FORWARD TO WEB EDITION:

by

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

1997

Here is the front matter from the fanzine edition of ICY NAGER - it includes mention of THE ONLY GOOD SIME by Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer because we published these two novels together as a single project, though they ended up being printed in two separate volumes.

ICY NAGER

BY

ANDREA ALTON

AND

JACQUELINE LIGHTENBERG

AMBROV COMPANION

ZEOR IN ZEOR

SPECIAL EDITION

# 1

ICY NAGER

First Printing: November 1992 -- 75 copies

Editor and Publisher: Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer

Route 4, Box 134C, Morehead City NC 28557

Typist: Sheila Wenrich

Copyright © 1992 by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Andrea Alton. The characters in this novel are reserved for the exclusive use of Andrea Alton. No one may use them without her prior permission and approval.

All original artwork remains the property of its creator.

ART: Donell Meadows: cover, pages 7 and 23

Linda Whitten: pages 13 and 21

Mel White: pages 46 and 48

Publication does not constitute endorsement by the staff of Ambrov Zeor or Companion in Zeor. All fiction and artwork published in this magazine takes place in an alternate Sime/Gen universe.

Price: $10.00

For more information on the S/G fanzines, back issues, and future issues, send self-addressed, stamped envelope to Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer at the address given above.

Jacqueline invites letters and comments on all aspects of her work. Her current address is 8 Fox Lane, Spring Valley NY 10977.

Special thanks to our typist, Sheila Wenrich, who did such a beautiful job on ICY NAGER and ONLY GOOD SIME. Not only did she type both manuscripts, but she went back and added in numerous revisions and changes, as these became necessary. I could never have gotten these two Special Editions done so quickly or so well without her invaluable assistance. -- Kerry

ICY NAGER

An icy tingle stole across his nerves as the watcher on the far side of the valley allowed his attention to shift across Evan's hiding place. Evan sharpened his focus, touched the Gen field and gasped, flinching from that inhuman, chill, death-like hardness. It was alien ... unclean. Unconsciously, he wiped his tentacles across his shirt front in disgust. What was that?
Oh, no. It couldn't be! Icy Nager? Here?

In the distant future of this universe, humanity has mutated into Sime and Gen. The Gens, sole producers of life-energy, are preyed upon and killed by the Simes, who must take this energy to live.

When Evan Trandolphic, a Sime who makes his living scavenging for metal along the Gen Territory border, meets the infamous and frightening Gen known as Icy Nager, something is bound to happen. Evan never expected to meet a Gen who wasn't afraid of him. And he certainly never imagined there was a Gen anywhere who was willing to risk taking a Sime as an equal partner.

FROM YOUR EDITOR

For those readers who are not already Sime/Gen fans, I hope the above excerpt has motivated you to read on. Of course, there are many of you who need no motivation, who have in fact been waiting literally for years just to read this tale. There are even a number of folks who have paid an exorbitant price just to see this novel in print. (For more about them, see the following page.)

Please note that the version of Icy Nager in this zine is a preliminary draft, and is not necessarily the final draft that Jacqueline Lichtenberg plans to submit to a professional publisher.

We welcome comments on this novel for the next "Ambrov Zeor" lettercolumn, so if you've got something to say, write to me. If I print it, you get a complimentary copy of AZ. We would especially like critical comments, as work on this novel is far from done and there is still time to make changes before professional submission.

Special thanks are due to Andrea Alton, who worked hard on revising and updating this version of Icy Nager. Andrea has had a number of excellent stories printed in "Companion in Zeor" over the years, many of which deal with the same characters featured in this novel. She has gone on to make a professional sale with one of her own novels, Demon of Undoing. (Baen Books, P.O. Box 1403, Riverdale, NY 10471, 1988, paperback edition.)

For any new readers who would like to know more about the Sime/Gen series, see the back of this zine for further information.

OUR SPONSORS ARE THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THIS SPECIAL EDITION POSSIBLE. THEY PROVIDED THE FINANCIAL BASE FOR PRINTING THE ZINE. "AMBROV ZEOR" AND "COMPANION IN ZEOR" SPLIT THE REST OF THE COST BETWEEN THEM, BUT WITHOUT OUR SPONSORS' EXTRA HELP, THERE WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ENOUGH MONEY AVAILABLE. THESE ARE SOME OF THE FOLKS WITHOUT WHOM SIME/GEN FANDOM WOULD HAVE LONG AGO DIED OF ATTRITION.

Octavene Epps Phyllis Randall

Mark Hows Eva Reimers

Norine Madden Mary A. Sage

Mary Lou Mendum Nova Serafino

Jane Miller Mark Silverstein

Cherri Munoz Allen Dale Stambaugh

Carolyn O'Neal R. Laurraine Tutihasi

Dave O'Neal Sheila Wenrich

Susan Pitts

FOREWORD

You hold in your hands a very strange product.

The two novels, Icy Nager and Only Good Sime, are the work of writers who have written novels I consider so good that they ought to be professionally published as part of the S/G universe canon. And indeed, it is still our intention to see these two novels into professional print. But that may take years, and they may come out under different titles.

Meanwhile Icy Nager is here for you in a foreshortened version, lacking much of the explanation of the Sime/Gen background. It is a perfect example of a "fanovel," a novel written by a fan to be read by other fans. To get the full impact, it is recommended that you have read some of the other Sime/Gen novels.

Those of you who have memorized the other books will enjoy this intriguing novel with its lovable characters even more. The professionally published books must be overburdened with repetitious explanations aimed at the casual or new reader, which often blunts the true fan's enjoyment. Andrea here offers a S/G novel not slowed with explanations.

I'd like to ask anyone who is reading Icy Nager as your first S/G novel, or first in a long time, to let us know what questions you want answered in the expanded, professionally published version.

Only Good Sime is different. It contains most of the background it will contain when professionally published and can be read as a first Sime/Gen novel. But it still leaves many questions open. We'd like to know what intrigues you most, what you want to learn more about, what details should be filled in.

On both these novels, I am listed as joint author, but the characters, the situations, the themes and the overall vision of the Sime/Gen universe in each novel belong to Andrea or Kerry. As with Jean Lorrah, I have worked (and it's been years and many, many drafts) on the technical background, the plot structure, the pacing, the conflicts, and the jigsawing of the stories they wanted to tell into the overall Sime/Gen historical sequence. In both Icy Nager and Only Good Sime, I changed the historical sequence I had planned for the universe in order to accommodate their visions.

Icy Nager introduces the Prophetstowners, invented by Andrea Alton. At first, I didn't think their method of transfer would be possible in the "real" S/G universe, but Andrea convinced me. Now they are considered part of the canon--they really existed. Some day, Sime archeologists will rediscover them and Gen anthropologists will do tv specials on the Prophetstown phenomenon. Of course, the tabloids will get hold of it first. Politicians will have a field day. And God alone knows what the Church of the Purity will say about Soul-Sharing!

Only Good Sime deals with the man who survives to become the last of the disjunct channels allowed to remain as a functioning channel. Frevven's life spans an era from the beginnings of Unity, when they train disjunct channels only with great reluctance, through the time of the Secret Pens, to the deaths of the very last semijuncts who depend on the disjunct channels for life itself.

Kerry has written stories in AMBROV ZEOR detailing the important events of his life, up to and including his death, but here she tells of his first effect on recorded history. His triumphs and tragedies before this were purely personal. Here, now, in Only Good Sime, for the first time in his life, he changes the course of S/G history.

If Reverend Richt had secured the islands as a base of operations, the splinter cult he represented would have had a stronghold from which to topple the fragile Unity. Reverend Richt had the Donor's background and the ruthlessness to discover the Secret Pens and use the scandal to bring down the Tecton. Only one person had the guts to stand against him. Of course, this was only one battle among many, one crisis among many. But it would have taken only one or two losses to have plunged the Tecton back into the dark ages.

With these two authors, as with Jean Lorrah's books, we get to peek through another window into S/G. With the publication of these two novels, we now have four authors involved in Sime/Gen at the professional level, four different points of view, fleshing out the universe.

These two novels are brought to you as special editions of two combined "fanzines." Fanzines are labors of love. Fanzine publishing is not "nonprofit" for in a nonprofit organization workers are paid a salary. Fanzine publishing is an "out-of-pocket" operation. And nobody involved gets paid, not even the authors who have worked years over many drafts of the story. Authors even pay round trip postage on their many repeated manuscript submissions.

All of the labor, including the production typing, the phone-calling, the trips to the printer, the letter writing, the envelope addressing--all of the labor is done in our spare time. The supplies our typists use, the computers they use, and most of the postage is all "out-of-pocket" expense that you, the reader, do not pay for.

You have paid for the printing, the paper, the postage, the envelope it was mailed to you in. You have not paid for the cubic feet of storage space in our houses, or for the trips to the bank to deposit your checks, or the trips to the post office to ship it to you. The product of an ordinary business includes all these expenses. This 'zine is not the product of a business, but the product of love for this fantasy universe.

This 'zine comes to you because of the large number of generous fans of this universe who have donated money--because even with the horribly high price you are paying, and the ridiculously long list of out-of-pocket expenses we've each contributed, we lose money on each 'zine.

We didn't invent the idea of the fanzine. It was invented by science fiction fandom way back in the 1930's and '40's. It was redesigned by Star Trek fans in the '70's. And we have taken it a step farther--for what you hold in your hands is NOT amateur writing. Both Andrea Alton and Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer are professional writers and this product is as good as any you will find on the newstands.

This is, however, an amateur publication--as are the fanzines AMBROV ZEOR, COMPANION IN ZEOR and ZEOR FORUM. The paper is better quality than a paperback, but less than a hardcover book. The binding is another problem. The 'zine contains more typos than some professional books, less than others. It contains more subtle inconsistencies than a professionally published book because it hasn't been copyedited to conform to the published novels. But then they don't conform to each other because they came from different publishing houses. When you order them, fanzines are shipped in the spare time of the person doing the task. This is not a business. It doesn't get top priority over school, work, or family obligations. So it can take a while.

It is a tradition in sf and ST fandom that even when you buy a fanzine, you still owe the author, editor, and publisher more than money--for they put more than money into it. You owe them feedback--a letter-of-comment, a LoC.

Even if your comments are unfavorable, they will be welcome, for in this way you can affect what we write and publish next. Any LoC you send us may be published, unless you state on the letter that you do not want it published. But if your LoC is published, you will get a copy of the 'zine it appears in, for we consider a LoC a labor of love too--even, or especially, when it points out our shortcomings.

In the future, if your response to these novels is favorable, we may bring you some other novel-length works in this 'zine format, works which may never be suitable for professional publication because they'd be of interest only to fans of the universe, not because they aren't as well written. As with the shorter stories in the fanzines, we will present this material only after we are satisfied that the author has hit the highest possible standard he or she can manage.

Anyone is welcome to submit a S/G story to these fanzines, but brace yourself. It is often three to five years of hard work between submission and actual publication, and occasionally, we do turn a story down as unsuitable (though unlike professional publications, we will tell you why). If it is accepted, a submission is likely to be criticized by professionals searching out the flaws--and perfections--and telling you about it in unvarnished language.

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

Spring Valley, New York

July, 1992

Author's Dedication:

For Jacqueline Lichtenberg,

and whose interest in my first tottering steps

into publication kept me at it.

Thank you

Andrea

At the time we published this novel as combined Special Edition #1 of Ambrov Zeor and Companion In Zeor Andrea has already become a respected professional science fiction novelist. As I've mentioned elsewhere on the Web, you should look up her novel Demon of Undoing (Baen books, 1988).

Also, as of January 1997, more of Andrea Alton's work will be available on the Web. Here's a link to that location:

http://www.quickbookstop.com

In the early dawn mist, two figures moved across the mountainside. A ground fog lay in cotton drifts among the tree roots and curled in slow wreaths about the ankles of the travelers. The silence was broken occasionally by the sleepy chirp of a bird.

The taller figure bore a heavy pack that extended above his head. He appeared to be in his late twenties, very thin, with a shock of jet black hair and eyes the deep blue of high mountain lakes. His faded blue cotton shirt, ragged around the armholes where the sleeves had been ripped out, revealed tanned arms. Each forearm had an odd pattern of six ridges extending from elbow to wrist.

He moved lightly, with an almost preternatural grace, but with the tense alertness of a man in enemy territory. This was in sharp contrast to the uncoordinated movements of the twelve­year­old boy who stumbled along behind him at the end of a rope.

The youngster wove a seemingly mindless path behind the older man, the tug of the rope around his waist the only thing keeping him in motion. The boy's eyes were a pale blue and unfocused. There was a light covering of down on his chin, proof he had recently crossed the threshold of manhood.

Occasionally the boy shivered, for he was dressed in only a dirty white tunic and the spring morning was cold and damp.

