Source: Foundation

From the front of the truck, the sound of the pistons and boiler is subdued, and only the roughness of the road rumbles and shudders occasionally into the cab. Oloron stands at the wheel, occasionally glancing over at Lan, who is slumped on the bench at the right, shadows from the vegetation regularly shifting across him.

"You OK?" Oloron asks.

Lan shrugs. "I think I've had to do too many awful things lately."

Oloron is surprised, and it shows. "You don't think... you know he deserved it. If you'd asked, I would have done it."

Lan keeps his eyes on the outside and tries to deny the memory of the sounds and smells of killing. "Nobody should have to do that."

Behind them, they can hear the muffled sound of the passengers starting to sing.

"I don't understand how they can sing," Lan mutters.

Oloron waves a hand. "Think about it. Day before yesterday, they were walking behind this truck at gunpoint."

"I suppose," Lan replies, a faint bitterness in his voice.

"You need more fun in your life. Lyra used to sing songs when she was painting. Little stuff, quiet - humming sometimes." His eyes glint with the sudden realization of loss.

"I'm sorry," Lan says, his emotions echoing that loss. Why should we have to pay with everything we love? He watches the slowly passing vegetation.

"They need us to take care of things, you know," Oloron comments.

"What?" His eyes narrow.

"The dead. Lyra. That prisoner. You made things right for them. Like I wanted to. They should have been avenged. Now they are. And your way was better than mine. You were right about that."

Lan wonders about that. How to separate the horror of the deed from the abstraction that had compelled it, and reflect one on the other in the proper proportion. It is a complex effort. For a while, the road thunders under the wheels, and then it is quieter again.

"Maybe."

They pause on the road for a check of the fuel. Oloron eyes the dipstick warily. "Low."

"How low?" Taskov asks.

"Are we going to make it?" Lan asks.

Oloron shoves the dipstick home. "I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe so."

Lan shakes his head. "We have thirty miles left. Without the truck, it's impossible. We can't take the chance. Let's have a look at the map."

Inside the cab, with the map spread across the wheel, Lan frowns and points. "There are three fuel dumps down this road. Have we got ration books for the truck?"

Taskov digs through the compartment in the right panel. "Yes! Look at this... food, oil, there's plenty here, all registered to the truck. But..."

"So we can get fuel. Three dumps, there's bound to be fences, guards, inspectors. We're going to need those uniforms, and we're going to have to make it look like a prisoner transport. We still have their weapons?"

Oloron nods. "Under the floor with the food."

"We'll need those too, then."

Chatain appears at the door beside Taskov. "Everything all right?"

"We're just making a plan," Taskov tells him. We need some fuel to make sure we get where we're going."

"How can we help?" Chatain asks, looking straight at Lan.

The fuel dump is perched on the edge of a glacial sand hill overlooking a valley. The twisted forms of impikeia blur the stark lines of the thorn fence.

The steam truck thunders down the grade, brakes grinding. Finally, just in front of the gate, the truck halts, steaming and hissing with pressure. Two patrollers step each from the cab and the rear.

A guard peers sleepily from the gate shack and finally steps out into the dawn air. "What do you want?"

Lan, newly shaven, hair golden under the dark patroller cap, face grim and haughty, snaps, "Get out here, right now. We're on a schedule and can't wait all day."

"All right, all right. No need to be so cranky," the guard complains, swinging the gate aside. "What do you need, brothers?"

"Fuel and food," Lan replies.

"Let's see your tickets." The guard is an amiable looking man, balding, with a wide face and a lazy smile that borders on the permanently sarcastic. Lan fidgets slightly as the ration coupons are examined, but beside him, Oloron is slient and large. Finally the guard looks back and forth between them. "That's a lot of food for a prisoner transport. How much longer are you on the road?"

"Two days to Delgrane, brother, and even with what we're asking for, it'll be hard. They'll have us in the ruby mines in short order if these zeks can't work when we get them to the port."

The guard's eyes are narrowed, but he shares a sly smile with them. "True enough, they don't care any who they blame where their quotas are at stake. Well, I'll do what I can. But you're an unexpected stop, here, with a troop convoy coming in a day or so. Might be some shrinkage." He winks. Lan knows what he means, and pointedly adds one more coupon to the stack. "There's always a little shrinkage, nowadays," he replies. "Mind if we use the zeks to load?"

"No, brother, can't do that. We have our own people for it. Pull down there by the oil head and shut down. We'll get the food loaded while you cool down a bit, and then pump you up."

Lan nods to Oloron, and they both climb back into the truck, which then lurches and hoots its way into the compound.

Lan worried all the time they were in the compound. Taskov seemed even more worried, and that just made it harder for Lan, who was terrified that Taskov's nervous twitching would call too much attention to them.

Fortunately, the guard went back to his shack. Lan desperately hoped he wasn't calling anyone who might realize that they shouldn't be here, or that the convoy wasn't supposed to be heading for Delgrane. Which they weren't. It was the deception within the deception, and had been Taskov's idea. Lan found that one thing to be grateful for.

The breeze shifts his hair across his temple, and he shivers briefly. The sun is starting slowly down the sky toward twilight. With luck, they could do most of their travelling at night.

He wanders over to where Oloron is suprvising the fuel load. "How are they doing?"

"Good, we're just about set. These guys aren't too bad."

"Yeah, let's hope they're not too competent, OK?"

Oloron smiles. His face looks oddly naked without his mustache, but facial hair is not allowed for patrollers.

