He turned away from the window to make his way back to his companions. As he did so he saw two figures moving towards the Weave room. Had someone come out to search for him? He put his spectacles back on, to get a better look at them.

The sight before him brought a shouted warning to his lips, but it was old news by the time he raised it, falling on ears already deafened by their own screams. It was all so quick. One moment he was slipping the scene into focus; the very next, it erupted.

Before he could reach the landing the killers had stepped into the carpet room, and the door was flung off its hinges by the force unleashed inside. A body was flung out on a stream of molten light and held - as though spitted - in the middle of the landing, while darts of flame devoured it. He saw the victim clearly. It was Toller; poor Toller; his body closing into a blistered knot as the fire withered him.

The de Bono who'd been with Cal at Lemuel Lo's orchard would now have flung himself into the holocaust, and not considered the consequences. But bad times had taught him caution. There was no merit in suicide. If he tried to challenge the force that was running riot in the carpet room he'd die the way the rest were dying, and there'd be nobody left to testify to this atrocity. He knew the power whose labours he was witnessing: the worst predictions of his fellow Kind were here proved. This was the Scourge.

There was another explosion in the carpet room, and fresh fire blossomed onto the landing. The ceiling and floor were alight now; so were the bannisters and stairs. Very soon any escape route would be blocked, and he'd perish where he stood. He had to risk crossing the landing, and hope that the smoke would conceal him from the killing glance. There was no time to plot his route through the fire. Shielding his face he made a straight run for the stairs.

He almost got there too, but as he came within a pace of the top step he stumbled. He threw out his arms to save his fall and his hands gripped hold of the burning bannister. A cry escaped him, as the fire caught him; then he was up again and stumbling down the stairs towards the front door.

The Scourge came after him immediately, its first blow melting the brick where he'd stood two beats before. Eyes on the door, he pelted down the stairs, and was within five steps of the hallway when he heard a sound - like a titanic intake of breath - behind him. Why did he turn? He was a fool to turn. But he wanted a sight of the Scourge before it slaughtered him.

It was not the fire-bringer he saw at the top of the stairs however, but its slave. He'd never seen the Salesman dressed in his own skin, so he couldn't name this man. All he saw in that instant was a wasted, sweating face, regarding him with more desperation than malice. The sight made him hesitate, and as he did so this Cuckoo stood aside, and the Scourge came into view.

It was made of innumerable eyes; and bone that had never been clothed; and emptiness. He saw the fire in it too, of course: a fire from the bowels of a sun, in love with extinction. And he saw agony.

It would have been upon him - both fire and agony - had the ceiling above the stairs not given way at that moment, falling between him and his tormentors in a curtain of flame. He didn't escape its touch. Pieces of debris struck him: he smelt his skin burn. But while the deluge eclipsed him he was down the rest of the stairs and out - in three or four panicked paces - into the freezing air of the street.

There was a body burning in the gutter, having been thrown from the upper window, reduced by the Scourge's heat to the size of a child. It was beyond all recognition.

With sudden fury he turned back on the house and yelled at the beasts within:

'Bastards! Bastards!'

Then he took to his heels, before the fire came after him.

There were lights on all along the street, and doors opening as Cuckoos came out to see what it was that had disturbed their slumbers. Always the sight-seers: open-mouthed, disbelieving. There was a force for desolation loose in their midst which could consume their lives at a glance, surely they could see that? But they'd watch anyway, willing to embrace the void if it came with sufficient razzmatazz. In his rage and his despair de Bono found himself saying: let it come, let it come. There were no safe places left; nor powers to protect the vulnerable.

So let it do its worst, if that at the last was inevitable. Let the void come, and bring an end to the tyranny of hope.

VI.

DEATH COMES HOME.

