The Mutes believed the Talisman Prophecy was a forecast of things to come but perhaps, as Steve had first thought, it was an empty pipe-dream; a yearning for a long-lost sense of purpose.

While the Trackers had carved out their subterranean empire, the Plainfolk and the southern Mutes had run free across the overground for close on 1,000 years. They had enjoyed the freedom that the hardier renegades found so seductive - but what had they done with it?

Nothing. And yet, and yet...

Despite the fact that the Plainfolk had not managed to build anything to compare with the magnificence of the John Wayne Plaza, owned few material possessions, and were still fighting hand to hand with 'sharp iron', they were in tune with the external world and in touch with the primal forces that had led to its creation. They could not write or read, but their eyesight was flawless and their minds were open to visions of other worlds. They made music on primitive wind, string and percussion instruments, and they sang songs which they made up for themselves.

In the Federation, this area of creativity was the exclusive preserve of the First Family - except, of course, for the illegal trade in blackjack. But the Family might even be producing this, controlling the market for its own devious purposes.

In Ne-Issan, they also made music on hand-operated instruments and since electronic communications remained to be discovered, a huge army of scribes penned the data transmitted through the postal system, recorded transactions and chronicled events for posterity.

But there was also another cla.s.s of scribe who freely composed strings of 'ideOgrams' - the name for the incomprehensible signs used by the Iron Masters to make a permanent record of the spoken word - and, apparently, these people did not record data, they invented it, drawing details from life to create imaginary situations in which imaginary people interacted. They were like recorded dreams, and when they were written down they were called 'poems' and 'stories', and they were given to other people to read.

Steve had seen these various scribes at work, seated in some of the small open-fronted buildings that lined the main streets of the villages and townships he had pa.s.sed through on his way from All-dina to Ari-bana. Other 'shops' had housed a staggering variety of traders and craftspeople: candle-makers and lantern-makers, basket and mat weavers, dyers, carpenters, furniture-makers, saddle-makers, wheelwrights, potters, fine metalworkers, blacksmiths, merchants selling cotton cloth and silk brocades and purveyors of sake and all kinds of food.

The list was endless.

And he had also glimpsed Iron Masters creating coloured images with brushes on folding screens made of paper and silk, and on wooden panels. The images depicted scenes from the natural world, animals prowling through forest gra.s.ses, birds perched in trees, hors.e.m.e.n in pursuit of mountain cats, serene landscapes with waterfalls and views of distant, snowcapped mountains; images filled with life that surpa.s.sed anything created by COLUMBUS. And there were others carving strange beasts and squat figures with fierce expressions out of blocks of wood and stone.

Steve could not understand why anyone would choose to produce objects which appeared to serve no useful purpose, but something within him responded to the skill and dedication they brought to their work. The forms they produced were pleasing to the eye, but what impressed him most was the fact that the ruling powers in Ne-Issan allowed their subjects to create words, images and objects and pa.s.s them on to others.

In the Federation, such a thing would not be allowed indeed, it was not possible. Trackers were involved in construction and production processes, but everything was created and designed by the First Family - including life itself.

'Art' and 'literature' were two more word-concepts that could not be found in the Federation dictionary.

The only pictures Trackers had to look at were those that could be accessed through the Public Archive Channel plus the obligatory wall-mounted holograms of the Founding Father and the current President-General. No one played instruments; the music, produced electronically, came through the loudspeakers. Trackers did not 'write', they typed on keyboards. Besides, even if the idea had occurred to them, there was nothing to write on - or with. Paper did not exist. The nearest thing to it was the plasfilm used to produce the maps issued to the commanders of wagon-trains.

Apart from the spoken word, the only method of communication was through the network of video screens controlled by COLUMBUS. The Jeffersons did not produce fiction. They only dealt in facts, and every object created by them and produced under their supervision was designed to perform a specific function.

In the past year, Steve's overground experiences had caused him to doubt the truthfulness of much of the information fed to ordinary Trackers by the First Family.

But he did not question their right to secrecy. The need to conceal information seemed to be an ingrained part of human nature. His personal crusade to discover the truth was not inspired by a desire to blow the lid off for the good of people in general: he just wanted to be one of the select band of people who knew what was really going on.