The ranks of trees gave way suddenly to a bare thrust of rock, the lip of a cliff. On the edge a gnarled, stunted cedar sent strong roots seemingly into the rock itself. It was the landmark Evanthal Trandolphic had been told to watch for as he crossed the border into Gen Territory.

Stopping at the edge of the trees, he shrugged out of his pack and tied the boy's lead rope to a convenient sapling. Then he walked out onto the overlook, one hand resting on the lone cedar. The ground fell sharply away into a briar­filled ravine, where spring rains had already encouraged the pale green of new growth. He heard the rippling sound of running water somewhere below.

Off to his left he saw the misty blue notch of Five Mile Pass. It was heavily patrolled by both Simes and Gens to discourage its use as a corridor from one territory to the other. This was why he was taking a deer trail over Hatter's Mountain, which didn't even boast a low spot, much less a pass. If his informant was correct, from this place there were two ways down the mountain.

To his right, a steep­sided cliff rose above him. Tilting his head, he could just make out the boulders forming the notch that marked the easier route, one down which you could take horses if you were so minded. But that path led straight to the Gen border fortress of Denholm Station.

Directly in front of him was the second route. One hand firmly holding onto the tree, he leaned forward over the edge to look down. It looked like the sort of trail made by a drunken mountain goat. Once at the bottom he would be well and truly in Gen Territory and fair game to any Gen who could catch him. It wasn't the sort of place you went dragging your Kill behind you, even if you could get the Gen down the cliff.

He turned to look over his shoulder at the young Gen standing beside his pack, staring at nothing in his drugged stupor. Evan shifted his mode of consciousness, letting his vision fade, becoming unaware of hearing or touch. In this state, hyperconsciousness, he relied totally on his Sime senses, the senses which allowed him to hunt Gens.

Around him, the nearby landscape changed in the illumination cast by the Gen's nager. The occluding mist vanished; the trees became almost translucent. Only the rocks and dirt of the mountain itself remained solid. He was keenly aware of the boy's pulsing nager, a pale yellow nimbus through which sluggish whirls floated passively. His stomach twisted at the thought of taking that into himself. For years, each Gen he'd taken had given him a less satisfactory Kill than the last, until it had become an effort to Kill at all. I can't go on much longer without a Prime Kill. And Prime Kills cost a fortune. I have got to find the Beran Library this time.

He shifted back to duoconsciousness, letting vision and hearing overlay the ghostly images of nageric awareness, putting off the inevitable as long as possible, for it would have to be done here.

A vague feeling of disquiet caused him to stare narrowly at the opposite mountain flank, gray­green in the shrouding fog. He faded back into the misty shadows at the far end of the barren shelf, where a fall of rock had scattered huge slabs of granite. Masked by the massive shapes, he propped his foot on a convenient boulder and leaned out to study the situation. There was a Gen out there somewhere doing the same thing.

He sought hyperconsciousness again. When he was out, like now, away from the towns and farms, he could let himself go, shifting and shifting again until he opened himself to the life fields­-the nagers­-of even the animals in the forest.

Not all Simes could do this, and it wasn't something he ever mentioned. It was Evan's edge, his one advantage in his trade. Being able to scan the distances, being able to know when Gens were approaching hours before they arrived, had allowed him to penetrate deeper into Gen Territory than any other archeologist. This gift enabled him to bring back vital clues to the Ancients' civilization and how it had been destroyed by the Sime/Gen mutation that split humanity.

An icy tingle stole across his nerves as the watcher on the far side of the valley allowed his attention to shift across Evan's hiding place. Evan sharpened his focus, touched the Gen field and gasped, flinching from that inhuman, chill, death-like hardness. It was alien...unclean. Unconsciously he wiped his tentacles across his shirt front in disgust. What was that?

Oh, no. It couldn't be! Icy Nager? Here?

He had never before touched the field of the great Gen Monster, but once described it was never to be forgotten. Has he seen me? And then, with a queer little shiver of excitement­-Would he come after me? Of course, if Icy Nager did, it would take him at least three hours to get here, and Evan had no intention of waiting for him. Or would I? The man who caught Icy Nager could afford Prime Kills for the rest of his life. It was worth the thought. But was it worth dying for? One man alone could never take Icy Nager, the Gen Monster.

The Gen's attention, as it played back and forth over his position, tantalized Evan's sensitized nerves with a peculiarly unsettling sensation that had nothing to do with the horrible feel of the Gen's nager. Every time that chill ripple went through him, he found his intil rising, the inexorable appetite for the Kill. It was something that hadn't happened to him in far too long.

Daring to anticipate the return of that cold, sweeping attention, he leaned forward and quite deliberately gave himself to intil, riding on the irony of using Icy Nager to sharpen his need to the point where he might actually enjoy taking a Kill.

Lost in his pleasure, he stepped out on a boulder where he was outlined against the light rock behind him and spread his arms wide. His tentacles, until now hidden in the sheaths along his forearms, emerged to stand out as stiff as he could hold them. That distant cold attention suddenly focused firmly. Evan's lips pulled back with a delight that was close to pain. Intil mounted higher, drumming through his muscles.

He had not wanted a Gen so much in years.

Retaining just enough sense not to go seeking Icy Nager, he wrenched himself around and sought the pale but accessible nager of the Gen he'd brought for this very purpose.

The boy stared uninterestedly up at him, white face slack, mind dulled beyond thought as Evan bore down on him. Evan moved closer into the core of the boy's nager and gloried when his whole body responded. Of their own accord, his handling tentacles slid from their sheaths and wrapped themselves securely about the Gen's smooth forearms.

To his Sime senses, the boy now zlinned as a candle flame, pale nimbus surrounded by a core of deeper fire. Though the ice still washed through him, tantalizing his need to an agony, it was the fire he craved, the fire he must have. It's going to work!

His laterals extended and made skin contact with the Gen. They were slick with ronaplin, the secretion that conducted selyn from Gen to Sime. He tightened his handling tentacles, fearing the shock of losing contact. Then, nearly not believing this was happening for him, he bent to make the necessary fifth contact point with his lips just touching the Gen's lips.

Instantly, selyn, the invisible energy of life itself, flowed from the Gen up through Evan's laterals into the starved Sime nervous system. He let it wash into him until the flow slackened, then he drew, sucking the precious energy into the darkest parts of himself. At that point, it seemed the elusive satisfaction was coming. But the flow fell off. Suddenly frantic, Evan drew harder. In that instant the flow cut off abruptly with a paralyzing screech of Gen pain. Evan came out of it staring down into wide, faded blue eyes. The Gen corpse hung limply in his grasp, and the ache of unsatisfied chronic need was an open wound in his chest.

He let the body down gently, noting the angry red burn marks woven around the Gen's arms where his laterals had rested, the bruises where his handling tentacles and fingers had immobilized the Gen. He gave an ironic bow of thanks to the distant watcher. Then, with shaking hands he turned to bury the corpse in a shallow grave not far from the twisted cedar.

As was his custom, he marked the grave in the manner of the Ancients, imitating their stone monuments with two crossed sticks lashed together with a bit of vine. He was never sure why he did it, but it made him feel part of something old and perhaps wise.

Icy Nager was gone by the time he finished. Shouldering his pack, he started down the mountain.

CHAPTER TWO

Rafe Merryweather, known in Sime Territory as Icy Nager the Gen Monster, led fifteen liberated Sime prisoners through the mountains. Their horses were tired, so they kept to a walk as they climbed the slope of Hatter's Mountain. Ahead of them, not too far away, was the safety of Denholm Station.

Rafe was a tall, imposing man with wide, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. People said he moved like a big cat, whose grace offset the craggy, weathered face that had never been handsome.

He picked a trail through the unmarked woods, where thin spring sunshine streamed through the dark branches decorated with tiny new-budded leaves. The reflected light danced off roots, branches and dark earth, staying trapped beneath the heavy overhanging evergreens, tinting everything a dusty beige. The leaf mold, stirred up by the horses, smelled of the rich newness of another year. The beauty of it caught in his throat.

Rafe rubbed at his eyes, a weary gesture. I'm getting too old for this, he thought. He pulled his wandering thoughts up short and turned in the saddle, squinting at the straggling line of inexpert riders behind him.

A tree caught his eye. A gnarled old cedar growing out of a barren rock ledge. Wasn't it here that he'd seen that Sime, seemingly making an invocation to the morning? He'd kept his binoculars on the man, intrigued by someone, especially a Sime, taking that much pleasure in the start of a new day.

"Merryweather!"

It was Harry, of course. He had stopped his horse and was looking at something under the overhanging branches of a cedar. The whole line had come to a shuffling halt. Sighing, Rafe rode back to see what it was that Harry had found.

It was a grave. With a small, handmade cross at one end. Interesting.

So the Sime hadn't been worshiping the sun. He'd been raising intil...probably off me. That shenning little opportunist. But he found it rather amusing, all the same, and reached into his shirt pocket for a lemon drop.

"They left this as a sign we can't get away from them, didn't they, Sime­Sider?" Harry demanded excitedly.

Rafe looked down into the drawn, bewhiskered face and dug down deep into his dwindling store of patience. "This is at least two weeks old, Harry. It was done long before I broke you out of the pens." His calm words sidetracked the beginning of a Church of the Purity tirade. Harry was not only given to sermons on bloody retribution, but he also had a whiney, nasal voice that seemed designed to rub nerves raw. Not for the first time Rafe wondered if it was as irritating on a field level as it was on the auditory level. Perhaps it was a new mutation to keep Simes away, sort of like a skunk's scent?

There were times when he wondered why he continued saving lives when the world was so full of hate. It was like pulling horses out of a burning barn only to have them run back into the flames again. It was a fascination with dying, he thought wearily. Gens lived with too much death.

There were ways Simes and Gens could both live. If they could give up the hate. The Householders had stumbled on one method, but there was another, older way. But you had to be bred up to it.

Leaning one forearm on the saddle horn, he searched the faces of his group, gathered around the pathetic grave. They were all tired. Several were still in shock. Most were full of fury and hate. In a way, that was good. That would give them the strength to get home. But afterwards? They would still have the hate, the anger, the knee jerk response to destroy every and all Simes. He was suddenly profoundly fed up with the violence of Simes and Gens both. He wanted the sanity of his study, the passionless serenity of old, old words and vanished times. With a sense of shock he faced the truth. I don't want to do this anymore. The fun has gone out of it.

But he still had these people to get to safety. They were depending on him for their lives. "Our luck is that we don't have Raiders after us. The Simes chasing us are all townsfolk. They won't know this mountain." Hopefully. If they haven't picked up a tracker. "The crest of the mountain is just over there, between those rocks. As soon as we're through those rocks and start downhill, it's less than a ten­minute ride to Denholm Station. But this is the problem. Right now they don't know exactly where we are, but as soon as we go over the top, our fields are going to light up the sky like flares. They'll be straight after us like hound dogs on a hot scent. So what you do is, you don't stop for anything. Whatever happens, keep moving."

He turned his stallion towards the two uplifted and tilted rock slabs that marked the top of the mountain, turned once to look at his brood and was satisfied to see that all fifteen of them were tightly bunched up behind him. The stallion, Blackthorn, scrambled up the steep slope. As they went over the top Rafe had an instant's view of the valley below. Barely discernible in the misty distance, a square had been cut out of the green forest. Squatting in the middle of that stump­pocked meadow was the ugly, palisaded fortress of Denholm Station. It was the most beautiful thing they had seen in weeks.

He pushed Blackthorn into a trot and heard the rest of them follow suit. He checked Blackthorn's forward plunge down the slope and let the rest go past him. Their eyes on the station, his former prisoners yelled and screamed their delight, while Rafe slapped at the rumps of the slower mounts and kept an eye to their backtrail.

A chubby, middle­aged blond called Irene, never a very good rider, took one look at the angle of their descent and screamed in fear, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Clutching madly at saddle horn and mane, she lost her reins but managed to stay in the saddle during the worst moments when the horses slid stiff­legged, set back on their haunches, and snorting their indignation.

Rafe snatched up the reins before her horse stepped on them and rode beside her down the mountain. Branches whipped at them, undergrowth grabbed and scraped at unprotected legs. Scratched and shaken, they reached a place where it was not quite so steep, among overhanging trees. They wanted to rest. To all of them trees meant safety, but Rafe shoved Irene's reins into her hands, yanked his broad-brimmed hat off, and slapped right and left at equine rumps, keeping them moving.

Gradually, the slope became less steep. They were nearly two­thirds of the way to the station and all the horses were still on their feet. Moving slowly, but still up. Rafe looked back and saw the Simes behind them. "Move! Move! Don't stop for anything!"

The Simes were afoot. They could easily outrun the tired horses. Even as he thought it, Rafe saw Tom's horse stumble. It didn't go down, but the end was near.

Ahead, the ancient trees grew so thick the ground beneath them was like a park. But...there had once been some heavy logging in this area. Rafe's trained eyes spotted a change in the undergrowth. "This way! Follow me!"

