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ll, their prisoner, yet he was not shackled or guarded; he had no

escort, no one asked him where he was going or where he had been, and

the restraints upon him were minimal. On the face of it, if he wanted

to escape, all he had to do was to walk out of the settlement. But how

far could he get? It was this very lack of overt surveillance that led

Steve to conclude that escape on foot would not be that easy. If there

were no bars to his cage it was because the M'Calls were confident that

they could hunt him down as quickly and efficiently as they did the

fast-foot and the buffalo.

Steve applied himself to his programme of exercises with his usual

diligence and was finally rewarded by being able to stand on his own

two feet. Cadillac and Mr Snow were on hand to applaud the moment when

he cast aside his crutches and walked around the hut with a confident

stride.

Returning to where they stood by the head-poles bearing the decaying

skulls of Shakatak and Torpedo, he punched the air exultantly with his

right fist. As his arm snapped straight in the traditional

Trail-Blazer salute, a stab of pain shot through the still tender

muscle, punishing him for such an arrogant gesture.

Steve concealed the pain beneath a tight-lipped grin and found the

grace to thank his benefactors. 'I'd like you both to know that I

really appreciate what you've done for me."

He paused and took a deep breath. 'I may regret this but, uh, I have

to ask - why have you gone to so much trouble to keep me alive?"

'I don't have time to get into that,' replied Mr Snow. He cut Steve

off with a wave of the hand. 'Don't worry about it.

You'll find out soon enough."

Steve refused to let it go. 'That sounds ominous."

Mr Snow laughed quickly. 'What can I tell you? Right now, the word is

you're going to live. Okay?"

'But - if you know what's going to happen,' persisted Steve.

Mr Snow sighed patiently. 'Look, young man, if I told you, you

wouldn't believe me. You have a good mind. It has a great deal of

potential but it is not open to the things of this world. You do not

see it as it is, but as you think it should be."

'You've lived under the ground too long,' said Cadillac.

'Your eyes and your ears are full of sand."

Mr Snow squatted in front of Steve and ran his hands gently up and down

his left trouser leg between the knee and ankle, barely touching the

fabric. 'Mmmm, feels good..."

He stood up, took hold of Steve's wrist and flexed his right arm,

checking the movement of the muscles as he did so. 'I wish all my

patients healed as well as this." Mr Snow gave Stove's arm a friendly

pat. 'Keep on with those workouts.

Another haLf-moon or so and you'll be ready to make the big break."

The old wordsmith chuckled at Steve's confused expression. He looked

like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was

a saying from the Old Time that Mr Snow had treasured ever since he had

first heard it fifty-two winters ago. 'Relax. It's only natural for

you to want to get back to your burrow."

'The overground doesn't frighten me,' snapped Steve, annoyed at being

caught off guard.

'No, it doesn't,' agreed Mr Snow. 'It should. The word from the South

was that you people like to stay close to one another. Like a herd of

fast-foot. But it doesn't seem to affect you. I wonder why?"

'I'm a wingman,' replied Steve. 'We're different. The pick of the

bunch. We're trained to operate alone."

Mr Snow nodded gravely. 'I see. well, just remember that Cadillac

and I can't protect you once you step off the edge of our turf.

Capeesh?"

'Don't worry,' said Steve lightly. 'I'll let you know when I'm