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es 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 grasses, birds perched in trees, horsemen in

pursuit of mountain cats, serene landscapes with waterfalls and views

of distant, snowcapped mountains; images filled with life that

surpassed 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 pass 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

passport 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.