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unbelievable and your flesh will burst and your nerves will fry and your body explode in bands of pain…
    Don’t let him do it to you, Doyle. Don’t let him.
    Don’t.

    “What’s he doing?” asked Francis, bringing up the Gun. Logan watched the man. “Inside his shirt. He’s—”
    “Fuser!” shouted Francis, dropping hard into the sand, pulling Logan down with him. The tall man’s face was eager; sparks lived in his flat dark eyes. “By God, he’s going to make a fight of it after all!”
    But Francis was wrong.
    One harsh sizzle of heat and Doyle toppled backward into the rocks, hands splayed, head a charred husk on his neck.
    The Fuser fell into the sand.
    “Used it on himself,” said Logan.
    The two men walked over to him and looked down at the lifeless body. The flies were already at it. 
    “Damn,” said Francis softly.

----

ONE MORE TIME
     
    Standing by the Gunwall, at the end of the long gray corridor at DS, Logan unsnapped his holster and drew out the silver-barreled weapon. He weighed it in his hands.
    The wall was waiting.
    Every Sandman, at duty’s end, was required to return his Gun. No exceptions. In his world, Logan had broken that rule, had taken a Gun with him when he ran—but here such an act was impossible.
    In destroying the power behind Godbirth, he could well use such a potent weapon, but he knew he must accomplish his mission without it.
    Logan replaced the weapon, snugging the heavy Gun back into its velvet wallnest. The panel closed. The Gun was no longer his.
    At least he hadn’t been forced to use it on Doyle.
    Francis was waiting on the steps that night when Logan exited DS Headquarters. Both wore citizen casuals. They had checked their uniforms and equipment and had filed their reports and now were free of duty. Free. A strange word in this world, thought Logan; a perversion of meaning. No one on this Earth was free.
    Francis was in high spirits. “What about celebrating? I’ve got some Volney’s at my unit. Vintage stuff. And we can find girls in Arcade—make a night of it.”
    The Francis whom Logan had known never celebrated anything; usually it was Logan who asked his dour friend to party. The answer had always been no. Now the situation was reversed: Logan declined the offer.
    “But why? By morning we’ll have our official notification. This is a special occasion, Logan—a very  special occasion!”
    Logan smiled. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “Leg’s still bothering me some. I need to ease off, be alone.”
    “All right, friend,” said Francis. “But I leave early tomorrow on freetime. Want to get in some diving — so I won’t be seeing you for a while.”
    Logan was suddenly concerned. “Where do we meet? For Godbirth, I mean.”
    “Thought you knew. Back here at DS, in exactly ten days. We leave from here with the others. The Chosen Ones.”
    “I’ll be here.” Logan nodded.
    “In case you need to reach me,” said the tall man, “here’s my faxcode number. My unit will know where I am.”
    He handed a foilcard to Logan. “Happy freetime!” 
    “You too,” said Logan.
    “Ten days,” said Francis, and walked off, whistling, into the darkness.

    From the moment Doyle’s image had materialized on the scanscreen, Logan knew that nothing could stop him from seeing Jessica. It would be a major risk. The aliens had specifically warned him not to attempt contact with her—and, because of her brother, she was on DS lists as a “possible subversive.”
    Thus, Logan had strong reasons for avoiding her, and he experienced self-anger at the risk he was taking. Just a week and a half from Godbirth and he was acting like the worst kind of fool.
    But he couldn’t stop himself.
    He had checked Doyle’s faxfile before leaving DS and had found Jessica’s unit number—and now he was in a mazecar heading for the Beverly sector.
    He rationalized the action. If DS did discover his visit, he could classify it under duty routine. As a prime