They burst through a ragged growth of bushes. Here the trees were younger and the ground was covered with bushes, vines, and Lord preserve them!...brambles!

Blackthorn didn't hesitate as Rafe gave him the signal to jump, but gathered his muscles and went over the thickest patch. The other horses, accustomed these last days to following the stallion, came after with more or less mixed results, but Rafe was satisfied that they had not trampled the bushes too badly.

Holding them all to a ruthless pace, Rafe led them through the underbrush and young trees. Low branches slapped and scratched them. Ripped and bloodied, they finally won their way onto the old logging road. It was easier going now, and the horses seemed to take heart.

Behind them were some angry and alarmed shouts and Rafe grinned. The Simes had run into the thorns. Rafe knew it would take the Simes a while to get through or around that thicket. No Sime would risk damaging his forearms, where his tender and vitally important lateral tentacles were sheathed.

He rode behind the rest now, still chivvying their tired mounts. Blackthorn was the only horse with anything still left in him. Ahead of them the logging road opened up into the wide meadow around the station. It was time to yell for help. With his free hand Rafe pulled a heavy, wide-muzzled gun from a holster looped over the saddlebow. Pointing it at the sky, he pulled the trigger. There was a white, smoky flash followed by a pop high above the trees. The flare burst, arcing a blood­red cry for help against the sky.

"It's hopeless, isn't it, Sime­Sider?" Harry dropped back to ride beside him, twisting in the saddle, staring at the woods behind them. He had their only other gun, the rifle Rafe had given to Joy. The stocky woman was an ex­Patroller, who could both ride and shoot at the same time and still be counted on to hit something. Rafe looked at the other riders who were still grimly forging on ahead. Joy was in the lead, holding onto Irene's reins. She glanced back at him. Her square-jawed face was not lovely, but there was something indomitable about her. "Take the lead!" he yelled. "Harry and I are rear guard!"

She nodded, kicked her horse a little harder, and somehow, just like that, was in command.

There was a manic glitter in Harry's red-rimmed dark eyes. "I've known all along I wasn't going to make it. It's my Fate. They killed my Nancy and my little Angelina. I have nothing left to live for...except to make sure my babies have the blood of Simes to carry them to Heaven. The Church promises, `They that die, reddened with the blood of retribution, shall be lifted up in the arms of the Lord.'" Harry's voice shook with unshed tears. Suddenly he threw his head back, and shaking the rifle at the sky, shouted, "Hear me, my Lord! Those I kill today will be their blood price into Your everlasting glory!"

For the first time, Rafe found in himself some fellow feeling for Harry. He still didn't like the man, but he, too, had lost people. "Joy give you all the ammunition?"

"Yes," Harry said in a more normal voice.

Rafe nodded. "Don't shoot until I tell you to."

They slowed their horses, watching the woods behind them. All too soon the leader of the Sime pack came running around the curve in the road behind them. Catching sight of the Gens waiting on the trail, they unlimbered their bullwhips, and Rafe saw the flashes of daggers and throwing knives.

Rafe leveled his shotgun. "Fire!"

Harry's gut spat and a Sime went down with a cry. Then he was working the trigger steadily. Rafe's own weapon, a shotgun, was working just as steadily and to devastating effect. He sent Blackthorn toward the Simes and coolly emptied the shotgun into their midst.

The Simes bolted for the cover of the trees to either side of the trail, and Rafe pulled Harry around and headed up the path, holding Blackthorn to the stumbling pace of Harry's gelding.

A bullwhip snaked out of the bushes beside Harry, laying a lash across his shoulders as its wielder tried to snag the rifle from the man's grip. But Harry held on and Rafe's shotgun spoke, blasting the clump of vegetation to tatters. A screaming thing pulled itself away to hide behind a fallen log.

Rafe and Harry burst from the trees into the wide meadow around Denholm Station. The others were ahead of them, but not by much. Rafe cursed emotionlessly and levered more shells into his shotgun. The horses were too far gone, the Simes too close. "Get off!" Rafe yelled. "Dismount! Run for it!"

Harry wrenched his mount's head around and started back, reloading the rifle with urgent hands. Rafe let him go, aware suddenly that the Simes were virtually ignoring Harry and the other Gens and converging on him. He smiled thinly. They must have raised the reward on me again.

He turned Blackthorn to the side, away from Denholm. Behind him he heard Harry's rifle speak in deadly accents, but the Simes stayed with Rafe. Well, it's not the first time I've been bait.

A whip cracked, biting into Blackthorn's rump. This was not a wise act. The horse squealed and spun to attack the closing Simes. Rafe fired the shotgun into a man's startled face. The stallion's lungings brought Denholm Station into view for a moment, and Rafe saw that only half of his group had done what he'd told them to do, which was to dismount and run for it. The rest were futilely trying to kick foundering horses into motion and falling behind.

Despairing for them, Rafe jammed the empty shotgun under his thigh and pulled his long boot­knife. There was no time to reload. Blackthorn, as he was trained to do, kept whirling, biting and kicking with deadly accuracy. Knowing the rhythm of his horse's moves, Rafe balanced easily, parrying blows, catching whips, and slashing Simes who tried to leap onto him. It was almost a dance.

Another glimpse of the meadow showed uniformed men rising like magic from concealed bunkers in the sere grass, weapons firing at the Simes who were pursuing those on foot. Some of the fleeing prisoners had already reached safety behind the Border Patrollers' lines.

Rafe didn't have time to feel relief. Harry, still working the rifle, was caught in a circle of Simes, and it looked as if he were going to get the death he craved. In that moment of inattention, Rafe felt Sime hands clutch at his shirt, yanking him off balance, nearly pulling him from the saddle.

Blackthorn, his small ears flat to a snake-like skull, whipped around, nearly folding himself double to sink teeth into the Sime at his side. The Sime fell away, blood spurting from his shoulder.

Rafe clutched the saddle as Blackthorn reared to batter another Sime with his forefeet.

Rafe looked for Harry. The man lay asprawl on his back in the trampled grass, his shirt sleeves ripped to shreds, his bare arms crisscrossed with welts­-burn marks from the Sime's killing draw. His dead face was set in a grin of triumph.

The last of the prisoners was being pulled to safety behind the Patrollers' lines, who were laying down a withering fire, much of it directed in Rafe's direction. Shen! Rafe swore in Simelan. There was no one left to save but himself, and he'd better get himself out of here before his own side filled him full of holes. He'd rather face the Simes. They were, after all, intent on taking him alive.

Rafe flattened himself against Blackthorn's neck and shouted a plea into the small black ears. Blackthorn responded with a leap, hitting the Simes in front of him with one heavy shoulder, bowling them over before they knew what had happened.

Within three long strides the stallion was in full flight, moving down the logging road that ran just inside the woods. Close behind, the Simes howled exultantly and regrouped for the chase, ignoring the Patrollers and the Gen prisoners. They were on their way into Gen Territory in determined pursuit of the prize of the century.

CHAPTER THREE

Time ceased to have any meaning. There was just the rhythmic thud of Blackthorn's hooves against the dirt track, the piston­like drive of the broad shoulders under his knees. Automatically Rafe ducked the bare, reaching branches stretched across his path, listening to the sounds behind him. The shouting had long since faded, and that in itself gave him a small feeling of encouragement. Simes could run as fast or faster than a horse, but it burned up selyn at a tremendous rate. Over long distances they had to fall back to a more normal pace or risk going into need at a time when there might be no Gens around to feed upon.

All depended on how crazed with pain and greed they were. If they did not do the sensible, the logical thing, he was lost. As if the thought produced it, he heard the light pad of feet behind him. Turning in the saddle, he saw, just out of shotgun range, an easily running female Sime. She grinned at him and raised an arm, all handling tentacles fully extended. It was not a salute. Rafe turned back, attending to where Blackthorn put his feet on the rabbithole-infested trail. He was well satisfied.

If he couldn't get free of one lone Sime, he deserved to be caught. The rest of them were along the trail behind him, running slowly, conserving their strength until he was run to earth.

He was nearly off the mountain now, well into Gen Territory, though little enough his pursuers cared for that when there was no border guard around to force them back. The land stretched flat and slightly downhill in a clean sweep to the plain where the White Water River rippled its way south. He angled Blackthorn to the left and came out of the forest into ground swept by a forest fire the year before.

Charred stumps pointed upwards like accusing skeleton fingers. The ground was covered with a thick layer of ash that dulled the sound of Blackthorn's hooves. With no cover to dissipate his life field, Rafe knew he stood out like a mid­winter bonfire. The Sime could hardly miss him. Which was exactly what he wanted.

When Rafe was fairly sure, without actually turning around to look, that his tail was at the edge of the fireburn, he gave the stallion a signal. Obediently Blackthorn slowed, stumbled to a halt, and at Rafe's urging moved forward with a pathetic, wincing hobble. The Sime­Sider dismounted, throwing a challenging look at the Sime, who had by this time come out into the open to watch with avid, greedy eyes. But she made no move to come closer as Rafe ran a hand down the stallion's leg and shook his head, playing to his audience. He let concern and worry seep into his field as he hunkered down to examine the hoof.

A jeering laugh broke the silence, but when Rafe swung around, his shotgun ready, the female was gone. He listened intently, head cocked a bit to one side. Faintly came the sound of someone crashing unheedingly through underbrush, as if she were in too much of a hurry to take a longer path.

Rafe gathered up the reins and tugged the horse into halting motion, leading him towards the greening forest on his left and the creek that ran down out of the heights. As he walked, Rafe counted under his breath. Two minutes went by. He gave it another minute just to be safe, before leaping once more into the saddle and fleeing out of the burn into the thin cover of the trees. The little rest had helped Blackthorn, but all too soon the stallion's breathing was coming ever more ragged, and his great strides did not have the springing rhythm that told of strength still in reserve.

But by then they were almost to Deer Creek. Thankfully Rafe sent the horse down between the sheltering banks of the creek. Their life fields, his and the horse's, would be shielded by the earth and dissipated by the limbs of the trees overhead. If any Sime were close enough to track him solely by field sense, it might seem as if he had dropped out of the world. He turned the horse upstream, back the way they had come. Because of the treacherous footing, he kept the stallion to a walk despite the desperate need to hurry.

In the distant past, someone had dug out a place on a hillside above Deer Creek for a home. When it was new, the entire front had been exposed, bringing air and light into what was essentially a concrete cave. But over hundreds of years, earthslides and tree roots had managed to bury all of it. At some time Junkers, men who sought out Ancient metal, had removed the front door, leaving a gaping hole. Several years before, Rafe had found it, and thinking it would make a good hiding place, he had replaced the door with a barrier of lashed saplings layered with dirt.

Now, as he dismounted from a weary Blackthorn, he barely recognized the place and thought for a few panicky seconds he'd misjudged the distance, before finding the entrance buried under a layer of vines. Pushing them aside, he set his shoulder to the makeshift door, levering it aside. The air inside was musty and cool, smelling of leaf mold...and something else.

At the smell, Thorn's little ears shot forward and his eyes showed the whites as he neighed, nervously pulling back against the reins Rafe still held in his hands. The Sime­Sider wrapped them around a convenient branch and stepped over the threshold. A dry rustling spread through the gloomy interior. There was a general ripple of movement across the floor and as Rafe's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized the place was ankle deep in sluggish reptiles.

"Eh, gads!" he muttered involuntarily, taking a step backwards. After a moment he realized they were mostly bull, black, garter and grass snakes, all non­poisonous. That wasn't to say there couldn't be a few timber rattlers mixed in with them, but poisonous and non­poisonous snakes did not tend to den together. "Great," he muttered. "Just the sort of company I've always wanted to spend time in the dark with."

He stepped inside and the lethargic reptiles coiled slowly out of his path. There really weren't as many as he had first thought. Cautiously he set about clearing the animals from the center of the room, nudging a few particularly heavy sleepers out of the way with a booted foot.

Having cleared a large space, he went back for Blackthorn and firmly led him inside. The horse was inclined to be skittish about his new quarters, rolling his eyes and snorting his displeasure. But he was too tired to make the kind of fuss he'd have liked to make.

"Don't be such a sissy," Rafe said in affectionate exasperation as he soothed the big horse. "It's either this or pulling a plow in Sime Territory." Fairly sure the stallion would hold his ground, even though he was shifting nervously from hoof to hoof, Rafe went back outside for the few minutes it took to erase their tracks and resettle the vines around the makeshift door.

That barrier pulled tightly shut, he felt his way back to the stallion in the musty darkness. Disturbed snakes undulated their way across his feet and wound briefly around his ankles. "There's nothing like affectionate reptiles," he muttered, reaching for Blackthorn's neck and throwing an arm across it. "I wish I had some light in here."

