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strapped to his waist. He certainly seemed no part of an army. Mike’s curiosity gave way to uneasiness.
    Something about him—something about him...What was it? Yes...Yes, he was standing in the guard shack at the airdrome. The sentry said something, something about a man who was looking for him. A little man with horn-rimmed glasses. The sentry had given a name but Mike couldn’t remember it.
    The little man boarded the train.
    Mike tried to reason with himself. He was still jumpy, that’s all. No—no—he wasn’t jumpy. Stergiou’s office—the voice that spoke to him from the shadows... The man with the walrus mustache, Howe-Wilken, his voice had whispered, “They have friends, everywhere.... They’ll get you, Morrison.”
    The train jerked into motion.
    The door opened. Mike looked up with a start. It was the medic.
    “Major Howe-Wilken.”
    “Yes.”
    “Colonel Potter will see you, sir. The Colonel is in the fourth car forward, third compartment.”
    Mike stumbled into the aisle as the train lurched around a bend. He hung onto the hand rail and moved down the car past the compartments of wounded soldiers. One thought: get off the train—get off it!
    He reached the end of the car and pulled at the door. It was stuck tight. He tugged hard again and it opened. A blast of air greeted him as he stepped onto the platform. He gripped the rail and braced himself to jump. The ground tore past him with terrifying speed. No, it would be suicide.
    Mike looked about. Maybe—maybe, with luck, he could reach Colonel Potter.
    He stepped forward to the next platform and peered through the door window. The car had no compartments. It was jammed with soldiers. Good luck.
    Mike opened the door and looked about cautiously. He scanned every face in the car as he moved ahead slowly, stepping over the packs and rifles that blocked the aisle.
    End of the car.
    He crossed the platform to the next car. Palestinians. Down the aisle he worked, then crossed to the next car.
    Colonel Potter was in the next car up. Mike was coming closer and closer to his deliverance.
    He stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the door, blocking it, stood a man. The man’s icy blue eyes were on Mike. He was tall and blond and wore a New Zealand uniform. The man in the bar who called himself Jack Mosley.
    Mike felt for the pistol. It was gone!
    The two glared at one another. Mosley dropped his cigarette, stepped on it and moved toward Mike.
    Morrison spun about and shot through the car, onto the platform and through the carload of Palestinians.
    Through the next car—and the next.
    When he reached the jammed door of his own car he forced his shoulder against it until it finally burst open.
    He halted his flight midway up the aisle. The door to his compartment was open. In the reflection of the glass he could see the little man with horn-rimmed glasses.
    “You say he was here!”
    “Yes, sir,” Mike heard the medic answer.
    “Where did he go?”
    “Forward, sir, to Colonel Potter—three cars down.”
    “I’ve got to reach him first.”
    Mike ducked into a compartment where two wounded soldiers lay. The little man in the horn-rimmed glasses rushed past.
    Mike jumped out into the aisle and began to race back. “They’ll get you, Morrison. They’ll get you.... They’ll get you...”
    He reached the rear platform—the end of the train. A blur of olive trees, and the ribbons of steel shooting out under the wheels and disappearing on the horizon.
    Mike looked through the glass. The tall New Zealander was entering the opposite end of the car. There was a pistol in his hand. He walked slowly, looking into each compartment. He raised his eyes toward the rear platform, raised the pistol and made for it.

EIGHT
    C LICKETY CLACK—CLICKETY CLACK —clickety clack...
    Michael Morrison balanced himself on the edge of the step. The ground tore past him.
    Clickety clack—clickety clack—clickety clack...
    He eased back to the platform and crouched