"Really?" Hazel almost bounced on the seat with excitement, but her voice was soft. "I was trying to figure a way-I'd found out where you were, an' all, an' I told Simplicity as much as I could without getting in trouble, hoping she'd see you-"

Brun nodded. She mimed the groundcar taking them to the rocket. She didn't know if that was the plan-she still didn't know what the plan was-but surely that was the gist of it. Then she showed Hazel the notebook and wrote: LITTLE GIRLS.

"We can't take them," Hazel said.

YES.

"No-we can't-I already decided that, months ago. They're happy, they're safe, and they wouldn't make it anyway."

Brun stared at Hazel. This . . . child had decided? But Hazel's expression didn't waver. She was not just a child.

"We have to," Hazel said. "Leastways-" Brun winced at the local expression. "At least," Hazel corrected, "we have to try. You, for sure. And your babies?"

Brun shrugged, and wrote: CAN'T TAKE THEM. TOO RISKY. TOO LITTLE.

"See? Same with Brandy and Stassi. We can't do it."

The driver spoke up. "Glad one of you's got sense. All right now . . . we got us a little problem.

I'd planned to pass Brun off as a man-brought along men's clothes for her; they're under the seat there-but I don't know what to do about . . . Hazel."

Brun mimed a purchase to Hazel, and nodded to the driver. Tell him. Hazel looked scared, her mouth pinched tight. Then, in a high thin voice she said, "Brun says buy some."

"Buy some! Buy some, she says. And just how am I supposed to stop and buy some?"

But he pulled over a few streets further on, and made his way to a sidewalk vendor. Brun, peeking over the barrier, saw him choose blue pants, a brown shirt, and high-topped boots like most of the men wore, and a hat. He was back in just a few minutes, and when he started the car again, he threw the clothes over the barrier.

"You change now, both of you. Put your dresses under the seat. I'll get rid of 'em later. You'll have to cut your hair, but not here-mustn't leave hair in the car. I've got knives for both of you."

As the car sped on, over the streets and then into the countryside on a roughly paved road, Brun and Hazel struggled with the confined space in the back seat, each other, and the clothes they had to get off and put on. Brun, having more to take off, went first; Hazel helped her bind her breasts as flat as she could. Then Hazel, and Brun tore a strip off the bottom of her dress to flatten Hazel as well. Getting into the long pants while trying to stay low, out of sight of passing groundcars, meant lying across the seat-and each other. Hardest to put on were the boots-stiff leather on feet that had been bare for more than a year. It would all have been funny if they hadn't been so afraid of being caught, and they actually did giggle when they finally stuffed the hated dresses under the seat. Brun felt it had been worth it already-she had not laughed, really laughed, since her capture, and even though she could make no sound, the laughter eased her. Hazel tucked her hair up, and jammed the hat on her head; Brun pushed her hat down on top of her head.

Hazel, Brun thought, looked like a real person again. She sat leaning forward now, eyes sparkling with excitement, her face no longer obscured by hair. Her clothes fit a little loose and the sleeves of her shirt were up the wrist a little, as if she had almost grown out of them. Hazel looked at her, smiling, and then lifted Brun's hat to push her hair more firmly under it. Brun felt that her own pants were bulky and too loose-but anything was better than that clinging skirt.

Their driver glanced back. "Not likely to be seen, out here," he said. "You do look different, I'll say that. You aren't embarrassed to wear men's clothes?"

Brun shook her head.

"Well, that's good, because they're gonna be looking for two women in dresses, not two men.

Remember now, you have to walk like men-big steps-and look other men straight in the eye.

We-they-don't like shifty folk. Now I'm gonna let you off up here in about a mile-" Whatever distance that was . . . Brun still hadn't figured out feet and inches and ells. "And then you'll have to hike over them hills-" He pointed at a line of hills ahead. "Soon's you're out of sight, you got to cut your hair real short, like no woman would. So you can take your hat off without bein' spotted as women. You take your hat off to womenfolk, even though they aren't supposed to look at you-it's polite. And men'll see you."

The map he gave them, along with a canteen and a packet of food, was supposed to guide them on the next stage. Brun looked at it and grinned in relief. Someone had marked it in standard measurements, not this planet's idiot miles. Someone had also printed, in a hand she thought she

knew, Brun-we're here.

From the pulloff, a trail led up into the hills. A signpost had a string of names on it; Brun ignored them. After a few wavery strides, her legs remembered how to stretch, and she found her balance in the ridiculous boots. Hazel staggered once, grimaced, but moved up beside her.

They were out of sight of the road in less than a hundred meters, and into thick scrub. Brun made scissor movements next to her head, and Hazel nodded. They slipped off the trail and into the head- high bushes, to do some barbering.

Brun made it clear, with gestures, that they must catch the hairs they cut off. She had no idea what to do with them, but they weren't going to leave them around as obvious trail markers. As her hair came off, as the wind reached her scalp, she felt her brain cooling, felt the lessons she'd been taught in the Fleet escape and evasion course coming back to her. She twisted the cut hanks of her own hair into a roll of the appropriate size, put it in one of the spare socks, and stuffed it down the front of her pants. Hazel goggled, then choked back a laugh that was half shock. Brun shrugged, and swaggered a few steps. We're men; we need men things. Hazel had less hair for hers, but she was younger anyway. And it did make her look more like a boy.

She struggled up the trail in those ridiculous boots . . . she'd have been more comfortable barefoot but men didn't go barefoot. Stupid people, she thought. Only really stupid people would assign footgear on the basis of gender rather than use, and choose these blistering boots for walking somewhere.