Lan tries to constrain his desire to pace. Finally, Taskov returns from the back of the truck. "They've loaded the food," he reports. Then he lowers his voice. "They wondered why we needed that much."

"I hope you didn't tell them anything."

Taskov shakes his head. His glasses are hidden in a pocket, and he is squinting. "Nothing to tell."

Oloron climbs up into the cab and crosses to the driver's stance. There is a phut and a roar as the burners ignite. Waves of heat climb the side of the boiler as it starts to ping. Lan looks to Taskov. "Secure the prisoners," he orders, trying to sound stern for the benefit of the nearby loading crew. Then he steps to the cab and climbs up. His hands are surprisingly slick with sweat, he notices. He pulls the door shut and looks over at Oloron, who is grinning wildly. "Let's go," Lan directs. The truck pulls away toward the gate, and now Lan's heart is pounding uncontrollably. Less than a minute and they will be on the road.

They pause at the gate, and the guard finally walks lazily from his hut, up to Lan's side of the truck. Lan leans out. "How's the road to Delgrane? Any new checkpoints?"

The fellow shakes his head. "Not that I've heard, brother. You'll get a straight run as far as Zoad, I think."

"Good, maybe we'll make up some time."

"Yeah, gotta meet those quotas." He pulls the gate back and waves them through.

Lan watches in the mirror as the gate slips behind them. His heart is still pounding with a hollow thunder that should be audible over the engine. But no one has stopped them, as they start down the hill through the long shadows, and now his expression turns from a terrified frown to glee - a look he shares with Oloron, who whoops with joy, pumping his fist in the air as they turn away from the sunset and head into the valley.

"Is this the turn?" Lan mumbles, staring at the map by the light of the ceiling lamp. His legs are exhausted, and he is hungry. But with night around them, he prefers to keep going if they can. Oloron is likewise tired and irritable, and he glares down the line of the lighted road as they sit, paused in the darkness, trying to make sure of the intersection.

"If we've counted right, it is," Oloron repeats, impatient. "And we've counted right."

"It looks like a path, not a road."

"Maybe we should get out?"

Lan folds the map slowly and carefully. He looks at the light blasted window and sighs. "You're right. Let's have a look and see, at least if we can get into the forest a bit..."

The voices of the passengers are loud against the road. Lan sighs and walks around the back. "How's it going?"

"What's the plan?" Taskov asks.

"We're going to have a look at the road, and then at least pull into the forest. The map has about fifteen miles to go. That should be possible, but the road may be ruined. Might turn out better to park in there and wait until morning."

Taskov nods. "We've got some sleeping people here, but we'd all like to get somewhere."

Lan waves and walks slowly to the barely visible road entrance. Oloron is pushing at the stiff fronds. "There's a gate here. Looks pretty flimsy. Good thing they didn't throw down stone blocks."

"See if there are any tools in the kit to cut these chains. The road doesn't look too bad."

"What we can see," Oloron reminds him.

"What we can see."

The gate bangs against the truck as it pushes into the forest. Immediately the vehicle tips and recenters in a pothole. Ahead the headlamps reveal an uneven surface, pitted as if from bombardment, leading down a dark aisle in the vegetation.

Lan leans against the wall and watches Oloron in the darkness. "You must be tired. We've got to train more drivers."

"That'd be nice." The truck kneels the other way, then straightens.

Suddenly, Lan realizes that he has been sleeping, and that the truck has stopped. He shakes his head and looks around. "What?"

"Big washout. I think we'd better stop for now."

Lan nods and leans back on the bench. "Fine." He sighs, eyes narrowing again. "I'm sleeping."

When he awakens, the light is cold, grey and dim. He rubs his face in an effort to clear his mind, but his eyes are still blurry, and his skin is salt under his hand. Filthy, he thinks. He turns his hands back and forth looking at the faint sheen of sweat and dirt. He leans his head back against the wall and looks over at the driver's place, which is empty, while the events of the night before come vaguely back to his mind.

Finally, stiffly, he climbs from the cab to the ground, quietly, gravel under his feet. The morning sounds of the forest stretch into the distance around him. Not far ahead, the road ends in a jagged edge above a wide and sluggish stream, continuing on the far side.

No one is awake, and, apparently, they are all sleeping in the back.

He walks down the slope to the stream and bends over it to splash water on his face. Then he strips off his shirt and throws water across his chest, looking up occasionally at the far bank.

The day is spent bathing and exploring to try to determine how to get past the gap. Soap from the stores on the truck is a luxurious joy to Lan, as the smells of clean soap, fresh water, and the foliage above mingle on the morning.

Then, as he sits at the edge of the road, drying his hair, he inadvertently notices the shape of one of the women, bathing far down the stream, near a curve. Like a sudden spear he remembers Clu's hand on his, and his eyes tighten with the nearness of tears. He forces himself to his feet. There are things to do. No time for sitting, thinking...

But when the last of the scouts return, there is no good answer. One by one they shake their heads and walk to the back of the truck to get food from Taskov, who eyes the forest with a faint and undirected bitterness. Lan stands at the edge of the chasm and decides they must build a bridge.

So, with Taskov, and two strong men, Lan crosses the stream. Makeshift packs are light on their shoulders, but they know the ease will not last. The men, Dietrich and Remy, are laughing, and they sing a little. Lan gets them to tell him the words, and he tries to sing with them. His voice is disused and cracks slightly, to their amusement, and Lan laughs with them. Taskov walks slightly hunched, and eyes them cryptically.