As his eyes adjusted, Rafe realized it wasn't as completely black as it ought to have been. There was just barely enough illumination for him to see the stallion, a blackness against a lighter blackness, but that little was entirely too much. He stared upward in alarm. "Rafe, my boy," he said, "you've got to be more careful what you wish for." The house had been built with a skylight, and though the glass was opaque and covered over with dirt and leaves, Rafe could practically see his life field streaming upwards...a beacon for the hunt.

It was too late now to do anything about it. He stood by the stallion's head, caressing the sweat­soaked neck and speaking soft words. Blackthorn's small ears twitched in acknowledgement of that familiar and beloved voice. He reached around and rested his weary head on Rafe's shoulder. The man staggered a bit under the weight but never took his eyes off the skylight.

When Blackthorn finally moved his head, the Sime­Sider moved back against the decaying masonry, tucking a booted foot under himself and settling back to wait against the wall with his shotgun across his knee. His free hand went to his shirt pocket and fumbled with the lid of a heavy cardboard box. He reached in with two fingers and extracted a lemon ball, which he popped into his mouth. His eyes remained steady on the skylight.

A little more time went by. Something started scraping at the debris over the glass. Rafe swore softly and thumbed the hammers back on his gun, bringing the muzzle up.

Dimly, through the scratched and sun-discolored glass, he could make out two hands pushing aside the dirt. The oval shape of a head peered down at him for a moment and then vanished.

Rafe's eyes flickered to the entrance of what had now become a trap, absent-mindedly cracking the lemon ball between his teeth. Then the glow from the glass disappeared as leaves were hastily shoved back over the skylight. Rafe lifted an eyebrow in mild puzzlement. In the now complete darkness he heard a small thump overhead as if something had been placed across the skylight. He pulled absently at his lower lip while he considered the meaning of this new development.

CHAPTER FOUR

Evan Trandolphic was digging, in a rather discouraged way, into the side of a small mound. He'd left small excavations like this up and down the border for ten miles. He would much rather have been searching for the Beran Library, but his most promising lead was currently overrun by Raiders. He was waiting, with what patience he could muster, until they left. He had nothing against Raiders, really. They just weren't the kind of people he cared to associate with, and besides...they didn't much like strangers at their camps.

His shovel bit into something that felt different from leaf mold and clay. He leaned over, brushing at the dirt and smiling a little when he uncovered iron rust. He had another Ancient dump site. It wasn't the Beran Library, but it wasn't totally valueless either.

Given a thousand years, even the Ancients' incredibly durable metals were decaying. It was a pity they hadn't taken better care of this irreplaceable resource. Ceramics and glass could be made to do only so much.

"A fine mess they left us," he groused, not for the first time. "If they were going to destroy civilization, the least they could have done was leave the survivors something besides a metal­based technology when they knew they were running out of ore."

So far he'd gleaned one Ancient glass bottle, small bits of tarnished jewelry from some farmer's hoard, odds and ends of glass and plastic, and a small collection of brass and iron. None of this last was useful for the Bandegog Institute, as it was all modern stuff. He kept it separate to be sold to the smithies, in-Territory. He was only a stringer at the institute, and he didn't earn much from his archeological work. He didn't mind sidelining as a Junker. His pride wasn't that puffed up.

He kicked at a lump of clay and something bright orange caught his eye. Carefully he eased the object out of the surrounding soil with a hand trowel. Almost tenderly he pried the dirt and clay out of the edges and angles of the small thing with the tips of his handling tentacles. It looked like a child's toy, made from that strange material called plastic that was either indestructible or only fell apart into colored dust. This had survived a thousand years.

He held the object to the light, turning it around in his tentacles. It teased him with its familiarity, but he couldn't quite place what it was. Suddenly his head came up, and all thought of the small plastic thing in his hands evaporated.

Icy Nager!

His mouth went dry, and he felt ill at his stomach as he hit the ground and lay there. He had not noticed the other approach. The field was strong and very close by. How could even the Gen Monster sneak up on a Sime? Then that cold, frightening field disappeared. Completely.

Slowly, Evan gathered himself up and eeled closer to the top of the mound he had been working on. There was just the faintest trace of the Gen's field. His head swiveled as Evan, puzzled and wary, sought the source. Icy Nager was underground, of course. Gens were like moles in that respect.

Shoving the Ancient plastic toy in his shirt, Evan followed that telltale glow to the top of the hill. The ghostly, rich radiation was filtering up from among loosely scattered leaves. He knelt down, pushing aside the debris, and sunlight glinted off a small patch of glass. He leaned over, trying to peer into the darkness below, and then yanked his head back as he realized what a foolish thing he'd just done. But perhaps no harm had been done. The Gen field, for all its coldness, was calm and almost at ease. Obviously, Icy Nager felt safe in his hole.

Evan backed away, zlinning, extending his senses to their farthest. There was a group of Simes coming his way. Angry, vengeful Simes in hunting mode.

Perhaps it was respect. Perhaps it was gratitude and guilt for using the Gen to raise his intil for his last Kill. Perhaps it was just the Sime instinct to keep a Kill for himself. Or perhaps it was all of these or none. Evan, in later years, could never say what it was that made him cover the glass in leaves and dirt and finally drop his pack on top of the skylight for added insulation.

He was quietly brewing tea on top of the hill when the hunters swarmed out of the woods. He had known from the first that these were not Raiders, Licensed or Unlicensed. He opened his dark blue eyes in surprise as he recognized several farmers, a couple of merchants and the Prime Gen dealer from the in­Territory town of Renault. Schooling his emotions to a serene flatness, he waited for them to approach.

The hunters were in a fine temper, their clothing torn and ripped from pushing through brambles, their legs and bodies scratched. Some were bruised, a couple were bleeding slightly from shotgun pellets, a few showed knife cuts. All of them showed signs of selyn depletion caused by a long and hard run. They eyed him with suspicion, openly zlinning him.

Ignoring that breach of good manners, the archeologist sipped his tea tranquilly, knowing his field was just past turnover, too low to have taken a recent Kill. "Ho, Bortolmin, what are you doing around here?" he called cheerfully to one of the merchants.

The short Sime peered at him uncertainly. "We're hunting a Wild Gen. Have you seen one?"

"No," Evan replied truthfully, and let them see his interest. "You mean there's one around here? There's so many of you, what do you mean to do with it, when you catch it?"

"None of your business!" another man snapped.

Evan, looking him over, finally recognized in the battered, grubby figure the usually well­dressed owner of the Predent Genfarm. The man flushed under his scrutiny, but his field held challenge. Evan ignored it.

"What are you doing around here?" Predent demanded truculently. He had to look upward at Evan, seated on his little hill, and that exasperated the man more than anything else.

"Working," Evan replied, amused. "What are you doing here, breaking the treaty, hunting Gens on the wrong side of the border? Or have you received your license?"

The man eyed him suspiciously, not answering. A woman, as torn, worn and scratched as the men, came up, glanced at Evan and then pulled on the Genfarmer's sleeve. "That's just Trandolphic. He's all right. He's a Junker. We see him in Renault all the time."

"Well, Mantrada!" Evan called delightedly. "What are you doing woods­running, lovely one? Will I see you when I come in with my haul this season?"

She blew him a kiss. "Look me up at the Happy Haze when you come to town, Tan'delm'ga, and bring your money."

"I yearn for the day, beloved," Evanthal murmured, his eyes twinkling. She laughed as she walked away with the others, and he saluted her with his cup. Evan remained where he was for a long time, zlinning the hunt. Once satisfied that they had moved off towards Yetter Station and Five Mile Pass, he got to his feet.

Stretching leisurely, he kicked dirt over the fire, tossing the remainder of the tea over the hot coals, where they hissed and raised a small cloud of steam. He bent over to pick up the pack and as he did so, the entire skylight, frame and all, gave way beneath him.

Desperately he flung his hands out, but there was nothing to grab. He plunged feet first into the hole, lit incredibly bright by the field of the waiting and deadly Gen. Reflexively protecting his forearms and the vulnerable lateral tentacles, he landed awkwardly, his feet slipping on the glass, leaves and dirt, unable to get any kind of purchase. He fell over onto his back, arms safe, but his heavy pack landed on his chest and briefly knocked the wind out of him. He found himself staring up into the twin dark holes of a shotgun aimed unwaveringly at his head. He lay very still.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Gen's field filled the space under the roof with a metallic bronze glow backed by a powerful will and deadly purpose. That was not what sent chills of fear down Evan's back. He'd met Gens willing to kill before.

All creatures capable of even the most meager thoughts had feelings. He'd lived his life touching other lives and being touched by them. He knew, always, what those around him were feeling. But there was no emotion in this Gen. Evan shuddered away from it. The Gen was obscene! Unclean! A whimper broke from his throat as to his horror the Gen Monster tried fumblingly to mesh fields with him. He wanted to scream and claw away from the ice­cold trickles violating his very essence of being. Instinctively he switched to hypoconsciousness, cutting off his awareness of that alien emptiness. Without the feel of it against his own nager he found himself able to draw breath.

He lay still, sweating with fear, knowing that to move was to court certain death. After a while it occurred to him that it was taking the Gen a very long time to pull that trigger. He opened his eyes. The silence between them was filled with the harshness of his own gasping. And still the fearsome Gen made no move.

Evan shifted his gaze from the twin holes of the shotgun to the face above. Remote gray eyes watched him unblinkingly. The Gen's face was long, with craggy features as unrevealing as the Gen's nager. He was tall and broad shouldered, bigger by half than Evan himself. The Gen was unshaven and unwashed, long hair lank with sweat and dirt. His long-sleeved brown shirt was in rags and tatters except where a brown leather vest protected it. Even that showed fresh scratches and rough patches where the leather had been rubbed violently against something. Where his skin showed through the rents in his clothing, it was covered with scratches and welts and a few whip marks thrown in for variation. Mingled with the sour odor of a tired, sweaty Gen was the scent of lemon.

He remembered something whispered about Icy Nager. It gave him enough courage to essay a grin. "I know you," Evan said, trying to sound nonchalant around the constriction in his throat. Instead he just sounded hoarse...and scared.

"Figured," said the Gen. In that loathsome field was a flash of humor, which ran along Evan's mind and nerves like a cascade of quicksilver since the Gen's field was so close that it overlapped his own.

It was a clean emotion, pure enjoyment, free of hate. Evan gasped from the surprise of it and blurted out, "The others, those who were hunting you, are gone away up towards Five Mile Pass." Unthinkingly, he'd spoken in Simelan, and the Gen answered him in the same language.

"Good to know."

Silence fell between them again. Evan studied the fabled Icy Nager and realized the Gen was so physically worn out that it was a wonder he was still on his feet, yet he was all the more dangerous for that. He might decide to kill a Sime he was too tired to watch properly.

"Yes?" Icy Nager prompted, with gentle mockery.

"I didn't say anything."

"Forgive me. You looked as if you wanted to."

"They say you don't kill unless you're attacked," Evan said a little desperately, switching to English so he would have no doubts the other understood him.

The Gen shifted something into his cheek, where it made a bulge against the dirty, unshaven jaw. There was a strong scent of lemon. Finally he said, "Some truth to that."

"Because if you aren't going to shoot me," Evan said, taking a chance and getting to his elbows, "I'd like to know what kind of snake is crawling under my shirt."

The Gen grinned and there was another quicksilver run of joy along the Sime's nerves. "Worried about a snake, when you're here, alone with Icy Nager?"

"One must have one's priorities," Evan agreed. And then more hopefully, "Are you going to surrender now?"

That fearsome field shifted, splintered, dissolved away as the big Gen laughed silently, his shoulders shaking. For a second or two he was totally vulnerable, but Evan was too surprised and awed by the change in that field to take advantage of it.

He was bathed in a nager­-warm, complex, sensitive, laid over with a wry astringency and powered by such a strength of will and trained concentration that he was profoundly thankful the Gen wasn't angry about anything. He would have curled up like a salted mealworm. "Nice to know I can bring so much joy into the world," Evan commented.

Still chuckling, the Gen eased away from him, out from under the hole in the roof. One step...then two, the shotgun never wavering. When Icy Nager was against the wall, he tucked up one foot behind himself and rested the weapon on his raised knee.

Evan turned his head, following this retreat, if that was what it was. The Gen was entirely in shadow now, while Evan lay in a bright pool of sunshine, which he was sharing with a growing number of serpents. The Gen's field, no longer brassy, filled the entire shelter with a soft golden glow.

A cool, muscular body squirmed on his stomach, and Evan cast an alarmed glance in that direction, but he couldn't see anything because of the pack still resting on his chest.

"It's just a bull snake," Icy Nager volunteered, quietly.

"Thanks," Evan said with real gratitude.

The silence began again. The Gen broke it this time. "Mostly," Icy Nager said meditatively, "Simes I meet either are too scared to say anything, or they curse me. Picked up some interesting tentacle talk over the years. Pity I can't use any of it." He sucked reflectively on the lemon ball.

"Can I move this pack now?" Evan asked hopefully. "It's getting hard to breathe."

"Truce?" Icy Nager asked.

