now till this is all over, unless it's a warning. I wish I'd remembered the earplug lead."
"You'll ficth my thpeaker thoon?"
"There's a place up the Road that can probably do it while I'm getting a new windshield. Don't worry."
He swung the door open and dashed toward the shelter of the trees, about fifteen meters distant. When he reached them, he swung around the nearest and crouched in the shadows at its base. He remained motionless for several moments, breathing through his opened mouth.
Nothing. No shots, shouts or sounds of movement. He crawled back into the stand of trees, his fingertips brushing the way before him. Finally, he turned to his right and made his way around the rear of the hostel, still crawling. Leila's room remained dark. He could smell the burnt mattress ticking.
He advanced until he had a full view of the parking lot. No additional vehicles seemed present in the light of the quarter-moon and a scattering of stars. He remained within the wood, however, heading toward the point where his attacker had fallen.
When he reached the spot, he discovered that the covered body still lay there, its shroud weighted down with stones. He crouched beside it, pistol in hand, and regarded his truck. Five minutes passed. Ten . . .
He advanced. He circled the truck, inspecting it, then entered on the driver's side. He placed his book in a slot beneath the dashboard, then inserted his ignition key.
"Thtop! Don't turn the key!"
"Why not?"
"I am trickling a minimal charge through the thythtem. There ith rethithtanth that doethn't belong."
"A bomb?"
"Perhapth."
Cursing, Red stepped out and opened the hood. He produced his flashlight and began an inspection. After a time, he slammed the hood and climbed back in, still cursing.
"Wath it a bomb?
"Yes."
He started the engine.
"What did you do with it?"
"Chucked it back into the woods."
He put the truck into gear, backed up, turned and headed out of the lot, stopping only to top off the tank.
TWO
He had left his vehicle at a roadstop several days distant, yet worlds away. He was excessively tall and thin, with a great shock of dark hair above his high forehead, and he seemed garishly garbed for the mountains of Abyssinia. He wore purple khaki trousers and a purple shirt; even his boots and belt were of dyed purple leather; ditto his large backpack. Several amethyst rings adorned his abnormally long fingers. As he hiked along the rocky trail, apparently oblivious to the chill wind, it seemed he could almost be a young Romantic poet off on a Wanderjahr , save that the nineteenth century was eight hundred years in the future. Hollow eyes burning in his near-emaciated face, he searched for obscure landmarks and found them. He had not rested the entire day, even taking his rations as he walked. Now, though, he paused, for two distant peaks had finally come into line and the end of his journey was in sight.
Several hundred meters ahead, the trail widened, forming a large, flat bank which ran backward into a recess in the mountainside. He moved again, heading in that direction. When he reached the level area, he advanced into the recess. Walls of rock towered on either hand as he moved through the defile.
At length, passing through a wooden gate, he emerged into a small valley. Cows munched the grasses within it. There was a pool at its farther end. Nearer, a corral stood beside one of several cave mouths. Seated before that entranceway was a short, baldheaded black man. He was enormously fat, and his thick fingers caressed the turning clay on a treadle-operated potter's wheel.
He looked up, regarding the stranger who greeted him in Arabic.
" . . . And peace be with you," he replied in that language. "Come and refresh yourself."
The purple-clad stranger approached.
"Thank you."
He dropped his pack and squatted across from the potter.
"My name is John," he said.
" . . . And I am Mondamay, the potter. Excuse me. I am not being rude, but I cannot desert
"You'll ficth my thpeaker thoon?"
"There's a place up the Road that can probably do it while I'm getting a new windshield. Don't worry."
He swung the door open and dashed toward the shelter of the trees, about fifteen meters distant. When he reached them, he swung around the nearest and crouched in the shadows at its base. He remained motionless for several moments, breathing through his opened mouth.
Nothing. No shots, shouts or sounds of movement. He crawled back into the stand of trees, his fingertips brushing the way before him. Finally, he turned to his right and made his way around the rear of the hostel, still crawling. Leila's room remained dark. He could smell the burnt mattress ticking.
He advanced until he had a full view of the parking lot. No additional vehicles seemed present in the light of the quarter-moon and a scattering of stars. He remained within the wood, however, heading toward the point where his attacker had fallen.
When he reached the spot, he discovered that the covered body still lay there, its shroud weighted down with stones. He crouched beside it, pistol in hand, and regarded his truck. Five minutes passed. Ten . . .
He advanced. He circled the truck, inspecting it, then entered on the driver's side. He placed his book in a slot beneath the dashboard, then inserted his ignition key.
"Thtop! Don't turn the key!"
"Why not?"
"I am trickling a minimal charge through the thythtem. There ith rethithtanth that doethn't belong."
"A bomb?"
"Perhapth."
Cursing, Red stepped out and opened the hood. He produced his flashlight and began an inspection. After a time, he slammed the hood and climbed back in, still cursing.
"Wath it a bomb?
"Yes."
He started the engine.
"What did you do with it?"
"Chucked it back into the woods."
He put the truck into gear, backed up, turned and headed out of the lot, stopping only to top off the tank.
TWO
He had left his vehicle at a roadstop several days distant, yet worlds away. He was excessively tall and thin, with a great shock of dark hair above his high forehead, and he seemed garishly garbed for the mountains of Abyssinia. He wore purple khaki trousers and a purple shirt; even his boots and belt were of dyed purple leather; ditto his large backpack. Several amethyst rings adorned his abnormally long fingers. As he hiked along the rocky trail, apparently oblivious to the chill wind, it seemed he could almost be a young Romantic poet off on a Wanderjahr , save that the nineteenth century was eight hundred years in the future. Hollow eyes burning in his near-emaciated face, he searched for obscure landmarks and found them. He had not rested the entire day, even taking his rations as he walked. Now, though, he paused, for two distant peaks had finally come into line and the end of his journey was in sight.
Several hundred meters ahead, the trail widened, forming a large, flat bank which ran backward into a recess in the mountainside. He moved again, heading in that direction. When he reached the level area, he advanced into the recess. Walls of rock towered on either hand as he moved through the defile.
At length, passing through a wooden gate, he emerged into a small valley. Cows munched the grasses within it. There was a pool at its farther end. Nearer, a corral stood beside one of several cave mouths. Seated before that entranceway was a short, baldheaded black man. He was enormously fat, and his thick fingers caressed the turning clay on a treadle-operated potter's wheel.
He looked up, regarding the stranger who greeted him in Arabic.
" . . . And peace be with you," he replied in that language. "Come and refresh yourself."
The purple-clad stranger approached.
"Thank you."
He dropped his pack and squatted across from the potter.
"My name is John," he said.
" . . . And I am Mondamay, the potter. Excuse me. I am not being rude, but I cannot desert
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