'No time to debate,' Mironenko murmured, andturning on his heel, he ran. In seconds, the fog hadspirited him away again.

Ballard hesitated another moment. Incautious as itwas, he wanted to catch a glimpse of his pursuers so asto know them for the future. But now, as the soft padof Mironenko's step diminished into silence, he realisedthat the other footsteps had also ceased. Did they knowhe was waiting for them? He held his breath, but therewas neither sound nor sign of them. The delinquent fogidled on. He seemed to be alone in it. Reluctantly, hegave up waiting and went after the Russian at a run.

A few yards on the road divided. There was no sign ofMironenko in either direction. Cursing his stupidity inlingering behind, Ballard followed the route which wasmost heavily shrouded in fog. The street was short, andended at a wall lined with spikes, beyond which therewas a park of some kind. The fog clung more tenaciouslyto this space of damp earth than it did to the street, andBallard could see no more than four or five yards acrossthe grass from where he stood. But he knew intuitivelythat he had chosen the right road; that Mironenko hadscaled this wall and was waiting for him somewhereclose by. Behind him, the fog kept its counsel. Eithertheir pursuers had lost him, or their way, or both. Hehoisted himself up on to the wall, avoiding the spikes bya whisper, and dropped down on the opposite side.

The street had seemed pin-drop quiet, but it clearlywasn't, for it was quieter still inside the park. The fogwas chillier here, and pressed more insistently upon himas he advanced across the wet grass. The wall behindhim - his only point of anchorage in this wasteland -became a ghost of itself, then faded entirely. Committednow, he walked on a few more steps, not certain thathe was even taking a straight route. Suddenly the fogcurtain was drawn aside and he saw a figure waitingfor him a few yards ahead. The bruises now twistedhis face so badly Ballard would not have known it to beMironenko, but that his eyes still burned so brightly.

The man did not wait for Ballard, but turned againand loped off into insolidity, leaving the Englishman tofollow, cursing both the chase and the quarry. As he didso, he felt a movement close by. His senses were uselessin the clammy embrace of fog and night, but he saw withthat other eye, heard with that other ear, and he knewhe was not alone. Had Mironenko given up the race andcome back to escort him? He spoke the man's name,knowing that in doing so he made his position apparentto any and all, but equally certain that whoever stalkedhim already knew precisely where he stood.

'Speak,' he said.

There was no reply out of the fog.

Then; movement. The fog curled upon itself andBallard glimpsed a form dividing the veils. Mironenko!He called after the man again, taking several stepsthrough the murk in pursuit and suddenly somethingwas stepping out to meet him. He saw the phantom for amoment only; long enough to glimpse incandescent eyesand teeth grown so vast they wrenched the mouth intoa permanent grimace. Of those facts - eyes and teeth -he was certain. Of the other bizarrities - the bristlingflesh, the monstrous limbs - he was less sure. Maybehis mind, exhausted with so much noise and pain, wasfinally losing its grip on the real world; inventing terrorsto frighten him back into ignorance.

'Damn you,' he said, defying both the thunder thatwas coming to blind him again and the phantoms hewould be blinded to. Almost as if to test his defiance,the fog up ahead shimmered and parted and somethingthat he might have taken for human, but that it had itsbelly to the ground, slunk into view and out. To hisright, he heard growls; to his left, another indeterminateform came and went. He was surrounded, it seemed, bymad men and wild dogs.

And Mironenko; where was he? Part of this assembly,or prey to it? Hearing a half-word spoken behind him,he swung round to see a figure that was plausiblythat of the Russian backing into the fog. This timehe didn't walk in pursuit, he ran, and his speed wasrewarded. The figure reappeared ahead of him, andBallard stretched to snatch at the man's jacket. Hisfingers found purchase, and all at once Mironenkowas reeling round, a growl in his throat, and Ballardwas staring into a face that almost made him cryout. His mouth was a raw wound, the teeth vast,the eyes slits of molten gold; the lumps at his neckhad swelled and spread, so that the Russian's headwas no longer raised above his body but part of oneundivided energy, head becoming torso without an axisintervening.

'Ballard,' the beast smiled.

Its voice clung to coherence only with the greatestdifficulty, but Ballard heard the remnants of Mironenkothere. The more he scanned the simmering flesh, themore appalled he became.

'Don't be afraid,' Mironenko said.

'What disease is this?'

'The only disease I ever suffered was forgetfulness,and I'm cured of that -' He grimaced as he spoke, as ifeach word was shaped in contradiction to the instinctsof his throat.

Ballard touched his hand to his head. Despite hisrevolt against the pain, the noise was rising and rising.

'... You remember too, don't you? You're thesame.'

'No,' Ballard muttered.

Mironenko reached a spine-haired palm to touch him.'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'You're not alone. There aremany of us. Brothers and sisters.'

'I'm not your brother,' Ballard said. The noise wasbad, but the face of Mironenko was worse. Revolted,he turned his back on it, but the Russian only followedhim.

'Don't you taste freedom, Ballard? And life. Just abreath away.' Ballard walked on, the blood beginningto creep from his nostrils. He let it come. 'It onlyhurts for a while,' Mironenko said. 'Then the paingoes ...'

Ballard kept his head down, eyes to the earth.Mironenko, seeing that he was making little impression,dropped behind.

They won't take you back!' he said. 'You've seen toomuch.'

The roar of helicopters did not entirely blot thesewords out. Ballard knew there was truth in them. Hisstep faltered, and through the cacophony he heardMironenko murmur:

'Look...'

Ahead, the fog had thinned somewhat, and the parkwall was visible through rags of mist. Behind him,Mironenko's voice had descended to a snarl.

'Look at what you are.'

The rotors roared; Ballard's legs felt as though theywould fold up beneath him. But he kept up his advancetowards the wall. Within yards of it, Mironenko calledafter him again, but this time the words had fledaltogether. There was only a low growl. Ballardcould not resist looking; just once. He glanced overhis shoulder.

Again the fog confounded him, but not entirely. Formoments that were both an age and yet too brief, Ballardsaw the thing that had been Mironenko in all its glory,and at the sight the rotors grew to screaming pitch. Heclamped his hands to his face. As he did so a shot rangout; then another; then a volley of shots. He fell to theground, as much in weakness as in self-defence, anduncovered his eyes to see several human figures movingin the fog. Though he had forgotten their pursuers, theyhad not forgotten him. They had traced him to the park,and stepped into the midst of this lunacy, and now menand half-men and things not men were lost in the fog,and there was bloody confusion on every side. He saw agunman firing at a shadow, only to have an ally appearfrom the fog with a bullet in his belly; saw a thing appearon four legs and flit from sight again on two; saw anotherrun by carrying a human head by the hair, and laughingfrom its snouted face.

The turmoil spilled towards him. Fearing for his life,he stood up and staggered back towards the wall. Thecries and shots and snarls went on; he expected eitherbullet or beast to find him with every step. But hereached the wall alive, and attempted to scale it. Hisco-ordination had deserted him, however. He had nochoice but to follow the wall along its length until hereached the gate.