To the left, Uchitel spotted movement, white against white. He reached for the Kalashnikov AKM .62 mm, then saw that the bear was moving away from them in a lumbering, unhurried gait. It could be on its own, or it could be one of a large pack of bears whose tracks they'd spotted a day earlier.

Zmeya saw the first of the little houses, which were so flat in the snow that they were almost invisible. "There," he said, pointing ahead and a little to the left.

Uchitel grinned wolfishly. Night wasn't far off. It would be good to have somewhere to shelter against the lethal drop in temperature. Already he could feel the extra bite in the wind. He lowered the scarf from his nose and mouth, his breath pluming out around him like a bridal veil. Within seconds there was the familiar feeling of his nostril hair freezing, the moisture becoming ice.

Uchitel's band carried enough provisions for a couple of weeks. There was generally the chance of shooting some fresh meat. But best of all was finding a community that would support them for a night or two. Some villages grudgingly consented. Most had to be persuaded. The last time they'd visited Ozhbarchik, more than a year back, there had been trouble and a knifing. Uchitel felt that this time their methods of persuasion might have to be particularly harsh.

At that moment, remembering the words of the little merchant, he rose in his horned saddle, peering into the snow spume behind them.

There was nothing to be seen.

Nothing, for the time being.

With the hiss of compressed air, the massive doorway immediately ahead of them began to rise slowly, clearing the corridor. They remained standing still, hands on top of their heads.

"Good," said the disembodied voice from the speaker. "Very good indeed. The Keeper spares you. A sign of anger, and you would have all been cleansed."

None of the eight needed it spelled out. "Cleansed" was just another word for killed or iced or wasted or chilled or blasted or sent to buy the farm.

"You ain't muties?"

It sounded like a question, so Ryan answered it. "No, we're not muties."

"Them women got funny hair. Ain't natural. Green and red. They muties?"

Ryan thought about Krysty. She didn't really look like a mutie at all, despite what he knew of her hidden powers.

"No, none of us is a mutie."

The crackly voice resumed again. "The Keeper says he wants to know how you got in here?"

"Long story," said J.B. Dix.

"Got time. Keeper's got all the time in the world."

"Can we put our hands down?" asked Ryan.

"No. Yes. Yes, the Keeper says yes. Nobody never got in this redoubt. Never in a hundred, never in a thousand, never in a million years. Keeper don't allow it. Doors sealed tight as a bat's ass. No alarms on the outside. Just from the gateway. That how you got in?"

Ryan glanced sideways at J.B. It was a bad situation. The thin, tinny voice sounded crazy. That didn't alter the fact he had them cold. The forces controlling the redoubt would have access to all kinds of sophisticated weaponry. They needed only to shut that bulkhead again and pump in the nerve gas and they'd be dead in seconds. Better to play along.

"Yeah. We come from the Darks. Don't rightly know how or why."

A cackle of laughter. "Not even the Keeper knows 'bout the gateways. You jumped... where from?"

"The Darks. Used to be called Montana. What else do you want to know?"

"Keeper wants to know everythin', friend. Keeper does know everythin', friend. You say you didn't know where you was comin'?"

"Yeah. Where are we?"

"In good time, friend. Keeper has the redoubt in his charge. Keep it safe. Let no man enter with hate in his heart. You got hate?"

Ryan shook his head. "No. We come in friendship."

Around him he could feel the tension of the others. None of them was very good at waiting.

"Surely shall the lion lay down with the lamb. I have to search the books for word on what to do. Keeper has to take care. Move not, friends. Leave your blasters on the floor. I'll watch. So wait."

"Let's run for it," whispered Okie. She was just behind Ryan.

"Where?" retorted J.B. "Pass that door, and there'll be another."

"Can't just fuckin' wait for the bullet," said Hennings, moving to the side of the passageway and sitting, back against the wall.

"Who do you figure this Keeper is? Some warlord? A baron?"

J.B. shook his head at Ryan's question. "Could be. Sounds old." Lowering his voice, he added, "And crazy as all hell."

They put their guns in a pile and waited, mostly in silence, for about fifteen minutes. Eventually all of them except Okie joined Henn on the floor of the corridor.

"The Keeper has considered. You are people of peace? With hearts full of contrite?"

Ryan didn't know what "contrite" meant, but he nodded anyway. Seemed the best answer. "Yeah."

"You are hungered?"

"Yeah." Finnegan got the answer in first.

"Come forward. Leave your weapons of destruction. You will not need them while under the protection of the Keeper."

"Can't wait to meet him," muttered Hunaker, standing and stretching like a big cat.

Hennings went to retrieve the radio, but the voice from the loudspeaker snapped, "No! Leave that. There is no need to communicate with the chill beyond these walls. None."

"Can hardly reach War Wag One, anyway. Range is only 'bout fifteen miles. Could be way farther off than that." Hennings put the radio back with the blasters and grenades.

Ryan led them through the circular corridor, past several doors in the roof. The smell of cooked food became stronger. Intermittently they passed beneath a tiny, silent vid camera.

"This goddamn place goes on forever," moaned Okie, kicking a wall. Sparks flew from the steel tips of her combat boots.

"Doc? You got any ideas where we might be?" asked Ryan.

Since they'd emerged from the gateway, the old man had been strangely quiet, stalking along, the antiquated hat perched on top of the bony skull. The business of the trap and the creaking voice with its orders hardly seemed to have bothered him at all. Now he started at Ryan's question.

"What was that, my dear Mr. Cawdor? Ifear that my thoughts were elsewhere."

"Any idea where we are?"

"In a redoubt, sir."

"We fuckin' know that," sighed Hunaker.

"It is a place of some size, unless I miss my guess. My memory is clouded — after a jump, I have always been a touch... there were so many."

"How many?"

"Many stockpiles and also many redoubts. Indeed, in places of the blessed land where it was thought attacks might be concentrated, I recall they built some redoubts that were also stockpiles. Perhaps this is such a place."

They'd been walking, by Ryan's calculation, for nearly fifteen minutes, covering more than a mile at their brisk pace.

When they reached a steel barrier, blocking their progress, they stood and stared at it. Finally Ryan stepped forward and looked into the nearest camera,

"I am becoming tired of this. We are all hungry and thirsty and in need of rest. We come in peace. We have laid down our weapons, yet still you treat us like an invadin' enemy."

Even as he spoke, he realized that he had unconsciously slipped into the same form of address as the person behind the screens.

"The Keeper has never seen the like," came the reply, crackling and wheezing. Either the sound reproduction was poor or a decrepit old man was talking. Or both.

"Then let us see this Keeper. Let us talk to him. We are few. This redoubt must hold hundreds of armed men."

A burst of laughter spluttered from the loudspeaker, followed by silence.

J.B. moved closer to Ryan, and whispered, "Could use the plasex and run for that gateway."