Steve levered himself upright.

'I'm not through with your ankle!" said the medic.

'You can finish it in the elevator!" cried Steve. He limped out of the office, followed by the medic. When he reached the turnstile to the elevator lobby, Steve turned and jabbed a finger at the Provos.

'And you! Make sure they hold that f.u.c.king train!" The two sergeants leapt to ttention and saluted as one.

'Yess -SIRR!" As they doubled back to the Ramp Office, Steve carded himself through the turnstile, followed by the medic. He pa.s.sed the first major hurdle. The fact that the computer-controlled mechanism had let him through meant his card was still valid. Karlstrom must have been so certain that everybody on the train would be killed, he had not yet gotten around to arranging for his card to be cancelled.

He was in with a chance. If he could cover the next six hundred and thirty miles without running into trouble, he would be in Kansas, one of the new Territories.

The divisional base of Monroe/Wichita had just been completed, but they were still not fully up and running - and best of all, Monroe was the only base in the whole state. Wagon-trains were still busy trying to drive out the Mutes. If he could get. to Level Ten-10 and past Ramp Security, he was almost home and dry.

The medic followed him into the nearest open elevator and got to work on the ankle as Steve hit the b.u.t.ton marked 'Subway'!

When Bull Jefferson's train failed to show up at the Cloudlands railyard at 19:00 hours, the time originally scheduled, no alarm was raised. It had been a warm, sunny day - ideal for outdoor pursuits his party had probably decided to extend their outing. Even so, it was no way to run a railway. There had been no radio contact between the train and the Line Master's office since' its reported departure from the shunting yard in mid-afternoon.

At 20:00 hours, after repeated attempts to contact the train, the Line Master's office called Security Brigade HQ. They put a Skyhawk up to fly down the line. It wasn't long before the pilot discovered the wreckage of the train and whilst manoeuvering to make another low pa.s.s, spotted the breach in the security fence.

The President-General was immediately alerted to what looked like a major act of sabotage by subversives who had penetrated the enclave.

The first question he asked was how the fence could be breached without triggering the alarm system which was supposed to indicate the sector where the illegal entry was taking place.

An embarra.s.sing question. The red-faced respondent was obliged to explain that the sector alarm system was not yet operational, and the video cameras had not been installed in the robot watch-towers. Only the proximity sensors - which reacted to the movement of any solid body towards the fence and issued a recorded warning through loud hailers were up and running.

For Karlstrom, the breach in the security fence was a heaven-sent bonus - especially as Bull Jefferson had known about the uncompleted alarm systems when planning his inaugural trip down the new stretch of line.

The mystery deepened and took a new twist when Mines and Mills at Eisenhower/San Antonio sent out four Bobcats to look for a missing vehicle and received a radio message at 21:15 that it had been found, nose-down in an irrigation ditch. Coombs and Murchison, the two crewmen, were strapped in the back seats.

Both had been shot in the head. Murchison had also had his neck broken by a heavy blow to the side of his skull. His boots, camouflage fatigues and field cap were missing. The engine had stalled but the vehicle's cruise control was still set and locked on 40mph.

This information was routed through the communications room in the observation tower that had handled the earlier exchange with H-94. But there had been a change of shifts. The new crew were unaware that H-94 had returned to base and dropped off a pa.s.senger. Steve's desperate ruse might have succeeded had it not been for the chance social visit of an off-duty Comm-Tech from the earlier shift. Hearing his colleagues discussing the incident, he recalled the arrival of the camouflaged 'accident victim', and alerted Ramp Security - mainly to cover his own a.s.s.

The two Provos were also off-duty. Summoned in mid-swallow from the mess-deck, they couldn't remember the name on the ID card that had been thrust in their faces.

The shock at being confronted by a First Family ID card had frozen their brains. All they had recorded was that the photo on the card matched the face and that the owner held the rank of captain.

The Provo Commander - like everyone else on the base - knew nothing about the explosion that had occurred some twenty miles away. He wasn't over-eager to get involved in Family business, but the fact that the captain with the silver card had been wearing camouflage fatigues with M&M and San Antonio shoulder badges indicated that he'd taken them from one of the dead crewmen. Which linked him to their murder.

Whatever happened later, a Code One violation had been committed within his jurisdiction - and it was his duty to follow it up.

The first thing he had to do was establish the captain's ident.i.ty. The card-operated turnstile to the elevator lobby recorded the name and number of everyone who pa.s.sed through - and the card would have been used again before boarding the shuttle. The computer records could be accessed - but not instantly. The Provo Commander set the ball rolling.

