"Where?"

"Starboard bow."

"Fuck." Michael gestured toward their remaining passengers, who were standing in a group, staring with befuddlement. "Figure out what to do with these people."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Found them on the way."

"Isn't that Winch?" Rand asked. The man was muttering into his collar. "What the hell happened to him?"

"Whatever it was, it wasn't nice," Michael answered.

Rand's eyes darkened. "Is it true about the townships? That they're all gone?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah, looks like we're it."

Greer interrupted: "Michael, I think we need to take extra men up to the causeway. It'll be dark in a few hours."

"Rand, how about it?"

"I guess we can spare a few. Lombardi and those other guys."

"You two," Rand said to the telegraph men, "come with me. And you," he said to the woman, "what can you do?"

She arched her eyebrows.

"Besides that, I mean."

She thought for a moment. "Cook a little?"

"A little's better than what we've got. You're hired."

Michael strode down the ramp to the ship. A crane with a sling had been moved into place on the dock, near the bow, where six men in bosun's chairs hung over the side. At the far end of the weir, men in welding masks and heavy gloves were using circular saws to cut the replacement from a larger plate, sparks jetting from their blades.

Lore, standing at the rail, saw him and came down. "Sorry, Michael." She was practically yelling to make herself heard over the whine of the saws. "The timing isn't great, I know."

"What the hell, Lore?"

"Did you want her to sink? Because she would have. I'm not the one who missed it. You should be thanking me."

This was more than a delay; it was a catastrophe. Until the hull was tight, they couldn't flood the dock; until they flooded the dock, they couldn't fire the engines. Just flooding the dock would take an additional six hours. "How long do you figure to replace it?" he asked.

"To cut the plates, pull out the old ones, lower them into place, rivet, and weld, I'd say sixteen hours, minimum."

There was no reason to question her; it wasn't something that could be rushed. He turned on his heels and headed down the dock.

"Where are you going?" Lore called after him.

"To cut some fucking steel."

68.

The time was 1730; the sun would set in three hours. For the moment, Peter had done all he could. He was well past the need to sleep but wanted a moment to collect himself. He thought of Jock as he walked to the house. He had no particular allegiance to the man; he had been a callow and obnoxious kid who had nearly gotten Peter killed. The rifle was probably wasted on him. But Peter recognized that day on the roof as a turning point, and he believed in second chances.

The security detail was gone.

Peter darted up the stairs and raced into the house. "Amy?" he called.

A silence, then: "In here."

She was sitting on the bed, facing the door, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She looked up. Her face changed; she gave him a melancholy smile. A peculiar quiet took the room-not merely an absence of sound but something deeper, more fraught. "Yes. I'm fine." She patted the mattress. "Come sit with me."

He took a place beside her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She took his hand, not looking at him. He sensed she was on the verge of some announcement.

"When I was in the water, I went someplace," she said. "At least, my mind did. I'm not sure I can explain this right. I was so happy there."

He realized what she was saying. "The farmstead."

Her eyes found his.

"I've been there, too." Strangely, he felt no surprise; the words had been waiting to be said.

"I was playing the piano."

"Yes."

"And we were together."

"Yes. We were. Just the two of us."

How good to say it, to speak the words. To know that he was not alone with his dreams after all, that there was some reality to it, though he could not know what that reality was, only that it existed. He existed. Amy existed. The farmstead, and their happiness in that place, existed.

"You asked me this morning why I came to you in Iowa," Amy said. "I didn't tell you the truth. Or, at least, not all of it."

Peter waited.

"When you change, you get to keep one thing, one memory. Whatever was closest to your heart. From all your life, just the one." She looked up. "What I wanted to keep was you."

She was crying, just a little: small, jeweled tears that hung suspended on the tips of her lashes, like drops of dew upon leaves. "Peter will you do something for me?"

He nodded.

"Please kiss me."

He did. He did not so much kiss her as fall into the world of her. Time slowed, stopped, moved in an unhurried circle around them, like waves around a pier. He felt at peace. His senses were soaring. His mind was in two places, this world and also the other: the world of the farmstead, a place beyond space, beyond time, where only the two of them resided.

