"Right. Keep together. Rick, keep watching for any sec men. Don't forget. We're outlanders and me and Krysty can't talk or hear."

"Sure. The woman also said something about looking out for some sort of a... I don't know. She used a word, pamyatnik. Means a memorial of some kind. She said it was good for outlanders to see and remember the struggle and the fight for eternal vigilance." He smiled and shook his head. "At least I think that's what she said. You gotta remember it's around a hundred years since I learned Russian and it's gotten a bit rusty since then."

They soon came across another compulsory work gang, but Krysty spotted the sec men early enough for them to duck back up a side alley and loop around the detail. The tumbled wreckage of what had once been a massive sports arena told them that they were moving in the right direction. At last, in the distance, they could see the line of white buildings that the woman had described to Rick.

"That's it," Ryan said. "All we got to do now is to go on in and pick out whatever it is that we need."

"What's that?" Krysty asked, pointing to where a long line of people seemed to be waiting patiently around one side of an ancient, yellow-stone building, dotted with ornate windows and a carved portico.

"There's a sign," Ryan said.

"Where?" Rick blinked. "Got this goddamned sleet all over my glasses."

"Above the main door. It's in that Russkie writing. Can't make it at all."

"Wait." Rick fumbled under his fur coat for something to wipe the smeared lenses, finding a length of stained cotton waste. He bent over and sheltered the glasses from the wind, putting them back on his beaky nose when they were clear. "Oh," he finally said. "I see."

"What?"

"Pamyatnik."

Krysty gripped him by the arm, making him wince. "Just tell us, Rick. That was the word you said before, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Now I know what it means. I was nearly right before. Memorial. I was real close to it."

"And?"

"Amazing. It's a sort of museum about the struggle of the Russian people against the warmongering United States."

Ryan looked at the freezie, wondering if he was joking. He saw by the expression on his pale face that he wasn't. "Kind of museum of the last war, you mean?" Ryan was unable to conceal his own utter disbelief. "Let's all go and take a look." Ryan glanced at Krysty, seeing his own interest reflected in her face.

She shrugged. "Hell, why not? Let's tag on the end of the line."

The tall flank of the old building sheltered the queue from the worst of the wind. As they all shuffled slowly onward, various street traders came along the line offering various kinds of food and drink. All three of the friends were tempted by the delicious smells that came from the little carts.

It took the companions the better part of an hour to get close to the front of the line. Every now and again a bored female sec guard marched slowly along the line. Ryan noticed that nobody would meet her eye, so he did the same, staring at his feet, hoping that she wouldn't notice the steel-toed combat boots that peeked from under the trailing hem of the stolen fur coat.

"What'll be inside?" Rick whispered. "Pictures of captured nukes?"

Ryan shook his head. "Wait and see. I just wonder why so many folks are lined up in shit weather like this."

Rick tapped the young man in front of them on the shoulder and asked him a question. The Russian looked puzzled and Rick spoke quickly, gesturing with his hands. The young man nodded and smiled, speaking quickly to Rick, who smiled in return, showing his understanding of what was being said.

Once the Russian had turned away again, Rick gave them a hasty translation. "First off, he was kind of curious how come we didn't know why so many were standing in line. Like everyoneknew that, dummy! I said we were outlanders. That was okay. Seems you get no choice. Everyone in the ville has to come here every three months to get the date stamped on a card. They have to turn up."

"Card?" Ryan asked worriedly.

"Yeah, but relax. You don't have to show it. Guy said, what was the point? Nobody came unless it was their day."

Ryan pulled the freezie nearer to him. "Listen, Rick and listen hard. You don't ask that kind of question unless I tell you."

"Sure. But it's all right."

"Mebbe. Mebbe not. We keep as quiet as we can. Don't draw attention. Right?"

Rick nodded. "Sure. Read you loud and clear, boss. From now on it's low-profile city."

Major-Commissar Zimyanin had been allocated one of the better wags run by Internal Security. It had once been a Mercedes saloon, but the rear end had been crushed in an accident. The rebuilding had been done by various hands at various times and now little remained of the original auto. But it ran well and the heater worked.

Zimyanin was on his way to talk personally to one or two of the witnesses who'd seen the trio of strangers. The letter to the marshal had worked even more dramatically than he'd hoped.

The call had come through direct on Zimyanin's personal sec line. He'd picked up the cracked Bakelite receiver and held it to his ear without saying anything, guessing who his caller might be.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, Comrade Marshal?"

"Your letter! Have you lost your mind, Major?"

Zimyanin didn't reply for several seconds. Then, "No."

"No! Is that all you have to say?"

Again a careful pause. "Yes."

"But, but... You can't... Do you realize what a letter like this means?"

"It means I believe we may have a full condition red."

"Americans! There hasn't been any proved evidenced of Americans within our country for more years than I can recall."

"I think they are here now."

"Proof?"

Zimyanin smiled. It was the concession, the sign of weakening that he had guessed would eventually appear. Siraksi couldn't take the chance, however remote, that the suspicion might prove correct.

"Once I take them, you will have the proof, Comrade Marshal."

"If you do not take them?" The senior officer was slowly recovering his control. "Then what?"

"Then you'll be correct and I will not, Comrade Marshal."

There was a long, hanging silence. "You think you know them?"

For the first time, Zimyanin hesitated for a moment before replying. "I think it is possible that I have once met that one-eyed man and the woman."

"Your adventure in the Kamchatka? The same man, Comrade Major-Commissar? Could they have invaded us from the far northeast and trekked all the way to Moscow?" The voice was considering its own question. "Yes, yes, it is possible. You have my authority to go to condition orange and put any sec forces you need on red standby. Where are you going to search for them?"

Zimyanin was going to play a hunch. "Their trail leads directly to the heart of the ville, Comrade Marshal. Through Govorovo and Nikulino, into Ramenki and up to the river. I suddenly thought what lay in their path, what they might not be able to resist. You know?"

"What?"

"Pamyatnik," Zimyanin told him,

"Of course. Yes, of course. Brilliant, my dear boy. Brilliant! The Museum of the Peoples' Struggle Against the Oppressors of the United States! Yes, I'm sure you're right."

"I'm going there myself."

Ryan, Krysty and Rick had finally reached the front of the seemingly endless lineup, enduring the biting cold and the flurries of fresh snow, as well as the hectoring and bullying of the patrolling female sec guards.

Just as he passed under the portico of the building, Ryan glanced out into the wide street. A maroon passenger wag drove by and slowed down. The passenger was speaking to the driver, a uniformed man, bareheaded, totally bald, with a long drooping mustache.