It was cool and most folks wore jackets or shawls. Ryan and all of his party were warmly wrapped against the evening chill. Rick leaned heavily on his cane, shivering, his face pale and sweating.

On the way there, Ryan had found himself jostled in the back. Whirling around he'd been surprised to see the huge bulk of Riddler. But the Angel was wearing a long wool sweater over his colors, trying to make himself insignificant.

"Wanted a word, Ryan."

"Yeah?"

"I owe you. That's why. But I could be in deep shit if Zombie or the Motes knew I'd spoken to you 'bout it."

"About what?"

Riddler had looked cautiously around. But in the throng, with everyone moving quickly toward the site of the feeding, nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him.

"The feeding."

Ryan was becoming exasperated. "Fireblast! Tell it. It'll be night before you finish telling me what it is."

"Sure. Yeah. You're right, Ryan. Course y'are. It's that I heard talk 'bout who's gonna get picked for the feeding."

"Me?"

"No."

"One of us?"

"No. Mote's scared 'bout the blasters you carry. Won't cross you face-on, but if he had the chance to back-shoot, well, could be different. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sure, Riddler. But if it's not one of us, then who is it?"

"Reverend Mother Marianne likes to settle up scores, pay debts. That's what'll happen here. It don't pay to..."

"Who?" Ryan muttered.

"Can't tell you."

"Then why, for?.."

"Warn you, Ryan. You did good with me."

"But yousaved mylife, Riddler," Ryan insisted. "How come you figure you owe me?"

"No. You chilled most of the stickies. I'd have been dead meat in a muties' pot if you hadn't been there. So, I'll pay some."

"Quickly!"

"Sure. Keep out of it. That's my word and that's my fucking warning. Who she picks... stand away. Or there'll be some serious blooding. Most of the Heroes got sawed-offs. They'll be watching close."

"So it's the baron?"

"No, not him. Not yet. Not open. But can't say anything more, Ryan. They'll have my balls if they... Just don't interfere!"

"Okay, I got you," Ryan said quietly. "Thanks, Riddler. I still owe you."

There had been a quick squeeze of the hand and then the big man had contrived to vanish into the crowd, reappearing a couple of minutes later with his brothers — and with a cut-down 12-gauge scattergun in his arms.

Baron Brennan arrived several minutes later, driving from the ville in a small passenger wag, with Carla Petersen in the front seat with him. His brother, Rufus, was in the rear seat with Layton, who was still in the leather flying suit. None of them spoke to anyone in the crowd, but Carla and the baron nodded to Ryan and his friends.

There was an almost tangible withdrawing of the other people from the baron, as if everyone knew that he carried the taint of some nameless disease and would contaminate them by even the slightest touch.

At last, signaled by Zombie firing his shotgun into the dark sky, the Motes themselves appeared among their congregation.

Both Norman and Joshua were carrying small drums — slung across their shoulders — which they immediately began to beat in a slow, driving rhythm that duplicated the beating of a heart.

Marianne Mote was dressed completely in scarlet. A long gown of silk, flowed down to her chubby ankles, and she was shod in a pair of high-heeled shoes that she could barely control on the rough ground. She was heavily made-up, like an aged doll, and she carried a long whip of silver leather in her right hand. The dress was cut so low in front that her breasts swelled against the thin material and seemed about to break for freedom.

At a sign from Norman, a pair of the Last Heroes strode in a half circle in front of the gathering, setting light to a series of gasoline fires. They immediately flared and roared, surrounding everyone in a ring of flame, giving the illusion that their only line of escape would be the dark desert behind them. Where the snakes dwelled.

One thing that the Motes were extremely good at was whipping up the frenzy of a mob, repeating their exhortations to worship the worms of the desert, crying out in unison for divine intervention to point the finger at the guilty person in the ville who was responsible for the spate of bad luck.

"Use me as the oracle of Thy vengeance!" Marianne screamed, arms waving, the thin material of her dress dancing about her.

Ryan and the others huddled in a tight group, halfway back through the crowd. The Brennans and Carla Petersen, as befitted their nominal status in Snakefish, stood near the front.

The Last Heroes stayed ranged in a semicircle, eyes raking the congregation.

The yelling and praying grew louder and louder. And the fires, topped up from jerricans of gas, flamed and roared. Deep shadows skipped over the watching, wide-eyed faces. Standing with his back to the blackness of the desert, Ryan felt himself becoming nervous, feeling his spine tighten at the thought of the giant reptiles he knew were stirring in the wilderness behind him.

"Got a real bad feel about this one, lover," Krysty whispered.

"Me too." He'd brought the G-12 caseless, holding it casually under his arm, finger close to the trigger of the sophisticated blaster.

"The Spirit of the Worm comes upon me!" Marianne screamed, closing her eyes, pirouetting around in the orange light of the fires, smoke swirling about her, giving her a demonic look.

"Here we go," J.B. muttered.

The middle-aged woman faked her fit of religious frenzy quite skillfully. Ryan doubted it would have worked so well in the cold light of morning. But here, in the manipulated, drum-beating atmosphere of fervor, in the bizarre light of the bonfires, it was clearly working well enough.

Cries erupted from the crowd, calling on the snakes to witness and help. Amens, hallelujahs and hosannas rose from all, throughout the expectant congregation.

Marianne didn't stint herself in her performance. She thrashed around in the dust, dropping her whip, scooping up handfuls of pale sand and throwing them over herself. Her hair became disarrayed, her makeup covered in a mask of dirt, her rolling eyes winking dementedly out at the world. Her dress rucked up as she fell and kicked, revealing once again that she wore no panties.

Ryan turned to the Armorer, but J.B. had slipped away from his side. It was just possible to see the jaunty fedora, perched on top of his head, moving purposefully toward the front of the crowd.

"Krysty, Jak. Follow me. Don't do anything until I give the word."

Ryan's gut feeling told him that J.B. had guessed who had been chosen for the feeding.

"Show us the evil, show us! The Worm protects us all. The Worm is the power. The Worm is the way and the light!" Marianne's voice was straining ever louder. "Yes, oh yes! I can feel the spirit moving in me! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters! The word is coming to me!"

Marianne rolled over and over, legs kicking, her body caked in dust.

Ryan started after J.B., but the Armorer was nearly at the front, close by the Brennans and Carla.

Helped by her husband and son, Marianne staggered to her feet, beginning to spin around, arm outstretched, finger pointing at the congregation, her body a black shape against the brightness of the ring of fires. She spun faster and faster, the skirt of the dress flying out around her, like a child's top. Her face blank, her eyes staring wildly. Her finger accusing.

And the chanting began, led by Norman Mote, picked up by his son, Joshua, carried by the group of eight Last Heroes, racing through the crowd like a flash fire in a dry summer, swelling all around Ryan and the others.

"A feeding! A feeding! A feeding! A feeding!" Louder and louder, like the pulse of a raging and insensate heart.