Two hours later, legs and ankles aching, they stagger into the open, blinking against the intensity of the sudden sun in their eyes. A tall woven wire gate hangs broken from its hinges, its locking chain the only thing holding it upright. Foamstone blocks are scattered in the road as if to dissuade traffic. Dietrich sits on one of the blocks, shaking his head. Lan grins and his gaze travels past the gate. A wide lane in good condition runs between the domed brick of the factory buildings, their balconies and windows empty and blank. A few panes of glass have fallen from the windows, and Lan wonders what they'll find.

"Let's go," he orders. "We need to look for anything that can help us with a quick bridge. Block and tackle, beams, plates, boards, you name it. Meet back here... " he checks his battered watch, "in an hour."

Waiting by the stream, with the sun slowly declining into long shadows and fiery clouds, they hear the sound first. A rumbling of wheels on the road across. Then the scout party appears from the trees, pushing a metal railed cart loaded with boards, tools, and pulleys. They wave.

"I'd hoped we'd find some structural steel, and we did. Only problem was getting it here. So we settled for some axes, block and tackle, - we found a couple of gasoline saws with fuel, and some other stuff. If we take down three or four trees and brace them properly, maybe we can get the truck across." Lan's pants are wet to the waist from wading.

"Maybe?" Taskov asks.

"I need to draw a few diagrams and do some math. I wish we knew how much the truck weighs, but since we don't, we'll be conservative. It'll work." He wishes he were as confident as he sounds. But there are a lot of unknowns.

He walks over to the groups that stand in the fading light.

"Do any of you have any experience with bridges?"

There is a brief flurry of discussion. Two men step foward, a mismatched pair - one short and whip thin, the other tall and bulky, stretching his prison jumpsuit. The tall one has a reedy voice and announces "I'm Hernon LeReau, my partner and I both worked on bracing, and on the ore cart tracks. We learned a little bit about that. It's not so different from what we've got to do here."

Lan grins. "That's great. OK, folks, let's get the tables set up, get some paper out here, and..." he checks his watch, "... can someone organize some food. Hernon, you and - "

"Yve."

"Yve. Give me a hand doing some planning. Hey, Laurence," he calls to Oloron, remembering their false names just in time,"would you get that rope out of the back and you and Remy set up to measure the width of the stream from just to the right of the road? Yeah, just hold one end of the rope and tie a knot in the other end at the top of the bank on the other side, OK? Make sure it's tight, guys!"

They start with cutting. Of the four gas saws, only two work, and those noisily, though the application of a bit of oil drained from the steam truck seems to help.

Lan and Yve select eight trees of similar sizes and heights for the main beams of the bridge. Lan uses triangulation to verify that the height of each tree will be sufficient to bridge the wide stream. Hernon and a woman who had been a forester help the others with the cutting process so that no one is hurt as the eighty foot stems crash to the forest floor. Then, using the rope, they mark the lengths to cut, and sever the thinner tops from the stems.

In the meantime, measurements of the bank height are made, and Lan works with Hernon to sketch a design modeled on track and tunnel bracing. Then groups of volunteers haul the branch stripped stem tops to the stream and work to place them, point down, in the silty and rocky bottom of the stream. By the time several of these experiments have failed, the dark is again upon them, and they sit around their fires, excitedly sharing stories of their efforts, successes, and failures.

Lan wanders away from the light toward the stream edge. He listens to the sound of the voices and the sound of the water, and wonders at the willingness these people have shown to help. He would suggest or ask, and there would be hands at once trying to join in. What could they do with this spirit? He wonders. Then he looks over at the dimly seen far bank and the stars above. He worries that continued failure tomorrow will drive the others into despondency, and eventually drive them away. They have to succeed. He is determined.

And he does not sleep well that night, awakening early in the morning for the twentieth time since lying down.

Hernon comes to stand beside Lan as another brace is tugged from the wet hands of the volunteers. The brace swirls in the slow moving water and strikes a volunteer, who screams and is nearly swept under. But his neighbor pulls him out of the way and they struggle to the opposite shore.

"There must be a better way," Hernon remarks.

Oloron wanders over and rests a hand on Lan' shoulder. "Why don't we try putting the planks across? Then if we push the braces up under them, we won't have such trouble, won't have to be so perfect."

Lan and Hernon exchange glances. "Obviously," Hernon replies. He grins and walks away. Lan grips Oloron's arm. "Great idea."

Getting the beams across is a little more problematic than it seems. In the end, they use the saw to cut a notch collar around the far end of the each log and tie a rope to it. Then a party wades to the other side and pull it across, chanting to combine their strength. A small team at the bottom of the far bank make sure the log clears the obstacles on its way up. As the first one clears the lip and rests on the road, a cheer explodes from the group.

The second, the third and the rest go in progressively smoother. They use central notches to lash the logs together, and then tie the end notches to stakes driven into the ground with heavy metal mallets. Lan walks out to the center and eyes the water through the narrow and irregular spaces between the logs. The smell of cooking meat drifts across to him. He grins. A celebration from the special stores they had gotten at the depot is in the offing.

They toast the pullers, the cutters, the timber pimps who had helped push the logs up the slope, everyone sitting around the tables under the reddening clouds and the turquoise sky. For a moment, Lan wonders if there could be a finer day. Even the meat ration tastes excellent.