They parted. Their faces were inches apart. Amy cupped his cheek, her eyes locked on his.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

The remark was strange. Her gaze deepened.

"I know what you're planning to do," she said. "You wouldn't survive it."

Something came undone inside him. All strength drained from his body. He tried to speak but couldn't.

"You're tired," Amy said.

She caught him as he fell.

Amy laid him on the bed. In the outer room, she pulled her frock over her head and replaced it with the clothing that Greer had fetched for her: heavy canvas pants with pockets, leather boots, a tan shirt, the sleeves torn away, with the insignia of the Expeditionary on the shoulders. They possessed a warm, human odor-a smell of work, of life. Whoever had owned these articles was small; the fit was nearly perfect. On the back porch the soldiers slept soundly, like babies, hands tucked under their cheeks, lost to all cares. Amy gently relieved one of his pistol and tucked it into her trousers, against her spine.

A deep quiet held the street, everyone in hiding, bracing for the storm. As Amy made her way toward the center of town, soldiers began to take notice, yet none spoke to her; their minds were elsewhere, what did one woman matter? The exterior of the stockade was unguarded. Amy strode purposefully to the door and stepped inside.

She counted three men. Behind the counter, the officer in charge glanced up.

"Help you, soldier?"

The sound of tumblers: Alicia raised her eyes. Amy?

"Hello, sister."

Alicia looked past her but saw no one; Amy was alone.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Amy was unlocking the shackles. She handed Alicia her goggles. "I'll explain on the way."

In the outer room, the guards lay asleep on the floor. Following Greer's directions, Amy and Alicia made their way via backstreets and trash-strewn alleys into H-town. Soon the southern wall rose into view. Amy entered a small house, little more than a hut. There was no furniture at all. In the main room, she drew a threadbare rug aside to reveal a hatch with a ladder. One of the trade's stash houses, Amy explained, though Alicia had already figured that out. They descended into a cool, damp space that smelled of rotten fruit.

"There," Amy said, pointing.

The shelves, stocked with liquor, pulled away to reveal a tunnel. At the far end they came to another ladder and, ten feet up, a metal hatch set into concrete. Amy turned the ring and pushed.

They were outside the city, a hundred yards outside the wall in a copse of trees. Soldier and a second horse were tied up, obliviously grazing. As Alicia climbed free of the hatch, Soldier raised his head: Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder.

Her sword and bandoliers were hanging from the saddle. Alicia strapped on her blades while Amy covered the hatch with brush.

"You should be the one to ride him," Alicia said. She was also holding out the sword.

Amy considered this. "All right," she said.

She angled the sword over her shoulders and swung up onto Soldier's back. Alicia mounted the second horse, a dark bay stallion, quite young but with a fierce look to him. It was late afternoon, the sun harsh and white.

They rode away.

The dream of the farmstead was different. Peter was lying in bed. The room was full of moonlight, making the walls seem to glow. The sheets were cold; it was this coldness that had aroused him. He had a sense of having slept a long time.

Amy's side of the bed was empty.

He called her name. His voice sounded weak in the darkness, barely a presence. He rose and went to the window. Amy was standing in the yard, facing away from the house. Her posture meant something; panic surged in his heart. She began to walk-away from the house, away from him and the life they had known, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight, growing smaller. Peter could neither move nor cry out. He felt as if his soul were being wrenched from his body. Don't leave me, Amy ...

He awoke with a start; his heart was pounding, his body glazed with sweat. Apgar's face swam into focus.

"Mr. President, something has happened."

He didn't have to say the rest. Peter knew at once. Amy was gone.

IX.

The Trap.

Blood ran in torrents, drenched was all the earth, As Trojans and their alien helpers died.

Here were men lying quelled by bitter death All up and down the city in their blood.

-QUINTUS SMYRNAEUS, THE FALL OF TROY.

69.

The saws had silenced; the steel had been cut. On the ship's starboard flank, a gaping hole revealed the hidden decks and passageways within. The sun was receding, sparkling over the channel's waters; the spotlights had been lit.