CHAPTER EIGHT.

In the pre-Holocaust era, there used to be an old saying: 'Dream of the devil and you wake in fright." Roz's premonition about her brother was not all that far off the mark. For as she and Cadillac lay in each other's arms, Steve was preparing to fly to Ne-Issan with his bed-mate, Commander Franklynne Delano Jefferson.

In the hour before midnight, Eastern Time, just after Lady Mishiko had slipped back into the Winter Palace undetected, Steve and Fran changed out of their pale grey uniforms into the familiar red, orange, black and brown fatigues, said goodbye to Karlstrom and were driven out in an eight-wheeled Bobcat to the air-base attached to Cloudlands - the First Family's private estate.

Two AMEXICO SkyRiders fitted with underwing long-range fuel-tanks stood waiting on the hangar ap.r.o.n.

Steve and Fran were logged through Flight Operations with the minimum of ceremony. The orders and clearances required for the trip had come down the line ahead of them, and the pilots had been fully briefed. By the time they reached the ap.r.o.n, their baggage had been stowed away in the cargo hatches. All that remained was to strap themselves into the pa.s.senger seats and sit back while the monosyllabic pilots alongside them got on with their job.

Four and a half hours later, after travelling some twelve hundred miles, the two planes broke formation and landed in semi-darkness on a flat, endless stretch of beach bordering a limitless expanse of water.

The beach was about thirty miles south of the point where the Cape Fear River, which marked the southern border of Ne-Issan, cut through the sands of North Carolina; the water was the Atlantic Ocean, a vast grey blanket gently rising and falling in the pre-dawn twilight.

What pre-H sailors called an oily swell. With scarcely a breath of wind in the air, the normally thunderous breakers were reduced to token waves which reared half-heartedly then tumbled feebly onto the shelving beach.

Painted in low-visibility grey, the two SkyRiders were like insubstantial phantoms swelling and fading in the drifting banks of sea-mist. Steve and Fran climbed out of the pa.s.senger seats of their respective planes, pulled their trail bags and other luggage from the cargo holds, gave the c.o.c.kpit canopy a flat-handed 'All set/Goodbye'

thump then ran clear of the port wing tips. The SkyRiders moved off one behind the other in the same straight line, gathering speed before lifting off with flaps extended to climb steeply out over the sea.

The sound of their engines and their grey silhouettes were quickly lost in the gloom, leaving only the red wink lights above and below their fuselages to mark their position in the sky. And then they too vanished.

Touchdown to take-off had been completed in under three minutes. In half an hour, the advancing tide would wipe the tell-tale tyretracks from the beach, long before the first of the nearby Southern Mutes came to ready their beached cat-boats for another day's fishing.

Steve nudged Fran's arm and pointed out to sea. Half-concealed in the shifting banks of mist was the angular dark grey shape of an ocean-going junk. A point of light on the raised stern winked on and off. Steve turned and scanned the dunes for the recipient of that message - the person who had made radio contact with the SkyRiders before switching on the lights that marked the beginning and the direction of the landing strip.

Five diminutive figures rose into view and made their way down through the wind-hollows between the tufted tops of the dunes. As they drew closer, Steve recognised their leader. It was Skull-Face, a pint-sized undercover agent of the ruling Toh-Yota family. At their first meeting, Steve had been forced to kneel naked in front of him, tightly trussed with rope and twine like a rolled joint of buffalo meat. It had been question and answer time, and two of Skull-Face's friends had stood behind him, ready to refresh his memory with the aid of whipping-canes. It was an unpromising start to a working relationship, but his tormentor soon revealed himself to be an ally who later set up the travel arrangements which enabled Steve, Cadillac, Clearwater, Jodi Kazan and Kelso to get out of Ne-Issan.

This time it was Skull-Face's turn to bow, first to Fran and then to Steve. 'Commander Franklynne Delano Jefferson, it is a great honour for me to be the first to welcome you and Captain Brickman to Ne-Issan.

Allow me to introduce myself- Samurai-Major Iseko Fujiwara.

It will be my pleasure to guide you to rendezvous with Lord Chamberlain Ieyasu."

Apart from the sibilant p.r.o.nunciation and a tendency to swallow certain consonants like d and l, Fujiwara spoke almost perfect Basic.

Steve, who had been given the running order before take-off, replied on behalf of Fran. In Ne-Issan, it was the custom for high-ranking n.o.bles to speak through intermediaries when speaking to inferior beings. 'We thank you for receiving us and look forward to our journey together.

Where are you taking us?"

Fujiwara responded with an even lower bow. 'Sorry, Captain. That is something I am unable to reveal. The final decision on the choice of meeting place has not been taken. Please follow me."

These j.a.ps, thought Steve. They really loved concealment and intrigue.

Fujiwara's silent companions picked up the baggage and tagged on behind as he led Steve and Fran to the water's edge. A large row-boat manned by two sailors appeared out of a bank of mist. Two of the baggage handlers ran into the shallows and turned the boat's bow to seaward then ran the stern end of the keel aground amid the fitful breaking waves.

