Finally, he was out on the street. The sun was dipping to the horizon against a blood-red sky. He positioned himself with his back to the blaze of the sunset. His shadow stretched out black in front of him, almost twenty feet long, straight down the center of the street. Garrett would be coming in from the east with the sun in his eyes. Billy/Heffer had the edge. His hands curled and uncurled, eager to grab the pistol in his belt, squeeze the trigger, and feel it kick in his hand. When Garrett was dead, he was going back to the cantina. Very soon, his time in the feelie would be up, and he wanted one more bottle and one more woman before he returned to the real workaday, Monday morning world of John Wilson Heffer. It would be a long time before he could afford another weekend contract.

Garrett was coming-the setting sun glinted on the pearl-handled six shooters in the crossdraw rig and the Winchester rifle he was holding at his side. Billy/Heffer laughingly called out a greeting.

"So how you doing, Pat? It's been a while since you were down in these parts."

"I've come to take you back to Santa Fe for trial, Billy."

"I really don't be planning to go anywhere, Pat. I kind of like it here."

"I don't want to be having to kill you, Billy."

"Hell, Pat, you been acting plain damn mean since you started working for the Santa Fe Ring. I thought you and me were supposed to be friends."

"The country's changing, Billy, and friendships have gotta change along with it."

"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."

Garrett shook his head. "Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then I don't see no way out. We better get to it." Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but to his horrified surprise he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest that was made doubly bad by the overloaded tactile input. He was thrown back onto the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was supposed to kill Garrett and then go back to the cantina for a final fling. He wasn't supposed to die. Feelies didn't do things like this. He was suddenly on his feet again.

"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."

"Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then I don't see no way out. We'd better get to it." Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest. He was thrown back onto the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. The software was crashing. It was stuck in some kind of loop. Someone had to be monitoring this. They had to notice that something was wrong and get him out. He couldn't just be left like this.

"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."

"Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then I don't see no way out. We'd better get to it."

Without another word, Billy/Heffer's hand flashed to the Colt, but he wasn't fast enough. The rifle was in Garrett's hand before his own pistol was even clear of its holster. There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and, immediately afterward, a searing, burning pain in his chest. He was thrown back into the hot, red dirt of the street. This wasn't supposed to be happening. This wasn't just a glitch-this was a major malfunction. The software was seriously screwing up, and he was trapped inside it, going around and around and having an agonizingly painful bullet smash into his chest each time the cycle was completed. The worst part was that he was totally helpless. His guts were wrenching, already anticipating the next bullet from the Winchester. The detached part of his mind, the piece of his consciousness that would have no part of the Billy the Kid personality was well on the way to screaming panic. Someone had to be monitoring this. They had to get him out. He couldn't take being shot one more time.

"So I guess there's no way out of this thing."

"Not unless you want to surrender peaceable and come back with me."

His detached mind was screaming: For God's sake! Anybody! Somebody! Get me out of here!

IT WAS AN AVERAGE DAY IN 5066 SECTION of the vault. The stiffs lay in neat rows in their plastic cases. The red-power lights glowed unwinkingly on the control pacs at the foot of each case. A continuous high-pitched hum, on the very limits of normal hearing, was about the only sound. Sam sat on the concrete floor with his back resting against a row of cases. He was turning over a tamperproof twenty flatpack of Serenax in his pudgy fingers. He'd had three already and he felt a little woozy, but he knew that, sooner or later, he would crack open the new pack. Five years earlier, Serenax had been available by prescription only. Now it was sold over the counter. There were even vending machines on the subway. Serenax: "Dangerous to Exceed the Recommended Dose." Sam exceeded the recommended dose on a daily basis. Sam was a squat, overweight figure in drab tan overalls. In truth, he only appeared squat. If he straightened up, he was well over six feet tall. The trouble was that Sam rarely straightened up. He was perpetually stooped and sagging.

Ralph was at the far end of the same row, going through the motions of sweeping. There was really nothing to sweep. The vault was virtually dust free. It was that point in the day when he couldn't stand being near the other two. Ralph was the complete opposite of Sam. Where Sam was gross and slothful, Ralph was thin and frenetic. He was a good three inches shorter than Sam. He had the features of a nervous but cunning rodent. His eyes constantly darted from spot to spot, as though expecting some sort of threat. A nerve twitched just below his left cheekbone. It only stopped when he was drunk.

Artie had vanished somewhere, probably on some devious errand of his own. Artie was always vanishing. It was his way. He made up the final third of the maintenance and monitor crew of 5066 section. Artie was lucky that they had lax management and a good union.

Sam reluctantly put the still unopened flatpack in the pocket of his overalls and looked around. "Hey, Ralph."

Ralph pretended not to hear. He went on with his sweeping.

"Hey, Ralph."

Ralph realized that if he ignored Sam any longer, the dummy would probably get up and come lurching over. He stopped sweeping. The muscles in his shoulders and neck felt bunched and tense. "What's the matter, Sam?"

"Where do you think Artie's got to?"

"How should I know where Artie's got to?"

"He's been gone a long time."

"Who knows where Artie goes to?"

"Do you think-"

Ralph cut Sam off. "Sam."

"Yes, Ralph?"

Ralph felt a bad need for a drink. "Sam."

"Yes, Ralph."

"Will you do something for me?"

"Sure, Ralph."

"Will you shut the fuck up?"

"I was only-"

"Shut up, Sam."

Ralph could feel an edge creeping into his voice. He was starting to loose control. Sam recognized the change in tone, and his hand moved defensively toward the Serenax in his pocket.

"Sure, Ralph."

Sam seemed to slump a little.

Ralph picked up his broom and moved down two more rows of cabinets. He needed to get farther away from Sam. He also had a bottle stashed along there. He put down his broom and reached between two of the plastic cases. Resting on a pipe was a bottle of cheap Japanese Scotch. Ralph held it up. It was just short of half full. Ralph grinned to himself. He must be in a fairly optimistic mood, otherwise he'd be looking at the bottle as more than half empty.