"Truce," Evan agreed, shaky with relief. He retracted all tentacles tightly in their sheaths. "I cry truce to be kept for..." He cocked an eyebrow at the Gen.

"The next five hours."

"All right," Evan agreed. "A truce for five hours. Can I sit up now?"

"Slowly."

"You can count on it. I don't want to get bitten." With quick movements of his hands, unable to use his tentacles because of the truce, Evan cleared his immediate vicinity of reptiles. Then he lifted the pack and set it to one side, all without moving his stomach. With a fast, smooth motion, he lifted his shirt, grabbed the bull snake with his other hand and tossed it to one side, away from Icy Nager. He finished and looked up to find himself being closely regarded by both the Gen and the horse.

He hadn't had the leisure to pay much attention to the stallion before this. Folding his legs under himself tailor-fashion beside the pack, he nodded at the horse. "Nice animal. Looks like he might be out of the Seodre stables."

"He's war­trained," Icy Nager commented.

There wasn't much to say to that, but at least it accounted for the attention he was getting from the horse. One wrong move and a ton or so of stallion would batter him into pulp. No wonder Icy Nager could afford to accept the truce of a Sime he didn't know. Evan moved a little and the pebbled glass from the skylight shifted under him with a faint chiming. "Gens spend so much time underground that another name for Gens is `moles.' Except you, of course, you're more like a badger."

"I'm a weasel with an attitude?"

"I was trying to compliment you. But now that you mention it..." Evan said thoughtfully, studying the other man, head to one side. He knew he was pushing the moment, but he was rewarded for his impudence by another ripple of Gennish amusement through the ambient.

The amusement faded away, replaced by deadly seriousness. "What are you doing on the wrong side of the mountains?" the Gen asked.

Evan pushed a stray lock of black hair out of his eyes before answering. "I'm an archeologist."

There was the merest movement of the shotgun towards the pack now sitting in the rubble beside Evan. "You do a little Junking on the side."

"Well..." said Evan a bit sullenly. "Archeology doesn't pay all that much. I have to make a living where I can."

"Credentials?"

"From Bandegog Institute in Moriathon," he said proudly.

"Heard of it," Icy Nager said surprisingly. "They do good work."

Evan's mouth dropped open. A Gen knew of Bandegog?

"So," said Icy Nager, nodding at the pack. "Let me see what you've collected for this institute of yours."

Moving slowly, so as not to startle the big Gen or the horse, Evanthal undid the pack straps. The pack was an ingenious thing he'd made himself. It was arranged to unfold in sections so he could get out his tools, or his camping gear, or store small items without undoing the whole thing. Concealed in the center, in a special padded compartment, were his real finds­-the stuff he saved for the institute.

He undid the section that held the few small items which might be depended upon to take a Gen's interest. He spread a cloth and laid on it some bits of blackened silver jewelry, a gold ring and corroded coins, as well as the small amount of metal he'd collected. Even though they had a truce, he figured the Gen would take the jewelry and metal to sell on his side of the border. Gens were just as short of metal as Simes were.

Icy Nager didn't move from his place against the wall. "No wonder you can't make a living at archeology. None of that would interest the Bandegog."

Evan looked up at him, startled. Then, stung in his professional pride, he swept the jewelry up and recklessly opened the inner, secret compartment, exposing to view the glass bottle, a ceramic tile, the pieces of plastic he'd thought worth saving, and a few really old coins. Unfolding a bit of leather, he laid a colored marble silently among the rest. "This is what I've found in the last week."

The Gen came closer, squatting on his heels just on the edge of the sunshine. The shotgun was held across his knees in the manner of a man who has carried a thing so long that it has become a part of him. "A marble?" he asked, reaching out a grimy forefinger to gently touch it.

"I found it two feet below the soil level, beside an Ancient foundation. It's older by almost a century than the bottle. You can tell from the bit of color inside. It's what the Ancients called a `catseye.'" As Evan spoke, he studied the Gen from under lowered brows.

"I've heard of `catseyes,'" the Gen said, "but I've never seen one before."

Evan laid the plastic bits he'd collected in a careful row in front of the Gen, moving back a bit so the other wouldn't feel crowded, and put his hands on his knees. He waited expectantly. He wasn't to be disappointed.

Laying the marble to one side, the Gen leaned forward, intent on those bits of once-colorful plastic. Sun-browned, square­tipped fingers picked them up one by one and examined them. Icy Nager picked up the last thing Evan had found, the orange child's toy, turned it over and studied the underside, scraping at the bottom with a fingernail.

"What is it?" Evan asked.

"I thought I felt a roughness on the bottom. Sometimes these things have letters stamped on them, like maker's marks."

Evan held out his hand. "Let me see. I've got some cleaner here."

Without a qualm, Icy Nager dropped the bit of plastic into his hand. Evan kept his eyes down, keeping to himself the shock he felt at the Gen's action. Not even Icy Nager should behave with such lunatic trust around a Sime.

He reached into his pack for the bottle of soapy water and a stiff little brush. He worked over the brittle plastic carefully, dried it on a cloth and handed it back to the Gen, who took it as casually from his fingers as he had dropped it into them.

"I looked at it, but I'm not trained in Ancient languages," Evan said honestly. "It doesn't mean a thing to me."

The Gen pulled a small magnifying glass from a pants pocket and peered into it, holding the plastic carefully. "I can't make out the first line. There are some numbers: 1, 9, 7, 8...followed by the word `United' and some words that we don't know yet. The numbers are part of the Ancients' dating system. The last line reads: `Product of Hong Kong.' `Product' means something made. `Hong Kong' is the Ancient name for a great city on the other side of the world."

For the second time since meeting the Gen, Evan's mouth dropped open.

The Gen slipped the magnifying glass back into his pocket, frowning down at the little figure between his fingers. He traced the lines of the "face" with a dirty nail. "It's a cat, I think. A very stylized and fat cat. It could be a fertility symbol..." His words trailed away as he pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought.

"Cats don't require anything to make them fertile," Evan said positively.

The Gen grinned and quicksilver joy ran along Evan's nerves again. He wondered if it could become addictive. He'd never felt Gen joy before. Hadn't even realized they could feel such a light emotion. Evan had a crazy urge to extend his laterals and bask in the glow of Icy Nager's field the way he'd seen captured Wild Gens hold their hands to a fire. "In my experience, such a thing is more likely to be a toy."

The Gen nodded. "Possible. We know so little about the Ancients."

"How come you're so familiar with the Ancient language?" Evan asked.

The Gen was idly turning over another piece of plastic, looking for more maker's marks. "It's a hobby of mine."

"Some hobby."

"For Icy Nager, you mean?" The big Gen shrugged. "We all have our faults." His hand hovered over a pocket of the backpack, out of which poked the plugged end of a small glass vacuum bottle containing a piece of paper. Evan had, in truth, forgotten about it until then and made a quick protective movement, just as quickly aborted. The Gen picked it up. "It's in fairly good condition, for something six hundred years old. Where did you get it?"

"I bought it on my way out."

"Do you know what it says?"

Evan shrugged. "I've read it, but it doesn't make any sense to me."

"It's a fragment of poetry."

"How can you tell?" Evan asked. "It doesn't rhyme. It doesn't even scan."

"You have to read it as the person who wrote it would. We're still using the same alphabet and the same words, but there was a great change in the English language about five hundred years ago. Vowels have a different value now than they did back then. Spelling has changed, too." Slowly the Gen read the words on the paper, inflecting them strangely, but the rhythm of poetry was there all right. Then the Gen explained what the more obscure words meant. Evan listened to the Gen's deep, quiet voice with keen appreciation mixed with amusement that he, a Sime, was getting a lecture from Icy Nager.

Currents within the Gen's field were trying to match with his own again, and Evan had been automatically shifting his field gradient ever so slightly to hold the other off. The Gen couldn't realize what he was doing, of course. While Evan would have been greatly insulted if another Sime had attempted such an intimacy only permitted among family and long­time close friends, Evan shrugged this off. Icy Nager was, after all, only a Gen.

Gens didn't mesh with Simes. Gens were for fear and pain and dying. It didn't matter that Evan, personally, had never been able to take the kind of pleasure most Simes took in a Kill. That was the way it was. The way it would always be.

Could Gens mesh with Simes? Suddenly Evan was curious to see what effect a mesh would have on a Gen. And for that matter, what effect it would have on him. Curiosity was always his most besetting sin. He stopped shifting the field gradient and waited.

Surprisingly, it didn't take Icy Nager very long to find the right resonance. There was a tiny instant of hesitation, and then their fields meshed with the feeling of a cog slipping into a long­awaited gear. Instantly Evan was keenly aware of the Gen's selyn production and under that the other's emotional state and beneath that his physical state of health and under that...the selyn flows. Suddenly the Gen was nothing but patterns of selyn, coruscating, flashing, vibrant. Along both arms the patterns were threaded with thin gray lines, the marks of an old nerve burn. The patterns flowed around and through them, not greatly impeded or distorted, except in one place, low on the left wrist.

Evan pulled back with a gasp, afraid of losing himself within that flaming core of life force. He flashed a look at the Gen, who was still lecturing, turning the vacuum capsule over in his hands, unaware of what had just happened between them. Shaken, Evan broke off contact completely, going hypoconscious. But the last impression he took with him was that the Gen's selyn production, rather sluggish up till then, had picked up speed.

The whole episode lasted perhaps three seconds, and Evan had recovered his balance by the time the Gen finished his little lecture and looked up at him. "It's rare to find someone who knows anything at all about the Ancients, or cares," the archeologist said.

But Icy Nager wasn't listening. He was reaching for the field notebook in which Evan kept track of his findings. The Gen slowly thumbed through it, as if, Evan thought, he could read it.

"Meticulous notes," the Gen said, looking up. "You're a credit to your profession. And I don't say that about many people."

In an effort to hide his astonishment Evan said, "Do you have many people you can discuss your work with?"

Icy Nager eyed him warily. "Not many. But I make up for it by writing papers for The Etymological Review."

"I've never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It's a scientific journal devoted to deciphering the Ancient language. I doubt if very many copies get into Sime hands," Icy Nager said dryly. "Written language is not something Simes are good at."

"Icy Nager, have you ever heard of the Beran Library?" Evan asked, to his own astonishment.

"Some."

"Are you interested in finding it?"

"Not particularly."

"What!?" Evan was indignant. "How can you say that, of all people? You love words! The Beran Library held more books than any library since before the time of Chaos. And it is around here, somewhere! How can you know that and not go looking?"

"My time is rather taken up by...other matters," the Gen said coolly.

"What could be more important than..." Evan started impetuously and stopped himself, flushing with embarrassment.

The chill ebbed out of the Gen's field, replaced by gentle amusement. "Well, staying alive is rather high on my agenda."

"Sorry," said Evan, not quite sure what he was apologizing for. "It's just that the greatest of all treasures is knowledge, and somewhere along this part of the border was one of the finest Ancient libraries in existence. If we found those books we would have access to all of the Ancients' knowledge. We could rebuild the whole world!"

"A nice dream, Sime, but not too likely. A library that size couldn't just disappear. It was probably burned or something. All I know is that I've never come across word of it." Tiredly the Gen got to his feet. "I think it is time I left here before we get into a discussion of Ancient knowledge. It could take all night."

Evan watched from where he still sat in the sunlight, as the Gen led his horse to the door. Icy Nager paused on the threshold and looked back at him over one shoulder. "You want to look for junk, Ancient treasure, or even the Beran Library, you can do it with my good will. But if you ever Kill on this side of the border, and I find out about it...I'll come hunting you."

Their eyes met. Soberly Evan said, "I give you my word, Icy Nager, I will not Kill on this side of the border."

The other nodded. "Good enough. They call Simes a lot of things, but `liar' isn't one of them." He put his shoulder to the wooden door and shoved. Sunlight flooded into the room, high-lighting, for a moment, the Gen's craggy profile.

"Icy Nager, wait!" Evan called impulsively, leaping to his feet.

The Gen turned once more, waiting politely, the stallion nudging impatiently to get out the door. The warmth and complexity were emptying out of the Gen's nager, turning him cold and remote.

Evan hurried into speech before he lost his courage. "Be careful..." and then stopped because he simply did not know what else to say.

The Gen was mildly astonished. Probably no Sime had ever said that to him before. "I'm always careful," Icy Nager replied.

The mesh between them had disappeared without a trace. The Gen under the ice shell might be worn down both physically and emotionally, but the Icy Nager of legend was standing before him again, radiating only absolute strength and will power. "Icy Nager, perhaps we'll meet again, under better circumstances," he said with careful courtesy.

Icy Nager stared at him for a moment and then, his words accompanied by the merest trace of amusement, said blandly, "Better for whom?" Then he was out the door. The terrifying field was cut off by the insulating walls of the house as the horse moved away. Evan heard the stallion's hooves drumming through the woods, and then there was silence.

