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forced his hand from his pocket. He found he was shivering from the aftershock. “ Nada ,” he said. Then: “That is the correct term?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I wasn’t certain that jennie-deafs really existed.”
    “Just some poor mute with gland trouble. Don’t think about it.”
    ***
    Autumn was just breaking out when the troupe hit Boston. Theyarrived to find the final touches being put on the stage on Boston Commons. A mammoth concert was planned; dozens of people swarmed about making preparations.
    This must be how America was all the time before the Collapse,” Wolf said, impressed. He was ignored.
    The morning of the concert, Wolf was watching canvas being hoisted above the stage, against the chance of rain, when a gripper ran up and said, “You, pilgrim, have you seen Janis?”
    “Maggie,” he corrected automatically, “No, not recently.”
    “Thanks,” the man gasped, and ran off. Not long after, Hawk hurried by and asked, “Seen Maggie lagging about?”
    “No. Wait, Hawk, what’s going on? You’re the second person to ask me that.”
    Hawk shrugged. “Maggie’s disappeared. Nothing to scream about.”
    “I hope she’ll be back in time for the show.”
    “The local police are hunting for her. Anyway, she’s got the implants; if she can move she’ll be onstage. Never doubt it.” He hurried away.
    The final checks were being run, and the first concertgoers beginning to straggle in, when Maggie finally appeared. Uniformed men held each arm; she looked sober and angry. Cynthia took charge, dismissed thepolice, and took Maggie to the trailer that served as a dressing room.
    Wolf watched from a distance, decided he could be of no use. He ambled about the Commons aimlessly, watching the crowd grow. The people coming in found places to sit, took them, and waited. There was little talk among them, and what here was was quiet. They were dressed brightly, but not in their best. Some carried winejugs or blankets.
    They were an odd crew. They did not look each other in the eye; their mouths were grim, their faces without expression. Their speech was low, but with an undercurrent of tension. Wolf wandered among them, eavesdropping, listening to fragmentsoftheir talk.
    “Said that her child was going to…”
    “…needed that. Nobody needed that.”
    “Couldn’t have paid it away…”
    “…tasted odd, so I didn’t…”
    “Had to tear down three blocks…”
    “…blood.”
    Wolf became increasingly uneasy. There was something about their expressions, their tones of voice. He bumped into Hawk, who tried to hurry past.
    “Hawk, there is something very wrong happening.”
    Hawk’s face twisted. He gestured toward the light tower. “No time,” he said, “the show’s beginning. I’ve got to be at my station.” Wolf hesitated, then followed the man up the ladders of the light tower.
    All of the Commons was visible from the tower. The ground was thick with people, hordes of ant-specks against the brown of trampled earth. Not a child among them, and that felt wrong too. A gold-and-purple sunset smeared itself three-quarters of the way around the horizon.
    Hawk flicked lights on and off, one by one, referring to a sheet of paper he held in one hand. Sometimes he cursed and respliced wires. Wolf waited. A light breeze ruffled his hair, though there was no hint of wind below.
    “This is a sick country,” Hawk said. He slipped a headset on, played a red spot on the stage, let it wink out. “You there, Patrick? The kliegs go on in two.” He ran a check on all the locals manning lights, addressing them by name. “Average life span is something like forty-two—if you get out of the delivery room alive. The birth-rate has to be very high to keep the population from dwindling away to nothing.” He brought up all the red and blue spots. The stage was bathed in purple light. The canvas above looked black in contrast. An obscure figure strolled to the center mike.
    “Hit it, Patrick.” A bright pool of