As the dead hours between midnight and first light ticked by, the snowfall became heavier. Cal sat in his father's chair at the back window, and watched the flakes as they spiralled down, knowing from experience that trying to get back to sleep was a waste of effort. He would sit here and watch the night until the first train of the new day rattled by. The sky would begin to lighten an hour or so after that, though with the clouds so snow-laden the dawn would be subtler than usual. About seven-thirty he'd pick up the telephone and try calling Gluck, something he'd been doing regularly, both from the house and from the bakery, for several days, and always with the same result. Gluck didn't answer; Gluck wasn't home. Cal had even asked for the line to be checked, in case it was faulty. There was no technical problem, however: there was simply nobody to pick up the receiver at the other end. Perhaps the visitors Gluck had been spying on for so long had finally taken him to their bosom.

A knocking at the front door brought him to his feet. He looked at the clock: it was a little after three-thirty. Who the hell would come calling at this hour?

He stepped out into the hallway. There was a sliding sound from the far side of the door. Was somebody pushing against it?

'Who's there?' he said. There was no reply. He took a few more steps towards the door. The sliding sound had stopped, but the rapping - much fainter this time - was repeated. He unbolted the door, and took off the chain. The noises had ceased entirely now. Curiosity bettering discretion, he opened the door. The weight of the body on the other side threw it wide. Snow and Balm de Bono fell on the Welcome mat.

It wasn't until Cal went down on his haunches to help the man that he recognized the pain-contorted features. De Bono had cheated fire once; but this time it had caught him, and more than made up for its former defeat.

He put his hand to the man's cheek, and at his touch the eyes flickered open.

'Cal...'

'I'll get an ambulance.'

'No,' said de Bono. 'It's not safe here.'

The look on his face was enough to silence Cal's objections.

'I'll get the car-keys,' he said, and went in search of them. He was returning to the front door, keys in hand, when a spasm ran through him, as though his gut was trying to tie a knot in itself. He'd felt this sensation all too often of late, in dreams. There, it meant the beast was near.

He stared out into the spattered darkness. The street was deserted, as far as he could see; and silent enough to hear the snow-hooded lamps hum in the cold. But his heart had caught His belly's trepidation: it was thumping wildly.

When he knelt at de Bono's side again, the man had made a temporary peace with his pain. His face was expressionless and his voice flat, which gave all the more potency to his words.

'It's coming...' he said. '... it's followed me ...'

A dog had started to bark at the far end of the street. Not the whining complaint of an animal locked out in the cold, but raw alarm.

'What is it?' Cal said, looking out at the street again.

'The Scourge.'

' ... oh Jesus...'

The barking had been picked up from kennels and kitchens all along the row of houses. As in sleep, so waking: the beast was near.

'We have to get moving,' Cal said.

'I don't think I can.'

Cal put his arm beneath de Bono and lifted him gently into a sitting position. The wounds he'd received were substantial, but they weren't bleeding; the fire had sealed them up, blackening the flesh of his arms and shoulder and side. His face was the colour of the snow, his heat running out of him in breath and sweat.

'I'm going to take you to the car,' Cal said, and pulled de Bono to his feet. He wasn't quite dead weight; there was enough strength left in his legs to aid Cal in his efforts. But his head lolled against Cal's shoulder as they crept up the path.

The fire touched me ...' de Bono whispered.

'You'll survive.'

'It's eating me up ...'

'Stop talking and walk.'

The car was parked only a few yards down the street. Cal leaned de Bono against the passenger side while he unlocked the doors, glancing up and down the street every few seconds while his inept fingers fumbled with the keys. The snow was still getting heavier, shrouding both ends of the street.

The door was open. He went round to help de Bono into the passenger seat, then returned to the driver's side.

As he stooped to get into the car, the dogs all stopped barking. De Bono made a small sound of distress. They'd done their duty as watch-dogs; self-preservation silenced them now. Cal got into the car and slammed the door. There was snow on the windscreen, but there wasn't time to start scraping it off: the wipers would have to take care of it. He turned on the ignition. The engine laboured, but failed to start.

At his side de Bono said,'... it's near ...'

Cal didn't need telling. He tried the key again; but still the engine resisted life.