He wakens to the sound of the gas saw, cutting the next trees for the final stages of construction. His arms are sore and he is stiff. He slides down from the back of the truck. A thin balding man, Dirolio, hands him a cup of hot stam, dark, the way he likes it. He grins and offers thanks. He walks to the bridge, where he meets Taskov.

"Well, Franck, it looks great, doesn't it?"

Taskov peers at him over the wire rimmed lenses. "Remember, I'm Basceau. Yes, but it took three days."

"Maybe, but we'll be moving over tonight or tomorrow, with the truck."

"We could have sent everyone on."

Lan shakes his head, sips his stam. "No, it's better to keep together. Everyone's working together, and we've needed everyone."

"What do you care if they work together, kid? Why are we drawing this out? We're on the run. Let's face it. How much longer are we going to keep up this fantasy?"

Lan turns to him angrily. "Fantasy? Listen, it's not time to keep running, it's time to stop running. You know what we have up ahead of us? The chance we need to do something different. Did you hear Chatain, the other night, talking about how the state's ruined his life? Well, they've ruined mine, and they've ruined yours. Don't you miss standing in front of a class?"

Taskov turns away. "No." he states flatly, looking out over the stream.

"Well, I do. I miss my mathematics, my physics. I want to work again. And I can't. I want Clu back., and I can't... I miss her..." and then his voice breaks, and all of the stress and suppressed emotion surfaces, smashing the composure from his face. The tears run, his mouth escapes control, and he is suddenly nearly paralyzed, trying not to fall to his knees. Finally, he whispers, "You know, sometimes I think you should never love something so much. Because you know you'll lose it. To age, to something. But I did and they took it from me. I want to take something back. I want to build something back. Why don't you help me?"

Taskov can't say. He reaches out an arm, straight sideways, even as he stares straight ahead, and he squeezes Lan's arm. "I'm sorry , kid." He looks over. "I'll do what I can. Now drink what's left of your stam, and put yourself back together."

Lan nods, mute, and brings up his cup, shaking slightly. He tastes the tears mingling with the bittersweet flavor.

Two beams directly under the bridge edges send two posts upward on each side. V-shaped notches at the top and bottom fit them together to bear the stress. Lan works with the team to hammer them straight at the bottom. He enjoys the great swings of the mallet, the resounding thwack as it strikes home, the responsive shudder of the bridge at the beam takes on the load. And he enjoys being tired as he sits on the bank, watching Oloron and five others move the side braces into position, thrusting them into the stream bed and levering heavy rocks to block their outward movement.

The final ropes are in place, and the water has been shifting along the bridge for an hour while Oloron warms the boiler. Ramps of dirt and rocks from the stream are packed at either end of the bridge, burying the stakes bracing the ends of the beams. Every weapon, every box of supplies, every extra pound has been removed from the steam truck. Now it is time.

Lan walks out on the bridge, backing away from the truck, waving it toward him. Two of their people squat at opposite sides of the ramp, watching the wheels crawl up the ramp, looking for signs of movement. So far, none. Lan is grinning wildly, even as he notes Oloron's taut and anxious face behind the glass at the front of the truck. He waves him forward as the watchers signal the OK.

Then the front wheels are on the bridge. The beams creak slightly, but don't move.

Gradually, painfully, the truck moves further and further onto the bridge. Lan steps off onto the other side. Everyone is gathered on either side, watching, barely breathing.

The rear wheels of the trailer are on the bridge. It still holds, but it bows very slightly in the center. One of the sway beams shifts as the truck moves by. It suddenly falls away into the water with a splash, rope unravelling above it. The current wedges it against the bridge.

But the bridge is holding.

Unbelieveably, the front wheels start down the far side ramp. In the cab, Oloron feels the slope. His hands fix even more tightly on the wheel, knuckles standing white from the skin. Then the rear wheels thump. He realizes that this is the sound of the rear wheels of the engine over the ramp. He keeps moving even as a smile splits his face.

Finally the rear wheels of the trailer make the transition from bridge to road. Oloron can see Lan leaping up and down and hear the faint sound of cheering. He is jubilant. Another obstacle has been passed.

The truck rumbles to a stop in front of the gate. "Good enough!" Lan yells, waving. The truck hisses and wheezes as Oloron releases the pressure.

Lan grips his hand almost painfully. "You're going to have to teach a few of us how to do that, you know. Can't have you taking all the risks."

Oloron is grinning. "I thought, any second, that thing is going to let go under me. I was sure I could feel it shaking! When the trailer hit the back edge, I thought, sure, this is it, it's letting go. You guys built the greatest bridge!"

Everyone is gathering around, congratulating Oloron, then Lan, then each other. Finally, Lan holds up his arms. "OK, let's have a look at moving in. We'll move the stones tomorrow and get the truck in. But for now, let's find some places to wash up and sleep. I've got something in mind. Come on, folks."

At the base of the office building, Lan pauses, with the others behind him.

"The inside of this is cut into a lot of small offices. Pick one, and it's yours. If there's a dispute, come to me, to Basceau, to Oloron. There's a cafeteria downstairs. It's in pretty bad shape, but I think we can do something with it. Dirolio, can you coordinate some volunteers to get the kitchen working? We don't have to eat there, but at least we can have a central spot for food storage and prep."

"Any power?" Dirolio asks.

"Not yet. Once we're moved in, we'll start looking at that. OK?"

Murmurs of assent, and the crowd begins to flow past into the battered doors, looking around wonderingly. Lan grasps Taskov by the arm. "C'mon, good old Laurence, let's have a look."