The Sime was left standing in the shaft of sunlight with snakes curling unnoticed across his booted feet, feeling curiously bereft.

CHAPTER SIX

As he rode away, Rafe slipped back into that state of intense awareness that was his shield when he was in dangerous country. Alert to the littlest things out of harmony with the world, he was usually forewarned to the presence of Simes early enough to escape detection. Arrogant in their strength and their ability to sense life fields, most Simes never gave any thought to learning woodskills. As Sime­Siders said among themselves, "A deaf man could hear them coming." It was those Simes who did know their woodskills that a Sime­Sider had to watch out for.

The ability to put themselves into a state of preternatural awareness was the one characteristic all Sime­Siders shared. It was not spoken of among them, being something for which most of them had no words, but it was there, and they recognized it when they saw it in each other. Rafe did have words for it. It was part of the training of a Soul­Sharer, something every Prophetstown Gen received on coming of age.

He used that awareness now, focusing on his backtrail, sure the Sime would follow him. Others had done so, although even the worst would never attack until the truce was up. The one sure thing you could say about Simes was that they did not lie. They couldn't, given the fact they could read each other's fields. There wouldn't be any point in it. But the miles slipped by under Thorn's hooves and the Sime did not follow.

He was out of the forest and following a dim track through scrubby meadows before he allowed himself to relax a bit. He was glad the blue­eyed Sime hadn't followed him. He liked the archeologist.

Rafe's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile as he remembered the Sime crashing so precipitously through the roof. Rafe hadn't been nearly as surprised as the Sime, but then he'd been listening to the roof creak for an hour before the glass gave way.

Blue­Eyes was crazy, of course. No other Sime, or Gen for that matter, would have lain there quietly bandying words with Icy Nager while a large snake crawled under his shirt. Blue­Eyes made him laugh. He hadn't laughed in...how long? Months?

A rare feeling of kinship had existed between them for a time, born out of loneliness and a shared passion for the past. He hadn't had that with another person in a very long time. He sighed a little. Perhaps, in another place or another time, they could have been friends.

His road took him past one deserted farmstead after another. Once, all the land between the border stations and the White Water River had been thickly settled. The fertile croplands easily supported hundreds of thriving Gen communities. The Simes, twenty years before, had not been as numerous, the raiding not as frequent. But then had come the Vodorovic War, named after the Sime leader whose troops swept down on the border towns like the hot breath of hell, destroying everything in their wake.

A young lieutenant colonel, Ariel Cohen, had come with his army and achieved the impossible. If it had not been for Cohen's berserk defense of the White Water Plain, the Simes would have overrun the border and taken everything clear up to Cedar River. Cohen was General of the Western Army now, a national hero whose word was law along the border country. The Simes had been held at bay for twenty years, but people could not forget, and the fields and the towns devastated by Vodorovic remained deserted.

The sun was sinking, and for the first time Rafe really became aware of how torn his clothing was as the chill fingers of an evening breeze slipped through the rents. It was time to seek cover. There were several safe places along here that he had used before.

He and Blackthorn spent the night in what amounted to another overgrown root cellar, this one, happily, without snakes. He slept soundly and in the morning knew he was to pay for all those stress-filled weeks in Sime Territory. He woke mind-weary. He had no other name for this condition, where it seemed too much of an effort to think. Usually it waited until he was home. Outside of Three Oaks was not a good time for it to happen to him. Grinding weariness hung on him like a cloak as he saddled Blackthorn.

There came a place on his journey where the road divided. One way led north to Three Oaks, where he lived. The other led south, to home. He hesitated at the crossroads. Perhaps it was the thought of Blue­Eyes lingering in his memory that made him turn Blackthorn down the south road. The horse balked a little, knowing down which road his stable lay. Thorn was as tired as his rider and not particularly happy at this breaking of their routine.

By late morning Rafe was riding over a series of familiar rolling hills. Now gone back to prairie, they once had been covered with the wheat fields that had fed Prophetstown.

Picking up the old road, he followed it past the ruins of the mill, past the dried-up fish ponds, past J. D. Singer's farmhouse, where four generations of Singers had lived in vociferous harmony. He drew rein on the outskirts of town. Here the destruction was not as obvious as it was further in. Unwilling to view the ruined town, he turned down an overgrown track. It brought him past tumbled fences half­buried under masses of blooming raspberry bushes. The remains of an apple orchard flanked a deserted farmhouse. In a sunny, sheltered corner a lone apple tree was already in full blossom. The sweet scent filled the air and he inhaled deeply.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp twist of grief wrenched his heart, shocking him with the sudden violence of the emotion that bent him over the saddle horn. The pain was as fresh now as it had been twenty years ago when Vodorovic destroyed his world. Slowly, like a mortally wounded man, he lifted the reins and sent Blackthorn down a road that led behind the huddle of ruins which was all that was left of the once-thriving village of Prophetstown.

Little remained of the white picket fence that had surrounded the place. He dismounted beside a well­remembered maple and just stood blindly staring, pulling Blackthorn's reins through his hands.

There was movement behind him. A Sime was around. Exhausted and grieving, he simply didn't care. Let there be one. Let there be a hundred. He was supremely indifferent.

An orange catseye marble hit the stone grave marker in front of him and bounced to his feet. Blue­Eyes, here? How would Blue­Eyes know I would be here? Slowly he bent to pick it up. The attack that he was half-expecting did not come.

* * * * *

After Icy Nager left, Evan gathered up his belongings, and taking a slightly different direction from the Gen's, headed further into Gen Territory to see if the Raiders had moved away from his archeological dig site. To his chagrin he discovered they had not been in the ruined town for nearly a week. By all the signs, they had come and gone within a day or two, which was very strange. Usually when they took over a place they stayed a while.

All that time wasted, he grumbled to himself, augmenting slightly as he worked his way through the various buildings. He was a week from need, and the promise he made to Icy Nager not to hunt in Gen Territory weighed on him. He ignored the chronic low wanting that was becoming normal for him and concentrated on looking for hidden caches or safes where Gens might have hidden papers or books. There was not, in truth, much which had been overlooked by mice or by men hunting fire fuel during the last twenty years.

He was on the second floor of a stone building near the center of town, checking the heavy oak flooring for trap doors or loose floorboards under which a Gen might have hidden a cache, when he became aware of an extremely high-field, enticing Gen approaching. Mindful of his promise to Icy Nager­-and the other's promise to him­-he kept at work. But the closer the Gen came, the more enticing the field became.

Finally, he slammed his hand down on a board in sheer exasperation. He had to get a look at that Gen. Sneaking among the old buildings, he remembered what it had felt like as a child to press his nose against the glass window of a bakery, drooling over the delights so close and yet so far.

To his exasperation the Gen didn't come into the town but pulled off to one side as if to ride around. The trees interfered with his zlinning, and, in an effort to get a clearer touch of that nager, he found himself edging much closer than he had originally planned.

The Gen had reined to a halt in front of an old farmhouse. His nager was unalarmed and faintly nostalgic. Evan, peeking at him from around a tree, found himself increasingly confused. He seldom remembered what Gens looked like, but that big-shouldered frame and especially the black stallion were hard to forget. Yet...it did not zlin like Icy Nager. Elements in that nager were familiar, such as the strength, the hint of astringency...the chronic weariness.

The Gen turned his head, and Evan got a good look at the craggy profile. His eyes said it was Icy Nager. His Sime senses said...no...a different Gen altogether.

While he was mentally floundering, trying to make a decision, a bolt of pure grief hit him with all the force of a field slam and left him huddled on the ground behind the tree, gasping. Instinctively going hypoconscious to get away from the crushing emotion, he pulled himself to his knees, shaken, to peer around the smooth trunk to see what the Gen was doing. Icy Nager was hunched motionless over his saddle horn as if he'd been stabbed. Gods! How could anyone bear to carry with them that kind of emotion?!

He pulled out of sight behind the tree, putting his back to the rough trunk, shocked to the core. The Gen's grief was stirring painful things in his own mind he did not want disturbed.

After a long time the stallion moved in response to a lifted rein. Evan followed, keeping himself well hidden. He did not know why he followed, except perhaps that he had known that kind of grief, too. Any being who felt like that should not be left alone. In any event the Gen didn't lead him far. Icy Nager stopped beside a tree in the old graveyard and dismounted to stand over a stone marker.

Bracing himself against the Gen's pain, Evan let himself slip out of hypoconsciousness into duoconsciousness. Icy Nager's pain had diminished, but it overlaid a conflicting core of emotions Evan felt were too private to zlin. Even a Gen Monster should be permitted his dignity. He was about to retreat from this spying when he became aware of something odd about the Gen's field.

It had a tenuous, almost invisible aura. Perhaps if the light hadn't been just right, he would never have noticed it at all. But he did notice it. It ballooned suddenly outward, and the edge brushed against his own field with a slight tingle, no more, perhaps, than that caused by a bird flying through it.

There was a slight change in the Gen's field, and in that moment Evan knew that Icy Nager knew he was there. There was no leaving now. Approaching the Gen, he stuck his hands morosely in his pockets. There was a smooth lump under one finger, and he realized he'd rather carelessly slipped the catseye marble in his pocket instead of putting it back in the pack. He took it out, turned it over in his long fingers and finally tossed it in front of the Gen Monster to announce his presence.

A ripple of recognition spread through the ambient. But it was still a long time before the Gen turned around. When he did, the pain, the anguish, and the aching loneliness crashing in endless waves through his field were decently hidden behind barriers. Tossing the marble up and down in one hand, he stood contemplating Evan a long time, and his nager was now smooth and cool, holding only a curious gentleness mingled with regret.

The gentleness mortally confused Evan after the emotional storm the Gen had just experienced. There was no reason for it. His confusion kept him standing there when he knew he should be augmenting like crazy back to the town. The regret kept him silent, unable to think of some wry or amusing comment. And so it was that the Gen spoke first.

"So. You followed me after all."

"No!" Evan hastily denied. "I was here first."

"What are you doing here, in this place?"

Evan shrugged. "Following my profession. I'm looking through the place for old books and stuff."

"Most of it is gone," the Gen said. "I took them myself. And what is left is too mouse-eaten to be useful."

"Will you allow me to continue looking?" The words caught a little in Evan's throat. He'd never asked a Gen's permission for anything, but this was Icy Nager's place. His nager screamed possessiveness.

Icy Nager's field stilled. He had not turned cold and alien, he was simply just...not feeling anything. Finally, rather to Evan's surprise, the Gen shrugged. "Very well."

Mounting the war stallion, the Gen turned to ride away.

"Before you go?"

Icy Nager looked down at him, his face in shadow under the wide brim of his hat.

"May I be permitted an observation?"

The Gen shrugged.

"Icy Nager...you melted."

The Gen gave the Sime a cold, unyielding stare. "Not hardly," he said, and rode away without looking back. There was more than a tinge of the old ice in his field.

Behind him, Evan let out a breath. He had just said a very foolhardy thing. He had let Icy Nager know that a Sime knew his secret. The Gen ought to have killed him...or tried to, anyway. Yet, he had simply ridden off. Indifferent.

Was it the indifference of supreme self-confidence, or the result of weariness in a Gen pushed beyond his limits with no energy left to fight? A Sime could take even the best-trained Gen when he was too tired to fight. A Sime could even take Icy Nager. And what Sime was going to be stupid enough to try it?

"Not I," murmured Evan to himself. But he's tired, said a sly, invidious thought winding through his mind. Perhaps no one has ever tried to take him when he's been this tired.

"Shut up!" he growled to himself. "There are faster and easier ways of committing suicide."

Icy Nager disappeared over a rise, and the archeologist walked forward to look at the grave over which Icy Nager had been standing. Anything, any movement to get his mind off the touch of that complex, rich nager that tugged at him even now.

"Quit thinking about him. You're starting to drool," Evan scolded himself.

Squatting, he pushed the dead weeds away from the granite marker. "`John Merryweather,'" he read aloud, and noted the date of death. Looking around at the other gravestones nearby, he saw a lot more Merryweathers. At least five had died at the same time as John Merryweather. The date was exactly twenty years ago to the month.

"That was the time of the Vodorovic Victory," he muttered to himself, looking around at the fallen monuments and weed-covered graves.

There was one with a more elaborate head marker. He ran his fingers over the mossy engraving. "`Evaline Merryweather­Johnson, Soul-Sharer. Beloved of her bond­kin. She shall be missed,'" he read, and wondered at the strange phrases.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rafe expected the blue-eyed Sime to ambush him on the road and was distantly grateful when he was left in peace. The bone-crushing exhaustion that rode with him north robbed all things of urgency, including the knowledge that a Wild Sime knew his true nager. He supposed he ought to have killed the Sime. Leaving him alive was very, very dangerous. But the simple truth was that he didn't want to. He was a Sime­Sider, not a murderer, despite what people thought. Besides that, he liked the archeologist who kept his promises and had done nothing to Rafe to warrant killing him.