At least, the darker side of him did. But there was another side of his nature that responded to the overground and filled him with rebellious thoughts. This other Brickman had begun to view the benevolent guiding hand of the First Family as an iron fist clamped around the collective throat of Trackerdom, stifling all independent thoughts and feelings. And it was this half of his psyche that wanted to break their grip, to blow their underground world apart and start all over again from the beginning.

Returning to the cabin, Steve folded up the straw mattress and quilt and placed them in a neat pile against the wall. When the other occupants had done the same, four low tables were pulled into the centre of the room, and the cabin staff proceeded to serve breakfast.

It was the established custom for the roadrunners to eat all meals wearing only loose cotton vests and their loincloths in order to keep their uniforms as clean as possible. As part of the deal between the innkeeper and the postmaster, the Mute cabin staff held a small stock of uniforms as well as providing a laundry service, so that incoming roadrunners could exchange travel-stained garments for clean ones before setting out again. The one thing the runners did not part with was their gorget, a plaque of copper shaped like a fat banana that hung round their neck on a chain. Stamped into the metal were Iron Master word-signs and numbers. This was their ID card, meal-ticket, and pa.s.sport to the good life - as good, that is, as a Mute could hope for in Ne-Issan.

The roadrunners sat cross-legged, four to a table; Steve shared the table furthest from the door with a brooding member of the San'Louis friends of the D'Troit - and another She-Kargo Mute, the first he had come across leaving the trading post. Deer-Hunter, from the clan M'Kewan, had been a roadrunner for the last two of his four years as a journeyman. He told Steve he had three more years on the road before his term came to an end.

'What happens after that?" asked Steve.

Deer Hunter frowned. 'Didn't anyone tell you?"

'n.o.body told me anything. I just got off the boat."

Deer-Hunter raised his eyebrows. 'You move fast..."

Steve tried to sound modest. 'Just lucky, I guess."

'Ain't nothin' to do with luck,' grunted the San'Louis.

'The friggin' She-Kargo get the biggest share of the best jobs 'cause they got their noses stuck right up the j.a.ppo's a.s.s!" Steve and Deer-Hunter eyed the Mute but didn't rise to the bait.

'You were saying . . ."

'You get the chop,' said Deer-Hunter.

'You mean you end up back on the chain-gang?"

'No. You end up dead." The prospect did not seem to spoil Deer-Hunter's appet.i.te.

Steve stared at him. 'Sweet Sky Mother! Why?"

Deer-Hunter shrugged. 'Search me. Maybe it's because they didn't want too many Plainfolk who know their way around Ne-Issan. A man who keeps his eyes open gets to see a lot of what goes on. These dead-faces are holding down a big piece of turf, but they're awful thin on the ground."

'Even so, they seem to have things well under control.

In fact it's so tight you almost need permission to breathe round here."

'True, but if things keep going the way they are, pretty soon there are going to be more of us than there are of them."

'Interesting thought,' said Steve. 'And thanks for putting me straight. If I'd known my neck was on the line I probably wouldn't have taken the job."

'You'd have been crazy not to. It's the best there is."

'Yeah, but. doesn't it get to you? I mean, knowing you've only got three years left?"

Another shrug. 'n.o.body lives for ever."

'Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks..."

'Exactly." Deer-Hunter scooped the last fingerful of rice out of his bowl and licked the rim. 'And in case it still hasn't sunk in, let me spell it out for you, one last time. You don't have to do anything wrong to get into trouble around here. If one of these dead-faces feels like killing you, he doesn't need to ask for permission. He'll just do it. And you look like a prime candidate."

'Why?"

'The eyes." Deer-Hunter snapped his fingers at the young iron-foot who had doused Steve in the bathing shed.

The boy hurried over with a bowl of water and held it out obligingly.

'It's the way you look at people." Deer-Hunter rinsed his hands and mouth, then wiped them dry using the cloth draped over the boy's forearm. 'The dead-faces don't like sa.s.sy Mutes."

'I know." Steve dipped and dried his hands. 'Several people have already warned me about that."

The San'Louis Mute, a lumpheaCl called Purple-Rain

from the V'Chenzo clan, took his turn with the bowl, then got to his feet. The boy moved on to the next table.