"Difficult. Kind of slang, I guess. Nearest I can get is that one day's fucking is better than a hundred days of labor for the Party. Guess I'll drink to that."

There were more people in the streets than there'd been the previous evening. The sky was overcast, but the day felt warmer. Since they depended on the furs for disguise and protection it wasn't good news.

"Best try and pick our way closer to the middle of the ville," Krysty suggested.

But Rick raised an objection to that. "I don't know what it's like now, but in the old days — my days — you'd have needed passes to pick your nose in a sec-sensitive region. You saw that patrol. Suppose there's sec men out here? Suppose you need some kind of a pass to get to certain regions? It wouldn't be that surprising, would it?"

Ryan chewed his lip. "Guess not. No. Fireblast! Never thought it'd be this difficult to pick up a hammer and screwdriver." He hesitated for a moment, uncharacteristically. "Still, I figure we have to move on. If we... What's that?"

A whooping, ululating sound cut the air, resembling the cry of a hunting animal. That was Ryan's first impression, and it proved close to the truth.

A ragged, limping man, well below average height, hobbled around the corner of the street, looking wildly from left to right. Everyone else on the street immediately turned away from him, moving briskly off in every direction. Some of them broke into a clumsy, jogging run in their anxiety to get away.

"Something's after him," Rick said, moving back from the window as the fugitive's face turned toward their house.

"Someone. Lots of someones." Krysty cocked her head. "Sounds almost like a gang of kids in a playpark."

Like magic, the suburban road was deserted, as if some staggering leper, bright with rad glow, had come screaming into a church social.

"Here they are," Ryan said quietly. "If he comes in here, we move fast and quiet out the back. Could be bad."

There were around a dozen in the screeching group that was trailing the cripple. Most had knives or long-handled hatchets, while one or two carried nail-studded clubs. They wore an assortment of skirts and pants, but all wore bright red berets with a single silver circle embroidered on the front. From behind the dusty window it was hard to tell, but Ryan's guess was that none of the pack was older than twelve.

Their prey had given up. He'd fallen to his knees, partly hidden from Ryan, Krysty and Rick by a spreading yew tree. He was holding his hands up imploringly as the children ringed him. They shuffled around the helpless figure, almost dancing. It wasn't possible to hear, but from the pattern of the words, it sounded like they were singing. As they moved around the circle they made mock cuts at the kneeling man, forcing him to cringe from them.

Rick spit with disgust. "Can't we?.. No, don't answer that. Course we can't. But that poor little gimp..."

Their game didn't last long. Like all children, the pack was easily bored.

The freezie turned away and walked across the bare boards of the long-dead room, his bamboo cane rapping furiously on the floor. Ryan and Krysty watched. It wasn't very different from other things they'd seen in other places. Just a few changes in the small details. Nothing more.

The gang beat the middle-aged man to the ground, kicking and punching at him. But the blows didn't seem designed to cause serious injury, and none of the blades were used.

Once they had him down, they kept him down. Two of the kids held each leg, forcing the man's feet far apart. Two others went to each arm. Despite their youth and size, it was obvious they were strong and skillful in their craft. Apart from tossing his head from side to side, the cripple was held totally still. The gang had stopped their whooping and chanting, and the only sound was the moaning of their victim.

The leader was a girl of about thirteen, tall and as skinny as a lath. She stood between the man's spread feet, grinning down into his face with a crack-toothed leer.

Ryan winced in anticipation, but she ignored the opportunity to inflict devastating pain. The girl was businesslike in the way she stepped astride her victim, hoicking at her skirt and squatting on his chest.

"How's the kid going to?.. Oh, I see." Krysty also turned away from the window, not wanting to see the macabre ending to the minidrama.

Ryan continued to watch, seeing no good reason not to.

The girl had pulled a length of narrow whipcord from inside the leg of her bottle-green panties. It had a thicker, softer piece of rope knotted to each end to make the grip that much easier.

With an experienced hand she adjusted a loop around the victim's neck, settling herself more comfortably on his chest. She then glanced around to make certain her cohorts were ready.

With a whoop of delight she began to heave on the ends of her garrote, tightening it. She leaned back to apply more pressure, so that the waxed cord vanished into the scrawny flesh, biting deeper, drawing blood that ran dark onto the sidewalk. From his viewpoint high above, Ryan could see how fiercely the crippled man struggled for the last choking breaths of life. But the gang of street brats were too many and too strong.

The girl was good at it, and Ryan wondered idly just how many times she'd performed this obscene ritual of public execution. As the ending came near she braced herself by pushing her booted feet against the side of her victim's throat, sawing at the strangling cord to make it cut deeper.

There was a convulsive jerking from the man that the children found hard to contain. Then a gout of blood erupted as the whipcord sliced through the artery close to the ear.

With a shriek of satisfaction the girl stood up, uncoiling the murderous length of thin rope and tucking it back into her panties. She stood astride the corpse and leaned over to spit delicately into the open, boggling eyes. It was obviously some sort of a ritual with the gang, as they all followed her example before filing off down the tree-lined street, just like any other bunch of kids.

"Why that way?" Krysty asked.

"Cheaper than a speeding bullet," Rick replied, then retreated to a corner of the room where he was quietly sick.

"Welcome to Moscow," Ryan said quietly.

"Zup,"Rick repeated, making appropriate gestures. He mimed a pain in his jaw, then clamped an imaginary pair of pincers on the recalcitrant tooth. He heaved it free, managing a broad smile to indicate his relief from pain.

The Russian stared blankly at him from behind a positive forest of gingery facial hair.

Ryan watched the pantomime with mixed feelings. Almost immediately after seeing the butchering of the cripple, for God only knew what malefaction, the pain from his damaged back tooth flared up alarmingly. Ryan Cawdor was a man of extreme physical courage who had endured more suffering in his life than most people could begin to imagine. But he gasped at the shock from the exposed nerve. It was like having someone probing into the marrow of his jawbone with a white-hot steel needle. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he pressed his fist against the side of his jaw.

"Mother Sonja used to say that a distillation of the oil of cloves was an aid to that sort of tooth pain," Krysty said.

"Got any?"

"Course not!"

"Then keep your rad-blasted stupe mouth shut, will you?"

She stared hard at him. "There're times I make allowances for you behaving like a hamstrung pig, lover. Luckily for you, this happens to be one of those times."

Now they were wandering around a big street market, only a mile or so farther into the ravaged suburbs of the huge ville. They'd crossed over the remains of a massive freeway, several lanes in either direction. A collapsed overpass had been partially cleared away and there were two lanes working. Ryan and Krysty had stopped and stared in amazement. Neither of them had ever seen such an amazing volume of gas-powered transport, buzzing and roaring past them: heavy wags, painted in a dull olive-green and a number of autowags; two-wheelers by the dozen. And at least two vehicles out of every three sported the silver circle that they recognized as being the insignia of "the Party."