She's not going to guess, he insisted to himself as she set a steaming cup on the table between the two beds, and turned back the covers on one of them.

"Hop in now," she said cheerfully, reminding Zeth of Mrs. Veritt. "Sleep, Zeth. You're a brave boy to have come

all this way. Say your prayers and trust in God to help you. Here—drink your milk," she added, handing him the cup.

Obediently, Zeth pretended to drink the milk, actually taking only a tiny sip. "Thank you," he said. "Good night, Miss Bron." He yawned, and half closed his eyes. To his intense relief, the Gen woman left.

Zeth set down the milk, and pulled the blankets up to his chin for warmth. He could hear Sessly Bron moving about. He hoped she would not stay up to wait for her brother. Then he heard her coming down the hall ... . opening his door. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply and evenly. She came in, turned out the lamp, and took away the cup of milk.

Zeth waited. If she had gone to bed, how long would it take her to fall asleep? He couldn't hear anything. Perhaps if he got up and listened at the door—

Zeth woke with a start, feeling hollow. He was panting, his skin pricking, and he barely had strength to turn over. He realized he had passed out.

His heart pounded and he struggled for breath until the disciplines the channels had taught him took hold. This was stage two. He began the rhythmic breathing exercises, and soon his gasping eased. He didn't know how much time had passed, except that it was too much. He'd have to ride like the wind.

Forcing himself out of bed, Zeth pulled on his clothes, counting breaths hypnotically. His body was leaden. His boots almost defeated him, searing pain shooting through his arms as he hauled on their tops. He had to sit on the edge of the bed to steady his breathing again before he dared try his escape.

He was sure the sound of opening the window rang through all of Mountain Chapel. When no one stirred, he climbed out, stumbled to his knees, and forced himself to stand. Where was Star? Mountain Chapel was much like Fort Freedom– there had to be a stable. He looked around, grateful for the illumination of the waxing moon, even though it might reveal his presence.

The narrow chapel windows glowed with dim light. Maddok Bron, praying for his sign from God. In the morning, when they find I'm gone, will they ride to help Fort Freedom? Zeth wondered sadly. But he had no choice. If I stay, I'll kilt.

In the moonlight he spotted a large, barnlike building just beyond the neat rows of houses. Even though he tried to stay

in the shadows, it should have been a brisk three-minute walk. Instead, k became an endless and familiar nightmare, his legs too heavy to lift. He struggled and plodded, trying to get to Owen, who lay dying—

Gasping again, Zeth pulled himself together. This was not a dream, and Owen had nothing to do with it. But why isn't he here? He'd help me get home. Owen–

Forcing one foot in front of the other, Zeth made his way toward the stable, fending off fear. "Don't panic," he remembered Abel Veritt telling the changeover classes. "There is nothing to fear in changeover now. God has given us channels. Changeover is no more than any other natural process in growing up."

And I'm supposed to be one of those channels, Zeth thought. I will be. I'll get home in time.

His father had explained how fear killed many Sime children of Gens. Even if such children escaped being discovered and murdered, their terror at becoming Sime used up their last reserves of selyn. If that happened before breakout, they died of attrition.

That won't happen to me, Zeth told himself firmly. He was creeping up to the door of the stable, smelling the good clean smell of horses, hoping Star had had enough rest to carry him—

He slid the heavy stable door open just enough to slip in, and a sudden fury erupted out of the darkness—a barking, snarling, growling dog snapping at his legs. Zeth danced back in startlement, the rhythm of his breathing broken, a stab of fear shooting straight down through his middle.

The dog kept up a steady racket, horses snorted and stomped, and a voice called, "Who's there?"

Zeth backed against the door, trying to slide it open again, but the dog growled and snapped at him, pinning him effectively until the light of a lantern made him blink and wince. "Who are you?" the voice demanded.

"Zeth Farris. I've come—for my—horse." He could hardly get the words out. "Call off—your—"

His strength gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, the dog moving in with a threatening growl. The man—hardly more than a boy—moved closer to play the lantern over him. Instinctively, Zeth clutched his forearms across his middle, giving himself away.

"Hold him, Brownie!" The note of fear drove the boy's

voice up. "Get away from that door—now, or I'll sic him on you!"

Zeth eyed the dog, which seemed ready to go for his throat. If he tried to protect himself . . . now, of all times, he could not afford to be bitten on the arm.

So he crawled away from the door, pleading, "Just let me—have—a horse!"

"No, you'll steal no horses here. C'mon, Brownie!"

Keeping the dog between him and Zeth, the boy edged out the door, stationing the dog outside. The click of the bolt locking him in was the loudest sound Zeth had ever heard. The stable boy ran out into the night, shouting, "Sime! Sime! I've locked a Sime in the stable!"

Pure terror prickled through Zeth. He was panting and gasping, weak and helpless, on the verge of fainting except that panic kept him alert. The alarm bell, so much like Fort Freedom's, rang into the night.

Soon the stable would be surrounded–he had to get out! But he couldn't even get to his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out dim moonlight filtering through a crack high above him. It took shape as he stared at it– outlining a door up in the hay loft.

For all the good it was to Zeth, that door might as well be on the moon! He could hardly crawl along the floor, let alone drag himself up a ladder . . . and the ladder lay beside the stack of hay thrown down from the loft.

Zeth had to set up the ladder, climb to the loft, jump to the ground, and run! Run? He couldn't even walk. He tried to lift the ladder, but the best he could do was slide it a hand's span across the floor—and even that left him sick and trembling as he heard voices outside.

"Get around back—he could break out the back door."

Back door? Oh, no—he might have gotten out by now– with Star!

"Cord—Trent—train your guns on that loft door. They can jump on you like some mountain cat!"

They think I'm a full-grown Sime, Zeth realized. If I were, I'd be out of town by now. Then he heard Lon Carson's voice. "What is it? A Sime? Hey, in there! You from Fort Freedom?"

Angry questions from the gathering men, and Mr. Carson's protest, "One Sime doesn't attack a town! Someone's come after the boy!"

"No," came the stable boy's voice, "it is a kid. Changeover."

"Who is it?" another voice demanded on a note of anxiety.

"I don't know him. Never saw him before."

Then Sessly Bron's voice. "It's Zeth! He's gone from—"

"Dear God!" exclaimed Mr. Carson. "Zeth, is that you?"

"Yes!" he managed to choke out. "Mr. Carson—let me go—please! Got to—get home—"

"You hear that?" Mr. Carson said to the others. "That boy was perfectly all right a couple of hours ago—there's plenty of time for him to get to Fort Freedom, to one of their . . . channels."

"No Sime is all right, and no damn Sime sympathizer!" came another voice.

Someone else responded, "Turn him loose so's we can shoot him! Damn demon monster!"

"My daughter is neither demon nor monster!" Lon Carson said angrily. "She could help this boy. Give him a horse—or I'll take him in my wagon. He came to us for help—are we going to murder him?"