opened them and looked out at a flower-filled garden. Old Czolgoscz looked up from his labors and waved his secateurs at me. Then scurried into the house. In a remarkably short period of time he knocked on the door, threw it open, and brought in a groaning breakfast tray. I don’t normally have a liter of juice, large portion of wiffles with syrup and three eggs. I did today. “How did you know?” I lip-smacked satedly.

“Guessed. Young lad your age, been working hard, seemed natural. I talked to a few people and I am sure that you will be pleased to hear that the teams are in training all over the city for D-Day.”

“D-Day?”

TUB eMIMI BCC efBBI •*? ARTC nBfKTBfl

“Desertion Day. Today, tonight. Extra trains have been scheduled and people all over the country are looking forward to welcoming the new citizens.”

“Fantastic. I hope you will welcome me as well. My stay on Chojecki may be longer than originally planned.”

“You are more than welcome, as is your knowledge. Would you like a teaching position at the university?” I smiled at the thought. “Sorry, I ran away from school, never graduated.”

“I regret in my provincial ignorance that I do not know the meaning of either run away or graduate. Students here go to school when they want, stay as long as they want, study what they want, leave when they want. The only scholastic requirement a child has is to learn about Individual Mutualism, so he or she can lead a full and happy life.”

“I suppose the parents pay for the child’s schooling?” Czolgoscz drew back, horrified. “Of course not! A child will get love and affection from its parents, but they would not embarrass their offspring byviolating IM’s tenets. The child’s wirr account, opened when it was born, will be in debit until he or she begins to earn. At a very early age, for the child will not be a free and independent citizen until the wirr account is in credit.”

Now I was shocked. “The workhouse for infants! Laboring day and night for a few crusts!”

“Friend Jim—what a wonderful imagination you do have! Not quite. Most of the work will be done around the house, the labors that were usually done by mother, collecting the wirrs father would pay her…”

“Enough, I beg. My blood sugar is low, my head thick and the details of IM so novel that they must be absorbed just a bit at a time.”

He nodded agreement. “Understandable. As you will teach us about the novelties of the great civilizations out there among the stars, we have been cut off from them for centuries, so will we reveal to you the fruits of Mark Forer’s genius—may electrons flow forever through its

~inrfic!

A pleasant prayer for that long-vanished machine. I still found it hard to understand such affection for a bunch of circuitry, no matter how complex. Enough, it was time to get back to work.

“Can you find out where my friend Morton is staying?”

“Would you like to go there? I will be honored to take you.”

“You know…” I gaped, then answered my own questions. “Of course, everyone in the city knows where we have been staying.”

“That is correct. Do you ride the bike?”

“Not for many years—but once learned, never forgotten. “ A sensible form of transportation, the bicycle, and the streets of this city were busy with them. I bundled up the uniform for possible future use, pulled on a pair of baggy shorts that Czolgoscz produced. This, and my undershirt, produced an inconspicuous cycling outfit. Thus garbed I went into the garden and limbered up with a hundred pushups. When I finished and climbed to my feet I shied back from the man who stood behind me leaning on a bright red bicycle.