"Yes." The syllable held a wealth of meaning. When Zimyanin had come to the city he'd brought a reputation for extreme toughness. He also brought his Dragunov rifle and a 9 mm Makarov pistol. And Aliev, who was under five feet tall and had the slanted eyes that betrayed his Mongolian ancestry. He also showed some of the typical facial mutie malformations that Zimyanin had seen often out in the country. Gross and hideous. And the office workers of Internal Security had never seen anything like Aliev's face. Most stepped aside when they heard his hoglike snuffling breath approaching them. Girls who saw him burying his nuzzling face, which had no lower jaw, in a platter of minced meat and gravy-sodden bread, had sometimes been sick. Sometimes fainted.

So had some of the men.

But Aliev was unmistakably the finest tracker in all of Mother Russia. His skills had made him shunned by other sec men, whose inbred superstitions told them the mutie was a warlock. Nobody could be so miraculous at tracking.

Yes, Zimyanin decided. If there should be any more talk of missing horsemen out at — he checked the map — out at Peredelkino, he would send Aliev and a patrol.

It was a pleasing thought. Zimyanin took up the bowl of cold cabbage and began to grimly pick his way through it.

Just before Ryan left the house with Krysty and J.B., the freezie caught him by the sleeve and pulled him to one side.

"Yeah?"

"A private word, Ryan."

"What?"

"Not for the others."

"Sure."

Rick shook his head. "I mean it, Ryan. Not a word. Not even to Krysty. You have to give me your word of honor."

"Honor? Oh, yeah. Honor. You got it, Rick. What's the problem?"

"The problem is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, friend."

"I know it. Lou Gehrig's disease. Why you were frozen in the first place. We all know you got the illness."

"When you get sick, Ryan, real sick, one of the things a lot of folks do is sort of immerse themselves in their disease. Read up everything you can. Look desperately for any oddball, freakish miracle cures. I did that. I knew there wasn't. That was why I agreed to be a cryo guinea pig. And you thawed me out. And here we are."

"So, what's the point, Rick? We have to make some miles before dark."

Behind the freezie Ryan could see a pallid sun breaking through and bouncing off the immaculate spread of snow.

"The point is I've been in remission. Now the disease is entering another phase. I can feel it. Recognize it."

"What phase?"

"Terminal, Ryan. Very definitely terminal."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Did he say how long he meant by 'soon,' lover?" Krysty asked.

"Mebbe weeks."

"Months? Could be more remission."

"No, J.B., I don't figure so. You see how bad he looks. Walks stiff. Loses his balance. I guess the guy knows his own body. He says weeks if it goes well. Only some days if not."

It had never even occurred to Ryan not to tell Krysty and the Armorer the bitter news about Rick. Screw honor when it came to hiding things from friends — your life could depend on their knowledge. In many ways the news didn't make a whole lot of difference.

They still had to get the gateway door and the linked triggering device repaired. To have any chance of returning to the Deathlands, they had to make a jump. The alternative was to cover thousands of miles across country, over a bitterly hostile land through bitterly hostile people. With no idea of the language.

All of them wore the swaddling coats and hats of mixed furs that served the dual purpose of keeping them warm and concealing their identities. Ryan and J,B. had left their long-barreled guns behind, as well as all the ammo. If the mansion should come under attack, Jak and Doc would need the long-distance firepower.

The companions also carried packages of dried meat and fish, and a canteen of water, though with so much snow around it would be hard to die of thirst.

Their farewells had been brief. There was no possible way of knowing how long they might be gone, or even if they would return. Living in the Deathlands taught a man that partings had a habit of becoming permanent.

Walking was difficult. The layering of snow was much deeper than it had been the day before. In the exposed open spaces the wind had swept the ground clear and bare, but in the dips and hollows it had banked up in drifts, often two or more feet high.

Ryan led the way, retracing their steps toward the cabin of the old woman and her monstrous son. Or husband. That was something they'd never know. The woman's body had disappeared from where Jak had killed her. From spoor around the place, Ryan guessed that it had been wolves. A little scattered blood marred the pristine whiteness of the snow, and a few gnawed splinters of bone poked upward from the ground.

When they reached the hut, they discovered that the three ponies had disappeared. But the corpses of the men remained, jumbled under a kindly shroud of snow. And the body of the giant was still wedged in the doorway.

"We figure the ville has to lay over there." J.B. pointed toward the faint smudge of a trail behind the cabin.

Ryan clapped his hands together, trying to sustain circulation. To his disappointment the biting cold air had sought out the cavity in his tooth, making every breath a sharp pain, and the empty socket of his left eye was weeping copiously in the cold, tears trickling over the numbed skin of his cheeks.

He was also concerned about the language problem. Any stranger or outlander in the Deathlands was regarded as a suspicious threat. But at least a person could hope to talk his way out of a dangerous situation. He'd asked Rick to try to teach him a few useful phrases, but the freezie had pointed out a little knowledge could well be worse than none at all. Once someone started to speak, then there would be pressure to continue. They'd do better to fake deafness or pretend to be mutes.

The morning brightened into afternoon. The curtain of gray lifted, folding away toward the south and leaving a sky of pale blue behind. The clouds didn't seem to have the livid chem colors of clouds in the Deathlands, looking more like clouds in the few surviving old vids that Ryan had seen.

"Feeling warmer," J.B. panted as they slogged along, forced to lift their boots high to keep them clear of the crusted snow.

"If the time of year's right, then I figure this could be the spring. Maybe it'll start thawing real soon."

Krysty nodded her agreement, pushing back the hood of her gray-speckled cloak, shaking out her long red hair. "Definitely warmer. Look. It's melting off the branches of the trees. In another couple of hours we'll be plowing our way through mud."

A belt of tall pines soon appeared in the northeastern horizon, in the general direction of where they believed the remains of Moscow lay. And they encountered fresh tracks of horses.

"Smoke," Krysty announced, sniffing the air.

Ryan couldn't detect it, but he didn't doubt that Krysty was correct.

"That way?" he guessed, pointing to the northeast.

"Right. Wood smoke. Not cooking. Although..." She hesitated. "I think there's also bread at the baking. Yeah, bread. Could be the ville."

J.B. drew his blaster and worked the action, relishing the oiled click as it moved. Ryan knew that the Armorer would already have checked the action before going to sleep the previous night, and once again before leaving that morning. It was as much a habit as breathing to J. B. Dix.

"How far off, lover?" Ryan asked.

"Difficult to tell. Wind's veering and dropping all the time. I'd guess it's around three to four miles off."

As the breeze fell away, the temperature began to rise. Within the next half hour it climbed at least a dozen degrees, making the walking slightly easier but much more unpleasant.