The building is surprisingly intact, though most of the furniture and fixtures have been stripped, and water damage marks many of the walls. Lan finds a place on the upper floor with mostly intact windows and a balcony. In the center of the floor, under the streaming sun, a desk, made of metal and utilitarian in design sits, immovable. He walks around it, running his fingers across the edge, and peers up at the dome of the window band. Then his eyes travel down across the stained and littered tile floor. Tubes of paper are piled in a corner, some fallen. He picks one up. Some sort of engineering drawing. Or architectural. He sighs and allows it to roll up.

At the door, he stops to look at the empty name hanger. Then, with decision, he walks back inside to where a scrap of cardboard lies on the floor. He picks it up and puts it on the desk, then fishes around in his pockets until he finds a pen. He prints carefully on the cardboard.

As he leaves the room, he hangs it on the door hooks. It reads, "Lan Masson".

"This is definitely one of the 'New Cities' that Henri Duncan started right after the revolution. The idea was to set up a largely self-sufficient industrial commune. Manufacturing mostly."

"Didn't work out," Oloron comments, shading his eyes as they step into the sun. Taskov nods in acknowledgement. "True enough, though that's not how we taught it. It just went to show the failure of vulgar materialism, you see. Who knows what the truth is?"

"Sure enough there's not much left of it. The place is a junk heap."

Taskov shrugs. "We've seen worse up north. And even Omisteau wasn't that great, was it?"

Oloron eyes him warily. "I worked there. It was a good place."

"I suppose you'd feel that way."

Suddenly Lan is behind them, voice echoing in the emptiness of the alcove. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. There's a lot to do. Did you get some dinner? Dirolio's done a stunning job getting the kitchen in shape."

Oloron grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, go get something. I want to start seeing if we can get out looking around to find if there are any generators, fuel, whatever. We've got some water, but nothing else is powered. So what's running the water?"

Taskov looks at him quizzically. Lan tries to explain. "There have to be pumps. And something running them. Which means, hopefully, power somewhere."

The room is vast and posted with the frightening symbol of fission - a slash across a sphere - on the doorway. Lan peers through the doorway. "I can't believe they didn't decomission this."

"A lot was lost. I don't think anyone really knows what happened during the Lashback, in terms of the loss of technology and industry, anyway." Taskov peers over his shoulder. "Problem is, this thing's been sitting here for ten to fifteen years with no one. It might not even be safe to be here. That stuff could be in the water."

Lan nods. "Could be." He turns to Oloron. "Get everyone back to the trucks. Find out if anyone knows anything about fission plants. Anything."

One woman, Elise Donner, had read a book once on nuclear power plants. Though her imprisonment specialty was mine pumps, she had read about uranium mines and branched out briefly in the camp library to study those issues.

Her face is slightly broad but attractive, set off by a shock of grey hair, mostly from the top of her head. She puts on thick rimmed glasses, peers at Lan and then peeks through the door.

"We need to find a counter. A radiation detector. Problem is, even if they're here, they may not work. You need a power source for most of them. And the passive ones would be ruined by the background after all these years. But if we can get a detector working, we can check the water, the control room, and the containment. The bad news is it's definitely running."

"What do you mean?" Oloron asks in alarm.

"Didn't you guys see the lights on the panels?"

They cluster at the door, and, indeed, there are colored sparks in the dimness.

Elise looks at them. "All right, I'll go in."

Lan shakes his head. "That's not a good idea."

"We can't stand here forever. Do you want to know what we have here, or what?"

He frowns and rubs his face. "How dangerous is it?"

She laughs nervously. "Well, if it was going to burn my face off, you'd be sick by now. I'll go in, I'll come out. Look, I've had my kids, they're grown. I can deal with it. Really."

Of the eight counters in the room, five are useless because their batteries have corroded in place. But two of the three work immediately. Elise sits at the rear of the trailer, cleans them carefully, and peers at the laminated instruction card from the pouch on the device.

"I can't calibrate to a reference source. I'll have to use the background level."

Lan rubs his beard. "But if the area's contaminated?"

"It may fall off quickly. I'll calibrate back by the bridge and then we'll go toward the plant and see what we see."

Lan nods.

As they walk toward the power plant, the counter continues its monotonous, patterned clicking. But there is no notable increase.

Elise looks at Lan, questioning. "You're sure you want to do this?"

He smiles patiently. "We followed the pre-commissioning checklist. You've checked the systems, Basceau's checked the turbines and the generators. We've done the best we can. Let's hope it's enough. Push the button, throw the switch. If it's going to explode, well..."

She shakes her head. "Fission reactors don't explode. They go foosh and fill the entire complex with fallout. Then we all die horrible lingering deaths." Elise turns to her two assistants. "So we'll find out how good our crash course in nuclear engineering is, right? Standby. Control spikes to standby."

"Outer loop temperature is two hundred, " one of the asssistants calls, finally.

"OK, raising the spikes to full critical." She pushes the lever and studies the bank of gauges. "We've got criticality. I think."

"Outer loop is four hundred. Inner loop is seven hundred. Operating steam in the outer loop."

The other assistant, a heavyset man, dark face and hands against white coat, speaks up. "Power systems ready. Bleeding steam for prep, right?"

Elise looks at her list. "Uh... " she flips a page. "Right, then half open on thirty four."

"Half?"

"Half."

"OK, you've got it."

Oloron folds his arms, trying to look confident.

"Operating pressure, turbines at base RPM. Ready for clutch to the generator."