Having come to that decision, he put the matter aside, and sure that the Sime wasn't following him, he headed for home. It was dusk when the town of Three Oaks came into sight. Blackthorn increased his stride, as eager as Rafe to reach the comfort found inside those walls tonight.

They passed under the guard towers above the heavy main gate. Within the walls, trees grew everywhere, looming starkly against the darkening sky. In summer they made an important protective canopy over the rows of turf­covered houses dug into the soil. He glanced down the side streets as he came to them. Lights were being lit in the windows of the low­humped dwellings, giving each the appearance of some heavy­browed animal peering from a burrow.

Gate Street, like all Gate Streets, separated the army station compound from the town. One side was the station's palisaded wall. On the other, jammed tightly side by side, were shops, hotels, restaurants and saloons, all brightly lit and crowded with men and women. The wide street was still bustling with wagons and riders, and the hitching poles were crowded with tethered animals.

Blackthorn plodded past all the noise and commotion without twitching an ear, intent on gaining his familiar stall in the station's barn. Man and horse passed unnoticed until they came abreast of the station gatehouse. Sandy Macfearson, standing guard there, hailed the Sime­Sider with a glad shout. "Man, it's good to see you here in one piece! Captain Baker's been as surly as a Sime in need, ever since Denholm Station wired you hadn't come in with the rest of the escapees!"

Rafe nodded, not wanting to talk. "Baker in his office?"

"He is for sure, but you might not want to go wandering over there just yet. He's got himself some hot­under­the­collar visitors."

Rafe waited patiently, knowing Sandy couldn't keep any information to himself for long.

"They had a breakout last night at the Safe House."

This was serious indeed. "How many dead?"

"That's the problem. No bodies. Everybody disappeared. Even the guards. They're saying it was a Sime raid."

"How many missing?" Rafe asked quietly, his heart sinking.

"Upward to ten." Sandy shifted position, leaning closer to the Sime­Sider. "The town is scared. If Simes can break into a Safe House, what else could they do? All us Patrollers are taking a lot of heat for letting them in. I was on duty and I didn't see anything." Sandy's usually cheerful face was troubled.

"What did Major Winhaus do?"

"That's another thing, Rafe. Winhaus is dead these three weeks. The new commander up at the fort is somebody called Ashe. He sent out some men, but they didn't find anything. Word is this Ashe isn't too keen on catching Simes." Sandy spat in the dust to show what he thought of a Patroller afraid of Simes.

Rafe raked a hand through his dirty hair as he thanked Sandy for the news and nudged Blackthorn towards the stable. A few minutes later, blanket roll over his shoulder and shotgun in hand, he walked slowly towards the station H.Q. In the stable behind him Blackthorn was standing hip shot, his nose in a pail of hot bran mash while the stableman, with whom he was a favorite, rubbed him down.

Rafe heard raised voices inside Baker's office even before he stepped up onto the wooden porch that ran across the front of the building. Baker's voice was roaring over the others, and nobody seemed to be paying much attention to anyone else. Thus warned, Rafe carefully eased open the door and slipped inside. The small room seemed packed, but there were probably no more than seven or eight people, all standing around Baker's desk where they had the station commander cornered.

Settling down in a bentwood chair beside the filing cabinets, Rafe listened. The mayor was there, so were the town's two aldermen, a couple of prosperous merchants, and several people he took to be parents of the missing children.

Captain Baker, a middle­aged, stocky man running slightly to gut, was pounding on the desk top with the butt end of his pistol, demanding quiet. It didn't seem to be having much effect.

"Commander Winhaus would have found something!" someone was shouting. "This one found nothing!"

"He needs to be reported!"

"Failure doesn't mean­-" Baker tried to defend the Patrol, only to be outshouted.

"We can't have Simes walking in here and taking our children every time they feel like it!"

"I'm doing my best!" Baker shouted.

"It's not good enough!"

"Well, what do you suggest I do?!"

"Find them..."

"Kill them..."

"Send Sime­Sider Rafe after them. He'll find them." This last was said in a quieter tone by a composed woman in a gray sweater and slacks.

This comment had the effect of bringing the confrontation pretty much to an end, as all the civilians added their agreement that what they really wanted was Sime­Sider Rafe to go find their kids. Baker promised to get Rafe on the matter as soon as he returned. The group filed out, apparently without noticing the tall, lean, travel-worn man sitting quietly in the shadowy corner between the filing cabinets and the door.

Baker watched the last of the townsfolk leave and then sat at his desk, scrubbing at his face with the heels of his hands. "Ah, Rafe. God grant you a safe journey home."

This seemed like too good an opening to pass up. "He did. It just took a little longer than usual."

Baker's head came up with a jerk. A grin almost split his broad face as he came around the desk to wrap Rafe in a bear hug. "Gad, I'm glad to see you back, boy. Have you been sitting here all this time?"

Rafe nodded, and Baker hit him, hard, on the shoulder. "That's for letting me think you were dead longer than you had to!" Then he was pulling Rafe forward to the potbellied stove and the coffee pot that sat perennially on the back of it.

Captain Baker handed him a mug full of black liquid. Rafe reached for it gratefully. He never lit a fire while he was in Sime Territory, and after two weeks of eating and sleeping cold, a cup of hot coffee was a luxury indeed. He sipped the hot stuff, watching Baker from under his brows. "Ed, you're the only man I know who can make coffee this strong and survive drinking it."

Resettling himself in a comfortable rocker between Baker's desk and the stove, Rafe stretched his legs, sighing a little. "What happened to Commander Winhaus?"

"You heard about that already?" Baker frowned at him from under graying brows. "You weren't gone a week when he was shot by a sniper. The General sent this new man, Jeffrey Ashe, but...I don't know. He can't seem to handle what's been going on. Ours is the fourth Safe House broken into and emptied... Travelers are going missing. A whole boatload of people disappeared after they passed the Hamton locks." He stared into his cup. "If it's Simes doing this...they're a lot trickier and a lot neater than they usually are."

"If?" Rafe caught him up on the word.

"It could be Simes," Baker said grimly. "But it reeks of Genrunners."

Rafe's gray eyes went black with cold fury. Gens who would sell their own kind to the Simes were...there was no name for them that wouldn't insult some animal somewhere. "Offal of an unnamed amoeba," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's not strong enough."

"We've learned to live with Raiders," Baker said. "It's a fact of life. But if you really want to see people get crazy, let them know there are Genrunners in the area." He scrubbed tiredly at his face. "No stranger is safe."

After a long silence Baker said, "We need to find them and find them fast. And keep it quiet while we're looking." He glanced over at the Sime-Sider. "I hate to ask you to take this on when you've just come back. And frankly, you look like death­-not just warmed over, but stomped on, left out in the rain and slapped back into life. But I need you."

"I'll take a look at the Safe House in the morning," Rafe said.

Baker sighed. "I also have a message for you from Commander Ashe at Fort Smith. He wants to see you as soon as you get back. It's just about the only common sense he's shown," Baker added. "He probably wants to formally enlist you in the hunt for the Genrunners. Make him put you on the payroll at officer's pay. Don't settle for less."

Baker's voice was fading in and out. With an effort, Rafe raised heavy eyelids and tried to focus on his old friend. "I'll meet you at the Safe House first thing in the morning," he said, yawning hugely.

The next day, an hour after first light, Rafe was wandering through the Three Oaks Safe House checking the painfully neat bedrooms, the main room, the room where the house parents lived. Noticing the steel-reinforced doors, the locks and bars everywhere, he was profoundly glad he hadn't had to wait for proof of his adulthood in such a place.

Baker found him in the kitchen surveying the slight clutter left on the sideboard. "Find anything?"

"After your horde of heavy-footed minions tramped all over the place, there isn't much to find. All you can say is that there was no fighting. They went quietly..." Rafe stopped suddenly, eyeing Baker.

The captain sighed. "Whoever took them had to be dressed like Patrollers. I came to that conclusion yesterday. There would be no other way they could have convinced Sarah and Bill to open the door that late at night."

Together they made another tour of the house, but there was nothing more to be found. They were coming down the staircase from the upper floor when Baker said over his shoulder to the tall Sime­Sider coming down behind him, "Ashe sent another urgent message for you today. Somehow he seems to have found out you're back in town."

"I'll wire him to expect me in the morning," Rafe said. "It can't be so important that it can't wait another day. I need some time to rest. I'll be no good to him or anyone else until I do."

* * * * *

Evan was trotting through the Sime town of Moriathon, augmenting in his hurry to reach the Bandegog Institute. It was safe to expend the energy since what he carried would more than pay for a Prime Kill.

Shortly, out of breath and full of pride, he was laying his precious burdens reverently on the desk before Desmee, curator of the Bandegog Institute. They didn't look like much, wrapped as they were in their original oiled cloth. Although he had opened them, he had not damaged the original wax seal. He pointed out the mark to the older man with a trembling finger.

"It's the sign of the Beran Library," he said. "The intertwined B and L. You can't miss it."

Desmee waved one hand at him irritably as he carefully examined both the marks and then carefully unwrapped each book. "They are very fine," the curator breathed, happily. "We will get someone on them right away."

With a generous finder's fee in his pocket, Evan went straight from the Bandegog Institute to the Gen Market. He was very close to need, and for the first time in months he was actually looking forward to the Kill.

Among the other buyers was a group of Householders, wearing the dark brown and rust red colors of Seodre. Resentment stabbed through him. They were examining the Prime Kills, as usual. It wasn't fair. Under Law they had the same rights to the Kill as anyone else, but since they didn't use their Kills they could save up pen points until they could afford to take any Kill in the market.

He chose his own Kill, a young female Gen with short, glossy black curls. He was leading her away when his field touched that of one of the Householders, and all his rising Kill-lust turned into ashes. Icy Nager! He stopped, frozen in his tracks. A Sime Icy Nager?

"Yoicks...another one," an amused, deep voice said.

Shaken, Evan looked up into a younger version of Icy Nager's rawboned features.

"I feel like Icy Nager, the Gen Monster? Yes? The comparison is even closer when I am angry or in need. I find being known as a Gen Monster, nager­like, a dubious distinction at best." The Sime nodded to him and turned away.

Evan walked blindly in the other direction, forgetting the Gen on the end of the rope in his hand. The Householder's field and Icy Nager's were not "similar." They were almost identical. The Householder Sime had Icy Nager's "melted" nager. "Gods, he even talks like him," he muttered to himself.

He could sell that information. He could sell it to Raiders. He could sell it to the government. He could sell it to the Genfarms. He could make a great deal of money. What he could not get after selling the information would be Icy Nager.

And he very badly wanted Icy Nager. He stumbled as the shocked realization hit him. Icy Nager was the only Gen he wanted. He was fixed on the Gen Monster.

He took a deep, shaken breath as he entered one of the public Kill salons, towing his Kill behind him. It was now a totally unwanted Gen, whose presence, vital as it was to his survival, shriveled his need into dust. But if he could go through with it... If he could Kill, he could break this growing fixation on Icy Nager. He prayed to whatever god there was as he had never prayed before.

Some time later he staggered out of the Kill room, shaken and sick, to lean against the wall, his black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Behind him the Gen lay on the floor, curled around her pain and sobbing, but alive. He had taken only half of what he needed before growing nausea forced him to shen himself.

Shakily he walked through the building, ignoring the looks of the other customers and the girl behind the desk. Stepping out into the bright sun of the Gen Market, he zlinned the customers, a grossly bad-mannered act. But he didn't want to waste time searching for him. He hurt too much.

Evan was not quite sane at that time. He wanted Icy Nager; the Householder was a wrong Icy Nager, but the closest thing available. He had to buy Icy Nager, and all he had to barter for him was the Kill he had not completed.

The Householder was deep in negotiations with the Gen Dealer when Evan walked up to him. His condition was clearly apparent to everyone, and they stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at him. Blearily he looked up at the Householder who could be Icy Nager's twin. "There's a Gen in the Kill room. Paid for. Still alive. Take her."

Then he walked away from them as steadily as he could. What was keeping him on his feet was the conviction that he had made a trade, the female Gen for Icy Nager. The absolute certainty that Icy Nager was his, bought and paid for, sunk deep into his mind and was thenceforth to have a profound influence on all his future actions.

Slowly he found his way back to his room in the basement of the Bandegog Institute. He stretched out on his bed, trying to find some relief for his abused nerves. Putting his hands behind his head, he lay staring up at the stains and cracks on the ceiling and knew, with certainty, that he had at most two weeks to live. The only question in his mind was whether he was going to die by Icy Nager's hand or his own.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Several hours later, Evan was called back into Desmee's office. He came, feeling only marginally better after a restless sleep, nerves still ajangle from the shenning and the lack of selyn. He felt old, ill and bruised, inside and out. But he put on a grin, tried to keep the worst of it out of his field, and went.