Hazel would have talked, but Brun waved her to silence. Voices carried, in the open, and Hazel's soft voice wasn't very boylike. Brun didn't know if she could do a boy's voice, and didn't want to find out she couldn't.

So when they heard the men talking, she had a few seconds warning. She caught Hazel's eye, jerked her chin up, and walked on. Around the next curve in the path came a pair of men, dressed much as she and Hazel were, though one of them had a bundle on his back. Brun stared straight at the first man, then the second, and tightened her lips. They gave her a short nod, and strode by in silence.

Brun felt herself start to shake and lengthened her stride. Hazel grabbed her arm and squeezed, hard. Brun nodded. Neither looked behind as they struggled on up the hill.

They had made it over the first ridge, and halfway up the second, when Brun's breasts began to throb. She glanced at the sky. Drat. The twins would be waking now, beginning to whimper, even if no one had found them before.

"What?" asked Hazel softly. Brun put her hands to her breasts and winced. Hazel said "Swelling?"

Brun nodded. Minute by minute, they throbbed more, until she felt she could not stand it . . . but her feet hurt almost as much.

Take your pick, she thought. At least you're out here. And she took as deep a breath as she could of the fresh hill air. She would walk her feet to bloody stubs, and let her breasts explode before she would go back to that miserable nursery.

"You miss your babies?" Hazel asked.

Brun shook her head violently. Hazel looked shocked; Brun regretted her vehemence, but . . . she felt what she felt. If they had been someone else's babies, she might have felt a pang of softness for them, she had liked babies, when someone else took care of them-but not these. She set her face resolutely to the trail and struggled on.

Near sundown they came to the clearing marked on Brun's map. Here they were supposed to be met . .

. or she was; whoever it was wouldn't expect Hazel.

The man who stepped out of the shadow of the trees not only didn't expect Hazel, he didn't want her. "I didn't get paid for two," he said roughly. "What are you trying to pull, missy?" Brun glared at him. Then she took the notebook from Hazel and wrote: SHE GOES TOO.

"I wasn't paid . . ." the man began. Brun made the universal signal for money-and saw it recognized, proving once again that humans had a common origin, something she'd been willing to

doubt this past year and more. She pointed to the sky, then rubbed her fingers again. Money there, if you get us there. The man spat.

"All right. But I don't want to hear any complaints when it's crowded in the shuttle."

Brun stared around. Shuttle here? This was no shuttlefield. But the man was walking quickly along the shadowed edge of the clearing, and she followed.

"We got us a ways to go, and I guess it's lucky I brung a extra. Hope you can ride." With that, he ducked into the trees and Brun smelled . . . horses.

This was not how she'd planned to ride again. She had imagined herself on one of her father's hunters, galloping over the fields of home. Instead, Brun had to stretch her sore legs on the wide barrel of a brown horse with all the character of a sofa, because Hazel, who had never been on a horse before, had to have a saddle. The man swore he couldn't ride bareback-and if he was used to that armchair for a saddle, no wonder. At least her body had not forgotten that balance.

"By God, you can ride," the man said, as she moved up beside him. Brun smiled, thinking nonsmiling thoughts, and he looked over at Hazel. "That's it," he said. Brun glanced over; Hazel looked terrified. She was clutching the knob that stuck up from the front of the saddle as if it could anchor her, and trying to strangle the horse with her legs. Brun caught her eye, and gestured down her own body: Sit straight, head up, relax your legs. Hazel straightened.

They rode through the night, meeting no one at all on the trail. Brun shifted as one spot after another wore raw. She had wanted to wear pants again; she had wanted to ride again, but this-she thought of the old saw about being careful what you asked for. The man spoke occasionally: "That way's Lem's cabin." "Over there's the pass to Smoky's place."

When first light began to give shape to the treetops on the slopes above them, their guide slowed.

"It's only a tad more," he said. "Just down this slope." At the foot of the slope, they came out of trees and brush to find a long grassy field ending in a steep hill. Brun could not see anything resembling a shuttle. Was this a trap after all? But the man led the way along the edge of the field, and she realized it might be a grass runway. It was longer than it looked; when she glanced back along it, the far end was hidden in ground fog. The hill, as they neared it, revealed a hangar door set into it. That was promising. Set back under the trees was a log cabin with a peaked roof; beyond it was a larger log building, a barn, and in between was an enclosure of peeled poles where two more horses and a cow munched hay.

The man led them up to a gate set into the enclosure, and swung off his horse as if he'd only ridden an hour or so, not all night. Neither Brun nor Hazel could dismount alone. The man had to help them, pushing and tugging. He swore at them. Brun wished for the ability to swear back. She had not been on a horse in years, and in between she'd borne twins-what did he expect after riding all night bareback? She was sure she'd worn all the skin off her thighs and buttocks. As for Hazel, she'd never ridden before; she'd be lucky if she could walk at all in a few hours.

In the cabin, a stocky woman prepared breakfast for all of them. She never looked at them, never spoke, but set plates in front of them and kept them full. Brun raged inwardly, but they could not take all the women on this planet. I will come back, she vowed silently. Somehow . . .

After breakfast, Brun managed to stand up; she gave Hazel a hand. Outside, the man was opening the hangar door, and at last Brun could see what was waiting for them. Her grin broadened. It was a little mixed-purpose shuttle, the same kind she'd been in when Cecelia had sent her back to Rockhouse. She could fly it herself if she had to. She thought briefly of knocking the man on the head and doing just that, but she had no idea how he planned to evade Traffic Control-if this place even had Traffic Control. It did have warplanes, though, and she had no desire to meet them.