"Let's wait a bit before we load it," Oloron offers. He paces back and forth, and Elise watches his muscular walk with her mouth quirking with a slight and suppressed amusement. Finally, he looks at her. "Guess it won't blow up."

She smiles. "OK, let's open 34 to full, 14 to half, and 27 to half... Clutch in."

There is a soft hum that vibrates the floor and then the overhead lights flicker and come on. Lan feels his heart catch for a moment and then it sends a surge of exhilaration through him. He grins widely. "You guys are fantastic!"

"So far," Elise replies, frowning.

His hand touches the light panel, and the illumination dies away. Outside, thanks to a careful search before nightfall, the streets of the complex are dark, untouched by the new energy. Lan leans against the window, pushes the improvised curtain aside and looks out at the darkened street below.

It is all a miracle.

He curls up on the hard floor on his blanket. At first, it seems unnaturally quiet. He is used to sleeping in the truck and in the city - not alone in a room in the country. He pulls the second thin blanket up to his shoulders. He thinks of Clu, imagines walking along the street with her. He can almost feel the pressure of her hand.

After a while, he can hear the murmur of people in the building. Someone, restless, walks by in the hallway. In the distance outside are the gently melodic calls of the diaphanes. After a while, he slips away into dreams he cannot remember in the morning.

There is a quiet knock at the door.

Lan stirs. The knock comes again and he jerks violently awake, staring around, uncertain of what awakened him. Then the knock comes again, and by the time time sound of it has died away, he is struggling with memory to understand where he is. Finally, he hears the voice through the door. "Sir?" it asks.

He picks up his weapon and pads to the doorframe. "Who is it?"

"Reynaud, sir."

One of the cooks, he thinks. He shoves the weapon into the back waistband of his pants and slides the door open on the young man. "What is it?"

"Messier Oloron asked me to bring you down to the main entrance. He said to tell you there was something you should see."

Lan rubs his face, faintly irritated and worried all at onc. "All right. Hang on."

He returns to the crumpled blankets and pulls out his battered shoes. His feet are tender as he pulls them over the reddened and blistered skin. Finally, he follows Reynaud down the stairs. Early light spills into the entryway below, and he hears the sound of many voices as he emerges among them in the main entrance hall. A rumble of sound passes in a wave away from him as the ones closest see him, turn, and nudge the ones beside and beyond them. Then there is silence, and they are watching him, faces modified with odd smiles.

Oloron pushes through the group to where Lan waits. "Look what we found," he exclaims, holding out a thick, well-bound book. Almost involuntarily, Lan takes it. The cover reads "Handbook of Structural Engineering".

"Well," he says finally. "That's great. Did I really have to get up early for this?" A chuckle seems to whisper across the group. Lan eyes them narrowly. "And why is everyone down here?"

"Open it up," Oloron urges. "The paper marks the spot."

Lan frowns and pulls the book open at the indicated spot. The dawn light textures the paper and the drawing, and the arrows of emphasis that point to the drawing. "It's a bridge. So?"

Oloron looks disappointed. "Look closer."

"Hey, that's almost our bridge?" He looks up sharply. "I don't get it. I mean, it's nice, useful, but what's so important?"

"Look at the front of the book, sir," Dirolio insists, pushing up next to Oloron. "The inside cover, please."

The inside cover is patterned with a large number of signatures. They are under a dedication. "To the engineer of our freedom." Then he recognizes names - Oloron (in his actual name, the idiot), Dirolio, Elise, others. "This is for me?" he asks, incredulous.

"That's right," Oloron replies, smiling.

It only takes a moment to hit him, and then it as if he has been struck in the face, and the muscles refuse to obey him, instead insisting on contorting in a most embarrassing fashion that he barely stops short of tears. "Thank you," he says, but his voice almost fails to get it out, so he repeats it, louder. "Thank you!"

The forty or so men and women in the room cheer and clap.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!"

He looks at the book in his hands and at the people ranged before him. Eventually, the words begin to surface. "I know what this book means. Everyone of you who signed this has put his life beside mine in deciding to change the world. I say it, and it would have sounded impossible to me a week ago. But the things we've done so far have shown me what happens when our desire for nothing more than the freedom to live our lives our way is tapped.

"We've taken ourselves back from the patrollers. We have a home. We have the beginnings of pride in what we've accomplished, no matter how much more there is for us to do."

He holds the book over his head.

"This is all that's left of a world that once had data systems, robotics, and a free flow of information. This book is new, but that it has to be a book is sad, because twenty years ago, there were no books, and now that's all we have left."

He lowers the book.

"Still, if there's a book we need right now - that I need right now, then this is it."

The room erupts again with applause, and he is nervous but excited.

"Come on, now, let's go have some breakfast, and then let's get started on the day."

They crowd around him, and he is momentarily afraid, and then the pack is broken, and the people are streaming away, to the kitchen and to their jobs.

Behind them, Lan stands, exhausted, while Oloron smiles, and, in the shadow of the stairwell, Taskov looks on.

After a day of exploring, working with the map team, and watching Elise trying to train operators, Lan sits at his desk with the topaz light of the sunset streaming in over his shoulder, bulking his shadow across the book and the papers. On the window ledge, various diurnal 'phanes strut slowly, wings elevated, chattering quietly, their dim shadows walking back and forth across the desk. He is lost for a moment in abstraction, struggling happily with a new mathematics, mouth turned down in focus.