The old curator was feeling grim. His field was swirling with dark currents; the ambient was uncomfortable, and his tentacles plucked unhappily at the sheets of papers lying on the blotter in front of him. "The thing is," he started without preamble and without looking up as Evan walked into the small, overcrowded office, "that while those books are definitely from the Beran Library, no one here, and no one we know of in other territories, can read them."

Evan sat down rather heavily, and without permission, into the only available chair. "`Written language is not something Simes are good at.'" He quoted Icy Nager's words in a hollow voice.

"What?"

Evan waved a limp tentacle at him.

Giving him a glare of disapproval, Desmee continued. "The books themselves are only eighty years old, but they are copies of much, much older books, stemming from the time of the Ancients, and one, at least, has to do with the beginning of the Sime/Gen mutation. The information in them could be priceless. But there is no way we can get to it!" His handling tentacles were standing out stiff with his frustration.

Evan lay in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Until now he had steadfastly refused to entertain the thought of going out­Territory to find Icy Nager. Now, suddenly, it seemed the most plausible idea in the universe. He mistrusted these sudden mood switches. They tended to get him into trouble.

"But then, how much worse can it get?" he muttered aloud.

"What?" demanded Desmee.

"Can the books be photographed?" he asked finally, when the curator was starting to tap his tentacles on the desk in annoyance.

"I suppose so. The process should not harm them."

"Then, sir, if you could have them copied, I know someone who might be able to translate them for you."

"Is this going to be costly?" frowned the curator.

"Cost is a relative term, isn't it?" Evan gave the curator a faint smile, far removed from his usual ebullient grin.

"Are you well?" Desmee leaned across the desk, zlinning him. "What have you gotten yourself into, boy?"

"Nothing that can't be cured with time," Evan said with his usual careless humor, pulling himself upright in the chair.

The curator dismissed the problem of his archeologist's health and went back to the more important business of the books. "I don't like to see the information leave Bandegog. Could you bring this person here, to us?"

"He...you might not like that, sir," said Evan, a grin welling up at the thought of Icy Nager within these walls. "I will take the photos to him."

"A Gen, is he?" Evan's boss guessed, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Evan said unwillingly.

"Hmmmm...I didn't realize Householders were becoming so erudite. Very well, but there's no reason for you to kick your heels in a Householding for months. We can send one of the students." He reached for a pen. "What's his name and Householding?"

"Ah..." said Evan, his mind having gone alarmingly blank.

The curator slowly put the pen back. "I don't think I want to know where this Gen is or how you know of him. Take the copies and bring back the results."

"Payment?" Evan asked.

The curator pulled a sheet of paper toward him, picking up the pen again. "This is your authorization from the institute to pay gold to the amount of..." He named a very generous sum. "While you are on institute business you will draw full salary. However, we do not offer hazard pay, so keep your tentacles flexible." He pushed the paper across the applewood desk to the Junker. "I do hope to see you back in my office again."

"So do I," murmured Evan as he let himself into the hall. "But I'm not optimistic about it."

* * * * *

The next morning, well after sunrise, Rafe was riding along the well-traveled road to Fort Birney on his way to meet Commander Ashe. His mount was an undistinguished bay gelding. Blackthorn had been left at home in his stall, getting some well-deserved rest. It was only five miles from Three Oaks to the fort, and, despite the urgency of Ashe's cryptic notes, he didn't see any point in arriving before breakfast.

The fort road paralleled the river, and he entertained himself by watching the boats plying the water. Barges were always the first to brave the spring river ice, taking much-needed supplies upriver or bringing cargos down. But now, with the spring thaw fully underway, the river was thick with steamboats, skips, canoes and sailboats.

There was more traffic around Fort Birney than around Three Oaks because forts were more secure than stations. Fort Birney was twice the size of Three Oaks and with three times the amount of water traffic. The old wooden walls facing the river were being replaced with stone. The new walls leaned outward and were coated with melted glass to make them unclimbable.

Opposite the new, impregnable walls, the docks were crowded with packet boats, steamships and barges. Chaos reigned as stevedores shifted supplies on and off boats, carters cried aloud their willingness to carry passengers and baggage into the town, and passengers milled around trying to find relatives. And over it all were the cries of food sellers, fruit sellers, and peddlers of all sorts. Everybody seemed to be yelling at the tops of their voices.

Rafe, wincing at the unaccustomed din, threaded the placid gelding among saddle horses, carts, carriages and wagons. Winning through into the town, he turned with relief to pass through the fort gate and into the comparative peace of the parade ground.

In the exact center of the fort, facing the main gate, was the headquarters building. As with all Patrol H.Q.'s it was built entirely aboveground, painted white with a flagpole in front of it. From the pole hung an enormous flag in the red, white and blue stripes of Minnowa Territory. General Cohen said that when Simes came looking for trouble, he didn't want them to waste any time finding it.

Not far away, a dark man in the khaki uniform of a Patroller was training a group of recruits. The Sime­Sider leaned on his saddle horn and watched his old friend, Sergeant Fern, shouting curses and encouragement at a group of ten young men as they slashed and parried at each other with the eighteen­inch boot-knife that was standard military issue.

The sergeant had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and on the dark skin the glossy white scars of an old nerve burn showed clearly. Fern pulled off his cap to wipe his face on his sleeve, and Rafe was startled to see the gray in the tightly curled black hair. When did that happen? Rafe thought with surprise.

Calling the line of young men to a halt, and after favoring them with his opinion of their chances of survival in a real fight (slim to none), Fern set them at some exercises before walking over to Rafe. He clapped a hand on the Sime­Sider's knee by way of greeting. "I heard you led those Raiders a fine chase."

"Any run where you get away from Raiders is a good run," Rafe quoted, smiling.

"What are you doing out and around so soon after getting back?"

"The new commander has his rump in a reaper about seeing me over something."

"I'm busy today, but when you get rested, come by and we'll get up a poker game." He was watching his men and suddenly yelled, "Hey! Not like that. You trying to take off your fingers?" He went back to his training, and Rafe sent the bay towards H.Q.

Wrapping the gelding's reins around the hitching rail in front of the offices, Rafe strolled across the wooden porch and in through the open door. The company clerk, Wells, sat as usual behind his desk. As Rafe walked into the room, every sense came alert.

The last time Rafe had been here, when Commander Winhaus was still alive, the office bustled with people coming in and out. The commander's door always stood open, and there had been a cheerful, informal, yet businesslike atmosphere around the place. All of that was now noticeably lacking. Corporal Wells, always energetic and fussy, was now a bundle of tension. His dark eyes, as he looked up at Rafe, were sullen.

"I'm here to see the commander," Rafe said.

Wordlessly, Wells got up and knocked on the inner office door. A low, cultured voice told him to enter. Wells opened the door and went in, closing it behind him. Moments later he reopened the door and motioned Rafe inside.

Colonel Ashe was of medium height, rather slender but well muscled. His hair was blond, thick and springing. He had one of those delicate­boned, highbred aristocratic faces of the old rich families. Above the narrow nose his eyes were a dark brown, cool and remote.

His uniform was clean, sharp and crisp and obviously tailored for him. Every button gleamed, and from his person came a faintly perfumed scent. He rose and held out a well­manicured hand. "How do you do," he said tonelessly, and motioned Rafe to take a chair.

Rafe sat down, resting the shotgun across his lap, patiently waiting for the other to start the conversation.

Ashe relaxed in his chair, frankly studying Rafe. It was a private summing up that Rafe felt was vaguely obscene. Or perhaps it was the smug, cold smile that ever so slightly curved the other's chiseled lips that felt wrong.

"I understand you had a tricky run this time. You almost didn't make it out."

Rafe slowly reached into his shirt pocket, his eyes on Ashe. Fumbling two-fingered in a heavy cardboard box, he pulled out a lemon drop. He put it in his mouth. "It wasn't so bad," he said around the sweet.

"You didn't ride that stallion of yours today. I hope nothing happened to him?"

"No. He's fine."

"That's good." Ashe shifted in his chair. "I want to buy him."

This was the cause of all those imperative notes demanding Rafe's earliest attendance? "He's not for sale."

"I'm willing to offer you five gold."

"Still not for sale."

"Eight gold, and you're a hard bargainer." Ashe sat up, putting his hand across the table as if to seal a bargain.

"You weren't listening. Thorn's not for sale."

Ashe was annoyed. "I won't go higher than ten."

"I couldn't sell him if I wanted to. He doesn't belong to me. He belongs to...the man who bred him. If I die, or the horse gets too old, he goes back to his owner."

The commander's lips tightened in anger. An unbecoming spot of bright pink appeared on each pale cheek.

"Now," Rafe continued calmly, "if that's the only reason you called me here, I'll be going­-" He made as if to rise.

"Not so quickly!" Ashe held up one hand, leaning forward, all business now, over the desk. "You are to deliver a message to Fisher Station, today." Pulling an ornately sealed letter from a drawer, he pushed it across the desk toward Rafe.

Rafe let it lie on the polished wood for a long moment before reaching for it. "Fisher Station, you say. It's rather close to the border."

"Losing your nerve?" Ashe sneered.

The Sime-Sider gave him a level look as he tucked the elaborately sealed letter into his inside coat pocket, but didn't answer. "Is that everything?"

"Yes." Ashe sat back in his chair and negligently saluted. "You may leave."

Rafe rode out by the small north gate, it being the closest to his destination. Two hundred yards down the road he looked over his shoulder and saw a dapper figure standing on the palisade watching him. "You know," Rafe said, speaking to the bay gelding, "it's a little strange that this letter can only be delivered by me. Especially since he had no idea when I might be back, or even if I'd be back. I don't like it. It smells like a setup. And a clumsy setup, at that. After all, I could have turned him down. It's not as if I'm army."

The horse flicked his ears.

"All right. I admit it, I'm getting paranoid. But so would you if there was a price on your head, Genrunners in the area and a fort commander acting decidedly weird. Now, I'm not saying that this is all connected, but on the other hand, I don't believe in coincidences." As he talked he took the letter from his coat, opened it and read it, all in plain view of anyone standing on the fort walls with binoculars.

There was nothing contained in the short paragraphs on horse procurement that could not have been just as easily wired to Fisher Station. It was not damning evidence. But, if Ashe were indeed setting him up, and if he could panic Ashe into doing something stupid, it could be turned into damning evidence.

He had reached the crossroads by this time, and, making an elaborate pantomime of folding the letter and stowing it back in his coat pocket, he suddenly kicked the bay into a gallop. They went flying down the north road­-the road to Fort Smith, headquarters of General Mad Dog Cohen. He hoped he was giving a good imitation of a man who had important business to attend to. Or a Genrunner to report.

He looked back once before reaching the woods that would cut off his view. The dapper figure was gone from the walls.

Slowing the bay to a canter once they were within the woods, he laughed to himself. "Let's see what rats this little show brings out of the woodpile." Weariness was forgotten.

Half an hour later, he knew he was being followed.

Grinning, he pushed the bay's pace a little. There was a very good place for an ambush not far ahead. He found himself whistling softly and happily. Being in danger here was entirely different from skulking around Sime Territory. Much more relaxing, if a bit more deadly. After all, his own kind wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if they thought they had to, but on the other hand, he had more practice at the game than they did. And the nice thing was that he could hide, right out in the open, and wouldn't have to worry about his field being spotted. Sheer pleasure.

However...he turned in the saddle, scanning the new-planted fields on his left. For the last few minutes he'd been aware of a familiar warning prickle crawling up his back, roughening his scalp. There was definitely a Sime out there among the hedgerows and wood lots. How deep it was into need, Rafe couldn't tell. But, he would really prefer not to have to deal with one right now.

Still, there you were. Life was full of surprises. Humming to himself, he hid the gelding behind the trees in a creek bed, while he found a comfortably hidden position against the crumbling side of a runoff gully. He checked his rifle, taking off the safety.

The Sime was very close now. Hmmm...good. If the kid attacked before the riders got here, he could take care of that problem in time for him to still handle Ashe's men. He waited. The Sime didn't move any nearer. Rafe frowned in mild annoyance. It was encouraging that the Sime was not berserk with need, but Rafe wanted no low-field Sime around if he had to shoot someone. The shock would send the Sime into Killmode. It would make things unnecessarily difficult if, while he was ambushing Ashe's men, he also had to deal with a manic Sime trying to leech onto his arm at the same time.

An orange catseye marble landed in the greening grass in front of him. From behind a nearby clump of scrubby saplings a penetrating whisper cut across the strident singing of red-winged blackbirds. "Icy Nager!"

"Not you again."

"But of course."

"You're making me regret not shooting you out of hand."

"The five following you have the feel of Gens willing to kill."

"Kill?" He hadn't bargained on them wanting him dead. What good would a dead Icy Nager do them? They couldn't sell him to the Simes dead. "You wouldn't happen to know why?"

There was a hiss of exasperation. "I'm a Sime! Not a mind reader!"

"I know what you are. Get out of here! You don't want to be around if there's go