Steve helped Fran climb over the backboard, then followed her into the bow of the boat. The luggage was quickly stowed away, Fujiwara took charge of the tiller, and his four colleagues ran the boat back into the water. Scrambling aboard, they fitted oars into the wooden rowlocks and helped the sailors pull away against the incoming tide.

Fifteen minutes later, they reached the heavy timbered side of a large steam-powered junk with two tapering four-sided sails and a rear jib-sheet on the raised stern.

There was no sign of any crew on deck. A rope ladder with wooden rungs hung down over the side, but it turned out that this was only for the lower orders.

One of the baggage handlers climbed nimbly onto the deck then, shortly afterwards, a wooden boom with a pulley block and rope tackle swung into view, and a carriage box was lowered into the rowboat. With a respectful bow, Fujiwara invited Fran to seat herself in the box then closed the door and rode up with it, hanging onto one of the rope slings. A couple of minutes later, the box came back down over the side for Steve.

When it touched down on the deck and the door was opened, Steve found himself facing an open pa.s.sageway.

Portable side-screens closed off any view of the main deck. Fujiwara led him down a short flight of stairs and into a cabin where Fran stood waiting by a window in what was obviously the stern of the boat.

Fujiwara took them through the accommodation set aside for them; two mirror-image cabins separated by a wide corridor which together occupied the full width of the stern. Fran chose the port side whose windows offered a view of the distant sh.o.r.e. One of Fujiwara's men carried Steve's share of the luggage into the other cabin.

Steve followed him through the two sets of sliding doors. In the rear half of the intervening corridor was a small bath-house whose party-sized tub drained out through a stern chute when the plug was pulled.

Each cabin had a closet with a jugged supply of water and a similar pipe for evacuating what the Federation's A-Level maintenance manual referred to as 'solid waste', and in the rear half a similar pipe for evacuating what the Federation's A-Level electronic maintenance manual referred to as 'solid waste'.

The cabins were furnished in the usual spa.r.s.e Iron Master fashion, with a minimum of furniture. The raised sleeping area was covered in straw mats, the rest of the floor was bare polished wood. Sliding paper wall-screens opened to reveal shelves and storage s.p.a.ce to hang clothes. Beside the folded cotton mattresses and bed linen, their hosts had provided a number of loose kimonos in black and white. The cuffs and hems were trimmed with bright patterned material, and bore a lozenge-shaped decorative device on the back and breast.

After withdrawing to allow them to settle in, Fujiwara returned with four Vietnamese women in tow. Introducing them, the agent apologised in advance for any difficulties arising from the women's modest grasp of Basic and explained that the quartet would act as their body-slaves throughout their stay in Ne-Issan.

They would serve all meals, clean and carry water, and perform any other tasks required of them. The bells provided would summon them from their quarters nearby, a minimum of two would be on duty at any hour of the day or night, and should they fail to give satisfaction, then he, Iseko Fujiwara, should be informed without delay.

Steve thanked him, with the usual exchange of bows.

When the four Vietnamese women had shuffled backwards out of the room, with their bodies bent forward as if suffering from severe stomach cramps, Fujiwara explained the remaining ground rules. As they had noticed by the manner of their arrival, the vessel's crew - apart from the two ensigns in the rowboat - had been confined below decks to prevent them from discovering the ident.i.ty of their ill.u.s.trious pa.s.sengers.

In return, Fujiwara asked Steve and Fran to remain below deck. They could use the roofed balcony that ran across the flat, sloping stern outside their cabins but they could not- except in the case of an unforeseen emergency - come up on the main deck during the voyage.

Speaking for Fran, Steve said he understood completely.

It was disappointing not to be able to see where they were going, but it was better to arrive safely, without the knowledge of the Shogun's enemies.

Fujiwara bowed and expressed his immeasurable appreciation of such deep understanding. 'These are troubled times."

'They are indeed,' replied Steve. Ten-Four. Over and Out . . .

Listening at the window to the shouted exchanges as the junk got underway, Fran quickly established that the junk was officered by j.a.panese, and had a mainly chinese crew.

Fran did not intend to reveal her knowledge of j.a.panese in order to eavesdrop on unguarded conversations that might put them ahead in their forthcoming negotiations.

It also avoided potentially embarra.s.sing problems of protocol. The Iron Masters didn't like outlanders speaking their sacred tongue, and it wasn't necessary to do so.

As Steve had discovered on his last visit, a surprising number of j.a.ps had a good working knowledge of Basic.

Their p.r.o.nunciation and syntax might be a little rocky even comicalbut they had ways of getting their message across, especially to people who made the mistake of laughing at them.

As the sun rose, the mist banks quickly disappeared.

The wind freshened, deepening the troughs between the waves and carving the crests into serrated lines of white foam. With the sun now riding high over slow-moving heaps of c.u.mulus, the swelling grey blanket of water had been transformed into a sparkling expanse of blue and green.

The broad-beamed junk ploughed northwards at a steady twelve knots, pitching slowly fore and aft.

Within an hour, the wind became a lot fiercer. The tranquil heaps of c.u.mulus were quickly overshadowed by threatening grey storm clouds and the junk began to roll alarmingly as the mounting waves crashed against its starboard side.