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terlinked in ways and for reasons he

did not care to dwell on. If she was threatened, so was he. He was

obliged to do all he could to protect her for his own sake. The

unwelcome sense of responsibility he felt ran counter to his

highly-developed instinct for self-preservation but he could not shake

it off. It was a burden that was impossible to ignore.

Steve sat back, willed himself to relax and dozed fitfully until the

Skyrider banked steeply and headed down towards the rendezvous point

near a watercourse once known as Medicine Creek some thirty miles north

of the pre-Holocaust site of Cambridge, Nebraska. At two thousand feet

the pilot cut the motor and wound down the flaps. The sky was no

longer pitch black but it was still dark and there was a heavy ground

mist that cut the visibility to under ten yards. Steve glanced at the

altimeter and held his breath. He could hear the wind swishing through

the wing struts. The masked pilot hummed the opening bars of a

blue-sky ballad, made a few adjustments to the glide path, and put the

aircraft down without a bump.

'Neat,' said Steve, as they rolled smoothly to a stop.

The pilot grunted. 'All part of the service..."

Steve dropped to the ground, opened the cargo hatch behind the cockpit,

grabbed the two nearest carrying loops of the body bag and tipped it

out onto the ground.

Taking hold of it again; he dragged it clear then returned to the

SkyRider and took out a weather-scarred air rifle, the fur bedding roll

he had slept in at Rio Lobo, and the wickerwork basket that held the

animal who had shared his quarters during training. He left the hatch

open and slapped the side of the cockpit. 'Okay. See you around."

'Maybe,' said the pilot. He turned his masked face towards Steve and

gave a brief, casual salute. 'Buena suerte, amigo."

'Thanks. I have a feeling I'm gonna need it." Steve shouldered his

load and strode away from the plane towards the fuzzy orange glow he

could just make out through the leaden murk.

The glow was coming from inside a primitive dugout built into the side

of a slope. The entrance was partially concealed by stones and

branches. As he drew nearer he saw an unkempt bearded figure carrying

an air rifle. Like Steve, he was dressed in worn combat fatigues plus

a long, sleeveless fur coat made up of the skins of different

animals.

Steve identified himself through the special device all MX operatives

carried; the bearded figure - the first real mexican he had met face to

face - did the same then thrust out a welcoming hand.

'Snake-Eyes..."

'Hang-Fire,' replied Steve.

'Good trip?"

'Quiet."

Snake-Eyes grinned, displaying a set of stained, yellow teeth. 'They

usually are. You must be new to this outfit."

Steve nodded.

'It's okay to take off your helmet now. I'm gonna need it for the trip

back."

Steve passed over the helmet and glanced through the doorway of the

dug-out. A short flight of steps led down to the messy interior.

After living with the M'Calls, Steve's nostrils knew what to expect but

the first whiff of the pungent aroma made him catch his breath.

'You'll find everything you need." Snake-Eyes smoothed back his long

hair and pulled on the helmet leaving the greasy tangle of whiskers

sticking out from under the chin guard. 'Just think,' he said, as he

tried to fasten the neck strap, 'Ten hours from now I'll be able to

razor this fuzz from my face and lather up under a hot shower. And

best of all, I'll be able to take a crap without freezing my balls off,

or worrying if some crawlie's gonna latch on to my ring."

'I know the feeling,' said Steve. 'Anything happen in the last

twenty-four hours I should know about?"

'D'you read the weather reports before leaving Rio?"

'Yes."

'Then you're up to date." Snake-Eyes picked up his fur bedding roll

and slung his rifle. 'Okay, dump your stuff.