The door opens, and Taskov is silhoetted against the cold light of the hallway. Lan looks up, concentration disrupted, irritation rising from its ashes, then sinking away. "Hi, Franck."

"Oscar," Taskov reminds him. He wanders past to the window. The 'phanes flap slowly and rise in a brief flock. "Busy day?" he asks. Lan shrugs. "I suppose." He leans back. "I'm getting tired of trying to remember these damn names." The chair is old, a little musty, but comfortable.

"And how much longer are we going to keep playing this?" Still Taskov looks out the window, even speaking.

"There's no playing here," Lan replies.

"You can't believe this is going to last. That these people are going to start something. Sure, they'll follow you now, but what if things get bad? What about when the Patrol finds out about this place? They will, you know. Then there'll be fighting, blood, and dying. Then what?"

Lan sighs and rubs his cheek, briefly. "By then, I'm hoping we'll be ready to defend ourselves."

Taskov turns to him as the last of the sunlight dies away, leaving only the faint light of a lamp beside the desk. "With what?"

Lan smiles. "We're going to make weapons again."

Taskov leans forward, hands on the surface of the desk. "Why? We can't win. A little prisoner convoy is one thing. A prepared military force, which is what we are going to see, will be something else. They'll walk in here and leave this place, what will be left of it, littered with corpses. Yours, mine, theirs. If we run..."

Lan stands, angry. "If we run, we keep running. We'll always be running. I'm tired of it, Franck. So damned tired." His expression collapses, and he leans forward onto his arms. "I'm tired of waking up and not having Clu. I'm tired of not having my mathematics. I'm tired of listening to Oloron crying for Lyra in his sleep. I'm tired of seeing people like these in prison. I'm just... tired. But I'm not too tired to fight. Why don't you try it? At least you'll know you've tried." Then his voice turns vicious. "At least you won't be whining any more."

Taskov looks at him in astonishment, remembering a naive young man on a transport wing to prison. Something that was certain is torn away from him, and he is afraid in the brief moment before he smashes that knowledge into silence.

There is silence and hot eyes between them. Then Taskov withdraws slightly and stands. "OK, I guess I deserved that. I'm sorry."

Lan is crestfallen. He sighs and his arms seem to weaken. "Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn't mean your points don't make sense. But I'm thinking about them. I don't think about anything else. There isn't that much time left. But let us have a few days, here. A few days to rest. We need all the strength we can get."

Taskov nods, though there is a core of fear beneath his agreement.

Lan wanders the streets of his city. The breeze has picked up and there are clouds moving past the stars above. He wonders - worries - as he looks up, whether some glass lens is trained on him, whether some surveillance officer will notice him, or the heat signature of the reactor. Then the dismisses the thought. Why would they be afraid? Why watch? There is no resistance to speak of. Nothing for them to worry about.

He threads the streets and watches the buildings around him, but the windows are all dark. He knocks lightly on the power plant door, opens it and enters. In the control room, Elise looks up over her glasses and a thick manual. She waves.

"I gather things are running all right?" he asks. She smiles. "Yes, but really, you're not using even close to what I can produce. I'm barely critical."

"We found some machine tools today, so we'll have some more demand in a little while." He looks out at the containment vessel. "How are you doing finding talent? You can't run this place day and night."

"I have a couple of promising ones. You want the details?"

"Tomorrow," he replies, looking back.

Lan paints with wide strokes of white over the water stained wall. As he paints, he lets thoughts and plans flow spontaneously with the motion. The room is filled with the indirect glow of the morning. He dips the brush into the bucket.

There is a knock from the doorframe, and he turns to see Oloron. "Morning," Oloron rumbles.

Lan lowers the brush and nods, rubbing his hands with a cloth.

"Everyone's busy with that," Oloron comments, nodding to the paint. "The place is looking a bit better. The colors, well... at least some of them are bright. Lightens things up, that's for sure."

"It's just the beginning. Are the others coming?"

"Any time, now."

The steam truck trundles across the bridge as the reinforcement team looks on from their piles of wood, rope and steel, waving. Oloron, at the wheel, waves back. He grins at Lan.

For hours they roll down the road - first, the choked and ruined road from their new home, then the somewhat better paved road to the depot. But when the gate is in sight, Lan's eyes narrow. "Something's wrong."

The gate is open, and there is no guard. "Stop here," Lan orders. He hesitates for a moment, then pushes the door open and dismounts to the tarmac. Cloud shadows hurry over them, but even in the changing light it is clear that the depot is deserted.

And empty.

Lan walks into the compound and looks at the sheds. None of the racks of supplies are present, though there are some empty, broken crates. Behind him, Oloron steps down and slams his door shut. "This is not good."

Lan shakes his head. "No. Let's search the buildings, but my guess is nothing much is left."

Their search yields a pair of medical kits, a crate of bolts, and three partly empty canisters of fuel oil. They carry and drag their meagre booty back to the steam truck. A search of the offices produces two tricycles in a storage room, folded and covered with dust.

"What now?" Oloron asks.

Lan shakes out the map and spreads it on the truck bed, out of the wind. Finally, he looks up. "Well, there's always the mine. They must have closed the depot because the mine is closed. But the mine might be better, anyway, if they left behind any explosives, any useful chemicals. We've got to get coal, sulfur, potassium nitrate, all the things we need for propellants, and anything we can use for fabrication. With any luck, we'll find something at the mine."

