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to have boarded it would have been tantamount to an armed invasion of

his territory - an act of war which could have the most serious

consequences.

No. His voyage past the Shogun's fish-island would be serene and

unhindered. Despite the irritating attentions of Yoritomo's agents, he

was more than a match for the young occupant of the Summer Palace. It

was Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain, who was his most dangerous

adversary, but fortunately he was a man you could do business with. He

was a realist, a man's man with a balanced view of the iniquitous side

of human nature - not a smooth-faced soft-brained idealist who hardly

ever ventured beyond the silken cocoon of the Inner Court.

Yes. Slowly but surely, all the strands would draw together and the

noose would tighten round the neck of the Toh-Yota. A costly

debilitating war would not be necessary. In a smooth transition of

power, the young Shogun would be deposed and disposed of. A wiser,

more worldly and more amenable figure would be invited to lead Ne-Issan

forward into a new progressive age in which the Yama-Shita would be the

standard-bearers. They would set the pace, they would amend the rules,

encourage new thoughts and new ideas and, eventually, they would - by

popular consent - take over the reins of power.

Rounding the eastern tip of Aron-giren, the three square-sailed junks

set course for Kei-pakoda against a freshening breeze that put white

crests on the incoming waves. Aided by the steam engine whose sonorous

beat could be felt as well as heard on the main deck, the broad bows

dipped and rose gently as they ploughed through the light, even

swell.

Except for white clouds rimming the far horizon, the sky was clear,

with a promise of more fair weather to come. Just what was needed for

the performance he was to witness on the morrow. The image that met

Yama-Shita's eyes as he surveyed the scene around him was one of

majestic, unstoppable power. And it pleased him.

The Iron Masters and the mixed bag of dink craftsmen who now formed the

bulk of the Heron Pool staff put the finishing touches to the twelve

aircraft at around 1800 and retired to make their own personal

preparations for the big event. The original group of Trackers was

left to tidy up, then the two workshops were shut for the night and

left in the care of the usual team of night-watchmen. With his

constant to-ing and fro-ing on Cadillac's behalf, and their joint

midnight oil-burning sessions with Jodi and Kelso, Steve had come to be

regarded as part of the furniture, and he had taken the opportunity to

familiarise himself with the watchmen's routine.

His original plan had been to bury a fist-sized chunk of plastic

explosive into the head of a rocket tube, arm it with a detonator, then

pack in the special black powder mix.

During the fifteen-second burn, the flame would eat its way down the

tube, ignite the detonator and - blarnrn! One flying-horse transformed

into singed silken confetti and charcoal chips.

But things hadn't gone as planned. The influx of dinks had totally

upset the work routines, and to meet the increased demand for rockets,

the 'power unit' had been almost completely restaffed. Jodi and Kelso

- on whom Steve had been counting to help him spike the rockets had

been totally occupied with training the pupil pilots, and he himself

had been kept busy checking and flight-testing the completed craft as

they came off the production line.

By the end of the month, the Tracker workforce had been eased into

subordinate roles in all the processes except flying - a move which

limited Steve's precious total freedom of access to every department.

To make life more difficult, the Iron Masters kept changing the

programme for the big day, and Cadillac had ended up training eight

rocket-pilots instead of five. Unaware of Steve's escape plans,

Cadillac had come close to wrecking their chances by giving additional

gliding instruction to the remaining