As soon as they had the captain's name and number, the information could be fed back to the central computer.

Once alerted that the card was invalid, the computer would deny entry to all controlled sectors, elevators and long-distance transportation.

It would also alert local security as to his whereabouts - for there was no guarantee that the mysterious captain was still heading for Monroe/Wichita. He could have already changed at Fort Worth and gone west to Santa Fe, northeast to Little Rock or . . . back to Grand Central. In fact he could already be there.

The Commander was aware there was still time to alert the Provo Commander at Kennedy/Tulsa, but he was reluctant to meddle with the Family. They operated in a realm of their own and were not answerable to the ordinary law enforcement agencies. He was not prepared to jeopardise his career by acting without the proper information. When that was at his disposal, he would contact the Black Tower and ask them to relay it to the White House.

While the Commander was wrestling with his little local difficulty, the senior office-holders of the White House were trying to come to terms with the full horror of the disaster which had wiped out an entire branch of the First Family. Neither the President-General - who had taken on the task of informing the nearest relatives of the train's pa.s.sengers - or Karlstrom, knew about the dead crewmen inside the Bobcat, or about the long-distance traveller who, with each pa.s.sing minute, was getting nearer and nearer to the end of the line ....

Having made up the initial delay on the run to Fort Worth, the MagLev shuttle slid smoothly into the subway station at Tulsa at precisely 21:45. for its second fifteen minute stop before the last leg to Monroe/Wichita.

Steve had taken one whole Cloud Nine at Forth Worth to deaden the pain from his ankle and left shoulder.

Unless he could get some more, that left one half dose to carry him through the rest of his journey to Wyoming.

On the jolting drive in to Eisenhower/San Antonio, he realised he'd cracked some ribs too but there hadn't been time to bandage them. It hurt to breathe, but the pill plus the right mental att.i.tude made it bearable. The next big hurdle would be getting out of Monroe/Wichita.

The three months spent working as a Seamster had given him some knowledge of the behind-the-scenes pa.s.sageways of the Federation, but he certainly wasn't in any shape to climb up one of the thousand foot-deep ventilation shafts.

The pill had made him feel drowsy, and he slept through most of the journey from Fort Worth to Tulsa.

Now it was time to sit up and look alert. At each stop, a four-man team of Provos always walked through the train checking the cards and movements orders of anyone who caught their eye. Steve knew he was bound to attract attention. Trackers didn't normally travel in camouflage fatigues, and if they were moving between bases, they would usually have a trail-bag.

His ID had been sufficient to allay any suspicions at Fort Worth, but sooner or later, that Bobcat would be found and the hunt would begin if it hadn't begun already. Until he got to Monroe/Wichita there was nothing he could do but sit tight and brazen it out. The quarter-hour ticked by minute by interminable minute.

Steve glanced out of the window and saw a group of Provos on the platform. They were all facing inwards as if listening to a briefing, but now and then one of them would glance up and down the platform or at the waiting shuttle. The tension was unbearable.

'I don't believe this!" said a voice. 'Steve BriCkman?"

Steve looked, up at the owner of the voice, dressed in wing-man blue, who was standing in the aisle just behind his seat. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was Pete Vandenberg from Condor Squadron, Cla.s.s of '89 at the Flight Academy. A fellow-graduate who had come third in the honours list, relegating him to fourth position by two points.

Steve ignored his burning joints and levered himself up. 'Pete! What the heck are you doing here?!" 'I was going to ask you the same question!" Pete shook Steve's hand vigorously and fisted Steve's injured shoulder. Steve almost fainted. He sat down quickly, with his left side out of harm's way against the side wall of the compartment.

Vandenberg stowed his trail-bag on the overhead rack and sat down facing him. 'Jeer, man! We got word you were dead! What happened?"

'It's a long story,' said Steve.

'Well, we got an hour to Wichita. You can give me some of it."

Vandenberg gave Steve's left knee a friendly slap.

That hurt too. The blood from the skinned kneecap had stuck to his trouser leg and kept tearing away every time he moved.

'Great to see you!" Vandenberg leaned forward. 'Did you know the left side of your face was swollen?"

'Yeah. I tripped over my own feet and fell off a Bobcat."

Vandenberg put his face to the window, checked the platform then said: 'So how come the uniform?" His nose wrinkled. 'Mines and Mills?"

'That's another long story."

Vandenberg caught sight of two people pa.s.sing the window. He rapped hard with his knuckles, then leapt up and ran along to the open door.

Steve didn't look to see what was happening. Keeping perfectly still seemed to be the best remedy to all his ills.