"The oil tanks are about half full. Apparently they thought the coal was waste, because they dumped it into the tailings. It's fairly old, but we can get it out with some digging. But we still have no sulfur and no potassium nitrate. "

Hernon raises a hand. "Yve and I found where the river barstes have been lairing. Like you said, there's probably a decade of excrement on the floor."

Oloron grins, "Well, there's our nitrate."

"Still no sulfur, though," Lan muses. "Without that, no propellant. I'll have to do some more reading. At least we got some chemistry books from the mine. And we have the explosives."

Taskov leans over the table. "So, what is that all about?"

Lan looks directly into his eyes. "Blowing up the bridge."

"What!?"

"You told me to think ahead. I have. We need the bridge, but so does anyone who tries to attack from the ground. I want to be prepared to make that hard for them."

The others are looking at him with strange, worried expressions. He sighs. "This isn't a worry for tomorrow, but sooner or later we will either be discovered, or it will be time to come out into the open. By then, we need defenses, and a means of escape if things go against us. We'd be foolish to be unprepared. So we'll set up charges on the bridge and find some defensive uses for the rest of the explosives."

He stands and paces restlessly. "The next step is to get to work on the nitrate. We have to build a plant to refine it from the droppings. We also need to get enough of that coal here to be able to start smelting and casting. It's not going to be easy. Sure, we have power, some tools, some materials. But we're still primitives. It's going to be slow. If we do it, though, eventually, we'll be able to protect ourselves."

"And after that?" Taskov asks, partly mocking, partly worried, partly surprised by his young friend.

Oloron claps him on the shoulder and nearly staggers him. "'After that' will have to take care of itself when we get there, my friend."

Dirolio and Taskov stand beside the tricycles. After two days of rain, the pavement is still soaked, but the clouds are clearing off in rags that show slight fragments of blue sky in the tears between them. The containiners of oil and other goods for barter are racked behind the seats in rickety but servicably improvised wire trailers.

"Here's the cover." Lan tells them. "You're from a collective in Palmier and you're over quota, so you want to stock some food for the winter. If you can make one deal and get out, so much the better. Remember you have to come in and leave on the Chevalier Road to keep the cover."

Taskov frowns and waves the hand drawn map.

Lan makes a deprecating gesture. "Dirolio knows Palmier. Do the job."

Evcry step takes time. Tools must be used to make tools to make weapons. Chemistry, mechanics, engineering. Maintenance. Forged ration notes to obtain food, fuel, and medical care in distant crowded cities.

And at the end of the day, Lan Masson is sitting in an office high above a hidden industrial city, staring at plans and piles of handwritten notes in a pool of light created by his nuclear reactor. He leans back and chuckles for a moment.

In the hallway, he hears a female voice, and for a moment, it is Clu's voice - he flies to his feet and to the door, and stares down the hallway at two women walking toward the stairs

The energy and the pride washes out of him in a sudden heat and terror. He turns and slams the door behind.

We've done nothing, he thinks. We're living but we're not striking back. We have to find a way to start striking back.

Metara is a small city nestled in a valley. Taskov and Dirolio arrive at the ridgeline just after the onset of darkness, with crisp stars above and a hint of chill in the air. On the far side of the city, the flickering of a large fire can be seen against the buildings.

"Not promising," Dirolio mutters, rubbing a finger against his mustache.

Taskov shrugs. "It's all the same. We've still got our work. Let's hope whatever chaos is going on down there works in our favor."

"But if the patrols are organized..."

"The papers will be good enough. Just walk through it like you belong there. Stick to our story. Don't embellish. You'll just forget, and it could trip us up. All right?" His eyes are faintly lit by the distant fire, as he wipes his glasses with a rag before regretfully perching them back on the bridge of his nose.

"All right."

"We'll stay here 'til dawn." He bends over the back of the tricycle and produces a sleeping roll.

The door slams shut behind him with the vague tinkle of a bell. Taskov pauses, peers over the wire rim of his glasses. From the dimness at the back of the store, a portly woman in a bright colored shift emerges, smiling. "I'm sorry, my friend, but we're out of stock." She laughs. "If I had anything, I could be doing inventory."

"Well, ma'am, I might be able to help with that."

She shakes her head slowly, picking up a rag and wiping the counter. "Not unless you've got pull with the Distribution Bureau."

"How about pull with a factory that has some surplus? We're looking to do a little barter. Might be able to help you out with some supplies we don't need if you can help us arrange some other trades in town."

She pauses her wiping and eyes him sharply. Then her even strokes start again. "What sort of barter do you have in mind?"

"Machine parts, electrical gear, masonry, bathroom fixtures, that sort of thing."

She folds the cloth carefully. "I might know some people," she allows.

The day slides toward evening, and Taskov separates from Dirolio with the intent of searching for a public restroom. In the hallway, walking back to the street, footfalls echoing on the tiled walls, he sees for the second time the black painted metal of an audio terminal, and he hesitates. He glances around, but the streets are near empty as sunset sheds umber light down the space between the buildings. He reaches toward it, his hand slows, retreats, then, finally, seizes the handset. With decision, he grasps the knurled handle to the slider and slips it back and forth in a familiar combination. He waits, listening, knowing that the terminal at the other end is emitting a soft and dismal hoot for each pulse on the line. He disconnects, and waits again. The breeze is cool, and from behind him, a woman swathed in linen clicks past and out to catch the light in a brief moment of glory - then she turns and is gone. He reslides the combination, and this time is answered on the first pulse.

They talk for some time, and though cryptic, it escalates to near argument. He slams down the handset and glares at it, rubbing his face insistently.